Definitely need those shop upgrades, Lloyd resolved grimly. If my own Spirit is already showing this kind of anomaly, who knows what I'll be facing out there?
"Alright, Fang," Lloyd murmured, retrieving the platter. "Breakfast time."
The wolf devoured the chicken with the same efficient ferocity as before, but with an added layer of controlled power. No frantic gulping, just precise, effective consumption. When finished, he looked up at Lloyd, licked his chops, and gave a distinct, almost imperceptible nod before dissolving back into shimmering energy at Lloyd's mental command.
Yeah, Lloyd thought, shaking his head slightly as he picked up the clean platter. Definitely more than just a dog. He needed those five coins from this task, plus the two he already had from the bully incident and the three from the cabinet-slashing-wife-shocking escapade. Total: Five. Still five short of opening the shop. The remaining three days of chicken duty suddenly felt very long indeed.
The walk to Master Elmsworth's lecture hall was uneventful, Ken Park gliding silently beside him like a grim, heavily armed shadow. The city bustled around them, a chaotic tapestry of noise and smells. Lloyd found himself observing the flow of goods – the overloaded carts, the sweating laborers, the merchants haggling in doorways – with a new perspective, mentally applying yesterday's discussion on logistics and efficiency. Gods, there was so much room for improvement here, it was almost painful to watch. Ken, as always, remained impassive, his gaze constantly scanning, missing nothing, revealing nothing.
The atmosphere inside the lecture hall was palpably different. The usual air of drowsy indifference among the other young nobles was replaced by a low hum of curiosity. Eyes flickered towards Lloyd as he entered, not with disdain, but with cautious expectation. Master Elmsworth himself stood by the slate board, posture still stiff, but the sharp edge of his usual impatience seemed blunted, replaced by a kind of wary neutrality. He acknowledged Lloyd's arrival with a curt nod that lacked its customary condescension.
"Be seated, Lord Ferrum," Master Elm instructed, his voice dry but even. "Today, we delve into the intricacies of secure goods transport and established logistical frameworks within the Duchy."
Lloyd settled into his chair, prepared for another session of politely enduring established dogma. And for the first hour, that's precisely what it was. Master Elm detailed the guild-controlled wagon routes, the exorbitant fees demanded by bridge trolls (both literal and figurative minor lords charging tolls), the challenges of preserving perishable goods like summer fruits or winter ice hauled overland, and the complex web of reciprocal agreements governing passage through different baronies.
He spoke of the 'Whisper Network' – the slow, unreliable dissemination of market news via travelling merchants and carrier pigeons, making accurate supply and demand forecasting more art than science. He described the seasonal bottlenecks – rivers freezing in winter, roads turning to impassable mud pits during the spring thaw – that dictated the rhythm of commerce.
Lloyd listened attentively, contrasting it mentally with Earth's instantaneous global communication, satellite tracking, and climate-controlled shipping containers. The difference was staggering. Yet, he forced himself to engage with the lecture on its own terms.
He's describing the reality they face, Lloyd acknowledged internally. Given the technological constraints, these complex, often frustrating systems are the result of centuries of adaptation. Criticizing them for not having fibre optics is pointless. He saw the intricate logic behind certain seemingly bizarre toll structures, the necessity of relying on heavily armed guild caravans despite their cost. Master Elmsworth wasn't teaching flawed theory today; he was explaining the hard-won, practical realities of commerce in a world operating at a medieval-plus-magic tech level.
He deliberately kept quiet, offering no challenges, no 'modern' perspectives that would require nonexistent infrastructure. He simply absorbed the information, filing it away. He saw Master Elm visibly relax as the lesson progressed smoothly, the tutor regaining his usual rhythm, perhaps concluding that yesterday's intellectual fireworks had been a one-off aberration. The other students, likely sensing the lack of impending drama, began to slump back into their usual states of polite boredom.
As the session wound towards its conclusion, Master Elm transitioned to the topic of inventory – the physical reality of storing goods acquired through these complex logistical chains. He described the prevailing philosophy: acquire in bulk when possible, stack it high in warehouses often little better than large barns, and accept spoilage, theft, and pest damage as unfortunate but inevitable costs.
"Volume is the key," Master Elm reiterated, tapping the slate board where he'd drawn a simple diagram of a warehouse overflowing with crates. "Ensuring sufficient stock to weather potential transport disruptions or sudden demand surges is paramount. A merchant caught with empty shelves courts ruin."