The morning after the demonstration, the Darsha estate pulsed with fresh energy. Servants who once bowed with rote repetition now stole second glances at the boy they thought merely precocious. Nobles who once chuckled behind wine goblets whispered of potential, of prophecy, of profit. Sharath, however, paid them no mind.
He was already back in the forge.
The three blacksmiths now deferred to him without hesitation. Where once they smirked at the idea of a child instructing them, they now awaited each blueprint with ink-stained fingers and eyes sharpened by respect. Sharath had not only built a working vehicle—he had dismantled the hierarchy of assumption.
But invention, as he was quickly learning, was a hungry beast. One creation bred ten questions. One success laid bare a dozen inefficiencies.
The first task was addressing durability. The initial prototypes worked, yes—but only on clean, level stone. Sharath knew the roads of Navaleon were far from pristine. Mud, rain, hills, and uneven gravel posed a deadly threat to wooden frames and loose axles.
He set about engineering a suspension system, a word no one in the kingdom had heard before. Using a combination of coiled copper, tension-resistant leather cords, and enchanted gel bladders (courtesy of a cooperative alchemist), he created the first "shock eaters"—small compartments beneath the axle that compressed on impact.
Next came braking. Stopping by foot was fine for demonstration. But for mass use? It was dangerous. He engineered a lever-triggered clamp using treated boarhide for friction. It took thirty tries. And a burnt finger.
Then he revised ergonomics. Children could ride the trike. But what of the elderly? The tall? The infirm? Adjustable seats, pivoting handlebars, and counterbalanced frames emerged—born not from magic, but from empathy.
Each night, after the forge cooled, Sharath retired to the lunar observatory tower—a place once used by his grandfather to map celestial conjunctions. There, among the lens-bound globes and aged scrolls, he transcribed his day's work into a growing tome titled "Treatise on Leg-Powered Locomotion."
By week twelve, the treatise had over 300 pages.
Some entries were purely technical:
"Improved gear ratio of 3:1 gives optimal uphill thrust without overexertion."
"Spoke density must correlate to radial torque; too sparse = rim warp."
Others were philosophical:
"What defines progress is not speed, but who can afford to move."
"True freedom is not flight—but the ability to choose direction."
He wrote with the calm certainty of someone who had seen the end of roads in another life.
By month four, Sharath had not only rebuilt his prototypes but expanded his vision. He created three new variants:
The Merchant Cycle – A tricycle with reinforced side baskets, capable of holding up to 100 kilograms of produce.
The Scout Glide – A two-wheeled model with elongated frame and gear ratios tuned for long-distance travel.
The Scholar's Chair – A single-seat vehicle powered by hand-pedals, built for scribes and elders with weak legs.
He summoned his family and select guild leaders to the copper-tiled Inner Yard once again—not for spectacle, but for application.
This time, he had assigned riders.
A young maid pedaled the Merchant Cycle, hauling a full crate of apples.
A palace scout took the Glide across the perimeter walls.
And Lady Ishvari herself rode the Scholar's Chair, tears in her eyes as she moved unassisted for the first time in years.
Silence fell.
Then Lord Varundar spoke.
"This is no invention. This is emancipation."
That night, over candlelight and soft wine, Varundar and Sharath convened in the strategy hall.
"You've done something astonishing," Varundar said, "but invention without expansion is vanity. What now, my son?"
Sharath unrolled five new diagrams.
"Distributed manufacturing," he said. "Standardized parts. Modular blueprints. Empower guilds in different regions to produce different components. Let them trade. Let them own."
Varundar nodded slowly. "You want a… network."
"Yes. Not a single forge. A thousand. Not a monopoly. A movement."
In the weeks that followed, letters were sent to smiths across Navaleon. Dozens responded. Then scores. Sharath didn't hoard the designs. He copied them. Annotated them. Mailed them. Always with a personal note:
"Innovation must ride with you."
He named this effort: The Pedal Accord.
And then he waited.
But not long.
From the north came reports of faster produce delivery.
From the east, scribes who now attended court without palanquin.
From the southern farms, children who rode to school—on wheels.
The machines spread, not because they were forced, but because they worked.
Navaleon was moving.
And the boy who remembered the future… was just getting started.
To be continued...