Seldon Calvin sat in the black-gold carriage adorned with the family crest, fingers clutching an "Autumn Harvest Statistical Report" still smelling of ink.
Inside the carriage, an expensive dragon scent burned, but even so, the strange smell seeping in from outside stubbornly penetrated the wooden walls.
Seldon frowned slightly, pulling the velvet curtain of the window to open a gap.
The street outside was more bustling than ever.
Heavy grain carts lined up one after another, forming a long line, the ruts making the cobblestones creak.
From the split openings of the burlap sacks spilled golden grains, so plump they seemed ready to overflow—an authentic harvest, devoid of any exaggeration.
He glanced down at the report in his hand.
A 30% increase in production over the previous year, yet only a 15% warehouse entry rate.
"Damn it." The quill pen scraped harshly across the paper, leaving a glaring red line.
