His mouth was slightly open. Smoke was practically wafting from his ears as his brain desperately tried to process the numbers.
"Is... is the answer... fire?" Castor guessed, looking incredibly stressed. "If you just burn the mythril, you don't need the equation!"
Roan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, Master Castor. The answer is not fire. The answer is almost never fire in advanced logistics."
Pollux, leaning against his desk, crossed his arms and swept his auburn bangs out of his eyes, adopting his deepest, most tragic scowl.
"The numbers are meaningless," Pollux muttered, staring into the middle distance. "Mathematics is just an illusion we use to impose order on a chaotic, uncaring void. The true answer lies in the darkness between the variables."
"That is the single most pathetic excuse for not doing your homework properly I have ever heard, Master Pollux," Roan deadpanned, completely immune to the edge.
