No Matter How Funny, We Won't Laugh

"Oh? Is that so?"

Leon looked at the salesman, whose face was filled with fanatical confidence, and a playful smile curled at the corner of his mouth. He calmly dropped a bombshell:

"What if I said... I could optimize most of the arrays on this carriage and increase its performance by at least three times?"

As the words fell, the air suddenly went silent for three seconds.

Vespa, A-Ling, and Lucrezia all stared in shock at Leon, who had made such a startling claim.

Even though they knew their lord/small fry was powerful, this was someone else’s exclusive patent!

This was as ridiculous as walking into a Fried Chicken place and claiming you could improve their original recipe!

"Pfft."

The salesman, Russo, was stunned for a moment before reacting as if he had heard the world’s greatest joke. His face, which had been set in a professionally trained standard service smile, instantly broke as he nearly burst into laughter.

However, he was a professional after all. He forced back the "haha," though his facial muscles were still twitching frantically.

"Hey! What’s with that expression?!"

Lucrezia bristled instantly, pointing right at the salesman’s nose: "You want to laugh, don’t you? You’re looking down on him, aren't you!"

Although she hadn't seen Leon’s accomplishments in inscriptions yet, she knew from their journey together that this guy was definitely not the type of fool to make baseless claims.

"No, no, no, my lady. You’ve misunderstood."

Russo took a deep breath, trying his best to smooth his facial expression. He said with a straight face: "Our sales team at Riders' Selection has undergone rigorous professional training."

"No matter how funny it is, we won't laugh."

"Unless we can't help it."

Having said that, he made a "please" gesture, his tone carrying undisguised perfunctoriness: "How about this, everyone? You can turn left out the door and walk straight for two streets to find the psychiatric department under the Mage Association... oh no, I mean the Inscription Guild. You can go there to present your brilliant insights..."

"You—! He just got his—!" Lucrezia was so angry that smoke was practically coming out of her ears.

"It's fine."

Leon reached out to stop the irritable princess.

"Pen and paper." Leon held his hand out toward A-Ling behind him.

"Ah? Oh... okay, Lord."

A-Ling blinked, then reacted immediately.

She wasn't wearing a backpack. With a calm expression, she reached into the deep, bottomless crevice tightly wrapped by her form-fitting leather armor.

After a dizzying sway of waves.

As if by magic, she pulled a piece of parchment—carrying her body heat and a faint milky scent—along with a quill from that warm “absolute territory,” respectfully handing them to Leon.

"..."

Watching this, Lucrezia's eyes nearly popped out of her head.

Is this the legendary... four-dimensional pocket?!

Leon, however, remained unfazed (though he internally gave a thumbs-up). He took the pen and paper and smoothed them out. Without even looking for a table, he placed the parchment directly against his palm and began to write with fluid mastery.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

In less than half a minute.

A simplified but logically exquisite array optimization diagram—missing only one fatal core step—appeared on the paper.

"Take this."

Leon handed the newly drawn diagram to the salesman: "Give this to your maintenance... oh no, your chief formation master. Take a look."

"No need for much explanation. If he’s an expert, he’ll naturally understand."

"This..."

Russo looked at the piece of paper in his hand, which looked like ghost scribbles. He really wanted to crumple it into a ball and throw it in this arrogant kid's face, then call security to kick these troublemakers out.

But...

He glanced around.

There were quite a few other customers in the shop, and there seemed to be a few guys lingering by the door with recording stones.

If these people were sent by a competitor to fish for evidence, or if they were some bored social media influencers, they might record a video of him "looking down on customers." If that hit the front page of the "Worcester City Morning News" tomorrow with a headline like "Shocking! Riders' Salesman Publicly Insults Customer"...

The PR department would definitely skin him alive!

Moreover, looking at this man's composed and serious demeanor, what if... just what if these guys actually had something?

"Fine."

Russo’s eyes darted around, and he decided to play it safe: "Then please head to the VIP lounge area over there and wait for a moment. There's free lemonade."

"I'll be right back."

...

It had to be said that while this salesman had a sharp tongue, his service procedures were standard.

After settling Leon and the others, Russo took the paper, crossed the showroom, and arrived at the core after-sales workshop in the back.

He pushed the door open, and a heavy smell of machine oil and burnt mana hit him.

In a messy corner that looked like a bird's nest, a young man with dark circles under his eyes comparable to a panda's, thinning hair, and a sallow complexion was buried in a mountain of complex parts. He was mechanically waving a wand like a zombie.

Flint.

The chief (and only) maintenance master of the Worcester branch of Riders' Dealership.

A young drudge who was on the verge of sudden death from being squeezed by the "blessing" of overwork.

"Flint! Stop sleeping!"

Russo walked over and kicked the pile of parts.

"Who the hell is sleeping..."

Flint lifted his head from the parts mountain, his eyes bloodshot and his voice raspy as if he had swallowed a handful of sand: "I was meditating! I was conceptualizing! Do you understand what 'immersive work' is?!"

Looking at Russo, the overwork king salesman who was full of energy every day and dressed in flashy clothes, his anger flared: "Speak, what's the problem this time? If it's another rich lady's carriage lights breaking and wanting me to fix them, I'm really going to kill someone."

"It’s not a rich lady."

Russo handed over the paper: "A group of people just came in outside, bragging that they could improve our Black Wind series arrays. The leader is a young guy, barely an adult at most. He insisted you look at this paper, saying you’d understand once you saw it."

"Looking at how confident he was, I wonder if he’s got some mental illness or if he’s just here to scam us for money?"

"Improve the arrays? Barely an adult?"

Flint let out a sneer: "Is there something wrong with your brain? I’m working overtime here until I’m peeing blood, and you bring me this kind of obviously fake scam to waste my time? Do you think I’m not busy enough?"

"Get lost! I need to catch up on the schedule! Those guys said they wanted delivery by tomorrow..."

Although he was grumbling, Flint’s trust in this overwork king made him feel the man wouldn't just bring nonsense. He crawled out from the pile of parts, covered in grime, and snatched the paper.

"I’d like to see which arrogant brat..."

"Hey? Why aren't you talking?"

Russo looked at Flint, who was suddenly staring at the paper in silence as if he were possessed. His heart skipped a beat: "Is it real? Looking at your stance... Hah! Could the Goddess of Fortune really be smiling upon me?"

The more Russo thought about it, the more excited he became.

If this was real and he had achieved such a great merit, wouldn't he be promoted, get a raise, become a CEO, marry a beautiful rich girl, and reach the pinnacle of life?!