Dahlia watched Leon's quick sketch revisions, impressed. She wasn't blind—she'd seen the messy initial drawing, a lopsided cow that barely resembled the animal. Now, with a few strokes, it had transformed into a strange, wheeled contraption.
"It's a cart, right?" she asked, pointing at the wheels. "With two wheels?"
"Smart," Leon said, grinning at his handiwork. It was easily the best sketch he'd ever done—functional, detailed, and surprisingly proportional. "I call it a bicycle. Short for 'two-wheeled human-powered vehicle.' You'll see how it works once I build it."
Dahlia leaned closer, her brow furrowed. "But how does it move? Won't it tip over? Do you need a horse?"
Leon nodded, then shook his head. "No horse. You sit here"—he tapped the seat—"push these pedals with your feet, and the wheels turn. It stays upright when it's moving. Trust me."
His confidence came from his old-world memories, but he knew better than to explain that. Instead, he grabbed his sketchpad and started drafting proper blueprints—no more impromptu cow-to-bicycle conversions. He'd never drawn technical plans before, but he'd seen enough diagrams in his past life to mimic the style: top views, side views, measurements scrawled in the margins.
To make sure the dimensions were right, he built a scaled wooden model. It was crude—oak frame, pine wheels, no chain—but it let him test the seat height, handlebar angle, and pedal position. He roped Flower into helping, having the taller boy sit on the model to check if the frame would fit an adult.
"It won't stay upright," Flower said, prodding the model with his foot. The wooden wheels wobbled, and the frame toppled over. "How's this supposed to work?"
Leon adjusted the seat to its lowest setting, straddling the model. He pushed off with his feet, gliding a few feet across the cottage's stone floor. It was clunky—wooden axles scraped against the frame—but it moved. "See? You keep it going with your feet until you get the hang of it. No falling if you don't stop."
Flower's eyes lit up. "Let me try. I helped you test the dimensions—I deserve a turn."
Leon stepped aside, laughing as Flower stumbled onto the model and pushed off, nearly crashing into the workbench. The wooden wheels squeaked, but he glided across the floor, grinning like a child.
"What are these pedals for?" Flower called, kicking at the wooden blocks attached to the axles. "They're just in the way."
"Because it's a model," Leon said, returning to his blueprints. "The real one will have a chain connecting the pedals to the wheels. These are just placeholders."
"Make me one when it's done," Flower said, still gliding. "I earned it."
The blueprints took ten days to finalize. Leon revised the frame three times, adjusted the wheel size twice, and reworked the handlebar design until it felt comfortable. The model helped—he could tweak parts and test them immediately, no guesswork. But once the plans were done, the real work began.
First, the frame. Leon used the magic furnace to melt down scrap iron, shaping it into a triangular frame with a slanted top bar—easier for him to mount, even with his 13-year-old body. He forged the front fork next, bending iron into a curve that would hold the front wheel and handlebars. It was simple work for someone who'd built camshaft crossbows and glass tools, but he took his time, ensuring every joint was solid.
Next came the chain—a tedious, repetitive task. Each link had to be identical, forged from thin iron rods, then linked together and polished. Leon made five links before growing bored, then bribed Flower with a promise of his own custom bicycle and co-authorship on a future rune paper to take over. Dahlia joined in too, eager to help with the "fun part" (she quickly regretted it, complaining about sore fingers by the end of the first day).
Two days later, they had a working chain—rusty, but functional. Leon attached it to iron gears he'd forged, testing the movement. The chain slipped a few times, but with a little adjustment, it turned the rear wheel smoothly.
The hardest part was the bearings. Leon wanted ball bearings—small, smooth steel balls that would reduce friction between the axles and wheels. But making identical, perfectly round steel balls was no easy feat. He melted iron, dripping small droplets into a bucket of water to form rough spheres, then spent days grinding them by hand, sanding each ball until it was smooth and uniform.
By the time the bearings were done, Leon's fingers were calloused and sore. But when he fitted them into the wheel hubs, the axles spun freely—no more squeaky wooden axles.
Only one problem remained: tires.
Leon had no rubber. Iron wheels would be bumpy, noisy, and useless on rough terrain. Sarneth Town's roads were cobblestone, and the path to Acorn Village was dirt and gravel—iron wheels would rattle his bones, if not tip the bicycle over. He'd hoped to ride it home to visit his family, but without tires, it was just a fancy toy.
"Teacher, do you know of any elastic, durable materials?" Leon asked after morning lessons.
They'd switched to a new schedule: morning lessons with Im, afternoon experiments. When Im was busy, Leon acted as a tutor for Dahlia and Flower—payback for the extra lessons Im gave him on advanced runes. The other two were falling behind, their progress slower than Leon's, but they worked hard, and Leon didn't mind helping.
Im raised an eyebrow. "This is for that wheeled contraption you're building? Why haven't you added rune arrays to it?"
Leon blinked, caught off guard. "I… I can't inscribe complex arrays yet. My mana isn't strong enough. I thought I'd make a non-magical version first."
It was the truth. He could cast basic runes—small fire or cooling arrays—but inscribing anything more complex, like weight-reduction or wind-resistance arrays, was beyond his current power. His mana pool was large for an apprentice, but not enough to fuel permanent inscriptions on metal.
Im frowned, unsatisfied. "You should design with runes in mind, even if you can't inscribe them yet. Mark where the arrays will go later—treat them like decorative patterns. And if you can't inscribe them, I can."
Leon paused, then smiled. He'd been so focused on his old-world bicycle design that he'd forgotten to think like a mage. Im was right—magic wasn't an afterthought; it was part of everything. The fountain pen had been improved with runes; why not the bicycle?
"I didn't think of that," Leon admitted. "I'll revise the design to leave space for arrays."
"Good," Im said, returning to his own work. "Elastic materials? Try cured animal tendons, stretched and treated with mana. Or enchanted linen—weave it tight, infuse it with earth mana for durability. Both are used in low-grade magical tools."
Leon thanked him, already mentally revising his blueprints. He'd been too reliant on his past-life knowledge. It was time to blend it with Etho's magic—make the bicycle truly his own.