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Rove Lewin couldn't contain his anxiousness as a triad of uniformed young men unloaded and assembled a convoluted contraption in the empty backroom of his bookshop. In the past, this place would be filled with rows of equally spaced desks for the scribes in his employ to transcribe books. But now, it was mostly cleaned out, barring three desks at the front of the room closer to the shopfront. If Rove was to believe the teen who hoodwinked him into a contractual agreement, this machine which only took up the space of four scribes would in fact replace ten. How did things end up this way?

It all happened exactly two weeks back when a catastrophe befell his business. "Lewin's Bookshop and Transcription Services" was a family-run business which operated in Wayward Town since his grandfather's generation. For sixty-five years, they were the sole proprietor of books and transcription services in the Town. If anyone required a particular book, as long as it wasn't related to magic, they would visit Lewin's. Of course, Rove's store may not always have the required book, in which case it would fall on him to find it from an outside source, purchase a transcription licence and transcribe a copy of it for sale in his business. This was how his business operated for a very long time.

However, two weeks back, a rather affluent customer graced his store and offered a unique opportunity to publish a book written by them. This was a huge deal because a book's publisher earned the rights to sell the transcription license for duplicating and selling the book through third-party stores. When a third-party wish to sell the book through their stores they would need to purchase the license to transcribe it from the publisher, which would be an annually paid fee for holding the rights to duplicate and sell the book. A fraction of the amount earned through the sale of the license would go to the author as well, but it paled in comparison to the amount the original publisher would accrue.

Rove was pretty elated when the opportunity was presented before him. He was so excited that he forgot to peruse through the finer print in the contract which appended an outrageous penalty clause if the publishing deadline wasn't met. To summarise, Rove had to transcribe over five-hundred copies of the book within a month, or else he would have to pay up an amount which was comparable to three times his current net worth. At that time, he had around fifty scribes working in his business. Through a few practised mental operations, Rove figured that the deadline was reasonable and could be achieved within the time frame, therefore he agreed without hesitation.

The problem arose the very next day when another bookshop-cum-transcription-service opened its doors right opposite his shop. Rove didn't think much of it since he was confident that people would prefer his ancestral store with years worth of accumulated trust over an upstart. But then misfortune started to afflict him one after another. First, forty-five out of his fifty employed scribes quit altogether. The sudden turnover of employees baffled him, and he was enraged to learn that it was because his competitor across the street had hired them by offering a substantial raise in their wages. The five that remained with Rove's business were aged hands and only did so due to their loyalty to his father.

Rove was shocked, but he believed that hiring more scribes and filling in the sudden scarcity wouldn't be too difficult. But after a week of trying and failing to hire new scribes, he started to suspect foul play. His suspicions were proven true when he found out that the people Rove approached and tried to hire were being threatened or bribed by his competitor. Furthermore, he also found out that the affluent customer who initially came with the publishing order was the true owner of the competition across the street. The contract was all a ruse to put Rove out of business, and he could do nothing about it lest he faces heavy penalties as prescribed in the contract.

Things were crashing down on him. Of the five scribes that remain, two more left due to being overworked coupled with their deteriorating age. To top it off, he had barely made a dent into the five hundred required transcriptions as part of the publishing contract.

During his time of crisis, a plump teen entered his store and pitched him a product which he promised would revolutionise the field of publishing. Based on the rather convincing sales pitch, the product could outpace scribes when publishing volume was taken into consideration. Rove was truly desperate and mentally deflated at that time, and this miraculous product seemed to address his exact dilemma. Therefore, once again, he signed the leasing contract without reading through the unbearably thorough and verbose document.

Now that the machine was placed before him, Rove was mentally kicking himself for falling into the same pit a second time. How could this machine, which looked very much like a guillotine, do the work of scribes? Where were the quill and ink? There weren't even any mana gems - he'd assumed that the machine which proclaimed to handle ten times a regular human's workload would at least have some magic in it!

"What is this thing?!" Rove blurted out while catching one of the men assembling the machine as they left his store.

"This is the Gutenberg Press," the man answered monotonously. He wore a simple set of cotton work trousers and a shirt with the Dune Caravan Management insignia stitched on them.

"I can see that," Rove snapped back. "But you're leaving just like that? Who is going to operate this? How does it even work?"

"A representative from Verum Trading Company will arrive and handle that," the man responded while casually extricating himself from Rove's grasp. "As for the operators, that was not part of the contract."

"You expect my people to use this?"

"That was what was stipulated in the contract," the man repeated.

"Contract, contract, contract!" Rove exclaimed. "It's always about the contract, isn't it?!"

"Look here, Sir," the mover shot back exasperatedly. "We can see that you are... upset, but we don't see how Dune Caravan Management is involved in any of this. We are simply the deliverers of your purchased product. If you have grievances please take it up with Verum Trading Company."

Then, with a curt and meaningless "Thank you" the movers left his store, leaving Rove alone with the contraption. Rage started to bubble over from within, as his hands approached a metal rod hidden behind the clerk's desk (to subdue thieves). He approached the machine, raised the rod above his head, and proceeded to bring it down with all the force he could muster up.

However, his arm stopped in place as a harmony of bells danced in his ears. It was the sound of someone entering the bookstore. Rove released a long sigh to calm his emotions and wore a pleasant smile to greet the customers. He brushed aside the curtain separating the storefront from the scribes' work area and chanted a standard welcome, but his words got caught in his throat when he saw the customer's face.

"It's you!" He bellowed. It was the same boy who fooled him into purchasing that nonsensical machine.

"Mister Lewin, it's good to see you again," the plump boy greeted sincerely. "I'm here to inspect the delivered product for any issues during transportation, and run the preliminary training seminar to bring your workers up to speed and proficient in using the machine."

"Take the blasted thing back, I don't want it. And I want a refund on my purchase!" Rove demanded.

"Refund? Is there something wrong with the product?" The boy asked with a worried frown.

"I don't know," Rove shrugged. "And I don't care. It's useless, I know that you're just taking advantage of me!"

"That is absolutely false, Mister Lewin. We at Verum Trading Company believe in cultivating trust with our customers. Truth is in our name, after all," the boy narrated with a practised smile. "Why don't you let me give you a demo of the machine before you make your decision? It will only take a few minutes of your time. If the product fails to satisfy you, I will process your refund right away!"

The kid was being too reasonable... Rove hated it! He wanted to continue flinging insults and screaming at the boy, but given the way the boy was acting, such crass actions would only make Rove look petty.

"Fine!" Rove declared half-heartedly while waving for the kid to enter the backroom.

The kid followed Rove inside and immediately beelined towards the machine. He started to move around it, tapping and grasping it in different places. The deliverers had set up four mechanisms in a spaced-out fashion. The first, and most prominent, was the machine called the Gutenberg Press. The second, which was near the flat section of the Press, was like a shallow reservoir. The third appeared to be a large storage compartment with multiple cubbies and drawers, as well as a stand placed on top at eye level. The fourth, and final, was something Rove was familiar with and was a standard bookbinding mechanism albeit with a few more moving parts.

After inspecting all the assembled devices, the boy finally approached the unopened boxes stacked next to the machine and opened each of them, taking notes on the state of the contents.

"These machines are best operated in a three-person cell," the boy narrated while counting bags of metal tablets of some sort. "Which three employees will I be training?"

"Training?"

"It's part of the contract. You are paying for the machine, the training as well as a few other complementary items. Didn't you read that?" The boy asked.

Rove revealed an embarrassed smile before lying, "Of course. T-They will be here soon."

Thankfully, at that moment, the door to the backroom opened and the three elder scribes under his employ walked in.

"Good morning, boss!" They greeted in unison with a bow. Although they were much older than Rove, they were obligated to respect their employer. On top of that, Rove's father had helped these three out of a sticky situation in the past - they essentially owed his family their lives.

"What's this thing, boss?" One of the three older men asked.

"This is the Gutenberg Press," the boy answered in Rove's stead. "You three must be the ones to undergo the training, correct?"

Rove nodded hesitantly. The boy smiled professionally in response and began the demonstration.