After completing the check-in process at the Moon Inn, a small, clean room, simply furnished with a single bed, an oak desk, and a small window overlooking a quiet, stone-paved alley, Rober decided not to rest immediately. The adventurous blood in his veins was boiling, urging him to explore the vast city of Edoras, and more importantly, to begin implementing the plan that had just sprung to mind.

He changed into a simple but smart outfit: dark brown canvas trousers, a white linen shirt, and a sleeveless tweed waistcoat in grey. He examined himself in the small mirror hanging on the wall, adjusting his slightly disheveled brown hair, and then smiled with satisfaction.

Rober left the inn and joined the bustling flow of people on the stone-paved streets. He walked towards the city center, where many newspaper offices, publishing houses, and cafes were concentrated, ideal locations for him to find "prey" for his plan.

According to detailed information provided by the inn's staff, the area near the editorial office of The Edoras Chronicle, the capital's largest and most prestigious newspaper, was a frequent haunt for journalists, reporters, and editors. They came here to work overtime, exchange information, seek inspiration, or simply to relax after a long, stressful day.

Rober stopped in front of a cafe called "The Quill & Inkwell." The cafe was not too large, but it exuded a cozy, classic, and intellectual atmosphere. The oak sign was painted glossy black, with the words "The Quill & Inkwell" in gold, written in an elaborate, flowing calligraphic style. Through the clear glass window, Rober could see the interior of the cafe, with dark wooden tables, leather armchairs worn by time, and oil lamps casting a soft, warm yellow light.

Before entering, Rober stopped at a small newsstand nearby and bought the latest issue of The Edoras Chronicle. He carefully folded the newspaper, tucked it into the inner pocket of his waistcoat, and then pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping into the cafe.

A mixed aroma, characteristic of old-fashioned cafes, struck Rober's nose: the strong scent of roasted Arabica coffee, mingling with the faint smell of Virginia pipe tobacco, and the distinctive scent of ink from fresh newspapers. The cafe's atmosphere was not too noisy or bustling, but it was also not quiet or dull. The clatter of mechanical typewriters, the murmuring of groups engaged in lively discussions, the clinking of porcelain cups and saucers, all blended together, creating a unique symphony, found only in places like this.

Rober approached the counter and ordered a black coffee, no sugar, no milk. He liked the pure bitterness of coffee; it helped him stay awake and focused. While waiting, he took the opportunity to look around, observing the cafe's patrons, searching for a suitable "target" for his plan.

He didn't want to sit alone. His purpose was to find people with knowledge, understanding, and, more importantly, the ability to ask insightful, interesting questions, to activate the Sage System, helping him expand his knowledge.

Finally, Rober's gaze stopped at a secluded corner, near the window, where natural light streamed in. There, a man was sitting alone, in front of him a small, compact mechanical typewriter, probably an Underwood Portable, a popular typewriter for reporters and writers who frequently traveled. The man had short, neat brown hair, but slightly disheveled at the back of his neck, perhaps because he was too focused on his work to groom himself. He had a thick, well-trimmed beard, and dark brown eyes that were glued to the white pages in front of him.

The man wore a white linen shirt, but it had turned a creamy color, perhaps from being washed too many times. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. He wore a charcoal-grey tweed waistcoat, the kind often favored by journalists and writers.

Rober was certain that this man was none other than a journalist working overtime. Perhaps he was writing an investigative report, a sharp commentary, or a gripping story, needing to be completed urgently to meet the deadline before the newspaper went to press.

Rober carried his coffee to the man's table. He cleared his throat and politely said "Excuse me, sir, is this seat taken?"

The man didn't look up, nor did he respond to Rober. His hands continued to move swiftly across the keyboard, producing a steady, continuous clatter.

Rober was slightly surprised by the man's cold, even rude, attitude. However, he showed no sign of annoyance or discouragement. He understood that people in creative professions, especially writers and journalists, sometimes needed intense concentration, and they could become somewhat "unusual" when immersed in their own world.

He casually pulled out the wooden chair opposite the man and sat down comfortably. He placed the steaming cup of coffee on the table, making a small "clink." Then, he took out The Edoras Chronicle from his pocket, opened it to the front page, and began to skim through the news.

Rober read attentively, but in reality, his mind was not entirely focused on the words on the page. He was quietly observing the man opposite him, and preparing for the "performance" he was about to put on.

After about ten minutes, Rober pretended to sigh, put the newspaper down on the table, and said in a voice loud enough for the man opposite him to hear, but not too loud to disturb others:

"Sigh, newspapers these days are so boring to read. Full of bland, uninteresting news, nothing worth caring about. Election results in suburban districts, announcements about upcoming classical concerts, and then advertisements for medicines, dietary supplements, beauty services... Not a single decent investigative report, a sharp commentary, a truly shocking story."

He deliberately emphasized his words, criticizing, showing disappointment: "Journalists nowadays seem to have lost all their passion, lost all their 'substance'. They no longer bother to go out, explore, investigate, and uncover hidden truths. They only write about superficial, shallow things that everyone knows, everyone sees. It's a waste of money to buy the newspaper."

Immediately, as if by reflex, the fingers that had been swiftly gliding across the man's keyboard froze. He suddenly looked up, his dark brown eyes narrowed, staring at Rober with a cold, annoyed, and angry glare.

"What did you just say?" The man asked, his voice hoarse, low, and tinged with anger. "Who are you to dare lecture us? Do you know anything about journalism, about our work, that you dare to judge so recklessly and arrogantly?"

He jerked his chin, pointing to the Underwood Portable typewriter sitting silently on the table: "If you think writing for a newspaper is an easy, simple job, just sitting down and typing a few lines, then you're sorely mistaken. If you're so good, why don't you try sitting here and writing? Do you know any interesting news, huh? See if you can write a complete article, with a beginning and an end, with content, with information, with value, or just empty, meaningless, boastful words."

"And if you came here just to cause trouble" the man continued, his tone becoming increasingly harsh "then I advise you to leave immediately. I don't have time to deal with idle people who like to stick their noses into other people's business and don't respect the hard work of others."

Rober showed no sign of being intimidated, frightened, or angry at the man's harsh words. On the contrary, he felt a bit of amusement, a bit of excitement. This was precisely the reaction he had hoped for, the golden opportunity for him to "activate" the Sage System.

He slowly placed The Edoras Chronicle on the wooden table, gently and carefully. Then, he rested his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together, and rested his chin on them, creating a relaxed, casual, but also challenging posture. He looked directly into the man's eyes, a sly half-smile playing on his lips.

"Thank you for asking."