The usual visit to the abandoned tower has been roughly once or twice a week.
Too much disrupts Mr. Abel's pace, and that's about it because it fits Connie and Yulena's cooking class.
I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'll call you and then I'll go through the wall of illusion.
The room you entered is commonly known as the Abandoned Tower Laboratory. The space, which was a bit of a mess, is a bit scattered with the tables, materials, notes parchment I brought in, etc.
When Mr. Abel is not in this abandoned tower lab, he walks straight to Mr. Abel's private room and knocks, but there is no response. I don't even seem to be in my private room today.
But Mr. Abel rarely goes out. Or at least I was never away when I visited.
He doesn't look too painful in person, but his state of inexplicable house arrest life from my point of view remains unchanged. It's been months since we met, but unfortunately the status quo hasn't changed.
While I was thinking about that, they said, "When I don't hear back, go to the roof," so I called out and opened the door again to interrupt.
Enter the dim stone private room and re-hold the cage with good souvenir treats and tea before going up the stairs leading to the rooftop behind the room. I opened the door on the roof thin with a bit of garlic to the stepping footsteps and the sound of cutting the wind I heard from the way in.
It was only through the shadow of the door that he put his face on, where a beautiful young man with gray hair was practicing like a sword dance against a background of blue sky.
Step in and flash, twirling the silver blade in your hand and flashing again in reverse.
Reassemble your sword and turn around, check your back, aim for it as if you are seeing a phantom enemy, and squeeze it away vigorously in front of you. But his posture is not disturbed at all, and he immediately pulls his leg and takes the position of interception.
That's how I took a breath and then slowly put my sword back into the sheath.
"If you're here, speak up"
The gaze fits. faceless, voiced in a flat voice.
Mr. Abel is generally polite when he tries to say something.
"I'm sorry, I missed you."
We interact like that, then we open the door, and then we go out onto the roof, for chrissakes.
Mr. Abel was not wearing his usual dark brown cloak or jacket and was in a ruffled outfit called trousers on a black cotton cutouts.
Because it's a rooftop surrounded by walls, or in the middle of a workout, you're not wearing a monocle, which is a demonic prop that hides you.
Though a mysterious beautiful young man, he seems to be a little hot exercising at this time of year on boulders. The way I walked over here wiping my sweaty skin unconstructively was cool enough to have a bit of trouble doing things with my eyes.
The boulder is Russ Boss, not just a little indoor system.
This is how I started to come across places where I was working out during a few visits, but I have a sneak peek until I was noticed because I have very good eyes. And every time I get embarrassed. Viva beauty youth.
"Today it's an iced tea from the Russian Cannula and Sturu regions."
"I'm telling you you don't have to bring it... Russian?"
Turning the cloth in the cage to show her today's souvenir, Ms. Abel peered into discipline. I'm a little concerned while I say I'm not interested.
One of the things that turned out to be pressing him like this, Mr. Abel eats well. I eat well, but I didn't seem to know much about my tastes.
Because they only ate the meal that Principal Davide's direct servants delivered about twice a day, and they only saw it as a nutritional intake needed to live.
Therefore, I leave everything else to eat and everything else to eat. Apparently it was an awareness that I should not starve.
If you get a glimpse of such an indescribable diet, stop the unwanted spirit of mediation from working.
It was a recent pleasure to see if everyone in the Dawn Regiment was happy or not with the rare ingredients and recipes they brought from the local area as well as the dishes in the cooking class.