Based on the old bastard's requirements, Liam deduced that the mana core must be some kind of organ or energy center within the body. Acting on instinct and logic, he began focusing inward—trying to feel the flow of mana within himself.
At first, it was like groping through fog. Hours passed in silent effort, his senses dulling to the world outside, until suddenly—he felt something.
A subtle pull in his navel.
Without warning, his consciousness was yanked inward, and he plunged into an unfamiliar state of awareness. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. No words could explain it; it was a sensation beyond language, as if his very self had relocated—from his eyes to deep within his core.
He hovered there, an observer inside his own body.
What he saw stunned him.
There, nestled in his navel region, was a spherical space the size of a small room. It was shaped like a cracked orb, fissures webbing across its inner shell. Within this space floated shimmering golden motes of mana, dancing in delicate balance with their surroundings. For every mote that leaked outward, another flowed inward, maintaining a strange, living equilibrium.
But something else caught his attention.
A faint, green energy seeped constantly from the cracks. Unlike the golden motes, it didn't flow in both directions. It was only leaking outward. Unstable. Unchecked.
Liam stared, frozen in awe and unease.
"What... is this place?" he whispered to himself.
And more importantly—
What was that green energy trying to escape from his core?
The next morning, Liam walked toward the small herb shop at the edge of the village. It was nestled under a large tree, its roof covered in dried vines. A faded wooden sign hung outside: Mira's Remedies.
He took a deep breath and stepped forward.
The door creaked open as he entered. Inside, rows of glass jars filled with dried leaves, roots, and colorful powders lined the walls. The air smelled of bitter herbs and smoke.
Behind the counter stood a woman in her late thirties, sharp-eyed, with gray-streaked hair tied in a bun. She glanced at him once, then went back to sorting leaves.
"What do you want, boy?"
"I want to learn about herbs," Liam said honestly.
She stopped and looked at him again, this time with a frown. "I don't have time to babysit. Go back and play with sticks."
"I'm serious," Liam said. "I'll help you with anything if you teach me."
"No means no." She turned her back to him.
But Liam didn't leave. The next day, he returned. And the day after that. For a week, he sat outside the herb shop, waiting quietly.
On the eighth day, Mira opened the door with a sigh. "If you have nothing better to do, sweep the floor and wash the jars. Don't break anything."
Liam immediately stepped inside and got to work. He didn't complain, even when she made him carry heavy water buckets or scrub the shelves until his hands hurt.
She never explained anything, but Liam watched and listened. She often mumbled to herself while mixing herbs—naming plants and their effects.
"Bitterroot for fever… camla leaves for swelling…"
Liam memorized it all.
Weeks passed. Mira still hadn't directly taught him anything, but one day, she tossed him a leaf.
"What's this?"
"Camla leaf," Liam replied without hesitation.
She grunted, half-impressed. "Hmph. You're not completely useless."
From then on, she let him help grind powders, label jars, and even prepare minor salves. She never praised him, but she didn't stop him either.
One evening, as Liam was closing up the shop, Mira handed him a small, worn leather journal.
"I copied these notes years ago when I was still learning," she said. "Most of it is common knowledge, but some entries aren't easy to find. Read it if you want."
Liam took it carefully, eyes wide.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You'll still scrub the shelves tomorrow."
Ever since Liam learned the old man Grey would leave the village once a year to deliver tax tributes, a thought had begun to grow quietly in his mind. He didn't desire to steal, not out of impulse or malice—but necessity had always found its way through cracks in morality. He didn't want Grey's treasures or scrolls—only his knowledge. And to reach it, he needed to pass the guards left behind. Not through violence, but through sleep.
For that, he needed a sleeping agent—odorless, fast-acting, and subtle.
The answer? Herbs.
He had already been working with Marla, the village herbalist, for over a month. Though she had initially rejected his request to learn, Liam had helped her clean jars, chop roots, grind dried petals, even sweep the floors. Slowly, she warmed up to him and shared a few safe herbs to study—chamomile, valerian, nightgrass, and bitterroot among them.
Now, he used only the samples she gave him, no theft involved. But what he did with them, he kept secret.
Behind his house, there was a small pigsty where two plump pigs lived. They were perfect—small, manageable, and like most pigs, eager for anything edible.
Liam had converted the shed next to it into a small "lab." He crushed herbs with stones, dried plant mixtures in the sun, and sifted powder using cloth.
Every night, once everyone slept, he experimented. His first few attempts were useless—some made the pigs agitated, others had no effect at all. But he noted every reaction meticulously.
One night, he mixed dried valerian root with powdered bitterleaf and fed it in a few rolled pellets.
Nothing happened.
He sighed. Maybe the ratios were wrong?
Then, as he turned to clean his tools, a snort echoed.
One of the pigs had fallen on its side. The other stood wobbling, eyes drooping.
Liam's eyes widened.
It worked—but the dosage was too high. He didn't want unconsciousness in minutes, that was too suspicious. He needed it slow—gentle.
The next few days were spent adjusting quantities. He tried adding crushed bluecap bark to slow down absorption. With each test, the pigs slept deeper, calmer, for longer stretches.
Eventually, he created a fine brown powder, odorless when mixed in food. In his notes, he labeled it Drowsing Dust.
It wasn't lethal. It didn't harm. It just eased one into sleep.
He felt a strange satisfaction. Not the thrill of success, but the calm of progress. The knowledge he gained.
The success of Drowsing Dust had given Liam more than confidence—it gave him the clarity to think broader.
What if he couldn't mix something into food or drink? What if he couldn't be close at all?
He needed something airborne.
A dust. A mist. A breath of slumber.
He remembered a lesson from Marla.
"There are some plants," she had said while drying leaves in the sun, "that irritate the lungs when burned. Smoke isn't always bad—it can be medicine, or poison, depending on what you add to the fire."
That stuck with him.
He began collecting dried herbs from the unused scraps Marla discarded. She didn't notice—roots too shriveled, leaves too bruised. Useless to her. Useful to him.
He sorted them in small labeled pouches behind the pigsty:
Withergrass – a pale, long-stemmed weed with bitter aroma
Whisperleaf – a papery blue-veined leaf that disintegrated into powder easily
Stagnant Fern – found near the muddy edges of the village pond, had a musty odor
Oldroot bark shavings – hard and brittle, gave a thick white smoke when burned
Crimson lintflower – rarely used, but Liam had once heard Marla mumble, "Headaches, dizziness… nasty stuff."
At first, his attempts failed completely.
He burned combinations—some made him sneeze, some made the pigs restless, others made his own eyes water. Nothing caused sleep.
One night, he combined finely powdered Whisperleaf and Crimson lintflower, using dried Oldroot shavings as a base. He ground them to the texture of flour. Then, he lit a tiny pinch in a hollowed-out gourd over embers, venting it toward the pigpen.
Nothing.
Then ten minutes later—thud.
One pig slumped.
The second stumbled and collapsed moments later.
His heart raced. It worked—but the smoke was thick, far too strong and obvious. He needed it finer, subtler.
That night, he stayed up late.
He replaced Oldroot with just dried Whisperleaf, carefully ground down into near dust. It didn't burn, but it dispersed into the air like pollen when blown. Then he added a whisper of Crimson lintflower, far less than before.
He approached the pigs, gently blew a pinch into the pen.
The pigs sniffed around.
And then… they yawned. Laid down.
Slept.
It took longer—but it was invisible, odorless, and quiet.
Perfect.
He named it Sleepmire Dust.
Now, he had two weapons of silence.
Drowsing Dust—for food and drink.Sleepmire Dust—for air.
And no one—not even Marla—knew what he was crafting under the moonlight.
Soon, Old Man Grey would leave the village.