When Dominic returned, he brought with him not only the requested scrolls and books, but also a small wooden box filled with neatly arranged herbs, crystal fragments, and cloth-wrapped reagents. The old butler moved carefully, helping to arrange everything on the work table near the window, his hands respectful and deliberate.
Argon watched, nodding approvingly.
"That will be all," he said.
Dominic hesitated for a moment, as if wanting to say more. But, as always, he bowed instead and left the room quietly.
Once alone, Argon stood and approached the table. His movements were slower than usual—his body still adjusting to the new mana pathways—but controlled. Calm.
He took a deep breath and surveyed the ingredients. They were raw, unprocessed. Just as he needed.
This was not a procedure of refinement, nor one requiring advanced tools. The old healer who had once taught this recovery method in a backwater dimensional world used only a mortar and pestle—no alchemy flames, no cleansing circles.
Argon reached for the Elven Ear, its soft green leaves cool to the touch. He placed a small amount into the mortar and began to crush it slowly, gently, preserving the vital mana fibers within. Then he added a sliver of Deathbell, careful not to let the quantity overpower the mixture. The ratio had to be exact—any more, and it would poison him.
The blend began to change hue, swirling into a light purple paste—a good sign. He set it aside and turned to the remaining ingredients.
The Dragon Core, pulsing faintly, and two stabilizers: Spirit Silk, which he folded and set next to the pestle for later, and a pinch of Neutral Dust, which he mixed into water along with powdered fragments of the Dragon Core, using slow circular motions until the solution glowed faintly.
His procedure was simple: ingest the paste first, to soothe and prepare the mana channels, then drink the infused water to begin core integration.
He took a deep breath.
Then consumed the paste.
It was bitter. Dry. But the moment it reached his stomach, he felt it spreading through his limbs—a gentle warmth, like coals under the skin. His mana pathways, once tight and rigid, relaxed.
He drank the Dragon Core mixture next.
That was harder. It burned going down—bright and alive, like drinking lightning. He clenched his fists, steadying his breathing.
Then came the delicate part.
He focused inward. Felt the cracked, malformed mana stone buried deep within his spirit—a structure broken years ago. He guided the surge of mana from the dragon core toward it, letting his mind and soul do the work his body could not.
In the Aetherion Empire, elite mages had long abandoned reliance on the stone alone. They learned to manipulate mana directly with mind-soul synchronization, and Argon had been one of its greatest masters.
He now used that mastery to redirect, restructure, and finally reshape a new core—fashioned not of desperation, but of skill and force of will.
He absorbed what was useful from the shattered original, then slowly allowed it to wither, forcing his spirit to abandon the broken foundation.
The hours blurred as his consciousness dove deep into himself, his spirit weaving the mana into a lattice far sturdier than anything natural. He lost all sense of time—until finally, the new core formed.
It was stronger. Denser. More refined. A man-forged core, not one left to chance.
But the process wasn't complete.
The remnants of the old core still lingered. It had to be flushed out.
And that would hurt.
Using the mana reserves from both the Dragon Core and the boy's unusually high innate mana pool, Argon pushed—flooded his channels, overwhelmed the dying core with raw force until it snapped.
And with it, came the backlash.
He staggered backward, grabbing the edge of the table. The pain bloomed in his chest, his head, his limbs. He dropped to his knees.
A second later, he vomited—dark, thick blood, splashing onto the floor.
The smell was sharp and sour, enough to sting the eyes.
It was done.
But it came at a cost.
Though not fatal, the violent expulsion damaged his organs. His muscles ached, and his lungs wheezed. He could still walk, still move—but not much more. Combat, training, or advanced casting would have to wait.
Still, it was worth it.
He could feel it now—mana flowing freely through his body. Alive. Responsive. His channels were open, and his soul no longer fractured by the burden of two conflicting cores.
"It's done," he whispered. "Finally… one."
He rang the bell on the desk.
Servants came quickly, and the moment they entered, their eyes widened in alarm at the blood, the stench, and the boy's pale face.
"My Lord—!"
"I'm fine," Argon said, his voice soft but firm, offering them a faint smile. "Just clean it. I'll be resting soon."
They hesitated, eyes wide with worry. They pitied him.
To them, this looked like another failed attempt. Another sad chapter in the story of a boy trying too hard to fix what the world had broken.
But still… they smiled back. Gently. Softly. They cleaned the floor and wiped his face, then helped him sit on the edge of the bed, his nightshirt stained with blood, but his eyes sharp and focused.
They left soon after, closing the door quietly behind them.
Alone again, Argon allowed himself to breathe.
His body still hurt, but the mana manipulation techniques he had mastered allowed him to gently begin healing the internal damage. The pain would fade in days. Full recovery would follow soon after.
He looked down at his hands, then closed his eyes.
This body—gifted, broken, misunderstood—was his now.
And finally, it could be used properly.
Before rest, he turned to the scrolls Dominic had left earlier. He called the butler back briefly, requesting the materials be moved to his bedside so he could review them while lying down.
The butler, as always, obliged without question.
Now reclined against soft pillows, Argon studied estate ledgers, regional maps, and the latest newspapers with the intensity of a man at war.
He reviewed the finances of House Von Feind. Weaknesses. Corruption. Trade gaps. Then he traced borders, charted troop movements, and examined the political tension building between Leonidas and other powers.
"It's not just the body I'll rebuild," he thought. "It's everything."
With that purpose burning quietly within him, Argon Von Feind, once Emperor of Aetherion, read until exhaustion claimed him.
And for the first time since awakening in this new world, he slept—not as a broken child, but as a ruler reborn.