The wooden cart rumbled to a stop at the valley entrance, and Leon hopped down, his boots crunching on dry pine needles. He scanned the surrounding trees—tall linden and pine, their branches weaving a thick canopy—and frowned. "I've been here before. This is Eastern Hollow, not Linden Pine Valley."
Im stepped down beside him, his white hair catching the sunlight. "Eastern Hollow is the local nickname. When lords take new land, they register uncharted areas with the empire—no one bothers to ask villagers what they call it."
"Just make up a name?" Leon asked, surprised.
"Officials don't waste time on local names," Im explained. "If the land's unregistered, the lord names it. If it's already claimed, they'd have to pay to re-register—something greedy lords avoid. Some even trick villagers: use nicknames on deeds, or collude with officials to rename land, selling it twice or forcing people to pay for 'official' names."
Leon's mind wandered to his past life—real estate developers cutting corners, seizing land without permission. Some things never changed, even across worlds. Dahlia and Flower pretended not to hear; criticizing lords was risky, even when the speaker was a mage.
"This valley is ours now—our herb garden," Im said, changing the subject. "We'll all live here. No distractions, just magic and herbs."
"Live here?" Dahlia's eyes widened. "But there's nothing—no houses, no beds!"
"Mages often travel—forests, deserts, seas," Im said sharply. "You need to build shelter, find food, keep yourselves healthy. Tired mages make mistakes—spells backfire, mana goes wild. Worst case, paralysis or death."
Leon muttered under his breath, "Looks like we're channeling Bear Grylls."
Im raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"
"Nothing—just thinking about spell backfire being scary," Leon said quickly.
Im softened slightly. "Low-level spells won't harm you if you fail. But you haven't learned any yet, so don't worry." His tone held a teasing edge.
He sent the three students to find a campsite. "Follow the stream upstream. Look for flat ground, fresh water, and shelter. Be back before dusk."
Leon, Dahlia, and Flower grabbed sticks to beat back bugs and brambles, then set off. The stream babbled at the valley floor, clear and cold. Tall trees blocked most of the sun, and the air smelled of damp earth and pine. They scared up several pheasants, but without bows, they could only watch them fly away.
"This path is terrible," Dahlia complained, stumbling over a root. "My boots are getting muddy, and I almost twisted my ankle."
"Just a little farther," Flower said. "Streams from springs are cleaner—no upstream pollution."
They walked on, and soon the stream split—one branch continued into the valley's depths, the other trickled down from a hillside. "That way," Flower said, pointing to the hillside branch. "Springs are usually on slopes."
They crossed the stream on smooth stones and climbed the gentle incline. To their surprise, the path curved back toward the valley entrance. After ten minutes, they emerged onto a small flat area—200 to 300 square meters, bordered by rocks and dotted with wildflowers. A clear spring bubbled from the steep hillside above, feeding the stream.
"Perfect," Flower said, grinning. "Water's fresh, ground's flat, and we're close to the entrance but hidden by trees."
Leon nodded. The spring was the real prize—easy access to clean water, no need to haul buckets from the valley floor. Dahlia, though still dusty, agreed. "It's better than walking through thorns all day." They turned back to tell Im their find.