The silver tray rested quietly at Argon's side, now cleared of food. Though his body remained weary, his soul had settled further, and his mind sharpened. Every minute spent in this fragile vessel brought his control closer to complete.
He turned to Dominic, who stood nearby with the patience of a man who had spent years waiting in silence.
"I'd prefer to be alone for the evening," Argon said softly. "But bring me the latest reports—news, books, anything recent. I wish to read."
Dominic's brow rose with pleasant surprise. "Of course, Young Master. I shall return shortly."
Once the door shut behind him, Argon returned to the journal.
The entries were raw, painful—each page bleeding quiet despair. The boy had longed for the world beyond these halls, for a taste of life unshackled by frailty and shame. But instead, he had lived through others: through Dominic's evening stories of distant wars and shifting empires.
The rebellion in Leonidas.
His father's relentless defense of the Eastern Front against the Demonic Blight.
Diplomatic upheaval, merchant wars, political shifts—news that meant nothing to most, but meant everything to a boy locked away in stillness.
And then came the entries about the treatments.
Elixirs, tinctures, mystical infusions—efforts born of desperation, not understanding.
The boy wrote in detail:
"They gave me a root shaped like an elf's ear. Elven Ear, they called it. My chest ached after I swallowed it, and I couldn't stop coughing."
"A bitter black syrup made from Deathbell. I don't know how long I was unconscious afterward. They said it would help open my mana channels."
"And a crystal. They said it was from a dragon. It pulsed with heat. The mage forced its energy into me. I screamed. I told them it felt wrong. They said I needed to be brave."
Argon's jaw tensed. He recognized every component. Elven Ear, known across dozens of worlds for its use in restoring broken mana paths. Deathbell, rare and poisonous if misused, but capable of stimulating dormant cores. And the Dragon Core, an unstable reservoir of power, often used in advanced soul-rebuilding.
They had the right ingredients.
But their execution had been disastrous.
And then came the final wound:
"They said I should be grateful. That they were doing all they could."
"But it felt like they just wanted to say they tried."
Argon closed the book briefly, exhaling through his nose.
"Neglect... masked in care."
The methods had not been tailored for the boy's condition. No true strategy, no arcane stabilization, no soul alignment. They threw raw mana into a fractured vessel and called it treatment.
In Aetherion, his former empire, this would never have happened. Children born with high mana potential were monitored and trained physically before their first stone ever formed. Their bodies were prepared. Their souls reinforced.
This world was far behind. What the nobility lacked in knowledge, they filled with ritual and pride.
Argon flipped to a final entry, noting one detail that confirmed his suspicion: the Dragon Core had been infused directly into the boy's system, guided by a mage clinging to a flawed theory—that foreign mana could overwrite a failed internal circuit.
The theory wasn't wrong—but it was incomplete. A proper infusion required harmonic alignment, not force. The soul needed stabilizers. Protection. The ingredients needed refinement, not raw application.
They had never combined the Elven Ear, Deathbell, and Dragon Core properly. And worse, they had ignored the key auxiliary elements: spirit silk, used to wrap and soothe spiritual fractures; and neutral dust, which absorbed conflicting mana signatures and reduced core rejection.
They had thrown fire at cracked glass.
"The path to recovery was in front of them," Argon thought bitterly. "They just didn't know how to walk it."
He closed the journal and set it down gently, the decision already forming in his mind.
He would not restore the original mana stone.
He would rebuild it. Entirely. Properly.
Just then, the door opened again. Dominic stepped in with several scrolls and books cradled in his arms.
"I brought what you requested, my lord," he said gently. "Shall I read it aloud? As we used to—"
"Leave them for now," Argon replied. "I'll read them myself."
Dominic nodded, setting them carefully on the writing table.
"One more thing," Argon added, his voice calm but firm. "Have the following brought to me by morning: Elven Ear, Deathbell, and a Dragon Core. In raw form, if possible. I'll also need a mortar, pestle, clean drinkable water, a roll of spirit silk, and a pouch of neutral dust."
Dominic froze in place.
"My lord... those ingredients were part of your earlier treatments. They—"
"I know," Argon said. "And I thank you for your concern."
He stood—taller now, more stable. The body still weak, but moving under his command. His eyes met the butler's with unwavering calm.
"This time, I won't be ingesting anything blindly. I'll prepare it myself."
Dominic hesitated, concern flickering in his expression. "You've… never handled such materials before."
Argon offered the faintest of smiles—calculated, quiet.
"I have more experience than you think."
The butler studied him for a long, silent moment.
Then bowed. "Very well, Young Master. I'll see it done."
As the door closed behind him, Argon looked down at his hands—small, shaking faintly with strain, but not fear.
"You were broken," he whispered to the soul that once lived in this body. "But I am here now."
And he would rebuild it.
Not just the stone.
The self.
The future.