That day, the sun has not yet risen above the eastern stone terraces when I already stand beside a small fruit stall in the corner of the market. Next to me is a man with a gentle demeanor. He stands upright, sleeves rolled up high, and eyes as clear as an untouched well. He was once a slave — a lowly status amidst the bustling chaos of the world — but now, thanks to my purchase and instruction in reading, manners, and the rules of trade, he has become the one in charge of my fruit stall.
I glance at the basket that holds papayas, pineapples, and bananas — fruits always harvested fresh from the southern mountains early in the morning — and find it strange: they're all gone, not a single one left.
I squint, slightly furrow my brows, and ask:
"The basket's completely empty... Who came so early and swept it all clean?"
The man shows no sign of panic. He bows his head, pulls a piece of paper from his sleeve pocket, and respectfully offers it to me.
"Replying to young master, Mister Aldo came during the second watch and ordered exactly according to the quantity written on this note."
I take it, eyes scanning the strong strokes on the paper: "Papaya: 14, Pineapple: 8, Banana: 20."
Unconsciously, the corner of my lips lifts. I murmur:
"Thank heavens... After more than two weeks halting Enzyme production, we finally see signs of consumption again."
The man looks up, curiosity flickering in his eyes:
"Young master... may I ask, why did Mister Aldo halt the Enzyme production for so long?"
I slip the note into my sleeve and respond softly, like the wind:
"Due to continuous sabotage by the Bone Collector."
At that, his face subtly changes.
"The Bone Collector? I've heard whispers around the market... about stolen goods, and strange mutant creatures — cows that walk on two legs, goats with human jaws and hands... just the thought gives me chills."
I narrow my eyes, not from fear, just from consideration.
"Has the government dispatched the Thaumatica to track him down yet?"
He nods quickly:
"Yes, they have. It's been three days now. Word is, there's even a bounty — whoever captures the Bone Collector will be awarded twenty gold coins."
I simply nod:
"That's good, then... But well, idle chatter for the morning, just something to amuse the ears."
I turn inward, check the ledgers, finish calculating the previous day's earnings, then pull out a small cloth pouch from my sleeve and hand it to him.
"This is your share of the profit. Do well, and there will be more."
The man bows in gratitude, unable to hide the joy on his face.
I flick my sleeve lightly and smile:
"Alright then, I'll go ahead. Keep the stall in order."
"May you go in peace, young master."
We both wave. I stride away, my figure soon fading into the dense crowd, swallowed by the lively hum of a new day in the city.
I walk leisurely along the main avenue cutting through Tarif — a grand city in western Mikhland, where desert dust mingles with the shade of ancient forests, where the chant of Islamic prayers echoes from tall towers, and where the scent of cinnamon and star anise clings to every gust of wind. Tarif, prosperous as a silk tapestry woven by countless merchant hands, is the center of trade across three continents.
My feet carry me westward, toward a majestic structure built of white stone: the Grand Library of Self-good — one of the greatest repositories of knowledge in this land. I pass beneath the arched gate, stop before the librarian's desk, bring my palms together lightly and present my membership card, the red seal still fresh.
The old librarian, his beard long past his chest and a green turban on his head, nods solemnly, saying nothing. He simply bows and searches for my name in the records, fingers flipping through pages as dry as summer cicada wings.
I pay it no mind, offering only a slight smile before heading inside on my own. At that moment, a quiet thought stirs within me:
"Now that I've gained some stability in this foreign land, why not resume the studies I once left unfinished back on Earth?"
I stroll among rows of shelves like a forest of ancient wood, the musty scent of old paper stirring something in my heart. I pick a rosewood table by the window, where the light is soft, and pull down a light brown book — Anthology of Eastern Poetry.
On the first page, brush strokes swirl like dancing dragons and flying phoenixes:
"Words of the Early Harvest Season"
In the paddy field, mist and rain linger late into the plowing time,
An old ox plows through the soil until the far eastern ridge.
The fierce sun shines brightly like a smiling face,
An old woman, head bowed, weeps again and again with sorrow.
(Tentative translation:)
Rice fields, dawn rain, and late plowing,
An old buffalo tills until the east grows cold.
Brilliant sunbeams like a smiling face,
An old mother drops her hat, weeping in sorrow.
I frown slightly, open my notebook, and carefully copy each line before beginning the analysis:
— "In the paddy field, mist and rain linger late into the plowing time,": This line depicts a farmer quietly plowing in the afternoon, with lingering dew and recent rain.
— "An old ox plows through the soil until the far eastern ridge.": The old buffalo persistently tills the soil, working from dawn until the eastern winds turn cold.
I jot down a note in the margin: "Old buffalo" symbolizes devotion; "tills the soil" represents relentless labor.
I continue to examine every word — "shines brightly like a smiling face" — the morning sunlight personified as a smiling face. A simple, beautiful image.
I pause my pen, place a hand on my brow, and think deeper.
"Perhaps this poem isn't merely about harvest scenes, but rather a longing for peace, for bountiful seasons, and for warmth in a rural life?"
I flip to the next page of my notebook and write more:
"Sweat is a symbol of hardship.
The plow represents enduring labor.
The buffalo is the embodiment of rural folk — patient, uncomplaining.
The gentle sunlight like a smile stands for hope after toil."
Each thought flows like the first stream at the start of spring. I record everything neatly — straight lines, not a single shaky stroke.
About one moment later — nearly a full watch — I close the book, feeling light, as though I've just walked across a sunlit field after a rainstorm.
I look up and quietly tell myself:
"Literature is truly a delight. It not only sharpens the mind, but also nourishes the soul and cultivates emotion. If not for today, I might never have understood the quiet beauty within these words."
Returning the book to the shelf, I wander into another part of the library. Inside, it's like a labyrinth of knowledge — each floor vast as a noble manor, with two underground levels, and seven more stacked above like a tower.
My heart is full of excitement and wonder, like a child stepping for the first time into an enchanted forest.
Back when I was first summoned to this otherworldly realm, I never once thought of studying again.
But after all, I'm only fourteen. The path of learning is something I simply cannot abandon.
I think to myself…
"Isekai (Transmigration) stories... reincarnation tales... portal fantasies... none of them ever mention this part. Even though — in truth — it's one of the most important."
I step through the library's left wing — a section housing Eastern classical texts and medicinal treatises intertwined with Islamic beliefs. My heart stirs faintly, as if a strange intuition guides my steps. The curved bookshelves snake around me, the faint scent of oud wood lingers in the air, and sunlight spills through the high-set windows, weaving golden rivers through this forest of parchment.
My eyes stop on a leather-bound volume the color of cinnamon bark. Its spine bears Arabesque motifs intertwined with Han script — the writing a harmonious blend of two calligraphic traditions. I reach out and lift it. The book feels alive — cool and supple beneath my fingertips.
I turn the first page — each line so straight and exact it feels printed, like a Word document from Earth. I can't help but marvel:
"This person's dedication is astonishing. It feels as if every page was written with their soul."
Then I turn to the second page — and my heart skips a beat. Each medicinal herb is carefully hand-drawn, colored with perfect balance, and annotated in detail. Every illustration comes with an actual specimen — sliced thin and placed behind a transparent glass window.
I reach out to touch it — not ordinary glass. It's a rare kind — smooth, durable, unblemished — like it's forged from forest glass, yet as pure as the finest high-tech material from my former world.
"Could it be... sealed with inert gas? Or vacuum?" — I wonder.
Three hypotheses rush through my mind:
First — the author uses wind magic to vacuum the air before sealing the glass.
Second — the samples are preserved with the medicinal resin of a special tree, like natural epoxy.
Third — a magical seal prevents air from leaking in altogether.
Whatever the method, the creator's level of craftsmanship far exceeds the norm of this world.
Still, I return to the real task — focusing on the recorded knowledge of medicine. The first note:
Black pepper disperses internal cold, reduces redness, and stops sneezing.
Another page:
Ginger treats rheumatism and eases knee pain.
Garlic — anti-inflammatory, regulates blood flow, benefits the spleen.
Of course, as someone who once studied Eastern medicine back on Earth, I'm no stranger to the likes of green tea for clearing heat and calming the heart, or blood herb — a vital remedy that enhances blood production and regulates menstruation. Common yet essential, these herbs form the backbone of Eastern pharmacology.
I write each note slowly, using a brush dipped in indigo ink, onto a green bamboo-leaf cover notebook — something I made by hand. At the same time, I attempt to translate the classical poems describing medicinal properties into plain prose — each verse like a riddle, holding within it knowledge, experience, and the quiet faith of those who came before.
Each line sinks into me like water soaking into earth. I murmur to myself…
Then, like a lightning strike across a clear sky, everything around me suddenly shifts. The library — gone. No shelves. No old paper. No scent of ink.
All is wrapped in a pale golden light — soft as early morning mist, but glimmering like butter melting in the sun.
I stand — or perhaps float — my body weightless as smoke. I feel no ground beneath my feet.
Before me appears a grand hall, its high dome arched in the Mikhlandic style. Light filters through stained glass windows, casting soft hues across the stone floor. At the center sits a man—fair-skinned, clad in tidy common garb, his expression stern and composed. Flanking him are two knights in ash-gray armor, their suits inlaid with pale gold V-shaped trims. Their helms are hawk-like in the front, and behind, scarlet plumes flare like bloodied flames.
In front of them stands a long line of chained individuals—no one else but fellow Earthlings, slaves forcibly marched here under guard. One by one, each person is forced to place a hand on a magical orb. The orbs glow with varying colors: gray, black, blue, green, red, orange, yellow, violet.
Yet what chills me to the bone is this: those whose orb glows gray or black are spared. The rest—executed on the spot.
I am horrified. I wave and shout, but no one notices. I reach toward one person—my hand passes through them, like wind through mist.
Panic surges.
"Could it be… I'm in yang-soul form, forcefully separated from my body? But… I don't feel coldness—it's not yin. Then—"
I quickly focus my spirit—yes, my vital energy is still yang. I'm alive. It's just that my soul has been pulled from my body. Someone must have cast Soul-Severance Magic.
I set the fear aside and let my mind observe calmly.
Drifting past the stone wall, I enter a wide adjoining chamber. In its flickering light, two figures in black robes kneel, carefully inscribing a summoning circle into the floor—a large round array surrounded by countless sigils, arcane glyphs, and ancient ideograms.
The one drawing appears to be a master—meticulously pouring mercury along the lines. He then looks up to instruct the other, who seems much younger.
"Remember this: First— the secondary hexagon with its peak aligned to the outer circle ensures the summoned person arrives whole, not crippled. Second— the small circle at the upper-left identifies the target as a human and filters out non-human entities. Third— the larger circle attached to that isolates any items from the person summoned. Fourth— the crescent shape in the lower left? That knocks the target unconscious—makes them too groggy to resist. Fifth... never mind, there are 189 more details. Learn them on your own!"
The apprentice nods rapidly, then pulls out a glowing blue gem — a piece of manatite, radiant like northern ice.
The master frowns and continues:
"Every 10 grams summons one person. Don't forget the parameters — IQ between 85 and 135, under 19 years old, mentally stable. No lunatics. And don't summon geniuses— they're hard to control and quick to rebel."
The apprentice opens a book, but the master smacks him on the head:
"Memorize it. More importantly— don't forget to add platinum into the summoning ring. That way they'll automatically understand Empiralect. Saves us from assigning a Thaumatica tutor for three years!"
Then the ritual begins.
The apprentice chants—clearly, slowly—each word ringing like a bronze bell. The summoning circle ignites, sigils flare, and—
Whoosh.
Sparks shoot forth, forming a blur of motion. A group of over a hundred Earthlings materializes in a heap, all unconscious.
Beside them lies a mountain of personal belongings: smartphones, cosmetics, handbags, laptops, wristwatches...
The apprentice excitedly runs over, rummaging through the items, face gleaming with curiosity. He darts into an adjacent room—perhaps for inspection or inventory.
And I—remain frozen, unmoving in this space where time itself feels still, like water sealed in a crystal jar.
My thoughts drift to my own summoning. That time, too, was during a gray afternoon. A novice girl—barely able to recite the full chant—had recklessly activated the circle. She forgot to set IQ limits, didn't include any auxiliary filters. I had emerged fully conscious in the middle of a plaza… and slipped away into the market in an instant.
The only regret— I hadn't understood a word of the local language, Empiralect… not until I stumbled upon a Scroll of Comprehension and burned it for use. Truly, a twist of fate.
But my gaze returns to the present.
The ash-gray knights begin dragging the Earthlings into stone-walled rooms lined with iron bars—cells like makeshift camps, each about twenty square meters, crammed with five to eight people. I can see it all, but I can't touch, can't stop anything. I'm just a drifting shadow in time, suspended within this brutal, inhuman scene.
Then—like being hurled back into my body—I jolt awake.
The first light that enters my eyes isn't sunlight, but the dim haze of the grand library's high-vaulted ceiling. My head rests against the cold stone wall. My left shoulder pulses with numbness, likely from lying on my side too long.
Beside me, a small glass vial of Health Potion lies half-drained. The red liquid—like ripe strawberry—still drips onto the tiled floor, forming round drops that spread like chaotic sigils from some psychic map.
The taste still lingers on my tongue—sweet, with a faint bitterness at the tip.
Strawberry. Familiar.
I reach up and touch my neck—dull pain throbs along the artery, evidence of external force.
"Someone tried to assassinate you," a familiar voice whispers at my ear.
"Luckily, the librarian spotted it. I just happened to be walking by."
I look up—Joon-soo stands beside me, eyes sharp with both alertness and fury. He helps me up—gentle, but firm.
I ask softly, "Where's the librarian?"
"Gone to fetch the guards," Joon-soo replies, then tilts his head and gestures, "And that one—that's the attacker."
My eyes follow his hand—and sure enough, a figure stands bound in place, cloaked in purple, face hidden behind a wooden mask painted with a bodhi leaf and a vertical stroke etched down the forehead. The figure bows slightly, motionless.
I rush over, about to remove the mask, but it won't budge.
Joon-soo follows, tries to pry it off too—no luck. I tap the attacker's shoulder gently and whisper:
"Likely reinforced with a magic seal. Let me try."
I place my hand on the mask. Joon-soo braces the figure's head to prevent any struggle. A soft click sounds—like a brass lock unfastening. The mask springs off with force—
—flying straight toward Joon-soo's face.
A bad feeling flashes in my mind:
"Damn it—could the mask be target-tracking?"
The thing hits Joon-soo square in the face. He stumbles back with a groan, "Agh!!" and clutches his nose, muttering curses. But he stays on his feet—seems he's fine.
I turn back—and the attacker is… a young woman.
Her skin is pale like fresh beeswax, eyes a stormy sea-blue, lips soft and pink—but tightly pressed together, holding back deep rage.
From the depths of memory, a thought rises:
"She must be from the Sapphic Cult—the group of women cast out and revolting against patriarchal rule."
This cult is infamous for its extremism: luring young girls away from their homes, raiding villages, and sowing hostility toward both civilians and authorities. Their reasons may be valid—but their path, twisted.
Another thought stings like a thorn:
"If she's from the Sapphic Cult, this isn't a solo act. There must be others. Or this is a decoy. We can't let our guard down."
Before I can speak, she does—voice dry, clipped, every word like a snapped twig:
"I won't say anything. Torture me, tear me apart—I will never return to that hell."
I don't answer. Because I understand at once—the "hell" she speaks of isn't a place. It's the patriarchal world she rejects.
Just then, Joon-soo returns, wearing a smug expression as he declares:
"No need to talk. I already tied up your friend. She… seems more timid."
His eyes flick toward another girl—same clothes, same cloak. He's got her in a hold around the waist, arms bound behind her back. She keeps her head low, avoiding my gaze. The unmasked one trembles with fury, unable to speak through her grief and rage.
Moments later, armor clinks. The guards have arrived with the librarian. The two women are taken away. One still thrashes wildly, eyes burning with hatred so fierce it could set the world ablaze.
Not wasting another second, I speak quickly:
"Joon-soo, check her bag. See if there's anything inside."
The librarian—a Flavus man with thick beard wrapping his jaw—still stands silently behind us, but now cranes his neck to peer in.
Joon-soo rummages through the bag, pulls out the first item, and reads aloud:
"'A Survival Guide for Women in the Vile Patriarchal Society.'"
I wave a hand dismissively: "Leave that for later. We need the plans."
He pulls out two more books—this time, he doesn't bother reading the titles aloud:
"Sapphic Sisterhood Manifesto."
"On the Tyranny and Evil of Patriarchal Systems."
The titles alone say enough. But… there's no sign of any plans.
Both of us glance at each other in confusion—then, the deep, calm voice of the librarian cuts in:
"Wait… try flipping through those books quickly."
As he speaks, he demonstrates with his hands. Sure enough, three tiny slips of paper fall out from the inner spines—tucked into the final pages.
I bend down and pick them up. The handwriting is unfamiliar—not Empiralect, nor any common script.
Joon-soo frowns: "What kind of writing is this?"
The librarian chuckles softly, then says:
"Ah… this, I know."
I hand him the three slips, and say:
"Then please, brother. Translate for us."
For a brief moment, all three of us fall silent. Only the sound of rustling paper remains—and the quiet anticipation as we watch the librarian's lips, waiting for them to speak the words aloud...
The librarian begins to read the three scraps of paper aloud, voice low and dense like a drum soaked in the dust of ages:
"Strike the Wolf's Fang. Penetrate the frontline. Join comrades to shatter the chains, imprison them, and build a city of sanctity—linked by the sisterhood of the South, for our friends, for the community, honoring the community, because of the community. Our hands shall crush the feral imperial eagle. Do not get captured. Head toward the place where the fairies fight for sisterhood with all their hearts."
As the final word fades, he shrugs slightly and adds in the tone of a scholar giving a historical aside:
"This is in Old Nel, a language invented by Garrito—a dwarf who once held the third-highest position in Arroceixa, a city in the South. The man was envious of the first mayor, who brought Empiralect into the city, so he deliberately invented a language to oppose it."
I nod silently, amused:
"The lore of this city… it's like reading a fantasy novel, complete with political drama."
Joon-soo, sitting beside me, makes a sour face like he just bit into an unripe persimmon. He stares blankly at the odd phrase "for the community, honoring the community, because of the community," then mutters under his breath:
"Communists…?"
I glance at him, chuckling inwardly:
"Reminds me of those proletariat radicals we fought back in February and March. Yep… in Joon-soo's hands, even the word 'community' becomes a war signal."
The librarian seems to hear that and chimes in, tone turning serious:
"We can't rule out the possibility that the Sapphic Cult is planning an attack—on Tarif itself."
I sigh:
"It's in the note. 'Strike the Wolf's Fang.' They're coming from the north, where something called the 'Wolf's Fang' is located."
The librarian furrows his brow in confusion:
"There's no structure called the Wolf's Fang in northern Tarif."
I frown. Thoughts race through my mind like a shuttle flying through a loom. Wolf's Fang… fang… embedded…
Suddenly, I lift my head, my voice certain and sharp:
"The Northern Market—it lies inside that herringbone-style neighborhood. Overlay a zoning map, and the layout looks exactly like a wolf's fang stabbed deep into the residential block nearby."
The librarian's expression changes—his eyes flash with killing intent:
"That area is crowded. Merchants from all over the region, just as busy as the city center. If they strike, the damage will be catastrophic."
I glance back at the three notes, eyes scanning rapidly, then say:
"But it also says—if they fail, they'll retreat."
Joon-soo leaps up:
"That settles it! Since those two girls got caught, they'll pull out!"
The librarian nods in agreement. But I shake my head, voice stern:
"It's not that simple. Those two were a decoy team. Think about it—this whole time, there's been no communication between them. No orb, no signs of messaging. That means… the rest don't know yet, or they do—but they've got a Plan B. I believe this attack was planned thoroughly. No one would dare hit a fortified regional capital like Tarif unless they were confident."
Now the librarian starts pacing, flustered:
"This is bad… this is very bad. We have to act!"
Joon-soo calls out:
"Let's scout the place! Grab gear, move out!"
I raise a hand, calm:
"This isn't just an underground plot. We need to notify the Umdah of Tarif—the mayor—he alone has authority to mobilize city defense."
They both nod without a word. Without delay, Joon-soo and I hurry down the grand corridor of the library, our footsteps echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Behind us, the librarian watches, regretful he can't come along. Still, he bows deeply, palms together in the style of Islamic prayer, and his solemn voice trails after us:
"May the Eternal One grant you peace and success, you who walk into the storm for truth."
I don't look back. Just raise a hand in quiet salute—within, I am already braced for the storm rolling down from the north…
Ahead, the grand city hall of Umdah Abd al-Uzza rises with noble grace. Gray-white walls lined with silver streaks, a giant dome glittering in the twilight sun. Near the gate, a large bulletin board leans slightly, its glass dulled to the yellow of desert sand. Joon-soo glances over, then draws in a quiet breath:
"Al-Miraj was attacked too… two days ago. Still part of the same emirate."
I say nothing, but my fingers curl lightly around the strap of my bag. I approach the gate guards and pull out our evidence: the satchel, the three notes. I hand them over and knock on the bronze door—KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!—but before the echo can even fade, a guard is already rushing in.
"That fast…"
Moments later, a gust of wind tears across the square. From behind the city hall, two cloaked silhouettes flash into view, leaping onto flying carpets and vanishing into the air with a shrill gust.
I look up, thinking:
"No wonder Tarif thrives—right on the edge of Islamic desert and dense jungle."
Next to me, Joon-soo grumbles:
"Why won't they let us follow…?"
I glance at him, then say calmly:
"The northern edge of the city is thirty, maybe forty kilometers out. Taking the outer route through the forest would make it seventy. Even if we go fast, we'll be worn out. Better to wait."
Less than ten minutes pass before the door opens—and Umdah Abd al-Uzza steps out himself. A middle-aged man, skin a deep bronze, beard groomed neatly, dressed in a white silk robe trimmed with gold.
I bow slightly and introduce myself:
"My name is Zihao. I come from the East."
He smiles politely, placing his hand over his heart in the traditional greeting:
"Abd al-Uzza, Umdah of Tarif. May the Eternal Light guide your path. I have received your evidence and immediately dispatched two emissaries to investigate and contact the northern garrison and the border town seven miles away. You need not worry. And thank you—for uncovering this threat."
I'm about to reply, but Joon-soo grumbles before me, mumbling like he's talking to himself:
"If men didn't oppress women, the Sapphic Cult wouldn't even need to exist…"
I tap his shoulder lightly and mutter through clenched teeth:
"Cut it. Don't stir trouble. Not worth it."
He huffs, turns away—then turns back again, still mumbling:
"So… we're really not going?"
I exhale and answer calmly:
"Mikhland has been an empire for over two hundred years. Its territory spans more than 115% of the United States. Its military is no joke. Harsh laws, elite garrison forces. More than capable of crushing a semi-guerrilla group like the Sapphic Cult."
With that, I turn on my heel. My footsteps echo lightly on the stone steps. Joon-soo jogs to catch up, asking:
"Then where are you going now?"
I glance sideways at him, giving a faint smile:
"To gather herbs for tonic-making."
He freezes, confused:
"Huh!? Why not just buy it instead?"
I look at him, half-joking, half-serious:
"Skill training. If you ever get lost in a forest or go on a long journey, you'll need to know how to forage for medicine. Besides… it's a way to deepen one's understanding of ancient knowledge."
He sticks out his tongue and side-eyes me, but doesn't argue. The two of us weave through a few quiet alleys, cut across a few narrow paths, and slip out of Tarif.
As we reach the forest edge, cool wind rushes through the trees, carrying the scent of resin and bark. I glance at Joon-soo and ask:
"Why're you following me?"
He snickers:
"There are two bakeries experimenting with cinnamon rolls. If I can snatch some free bark, we save money and… expand the flavor lineup."
I nod and smile:
"Then why not buy from the Guild?"
He raises a hand, playing innocent:
"Just came up with the idea! It's not for sale yet—we're still testing!"
I snort lightly:
"More like exercising your legs out of boredom."
About half an hour passes in silence. Joon-soo keeps turning left and right, his face blank as a statue. I call gently:
"Joon-soo?"
No reply.
"Joon-soo!?"
Still nothing. I shake his shoulder—he flinches:
"Oh! I was imagining… stickmen… fighting in combat..."
I stare at him, then burst into laughter:
"Well, we're here. You may enter and search. Your imaginary stick warriors won't help you harvest cinnamon."
He bats my hand away, walks in circles, then comes back, scratching his head with wide eyes and very fake confidence:
"So… which one's the cinnamon tree again?"
I cover my face, sighing in defeat:
"Cinnamon trees have wooden trunks, bark is reddish-brown, with a fragrant smell. They don't grow like ground herbs."
Looking at his crushed expression, I walk over to a big tree, sniff the bark, then pull a small knife from my sleeve. With a careful slash, I peel a strip and hand it to him.
He nods like he gets it, then imitates me… by sniffing every tree trunk nearby.
"Oh dear gods…"
I shake my head and ignore him. Focusing on my task, I begin identifying the medicinal herbs scattered around the forest:
White Ginger Lily (zingiber zerumbet): long rhizome, sharp minty smell, anti-inflammatory
Dragon's Blood Tree: red-edged leaves, used for treating blood stasis
Pachira Money Tree (honeysuckle): climbing vine, white flowers that turn yellow, for treating colds
Sweet Flag (calamus): long flat stems, grows by stream edges, detoxifying
Rehmannia glutinosa (rehmannia): soft black roots, harmonizes blood and qi
I carefully harvest only the necessary parts, sorting them into cloth pouches by purpose. I line the bottoms with dried banana leaves from another pouch to absorb moisture.
Joon-soo peeks over curiously:
"Why are you collecting so many herbs?"
I don't answer—just smile, dust off my hands, and turn back to my work.
He pouts… then goes back to peeling tree bark like a child whittling wood for the first time.