James took a slow breath, forcing himself to step back from his frustration. This wasn't about rushing—this was about precision.
He carefully measured each ingredient, adjusting the proportions based on the old man's feedback. He crushed the herbs more evenly this time, ensuring they released their full potency before mixing them with water. His movements were slower, steadier—his mind fully focused on the process rather than just the result.
Aria watched with mild interest, though she offered no remarks this time. The old man observed him, arms crossed, quietly assessing his approach.
When James finally presented the mixture again, the old man took a long look at it, then nodded slightly. "Better," he admitted. "Not perfect, but now—at least—usable."
James exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He hadn't mastered it yet, but he was learning.
The old man picked up the mixture James had prepared, rolling it between his fingers, feeling its texture.
"Preparing medicine is only half the skill," he murmured. "Applying it correctly is just as important."
He gestured for James to come closer, then pulled out a strip of cloth from his pouch. "In a real scenario, you'd be treating wounds—cuts, bruises, burns. If you don't apply the remedy correctly, it won't work as intended."
He spread the mixture onto the cloth with practiced ease. "The key," he explained, "is to use just enough—too much and it suffocates the wound, too little and it won't take effect."
James nodded, observing every movement carefully.
The old man pressed the cloth onto a mock wound—a simple cut on a bundle of bark used for training. "Secure it properly," he continued, wrapping the bandage around it neatly. "Tight enough to hold, but not so tight that it cuts off circulation."
He then handed James another strip of cloth. "Now, you try."
James took a breath, mimicking the old man's technique as he spread the mixture carefully. He applied the bandage with slow precision, ensuring it was snug but not restrictive.
The old man examined his work, then gave a slight nod. "Not bad," he remarked. "With practice, it'll become second nature."
James exhaled, feeling the quiet satisfaction of progress.
James furrowed his brow as he secured the last bandage, his mind circling a question he hadn't asked yet.
"If there are healing spells that can mend wounds faster," he said, glancing at the old man, "then why go through the trouble of making medicine like this?"
The old man gave a knowing nod, as if he'd expected this question. "Healing magic works by accelerating the body's natural recovery process," he explained. "It forces damaged cells to regenerate faster, reduces pain, and stabilizes injuries—but it comes at a cost."
James listened intently, waiting for the deeper truth.
"For minor wounds, magic is efficient," the old man continued. "But for severe injuries—deep cuts, broken bones, internal damage—forcing the body to heal too quickly drains an enormous amount of energy from the caster. A skilled healer might manage one or two major treatments, but beyond that, it risks exhausting them, or worse."
James frowned, piecing it together. "So medicine helps bridge that gap?"
The old man nodded. "Exactly. Medicine doesn't accelerate healing—it supports it. It keeps infection away, strengthens the body, and allows the natural process to happen _without_ forcing it unnaturally. A true healer knows when magic is necessary and when patience and care are the better option."
James exhaled, the lesson settling deep. It wasn't just about speed—it was about sustainability, about knowing when to use one's power and when to let nature take its course.
The old man leaned back slightly, his gaze distant, as if recalling memories long buried beneath the weight of time.
"There have been many skilled healers," he murmured, "who thought magic alone could save everyone. Some were talented beyond measure, able to mend wounds with barely a whisper—but they all made the same mistake."
James listened intently, sensing the gravity of the lesson.
"There was one," the old man continued, "a healer of great renown. She believed magic was the purest way to heal—that medicine was unnecessary for someone with power like hers." He exhaled slowly. "In the beginning, she saved many lives. Villagers sought her out for ailments, warriors trusted her to mend their injuries."
"But over time," he said, "the toll of magic began to wear her down. Severe wounds drained her strength, illnesses took more than they should have. She refused to rest, refused to use traditional remedies, convinced that magic alone was enough."
James frowned. "What happened to her?"
The old man's voice was quieter now. "One day, she was called to heal a wounded soldier—his injuries were too great, his body failing. She poured all her strength into him, forcing his body to heal at an unnatural rate."
James felt a tension in the air, as if he already knew how the story ended.
"The soldier lived," the old man admitted. "But she never woke again."
James stiffened.
"Her magic consumed her completely," the old man said, his eyes sharp. "She had nothing left. She never learned balance—never understood that healing is not about overpowering nature, but working with it."
James let the story settle in his mind, the weight of it pressing against his thoughts.
Aria, who had been listening quietly, sighed. "It's why Grandfather always teaches patience first," she said. "Magic is powerful—but if you don't know when to stop, it can take everything from you."
James nodded slowly. He understood now.
The old man watched James carefully, as if weighing something unseen. Then, with a quiet exhale, he asked, "Why do you seek this knowledge?"
James hesitated for only a moment before answering.
"I want to be self-sufficient," he admitted, his voice steady. "I don't want to rely on others too much—not for survival, not for healing, not for understanding the world around me."
The old man nodded slightly but remained quiet, waiting for him to continue.
"I've seen what happens when people depend too much on others," James went on. "When they don't know how to fend for themselves, when they wait for someone else to save them, to fix their problems. I don't want to be like that. I want to be able to stand on my own—to take care of myself, to take care of others if needed, without being helpless."
Aria listened, her expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of understanding in her gaze.
The old man leaned back slightly. "Independence is admirable," he said. "But even the strongest healers, the most skilled fighters, learn that solitude is not always strength."
James frowned slightly but said nothing, thinking over the words.
"Still," the old man continued, "you have the right mindset to begin. We'll see if you truly have what it takes."
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