The Secret of the Grain
The old man carefully hid the money under his stall and glanced around warily. He let out a sigh of relief, then gripped a dagger in his hand. The blade was rusted in spots, but its edge gleamed with a razor-sharp keenness.
"Is there something you'd like, sir?"
"Just carve whatever."
The old man pulled out chunks of wood from his bundle and laid them on one corner of the stall. They were the worst of the lot—riddled with wormholes and soaked through with water. He picked one up and examined it from every angle. Then, without hesitation, he started swinging the knife.
"What are you carving?"
I watched the wood shavings fly as I asked.
"Oh, this one's a rabbit, sir."
The old man didn't pause as he spoke. The knife whistled through the air, and the block quickly took on the shape of a rabbit. Like the other dolls on the stall, it brimmed with lifelike energy.
"For this fella, the hind legs are key. They've gotta look like they're twitching and kicking to really seem like a live rabbit."
With that, he began meticulously carving the hind legs. In less than five minutes, the rabbit was complete. Perched on the stall, it crouched with coiled power, ready to spring at any moment. And at the center of that tension were the hind legs he'd mentioned. I was stunned.
There wasn't a trace of mana in this carving. Yet it felt so alive.
"How is that even possible?"
I blurted out in awe.
"Aw, that's my trade secret..."
The old man trailed off, hesitating. He licked his lips a few times, checked the gold coins under the stall again, and squeezed his eyes shut.
"I can tell ya, but don't go blabbing to anyone else, alright?"
I nodded, and he picked up a fresh block of wood. He jabbed at various spots with the knife.
"These are the weak points in this one."
I leaned in to inspect the block closely. Places where the grain was dense, spots rotted through, worm trails. He was nicking those exact areas.
"Dense grain means it didn't grow right. Rot and worm damage? That's the weakest parts."
Just as he'd said.
"Once you map those clusters, a kind of grain emerges."
He connected the points with a strange, curving line. As he linked them all, the wood's inherent character leaped into view. Even staring right at it, I couldn't grasp how that flow formed.
"The last one's grain coiled tight like a spring. This one's straight and rigid."
This block did feel stiffer and more upright than the rabbit's legs. He worked the knife over it, and soon a bird emerged. Its wings seemed to hold the wind, poised to soar away.
"Every wood has its own unique grain. I just draw it out, give it the form that fits best."
Grain. I hadn't even considered it. It still felt off somehow. I kept questioning him to unravel the mystery. I even took the knife and tried carving myself, but it never clicked. Still, I tried to absorb his words bit by bit.
Learning something new like this was pure joy. Our endless back-and-forth only wrapped up after sunset, when the old man's stamina finally gave out.
I felt a pang of regret, but I couldn't keep him longer. I'd learned all I could; the rest was up to me.
"Heh heh, thank ye kindly! Thank ye!"
He bowed repeatedly, pocketing the money from under the stall. I returned the gesture. A few gold coins might be a fortune to him, but the knowledge he'd shared felt like the real treasure to me.
I floated the carvings he'd made into the air, admiring them as I headed back to the workshop. This was it. I'd found my breakthrough.
Bursting into the workshop, I grabbed a carving knife just like he had. I snatched the simplest log on hand and started shaving it down. It took ages to finish one. The result was pathetic—uglier than my first doll ever. I barely sensed any grain.
But I didn't get discouraged. I picked up another block. Weak points connected into grain, he'd said. So why did linking the flaws reveal it? What was grain?
I kept at it. No grain appeared, no understanding dawned. I tried a rabbit next. No lifelike spark.
Right—lifelikeness. I spread out his carvings and studied them. Follow the grain, and life emerges. Rabbits poised to leap, birds ready to fly, snakes slithering, humans brimming with vitality.
I had to grasp lifelikeness through that lens. Months slipped by like that. I still couldn't fully comprehend grain or lifelikeness. It was the pinnacle of his life's work; no wonder a short crash course didn't cut it.
But I made a tiny bit of progress. I pulled out some cheongmok wood and started carving. Birds and rabbits at first. I'd grown so used to mana-free carving that they came together quickly. The wood's mana didn't resist the blade.
I carved for hours. By the time I felt I'd grasped the cheongmok's nature, I shifted to human shapes. For those, I infused the knife with a touch of mana.
That was my small breakthrough. I couldn't comprehend or touch the grain of life itself. But mana grain? That I could see.
Carve along the flow without fighting the wood's mana. That was how to handle this stuff. The mana-charged blade glided naturally over the wood.
So that's it.
Did only wood have grain? No. Anything with mana must have its own. I had one too.
That realization rained down, nourishing the sprout in my chest. I felt its grain fully, watched the flow swell. Sensing the surging mana, I carved frantically. A doll's form emerged naturally.
I poured the portrait woman's years into it. That would be her natural grain. I built the skeleton piece by piece—not copying her surface, but imagining her inner grain.
Three dolls total: girl, middle-aged woman, crone. One wasn't enough to capture her. For the old woman, I left the wood's rough grain exposed to show time's scars. For the girl, soft and delicate flows evoked her fragility.
Nearly a year just on the carving. But my heart brimmed with fulfillment. Each part completed brought insights that soaked my soul. The sprout's growth felt better than any pleasure.
When I finished them all, I collapsed and sobbed joyfully for ages. Each doll held its own era. But they weren't perfect yet. I could refine their grain further.
So I hunted for fitting materials: ancient deadwood, earth-infused stone, vital water, monster bones. Materials with mana traits. I selected parts meticulously.
Eyes first—the most vital for humans. I got amber gems forged in lava, split and embedded them. They'd absorbed heat, infusing the dolls' eyes with fiery spirit.
For joints, I carved monster bone for smooth coverage. For body hair, I melted ores with mana into threads. For lifelikeness, I powdered milky spirit stones from deep island caves and applied it to the skin.
I scoured for more to enhance the grain. The result? Dolls that seemed moments from moving. I poured every gold coin into it—no regrets. Nothing else mattered: no ferry, no ticket, no university. Just the joy of creation.
This doll would soon go to Father. Why had he asked for it? I didn't know who she was. But he missed her. Otherwise, he wouldn't treasure that portrait so.
At first, it was just a job. Now, it felt like my child. I craved perfection.
I pictured Father's home—that cave-like place. With his power, he could've built a grand castle. But he stayed. Furniture worn to rags, unchanged. Maybe the memories held him there.
I dared guess as much. So I wove that into the dolls. Recalling the cave's scenes, I etched magic into them.
This wasn't Ojo's magic. It bloomed from the sprout mid-creation. Ojo said mages discover unique spells as they grow—innate magic, theirs alone.
I named mine Magical Breathing. One function: sync the doll's mana heart pulse with rhythmic lifelikeness. It made them feel alive.
Before, I just implanted it in the heart. Post-grain insight, I saw more: engrave it into the pulsing veins and weak points formed by grain clusters. The dolls would truly live.
The girl would've frolicked with a boy. Middle age: managing the home. Old age: battling illness. All shared with Father in that cave.
I captured that flow. Bouquets exchanged as gifts. Meals at the table. Aching knees in later years. Frailty making simple tasks hard. Father, the mage, helping.
I pored over the portrait book, imagining it all. Pure fantasy, sure. But it revealed what magic to embed.
Girl's veins: raw power. Each heart pulse sparked vigor body-wide.
Middle age: waning vitality. Slight misalignments, wear from time.
Old age: faint traces. Dying with disease—that was her grain.
Another year passed. Drained, I called for Nanny.
She'd aged too—white hair, deep wrinkles.
"...Tell Father the dolls are done."
I collapsed into sleep.
I woke in bed. Nanny must've carried me. Sipping water she boiled, I sorted my insights.
She said Father's servants took the dolls, eyeing me worriedly. Would they please him? No clue. But it was my best—better, I was sure.
I never learned his reaction. A week later, boarding passes arrived. Satisfaction confirmed.
Word spread: even the Island Lord approved. My dolls sold like hotcakes. Enough for an extra pass when the ferry came.
Before leaving, I gave Nanny half the money. No for her future. She'd aged much. A weed-life; she'd wither soon after I left.
I don't know my real parents. Clan just breeds, doesn't raise. Nanny was family.
I considered a ticket for her, but dragging an old woman to the continent? No. Our bond ended here.
I soothed her sobs and boarded the ferry.
"To the continent, the university. Become a true mage!"
The ferry lifted off. Below, my birthplace shrank. Past the clouds, it banked toward the continent. The island was smaller than I'd thought.
Thus to the continent. I became a mage, followed Ojo's teachings to escape. Exactly as he intended.
He planted illusions of the continent and university. I danced to his tune, broke free.
Why push me out? Contract barred harming the clan—maybe he just shoved me far away.
Father knew, yet allowed it.
But Ojo's scheme ran deeper. Years of mainland struggle revealed it. He hadn't taught his best—just contractual basics.
Doll knowledge? Cheap tricks. I gnashed my teeth realizing it. Acted like bestowing treasures, all beginner stuff.
Ojo never lied, but hid plenty. Sly fox. My fault for trusting.
He dressed scraps as gems, twisted facts to guide me. No contract breach—no harm.
Half-baked mage, I wandered the continent. University city after a decade post-island. Money gone, near-death scrapes to arrive.
Then, not anger—admiration for Ojo. Bound by contract, he maximized gain. Protecting himself, always scheming profit: the mage's foundational mindset!
His final lesson.
Anyway, past is past. Future awaits: the university!
The youth who dreamed leaving the island honed himself through ten years of crises to reach here. No wall would stop me. I'd be a great mage, shock the world!
Then, surroundings blurred like ink in water. Vows dissolved. Hope snuffed, musty dread filled me.
Ah, right. A dream.
"Damn it."
I clutched my head. Forced the alcohol haze from my brain with mana. Booted from hopeful dream to grim reality—the whiplash nearly killed me.
This beer had pure mana? Bull. They bulked it with nightmares. Else why such a foul dream?
Tomorrow, I'd smash that place. Selling junk like this.
Irritated, I hurled the mug.
Ten years passed since. Twenty off the island, ten in this giant city. No progress. Not even the university gates.
Nine exam failures. Ah, tenth today.
"Shiiit..."
Something wet on my face. Rain somewhere. Definitely not tears. *Sniff*
Age sixty-three, still an eleventh-timer challenging the university.