Malcolm stared down at his lunch tray, poking at what appeared to be steamed fish with a sweet glaze. His remedial flame cultivation session had been a disaster. Two hours of sitting in painful silence, trying to feel an "inner spark" that refused to ignite, while the instructor—an ancient man named Flamecaller Hirayama—occasionally made disappointed clicking sounds with his tongue.

  "You are not centering properly," the old man had said at least twenty times. Whatever "centering properly" meant.

  Malcolm's only consolation was that his fellow remedial students—a nervous boy with a persistent cough and a perpetually scowling girl who barely spoke—seemed almost as lost as he was.

  "You appear troubled, Sinclair-san."

  Malcolm looked up to find Jirou standing by his table, lunch tray in hand. After their conversation at breakfast, Malcolm hadn't expected to see the boy again.

  "Mind if I join you?" Jirou asked.

  "Be my guest," Malcolm said, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. "Fair warning though—apparently I'm a social disaster waiting to happen."

  Jirou sat with precise movements, arranging his chopsticks just so before looking up. "Your morning session did not go well?"

  "That obvious, huh?" Malcolm sighed. "Turns out I'm even worse at this flame cultivation stuff than everyone expected. Apparently, I'm 'resistant to proper energetic flow.'"

  "That terminology suggests a blockage in your meridian channels," Jirou observed, delicately picking up a piece of fish. "Often caused by emotional or mental resistance."

  "What, like I'm subconsciously fighting it?"

  "Precisely. Many Western students struggle initially because their cultural framework lacks the conceptual foundation for energy manipulation."

  Malcolm paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. "Huh. That actually makes sense. I keep trying to follow instructions that sound like they're in a foreign language—even when they're speaking Common."

  "I have been researching Western alchemical approaches since our conversation this morning," Jirou said, his voice taking on a slightly eager tone. "Your traditions emphasize material combinations and chemical reactions, correct?"

  "Yeah, pretty much. Mixing the right ingredients in the right proportions to get the effect you want." Malcolm shrugged. "Nothing mystical about it—just good old chemistry with a few magical components thrown in."

  "Fascinating," Jirou murmured. "Completely opposite to our approach, which begins with the spiritual and moves toward the material."

  Malcolm was about to respond when he spotted Mira approaching, her expression characteristically serious.

  "Sinclair-san, you are due at the western gate in fifteen minutes to begin your resource management training," she announced. "I will escort you there."

  "Thanks, but I'm pretty sure I can find the western gate on my own," Malcolm replied.

  "Academy protocol requires supervision for new students during their first week," Mira said firmly. "Furthermore, Elder Mozu expects a formal introduction."

  "Fine," Malcolm sighed, shoveling the last few bites of fish into his mouth. "Sorry to cut this short," he said to Jirou.

  "Perhaps we can continue our discussion later," Jirou suggested. "I would be interested in learning more about Western approaches."

  "Sure thing. Maybe I can pick your brain about this flame stuff too. God knows I need all the help I can get."

  As Malcolm followed Mira through the Academy grounds, he couldn't help noticing the curious glances from other students. Word of the strange Western student with the tiny soul space had clearly gotten around.

  "So this Elder Mozu—what's his deal?" Malcolm asked, trying to ignore the stares.

  "Elder Mozu has overseen the Academy grounds for forty-three years," Mira replied. "He is highly respected for his practical knowledge, though he rarely participates in formal instruction."

  "And he's in charge of garbage duty?"

  Mira's lips tightened slightly. "Resource management is a critical function. Alchemical waste can be unstable or dangerous if improperly handled. Elder Mozu ensures safety protocols are maintained."

  "Sorry," Malcolm said quickly. "I didn't mean to sound dismissive."

  To his surprise, Mira's expression softened slightly. "Your cultural adjustments are... understandable. Elder Mozu is more tolerant of directness than most Academy staff, which may be fortunate for you."

  They approached a large wooden gate set into the western wall of the Academy compound. Unlike the ornate main entrance with its guardian statues and ceremonial approach, this was a utilitarian structure—wide enough for carts to pass through, with weathered planks showing years of use.

  A stooped figure waited beside the gate, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff. Elder Mozu was ancient, with a deeply lined face and wispy white beard that reached the middle of his chest. He wore simple brown robes, patched in several places, and a wide-brimmed straw hat that shaded his eyes.

  "Elder Mozu," Mira said with a respectful bow. "This is Sinclair Malcolm, the new student assigned to resource management training."

  The old man squinted at Malcolm, his eyes nearly hidden in the weathered creases of his face. "So you're the Western boy. Heard you've got a strange soul space."

  "Uh, yes sir. It's small and has some kind of weird pool in it."

  "Hmph. Interesting." Elder Mozu poked Malcolm's chest with a bony finger. "You've got an odd energy about you. Not bad, just... different."

  "Elder Mozu is highly sensitive to spiritual energies," Mira explained. "His observations are often quite perceptive."

  "Enough flattery, girl," the elder grumbled. "You can run along to your fancy classes now. The boy's with me."

  Mira looked momentarily taken aback, then composed herself. "Of course, Elder. Sinclair-san, I will collect you at the end of your shift."

  As she walked away, Elder Mozu snorted. "Always so formal, that one. Gets exhausting just listening to her."

  Malcolm couldn't help but grin. "Yeah, she's pretty intense about all the rules and traditions."

  "Rules and traditions have their place," the old man said, pushing open the gate with surprising strength. "But so does common sense. Come on, boy. Let's see what you're made of."

  Beyond the gate stretched a huge open area, at least the size of four Redoak football fields laid end-to-end. The space was divided into rough sections, with paths winding between what appeared to be organized piles of... stuff. So much stuff. Mountains of broken containers, heaps of withered plants, rows of cracked vessels, and countless other discarded items Malcolm couldn't even identify from a distance.

  Malcolm wrinkled his nose as they moved deeper into the dumping ground. The air carried multiple scents—some sharp and chemical from failed potions, others earthy and almost sweet from decomposing plant matter. Underneath it all was a faint metallic tang that seemed to coat the back of his throat. Oddly, none of it was as unpleasant as he'd expected. Instead, each area carried its own distinct aroma signature, like walking through different sections of a strange market.

  "Holy crap," he breathed. "This is all garbage?"

  "Watch your language," Elder Mozu said mildly. "And no, it's not all garbage. Some of it is waste. Some is refuse. Some is discarded material. And some," he tapped the side of his nose knowingly, "is treasure that nobody's recognized yet."

  Malcolm looked at him skeptically. "There's a difference between garbage and waste?"

  "Of course there is. Garbage is worthless. Waste still has potential—it just needs the right eyes to see it." The old man studied Malcolm with narrowed eyes. "Master Seiran tells me you've got a soul space, even if it's small. Time you learned to use it properly."

  "Use it?" Malcolm perked up. "You mean storing things inside it?"

  Elder Mozu nodded. "That's the basic function, yes. Most students learn from their parents before they ever reach the academy. But since you're from Redoak..." He shrugged. "Consider this your crash course."

  Malcolm could barely contain his excitement. Ever since learning about soul spaces, he'd been fascinated by the concept. "So how do I actually put things in? And take them out?"

  "Patience, boy," the elder said, moving toward a nearby pile of broken ceramic containers. "First, you need to understand what you're working with."

  He picked up a small shard of pottery and held it out to Malcolm. "Take this. Hold it in your palm and close your eyes."

  Malcolm did as instructed, feeling slightly foolish.

  "Now, access your soul space. Just like Master Seiran showed you."

  Malcolm focused, finding it easier this time to visualize the small bubble-like area with its strange black pool. "I can see it," he said, eyes still closed.

  "Good. Now, with your mind, reach for the object in your hand. Feel its weight, its texture, its shape. Create a perfect image of it within your soul space."

  Malcolm concentrated on the ceramic shard, trying to mentally replicate its sharp edges and smooth curves within his visualization.

  "Got it," he said after a moment.

  "Now comes the tricky part," Elder Mozu said, eyes narrowing. "The wall between what's here and what's there—it's thinner than most believe. Think of a leaf floating from one side of a pond to another. It doesn't jump. It drifts." He made a subtle gesture with his gnarled fingers. "Your piece wants to drift."

  Malcolm frowned in concentration, trying to decipher the cryptic instructions. Nothing happened.

  "I don't think it's working," he admitted after several attempts.

  Elder Mozu sighed. "You Westerners always overthink it. Here, try something simpler. Imagine the item being pulled into your soul space, like it's being drawn in by a magnet."

  Malcolm tried again, visualizing the ceramic shard being drawn inward, toward his core. He concentrated until his head ached, but nothing happened.

  "I can't—" he started to say, but Elder Mozu held up a hand.

  "Again," the old man instructed. "Less thinking, more feeling."

  Malcolm took a deep breath and tried once more, focusing on the weight of the shard in his palm. This time, he imagined it growing lighter, as if losing its connection to the physical world. For an instant, he felt a slight tingling in his fingertips, but the shard remained firmly in place.

  "Almost," Elder Mozu nodded. "Your body knows what to do even if your mind is getting in the way."

  It took four more attempts before Malcolm finally succeeded. On the fifth try, he stopped trying to understand the process and simply visualized the end result—the shard appearing in his soul space. Suddenly, he felt a strange tingling in his palm, and his eyes flew open in surprise.

  The shard was gone.

  "Holy—it worked!" he exclaimed, staring at his empty hand in amazement. "It's actually inside me? My soul space, I mean?"

  Elder Mozu nodded, looking pleased. "Check your space. You should see it there."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Malcolm closed his eyes again, accessing his soul space. Sure enough, the ceramic shard was there, floating gently in the confined area, a short distance from the black pool.

  "This is incredible," he breathed. "So I can just... put stuff in there? How much can I store?"

  "Depends on the size of your space," Elder Mozu said. "Yours is small, so you'll need to be selective. But even a one-meter space can hold quite a bit if organized properly."

  "And how do I get things out?"

  "Reverse the process. Visualize the object returning to your hand. Feel it wanting to leave your soul space."

  Malcolm focused on the shard, imagining it coming back to his palm. Once again, he felt that strange tingling sensation, and when he opened his eyes, the ceramic piece was there, exactly as before.

  "I can't believe I just did that," he said, turning the shard over in his fingers. "It's like... like magic." He grinned at the obviousness of the statement.

  "It's a tool, like any other," Elder Mozu replied pragmatically. "And like any tool, it requires practice to master." He gestured to the vast dumping ground around them. "Which brings us to your assignment. You'll be collecting waste from various departments across the academy, transporting it here, and sorting it into the appropriate sections."

  "And I'm supposed to use my soul space for this?" Malcolm asked, glancing dubiously at the mountains of refuse.

  "Exactly. Start small—a handful of items at a time. As you get more comfortable, you can increase the amount." The elder pointed to a small workshop some distance away. "That's your first collection point. The pottery workshop discard bin. Everything in it needs to come here and be sorted by material type."

  As they walked, Elder Mozu continued his impromptu lesson. "Each department has specific disposal protocols. Herbology sends out their trimmings and failed growths daily—those go to the green waste section for composting. Essence Extraction produces metal and crystal residue that needs separate handling. The production workshops generate the most diverse waste—broken containers, failed potions, contaminated tools."

  "And I'm supposed to transport all of it in my soul space?" Malcolm asked, still trying to wrap his head around the concept.

  "It's more efficient than hauling it physically," Elder Mozu replied. "And it will give you practice with soul space organization. The key is to mentally categorize items as you collect them, creating separate areas within your space for different materials."

  They reached the pottery workshop, where a large bin stood filled with broken vessels, misshapen clay forms, and various ceramic debris.

  "Begin," Elder Mozu said simply, stepping back to observe.

  Malcolm approached the bin uncertainly. He picked up a broken teacup, closed his eyes, and repeated the process he'd just learned. The tingling sensation came quicker this time, and when he opened his eyes, the cup was gone.

  "Good," the elder nodded. "Continue."

  One by one, Malcolm transferred items from the bin into his soul space. After about a dozen pieces, he began to feel a strain—not physical exactly, but a kind of mental pressure, as if he were trying to hold too many concepts in his mind at once.

  "I think I'm reaching some kind of limit," he told Elder Mozu.

  "That's your soul space approaching capacity," the elder explained. "For a space your size, that's to be expected. Now transport what you've collected to the ceramic waste area and unload it."

  They made their way to a designated section of the dumping ground where piles of broken pottery and ceramics were arranged in rough categories.

  "Now, bring each piece out and place it in the appropriate pile," Elder Mozu instructed. "Glazed pieces there, unglazed there, clay that can be reclaimed over there."

  Malcolm closed his eyes, accessed his soul space, and began the process of transferring items back out. He found he could mentally select which object to retrieve, bringing them out one by one and placing them in the correct piles.

  "This is actually kind of... convenient," he admitted as he worked. "No heavy lifting."

  "That's the idea," Elder Mozu agreed. "Though the mental effort can be tiring in its own way, especially for beginners."

  By the time he'd emptied his soul space, Malcolm did indeed feel mentally fatigued, as if he'd been solving complex math problems for hours.

  "You'll build stamina with practice," the elder assured him, noting his weariness. "Most students can maintain full soul space operation for several hours before needing rest."

  Throughout the afternoon, they visited collection points across the academy. Each time, Malcolm would transfer waste items into his soul space, transport them to the dumping ground, and sort them into appropriate categories. With each cycle, the process became slightly easier, requiring less conscious effort.

  As the day progressed, Malcolm became more comfortable with soul space storage. He organized the items mentally, keeping different materials separated from each other. He was careful to keep everything away from the small black pool at the bottom of his space, just as Master Seiran had warned. The pool was just another oddity about his undersized soul space—probably useless, but potentially dangerous according to the master's reaction.

  "You're getting more efficient," Elder Mozu noted as Malcolm quickly transferred a collection of broken glass vials into his soul space.

  "It's not so different from organizing inventory," Malcolm replied. "Just... inside my head instead of on shelves."

  "Hmph," the elder grunted, watching Malcolm work. "Most of them come here expecting to create grand elixirs by the first moon. Can't be bothered to understand how storing a simple rock properly leads to storing a volatile essence properly." He snorted. "Always chasing the flame without feeling the heat."

  Malcolm shrugged. "Where I'm from, practical results matter more than fancy methods."

  "A perspective with merit," Elder Mozu said, his weathered face revealing a hint of approval.

  By late afternoon, Malcolm had visited collection points for half a dozen departments. His mental stamina was nearly exhausted, but he felt a sense of accomplishment. He'd mastered—or at least become competent at—a fundamental magical skill that most Kagetsu children learned years before entering the academy.

  "That's enough for today," Elder Mozu announced finally. "Tomorrow you'll handle the morning collections yourself. I'll check your work afterward."

  "By myself?" Malcolm asked. "But I don't even know where all the collection points are."

  "Here." The elder handed him a rough map sketched on parchment. "Morning collections are marked in red. Afternoon in blue. You'll figure it out."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Malcolm said, studying the map. The elder's handwriting was surprisingly neat, with small annotations beside each collection point.

  "One more thing," Elder Mozu added, his voice suddenly serious. "The Academy rules state that all collected waste belongs to the institution. Any attempt to remove materials from the dumping ground is strictly prohibited."

  Malcolm looked up, confused by the elder's suddenly formal tone. "Okay... I wasn't planning on stealing garbage."

  Elder Mozu glanced around as if checking for eavesdroppers, then continued in a softer voice. "That's the official rule. But there's an unwritten understanding: what happens in the dumping ground stays in the dumping ground."

  "I don't follow."

  "What happens here," the elder said, voice dropping as his eyes darted around, "tends to stay here. Between these piles and fences." His weathered face crinkled, a smile hiding in the deepening wrinkles. "Academy's got too many eyes watching the front door to worry about what's rotting in the backyard, if you catch my meaning."

  Malcolm's eyes widened as he caught the elder's meaning. "Are you saying I could... use some of this stuff? For personal experiments?"

  "I'm saying no such thing officially." Elder Mozu tapped the side of his nose again. "I'm merely observing that the far northeastern section is rarely visited by anyone but myself. Quiet. Secluded. An excellent spot for... reflection."

  Before Malcolm could respond, the elder straightened up and spoke in his normal voice. "Ah, here comes your escort. Right on time."

  Mira was approaching from the main gate, her posture as perfect as ever. Elder Mozu gave Malcolm a meaningful look before turning to greet her.

  "The boy did well enough," he told Mira. "Not afraid of getting his hands dirty, at least."

  "I am pleased to hear it," Mira replied. "Sinclair-san, are you ready to return to the Academy? The evening meal will be served soon."

  Malcolm nodded, mind still processing the elder's veiled suggestion. "Yeah, I'm ready. Thanks for the... guidance, Elder Mozu."

  "Same time tomorrow, boy," the elder said with a dismissive wave. "Don't be late."

  As Malcolm followed Mira back toward the gate, he glanced over his shoulder at the vast expanse of the dumping ground. In the setting sun, the piles of discarded materials cast long shadows, creating a strange, almost beautiful landscape of failure and forgotten potential.

  For the first time since arriving at Enshin, he felt a spark of something that wasn't confusion or frustration. It was a dangerous thing, that spark. A thing his father would have instantly recognized.

  Opportunity.

  That night, Malcolm barely slept. His mind was too busy cataloging everything he'd seen in the dumping ground, connecting it with fragments of alchemical theory from the morning lecture, and spinning possibilities.

  Elder Mozu's hint about the northeastern section bothered him. Was it a trap? A test? Or genuine permission to experiment with discarded materials? The old man hadn't seemed the type for underhanded tricks, but Malcolm was learning not to take anything at face value in Kagetsu.

  After breakfast the next morning—during which he endured more poorly concealed stares from his fellow first-years—Malcolm headed back to the western gate alone. Elder Mozu was waiting, leaning on his staff and chewing on what looked like a stem of dried grass.

  "You remembered the map?" the elder asked without preamble.

  Malcolm patted his pocket. "Got it right here."

  "Good. Your soul space ready for another day's work?"

  "I think so," Malcolm replied, still marveling at how quickly this strange ability was becoming normal to him. "Though I'm still trying to figure out the most efficient way to organize things in there."

  "Comes with practice," Elder Mozu nodded. "Any questions before you start?"

  "Just one," Malcolm said hesitantly. "About what you mentioned yesterday... the northeastern section..."

  The elder's weathered face revealed nothing. "What about it?"

  "Were you serious? About... you know... experimentation being overlooked?"

  "I never say things I don't mean, boy." Elder Mozu's eyes narrowed slightly. "But I also never said anything at all, officially speaking. Understand?"

  Malcolm nodded slowly. "I think so."

  "Good. Then get to work. Those collection points won't empty themselves."

  The morning route took Malcolm to areas of the Academy he hadn't visited yet—the medicinal herb gardens, the mineral refinement workshop, and the essence extraction laboratory. Each generated its own unique forms of waste, which Malcolm dutifully collected in his soul space and transported to the sorting area.

  Working alone gave him time to think, and to observe more carefully. He began to notice patterns in the discarded materials—certain combinations that appeared repeatedly, signs of specific mistakes that students made often. Some of the "failed" potions didn't actually look failed to his untrained eye; they simply didn't match the exact specifications the instructors demanded.

  By midday, he'd completed the morning route and sorted everything according to Elder Mozu's instructions. With his official duties fulfilled, he found himself drawn toward the northeastern section of the dumping ground. The area was indeed secluded, screened from the rest of the grounds by tall piles of discarded equipment and overgrown with weeds and twisted shrubs that had taken root in the accumulated waste.

  A small clearing in the center seemed perfect for... well, whatever it was Malcolm was considering doing. Experimentation? Exploration? Simple curiosity? He wasn't entirely sure himself.

  He wandered through the piles, examining discarded items more closely now. Many were broken beyond repair or contaminated with strange residues, but others appeared perfectly serviceable—rejected, perhaps, for minor flaws or simply replaced by newer versions.

  "This is actually good stuff," he muttered, picking up a small brass scale with a missing weight. The mechanism still worked perfectly; it just needed the missing piece replaced.

  Nearby, he found a box of glass vials with tiny chips in their rims—hardly noticeable, but enough to fail the Academy's exacting standards. Further exploration yielded several intact ceramic containers, a set of measuring spoons with faded markings, and various implements whose functions he could only guess at.

  Malcolm had just discovered a leather-bound notebook with most of its pages still blank when he heard footsteps approaching. Hastily, he shoved the notebook inside his robe and tried to look casual, as if he were simply organizing the waste.

  "Sinclair? Is that you back there?"

  To his relief, it was only Elder Mozu, picking his way through the piles with surprising agility for his age.

  "Just checking out this section, like you mentioned," Malcolm explained, relaxing slightly.

  "Find anything interesting?" the elder asked, his expression neutral.

  "Maybe. Some of this stuff seems perfectly usable."

  "One person's trash," Elder Mozu said with a shrug. "You should see what the advanced classes throw away. Perfectly good materials with minor energetic imbalances or cosmetic flaws."

  "Why waste so much?" Malcolm asked. "In Redoak, we'd repair this stuff or find alternative uses for it."

  "Enshin maintains exacting standards," the elder replied. "Perfection is valued above efficiency." He scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Though not everyone agrees with that approach."

  Malcolm sensed another hint being dropped. "Including you?"

  "I've been around long enough to see the patterns," Elder Mozu said, carefully neutral. "Many innovations come from necessity—from having to make do with what's available rather than what's ideal."

  "Like in the West," Malcolm nodded. "We don't have access to a lot of the fancy materials they use here, so we've developed different techniques."

  "Exactly." The elder gave him a measuring look. "Your resource management shift ends at four. What you do with your free time afterward is your business, as long as you stay within the dumping ground boundaries."

  "Are you suggesting I could... set up some kind of workspace here?"

  "I'm not suggesting anything," Elder Mozu said, a glint in his eye. "I'm simply informing you of the schedule and boundaries." He turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and Sinclair? The supplies shed has extra tools. For resource management purposes, of course."

  "Of course," Malcolm agreed, fighting a grin.

  "Good day, then. Don't forget the afternoon collections."

  As the elder shuffled away, Malcolm looked around the small clearing with new eyes. It wasn't much, but it was private. A place where he could experiment without judgmental stares or impossible standards. A place to try out ideas or perhaps even practical applications for the strange transferring skill he was developing with his soul space.

  For the first time since arriving at Enshin, Malcolm felt something like excitement. He had space, he had materials, and he had time—at least a few hours each day. It wasn't much, but it was something.

  He picked up a discarded implement that looked like a cross between a spoon and a spatula, turning it over in his hands. "One person's trash," he murmured, an idea beginning to form.

  Back in Redoak, his father had built a successful business by finding value where others saw none. Maybe Malcolm could do the same here, in his own way. Maybe being assigned to garbage duty wasn't such a bad break after all.

  As he headed off to complete his afternoon collections, Malcolm found himself whistling—a sound that hadn't passed his lips since before his parents' deaths. The tune was an old Redoak work song, oddly appropriate for his current situation:

  Take what they've thrown away, Make it shine like new. What they cast aside today, Might be gold for you.

  Elder Mozu heard the whistling in the distance and allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps this Western boy would be interesting after all.