Drinking the Pain

Under the dim firelight, a dark-haired youth stood before the alchemy platform, his hands moving nimbly between the herb pouch, scale, pestle, large iron pot, and bellows rope:

Two ounces of dried Marigold, one ounce of nettle, add them separately to the mortar, use five parts of strength, stir and grind, two times per second, count to one thousand.

Add a quarter of water to the iron pot...

Pour in the crushed herbs sequentially...

Simmer...

The steps were not complicated, yet every movement he made seemed measured by a ruler—precise, concise, and with just the right force...

After a quarter of an hour, he extinguished the flame under the stove. The youth gripped the handle of the iron pot, shaking his wrist to mix it evenly. Then, he slowly poured the still-warm potion into a snake-neck bottle. This time, his movements were steady and swift, without spilling a single drop.

When he lifted the pale yellow potion and smelled the faint fragrance of chrysanthemums, he carefully handed it to the bald, burly man standing nearby with his arms crossed, observing.

"Letho, what do you think of this batch?"

The burly man sniffed it, then dipped a fingertip into the liquid, tasted it, and closed his eyes to savor it for a moment.

Roy wiped the dense sweat from his forehead, his hands clenched tightly, like a condemned man awaiting a judge's verdict. He was visibly nervous.

"Kid, congratulations!"

"Hoo—" The youth let out a long sigh of relief, stretched his arms, and spun around in place, so happy he could have cried.

No one knew what kind of days he had endured for the past three days. Besides his regular training, he started alchemy as soon as he opened his eyes and began Meditation the moment he closed them.

In his opinion, alchemy, a craft that obsessed over details, was far more difficult and boring than crossbow training. In both his past and present lives, Roy had little interest in anything involving precision instruments. Yet, Letho, a Witcher of the School of the Viper, placed great importance on alchemy and was extremely strict with him.

How he wished for a skill that could instantly complete alchemy in the future.

"Hmm, although the quality of this Marigold potion isn't as good as most country herbalists' work, it is effective," the Witcher said. "All you need to do now is practice continuously, making hundreds or thousands of acceptable potions, and your skill will naturally improve."

"By the way, Letho, since the Marigold potion is more effective than simple herbal treatments for external wounds," Roy voiced his confusion, "what if we sold it? Would it sell well? Could we make money?"

The Witcher shook his head and explained, "You can think of this, but others aren't fools. The common folk would find the potions too expensive and would rather buy some ready-made, cheaper herbs, which are perfectly adequate. The rich, on the other hand, don't need Marigold potions; they have renowned doctors who make house calls... The medical field, no matter which city, involves complex relationships and deep entanglements, both overt and covert."

"If you dared to peddle potions casually on the street, you might be lucky to sell a few... and then get reported, arrested, and spend a month eating rats in prison."

"Put aside your unrealistic ideas. The most suitable use for potions is for self-use."

Roy felt a bit regretful after hearing this, but he thought that if he put in the effort to network, he could probably make money. However, that would take a lot of time, and it would be better to just be a merchant.

"If stored properly, this bottle of potion has an expiration date of nearly a month," Letho urged again. "Continue now, make about five more. That should be enough for the road for now."

Three days passed in a flash. Under Letho's strict supervision, after dozens of attempts, Roy successfully brewed five Marigold potions of varying quality. His progress in alchemy efficiency was extremely slow; at first, he might succeed once in ten tries, but now it was about nine tries.

It was the exact opposite of Letho's skill level.

Roy could understand. After all, he had only spent a few days actually brewing potions, so he couldn't compare to the Witcher's decades of experience. Furthermore, he hadn't even begun to grasp "Alchemy" yet, and it hadn't formed into a skill in his template.

This was probably going to be a long process.

Roy's practical alchemy lesson temporarily came to an end.

The Witcher took over the alchemy platform, personally brewing potions, Alchemical Bombs, and the Pre-medication for the Swallow he had prepared for him.

He wasn't idle either, serving as an assistant responsible for the initial processing of herbs.

"Grind five ounces of dried Celandine into powder, one ounce of Water Ghost brain into powder. Remember the precautions I emphasized."

Letho's face was stern, and he continuously issued commands. His features were as hard as stone carvings, and various delicate alchemy instruments flowed smoothly through his large hands.

Before the alchemy platform, his imposing figure formed a stark contrast with his nimble fingers. The Witcher was like a master oil painter, creating a magnificent artwork.

Roy, on the other hand, became a wound-up "puppet," constantly moving from morning till night in the cramped, dim alchemy room.

An ordinary person might have been dizzy and disoriented, but thanks to his extraordinary Spirit attribute, he could maintain focus for extended periods without feeling excessive fatigue.

By personally participating in the entire process, he finally understood the difference between brewing potions and elixirs.

Taking the simplest and most commonly used Swallow as an example, it only involved Celandine and Water Ghost brain as ingredients. However, the steps included drying, grinding, heating, distilling, and re-heating... dozens of steps, each extremely meticulous. Even the slightest mistake, a slight tremor of the finger, would result in a defective final product.

In a crucial step, after bottling the simmered liquid, the Witcher cupped it in his hands and closed his eyes, entering a state of Meditation.

At this moment, Roy could faintly sense some kind of invisible exchange between Letho and the potion, involving the magical level. In fact, Letho was using the magical power within him to harmonize the potion, allowing the liquid in the bottle to finally stabilize.

Without this step, the potion would only be considered a semi-finished product.

Amidst the endless alchemy, Roy almost forgot the passage of time. When he first started brewing the Swallow elixir, he could still familiarize himself with a few steps.

Later, when it came to sword oils, Alchemical Bombs, and the preparation of Pre-medication, his mind went blank, turning into a muddled mess.

The procedures involved were too numerous and complex. This part was far beyond his current alchemy level to comprehend, so he simply gave up thinking and followed the Witcher's instructions.

Although he had only learned to make one type of Marigold potion, his time spent as an assistant to the Witcher greatly increased his familiarity with alchemy instruments. This would lay a solid foundation for his future learning of Alchemy.

After an unknown period, five days, or perhaps a week. After the Witcher brewed two bottles of Swallow, two "Anti-magic Metal Bombs," and a pile of other elixirs.

He suddenly told Roy to leave the alchemy room and have a day of free activity to rest and relax.

Roy was freed from the suffocating, tense work where he dared not even breathe. His mind began to stir a little.

Unexpectedly, the next day, the Witcher took out a glass bottle, about as thick as a finger and filled with some kind of liquid, from a row of bottles and placed it before him.

"This is a pre-medication specially refined for you," Letho said, his amber pupils fixed on Roy's black eyes. "Long-term consumption will gradually adapt your body to the toxicity of potions, laying the foundation for drinking the Trial of the Grasses decoction."

Hearing the word "toxicity," Roy's face turned pale.

"No wonder they let me relax for a day. Even death row inmates get a last meal before execution."

Even though he acted indifferent to the dangers of the Trial of the Grasses, his innate self-preservation instinct caused him to reject drinking these highly toxic substances deep down.

"Don't worry, kid. With your current Constitution, you can withstand the toxicity of the pre-medication," Letho said, taking in Roy's expression. It was rare for him to offer encouragement. "Besides a short period of pain, it won't leave any after-effects. This is the conclusion from countless trials."

"If I drink this, I'll be able to pass the Trial of the Grasses in the future?" Roy held the transparent glass bottle up to the light and was surprised to find that the pre-medication for the Trial of the Grasses wasn't a single color or pure in form like ordinary potions.

Instead, it was filled with dense, algae-like, parasitic green filaments, presenting a murky and heavy black overall, viscous and thick, which made one's heart palpitate.

"Is there anything in this world that's absolutely certain?" Letho replied truthfully. "All I can tell you is that once you endure this slow and painful process, your chances of surviving the Trial of the Grasses will greatly increase."

"Just how painful will it be?" Roy took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.

"Do you know what it's like for a woman to give birth?"

"Why do you ask?"

"According to the experimental records from Vissigrad, taking the pre-medication is about as painful as childbirth..."

Roy fell silent, automatically blocking out the phrase "woman giving birth" in his mind. He began to doubt if he could endure it.

Willpower 5.8, Constitution 5.5. Higher than average? It should be fine, right?

"The Viper School hasn't had any new blood in nearly twenty years. If the Trial of the Grasses fails again this time..."

Letho's voice trailed off as he placed his warm, heavy hand on Roy's shoulder. It seemed to contain some kind of magical power, quickly calming his emotions. "Therefore, I hope you'll find your courage and drink the pre-medication."

"Actually, according to the original plan, you were supposed to use the pre-medication for the first time in half a year," Letho said, a hint of confusion in his eyes. "Perhaps you're a bit too precocious, and your physical condition reached my standards half a year early."

Roy knew the reason, of course. Ordinary people didn't have attribute points.

"Don't carry too much psychological burden. I'll give you two more days to prepare."

"Can I not drink it?"

"Hm?"

"I'm just kidding." Roy forced a smile, a little color returning to his face. Things had reached this point; there was no room for regret. Besides, this was part of his plan. He had chosen the path of a Witcher, and no matter how painful, he had to endure.

The pre-medication could increase the survival rate of the Trial of the Grasses; how could he not drink it?

"There's no need to wait two more days. It's today."

Under the Witcher's watchful eye, Roy took out a vial and gently shook it. However, he didn't take it immediately. Instead, he squatted on the ground and began to meditate, clearing his mind and relaxing his body and soul.

Half an hour later, his energy fully restored, he glanced at the clock in the room, noting the time. With a "pop," he calmly pulled out the cork and downed it in one gulp without blinking!

Instantly, intense bitter, fishy, and salty tastes flooded his palate.

It was like swallowing oysters, raw pork, and fresh, earthy herbs. Even though the potion only slid past his lips, tongue, and teeth, directly entering his esophagus and stomach, the strange taste lingered in his mouth, refusing to fade.

His features contorted, his fists clenched tightly against his chest, and his body began to tremble uncontrollably.

The potion's effects were just beginning.

The liquid fermented in his mouth for a moment before rushing into his brain along his nasal cavity. Roy felt like he had hit a wall, his consciousness instantly blurred. He shook his head, rolled his eyes, his meditative posture shattered, and he fell to the ground.

Worse still, the liquid underwent a strange chemical reaction in his stomach, releasing immense heat. His chest and abdomen became scorching hot, as if a furnace was baking him, roasting him, burning him to ashes.

His body instinctively made his fingers desperately scratch at the cold, hard ground. He rolled from side to side, trying to dissipate the heat. His eyes were tightly shut, his face flushed and tense, as if trapped in a nightmare.

After another moment, the pain reached its peak. He suddenly opened his eyes, which were bloodshot, and let out a horrifying, hoarse cry from his throat. Thick veins bulged and twisted on his neck and temples.

The Witcher squatted beside him, his expression unchanged throughout. Only a hint of recollection flickered in his amber pupils.

"Hang in there, kid. The longer you endure, the more painful it will be, and the greater your reward."