Beneath the dim firelight, a black-haired boy stood before an alchemy station, his hands moving deftly between the herb pouches, Scale, Pestle, large iron pot, and bellows cord:
Two ounces of shade-dried Calendula and one ounce of Nettle. Add them separately to the mortar. Use one-fifth strength, stirring and grinding at the same time, twice per second, for a total of one thousand strokes.
Add a quarter pot of water...
Add the crushed herbs in sequence...
Simmer...
The steps were not complicated, yet every movement of his seemed measured with a ruler: precise, simple, and just the right amount of force...
After fifteen minutes, he put out the flame. Gripping the iron pot's handle, he shook his wrist to mix the contents evenly, then slowly poured the not-yet-boiling liquid into a Snake-neck Bottle. This time, his movements were steady and quick, and not a single drop spilled.
Only when he lifted the pale yellow Potion and caught the faint, chrysanthemum-like fragrance did he carefully hand it to the bald, burly man watching with his arms crossed.
"Letho, what do you think of this batch?"
The big man sniffed it, dabbed a fingertip into the liquid, and put it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and savored it for a moment.
Roy wiped the dense beads of sweat from his forehead and clasped his hands tightly together. He looked like a criminal awaiting a judge's verdict, his whole body tense.
"Kid, congratulations!"
"Phew—" The boy let out a long breath of relief, stretched his arms, and spun around on the spot, so happy he almost cried.
No one knew what kind of life he'd had over the past three days. Apart from his regular training, he started Alchemy as soon as he opened his eyes and Meditation as soon as he closed them.
To him, the detail-obsessed craft of Alchemy was much harder and more boring than crossbow practice. Neither in his previous world nor this one had Roy ever been particularly interested in precision instruments. Yet Letho, the Witcher of the School of the Viper, placed great importance on Alchemy and was exceptionally strict with him.
He wished he had a skill that could brew a Potion in an instant.
"Mm. This Marigold Potion isn't as good as what most country Herbal Doctors can make, but there's no doubt it's effective," the Witcher said. "All you need to do now is keep practicing. Make hundreds or thousands of acceptable Potions, and your skill will naturally improve."
"By the way, Letho, if Marigold Potion works better on external injuries than ordinary herbal remedies," Roy said, voicing his doubts, "what if we sold it? Would there be a market for it? Could we make money?"
The Witcher shook his head and explained, "If you can think of that, so can other people. The poor think Potions are too expensive and would rather buy cheap, ready-made herbs for themselves. Those are good enough. The rich don't need Marigold Potion; they have well-known doctors who make house calls... The medical field involves tangled interests in every city, with all kinds of connections, both open and hidden."
"If you dare hawk Potions on the street, you might get lucky and sell a few... then someone will report you, and you'll get thrown in prison to spend a month eating rats."
"Forget about unrealistic ideas. Potions are best kept for your own use."
Roy felt a little disappointed, but he thought that if he put in the effort to cultivate connections, he could probably make money. Still, that would take a lot of time. He might as well become a merchant instead.
"If you store it properly, this Potion will last nearly a month." Letho urged him on again. "Now get back to it. Make about five more; that should be enough for the road."
Three days passed in the blink of an eye. Under the Witcher's strict supervision, Roy succeeded in brewing five Marigold Potions of varying quality after dozens of attempts. His efficiency in Alchemy improved very slowly. At first, he might succeed once in ten tries; now he succeeded about nine times out of ten.
The exact opposite of Letho's success rate.
Roy understood. He'd only spent a few days actually brewing Potions, so naturally he couldn't compare with the Witcher's decades of experience. Besides, "Alchemy" hadn't reached the entry level, so it hadn't yet become a skill on his character template.
It would probably be a long process.
Roy's practical Alchemy lessons were put on hold for the time being.
The Witcher took over the alchemy station and began brewing Witcher Potions and Alchemical Bombs, as well as the Pre-medication for the Trial of the Grasses.
Roy wasn't idle either. As an assistant, he handled the initial processing of the herbs.
"Grind five ounces of shade-dried celandine into powder, and one ounce of Drowner brain into powder. Remember the precautions I emphasized."
Letho kept a stern face as he issued one instruction after another. His features were hard as stone, and the various delicate alchemical instruments flowed smoothly between his thick fingers.
Before the alchemy station, his powerful back and nimble fingers made a striking contrast. The Witcher was like a master painter creating an exquisite work of art.
Roy became a wind-up "puppet," moving nonstop from morning till night in the cramped, dim alchemy room.
An ordinary person might have been dizzy and confused by now, but thanks to his extraordinary mental attributes, he could stay focused for a long time without becoming overly tired.
Only after taking part in the whole process did he understand the difference between brewing Witcher Potions and ordinary Potions.
Take the simplest and most commonly used Witcher Potion, "Swallow," for example. It involved only celandine and Drowner brain, yet the process included shade-drying, grinding, heating, distilling, reheating... dozens of steps, each requiring great care. Even the slightest mistake—a brief tremor of the hand—would ruin the final product.
At a crucial stage, after pouring the boiled liquid into a bottle, the Witcher held it in both hands and closed his eyes, entering a state of Meditation.
Roy could vaguely sense some invisible exchange between Letho and the Potion, something connected to magic. In truth, Letho was using the magic inside him to harmonize the Potion, stabilizing the liquid in the bottle.
Without this step, a Witcher Potion was only half-finished.
In the endless grind of Alchemy, Roy almost forgot how time passed. When they first started brewing "Swallow," he could at least follow a few of the steps.
But once they moved on to blade oils, Alchemical Bombs, and mixing Pre-medication, he was completely lost, his mind turning to mush.
There were too many procedures, and they were far too complicated. He wasn't yet skilled enough in Alchemy to understand any of this, so he simply stopped thinking and followed the Witcher's instructions.
Although he had only learned to make one Potion, the busy time he spent assisting the Witcher had greatly increased his familiarity with alchemical instruments. It would all lay a solid foundation for learning more about Alchemy in the future.
After an unknown amount of time—five days, or perhaps a week—the Witcher had brewed two bottles of "Swallow," two "Dimeritium Bombs," and a whole assortment of other Potions.
Then, out of nowhere, he told Roy to leave the alchemy room, do whatever he wanted, and take a day to rest.
Freed from the suffocating pressure of tense work, where he scarcely dared breathe, Roy's thoughts began to loosen up.
But the next day, the Witcher took one of a row of finger-thick glass vials filled with some kind of liquid and placed it in front of him.
"This is Pre-medication, brewed especially for you." Letho looked into his black eyes with his amber ones and spoke slowly. "Drinking it over time will gradually acclimate your body to the toxicity of Witcher Potions. It'll prepare you for the Grass Potion."
At the word "toxicity," Roy's face went pale.
"No wonder he let me relax for a day. Even those condemned to die get a last meal."
No matter how indifferent he seemed about the dangers of the Trial of the Grasses, his instinct for self-preservation made him recoil from drinking these poisonous substances.
"Don't worry, kid. With your current constitution, you can withstand the Pre-medication's toxicity." Letho took in his expression and, unusually, offered a few words of encouragement. "Apart from temporary pain, it won't leave you with any aftereffects. That's what countless experiments have proven."
"If I drink this, will I be able to pass the Trial of the Grasses?" Roy held the clear glass vial up to the light and saw that, unlike ordinary Potions, the Pre-medication for the Trial of the Grasses was neither a uniform color nor a pure substance.
Instead, it was filled with countless green, algae-like filaments, like parasites. The liquid was murky and heavy, black all over, and thick and viscous enough to make his heart sink.
"Who can claim there's an absolute rule for everything in this world?" Letho answered honestly. "I can only tell you that if you survive this slow and painful process, your chances of making it through the Trial of the Grasses will rise considerably."
"Just how painful will it be?" Roy took a deep breath and forced himself to stay calm.
"Do you know what childbirth feels like for a woman?"
"Why are you asking?"
"According to the experimental records from Visigoth, taking Pre-medication is about as painful as giving birth..."
Roy fell silent, automatically blocking out the words "giving birth." He began to wonder if he could endure it.
Willpower: 5.8. Constitution: 5.5. A little higher than average? He should be fine, right?
"The School of the Viper 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 laid a warm, heavy hand on Roy's shoulder. It seemed to hold some mysterious power, quickly calming him down. "So I want you to find the courage to drink the Pre-medication."
"Actually, according to the original plan, you weren't supposed to take your first dose of Pre-medication for another six months." Letho's eyes held a hint of confusion. "Maybe you're a little too mature for your age. Your physical condition reached my standard six months ahead of schedule."
Roy knew the reason, of course. Ordinary people didn't have attribute points.
"Don't put too much pressure on yourself. I'll give you another two days to prepare."
"Can I just not drink it?"
"Hmm?"
"I was joking." Roy forced a smile, and a little color returned to his face. He'd come this far; there was no turning back now. Besides, this had always been part of his plan. He'd chosen the path of a Witcher, and no matter how painful it was, he had to endure it.
The Pre-medication could improve his chances of surviving the Trial of the Grasses. How could he not drink it?
"No need to wait two days. We're doing it today."
Under the Witcher's watch, Roy took down a vial and gently shook it, but didn't drink it right away. Instead, he squatted on the floor and began to meditate, clearing his mind and relaxing his body.
Half an hour later, his strength had fully recovered. He glanced at the clock in the room and noted the time. With a pop, he calmly pulled out the cork and drained the vial in one gulp, without even blinking!
In an instant, three overpowering flavors filled his mouth: bitter, fishy, and salty.
It was like swallowing an oyster, raw pork, and fresh herbs still caked with dirt all at once. Even though the Potion had only passed over his lips and tongue before sliding straight down his esophagus into his stomach, the strange taste lingered in his mouth, refusing to fade.
His features twisted into a knot. He clenched both fists against his chest, and his whole body began to tremble uncontrollably.
That was when the Potion's effects began.
The liquid fermented in his mouth for a moment, then surged through his nasal passages and into his brain. Roy felt as if he'd run headlong into a wall. His consciousness blurred instantly, his head lolled, and his eyes rolled back. His meditative posture crumpled as he toppled to the floor.
Worse, the liquid underwent some strange chemical reaction in his stomach, releasing a tremendous amount of heat. His chest and abdomen became scorching hot, as if a furnace were roasting him alive, turning him to ash.
His body instinctively drove his fingers to claw desperately at the cold, hard floor. He rolled from side to side, trying to spread the heat. His eyes squeezed shut, his face flushed and contorted, as if he were trapped in a nightmare.
After a little while, the pain finally became unbearable. He jerked his eyes open, his gaze bloodshot, and a hoarse, horrifying cry tore from his throat. The thick veins in his neck and temples bulged and twisted grotesquely.
The Witcher crouched beside him, his expression unchanged throughout. Only a trace of memory showed in his amber eyes.
"Hang in there, kid. The longer you endure it, the more it hurts—and the more you'll gain."
Before you continue