When Dreams Shine into Reality

Brass of Ban Ard had two deep nasolabial folds. He always wore a red wide-brimmed hat with tail feathers and a tight, lace-trimmed bodice, looking every bit the respectable gentleman.

But everyone who knew him knew that he merely ran a magic-item shop in the city called "Raffard's Decoctions," specializing in goods that were "cheap and decent quality." Business was so-so, barely enough to get by.

Though he was not doing too well now, he had once been full of dreams and high spirits. After all, he was a graduate of Ban Ard Academy.

Why had a mage who graduated from Ban Ard Academy become the owner of a little shop? The answer was as simple as why some Harvard graduates became homeless while some Harvard dropouts became the richest people in the world.

Recently, though, he felt his luck had begun to turn. Ten days ago, a young man had come to him with a letter of recommendation from the academy's rector, hoping to consign goods through his shop while purchasing a few supplies.

The letter was, of course, genuine. No one in Ban Ard would dare joke about such a thing. What surprised him was that this young-looking alchemist was actually this capable.

The potions he made not only met the standard of being "cheap and decent quality"; more importantly, he produced them in sufficient quantities. He came once a day, bringing at least a dozen potency potions and twenty-four hangover cures each time.

For an alchemist, product effectiveness and output were usually impossible to have at once. Yet the quality of his products was remarkably consistent. He could practically be called an expert in potency potions and hangover cures.

And in a city with an active population of over thirty thousand, half of them travelers from all over, these two potions had no trouble finding buyers. If anything, supply could not keep up with demand.

The consignment business for those two flagship products alone had sent both the profits and reputation of "Raffard's Decoctions" soaring. Besides, the young man seemed quite interested in magical items and always liked to use the shop's strange and unusual goods to offset payment for his wares. That pleased Brass even more.

Getting to know Brass was good for one's peace of mind. That day, after ending that awkward afternoon at Mage Doregarray's tower, the alchemy apprentice and the witcher hurriedly left the academy grounds.

Before leaving, however, Victor had still asked the archmage for a letter of recommendation—one addressed to the local alchemists' guild.

This letter allowed the young man to purchase certain special materials from the alchemists' guild, such as venom extracts, anesthetics, or Zerrikanian powder, also known as blast powder... More importantly, it allowed him to openly sell alchemical potions in the city.

As for everyday consumable medicines like hangover cures and potency potions, he had successfully made them with Incredible Alchemy when he was ten years old.

On the day the medicines went on sale, he earned the unanimously acknowledged title of "master" from every married couple over forty in town. In a peaceful little village like Bell Town, aside from pesticides and nutrient solutions, there was only this sort of thing left to sell.

Those two new products alone had surpassed his grandmother's sales volume from the previous entire year within two months.

"I won't make such indecent medicine!" That was what his grandmother had said. So he had no choice but to become the main breadwinner...

In any case, Victor was far too practiced at making money from those two things. Even if the herbs in the two worlds were completely different, it made no difference to him. Incredible Alchemy did not care about logic; it went straight for the result.

As long as he selected herbs with the desired effects from the herbal shop, he ignored whether they were harmful, had side effects, or how they interacted with one another. In one hour at a time, he could brew up a whole cauldron while reading and stirring with half his attention. The only thing he had to watch out for was not making the effects too good—and never forgetting to add impurities.

Victor had a reason for choosing "Raffard's Decoctions" as the distributor for such cheap and useful goods.

It was because Brass had graduated from a mage academy, yet his circumstances proved that entering one did not mean becoming powerful. Though the young man would never admit to that dark little corner in his heart, the fact always gave him a faint sense of comfort.

In short, city life suited Victor perfectly. Every day, he made the rounds between his private room at the inn, the grand market, Raffard's Decoctions, and the library.

Lambert felt somewhat irritated tonight.

Ever since leaving that fellow Doregarray's mage tower ten days ago, Victor had never mentioned his dream again. Instead, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the potion-making trade with that letter of recommendation, even renting a private room so they could live separately.

Their morning and evening sword practice remained as regular as clockwork, but apart from that, Victor's life had become far too routine. It even felt as though he intended to spend the rest of his life here. And this mage-protected city rarely had any need for witchers. If things went on like this, Lambert felt he would rust away.

So he kicked open the door to Victor's private room and shouted, "Come on, tell old Lambert what you're planning! What are you going to do? Keep living here as a seller of virility potions?"

The scene in the room was perfectly normal: Victor was brewing something. But when Lambert came closer, he saw that there were actually ducats boiling in the cauldron.

The witcher was baffled. "Why are you boiling money?"

Victor answered calmly, "It got dirty. I'm disinfecting it."

Lambert curled his lip in disgust. "Tch! Careless." Then he pulled over a chair and sat down.

Victor unhurriedly put away the cauldron, pulled over another chair, and sat down as well. Without the slightest rush, he lifted a cup of milk and drank.

"Tell me about your plans going forward?" Having been interrupted earlier, Lambert gathered his thoughts and asked again.

"I'm going to become a witcher..." The white milk stain on his upper lip could not conceal the utter certainty in his voice. There was no room for doubt.

Lambert's heart jolted, and he nearly sprang from his chair.

They got along well, and Victor was talented. Lambert truly did hope, to some extent, that the young man would become a monster hunter. But he did not want Victor to undergo the Trial of the Grasses. Every child who had gone through it alongside him had died on the operating table—he had been the only success.

"...But not now," the young man continued.

Now Lambert wanted to jump up even more—jump up and hit him. Was it fun to leave people hanging like that?

"I have to improve the Trial of the Grasses until it's safer first. A seventy percent mortality rate is completely unacceptable." Wiping the white trace from the corner of his mouth, Victor wore a very serious expression.

Lambert stroked the stubble on his chin and digested this new information. If the mortality rate could truly be reduced, that would indeed be much better. "Then what have you been doing? I don't understand what information there is in the library, but I'm no outsider to alchemy. How much time do you spend every day just making medicines to sell?

"And that pile of magical items you brought back—music boxes, glowing tubes, black-magic doll skulls, strange amulets, ones against thieves, fleas, indigestion, diarrhea... What use are they?

"And lastly, what's the point of spending several hours every day wandering around the grand market?"

After hearing the challenge, Victor looked at Lambert with an expression of kingly disdain. "You wouldn't understand! I go to the market to gather intelligence. If you don't care about the world, the world will abandon you. The information you can learn at the market is far beyond even the deepest reaches of your imagination.

"For example! Did you know that mages have actually been gradually losing the authority they once had?"

Lambert shook his head.

"The Thanedd Island coup a year and a half ago proved that some mages had secretly sworn allegiance to Nilfgaard in the south. Its consequences did not merely shatter the Brotherhood of Sorcerers—it also caused the mages as a whole to lose the trust of the Northern kings.

"Half a year ago, during the Second Battle of Upper Aedirn, King Henselt even had his longtime adviser—the arrogant Sabrina Glevissig—tied to a wagon wheel and burned alive right on the battlefield."

Lambert blinked. "I heard Eskel mention that name. Geralt was used by her."

"Only when it comes to this sort of thing do you display such exceptional memory.

"In any case, that sorceress's violent temper determined her death sentence—not whether it would be carried out, but when.

"Do you know? While serving as the king's adviser, she actually dared slam her hand on the table and tell King Henselt to shut up and listen until she finished speaking first. She had guts, sure—but she was also incredibly stupid."