Whitewashing (Part 1)

Within the Shennong Horn Space, a globe of light hung some thirty meters overhead, radiating a golden glow.

Standing within it, Romon still found it unbelievable, even though he had entered this place in spirit countless times.

"Fine Rice Grass," he called into the void.

Information on Fine Rice Grass appeared. It was a medicinal herb from Earth, and because it could treat snakebite in the wild, Romon had planted some. Looking over its information, he found that its properties differed somewhat from what he had seen on Earth. That was probably due to the different laws of the two worlds. Fortunately, it was still an effective antidote for snake venom.

Romon took out a dried Fine Rice Grass plant. There was a small patch in the Shennong Horn Space that seemed specially intended for storing plants; herbs placed there remained exactly as they had been when put in. Then he withdrew from the Shennong Horn.

Back in the small private room Sackville provided for apprentices, Romon looked at the Fine Rice Grass in his palm and smiled faintly.

The magic lamp gave off an extremely weak white glow, illuminating only about a meter around it.

Romon dragged out a small wooden box from beneath his bed. Inside was a set of common tools pharmacists used to process herbs. The small mortar used for grinding could also squeeze juice; the knife was for cutting; the chopping blade was a convenient tool for cutting in bulk; the scissors could pick the tenderest leaf buds or shred things; and there were tiny clay jars for soaking herbs. Ansen, the pharmacist at the Temple in Rika Town, had given them to him.

Romon took out the knife and began processing the Fine Rice Grass according to this world's method for processing Butterfly Grass.

The initial treatment of medicinal herbs—removing portions with weaker medicinal properties while retaining the essence, or separating different parts according to their differing effects, then applying suitable treatment to enhance those effects, subtly alter them, or extend the herb's shelf life—was the most basic introductory aspect of herbalism.

On Earth, this field had been called the art of processing in the ancient Chinese medicine that had developed over two thousand years.

In this world, although herbalism had also developed to some extent, it had long been forced to exist beneath alchemical pharmaceutics as one of its foundational branches. The reason was simple: this was a world where magic truly existed.

Romon carefully trimmed the Fine Rice Grass. Though he knew perfectly well that it was not the poison known as Butterfly Grass, he still had to make certain people believe that some thief had accidentally mixed in a new species extremely similar to Butterfly Grass while gathering herbs, then been killed, with all the spoils packed away by the victorious Druid. Then, the Druid, who possessed keen sensitivity toward nature and plants, had discovered that one stalk among the Butterfly Grass was different.

That was the bizarre story Romon intended to show others.

Though he thought this, Romon was still unhappy. Species from Earth were among the trump cards he least wished to expose. But without this, how could he obtain the recommendation ticket Old Vilen held for entering the black market? Without that ticket, how could he launder the money in his hands? If the money could not be laundered, he could not repay his debts, much less improve Nick's future life.

Before long, the Fine Rice Grass in his hand had been processed according to the method for Butterfly Grass. He retained all the broad leaves, but carefully scraped away the fibrous roots. Those roots happened to be the difference between the two herbs. Fine Rice Grass was a taprooted plant with an obvious main root, while Butterfly Grass had a fibrous root system and no distinct main root.

Romon placed the processed Fine Rice Grass into a long, narrow wooden case he had prepared beforehand, carefully filling the gaps within with hemp floss. Then he put the wooden case into the Shennong Horn Space, extinguished the lamp, and went to sleep in peace. He had no dreams that night.

The following evening, after the sun had sunk beyond the western horizon, Romon carried the wooden case he had prepared the day before and headed for Old Vilen's place. By the time he arrived, the sky had grown faintly dark. The night air was like a drop of ink in a great pool, spreading through the dim yellow light until even people walking in the distance appeared blurred.

Romon greeted familiar faces with a smile, and a strange feeling suddenly rose in his heart.

As he walked and pondered, Romon saw that Old Vilen's shop ahead had already closed. He stepped up and knocked. Yvette opened the door, wearing an apron as she cleaned the tavern.

"Father is waiting for you inside," Yvette told him. "Romon, have you prepared your goods?" When Romon had returned the previous day, he had given Yvette a slight hint, so she was both curious and worried about what he was about to produce.

With a smile, Romon tidied a few stray strands of hair from Yvette's forehead. Then he passed through the haphazardly arranged tables and chairs and strode proudly into the back room.

Old Vilen was waiting beside the fireplace in the small sitting room.

"Did you bring it?" Old Vilen tossed a log into the fireplace, and sparks burst out with a crackle.

Romon set the wooden case on the table in the sitting room. "I brought it. Please have a look."

Old Vilen rose from his rocking chair. Firelight from the hearth shone behind him, stretching a long black shadow across the floor.

He leisurely extended a thick palm and opened the wooden case Romon had placed on the table with apparent carelessness. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. "This isn't Butterfly Grass!" His voice was filled with certainty, confusion, and delight.

Romon was startled. Old Vilen actually has considerable knowledge of herbs! The thought flashed through his mind. In an instant, he recalled Old Vilen's secret fruit wine and wolf meat. This man was far more than merely a Fifth-Level Warrior!

He suddenly regretted it. Was it truly appropriate to reveal his trump card to someone like this?

From here on, he could only hope that the bond between himself and Yvette would be enough. As Romon thought this, the hand beneath the table involuntarily clenched into a fist.

Old Vilen stomped into the inner room with a series of thuds, followed by sounds of rummaging. Then he stomped back out with another flurry of thud-thud-thuds, waving tweezers in one hand and wearing a crystal lens over his right eye.

Holding his breath beside the table, Old Vilen carefully used the tweezers to turn over the herb taken from the wooden case, examining it closely through the crystal lens while repeatedly clicking his tongue.

At last, Vilen removed the lens and muttered, "Damn it, the root system has been damaged."

Romon stood respectfully. "Mr. Vilen, does this item qualify me for an admission ticket?"

Old Vilen looked at Romon, an inscrutable smile appearing on his face. "I originally wanted to see what abilities the boy Yvette favored possessed. Now it seems that luck is also a kind of ability." He patted Romon on the shoulder. "I'll take this. I've already heard about your affairs from Yvette. I can launder all your cash and goods for you. This herb will count as my commission."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Vilen." Romon bowed. At last, this matter had been settled properly, he thought.

Another week or two passed. Early one morning, the sky was still murky and black. On the streets, the soldiers on night patrol kept rubbing their eyes and yawning. After working through the entire night, they were truly exhausted by this hour.

Suddenly, a squad of soldiers patrolling the eastern part of the city spotted a figure approaching from afar, dressed in a long hooded cloak that concealed both face and gender.

"Who goes there?!" the squad leader shouted, instinctively placing his hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist.

Clang! An object was thrown down before the squad leader's feet.

Using the remaining light from the torch held by the soldiers behind him, the squad leader took one look and immediately picked up the object at his feet.

It was a metal token bearing the crest of the city lord's Aidel Lineage. This was a special pass the lord issued to distinguished guests.

The squad leader hurriedly wiped the token clean on his clothes, then bent at the waist and returned it to the approaching cloaked figure with both hands. "My lord, please."

The cloaked figure reached out to take it. The hand emerging from beneath the cloak was exquisitely groomed, and a highly conspicuous sapphire ring adorned its owner's right hand.

The squad leader watched the cloaked figure head toward Old Vilen's tavern and knock on its door.

"These big shots with their strange tastes aren't coming for a drink at the crack of dawn, are they?" The squad leader scratched his head, then finally ordered his men to continue patrolling down the street.

That morning, Romon entered the workshop of the mage Sackville as usual. He went to his cubicle, shut the door, sat at the workbench, and placed a bottle of Solidifying Agent before him. Then he began using the power of his breathing to settle his mind and start the day's work.

Outside the cubicle door were the envious and jealous gazes of his fellow hired workers.

Everyone knew that Romon had received an inheritance left behind by some uncle he had never met. Though no one knew the exact amount, since the inheritance had been solemnly contracted beneath the holy emblem of the Lord of Radiance at the Temple and then entrusted to the Adventurers' Guild as a posted task, it clearly amounted to at least several hundred gold coins. In short, Romon had struck it rich.

On the day he received that so-called inheritance—actually, the laundering of the stolen goods seized from the Thieves' Guild in Rika Town—Romon immediately paid off the hundred silver coins he owed at the Adventurers' Guild.

Centered around Aps City and supported by Viscount Igor Aidel, the Adventurers' Guild had spread throughout his territories and those of his vassals. Thus, systems for cash transactions and unified management of adventurer information had gradually been established. Of course, if an indebted adventurer fled beyond Aps City, the Adventurers' Guild of Aps City would have to consider whether the cost of collecting the debt was worthwhile.

Romon had not intended to return to Rika Town immediately after clearing his debt. In truth, if not for his responsibility and guilt toward the injured Nick, and if not for his hatred of tax officer Bakasi and priest Tennis, he even felt that buying a property in Aps City with his assets, earning money through work, paying taxes fully and on time, and eventually gaining the rights of a free citizen in Aps would be a fine choice. Besides, in Aps, in Old Vilen's tavern, there was a girl who loved him—one who would accompany him in sword practice, snatch away his dirty clothes to wash them, and secretly leave him extra food when bringing meals...

But Romon felt that he had to return. A true man distinguished gratitude from grievance; he could not abandon Nick, nor could he relinquish his hatred.

Thus, when to return became a question worth considering seriously. Romon vaguely sensed that, with spring approaching and the Bluegrass in the Shennong Horn Space steadily growing more vigorous, the opportunity for him to advance to Second-Level Druid was becoming increasingly apparent. Once this batch of Bluegrass matured, the space would gain energy from the plants and complete its upgrade!

Given the current circumstances, only the most foolish person would be incapable of even such patience.

Having chosen to remain in Aps until spring began, Romon worked peacefully at making potions in the mage's workshop. But he did not intend to continue here next month, even though he did indeed learn quite a bit from Sackville every week.

"Druids are different from mages, after all," Romon thought faintly as he examined the healing potion he had just finished mixing. Under the magic lamp in his cubicle, the potion in the glass bottle gave off a crystal-clear radiance like a ruby. Many ordinary people believed that such a color represented the essence of blood and the undying flame of life.

"Every magical creation, even a trivial Cure Light Wounds potion like this one, is a miracle." No one believed this more than Romon, who had come from Earth. He tilted the glass bottle, and the swaying red liquid truly leaped like flame. "Unfortunately, I am not a mage. A Druid should be close to nature."

Romon simply leaned his body over the workbench. He suddenly remembered his former teacher Jefa, the middle-aged man who wore a cloak made of green leaves all year round. He still clearly remembered that Jefa's first lesson to him had been: a Druid should be close to nature.

"A Druid should be close to nature!" Romon murmured. "I asked Alec what a mage was, and Alec told me that Sackville's first lesson had taught him that mages were people who pursued knowledge and truth. I also asked Yvette what a warrior was, and Yvette told me that Vilen's first lesson had taught her that for a warrior, it was either you died or I perished. Every profession has beliefs and ideals belonging to its essence. I know what knowledge and truth are, and I know what survival and death are. But who can tell me—what is nature?"

Romon felt troubled. He remembered Jefa's reason for driving him away. Perhaps Jefa's understanding of nature was balance and guardianship. Druids should carefully preserve nature's balanced operation, rather than use their own abilities to destroy it—but what was Romon's own nature?

Romon set the finished potion on the table, then pressed the bell. His mood was rather stifled today. It would be better to go out for some air. I'll go find Yvette.

After Alec inspected the potion, Romon smoothly received seven silver coins. He made his way down the street toward Old Vilen's tavern.

"Eh? Old Vilen's tavern is closed so early? Or did he not open at all today?" Romon found it strange to see the tavern's doors tightly locked.

He stepped forward and knocked. No one answered.

"Romon, stop knocking. That old bastard Vilen isn't here, and neither is Yvette. Who knows where that father and daughter ran off to? They didn't open today at all." The speaker was a regular at the tavern, and he was complaining bitterly.

Romon felt even more depressed and decided to go back and continue making potions...

But that morning, Romon was definitely not the most depressed person.

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