Chapter 116: The Goblin’s Shop
“I need the blood of a gazelle deer, the roe of a golden crab, and powdered Wagreah Ore. Do you have them?” I rattled off the remaining ingredients to Old Goldtooth, my voice a small, steady point in the oppressive gloom.
“Hehehe, yes, of course I do. You,” Old Goldtooth cackled, his withered goblin hand landing with a sharp, wet smack on the rear of the beautiful, statuesque woman beside him. “Go and fetch those three items for our guests.”
His small hand couldn’t cover even half of the woman’s shapely posterior, and his head barely reached her thigh. Yet, the woman knelt respectfully, her eyes as empty as a doll's. “Yes, master.”
It was only then that I noticed the collars. Each of the beautiful maids wore a collar of some unknown, bruised-looking metal, etched with blue patterns that pulsed with a faint, sickly light. A single iron chain was attached to each, disappearing into the deep cleavage of their gowns like a serpent into a dark crevice.
The woman rose and glided gracefully toward the shelves in the back. A cold knot of displeasure tightened in my stomach. A non-human, openly keeping human slaves, and in the heart of a human city, no less. But I held my tongue. If this creature dared to operate so openly—his goblin nature unconcealed, his human chattel on full display—it meant he feared no reprisal. He controlled this dark corner of the market. To challenge him would be a fool’s errand, a quick path to a shallow, unmarked grave.
Jared and I waited in a tense, watchful silence. I took the opportunity to study Goldtooth’s counter. It was a tableau of opulence: a beautifully crafted globe, a scattering of raw, multicolored gemstones that seemed to drink the light, a gold-rimmed magnifying glass, an ornate brocade box, a delicate silver balance scale, and a calculating ruler made of solid silver.
A rich man, I thought. Or rather, a rich goblin. A gaudy, ostentatious brute. My assessment was confirmed when the maid returned, followed by two smaller goblins. They were the same bilious green as their master, but their only clothing was a set of filthy rags that seemed to cling to their stunted frames.
The woman and the two goblin servants each carried a box. Inside were the materials I had requested: a vial of viscous, crimson blood that seemed to pulse with a life of its own; a cluster of shimmering, golden crab roe that glittered like a cursed treasure; and a small pouch of a fine, blue powder that seemed to float on the air, defying gravity.
“Everything you asked for, my guests,” Old Goldtooth said with a grin that stretched his wrinkled face into a terrifying mask.
I was stunned that he had everything. In theory, I now possessed all the ingredients for the three potions in the grimoire. All that was left was to brew them, assuming I didn’t fail. Goldtooth’s well-stocked shop was a testament to his power, but his prices were far steeper than Hawke’s. I spent another gold coin to acquire the three items.
Jared was right. If we didn’t find another source of income, the factory owner’s fortune would be squandered in a matter of days. A chilling thought solidified in my mind: for the poor, the path of magic was not just difficult; it was an impossible dream. The cost of these basic materials alone would bankrupt a common family. No wonder Old Goldtooth was so grotesquely wealthy.
Though he warmly invited me to browse his collection of rare and wondrous items, that there must be something that interests me, I had no desire to linger. I was possessed by a single, desperate urge: to return to our hovel and begin brewing.
On the way back, a strange, impulsive thought struck me. The plant shop owner had said that his honeypot ants could replenish a bit of magic if eaten raw. Perhaps, if I ate one, I could finally feel the flow of mana within myself, and save myself the trouble of brewing. The moment the thought formed, I acted. I took out the small glass bottle, plucked out one of the golden, swollen orbs, and, just as Hawke had instructed, I tore off its head and popped it into my mouth.
Hmm, sweet. Very sweet. A burst of honey flooded my mouth. I had expected a certain revulsion at eating a raw insect, but it was surprisingly delicious.
I swallowed the honey, and felt a wave of warmth spread from my throat to my stomach. And then… nothing.
Nothing at all. It felt no different from eating ordinary food. Aside from the exquisite taste, there was no other sensation. Had the shopkeeper lied to me?
And then, the familiar, monstrous hunger, triggered by the taste of food, roared back to life. I almost devoured the rest of the honeypot ants on the spot. Thankfully, I had already instructed Jared to stop me. He grabbed my hands and pulled the bottle away, his eyes wide with a familiar concern.
“Hah… hah… This… this thing has no effect at all! Did that shopkeeper sell me a fake?!” I said, a new wave of anxiety washing over me. This was about more than just a failed experiment. If the ingredients were faulty, the entire potion would be ruined, and all the other expensive materials would be wasted.
“Should we… go back and settle the score?” Jared asked. His idea of “settling the score,” I knew, involved a sharp knife and a light touch with his craft, to recover our losses several times over.
“No, let’s go back first. We’ll try brewing it once and see,” I said. The plants in Hawke’s shop had been genuinely mystical. I had to believe he had some real goods. Besides, the claim that eating the ants raw could replenish magic was his own boast. The grimoire had no such requirement. It only specified that honeypot ants were needed for the mana elixir, not that they had to possess any innate magical properties. Merchants were always prone to exaggeration. It didn’t mean the goods were fake, just that he had employed a bit of… creative marketing.
We hurried back to our hovel by the waterway. I began my preparations, and immediately realized I had forgotten something else. I had bought all the materials, but I had forgotten to buy a crucible.
I had no choice but to use the broken little bucket as a substitute. As the witch’s notes had said, a witch was a casual sort of creature. If something was missing, a substitute would have to do. I soon discovered that this philosophy was a perfect fit for my current situation. As I began the actual process of brewing, I realized I was missing almost everything.
The witch’s notes, for instance, instructed: Stir with a wand, and release your sorcery according to your feeling to promote the blending of the medicinal properties. What in God’s name was this “feeling”? Was it all just intuition?
And I had neither a wand nor any magic to speak of. The implement Gremory had given me was a gemstone strapped to the back of my hand. I couldn’t very well stick my entire hand in the pot, could I? Only later would I learn that there were indeed alchemists who did just that. But that was a story for another time.
For now, I had no wand. I would have to use a tree branch as a stirring stick. How pathetic. Even in my past life’s chemistry experiments, I had at least had a glass rod.
First, boil the water. Then, add a “suitable amount” of the base liquor. How much was a “suitable amount”? The original text didn’t specify, and the notes only said “a suitable amount.” I was about to go mad.
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