Chapter 118: Drinking The Potion
The witch’s notes were a testament to a kind of magical anarchy. A witch, she wrote, was no alchemist, bound by rigid formulas and precise measurements. Hers was an art of intuition, of inspired guesswork, of adding ingredients with a reckless, whispered prayer of this should work, and then using her own will to bind the chaotic elements together.
Even a proper recipe from a physician, a thing of exacting proportions, would be twisted in a witch’s hands, warped by some sudden whim to alter the balance or toss in a new, untested material. The final product was always a gamble. It might possess some new, wondrous property, or its original potency might be bled away, leaving only a foul taste and a host of unforeseen side effects. Sometimes, the potion’s very nature would shift, becoming something entirely alien to its creator’s intent.
Witchcraft, I was beginning to understand, was a thing of pure experience, a dark art that could be felt but never truly taught. If something was missing, a substitute would have to do.
I hadn’t believed it at first. How could I, a novice with no knowledge, possibly conjure such whims? In my past life, I couldn’t so much as fry an egg without consulting a cookbook. But as the brew bubbled, I became a believer. My mind was a storm of impossible knowledge, a torrent of intrusive thoughts suggesting what to do here, what to add there, a process that bore no resemblance to the grimoire’s instructions. I felt a constant, nagging urge to add some other, stranger ingredient—the iridescent wings of a rainbow dragonfly, the viscous spittle of a magic toad, the seeds of a hundred-dew flower.
I had never heard of these seemingly mysterious and powerful things, yet the names bloomed in my mind, vivid and certain. The impulse to add them was a physical craving, a desperate, gnawing need. But I had none of them.
And then, just as the potion was nearing its end, the most absurd notion of all seized me: now is the time to add a peeled and sliced tomato. A goddamned tomato. Were you making tomato soup? The thought was so grotesquely out of place, so jarringly mundane in the midst of this arcane ritual, that I almost choked back a laugh. It was madness. The freewheeling, blasphemous art of the witch. It seemed I was already one of them.
Jared, having just returned from placating our neighbors, saw the strange smile on my face. “Parula, what are you laughing at?”
“Ah? Nothing. I just thought of something amusing,” I said, stirring the thick concoction. I could hardly tell him I was laughing about a tomato.
“Amusing? Is it because the potion is finished?” he guessed.
“Yes, almost. Just one last step.” I took the last ingredient, the honeypot ants, and dropped them into the pot.
Hiss! They burst on contact, their honey melting into the brew. A rich, sweet, and cloying fragrance billowed out, and I saw it—a faint, mysterious vapor, coiling from the pot like a living thing.
The grimoire had said that when a potion was complete, while others couldn’t see it, a witch would know. An experienced one could even judge its effects by the scent alone. I hadn’t understood what that meant. But now, as the sweet, clean fragrance filled my lungs, I knew. It was a success.
“Is… is it finished?” Jared asked, watching as I wrapped the pot in a cloth and lifted it from the brazier. He hadn’t understood a single step of the process; to him, I had just been adding things and stirring.
“Yes. I believe it’s a success. All that’s left… is to try it.” I looked down at the pot, a sudden wave of hesitation washing over me.
I felt that this was more like a thick soup than a potion. After boiling, only two-thirds of the water was left, and it looked very viscous. In theory, I should have been brewing a mana elixir, which I understood to be a small blue bottle from a game. But what I had actually brewed was a bright red concoction, which really looked a bit like tomato soup. But that was right. Most of the ingredients I had added were red, so it was impossible for it not to turn red. I just hoped this potion could help me feel the existence of mana.
But even though I said that, when it came down to it, I was still a little hesitant, a little afraid to drink this potion. Although in theory I should have succeeded, with so many strange and bizarre ingredients added, who knew what the actual effect would be.
What if I had actually failed? What if this potion had strong side effects? And just looking at its appearance, it really looked a bit hard to swallow.
“Why is it so noisy?” Jared frowned. As I stood there, hesitating, a new commotion erupted from the tunnel outside, a chorus of angry, frightened shouts. But that was a problem for another moment. I had made my choice. I poured half of the concoction into the empty wine bottle and, before I could lose my nerve, I took a small, tentative sip.
My mouth, I had learned, was strangely resistant to heat. The potion was still scalding, but I felt no pain. A wave of warmth, sweet and potent, washed over my tongue. It was… quite delicious. I tilted my head back and drank the entire half-bottle in a single, desperate draught.
Instantly, I felt a stream of heat rush down from my mouth, a sensation like drinking a glass of high-proof spirits, with a sweet taste. Then that stream of heat quickly rushed into my limbs, my veins, a river of fire I could feel in every fiber of my being. At first, I thought it was the residual heat of the potion, but I soon found that it was not, because these streams of heat were all moving around inside my body. A potion that was simply drunk should obviously not be like this.
And then I realized I could control it. With a thought, I could guide the current, could make it shift and flow. Was this it? Was this mana?
But the sensation… it was horrifyingly familiar. It was the same crawling, burrowing feeling I had felt when the maggots had dug into my skin. Exactly the same. Were the maggots also a form of mana?
“Parula, how do you feel?” Jared asked, his voice tight with concern.
I couldn’t answer. The currents of heat were multiplying, swelling within me, filling me to the point of bursting. No way, is the potion too effective? I only drank half a bottle! I felt as if my very skin was about to split, to tear apart under the strain.
Just then, the shouts from outside grew louder, closer. Jared, his patience finally snapping, went to see what was happening. The moment he pulled back the curtain, a look of pure, animal panic crossed his face.
“Bloody hell! It’s the peelers!”
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