The Immortal's Alchemical Elixir (5)
Leaving behind a farewell that roughly amounted to “Thanks, comrade! Thanks so much!”, I bid Primor Armaal goodbye and soared into the sky.
“Per-fect. The plan was a complete success. So, what did you think of your husband at work?”
“It seemed as though a demon had taken up residence in our master’s mouth.”
“Why though.”
It was clearly a lie, but it was a white lie. Even if parents knew the Power Rangers performing on the apartment rooftop were fake, they wouldn’t tell their kids the truth, right? It was roughly the same thing. A win-win for both us and Primor.
Hmm. You said a great many human nobles had gathered. I am worried for Tirsi, but with so many eyes watching, they will not risk any unnecessary interference.
Yeah. For now, at least.
…What do you mean by that?
I turned my snake head to survey the city and answered.
Having so many nobles means they’re easy to invite, doesn’t it? Telling them to come from far away is annoying, but saying ‘since you’re already here, stop by before you leave’—who would refuse that?
It was like the bait products sold at big-box marts. Sell three-thousand-won snacks for a thousand won and people swarm in. But do those people really just buy the snacks and go home? Once they’re at the mart, they inevitably fill their baskets with everything their house is missing.
This auction will serve as bait for Diabolo as well.
If he can buy the Elixir, it’s pure profit. But even if he can’t, there’s no loss.
The nobles will come to the auction house. He’ll use that moment to announce the engagement.
I may be a commoner by birth and cannot become a true noble, but neither can I marry a commoner. So the story will be that I am getting engaged to a fallen noble lady. That must be why he deliberately chose Renapolis as the auction site. If he simply needed the Elixir, why open an auction house in his own territory? He would have had to compete in lobbying against those hoping for an Olympic-style tourism boost. If it were me, I would have just gone straight to the auction house.
Perhaps that Diabolo bastard is simply too stupid to have come up with the idea, but there’s no harm in being prepared.
Will you move according to the plan?
Yes. Diabolo must be the one who wins the Elixir.
Only then would the feasibility of the marriage net I had woven rise.
Nothing else to worry about.
Primor did not seem interested in purchasing the Elixir, and if that was the case, the lord of Lucregens would not cling to it desperately either. In the end, Diabolo—who coveted the highest-quality Elixir more than anyone—had the highest chance of claiming it. I simply needed to act at the right moment.
I’ll show you the taste of twenty-first-century hellfire, forged in canyons and magnetic fields.
By the time they realized the Elixir they so desperately wanted was the poison I had released, it would already be too late.
—Sway.
While thinking that, I lifted my head at the chill that landed on my snake scales. Through the gap in the cold air cut by Veronica’s wingbeats, white particles poured down. January snow was falling across the night sky.
Druk—.
Clack!
Primor Armaal closed the window herself after her benefactor’s familiar had departed. The reason this noblewoman moved with her own hands was simple: all her escorts were kneeling in reprimand.
After accepting her benefactor’s request, Primor had returned to her true self.
…Let me say it again. Purchasing the Elixir will be difficult.
Primor leaned back in her chair as though exhausted.
It is not only because of my personal wishes. There are financial problems as well. You understand the reason, yes?
…Yes. Since the lord of Lucregens is also coveting the Elixir.
The escorts nodded while suppressing their groans.
To the lord of Lucregens, Primor Armaal was the daughter-in-law of his enemy. If he won the bid for the Elixir, she could snatch away the item that would heal the wounds of a woman from the hated family. She could also mend the scars she had gained during the past civil war. She had more than enough reason to participate in the bidding.
And she was not the only one. According to the information her colleague had gathered, high-quality Elixirs within the country had begun drying up since the start of winter. The one who collected the information suspected someone was hoarding them.
Had it been summer, the swarm of insects she controlled would already be scouring the city. If both the lord of Lucregens and that hoarder attended the auction, winning the Elixir with the pocket money of a few knights would be impossible.
Not to mention we already have a full schedule of secret expenditures… That person is hardly a gentleman.
Primor said this while gazing out the window. At the mansion’s main gate, the person she had summoned could be seen passing through inspection and entering.
—Crunch, crunch.
A pure-white cleric walked into the snow-dusted garden. The young-faced priest, guided by a maid, reached Primor’s side in the guest room and offered a graceful bow.
It is an honor to see you again. Should I offer thanks that this unexpected connection continues?
Thanks… To us? Or to your god?
Both. It is my duty to offer prayers of gratitude to both you and to Lord Janus.
Despite the sly reply, the priest’s face showed no expression whatsoever.
Punitive Executor Signatio greets the madam of Armaal.
Welcome, Sir Signatio. Please make yourself comfortable.
It is an honor.
Signatio answered as though this were routine and sat on the sofa. Since they were indoors, he had not brought that absurdly large cross, yet the latent power held within his ascetic limbs surpassed anyone else in the room.
As cold as his stern face, he skipped all pleasantries and went straight to the heart of the matter.
I was told you desire the purification of a cursed item.
The Janus Church is famous for purification as well. Still, I never expected the renowned Punitive Executor to come in person.
I will not disappoint. Though it is not something I should say before seeing the object itself.
…Lias.
The most trusted female knight silently brought forward a small chest.
—Click.
When the chest opened, an ominously glowing ring was revealed. Or rather, the evaluation of it being ominous came from Primor knowing the vicious curse bound to that ring. In truth, until the moment it had been placed on her finger, it had brought only happiness.
The shock she felt upon learning that the man who had slipped the ring onto her now-missing left ring finger was actually the enemy who had killed her husband and worn his skin still lingered. Even if she spent the rest of her life trying, she doubted she could ever forget that despair.
Excuse me.
Signatio picked up the cursed ring that had been sealed inside the holy casket as casually as if it were a market toy. His gesture carried the courtesy due to a noble’s possession, yet held no trace of fear. It was proof he cared nothing for the curse.
For the first time, Signatio’s face twisted.
A truly vile curse. One that rots the living from the intestines inward, transforming them into undead while still alive… Its ugliness is beyond words.
Primor sipped her tea and let the murmur flow past one ear. She already knew the curse’s effect; a loyal holy knight had told her while he still lived.
—The best course is to drink holy water to suppress the curse and fall into a long, deathlike sleep. The devout man had comforted her with those words, yet Primor had cut off the finger wearing the ring herself. She had done it to witness the black mage’s death with her own eyes.
To her, the black mage Krüntus was not merely the enemy who killed her beloved husband. He was also the vile wretch who had defiled the ring her shy husband had agonized over as a gift.
Is purification possible?
Curses born of malice are far harder to undo than to cast. The heretic who placed this curse on the ring appears to have been quite skilled.
It was unpleasant, but the statement was undeniably true. Even now Primor could replay beneath her eyelids the fierce duel the two mages had waged before her.
The escorts who had been present all wore bitter smiles. If the black mage was deemed considerably skilled by the Janus Church’s Punitive Executor, what must they think of the eastern warrior who had defeated him?
The battle that had ended in an instant bore no resemblance to the flashy magic third-rate mages used to inflate their worth. They had not pursued empty beauty. It had been an exchange of techniques condensed through brutal real combat and relentless training. Both sides had been warriors and mages, spellcasters and fighters—the black mage and the benefactor who had driven him like a servant before executing him alike.
I believe purchasing a new ring would be more economical, but that does not appear to be the answer you wish to hear.
Signatio placed the ring back inside the holy casket. It was her dead husband’s memento and their wedding ring. Money was not the issue. Using holy water many times more expensive than the ring itself to lift the curse might indeed be foolish. Yet to Signatio, who had witnessed human foolishness for years while judging heretics, such foolishness could even be called beautiful. That was why the Punitive Executor of the Janus Church had accepted this request despite it being beneath his station. He was not socially adept enough to voice that sentiment aloud, so no one knew his true feelings.
How long a schedule were you considering?
One week.
I see. You intend to attend the auction.
Having understood, Signatio closed the casket and placed a hand over his chest.
Lord Janus is the god of gates and guardianship. My mission is to drive out heretics beyond the Church, yet when one considers the recoil of purification, this is a task only I can perform. I shall complete the purification within one week.
I leave it in your hands.
Yes. The martyred brother will be enshrined in our church as scheduled. On the day the ring’s purification is finished, please hold the funeral at the church in his hometown.
The blunt executor finished his business and left without further conversation.
While her escort saw the departing Signatio off, Primor closed her eyes. Compared to dealing with nobles who each raised dozens of snakes in their bellies, a punitive officer devout in faith was far easier to face. Therefore, the bitter taste in her mouth could not be blamed solely on tea leaves that lacked sweetness.
…A tragic tale becomes a beautiful story.
The widow who cut off her own finger for her husband’s revenge. When one considered that the severed finger was the left ring finger—symbol of fidelity and married life—it was most advantageous to leave the wound untreated. Leaving a left ring finger that could be fully healed untouched would be interpreted as a metaphor: that she would never again accept a wedding ring—or love—from another man, in order to remain faithful to her dead husband.
Anyone in high society who criticized Primor’s scar would have their own character questioned. It was no loss to her, either. Even though her marriage had been stained by blood and curses, Primor was expected to serve as a bridge between families. She possessed the sense of duty required to fulfill that role.
Above all, if she truly returned to her parents’ house now, only a widow whose value as a bride had fallen and sad memories would remain. Even if the main house of Armaal—a place filled with the absence of her husband—brought her nothing but sorrow, she had to return. Doing so would maintain the connection between the families. Even if what was lost never returned, the lesser evil was better than the worst. It was a self-evident truth even a child would understand.
Nobles as creatures… must be calculating.
Primor rinsed the bitterness in her mouth with tea. Anyone who turned their back on the advantages of bloodline and became nothing but a fool could not be called a noble. Any child raised in a prestigious noble house would have been taught this.
The taste of blood came from her bitten lip. Must even the sorrow and pathos of using her husband’s death as fertilizer to maintain power be endured by an outstanding noble?
To stop her eyes from reddening, she closed them once more.
Madam. We will begin preparations tomorrow morning to participate in the auction.
The female knight Lias spoke while kneeling.
They had not received an invitation, yet the name Armaal compelled the other party to tolerate the rudeness of demanding one. Attendance would not be difficult.
…I see.
Primor offered no reply for a long time. She sat with eyes closed, seemingly lost in deep thought, then answered in a rhythm that sounded almost like poetry.
In that case, visit the bank as well. We will need preparations to transfer funds the moment payment is made at the auction house.
Lias accepted the family crest she offered and swallowed a sharp breath. Assets on hand would have been enough for a magic item no better than a scarab brooch. Yet she was ordering coordination with the bank? That meant Primor believed the sum required at the auction would far exceed what pocket money could cover—so much that they would need to draw upon banked assets.
Madam, this is…
It is my personal property. Pay it no mind.
Primor chuckled, then showed her left hand to Lias, who still could not grasp her meaning.
Once the purification is complete, it would not be so bad to treat the finger so it may wear a ring again.
…Do you truly mean that!
Yes. Make certain you win the Elixir that will appear at this auction.
Lias’s expression brightened at once. When Primor nodded, the other escorts rejoiced as well. None of them wished for the woman their lord had loved to live the rest of her life bearing such terrible scars.
Watching their joy, Primor harbored a slightly different thought in her heart.
It was a high-quality Elixir guaranteed by the Hermaion Guild. Half a bottle would suffice to heal a finger.
…Ah, and for your information, the remaining Elixir after treatment will be given to Sir Yesugei.
Pardon?
If it is a wound that requires an Elixir, he has one as well, does he not?
Behind Primor’s eyelids floated the face of the benefactor who had avenged her husband. The severe burn scar revealed when he had removed his mask. Even an old burn like that could be healed by the Elixir. For her benefactor, such an investment was only natural.
The escorts, realizing late the true reason Primor had suddenly burned with enthusiasm for the Elixir bid, let out hollow laughs.
Aigoo, so that was it. We wondered why your heart had changed so suddenly.
Grudges must be tied off cleanly. Didn’t he say so himself?
Primor smiled at the escorts who sighed as though they could not stop her, then looked out the window.
Nobles must be calculating. Yet before she was a noble, Primor was a human being—one who understood shame and felt gratitude. A person could not calculate every matter in the world solely by gain and loss, could they? Sometimes it was only natural to act as one’s heart commanded.
Thinking so, Primor recalled the white-haired girl she had seen as a child—the fallen noble’s young lady her benefactor sought to save.
…And what of you? Tyrsi Armasunas.
The annex she suddenly gazed at was being covered by snowflakes. She herself was warmly wrapped by the bonfire and the laughter of her escorts as she looked down upon the city’s nightscape. The night view of Renapolis, where countless nobles had been lured by the auction, somehow appeared as though darkness itself was swirling within it.