Body Swap (1)
When you ask a mage what their specialty is and they answer alchemy, ordinary people tend to picture much the same thing. They imagine the mage brewing potions from rare herbs they'll never see in their lifetime, down to the common weeds sprouting everywhere on the streets, all mixed with magic stones that shimmer in dazzling colors. Their labs are cluttered with triangular, square, and cylindrical flasks, plus test tubes in sizes ranging from thimble-like to cock-length varieties. And honestly, the public's image of alchemists is spot on. Because my own lab looks like a goddamn landfill right now—zero organization.
Someone might call alchemists lazy slobs who can't even tidy up, but I have my excuse ready: we're so immersed in alchemy that we forget about cleaning in our research frenzy. True or not, it doesn't matter to me right now. What does matter is that massive beaker dominating the main table in my lab, radiating sheer presence.
Saying that made my slave, Terria, pout like I'd slighted her. She's important too, no doubt, but is she sulking because the beaker's stealing the spotlight? Terria—her name vaguely like the terrier dog breed—is a fox beastkin, which raises questions about the naming, but whatever. It's not important. Her ambiguous vibe, part human, part fox, had her looking downright dejected. I could picture her hidden fox ears drooping, even if humanization magic kept them out of sight.
Whatever. Filling that empty beaker is still my top priority. So I handed the surgical scalpel to her, where she stood blankly.
"Terria. Cut your wrist."
"...Pardon? My, my wrist?"
"Want me to do it for you? You know ignoring me once doesn't fly."
"...Ugh. I, I don't want to die..."
Lately, her emotions had gotten more colorful; now she was sniffling. "Die"? What a misunderstanding. She probably thought I meant suicide. People figure biting your tongue or slashing your wrist does the trick, but humans don't drop that easily. Tongue-biting only kills if it blocks your airway, and hitting an artery in your forearm takes nearly severing the damn thing.
"Die? As if. I'm getting pissed—hurry up and slice that wrist over the beaker. I'll heal it after anyway."
"Ugh... Yes, Master..."
"Hurry, or I'll do it myself. Just spill some blood here."
Her hand trembled as she gripped the scalpel. She'd spilled plenty of blood since becoming my slave, yet she still tensed up every time. Not that I'd let my hard-won slave die or get crippled. Beyond the hassle of replacing her, I worked her hard—as a magic research assistant, maid, and toy for boredom relief.
"See the markings on the beaker? Fill it to about here. Say, 500 milliliters?"
"F-Five hundred... Yes, I'll... do it."
"Hey. Even if you lose a liter or two, I can fix it. Don't trust my magic?"
"...No. But why my blood...?"
"Sigh, Terria. Why do you need to know? Just do as you're told."
"Hic... Yes... Master."
Everything I ordered had a reason. Even if I'm a psycho, I don't rip into flesh for shits and giggles. The potion I'm brewing needs human blood. Whoever drinks it swaps bodies with the blood's owner—more precisely, it's a mental magic that swaps souls.
This batch uses Terria's blood. Plan is to slip the finished potion to that cocky Red Tower Lord and swap him with Terria. No one's tried this before, so only I—the top dog in alchemy—could pull it off. Took exactly three years of research. Come to think of it, she's been my slave for three years too. Skipped the one-year gift, but three years calls for something special. Lately, she'd been obedient, even picking up on cues without being told.
"Ugh... Ow... it hurts..."
Red blood beaded on her slender wrist. Better to slash deep once than pussyfoot around like that. Sighing at how long it'd take, I offered help.
"Need a hand? At that rate, it'll take forever."
"N-No, Master. I'll... ugh... hurry."
This was decent progress. When I first got her, I wondered what use she'd be. Golden hair cascading like waves, cobalt-blue eyes, a face dirtily pretty, and a perfect hourglass figure—big where it counts, tucked where it should. Looks aside, zilch utility.
But sex? Not my thing. Don't get it twisted—I'm not gay or into weird shit. Just other priorities. Magic research left no time for screwing around. Plenty of imperial mages wrecked their lives chasing tail, and while I pitied them, having them pity me back was bullshit. Abstinence? What's wrong with that?
Anyway, Terria's pride was sky-high, so breaking her took effort. Daughter of beastkin royalty, waited on hand and foot. Dropping from commander to commanded after twenty years? No wonder she struggled. Her family slaughtered too—made sense.
Early on, she resisted orders a lot. I'd bet no one else could've tamed her. Without my limb-regrowing magic as backup for punishment, or my status to torment a slave publicly, she'd still be rebelling and annoying me.
Drip, drip. Blood trickled down her wrist. Her bitten lip bled too from enduring the pain. At this snail's pace, even her lip blood might be worth harvesting. Blood donations pull 400 ml easy; 500's no biggie. I debated just hacking her arm open. Could use a needle, but why bother? Watching her pained face was petty fun.
I might sound psychopathic, but wanting to and not doing it are different. I can empathize—just choose not to. Human relations are a hassle when magic demands focus. So yeah, "crazy" fits.
While I mulled slicing her arm, the beaker filled with her blood's metallic tang. Faster than expected. Final stretch of potion-making now.
"Good job. Arm here."
"Hic... Yes..."
Blood still seeped from the deep gash. Tempting to pry it wider. I'd done that to a paper cut once—sharp sting brought weird pleasure. Everyone's tried it, right? For her 4-5 cm wound, peeking at the cross-section... but nah, it'd just prove colleagues right about the "mad mage." Potion not done; focus.
I cast heal magic on the gash, forcibly sealing it. Unlike holy magic's perfect restoration, heal leaves scars and pain—like surgery. But beastkin recover fast. Gone in a day.
Not generous enough for rest, though.
"Rough patch-up, so clean the table and floor. Smells like blood—air it out too."
"R-Right now, sir?"
"Yeah, now. Tired?"
"...No. On it."
She cleaned right-handed, sparing the left. Old her would've needed a beating. Letting her borrow the Red Tower Lord's body briefly? Nice gift for her compliance. Gifts are best unwrapped blind.
That's why I hid the purpose—soul-swapping via her blood. Also, she might've refused if told. Suppressing rebellion? Extra work.
As I brewed with her blood, she snuck glances, mop job sloppy from curiosity. I ignored hers to sate mine.
"Terria. Alchemy conference schedule this year?"
"...Uh, I don't... really know."
"Sigh..."
My heavy sigh made her flinch. Obedient didn't mean smart. Sad she's sharp for a beastkin.
"Can't memorize that? I stressed it was key."
"...Sorry, Master."
"Sorry fixes it? You'd forget your parents' death day too? I remember vivid—them screaming under my lightning."
She bit her lip at my mockery.
"I'll... memorize it again..."
"Spoil you, and you slack off. Classic for your kind."
"..."
Her blue eyes reddened with bulging veins. Rage flickered. She was fighting the urge to smash my face with that bloody mop—hundreds of times over, probably. Watching her emotions? My little game. Three years enslaved, yet expressive—life's small joy.
Had she memorized, no need to desecrate the dead. Ignorance of the conference—my specialty—is punishable. Crucial event.
I must arrive early day one. To dose that smug Red Tower Lord with the body swap potion.
Three years' reward? Worth it.
One winter day in January, blissfully clueless of what awaited, I smirked finishing the work. Felt like a fun year ahead.
As usual, Terria tidied. Snow fell outside, blanketing the world white.
My last snow viewed from my body.