Anesthetic (1)

Day by day, the number of active gallery users dwindled at a steady pace. Even after the marketplace opened, that grim reality had not changed. All the marketplace had done was turn a sheer demographic cliff into a slightly gentler downward slide. Survivors no longer succumbed to minor scratches, but when it came to severe trauma, there was still nothing anyone could do.

"In the first place, does it make any sense for a fantasy world to have no red potions?"

A recovery potion costing fifty copper or fifty won was practically an unwritten law of gaming. Why was this world the only one lacking such a staple? Yet that wasn't entirely true either. Recovery potions had existed here once. More specifically, witches were capable of brewing them.

The sole problem was that people had persecuted witches since antiquity. Exorbitant ingredient costs were an issue, of course, but the witches had never been afforded the time or safety to conduct proper alchemical research. Consequently, potion-making fell into steep decline, and the legendary recovery ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠potion faded into myth.

In short, it was a self-inflicted catastrophe. As a result, all that remained of the recovery potion were vague folklore tales claiming someone had once brewed it, alongside an absurd recipe requiring ten kilograms of black pepper and ten kilograms of salt just to test a single batch.

"Marketplace, is that you carrying again?"

Whatever. All I had to do was buy it. Witches were so impoverished that they couldn't even afford ordinary potion ingredients, let alone experimental recovery elixirs. Naturally, I didn't expect Morone to succeed on her very first try. So I sent her a cool hundred kilograms in one go.

Before long, a frantic reply popped up from the witch.

The average monthly wage of common folk didn't exceed a thousand points. For witches trying to blend into human settlements, typical earnings were inevitably far worse, though Morone had been an exceptional case who utilized her specialty well to adapt. Even so, a hundred kilograms of black pepper was an amount that flew completely beyond her wildest dreams.

Witch stocks were about to skyrocket. This investment was guaranteed to go to Mars.

"In that case, I'd better be the first one in line."

Raising the survival rate of this other world while filling my pockets with Dango along the way—wasn't this truly killing two birds with one stone? Of course, before delving into recovery potion research, establishing a secure workspace took precedence. To stay hidden from roaming magical beasts, she required a Perception Obfuscation Potion, which called for a thousand insects, five hundred milliliters of oil, animal livers, intestines, lungs, and various offal.

If that was what she needed, shipping those ingredients was child's play. Animal liver, intestines, and lungs?

"Do they have any idea how much Koreans adore blood sausage?"

It was barely even an expense. A thousand insects and five hundred milliliters of cooking oil?

The prices were so cheap I didn't even have to look at my balance. Thanks to the gallery's recent level-ups, banning a handful of disruptive trolls yielded more than enough points to cover it all. Storage was another massive perk: she didn't have to hunt wild beasts by hand or worry about the meat rotting in the heat, because marketplace parcels arrived vacuum-sealed.

Better yet, making purchases refunded one and a half times the cost. I didn't even have to pay taxes on this stuff!

"Now all that's left is to sit back and wait."

On top of everything, she had the burning passion of a dedicated researcher. Now all she needed was uninterrupted time to immerse herself in her craft. In the meantime, I had a task of my own to attend to.

"Time to move up in the world, maybe?"

The moment had come to treat myself to a Premium Bunker.

"This feels just like a dream..."

Morone stared in awe, her eyes trembling without pause. She felt so overwhelmingly blessed that the creeping dread of waking up from a mirage began to gnaw at her heart.

Crates and supplies materialized out of thin air. That miracle alone was enough to leave her jaw hanging, but what followed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was even more staggering.

"J-Just how did he fashion such exquisite tools?"

To anyone from Earth, they were mundane apparatuses scattered across any elementary school science lab. To Morone, however, they appeared as the miraculous culmination of some impossibly advanced, unfathomable civilization.

Smack!

"Ouch!"

Slapping her cheeks with both hands stung fiercely. Deep down, she had known the truth before striking herself: the sheer impossibility of what surrounded her went far beyond anything her humble imagination could conjure in a dream.

"...I never expected him to send daily necessities as well."

She owed the Head Moderator her life. He had even preserved her ancestral cottage—a place she had been forced to abandon to survive, filled with centuries of treasured memories. She had felt shameless just secretly wishing for a bite to eat, yet he had provided her with a mountain of provisions without a second thought.

"...The Republic of Korea?"

Whatever that place was, Morone had no inkling. But for the first time in hundreds of years since her mother passed away, a genuine, comforting warmth embraced her soul. Now, her humble hut was thoroughly filled with the traces of the Head Moderator's generosity.

"I will repay him. Without fail."

Every witch lived holding fast to an ideal. While the vast majority had seen their spirits shattered after the Great War—succumbing to corruption or giving up entirely—Morone was determined not to be one of them. She tilted her head back toward the night sky carpeted with glistening stars, picturing the boundless cosmos beyond, and clenched her fist tight.

"Someday... I'll reach him, won't I?"

Imagining a distant future where she might stand before the Head Moderator, the lights in Morone's cottage burned brightly through the dark.

Time slipped away in steady increments.

An hour.

Half a day.

A day, then a week.

"I did it... I finally succeeded!"

After devoting nearly an entire month to research under the Head Moderator's boundless sponsorship, Morone had achieved the impossible. Deep dark circles hung beneath her weary eyes, but the glass flask clutched in her trembling fingers sloshed with a vibrant, crimson liquid.

A recovery potion.

The legendary, ultimate draught of witch lore had been born anew.

The past month had been relatively tranquil across the gallery. A standard quota of people died, while customary homicides and monster raids dotted the daily routine. But that stagnant rhythm was about to shift.

"How the hell did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she actually make this?"

It was nothing short of legendary. I had expected the process to take far longer, yet she had produced tangible results in just a few weeks.

She looked half-dead from exhaustion. Making a mental note to wire her a fat performance bonus soon, I turned my attention back to the vial.

"It can even reattach cleanly severed limbs?"

Though it came with the caveat that the cut had to be clean, the sheer specifications were absurd. When alchemists this broken were walking the earth, why on earth had people been pouring milk over infected wounds all this time?

"Now I just need to test its efficacy..."

As an ardent devotee of absolute safety huddled deep inside my subterranean bunker, I faced neither danger nor the risk of sustaining so much as a paper cut. Penny had also settled into a domestic couch potato routine, meaning she was equally safe from harm. But finding willing volunteers for a clinical trial was as easy as refreshing the forum feed.

As luck would have it, an injured knight had just posted about his amputated arm. Very little time had elapsed, and since he had severed it himself with a sword, the stump was remarkably clean. He met every requirement perfectly.

"Allow me to demonstrate what true recovery looks like."

Without hesitation, I dropped a reply into the thread.

I promptly dispatched the vial of potion to the knight. Five minutes drifted past in silence.

"Why isn't he replying?"

Not a single word came back.

I called out to him, but the thread remained dead silent. Just as a nagging suspicion crossed my mind that he might have taken the potion and bolted, a sudden detail flashed in my memory. I pulled up the product documentation and reread the fine print. Sure enough, scrawled along the very bottom was a pair of explicit warnings:

Hand in hand with miraculous healing, the recovery potion delivered sheer, unadulterated torment.