Chapter 261
Chapter 261
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 261
Chapter Title: Hatsan Goes to the Auction House #8
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“Number 15, Ilgastr Mestrode the herbalist. You may enter.”
One by one, as their names were called, the alchemists disappeared into one of the rooms.
A minute later, they emerged with puzzled expressions, uncertain looks, or faces lit up with sudden realization, and began brewing potions with the equipment.
The butler from the count’s family, Jin, addressed them.
“Potions need to be completed before tonight.”
Someone piped up at his words.
“Potions aren’t something you whip up that quickly. Depending on the situation, they might take a week to stew, and elixirs sometimes require a lifetime of dedication. Finishing by tonight?!”
“Exactly! This is as good as the count admitting he has no intention of saving his daughter! Give us a little more time!”
Grumbles erupted from all around.
They had all entered the mansion brimming with confidence, but after vanishing behind those firmly shut doors and returning, they paced anxiously, their self-assurance shattered.
It was clear they had realized the young lady’s condition was far from ordinary after examining her, and their chances of success were slim.
As the complaints bubbled up, Butler Jin spoke.
“The healers who failed and left said the same things. Give us more time, we need longer to assess the illness. We’ve already given you a month. No one has cured the young lady. Time isn’t the issue. In fact, the longer it drags on, the worse her condition will get.”
No one opened their mouth at Jin’s lengthy explanation. They just pursed their lips in dissatisfaction. Then the butler added a few more words.
“To you, it might be time waiting for the potion to brew, but to someone else, it’s time watching their daughter die. The compensation promised to you is payment for shortening that time.”
In my own words, it boiled down to: just shut up and work hard.
That was probably exactly what he meant.
I glanced at Luna with considerable unease.
While the others had seen the young lady and then started working, Luna had already lit a fire in her assigned furnace and set a massive pot on it—one big enough to fit a person without raising eyebrows—boiling water.
“A handful of madcap mushrooms. Scorpion tail stinger. Oh, one onyx bead. And... hmm, what else? Two dried centipedes. Tiger hornet. Lizard tail. Ah, maybe I shouldn’t have added the lizard tail. Oh well, hee hee.”
She began dumping in the bizarre ingredients she’d brought stuffed in her bag, without a second thought.
I asked her.
“Luna, you haven’t even seen her condition yet. Is it okay to start making it like this?”
Normally, medicine came after diagnosis or pulse-taking, right? Like prescribing cold medicine for a cold or antibiotics for inflammation—using the right remedy for the right illness was key.
Even herbal tonics had systems: for someone with excess body heat, they wouldn’t recommend certain roots.
But here was Luna tossing things in without checking the patient, already turning the pot a dark crimson. It was making me anxious just watching.
And the ingredients—scorpion stingers, hornets, madcap mushrooms, centipedes—all vicious stuff. No wonder my eyes were twitching.
Of course, among the people I knew, Luna was exceptional at brewing potions and elixirs.
I trusted her completely, but this time, it wasn’t for a tongue-wagging Samaritan like me—it was for a precious young noble lady.
If she fed her some toxin-laden brew and worsened her condition, Luna and I could end up skewered on pikes and hung outside.
I subtly probed if her work was going well.
“Luna, is there anything I can help with?”
“Not yet, Hatsan. It’s not time for you to lift a finger. Wait a bit!”
“Okay, but like I asked earlier, is it really fine to start brewing already?”
“The Vitality Pearl I’m making is the ultimate elixir that works for anyone! No need to see the patient!”
The ultimate elixir that works for anyone.
It sounded like something only a snake oil peddler would say. Back in my Calcutta days, I’d heard quack potion sellers hawking snake oil with lines just like that.
Universal cure-all snake oil.
That’s why “snake oil” had become synonymous with fraudulent, superstitious junk in this world too. And what Luna was brewing felt no different.
“Next, number 20. Number 20, Luna Noxdoty.”
Then Luna’s name was called.
“Ah, I’m in the middle of adding ingredients! Hatsan, go in my place!”
“Me?”
“I can’t diagnose illnesses anyway. You’re good at that stuff.”
“Well, true...”
Her name was called, but was it okay for me to go instead? It wouldn’t violate any laws or rules, right? With that in mind, I slowly made my way over.
A man guarding the door—footman or clerk, I couldn’t tell—blocked me.
“You’re Luna Noxdoty? The list says a petite pink-haired woman.”
“No, I’m Hatsan the Samaritan.”
“I see. Hatsan, pleased to meet you. But why are you here?”
“I’ve come in her place to diagnose Lady Enya’s condition.”
“Ah, dividing tasks between you two? Fine. Wait here while I check inside. Hatsan of the Samarians... Hatsan of the Samarians...”
Luckily, it seemed there were others working in groups like Luna and me. He muttered my name as if committing it to memory, then turned back to me just before entering the door.
“Hatsan of the Samarians... from that war?”
“Probably.”
“Wow, you’re the savior of the young lady’s life. Never thought I’d run into you here like this. Anyway, got it. Wait a moment.”
He went inside and conferred in hushed tones.
As I waited impatiently, he soon emerged.
“Hatsan of the Samarians, go in. Don’t do anything discourteous to the young lady.”
I nodded politely to him and slowly stepped into the room. The door shut with a thud behind me.
The first thing that hit me was the smell.
A faintly acrid incense, pleasant enough—not unpleasant, more like the air in a temple.
Next, my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, despite the bright daylight outside. Black-clad maids dotted the space.
In their midst sat a woman on what looked like a wheelchair, a blanket draped over her lower body.
Wavy, pumpkin-hued blonde hair cascaded down, veiled in black. But her exposed shoulders were clad in a passionately red dress.
That must be Enya.
I’d only seen her in armor before, so this was a different vibe.
“Samaritan, it’s been a while since the war.”
“You remember me?”
“I remember everyone I’ve met. I remember Dorgo and Jack who were with you too.”
Her voice from beneath the veil was surprisingly calm. I hadn’t expected a highborn noble to remember me, so it stirred a strange sense of emotion.
I’d thought the Stormwind Tactics guy was some lunatic, but maybe the rumors of her sharp mind were true.
“I heard you’ve been up to some interesting things since. Ousting the thieves’ guild. Visiting the Abyss.”
“That’s right.”
“Meanwhile, I’ve been stuck here in this mansion, unable to take a single step. I envy you. I haven’t moved an inch since that day.”
“...”
Unsure how to respond, I stayed silent. Enya continued.
“Hatsan of the Samarians, do you resent me?”
“Resent? For what?”
“For dragging you and your fellow immigrants, you vagrants, into the war.”
Her words brought back the imperial decree that had rained down. Even now, recalling it made my heart sink.
As I hesitated, Enya spoke.
“Nobles’ daughters learn to read volumes from the slightest cues without words. The angle of a twitching eyebrow, sweat on the forehead, a moment’s pause. An awkward flicker. They weave together to reveal more than words.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry to you all. But it seemed like a golden opportunity to curb the expanding slums by the west gate and stamp out the growing cultists at the same time.”
“You knew we’d die and conscripted us anyway? Sounds like you meant to kill us.”
“Yes. Many did perish. Belen, Calrig, Togir, Bered, Narvo, Lop-ear, Georg, Aralga, Kukur—”
Enya rattled off a string of unfamiliar names. Maybe it was just my imagination, but she could probably go on like that all day.
She paused her litany and said.
“In newspapers or gossip, they’re lumped as ‘so many casualties.’ Your name might have been among them, Hatsan.”
“I see.”
“I hear the phantoms of these 354 names every day. They crush my legs, choke my throat. This is my punishment for sending so many to their deaths.”
She lightly brushed the blanket over her thighs. I’d entered lightly, but this was turning serious, sobering my mood.
Phantoms of those she drove to war—some kind of PTSD? I wasn’t sure.
Sensing my shift, Enya brightened considerably.
“I wasted your time with useless talk. Meeting a comrade from the battlefield’s mud got me sentimental. Forget what I just said.”
“Sure.”
“So, Samaritan. Got any skills to show me? Never pegged you, a fine warrior, for a healer or herbalist.”
“I can only mimic the basics. Could you let me check your wrist for a moment...?”
“My wrist? Does it hurt?”
“Just touching with a fingertip—no pain.”
“I see. Without you, I might’ve been just another name and number. Since we survived the front lines together, I’ll trust you.”
Perhaps sensing my sincerity, the count’s daughter, Enya, extended her left arm toward me.
Her left arm was bonier than I’d imagined, covered in bruise-like injection marks.
It screamed incurable illness. You could tell countless healers and drugs had been tried on her.
Afraid I might snap it if I gripped wrong, I cautiously placed my pinky on her wrist.
*Ding-.*
『Name: Enya von Sardich lv. 34
Status: Dry Eyes》 Mild Poisoning》 Moros’s Wound》』
Just as I thought.
Enya was level 34—pretty strong. But levels weren’t the point now; it was the status lines. Dry eyes, signs of mild poisoning. And most concerning: Moros’s Wound.
Moros, the ancient entity of death. The transcendent who’d bisected knights on the battlefield.
I recalled Enya’s fall from her horse was due to that Moros.
“Do you sense anything?”
At her question, I furrowed my brow.
This was a first. As I took her pulse and sent a bit of my energy into her body, it became clear.
Her body was only half alive, essentially.
Her lower half was completely dead. Her legs below the waist were like an attached stone she couldn’t remove.
Was this possible? My pulse-reading could be glitching, too. Touching directly might confirm faster.
“Could I see your legs or feet?”
“My... legs... feet!?”
Enya, who’d seemed resigned to life moments ago, cried out in shock.