Practical Magic Materials Lab: Week 1 Class (Part 1)
Friday afternoon marked the first session of the "Magical Materials Utilization Practice" class. I planned to breeze through the purpose of the course and dive right in. Fortunately, most of the students taking the practical had also signed up for the theory lectures. Only two hadn't. Stella Rackton was one of those taking both, of course. She sat near my desk, beaming from ear to ear just like always.
"Hello, everyone. I'm Roger Atwill from the Applied Magic Research Lab. I'll be handling your Magical Materials Utilization Practice class this semester. Looking forward to a great term."
After the greeting, I introduced the TA and continued. Unlike in the theory class, Arienael didn't step aside after her introduction. She stayed right by my side.
"Most of you are probably also in the 'Magical Materials Utilization' theory course, but since there are a few taking only this one, let me explain. Mages have to be able to handle any situation with limited resources and knowledge. Keep in mind that not just resources, but knowledge itself is inherently limited. That's why mages need to internalize a wide range of knowledge. Internalize it—not just read it in books and memorize it in your head, but experience it firsthand. That's far more valuable."
It wasn't exactly the kind of thing you'd expect from someone like me, who'd earned a PhD in theoretical research, but the students seemed to buy it. At least my words during class were consistent.
"You can see where I'm going with this. That's the whole point of taking this class. Some experiments will wrap up easily, just like you'd expect. Others will be so tricky and convoluted that you'll fail. In this course, both the successful processes and the failures matter. You'll learn from fixing your mistakes, and even from banging your head against a wall without figuring it out. Unexpected flukes, rotten luck, accidental wins—they all have value."
I pulled out a stack of papers. Arienael, my dutiful TA, handed one out to each student.
"The first experiment you'll try today is 'antidote production.' Specifically, a basic-grade antidote. But don't think of it as just churning out cheap potions. See it as a chance to learn potion-making in general, and to solve problems under given constraints. You can't memorize the recipes for thousands of potions. So you'll have to expand and apply what you've learned."
I checked that everyone was paying attention. Everyone except Stella Rackton, who was grinning to herself. The rest looked dead serious.
"Alright, let's get into the explanation. First, a quick overview of what we're making today: an antidote, as I mentioned. A medicine that cures poison, plain and simple."
Antidotes were one of the essentials for any adventurer party, right up there with stamina potions. Some households even kept them on hand.
"Truth be told, calling it an 'antidote' is a bit misleading. There are all sorts of poisons, and just as many ways to counter them. The name makes it sound like it works on everything, but it absolutely doesn't. Chemical poisons, biological toxins, magical venoms—they're all different. And even within those categories, treatments aren't the same across the board. It's all artificial classification anyway."
It was obvious, but the kind of thing people overlooked unless they really thought about it. Most adventurers just bought one type and called it a day.
"That said, your standard 'supply-grade antidote' targets the poisons you're most likely to run into from common foes—especially against low-level groups without mages. Scorpions, vipers, slimes. These three don't have much in common. If I had to pick something, maybe that they show up a lot in dungeons? Their habitats differ, and so do their poison properties. Slimes produce magical venom, while scorpions and vipers are biological. And even among biologicals, scorpion sting and viper bite are totally different."
This antidote was popular because it covered all three. It wasn't as effective as specialized ones for each, but carrying three separate vials was expensive and a hassle. Newbie adventurers preferred the all-in-one option.
"So, the key properties this antidote needs can be summed up like this: it must neutralize scorpion venom, viper toxin, and slime mucus. At the same time, it shouldn't have harmful side effects even without any of those poisons present. The line between medicine and poison isn't clear-cut. Things we call poisons can be medicines in the right doses. And vice versa—something medicinal in one context can be deadly in another. The person drinking this will be poisoned by one of those three, so even minor side effects could be fatal."
This was the stuff they didn't cover in academy basics or lower-year classes. Those were more about theory than real-world application. Now I was telling them: you know the theory, time to apply it for real.
"Overdosing is a no-go. If you load it with enough thornweed for a viper bite, someone stung by a scorpion might pass out. For a slime victim, it could worsen rashes."
Students hadn't heard of guild-bought antidotes causing blackouts because commercial ones included neutralizers and extra steps. These cheap ones were more for emergency stabilization until proper treatment—not full cures. People didn't chug them; they'd dab a bit on the wound and sip sparingly.
"This recipe is based on the adventurer guild's product, but it's not identical. So I won't demand perfect replication. We're making this to learn, not to sell."
The handout I gave out at the start of class had the recipe, materials, procedures, objectives, and a summary of background knowledge—mostly basic stuff from academy or early years. But one crucial thing was missing from the procedures: quantities for each ingredient. We'd handed out scales and measuring tools, but no amounts specified. Totally intentional.
"Don't just focus on following steps blindly. Think about the right ingredients and the proper ratios. I mentioned scorpions, vipers, and slimes, but the world's full of poisons. You might only know this recipe when facing something totally different. You could have to improvise from it. Make something useful, even if it's not perfect. Obviously, you won't know exact recipes or doses for every potion."
Some students had hoped for dosage details, but my explanation killed that. I was making ratios the key to evaluation.
"I'm not expecting flawless technique."
(Arienael shot me a slight glare at that point, for the record.)
"What I want is the ability to draw on your knowledge, propose solutions that fit the goal, and reach conclusions. I'll grade the process over the result. So when you submit, explain what you made and why."
The students looked uneasy. I'd been decently nice in theory class, but rumors painted me as picky, not lenient. They'd rather be judged on results alone. What if a bad explanation tanked their score?
"Of course, a perfect product won't get dinged for a lousy explanation. Though anyone without the knowledge to explain probably couldn't make it perfect anyway."
Alchemy majors, with their lab experience, relaxed a bit. But the ones who'd just mechanically followed recipes before felt lost.
"The grading won't be too harsh. Divide your antidote into three vials and we'll add one drop of poison to each. The poisons are heavily diluted, so it shouldn't be too tough. Each drop approximates the toxin from a single scorpion sting, viper bite, or slime contact. If it can't neutralize even one dose after using a whole vial, it's not an antidote."
True to my word, the poison vials were clear as water. Even the slime venom was nearly colorless.
"Neutralize all three for full marks. Fail one, lose points. But if the toxicity test paper changes color when dipped, it's an automatic fail—regardless of efficacy."
That showed what I valued most: not ignoring the core objective.
"Class is three hours. Prepping and mixing takes time, so if you dawdle, slow hands might only get one shot."
In experiments like this, one try versus two was worlds apart.
"That's why there's a catalyst in your materials—enough for one use. Most of you can get two attempts, three if you're quick. Need more? Help yourself. But extra tries mean point deductions, so weigh the risks."
Alchemy majors had an edge; they were lab pros and could squeeze in three tries. Magic majors had to decide: risk deductions for extras or settle for mediocre results?
I'd underestimated the difficulty. Arienael had nailed it first try without sorting herbs, but I didn't know she'd aced four undergrad years on scholarships. And this was a third-year class, not senior level. I'd graduated early, so it slipped my mind. First practical: difficulty tuning fail. The students were thrown into chaos.