The Vitality Potion Ruse
Ian, having decided on his plan, sprang into immediate action. He'd noticed the mercenaries' suspiciously enthusiastic reaction to his 'potion'. This was just par for the course in this era—drugs, let alone magic potions, were incredibly rare, treated like edible gold. To reiterate, this medieval world was basically post-apocalyptic. Raiding a pharmacy in a post-apocalypse? That'd be like throwing a tantrum because you wanna die young. Medicine was useful and precious. That's why people went nuts for it...!
"Lucy. Ask the count for some salt."
"Salt?"
Lucy tilted her head at Ian's request but did as told anyway. He's a mage, so he must have something in mind, right? With the count's help, she gathered a hefty amount. Salt was pricey as food goes, but essential, so plenty of folks carried it around.
Once the salt was collected, Ian hauled out a massive cauldron, tossed in his spoon, and started boiling away. The mercenaries quickly took notice of the mage's antics.
"Looks like the mage is brewing another potion."
"Yeah, but he'll just hog it for himself anyway."
Up until now, the mercenaries had assumed Ian kept his potions all to himself. They grumbled inwardly but never complained out loud—no mercenary was crazy enough to rage at a guy using his own brews.
"O Fire! Blaze up!"
⟨ Flame Burst ⟩
Whoosh! The fire under the cauldron suddenly surged without warning, and the mercenaries half-lost their minds, screaming in shock.
"Ooooh!"
"R-real magic!"
The mercenaries knew Ian had a raven and made potions, but they had no idea he controlled flames too. Watching his expert potion-brewing, they showered him with awe. Brewing with magical fire! As expected of a mage!
"What's that noise outside?"
"The mage is making potions!"
"Again? Will the noble sell 'em this time too?"
Before long, over a hundred mercenaries had gathered around Ian. He'd gone all-out on the performance, so naturally, more spectators piled in than usual.
"Hmm..."
Pretending to chant a spell, Ian bellowed in rapid, booming Korean:
"Donghae mul gwa Baekdu san i margo naltorok!"
"Oooooh!"
"The mage's incantation!"
"I don't understand a word!"
The mercenaries fell under his spell, mesmerized by the performance. With all eyes on him, Ian dumped the gathered salt into the cauldron and let it bubble away. Just three ingredients went in: water, spoon, and salt. Contrary to the mercenaries' faith, no magic flowed from the spoon—it was just boiled saltwater.
"Whew."
But Ian acted like he was infusing otherworldly power into plain saltwater, pulling off a masterful sleight of mind. In other words... he'd made fake magic potion.
Who knew I'd end up a real quack doctor.
Back in the old days, when the whole world was shrouded in ignorance. 'Quack doctors'—snake-oil peddlers—would roll into town with troupes of performers and circuses to draw crowds, then spin tales of how their miracle cure-all was the rarest treasure on earth, hawking fake remedies for a fortune. Gullible folks bought into it, thinking it was the real deal, and stashed it away like a sacred relic... until a loved one fell gravely ill. Then they'd administer it with utmost confidence! Here, drink up! The quack said this cures everything! They'd wait for the miracle, but of course, nothing happened. Realizing too late they'd been duped, the furious victims would hunt down the peddler and grab him by the collar: 'You conning bastard! Selling fake medicine like this?!'
And that's how 'quack' became synonymous with fraud, and 'medicine' came to mean something that looks legit but is worthless trash.
EX) A: Jungle Teemo is total BS, right? B: Where'd you get that quack crap, you snake-oil peddler!
But Ian needed to peddle something right now. If hawking potions could lift the troops' sagging spirits, why not?
"You there. Step forward."
"M-me...? You mean me, sir?"
Ian singled out the nearest mercenary. The poor guy shuffled up, equal parts excited and terrified.
"Lately, your sleep's been rough, mood all gloomy, right?"
"W-well..."
"Food tastes like ash, and dark thoughts keep creeping in?"
The mercenary jumped, nodding vigorously.
"Y-yes, exactly! But how did you...?"
Right on cue, Oberon let out a shriek.
"Caw! Caw!"
"Eek!"
Ian shrugged nonchalantly.
"Reading the heavens' motions, I sensed foul energies settling over the camp."
"No way...!"
Pure BS, of course. Heavens' motions? Leave that to sky-worshipping cultists. Ian was just spinning plausible yarn tailored to the moment. No pillaging, just marching—bound to sour moods. Impending battle? Obvious appetite loss from death-fear. Primitive big data, human ChatGPT-style. Simple pattern-matching anyone could grasp, but these were medieval fantasy rubes. They didn't know ChatGPT from Akinator.
Restorative elixir
"Take this potion with you."
"This is...?"
"[Vitality Potion], it is."
"W-what was that?"
"It brings vitality, as I said."
Ian smiled.
"You all seem plagued by foul energies, so I made it specially. Use it wisely."
"Mage...!"
The mercenaries' faces lit with awe. No wonder he'd boiled that spoon for firewood—it was all part of a grand plan to share potions! As expected!
"Thank you! Thank you, Mage!"
They eagerly filled leather waterskins with Ian's 'magic potion'. Curious ones pressed closer.
"So, uh, what's it for...?"
"Use when you need a boost. Exhausted from summer sweat? Drink. Bleeding wound? Apply. Keeps rot at bay."
"Ooooh!"
Calling saltwater magic potion was a lie. But the 'effects' Ian touted? Real deal. Simple reason: it was saltwater.
Dizzy from sweat? Hydration and electrolytes.
Wound? Disinfectant.
Not miracle-level, but in this post-apoc medieval fantasy with its joke medical tech, saltwater was prime first aid. Throw in placebo from 'magic', and boom.
Ian bellowed to the mercenaries scooping it up:
"Warriors, hear me! The count knows your hardships! He understands the frustration of no spoils, but his mercy won't let Talian's people suffer!"
The mercenaries paused, eyes on him.
"Thus he ordered me to brew this for you! Forget regrets—steel for battle! Victory means generous rewards from his grace!"
"Waaaaah!"
Cheering erupted. No looting sucked, but free magic potion? Morale soared.
"Long live Count!"
"Long live Mage Ian!"
Troop spirits lifted, but Ian's work wasn't done. He led a few mercenaries house-to-house, spreading ominous rumors.
"Caw! Caw!"
"What the hell's that crazy raven screeching... Eek!"
Spotting the staff-leaning, raven-perched figure, simple farmers panicked on sight. Normal folk meeting a mage? Instant reality shock. Straight out of ancient tales—Mage Reality Shock. Huh? A mage? Why here?!
"M-Mage...?"
"Ahem! This is Ian Eredis Raven, disciple of the great mage Eredis!"
"Oh, mercy! I'm just an ignorant fool who didn't recognize your fame... Death to me!"
The farmer was the sane one. Who'd recognize Ian? No fame to speak of. Spotting him would make you a chronomancer.
"Mage, sir. Shall I teach this impudent fool a lesson?"
"Hold."
"Yes, sir!"
Potion recipients had become Ian's die-hard fans. Spooky looks aside, he was kind, rational—a normal guy.
Ian intoned darkly to the farmer:
"I came to warn of impending calamity."
"C-calamity?"
"Aye. Evil auras blanket the land—barley won't ripen, wheat will rot at the roots."
"...!"
The farmer recoiled. For him, farming was life. Crops fail? Prophecy of doom.
"Wh-why?"
Ian gazed skyward like a sage, then gravely:
"The founding Talian baron's wrathful spirit, robbed unjustly."
"...Pardon? The count's angry?"
Ian kindly explained how usurper Graim was scum, Lucy the rightful heir—in farmer terms. The illiterate bumpkin didn't fully get the noble intrigue. But one thing stuck: that wandering merc thief could ruin this year's harvest!
"Fear not overmuch. If Lucy claims the title and honors ancestors, the spirit calms."
"Ah, so..."
"War comes soon. If usurper wins, flee this land."
"..."
"My warning ends here."
Caw! Caw!
Oberon cried; the farmer trembled in terror. Truth or lie? No way for a peasant to know. But dread took root.
Ian grinned, returning to camp.
Over the next few days, Ian acted the mage part—running his mouth nonstop. Peddling fake potions to mercs, black propaganda to farmers... No way to verify? Medieval fantasy suckers bought it hook, line, and sinker. A mage pulling magic and lies? Irresistible.
"Mage! Sleep well?"
"Yeah. You lot?"
"Thanks to you driving off bad vibes—slept like babies!"
Terror of Ian turned to fandom.
"Ian! Check it—villagers brought food!"
"Food? Who'd you threaten?"
"No! They wanted to!"
Lucy beamed.
"They say I'm the real Talian baron!"
"Yeah. Nice."
"Heehee. See? Even these dirt-diggers know I'm legit! So opening ancestors' tombs is fiiiine, right...?"
"..."
Ian's rumors worked—locals distrusted Graim, rooted for Lucy's victory to dodge the curse. Thanks to his yap, the count's army marched on Graim's stronghold with high morale. Lucy happy, count happy. Ian... content.
But malcontents grumbled louder.
"That mage... getting too big for his britches, no?"
The count's knights.