How Much Longer...
“Ears...?”
“As you can see, we're half-elves. Our father was an elf, and our mother is human.”
In truth, Rebecca had already told me their identities the day before, but at her request, I was pretending not to know.
“My apologies. It's my first time meeting anyone besides humans, so I must have stared too openly.”
“No harm done. We're wearing hoods just in case the magic tower folks recognize us—please understand.”
That said, I must have stared too intently, because Tommy pulled his hood back down.
“It's fine. But what do you mean by entrusting your mother to me?”
“Well... Rebecca told us. That you, Minor, can make people look younger.”
The only info Rebecca had relayed the day before was that they were a different race. She hadn't mentioned anything about their mother.
“Close, but not quite. I can make someone look younger, but I can't actually turn back the clock on their age. Of course, proper treatment can slow down aging.”
“Yes! That's exactly it!”
“...?”
The eyes of half-elf Tommy and his twin sisters, Celly and Ellie, sparkled.
“We want you to stop our mother's aging!”
“I'd appreciate more details.”
“Our father was an elf. But he passed away early, and Mother raised us siblings on her own. Unlike us half-elves, she's fully human, so her aging has accelerated dramatically...”
“Hmm... It would have been ideal if your mother had come in person...”
“Ah! Hold on! Celly, don't you have Mom's picture?”
“No, Ellie has it.”
“Here!”
His twin sister Ellie rummaged in her bosom and pulled out a neatly folded photo for me to see.
The woman in the picture looked about fifty on the surface. But given how poorly most people in this world managed their appearance, she could easily pass for her forties.
“How old is your mother?”
“Forty-two this year.”
Forty-two...
Definitely wrinkled beyond her years, especially around the face.
As I examined the photo closely, Tommy let out a faint sigh and continued.
“You might know this, but elves don't age visibly until right before death. They keep their youthful faces almost to the end.”
No visible aging until the brink of death? Tempting as it was, I resisted the urge to demand a full exam.
“Half-elves like me, Celly, and Ellie are the same, though not to the same degree as purebloods. We can maintain twenties skin at least into our fifties. So seeing Mother age like that... it makes death feel real and terrifying.”
Aging was natural for humans. But that rule clearly didn't apply evenly to elves. Especially for these half-elves, watching the signs creep across their mother's face must have been heartbreaking—precisely because they were immune.
“That's why we've traveled everywhere with our earnings, meeting mages, priests, merchants, trying every method. But nothing has ever slowed her aging, not once.”
“You've come to the right place.”
“Th-then! Can you make Mother look younger—no, at least younger-looking?”
Of course. It was my specialty.
Even from the photo alone, I spotted Ulthera, Thermage, Sculptra, fat grafting, thread lifting—you name it. Her face was a treasure trove of opportunities, things I needed to fix.
“Absolutely. But... what you want is consistent youthfulness, right? That requires ongoing management and treatments.”
“I-is that so? Our home is about five hours from here, so Mother coming frequently...”
No need for that defeated look already. Distance wasn't the only issue.
“Distance is one thing, but the real problem is bigger. Ongoing care is essential for maximum results, and the costs add up quickly.”
“How much would the costs be...?”
I could practically hear the half-elf siblings gulping. Music to my ears.
“I can't quote exactly yet. I need to diagnose the patient in person first.”
I kept my tone matter-of-fact, but inwardly, these half-elves were more desperate than anyone. Right before finalizing my contract with witch Rebecca the day before, she'd dropped a bombshell.
> Low-grade stamina potions: 32
> Mid-grade stamina potions: 5
> Low-grade mana potions: 51
> Mid-grade mana potions: 7
“This is the unit price...?”
“Producing this much solo is impressive. Potion-making isn't easy.”
“Impressive, sure... But if this is three years' worth, that's only about 10 low-grade stamina potions and 17 low-grade mana potions per year?”
“Not quite. Brewing doesn't take long. The issue is sourcing materials.”
“Rare ingredients?”
“No, most are common plants—delphinium, pansy, myrtle, heather, rue, wormwood, petunia aside. Mix in precise ratios with incantations, but finding them consistently? That's the bottleneck. Though I know experts. Essential experts.”
Rebecca had mentioned elves lived in secluded forest enclaves, away from humans.
But a half-elf's mother is human.
Humans crave community, unlike elves. Alone in a forest home while her kids roamed for days? She must have been lonely.
I stroked my chin thoughtfully, then feigned a sudden epiphany.
“How about all three of you live here at our hospital with your mother?”
“Huh? Like, full-time?”
“We have comfortable accommodations for patients. State-of-the-art gym facilities too. No more loneliness for her.”
Plenty of staff nap rooms, plus the ninth-floor inpatient ward. In a dungeon world, the ultimate weapon wasn't gold—it was potions. Steady material supply meant comfort until the territory office debt was cleared.
“Shall we make the contract?”
* * *
“Is... is that treatment really possible? I only came because the kids insisted...”
“Of course, ma'am. No worries at all—just relax and leave it to us.”
Today was August 1st, Monday, by the Ailene calendar. A week after contracting with the half-elves.
They were moving into the Beauty Tower, and I was on the eleventh floor, consulting with their mother—the new queen bee to my worker bees.
“Since it's your first procedure, we'll take it slow and easy. Look in the mirror and tell me what you'd most like gone. And don't hold back thinking 'this might be impossible'—speak freely.”
“Hmm, alright then...”
Marlene, mother of the half-elf siblings, stared gravely into the mirror for a long while.
Her priority treatments were obvious.
But treatments pushed by others versus ones you choose yourself? Worlds apart.
Same outcome, different order—classic Jo Sam Mo Sa. I waited silently.
Finally, with a deep sigh, she spoke.
“I've... always been a worrier. Probably since my husband went gathering herbs and never came back, leaving me with young children after his accident.”
She paused, lost in memory, then continued. Melodramatic vibes, but I listened quietly. Marlene was a valuable queen bee.
“As time passed, my worries only grew. Especially watching the kids grow up and head out gathering like their father... Those days they'd vanish for nights on end, my chest would tighten with dread. And at some point, that anxiety started showing on my face.”
Sudden sob story threw me, but I nodded empathetically throughout.
“Year by year, when they'd return and see my face, they'd look sad. Even when I wasn't frowning. Like the deep marionette lines at my mouth.”
No need for more details—I felt her pain fully. Those nasolabial folds aged her by a decade at least.
“So, ma'am, you'd like the marionette lines by your mouth gone first?”
“Is that... possible?”
Her tense voice begged for reassurance. I smiled warmly.
“Absolutely. I'll make you look at least five—no, ten years younger. By end of today.”
She had no idea. Marionette line treatment was my specialty.
“Five? Ten years? Even one would be a dream.”
Thinking it flattery, she let out a girlish chuckle that pleased my ears.
“No exaggeration. And it's not just those lines—plenty more to fix. But just those will shave off ten years.”
Her bright smile faded as my resolute gaze met hers. Intrigued now. My micro-expression read: lingering doubt.
“Not just marionette lines—other wrinkles too?”
“Of course. Forehead, glabella, crow's feet, neck—all treatable.”
Marlene needed more than that. Early forties, minimal fine lines, but sagging jawline and double chin amplified it all.
Can't feed the tasty bait all at once. These bees need to stick with me forever.
Even if they paid upfront today, I'd do only the marionette lines.
Little by little, letting her feel the changes. Not just youth—addiction.
Each new treatment would soak her satisfaction like drizzle wetting clothes. Building trust in me, layer by layer.
Enslaving to beauty demands caution, slowness.
“Director? How does marionette line treatment work? Not... cutting with a knife, right?”
“...”
In our warm chat, amputation phobia reared again. Magic tower bastards had terrified so many—infuriating.
How much longer until... people stop harping on amputations?