Chapter 68: Is That... a Cat?
“You said you came to invite me to join, but looking at what's written here, I have zero interest in joining your Potion Co-op.”
The scroll handed over by Gregory Balio, chairman of the Potion Co-op, was a joke. Not only did it propose price-fixing for potions, but it also planned to limit daily sales volumes under the co-op's name.
“And a monthly membership fee of 2 gold? Are you kidding me right now?”
“Kidding? I'm a businessman, Baron. Time is money—I wouldn't waste it on jokes by coming all the way to see you.”
I shot him a sharper glare, but Gregory just leaned back, folding his hands over his ample belly in a picture of smug relaxation.
“Our co-op's 2-gold fee goes toward a development fund to help fellow members in the same trade. We support the lowest earner each month, and the rest funds meetings on how to sell more products better—consulting experts and such.”
Leaning into his chair, his chins multiplied like stacked dough as he continued.
“So, are those monthly fees transparently disclosed?”
“Haha, Baron. I've been in business in this region for 17 years. You don't survive without trust.”
“Are they disclosed or not? The fee usage details.”
“It's a matter of trust. Sorting and publishing every detail would require staff just for that—unnecessary costs. It'd be putting the cart before the horse.”
Even a college student council president embezzling fees after graduation would spout more convincing bullshit than this. No need to hear more—this was pure nonsense.
“Thanks for the proposal, but I'll pass. No interest in joining your Potion Co-op.”
“Think it over carefully, Baron. In the entire Frederik Dungeon Zone, including magic towers, yours is the only potion seller not in the co-op.”
Did you eat something bad for dinner? Comparing a shop peddling subcontracted potions due to lack of tech to a full hospital? The nerve.
“Among metals, the clearest ring stands out brightest. The Beauty Tower will be fine without your co-op—don't worry.”
“Tall poppies get cut first, as they say. Join us, and you'll get diverse info plus group brainstorming on new ventures.”
“I already said no.”
After repeated refusals, the smile vanished from Gregory's face.
“If you're that set on it, Baron, so be it. But without joining, protection won't come easy.”
“We're done here. Walter, see the guest out.”
Under Walter's guidance, Gregory left the Beauty Tower. I wasn't about to cower before some local double-chinned bully throwing his weight around.
It was Tuesday, January 31st—two weeks since Gregory Balio's visit.
During lunch break, I savored Ravi's hand-drip coffee at the first-floor cafe, enjoying a peaceful respite. Images flickered in my mind: customers browsing aesthetic samples on the side display racks, and the tenth-floor consultation and reception center packed with patients dreaming of beauty. A smile tugged at my lips.
See? I knew it was all bluff.
Contrary to Cache's worries, even on the last day of the new year 562 by the Ailene calendar, neither the Potion Co-op nor their magic tower backers had made a move.
“Director! Letter from Kellogg.”
“Thanks, Cache.”
I'd been growing anxious—Kellogg was supposed to return this month, yet here it was almost over with no sign or word.
“Hm...”
A faint groan escaped as I unrolled the scroll Cache handed me.
“What does it say, Director? Why hasn't he come back?”
“He's asking for a few more months. Something to wrap up in Breath of Fire.”
“Good thing we have plenty of disposable medical supplies in stock... What happened?”
“Says he's sorry he can't explain in detail, but he'll extend our contract by however much he's delayed.”
As Cache said, our stockpile of Kellogg's disposables was ample for now. Still, it nagged at me.
Do I need to hit the dungeon again...?
We had buffer stock from Kellogg, sure. But tools like my laser machines weren't all-purpose miracles. Fine today didn't mean tomorrow—if one broke, no repairs. Only one option left.
Stock up as much as possible in Drubre. Hate it, but...
My first dungeon run had been tougher than expected against those hardy monsters. Who knew what crises awaited? Prioritizing subspace storage for medical gear was key. That way, even if Kellogg delayed like this, we'd manage.
After that inaugural dungeon trip last month, I'd pondered deeply. Weight training in the staff lounge gym and seventh-floor rehab center meant I'd shine more next time.
Time to take Walter and dive again soon. Heading to the eleventh floor, clinic hours resumed.
“Hazel, something up?”
“Felt like I should tell you before rounds start.”
The elevator doors opened on eleven, and Hazel—who handled patient intake and consults below—approached like she'd been waiting.
“What's going on? Another department surgery?”
“No, it's... I took photos and video. Better if you see for yourself.”
Hazel handed over her consultation tablet. Staring at the screen, I jolted in shock.
“What the hell is this? These are our customers... no, but I didn't do these.”
“They said they got them somewhere else.”
“Somewhere else? Who else does tattoos around here... Don't tell me, the Potion Co-op?”
Hazel nodded vigorously at my hunch.
“Ha, those crazy bastards. What the fuck do they think they're doing?”
The tablet showed skin ravaged by inflammation. But that wasn't the worst.
“No urgent waitlisters, right?”
“Mostly aesthetic treatments or tattoos.”
“Push one o'clock reservations back an hour each, give 'em soap samples. And the botched tattoo patients—three total?”
“Yes.”
“Send them up to my office now, all at once.”
“Got it, Director.”
Shortly after I entered my office, the victims arrived under Hazel's guidance.
“Hank, Tiffany, James.”
“Thanks, Hazel—you can go.”
With Hazel out, only Stella, I, and the three with mangled tattoos remained.
No explanations needed—their inflammation was severe.
“I'm Miner of the Beauty Tower. Heard you three got tattoos. Same place?”
“Yes, Baron... We wanted you originally, but your prices were too high...”
Hank spoke for the group. Hank, Tiffany, James—party adventurers who'd caught the tattoo craze sweeping Frederik Dungeon Zone last year. But as newbie adventurers, Beauty Tower fees were steep.
“One day, stopping at a potion shop before dungeoning, they offered tattoos.”
“Yeah, 5 silver with any potion purchase, regardless of size. One gold two silver for our trio. So we got our party's symbol: a tiger.”
“Does this look like a tiger to you, Baron? Where's our fierce party tiger—they drew a kitten!”
To prove their rage, they rolled up sleeves, revealing shoulder blades.
Is that... a cat?
No tiger, and barely a cat—just some freakish blob clinging to their scapulae.
Hand-poked, maybe?
Tattoos done by hand without machines are called hand-poked or stick-and-poke. Literally poking with needles by hand—like Japan's tebori masters using bamboo or metal rods, or the Philippines' batok hammering awls on bamboo. Methods vary.
Modern ones use fan-like hand-poke tools, but these three's issue wasn't the method.
“You seem unhappy with the designs, but that's not the problem. Your skin's badly inflamed right now.”
“Huh? Inflammation? You mean the oozing and itching?”
Hank scratched the unhealed site with bare fingers.
“Stop! Don't scratch. Inflammation means dirty germs invading, causing redness, swelling, heat, pain.”
“Wha? No one told us... Just said it'd heal in a month...”
“We came to fix these ruined tattoos prettier...”
Tattoos inject large pigment particles—hard for macrophages to clear—into wounded skin, lodging in the dermis. Major side effects: allergies like itching/rash, or infections via needles/inks.
“Your wound infections are serious. Treatment first, all three.”
Potion Co-op chairman. They'd crossed the line—hard.