Chapter 37: The Elf’s Poison

The sack let in little light, plunging everything into darkness.

Kritiya grew quiet, conserving her strength.

I listened closely to the outside world.

Darryl must’ve gotten a horse, hoisting Kritiya onto its back.

Romern’s city noise faded, replaced by hoofbeats crossing rivers and wilderness, heading somewhere outside the city.

Then I heard Darryl speak to Kritiya.

“I’ve checked—the Mercury Workshop’s chief master isn’t in town. He’s at a workshop camp near the Roen ruins. For now, we’ll find him—see if he has a solution.”

‘Some nerve, going to the Mercury Workshop…’

I thought.

Aren’t they hunting the scroll thief?

Rather than rely on some chief master, better trust me—I’m making progress on the scroll’s seal.

‘Kritiya, don’t push it. Just pass out already…’

But the more I thought it, the more Kritiya resisted, eyes glaring, staying awake, biting her tongue to let pain keep her sharp.

Soon, through the sack’s faint light shifts, I sensed night had fallen.

“My lady, behave, and I’ll pull the sack off for some air—deal?”

Darryl’s voice sounded like a request, but Kritiya was at her mercy.

The sack came off, revealing a starry night sky.

Kritiya blinked, spotting scattered campfires on a hillside ahead.

Gagged, she could only mumble.

Darryl hoisted her over her shoulder, heading toward the camp.

“Halt!”

A guard’s shout rang out, his gear marking him as Romern city guard.

I thought Darryl was walking into a trap, but she shouted back.

“I’m a guest of Master Raylir from the Mercury Workshop!”

Darryl tore off her disguise mask.

The guards, recognizing her, stepped aside.

I barely glimpsed the camp before Darryl rushed through, aiming straight for the far end, exiting to a lonely cliff.

There, under a large tent, a robed figure emerged.

“Master Raylir—look.”

Darryl spoke as the white-haired old man nodded.

“No need to explain—you were right. Come in, and this lady on your shoulder—she’s a victim too, yes?”

Raylir lifted the tent flap.

Darryl carried Kritiya inside.

The air hit me—thick with burning frankincense and myrrh.

Inside, a dozen makeshift cots held a few figures—some dazed, others thrashing, bound like Kritiya.

I realized why this tent was so isolated—a quarantine for the afflicted.

“As you said, we checked all apprentices who touched the scroll. They all showed abnormal symptoms—I apologize for my earlier rudeness,” Raylir said.

A lot’s happened, I thought, but Darryl’s somehow won over the Mercury Workshop.

“Any cure yet?”

Darryl accepted the apology, setting Kritiya on a cot like unloading cargo.

“It’s likely a volatile potion… complex components, hard to pinpoint. We suspect sedimentary graystone, ghost moss spores, and other toxins…” Raylir said.

“So, hallucination and mind-altering drugs?”

Darryl asked.

“Yes,” Raylir nodded.

“We’ve tried antidotes for single components. Effects are under observation—some relief so far…”

“But I touched the scroll—why am I fine?”

Darryl asked.

“Well… we can’t be sure you’re unaffected. It might be mild, unnoticed. Also, your elven blood—human and elven poisons don’t always work the same…”

“What about this lady?”

Raylir’s gaze shifted to Kritiya.

“Yeah, Master, any way to help her?”

Darryl said.

Raylir nodded, grabbing several glass vials of colorful, bubbling potions from a rack.

“Let’s try the usual method…”

Raylir approached Kritiya, potions in hand, so suspicious they seemed likely to burn her insides.

“Let’s free your mouth…”

He tugged at Kritiya’s gag.

“Mm—mm!”

No—wrong!

As the potions neared her lips, the evil god’s seed pulsed in my heart.

I didn’t know why, but this chief master was trouble—

‘Kritiya, don’t drink!’

My will synced with hers.

She clamped the gag tighter, refusing to let Raylir pull it free, her defiance resolute—

“Wait!”

Darryl’s hand shot out, blocking Raylir.

I exhaled in relief.

“Can I see those potions?”

“Of course,” Raylir said, hesitating but handing them over.

Darryl held the vials to the light, inspecting them, and asked, “Master, as the Mercury Workshop’s chief alchemist, you’re personally tending patients?”

“I always handle things myself, especially for something this serious. Why ask?”

“No assistants? Just you?”

Darryl swirled the vials, eyeing Raylir sideways.

“Heh, everyone’s busy—leaves my old bones to it…”

“Odd, a busy chief master like you, watching a few patients? Can’t the workshop hire doctors?”

“I enjoy these small tasks…”

Darryl’s face hardened with suspicion, ready to press further.

I saw Raylir spin, his blue-gold robe flashing as a dark shape shot out—

Clang!

Darryl, prepared, drew her heavy sword, parrying the attack.

In that instant, I saw it—a grotesque thorned tentacle from under his robe.

Just like Black Mage Ross’s attack that killed the old nun, the day it all began—

Could this chief master be Ross?

Kritiya, clearly recalling that day, paled.

“You’re not Raylir—who are you!”

Darryl shouted, slashing her sword, pinning the tentacle to the ground.

Raylir recoiled, the writhing tentacle snapping like a lizard’s tail.

“Not Raylir? If not me, who else?”

The old man roared, four or five more tentacles sprouting from his robe.

Darryl made a disgusted “tch” sound.

Raylir panted, his tentacles waving like spider claws, all blocked by Darryl’s sword.

Kritiya, shielded behind her, was safe, but the other workshop patients weren’t—tentacles flung them meters away, blood spraying, their fates unclear.

Darryl didn’t just defend.

Her black sword spun airtight, seizing a gap to charge.

Raylir tried to block, but took several cuts, bleeding heavily, retreating.

Despite his disadvantage, Raylir’s face showed a confident smirk, stirring unease in me.

“Wanderer of the Pale Forest—your reputation’s earned. These tentacles are my hidden trump card, but don’t forget, I’m an alchemist…”

“Imposter… what’s that nonsense?”

Darryl held her sword forward, then her face changed.

“About time, isn’t it?”

Raylir grinned darkly.

“I told you—human and elven poisons differ. Feeling numb yet?”

Darryl’s grim expression confirmed it—poisoned… when?

I realized—the heavy incense in the air.

“Heh—try me.”

Darryl, breathing lightly, faced the smug black mage, gripping her sword with both hands.

A resonant clang, like a bell, echoed—the sword’s cry.

The half-elf warrior parted her hands, the heavy, sluggish sword splitting into two lighter blades.

“Next move ends you—”

Darryl said slowly.

“Next move? You…”

Raylir opened his mouth, but a gust swept by.

Her dual swords spun like a hurricane, shredding the thorned tentacles like a meat grinder.

Raylir’s eyes widened in panic, reaching for something in his robe—a last resort.

But the black blades flashed, and his head rolled like an overripe melon.