Chapter 261

261st Episode: Hassan’s Trip to the Auction – Pt. 8

“Number 15, Jilgast Meistrode, the herbalist. Please come in.”

One by one, the alchemists disappeared into a room, their forms vanishing as they were called.

They would emerge one minute later, looking rather perplexed, uncertain, or as though they’d come to some realization, and start creating potions with various instruments.

The butler Jin of the viscount’s household addressed them:

“I would like the potions to be completed by this evening.”

To which someone protested:

“Potions are not something you can rush. Depending on the situation, some require brewing for a week. And to make an elixir, there are those who dedicate their entire lives to its creation. And yet you ask for it to be done by this evening!”

“Yes, exactly. One could just as well say that the viscount has no intention of saving his daughter! At least give us a little more time!”

Voices of discontent erupted from all around.

Each of them had entered the mansion brimming with confidence, only to emerge from the closed doors appearing anxious and uncertain, fidgeting around restlessly. It seemed they had come to realize the seriousness of the viscount’s daughter’s condition and the low probability of their success.

To the rising tide of complaints, Jin spoke:

“Failed healers have said the same thing. They asked for more time to understand the illness better. We granted them a month, and yet none have cured the young lady. Time is not the issue. Quite the contrary — the longer it takes, the worse her condition will become.”

No one responded to Jin’s lengthy speech. They merely gnawed on their lips in silent discontent. Then, Jin added a few more words:

“What you see as waiting time for the potions to brew could, for someone else, be the time waiting for their daughter to d*e. The remuneration promised to you could just as well be seen as compensation for shortening that waiting time.”

In my own interpretation, it essentially meant ‘just quietly and diligently work on it.’ Most likely, that was the actual meaning as well.

I glanced worriedly at Luna.

Unlike the others who began work after seeing the young lady, Luna was already heating her assigned furnace with a cauldron large enough to fit a person, boiling water over it.

“Hold for a scoop of giant mushrooms. Scorpion stinger… Oh, an onyx gem—another… Hmm, what else? Two dried centipedes… tiger hornets… and a lizard tail. Wait, should I have avoided the lizard tail? Not sure. Hehe.”

And so she began tossing in bizarre ingredients from her bag without hesitation, turning the cauldron’s contents a dark red.

I asked her:

“Luna, haven’t you even seen the illness yet? Is it okay to start making it already?”

Medicine is usually prescribed after diagnosis, isn’t it? You give cold medicine to someone with a cold, and antibiotics to someone with an infection—administering treatments appropriately.

Even with something as simple as the Health Center’s juice, they wouldn’t recommend certain root extracts to someone with excess body heat. There was a proper system in place, yet here was Luna, tossing in ingredients without even examining the patient, making me increasingly anxious.

Especially considering the materials were things like scorpion venom, hornets, giant mushrooms, and centipedes, it was no surprise my focus began to waver.

Of course, among the people I knew, Luna was particularly skillful at making potions and elixirs.

I trusted her entirely, but the person who would be consuming this concoction wasn’t someone like me, an unrefined Samaritan, but rather the precious young lady.

If something happened and the concoction worsened her condition, Luna and I could easily end up impaled on pikes outside the mansion without much complaint.

So I asked subtly if everything was going well.

“Luna, is there anything I can help with?”

“Not yet, Hassan’s time to act hasn’t come. Just wait for a bit!”

“But… I asked earlier, right? Is it really fine to make it this early?”

“What I’m making is the ultimate form of a potion that’s universally effective—there’s no need to see the patient!”

“The ultimate form of a universally effective potion…”

It sounded like something you’d hear from quacks. Back when I was in Kolkata, there were potion vendors shouting about snake oil being the cure for everything.

The concept of “snake oil” was synonymous with ignorance and superstition, often used to describe fraudulent goods—and what Luna was attempting felt strikingly similar.

“Alright, number 20. Luna Noxdotty, number 20.”

At this moment, Luna’s name was called.

“Ah, I need to add some ingredients right now! Hassan, could you go in my place?”

“Should I?”

“Anyway, I wouldn’t be able to check her condition well. Besides, you’re better at that kind of thing.”

“That’s true, but…”

Before I realized it, had I actually agreed to replace Luna? Was it breaking any specific laws or regulations? As I hesitated, I slowly began to move toward the door.

Suddenly, the male servant—or maybe an attendant—who was guarding the door stopped me.

“Are you Luna Noxdotty? It says here she’s a petite pink-haired woman.”

“No, I’m Hassan from Samaria.”

“Ah, I see. Hassan, nice to meet you. But why are you here?”

“I’ve come to check on Miss Enya’s condition on behalf of Luna.”

“Ah, so you’re doing division of labor? Alright, let me check with the inside for a moment. Please wait here outside. Hassan from Samaria—Hassan from Samaria, right?”

It seemed there were others like Luna and me—partners who worked together. Reciting my name to himself, the man turned back toward me just before entering.

“If you’re Hassan from Samaria, then weren’t you in that war?”

“Most likely.”

“Hey, you’re the one who saved Miss Enya’s life! I never expected to meet you here again. Very well. Just wait a moment.”

The man entered the room and started quietly discussing something inside. As I waited impatiently, he finally emerged.

“Hassan of Samaria, you may enter. It’s best not to do anything disrespectful to the young lady.”

After nodding briefly, I entered the room cautiously, the door shutting with a thud behind me.

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

The faint but smoky incense was pleasant, evoking an image of a quiet shrine.

Second, in the dimly lit room despite the bright day, were the figures of maids dressed in black dresses scattered around the room.

In their midst sat a woman in a wheelchair-like contraption, her lower body wrapped in a blanket. Her honey-toned hair flowed like a wave under the shadow of a black veil. The dress, which revealed her shoulders, was a striking red.

This woman was Enya?

I had only seen her in armor before, so it felt different seeing her like this.

“Samarian, it’s been a while since the war.”

“Did you remember me?”

“I remember everyone I’ve met. I remember Dorgo and Jack who were with you.”

Her voice, coming from beneath the veil, was surprisingly calm. I was somewhat surprised to find that this renowned noble actually remembered me, evoking an oddly nostalgic feeling.

Was she the one using bizarre tactics like the whirlwind strategy to fight? Or was she as intelligent as rumors suggested?

“Word has it that you’ve done some interesting things since then. Like expelling the thieves’ guild and venturing into the abyss.”

“That’s correct.”

“I, on the other hand, have remained here, confined to the mansion. It’s enviable. I haven’t been able to take a single step since that day.”

“…”

Uncertain of how to respond, I remained silent. Then Enya said a few more words.

“Hassan of Samaria, do you harbor resentment towards me?”

“Resentment? Towards you?”

“I asked if you, and possibly others, resent me for dragging immigrants and wanderers like you into that war.”

Upon hearing this, thoughts of the decree that had come flying in surfaced in my memory. Reflecting on it now, my heart still felt a pang of dread.

Before I could answer, Enya continued:

“As a noble’s daughter, I receive information without needing to hear it directly. The angle of someone’s eyebrows, the sweat on their forehead, a brief hesitation. These subtle cues reveal more than mere words.”

“Is that so?”

“To you and those like you, I owe an apology. I saw the ever-growing influence of the Westgate slums and the rise of cultists as a good opportunity to address both problems simultaneously.”

“So, you deliberately selected us despite knowing the risks—almost as though you intended for us to d*e?”

“That’s correct. Many did perish—Vaelen, Kallig, Tokir, Bered, Narbo, the twin brothers, Girorg, Aralga, Kukur…”

Enya continued to reel off a string of strange names. Strangely, I felt this woman could probably continue naming names for an entire day if she wished.

Finally, she stopped to speak again:

“Stories in newspapers or hearsay may lump their deaths into vague numbers. It’s possible your name, Hassan, could be among them.”

“Is that so?”

“Every day I hear the voices of the 354 names in my head. They press down on my legs and choke me. I’m paying the price for sending so many to their deaths.”

Enya brushed her hand over her thigh, covered by the blanket. Coming in casually, I hadn’t expected the conversation to take such a serious turn, which left me feeling slightly disheartened.

To experience hallucinations from those she sent to their deaths—could this be a form of PTSD? I wasn’t sure.

Seemingly sensing my mood, Enya brightened up and said:

“I’ve wasted your time with idle talk. Meeting an old comrade-in-arms made me slightly emotional. Please forget the last part we discussed.”

“Sure.”

“So, Samarian. Do you have any skills to show me? You appeared to be a quite accomplished warrior, but I didn’t know you had talents as a healer or herbalist.”

“Only a rough imitation. May I ask you to extend your wrist briefly?”

“Wrist? Does it hurt?”

“Just a finger-touch. It won’t hurt.”

“I see. Without you, I might have been one of many names and numbers lost in that war. As comrades who lived through the frontlines together, I trust you.”

Perhaps feeling the truth in my words, the viscount’s daughter, Enya, extended her left arm toward me.

Her left arm was thinner than I expected and bore numerous curious injection-like marks, indicating she’d already undergone countless treatments.

It was clear she was suffering from an incurable disease. So many healers and medications must have been used on her already.

Carefully, I extended only my pinky finger and gently placed it on her wrist, mindful not to harm her delicate skin.

Ding.

“Name: Enya von Sardich, Level 34

Condition: Dry eyes》Weak addiction》Scar of Moros》”

Indeed.

Enya was level 34—quite formidable. But what mattered more now were the words in her condition. Her eyes were dry, showing signs of some kind of addiction, but the most concerning was the mention of the “Scar of Moros.”

Moros, an ancient entity of d*ath, was also the overlord who had torn a knight in half during that battle. I recalled her dismounting due to Moros’ influence.

“Do you feel anything?”

At Enya’s question, I furrowed my brow.

It was as though I was doing something for the first time. As I felt her pulse, my energy flowed slightly into her body, and I could tell right away.

This woman’s body was, in essence, only half alive.

To put it plainly, everything below her waist was dead. If her lower body were compared to anything, it would be like a lifeless rock still attached to her.

Could such a condition even be possible? I couldn’t rule out the possibility that my pulse diagnosis was malfunctioning. Perhaps examining directly would reveal the truth quicker.

“Is it possible to see your legs or feet?”

“My… feet!?”

The Enya who had until moments ago seemed at peace with her situation suddenly sounded startled.

---