I spent Wednesday afternoon doing the two things every truly great evil mastermind does after securing a regional monopoly: counting my money and fixing my roof.
For forty silver crowns and a complimentary bottle of bruise liniment, a burly dwarf mason from the Lower Quarter climbed onto the conservatory rafters, replaced the fourteen shattered glass panes with thick, storm-proof crystal sheets, and sealed the drafty mortar joints with tar. For another ten silver, the neighbourhood carpenter planed down the splintered corner of my oak counter where Seraphina had casually crushed it like a walnut, rounding the edge into a smooth curve.
By four o’clock on Thursday afternoon, Property 14-B didn't look like a condemned ruin anymore.
Sunlight poured through the clean glass roof of the back conservatory, illuminating rows of scrubbed clay pots filled with freshly transplanted Ash-Crest Nettle and Bitter-Root Ginger. Up front, the floorboards smelled of lemon oil, thirty fresh amber bottles of Velvet-Numb Field Liniment gleamed on the display shelves, and the fat marmalade cat—whom I had officially dubbed Tax Evasion—was stretched out in a warm patch of sun on the newly sanded counter.
Even Pip had received an upgrade. After feeding him two chunks of high-grade anthracite coal and a spoonful of copper filings, his clay belly gleamed like polished terracotta, and he had learned how to carry a tiny brass dustpan around the workshop without tripping over his own stubby feet.
I was just wiping down the brass balance scale when a light, hesitant knock sounded at the front door, followed by the soft jingle of the bell.
I looked up, expecting another bruised vanguard cadet looking for a pre-weekend refill.
Instead, standing on my porch with silk parasols folded neatly in their white-gloved hands were three girls in the pristine, ivory-and-rose uniforms of the Elite Noble Dormitory.
Leading the trio was Lady Clara of House Vane—one of the witnesses I had drafted during my public breakup in the Atrium on Tuesday. Behind her stood two minor barons’ daughters whose names hovered somewhere at the bottom of the Rose Spire social pecking order.
All three of them were staring at my clean shop window and the hand-painted wooden sign hanging above the porch (Bramble Lane Apothecary — Cash Only, No Whining) with expressions of nervous fascination, as if they were visiting a zoo exhibit where the tiger did its own bookkeeping.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” I said pleasantly, leaning a hip against the counter. “If you’re here on behalf of the Rose Spire Tea Committee to ask for my annual membership dues, I’m afraid you’re two days too late. I surrendered my room key on Tuesday.”
Clara flinched slightly, clutching her silk reticule tighter against her skirt. In the game, Clara wasn't inherently malicious; she was just one of the half-dozen social satellites who orbited Evelyn Vance out of fear, and then switched to orbiting Prince Julian the moment Evelyn fell from grace.
“We aren't here for the Tea Committee, Lady Evelyn,” Clara said quickly, glancing back over her shoulder toward the cobblestone lane to make sure no one from the main campus had followed them down the hill. She stepped inside and pulled the oak door shut behind her friends. “We... we heard from my cousin Marcus in the third-year vanguard about what happened yesterday.”
“That Prince Julian left in a huff?”
“That you cured Lord Henrik’s calcified knee in thirty seconds,” one of the baron’s daughters blurted out, stepping forward with wide, desperate hazel eyes. “And that your purple liniment cleared Lord Garrett’s flame-rebound before the afternoon bouts!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are the ladies of the Rose Spire taking up heavy broadsword sparring now? Because if so, I’ll need to double my almond oil order.”
“No!” Clara flushed a delicate pink, lowering her voice to an urgent whisper as she approached the counter. “It’s the Autumn Equinox Ball next Friday. Since you... vacated the Chairwoman seat on the hosting committee, Lady Genevieve of House Laurent took over.”
Ah. Genevieve Laurent. An Earldom heiress with a B-rank Water Affinity and an ego the size of the Imperial Cathedral. In the original timeline, Genevieve spent all of Year One whispering poison into Evelyn’s ear to goad her into attacking Seraphina, happily scooping up the social scraps whenever Evelyn made a fool of herself.
“And let me guess,” I said dryly. “Genevieve decided that to prove the Rose Spire’s magical devotion before the Crown Prince, all first-year noblewomen must perform the Three-Hour Starlight Illumination Weaver ritual around the ballroom fountain?”
All three girls stared at me in dead silence.
“How could you possibly know that?” Clara whispered. “She only announced it at breakfast!”
Because she did it in every single playthrough of Crown of Thorns, and it always resulted in half the noble girls showing up to the equinox dance looking like boiled lobsters.
“Because Genevieve has a Water Affinity, which naturally cools the facial capillaries during long mana-channelling rituals,” I explained, ticking the points off on my fingers. “Whereas you, Clara, have a Wind Affinity, and the two of you behind her are Fire-aligned. Which means after forty minutes of forcing continuous light-aspect mana through your upper cranial meridians during rehearsals, the excess thermal feedback is pooling right under your cheekbones.”
I leaned forward slightly over the counter, letting my passive skill scan the thick layer of expensive pearl-powder foundation caked over Clara’s cheeks and forehead.
[Alchemist’s Appraisal (Lv. 3) — Active]
[Condition Detected: Superficial Meridian Rosacea (Mana-Flush)]
[Cause: Unfiltered thermal feedback from prolonged low-tier Light Weaving.]
[Standard Remedy: Temple Cold-Compress (Costs 15 Gold, takes 4 days to fade, leaves skin dry and peeling).]
[Alchemical Solution: Topical cream made from whipped Cold-Pressed Almond Butter, distilled Weeping Ghost-Cap dew, and crushed White Chamomile. Instantly draws stray heat out of the epidermal capillaries and leaves a luminous pearl finish.] This chapter is updated first at novelping.com.
“You’re wearing three layers of imported Venetian rice powder right now to hide the mana-rash across the bridge of your nose,” I told Clara gently. “And if you do two more nights of rehearsal before Friday, your skin is going to peel like sunburned parchment.”
Clara clapped both white-gloved hands over her cheeks, looking ready to burst into tears right on my freshly oiled floorboards.
“The Temple apothecary wants fifteen gold crowns just for a soothing poultice,” Clara choked out. “And Priestess Vivian said it won't even clear the redness before Tuesday! Lady Genevieve is doing it on purpose so she’s the only one who looks presentable when His Highness arrives at the pavilion!”
I rubbed my chin thoughtfully.
Selling five-gold bruise liniment to meathead combat cadets was steady, reliable income.
Selling high-tier cosmetic alchemy to terrified aristocratic teenage girls with unlimited family allowances? That wasn't just income; that was a licence to print gold bullion.
“Wait right here,” I said, turning on my heel and pushing through the swinging door into the back workshop. “And don't pet the orange cat unless you want to lose a glove. He only likes people who smell like iron or fish.”
Back at my stone workbench, I worked with the practiced speed of a short-order cook.
I didn't even need to light the main alembic. When I had flash-dried the Weeping Ghost-Caps over Pip’s burner on Tuesday night, I had placed an angled copper condensation plate above the vent to catch the purified Hydro-Ether Dew after the grey toxins boiled off—roughly four ounces of crystal-clear, ice-cold liquid that held a permanent ambient temperature of forty degrees Fahrenheit.
I scooped three tablespoons of clarified sweet almond butter into a chilled porcelain mortar.
Next, I added thirty drops of the cold Hydro-Ether Dew, a pinch of finely pulverized White Chamomile petals, and a single drop of honey-suckle essential oil purely because noble girls refused to trust anything that didn't smell like a French garden.
Using a glass pestle, I whipped the mixture rapidly while channelling a micro-current of mana solely to emulsify the water and fat molecules. Within ninety seconds, the yellow butter transformed into a weightless, snow-white soufflé that shimmered with a faint, frosty iridescence.
[Alchemy Success!]
[Item Crafted: Porcelain-Frost Meridian Cream (4 Jars)]
[Quality: Silver-Tier (94% Purity)]
[Effects:
Instantly absorbs stray thermal mana from surface capillaries, eliminating Mana-Flush and redness within 60 seconds.
Creates an invisible, breathable Hydro-Ether barrier over the skin for 12 hours, deflecting heat backlash during spellcasting.
Cosmetic Bonus: Tightens pores and imparts a subtle, natural moonlight glow (+10 Apparent Charisma).]
I scooped the snowy cream into four small, cobalt-blue glass cosmetic pots I had washed that morning, screwed the brass lids on tight, and carried one out to the front counter.
“Take off your right glove, Clara,” I said, unscrewing the lid of the cobalt jar.
Hesitantly, Clara peeled off her silk glove. Using a clean bone spatula, I dabbed a tiny pearl of the white cream onto the back of her hand, where a faint red patch of mana-chafing was visible near her knuckles.
The moment the cream touched her skin, it melted like fresh snow, releasing a delicate scent of wild honeysuckle and cool rain.
Clara gasped out loud.
Right before our eyes, the angry red inflammation beneath her skin vanished, drank up by the dormant Hydro-Ether. In its place, the skin on the back of her hand looked smooth, cool, and luminously pale—three shades softer and brighter than her uncreamed left hand.
“It’s... it’s cold!” Clara whispered, touching the back of her hand in awe. “The burning under my wrist stopped completely! Look at my skin!”
The two barons’ daughters crowded around her wrist, letting out twin squeaks of pure envy.
“How much?!” the girl with the hazel eyes demanded, her reticule already wide open. “I don't care what it costs—if I show up to the rehearsal tonight with a blotchy forehead, my mother will disown me!”
“The Temple charges fifteen gold for a poultice that doesn't work,” I said smoothly, setting three sealed cobalt jars onto the velvet display stand. “Since you three were polite enough to knock before entering my shop, I’m charging ten gold crowns per jar. One application before rehearsal will block thermal feedback for twelve hours, so a single jar will easily last you through the Equinox Ball.”
Thirty gold crowns hit the oak counter so fast the coins practically bounced.
Clara didn't even wait to get back to the dormitory; she used the small brass mirror hanging beside my herb rack to wipe away the suffocating rice powder on her cheeks and smoothed a dab of the Porcelain-Frost Cream across her face right there in the shop, sighing in sheer relief as the painful heat rash vanished in under a minute. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
“Lady Evelyn, you are a saint,” Clara breathed, clutching her cobalt jar to her chest like a royal crown. “Wait until the rest of the second-floor girls see this tonight! Half the dormitory is hiding in their rooms with wet towels on their faces!”
“Tell them I open at ten tomorrow morning,” I said, sweeping the thirty gold crowns into my cash box. “And tell them to bring cash. I don't take house promissory notes from anyone whose last name is Laurent.”
Clara giggled—an actual, genuine giggle devoid of the terrified stiffness she used to show around the old Evelyn—bobbed a quick curtsy alongside her friends, and hurried out the front door, chattering excitedly as they headed back up Bramble Lane.
Just as the three silk parasols rounded the corner at the top of the cul-de-sac, another figure stepped off the wooded footpath behind the willow tree, pausing to watch the trio of giggling noble girls scurry away.
A moment later, the back door of the conservatory clicked open, and Seraphina walked in through the workshop.
She was wearing her dark training trousers and a sleeveless linen practice shirt covered in a light sheen of afternoon sweat. Slung comfortably at her hip was the dark, silver-veined Ashen Bough. In her left hand, she carried a large canvas foraging sack that was visibly bulging with damp forest moss and oversized mushrooms.
She stopped in the archway between the workshop and the storefront, glancing toward the front window where Clara and her friends had just disappeared.
“Wasn't that Lady Clara from the Rose Spire?” Seraphina asked, setting the heavy foraging sack gently onto the stone floor beside my workbench. “Did they come here to cause trouble?”
“Worse,” I said solemnly, locking the overflowing brass cash box and patting the lid. “They came here with disposable income and skincare emergencies. If we aren't careful, Seraphina, we’re going to have to hire an accountant by November.”
Seraphina walked up to the counter, looking down at the fourth remaining jar of cobalt-blue cream sitting on the velvet stand.
“You made medicine for them?”
“Thirty gold crowns in four minutes,” I corrected, picking up a clean linen hand towel and tossing it to her so she could wipe the sweat from her neck. “Though looking at that sack you just brought in, you might have beat my hourly rate. How was the Sector Four creek?”
Seraphina wiped her brow with the towel, her slate-gray eyes lighting up with a quiet, unmistakable pride that made her look entirely her age for once.
She untied the hemp drawstring of the canvas sack and folded back the top.
Nested inside on a bed of wet fern fronds wasn't a cluster of ordinary, thumb-sized Weeping Ghost-Caps.
Sitting in the center of the sack was a single, massive fungal crown the size of a dinner plate, glowing with a deep, pulsing cerulean blue light that cast ripples like underwater sunbeams across the ceiling of the workshop. And tucked right beside the giant mushroom were three intact, crystalline purple mana cores taken from mature Grade-3 Bog-Lurkers.
[Alchemist’s Appraisal (Lv. 3) — Active]
[Item: Elder Hydro-Spirit Cap (50-Year Growth)]
[Grade: Gold-Tier Rare Reagent]
[Properties: The apex mutation of the Weeping Ghost-Cap, guarded by a pack of territorial Bog-Lurkers. Contains pure, uncompressed Liquid Ether. Can be used to brew permanent Stat-Enhancing Elixirs or Gold-Tier Mana Core Restoratives.]
I stared into the sack, then slowly raised my eyes to look at Seraphina. She didn't have a single scratch on her arms, her breathing was completely even, and her dark wooden sword didn't even have mud on the hilt.
“Seraphina,” I said slowly. “An Elder Spirit Cap down by the Sector Four creek is guarded by a nest of at least three mature Bog-Lurkers.”
“Four,” she corrected mildly, leaning her elbow on the counter just as Tax Evasion woke up from his nap and stretched a front paw out to tap her forearm. “The sword handled them before they could surface from the mud. One swing each.”
She reached down and scratched the fat orange cat right behind his ears, drawing a loud, rumbling purr out of the traitor who had hissed at me twice that morning.
“You said we were going to run out of mushrooms by tonight,” Seraphina added quietly, looking over at me with a faint, expectant tilt of her head. “Is that one big enough?”
I looked down at the fifty-year-old Gold-Tier reagent worth at least four hundred gold crowns on the Imperial black market, then up at my part-time security guard who was currently being adopted by my cat.
“Yeah,” I said, a slow, genuine smile warming my face as I reached for the tea kettle. “That’s plenty big enough. Pull up a stool, Seraphina—I’m making you dinner tonight, and I’m taking at least twenty gold off your tab.”
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