I sat frozen in the kitchen, as if time itself had decided to run in reverse, then simply stopped altogether. The wall clock above the fridge ticked away softly, but to me, each second was just another ornament—meaningless, hollow. Night had swallowed everything, and I'd long since lost sight of its edge. All I knew was that midnight was a distant memory; the night had stretched well beyond its peak.
Paris, Adonis, and Ashsa were fast asleep in their rooms. They'd drifted off long before we'd taken our leap into the grave.
But who would've guessed—Tyan Flamino's cat? Wasn't that the leader of Tytoal-ba? Damn it, my hand clenched the table, fingers curling like stubborn tree roots clinging to the earth. My mind spun out of control, bouncing off the hard walls of reason. If a cat warranted a coffin that grand, buried in a place like that, it had to be more than just someone's pet, didn't it?
I scratched my head, as if I could scrub away the shadows clinging to my skin. But what's done is done; the earth has been split, sins have been shoveled, and the night has devoured its secrets.
My gaze locked on the vial in my hand—Mythical Cerebrospinal Fluid, a substance said to retain its power for only six hours after extraction. No wonder Lon never kept this stuff on hand. Even the finest vessels can't keep it fresh. Once drawn, it spoils fast—turns useless in the blink of an eye.
As I stared at the shimmering liquid, Lon appeared in the doorway. His outfit was even stranger than usual—an oversized shirt emblazoned with a cartoon orange kitten stretching lazily. His arms were loaded with ingredients and tools, his steps weaving like a sailor drunk on the wind. He dumped everything onto the table, creating a mess so chaotic it was almost a work of art.
"10 grams of mana crystals, 3 leaves from the World Tree, distilled water, and 10 sheets of blank grimoire," he muttered, ticking them off in a flat monotone. "And 15 milliliters of Mythical Cerebrospinal Fluid." His eyes flicked to the vial in my grasp.
"Why that shirt?" I asked, half exasperated. Did it really have to be a cat? I'd just been blindsided by panic over a dead feline, and now here he was, flaunting an orange kitten on his chest?
Lon just shrugged. "It's just a shirt. Besides, the cat's a different color. No big deal, right?"
I let his excuse slide, focusing instead on the jumble of ingredients sprawled across the table. My throat felt parched, like a desert aching for rain. It was time for me to become an Archiveliner, I told myself. For some reason, this path felt far too easy—or maybe, just maybe, it was too dangerous to call easy at all.
This whole thing would've been a walk in the park—if we hadn't nearly been caught poking around the grave of the king's cat.
"Perfect, you're here. Your turn to keep watch—I'm grabbing a shower," I said, half-hoping Lon would just let it slide.
"Whoa, hold up. Let's finish this business first, then you can shower," he shot back, stepping right into my path.
"Seriously? You get to wash up and I don't? I'm the one reeking of grave dirt here."
"Yeah, trust me, I can smell it from here. No need to rub it in," he replied, cool as ever.
Alright then, step aside—I need that shower.
"The thing is, if we don't wrap this up now, the others might wake up any minute," he said, a hint of anxiety creeping into his voice.
Why didn't we just do this earlier? I wanted to shout, but bit my tongue. "So, what's the plan?" I finally asked, surrendering to reality.
Lon just wiped his lips, a sly smile flickering across his face. He started lining up his tools: 10 grams of crystallized mana, 3 World Tree leaves, distilled water, and 10 sheets of blank grimoire. He counted each item, eyes sharp, hands moving with practiced ease.
All I could do was watch from the corner of the kitchen, completely at a loss. Every so often, he'd glance at the recipe sheet I'd handed him, then grab whatever ingredient it called for. He opened the top drawer, pulled out a water-boiling pot and some ceramic plates, lining them up beside the other supplies.
Next, he crossed to the far side of the kitchen, fetching a porcelain mortar and pestle—who knows how long he'd been hiding that in his room. He set it in front of me, along with a small pouch of crystallized mana.
"Grind these down to powder," he instructed, keeping himself busy with the rest of the ingredients. My focus narrowed to the mortar and pestle.
"Seriously? We're making potions with kitchenware now?" I asked, half amused.
"Potion for what?" Lon shot back, still rummaging through the lower drawers. Not finding what he needed, he stood up again.
"To drink?"
"Or for cooking." he added, now moving to the bottom shelf on the other side of the kitchen. Finally, he returned with a glass cup, setting it among the other oddities on the table.
Both end up in your mouth and get churned around in your stomach. They both need recipes and ingredients, don't they?" Lon quipped, casual as ever. He grabbed a match and set a World Tree leaf alight, letting its black ash drift down onto a small ceramic plate.
"Maybe I picked the wrong partner," I muttered, half-regretting my life choices.
Lon just waved his hand, brushing away the thin wisp of smoke. "Relax, I've made this stuff plenty of times. Look at me—I'm still alive and kicking."
Yeah, your body's fine. It's your brain I'm starting to worry about.
First he drags me out to dig up a grave, now this? I swear, just a few hours ago I was only doing laundry.
Didn't Hozi say this potion could backfire? If there's still a trace of last night's dinner in this mortar, who knows what kind of disaster we'll end up with?
"Are you sure about this? If I drink the wrong thing, I could end up with some nasty side effects, you know."
But Lon stayed laser-focused, eyes glued to the tools in front of him. He smeared the leaf ash across the bottom of the water pot, not a hint of hesitation.
Well, here goes nothing.
If I lose my mind or turn into a monster, please don't come looking for me, Hozi. That's my prayer—whichever god is listening, just pass the message along to Hozi if you get the chance.
I shook the little pouch Lon had handed me. The six crystals inside clattered together, sharp and bright. I untied the string and picked them out, one by one.
Beautiful—that's all I could think. I held the crystal spheres under the kitchen light, watching their glimmer bounce around the room. My awe didn't last long—one crystal leapt out of the mortar as I pounded it, nearly shattering on the floor.
Two strikes in, the crystal started to behave. Three, then four—it finally split into three pieces. After that, the rest was easy. I pounded the shards from every angle until they turned to fine sand, then swept the powder into another dish.
On to the next crystal. Same pattern: usually took four good hits to break, then the job got easier.
"I'm done," I reported to Lon, breath a little ragged but satisfied.
"Wow, that was quick," Lon said, filling the pot with water. The sound of running water mingled with his words. "Now, grab one vial of Mythical Cerebrospinal Fluid and some pure distilled water."
He pointed to a shallow dish near me. "Pour the liquid in there, then give it a quick stir. Just one vial for now—don't dump them all at once."
I picked up the container of Mythical Cerebrospinal Fluid with extra care, the chill of its surface biting into my palm. Twisting the cap off slowly, I was hit with a faint metallic tang and something stranger, sharper, that stung my nose. With my hand trembling just a bit, I tipped the vial, letting the clear liquid flow into the dish. I held my breath, determined not to spill a single drop. The fluid crept out, pooling in a thin, glassy layer beneath the kitchen light. I grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred gently, watching a tiny whirlpool form on the surface. The liquid remained clear, but seemed to catch and bend the light.
"Next, weigh out exactly three grams of crystallized mana, then add them in. Stir again until it's all blended," Lon instructed.
I reached for the small scale and poured out the mana crystals—clear shards, sparkling like morning frost. As soon as the display hit three grams, I tipped them into the dish. The crystals landed with a soft patter, like rain tapping on glass. As I stirred, the crystals slowly dissolved, sending swirling colors dancing through the liquid. The once-clear blue grew lighter, a silvery sheen blooming across the surface. The potion seemed to come alive, energy spinning within, proof that the ingredients were reacting just as they should.
Then came the next vial of Mythical Cerebrospinal Fluid. As I tried to open it, the sharp edge slipped and nicked my index finger. Instinctively, I jerked back, but it was too late—a single drop of blood fell into the mixture. The cool blue instantly darkened to a deep crimson, then slowly faded back to blue.
I sucked on my wounded finger, a flicker of panic running through me.