I hovered by the counter, the taste of panic still sharp on my tongue. My finger throbbed where the vial had nicked me, a tiny bead of blood already drying on my skin. I glanced at the dish—had I seen the liquid ripple, or was that just my nerves playing tricks?
"Lon," I called out, my voice barely steady.
He didn't look up right away, busy tending the stove, the hiss of water and clink of glass filling the silence. "Yeah? Something wrong?"
I hesitated, watching the clear potion catch the kitchen light, refracting it in shifting patterns—innocent, almost beautiful. My mind raced ahead, conjuring every worst-case scenario. "Say, if… I don't know, a drop of blood got into the mixture. What would that do?"
Lon finally turned, one eyebrow arched, a wooden spoon poised midair. "That's a strange one. Did something happen?"
I shook my head, maybe too quickly. "Just curious. Hypothetically."
He considered it, lips pursed in thought. "Blood's like a living archive. Every secret your body holds—memories, habits, even your regrets—it's all coded in there. If it slips into a potion…" He trailed off, swirling the water in his pot, then offered a crooked, uncertain smile. "Honestly? No clue. Could be nothing. Could be everything."
His words hung in the air, heavier than I expected. I turned back to the dish, heart pounding. The liquid was unchanged—a cool blue, swirling with light—but now it felt as if it was watching me, waiting for something to happen. I stirred it gently, searching for any sign I'd ruined everything. Nothing. Just that eerie, flawless blue, clear as a secret kept too well.
I swallowed hard.
For a moment, all I could do was stare, willing the potion to stay clear, to stay safe, to stay ordinary.
So much for getting this right.
"The dish didn't get any blood on it, did it?"
"No, I was just asking… just in case," I replied, my voice nearly drowned out by the reckless pounding of my heart.
"That's a relief. Even a drop of blood would ruin everything, and we don't have enough ingredients for a second try."
My throat tightened, swallowing felt like forcing down stones. "So… what's the next step?" I asked, wrestling the panic that danced wild and sharp at the tip of my tongue.
Surrender? Crash everything we've built against hope's paper-thin wall? There's nothing left to fall back on—if I gave in, Lon would push to postpone. But postponing meant all our sweat and struggle would be for nothing.
My thoughts spun in circles, whirling like dry leaves caught in a storm. Lon's gaze pinned me, sharp as a hawk's, before he finally spoke.
"You need to immerse each grimoire page into the solution. Three minutes per sheet. Not a second more, not a second less."
I nodded, hands trembling just enough to betray me, and picked up a blank grimoire page, lowering it into the blue liquid.
I waited, holding my breath as if it alone kept the ceiling from collapsing. The clock on the wall ticked out a war drum rhythm, each second slicing through my patience.
Slowly, foreign letters began to bloom across the paper—first a single line, then curling into a full script. Maybe this is it, I thought. With practiced care, I lifted the page. Droplets slid from the edge, one by one, sending ripples dancing across the potion's surface. The water's color held—a calm, cool blue.
I transferred the page to another dish, repeating the ritual for the next sheet. While I was tangled in my paper-and-water dance, Lon was still wrestling with the boiling pot across the table, its steam shooting up, wild and impatient.
He'd already added every last ingredient: the final pinch of crystallized mana and the two container of Mythical Cerebrospinal Fluid. I never knew which was supposed to go in first, but when it came to this sort of potion-making, trusting Lon was the only lucky charm I had left.
Every now and then, I stole a glance his way. His movements were precise, almost maestro-like. Each flick of his wrist radiated the confidence of a true master, as if he'd done this a thousand times in this very kitchen.
A cool blue shimmer drifted across the cauldron's surface, glowing faintly like fireflies lost in a foggy night.
Somewhere deep down, I already knew this potion was doomed—even now. But honestly, who cares? I'm the one who'll have to drink it, after all.
Still, I pressed on with the stubborn patience of a monk: one page, three minutes, and this time, I swore—failure wouldn't dare show its face again.
"I'm done," I murmured, my voice nearly swallowed by the swirling steam.
"Oh, really? Perfect timing—I just finished too," Lon replied, setting his wooden spoon beside the pot with a flourish that was either theatrical or simply careless.
I carried over the tray of grimoire pages, each now crowded with foreign words—script I'd never seen before, not even in the dustiest corners of my memory.
Lon picked up a page, dipped it into the potion, and reached for his spoon again. With practiced ease, he stirred the pot. A vortex formed, the page floated, then slowly dissolved—the words on its surface seemed to slip free from the world, dancing above the blue brew before melting into it.
"The recipe says we have to stir it thirty-three times," Lon said. We counted together, our voices weaving from five, six, seven, all the way to thirty-three. Lon set the spoon aside, letting the potion settle for fifteen seconds, then repeated the process for the next page.
I watched as the strange script sank beneath the surface, then asked quietly, "Those words… what do they mean?"
"They're the memories of the Mythical Cerebrospinal Fluid," Lon answered, his tone suddenly grave. "They have a direct link to the Law of Mahfudz. In other words, this liquid is proof we've touched what's called the beginning, the center, the archive of all archives in this world."
"The fluid reads memories from the Law of Mahfudz, writing them in a script no one recognizes—not even its creators know what's written there. It could be events from the Law of Mahfudz, books stored there, works etched into its core, or even fragments of our own souls."
"And the purpose of the crystallized mana powder as ink. The words appear because of it," Lon explained, his voice calm. I only nodded, letting his explanation seep into my thoughts.
When he reached the fifth page, Lon dropped it into the pot. Once more, strange letters surfaced in the potion, glowing faintly like fireflies weaving spells in the air.
We waited, as always, fifteen seconds. The wall clock ticked, each beat hammering into my skull like an impatient blacksmith. On the count of ten, the air around me changed. Heavier, colder, as if a shadow had just slipped through the room.
Then the voices came—at first, just a thin whisper, faint as a breeze slipping through cracks in the wall. But in the next heartbeat, the whispers multiplied. They crowded in, overlapping, clashing in a wild, chaotic rhythm. There were deep, hoarse voices of men; soft, piercing voices of women—all swirling in my ears, forming a uncanny chorus. Their words blurred—sometimes a mumble, sometimes laughter muffled by water, sometimes a scream swallowed by fog.
I went rigid, my eyes locked on the pot, but my mind felt yanked into another dimension. The voices pressed closer, swirling around me, their presence unmistakable. I could feel their breath on the back of my neck—cold, damp, and enough to send a shiver crawling down my spine.
"Do you hear that?" I whispered to Lon, my voice barely more than a ghost of a sound, as if afraid to disturb the unseen things lurking in the air.
"Hear what?" Lon glanced over, one eyebrow raised, but his tone was as casual as ever.
I wanted to believe it was just my imagination, but the voices refused to leave. They only grew louder, crashing into one another in a chaos of sound—a nightmare orchestra gone rogue, conductor lost. I could feel their vibrations in my bones, as if the voices weren't just echoing in my ears, but seeping into my very flesh.
I took a long breath, trying to shake off the anxiety squeezing my chest. "It's nothing, probably just my nerves," I said, though my own voice sounded strange and far away. Lon had already started on the eighth page, while I was still wrestling with the echoes chasing me from behind the cauldron.
I fixed my gaze on the pot, counting each turn of the wooden spoon—just to make sure Lon didn't stir too little or too much. But on the twenty-second turn, something strange happened.
I saw something skin-colored drifting through the air.
Not just one, but dozens, hundreds—too many to count—fluttering before my eyes, filling the room.
There was no mistaking it now.
those drifting shapes weren't just tricks of the light or scraps of paper. They were my own skin, fluttering through the kitchen like pale, weightless leaves, circling me in a silent, impossible dance.