Chapter 137: All Good Potions Are Green

Night had fallen, yet the Eternal Flame atop the altar burned on. Two days had passed since the tragedy in Novigrad, and the day was clear and cloudless.

As Fergus’s smithy prepared to close for the evening, Angoulême and Fergus were enjoying freshly baked pancakes at the table. They had set aside two pieces for Luff, who sat nearby; he was currently enjoying the perks of an apprentice.

Viktor, meanwhile, was explaining his latest requirements to Yuna. One could clearly overhear their discussion—or rather, their disagreement. To be more precise, Yuna was absolutely livid.

"No! Viktor, damn it! Black steel as the main body mixed with dimeritium—the materials aren't the problem! But a two-handed sword that is five feet four inches long with a blade width of one foot!?"

Yuna slammed her hammer onto the anvil with a deafening "clang!"

"Are you fucking kidding me? These dimensions make absolutely no sense! How can you even call that a sword? I can't believe you came up with this!"

Forgive Yuna; as a daughter of Skellige, she was blunt by nature. She felt the weapon Viktor described was pure fantasy, and she didn't even care to save face for her boss, reprimanding him with foul language.

"Let me tell you, bigger isn't always better. You have to consider practical application. If you really need armor-piercing weaponry, I can forge you an armor-piercing axe, a war hammer, or even a specialized lance using those materials. All of those would be leagues better than this delusion of yours."

She was furious as she spoke, standing so close that her face was inches from his, her finger practically poking his chest. She was so aggressive that Viktor found himself struggling to catch his breath.

Unaware of his discomfort, she continued her tirade, "And even if you did manage to forge this... whatever you call it, a 'Dragon-Slayer' or 'Buster Sword' or whatever garbage, do you have any idea how heavy it would be? This thing is unusable in real combat. The only way to use it would be a vertical strike—lifting it high and letting gravity do the work. Boss, as genius as your thinking can be, this time you've gone too far."

"No, you don't understand, it’s a man’s romance..." Viktor wheezed, offering a weak defense.

"If a man’s romance is doing stupid things, then I refuse to forge this oversized piece of junk for you!"

Listening to their bickering, Angoulême smiled. She was glad to see the leader shaking off the darkness of two nights ago. He was acting like his usual self, perhaps even more spirited because they would be leaving soon.

In truth, he had been back to normal since yesterday. At Hieronymus’s poetry reading, even though the Dragonborn poet had to wrap his face in bandages due to burns, he had once again dominated the cultural scene under the name "The Masked Poet." His rendition of "Carrying You" had lingered in the air, stunning the audience.

Even the Nilfgaardian ambassador had expressed interest in hiring the youth as a poetry tutor for his twin daughters, only dropping the matter upon learning the poet would soon leave Novigrad.

And today, Viktor had proposed this bizarre idea for a new two-handed sword, which had Yuna hopping mad. It seemed he had put that incident behind him, which was for the best.

To Angoulême, Viktor didn't even need to feel regret. After all, in a girl's upbringing, too many good people had died in the fires of war. It was no surprise that one more doppler had perished, and the boy had warned him not to shapeshift; it was he who had ignored the advice and sought his own destruction.

Even though her impression of Gion had shifted significantly after exploring his motives, Angoulême still felt uneasy whenever she recalled him mimicking her. The feeling of having one’s life pried into was wretched.

Suddenly, an unexpected visitor interrupted the cozy scene in the smithy.

The visitor was the eunuch Harbin, Sigismund Dijkstra’s right-hand man. His round, pale face beamed with a smile as he was followed by six subordinates. "Ah, Master Viktor, these are indeed rare materials! It took me quite some time, but I have finally fulfilled your request."

Viktor paused his conversation with Yuna, his expression turning solemn. He opened the door to greet Harbin and his men, leading them to bring the materials into the alchemy room. Fergus and Yuna, unaware of what the eunuch had brought, paid no mind.

But Angoulême knew. She had been present when Viktor made the request to the bathhouse owner, and she knew exactly what those materials were for. They were the final components needed to complete the Trial of the Grasses.

At that thought, the joyful smile from the delicious pancake vanished from the girl's face.

...

Late at night, in Viktor’s alchemy lab—

The Trial of the Grasses: the core secret of the witchers. It allowed ordinary people to undergo mutations, granting them a modicum of spellcasting ability—Signs, a resilient body, heightened senses, and immunity to most diseases and toxins. The downside was reproductive isolation from normal humans.

From the perspective of birth control, reproductive isolation wasn't really a downside.

Furthermore, after the mutation, the pupils would change, becoming cat-like or snake-like. This, combined with an appearance that differed from the norm and the rumors spread by the ignorant, meant the current society was not friendly toward witchers.

But compared to eternal youth and a long lifespan, the current hostility was worthless.

The tongue of an albinistic katakan, the spinal fluid of a forktail, the venom gland of a manticore—using these three materials as a base, along with buckthorn, long-leaf plantain, mandrake root, and White Gull, one could brew the Trial of the Grasses for a Wolf School witcher.

However, Viktor was certainly not satisfied with just that. Countless fantasies from his time at Kaer Morhen, research from the Ban Ard library, the selfless teachings of Nenneke at the Temple of Melitele, the alchemical knowledge shared by Master Kalkstein in Vizima, and even the original manuscripts of Alzur—though lost in the city of Vizima, he had memorized their contents.

All his accumulated knowledge flowed through his mind at this moment. Just as he had been in the laboratory at Kaer Morhen, he was busy, focused, methodical, and meticulous. Viktor completed a preliminary, improved version of the Trial of the Grasses.

Through several steps of fine-tuning, adding neutralizers to slightly alleviate the pain of mutation and binding agents to reduce the chance of rejection, he had refined it. If everything went as expected, according to the assessments of an alchemy apprentice, this new green Trial of the Grasses had a success rate of up to 40%—a revolutionary breakthrough.

But to confirm this, at least five people would need to drink the potion, and two would need to survive without obvious deformities or mental instability for the version to be considered a success.

In the past, Viktor hadn't failed to test potions on himself. He had been the first subject for "Megatron," and it was only after personally experiencing the incomparable power of Megatron that he had taken it to Mother Nenneke for distribution.

But looking at the bowl of emerald liquid in his hands now, Viktor could only force a bitter smile and give up. This kind of "do or die" experiment was not a game.

How deep must one's despair be, how utterly hopeless must one feel, to desperately drink this incomplete potion and believe it would succeed? If one failed, death was the mercy; living in a state worse than death was far more likely. There were so many delicious foods in the world, so many beautiful girls—why would he throw his life away?

He set the bowl down.

"Stop! Did you forget what you promised me, Vic?" The voice scolding him was Angoulême. She had walked out of the kitchen carrying a mug of warm milk.

"Hey! Don't misunderstand." Viktor raised his hands in surrender. Just by looking at her expression, he knew what his comrade was thinking—she was worried he was being reckless for the sake of quick results.

"I wasn't planning on drinking this. The success rate isn't high enough; in the best-case scenario, it's only about half."

Seeing Viktor's candid expression, Angoulême felt relieved. "That's good. You're always telling me how amazing your ancestral alchemy is, so don't go drinking potions of unknown origin. I'm still waiting for my invincible backer."

Viktor grinned and picked up the emerald bowl. "Come on, don't make it sound so terrible. This is the secret, forbidden medicine of the Wolf School witchers. Since the Great Mage Alzur created it, everything began with this single vial: a resilient body, superhuman senses, near-immunity to disease and toxins. If you drink it, even if you were just a normal person, you'd have a thirty percent chance of becoming a superhuman. Doesn't that sound great?"

"Don't come talk to me until you're absolutely certain! And if you aren't going to drink it, why did you brew it?"

"I couldn't help but want to see it made. You know, Trial potions from different schools have different effects. For example, the Griffin School enhances Sign power, the Cat School accelerates reaction speed, and the Bear School focuses more on physical hardening. The Wolf School is known for being balanced and stable, but it doesn't seem to have a specialty. Or perhaps, the Wolf School's specialty is a higher success rate?... No wonder our school's forte is blade oils and bombs; those crafts don't require innate talent."

At this point, the youth laughed at his own expense. He was laughing so heartily that he didn't notice the girl's pale face until he heard a steady knocking coming from the door to the smithy.

His expression darkening, Viktor drew the sword Prometheus.

He opened the door to find Luff kneeling on the ground. He bowed his head so hard it made a loud "thud" against the floor. When he looked up, his eyes were bright with unwavering resolve.

...

"No... Luff actually ran away? How could this happen? Weren't we good enough to him?" Fergus shouted indignantly inside the smithy.

Yuna’s expression wasn't any better. Luff was a fellow countryman, and she had taken good care of him over the past few days. She hadn't expected him to run off without a word, leaving only a note thanking them for their care.

Fortunately, after a thorough check, nothing was missing. Luff had at least kept his conscience; he hadn't taken any parting gifts, only the wages he had earned during his time as an apprentice.

In Viktor’s alchemy lab, Angoulême stood by the wooden wall, offering a wry smile. "The soundproofing really is terrible. It was indeed quite clear."

"You told me that before. It's my fault for not taking it seriously." The youth looked relaxed, busily rearranging his bottles and jars.

The girl hesitated. "Vic, so you really... are you sure you want to help him?"

The alchemy apprentice looked up. "It’s not that I want to help him, it’s that you do. I didn't want to kill him, so I let you decide whether to kill him or listen to his story, right? If it were up to me, I wouldn't have listened to his reasons at all; I would have just finished him off. My first concern was that he actually eavesdropped on us. Furthermore, I have no interest in his story. Luff was a slave sold to Novigrad; I can imagine eighteen different versions of a story so miserable it would just ruin my mood. Since you didn't kill him and chose to listen, and after hearing it, you asked me if I could help him... then I will help him. If a story meets with your approval, it must be quite moving."

Left speechless by Viktor’s logic, Angoulême could only sigh, "Fair enough. Since Luff has really left, it was his own choice."