Chapter Forty-One: The Entry Permit to Vygma

At noon, on the way home after leaving the Kalkstan Alchemy Workshop, Angoulême followed behind Victor somewhat sheepishly, for the youth’s expression had been grim ever since they stepped out.

After a moment’s hesitation, the girl tried probing, “Captain, you don’t seem in a good mood. Did things not go well?”

He shot her a fierce glare, tempted to vent his frustration with a few harsh words, but the steady hand of his paternal instincts ultimately prevailed.

So, Victor replied irritably, “I won’t praise you for reading faces this time. Anyway, things went smoothly enough. My bad mood is for other reasons, so don’t ask.”

...No one could feel cheerful after being teased like that.

The whole affair had been simple. Kalkstan had posed to him several metaphysical—abstract—questions, and when Victor answered smoothly, the alchemist, claiming the authority of a senior, admonished him not to reach too high.

He ridiculed Victor for spouting borrowed, mature-sounding ideas that clearly didn’t belong to someone his age, calling it the folly of youth. For example, did someone as young as Victor truly study alchemy to “seek the truth”?

...Victor himself didn’t believe that—he never cared about truth. What he wanted was power, the strength to take control of his own fate.

So his “deliberate pandering” was mercilessly cut down, and Victor had no retort.

Fortunately, it was only mildly embarrassing, and with no third party present, no one else would know. After his tirade, Kalkstan admitted he still appreciated Victor.

He liked the answers Victor had so dutifully recited, especially the one about being a “seeker of truth”—it was as if he’d seen himself in the youth.

Thus, he was willing to share his alchemical insights and notes for Victor’s reference, provided he brought—he spread out a list—ghoul blood, gluttonous ghoul marrow, drowners’ brains, carrion demon hide, graveyard moss, molewort, white crepe myrtle petals… and so on, more than twenty kinds of alchemical materials, each with a specified quantity.

He didn’t demand the whole list; however much Victor could gather, that much wisdom Kalkstan would share—those were his words.

But many of the listed materials could only be found outside the city, which brought them back, full circle, to where they’d been the day before—the quest for a pass to enter and leave Vizima.

The advantage today, though, was that Victor knew exactly who to approach: Vincent Meis, Captain of the Vizima City Guard, who could both listen and issue such permits.

...

The Phantom Company found Captain Vincent at the city guard’s training ground. When the guards went to fetch him, he could be seen in the distance, instructing his men in swordsmanship, a practice blade in hand.

This balding, pot-bellied, middle-aged man strode over in thin iron armor, his surcoat emblazoned with the Temerian lily. Deep lines etched his face, making him look older than his years.

Prepared, Victor produced the “Bloodthirsty Plant” bounty notice he’d taken from the public board. “Respected Captain, I’ve come for this notice. I wish to go outside to eliminate this bloodthirsty creature, but the sealed gates prevent me from serving you.”

The Captain sized up the young mercenary for a while. The steel sword at his waist was no ornament, the studded leather armor showed marks of wear, and the woman behind him was clearly no mere decoration.

These two were obviously not here to swindle, but whether they could accomplish the task remained to be seen.

Judging he had their measure, Vincent crossed his arms. “It’s a dangerous job, lad. I suggest you think twice. Four hundred orens—is it worth risking your life?”

Victor placed his right hand on his chest and answered solemnly, “We have thought it through, Captain. We hope for this opportunity. The Phantom Company wishes to serve Temeria.”

“Phantom Company?” The Captain looked puzzled. From north of the Yaruga River to south of the Pontar, he knew all the notable mercenary groups in Temeria, but this name was new to him.

To ease his confusion, Angoulême beamed, “We just founded our mercenary company, Captain. For now, it’s only the two of us.”

Such an unreliable answer made Vincent shake his head. Another pair of thrill-seeking youngsters with no idea of the dangers awaiting them—he’d seen too many like this.

Now and then, one or two would prove their mettle, but he could always recruit such talents once they survived.

With that, he summoned a guard at random. “Jesolo, take them to the guardhouse, register them, and issue two city gate passes.”

Then, turning to Victor, “Give Jesolo fifty orens later,” Vincent said. “The price of opportunity. Understood?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

...

The fourth return home that day was already deep into the night. No wonder this was Temeria’s capital—every alchemical tool he needed was available. After his shopping, Victor went to the basement to set up his alchemy lab, with Angoulême helping carry supplies down.

First to be arranged, of course, was the essence of all mysterious alchemy—the ever-boiling, enigmatic cauldron, forever brewing who-knew-what inside.

After all the moving, the companion sat idly, watching her captain at work. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help, but as an alchemy apprentice Victor allowed no interference—every beaker and test tube had to be placed just so.

With nothing to do, the girl propped her chin on one hand, swinging her long legs in boredom, when she suddenly remembered, “Oh, right, Captain! That amulet from this afternoon—you said it could reduce the chance of getting the plague. What does it actually do?”

Victor was bent close to the cauldron, scrubbing its inner walls, so his answer echoed sonorously, “Don’t worry. That flea-repelling amulet is a specialty from Ben Ard, handcrafted by a mage—guaranteed quality.”

He looked up, meeting Angoulême’s indignant glare. “Hey! Don’t roll your eyes, I’m not joking. The plague spreads through flea bites,” he said seriously.

“How do you know that, Captain?”

“If I didn’t, how could I be your captain?”

A few words stifled the girl’s complaints. Victor poured water into the cauldron, lit the firewood, and waved her over. “Don’t say I’m not good to you. Today, the Captain will teach you a secret skill! If you master it, you’ll never go hungry again.”

“Huh! What is it?” Her lively brown eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“Relax, just watch my demonstration—it’s simple. How to make delicious tea eggs.

Look, toss these tea leaves and eggs into the pot, stir them around like this, swirl and tap… then, with a flash of light, ta-da—they become tea eggs...”

As he spoke, a faint glow shone, and Victor ladled out the tea eggs floating in the cauldron, cracking one open and splitting it for Angoulême to taste.

“This is delicious! The method is amazing! Can I really learn it?”

“You either can or you can’t—you’ll know once you try.” As he said this, his voice was calm and distant, filled with nostalgia and gratitude that only he understood.