Chapter 33: Potion
To be honest, losing all favor and protection from the gods, and becoming what is called a “faithless one,” was not part of Lart’s life plan.
As the destined heir of Alfied, the young prince had received the generous blessings of the goddesses the moment he was born. This was evident from Lart’s deep blue eyes, his saintly, flawless appearance, and the terrifying power he wielded against heretical creatures—and Lart had never doubted that he would serve as the earthly executor of those merciful deities.
He would follow the will of the goddesses, dedicating everything he had to the beings bathed in the gaze of the Three Goddesses.
Everyone believed this.
Yet fate—cunning and capricious—quietly overturned the prince’s destiny without Lart realizing it.
Every future king of Alfied must, upon reaching adulthood, undertake a long and arduous journey.
It must be said that this is an ancient and clever tradition: such a difficult, lengthy, and incognito journey always serves as the most practical way to force pampered royalty to grow quickly.
It helps the heirs become outstanding rulers in the future.
Unfortunately, this time, the journey did not help Lart become a king. On the contrary, his fate took a sudden turn, hurtling toward a path that was dark and grueling.
When Lart initially formed that mercenary group, it was purely to have an identity that allowed him to wander freely across the continent.
And when the Mercenary Guild recruited Alan, it was likewise driven purely by a certain, almost “foolish,” knightly spirit inherent in Lart.
After all, Alan at that time, amidst that bunch of fierce, savage mercenaries, appeared so… so fragile, terrified, and flustered.
Actually, so many people came and went in the guild, and third-rate, mediocre mages were far from rare—but Alan was different from everyone around him. The young black-haired mage carried a subtle aura, one that was unusually gentle because of his extreme adherence to order.
It was like a pearl that had accidentally fallen into a rough coal heap.
At the very first glance at Alan, Lart inexplicably pictured exactly that scene.
Lart couldn’t just ignore a mage like that.
The crown prince was fully confident in his own strength; even if his party carried several deadweight members, it would not affect his journey in the slightest. With this mindset, Lart took the initiative to approach the black-haired mage, who was still in the early stages of crossing and looked as if he were about to fall apart from fright.
Of course, in the events that followed, Alan continually proved to his teammates, with solid results, his unconventional kind of “strength” (seriously, even at the height of his powers, bathed in the goddesses’ blessings, Lart would not have had the confidence to safely escape the Wild Fairy Market—but Alan even managed to get extra freebies from that strange and malevolent fairy vendor).
Lart quickly revised his opinion of Alan—the black-haired mage was by no means a “deadweight,” but the most competent mage imaginable.
…
“Ahem… although Alan’s magical strength is… well, not exactly impressive… my point is, his mind is surprisingly sharp, isn’t it?”
“…and, um, and the food he makes is really good too.” This was the awkward mumbling of a blunt dwarf behind their back.
“Ah, if it weren’t for the meals here, I would have quit a long time ago.” This was the candid acknowledgment of a powerful, finicky, and exceptionally picky elf.
Yet Lart never mentioned his feelings for Alan in front of the other team members.
No, it wasn’t because he disliked Alan.
On the contrary, the young crown prince’s silence was entirely because his gaze found it increasingly impossible to leave the black-haired mage.
Lart, son of Alfied.
Favored by the Three Goddesses.
His soul should have shone brighter than gold, been harder than diamond, and clearer than crystal.
Yet Lart was horrified to realize that a figure had appeared in his heart—one that could not be erased.
Lart had struggled with this, but in the end, he had to admit that he had developed thoughts of a kind no one should ever have about Alan… and desires that were utterly sacrilegious.
The unprecedented admiration, combined with day after day of increasingly corrupt and wicked dreams, left Lart deeply unsettled. He panicked to the point of becoming a cowardly deserter—and in the end, his actions drove Alan away.
Only after Alan’s presence had vanished from his life did Lart painfully realize that everything he had previously agonized over—even the highest glory and divine favor—was insignificant.
He longed for Alan’s smile far more than the blessing of the gods.
However, the resolution Lart had long made was nothing short of a tremendous shock to Alan at that moment.
“You’re saying… you’ve lost the gods’ favor? All of it?”
In the small square of Green River Village, the young mage stared dumbfounded at the man before him, barely daring to believe his own ears.
Alan had personally witnessed the goddesses’ favor toward Lart when he was in the mercenary squad. It would not have been an exaggeration to call Lart the earthly son of the Goddess of Light. The holy light that other high priests would beg for hours in the prayer chambers came to Lart as easily as snapping his fingers.
(Oh, he really didn’t want to recall the image of Lart, stone-faced, using holy light to set the campfire ablaze…)
But now, Lart was telling him that he had already been completely cast out by the goddesses?!
“That’s right. All of it.”
Lart looked back innocently at the little mage, who was clearly startled.
He keenly noticed the concern and worry in Alan’s eyes, feelings he couldn’t easily hide. Lart was familiar with that kind of worry—after all, without the Goddess of Light’s holy blessing, dealing with the lingering corruption left by monsters in battle was no easy task.
Even Lart himself had suffered considerably during the early days of losing divine favor. But now, such magical contamination and damage from monsters were hardly a problem: as long as you were strong enough, every problem was just a small one.
The most practical example was his older brother, the exiled shadow and darkness, the cursed Veles. That guy had never received divine favor, yet Lart had never seen him hesitate in battle because of it.
“Don’t worry, Alan, these injuries are nothing—”
Lart instinctively started to reassure him.
But at that moment, his thoughts shifted slightly, and before reason could intervene, he couldn’t help but alter his tone: “…it just hurts a little.”
He said it to Alan in a deliberately lowered, slightly hoarse voice, knowing it would make him seem weaker than he actually was.
“Everyone has to pay a little price for mistakes made in battle, right? Don’t worry too much, Alan. I’ll be fine,” Lart said.
He had never realized he could be… well, this cunning before.
The wounds weren’t actually as serious as they appeared—Lart knew that very well.
But he knew even better how Alan would react to his seemingly casual words just now. Unsurprisingly, the always gentle and shy country mage’s expression had darkened almost to the point of gloom.
The mage stared solemnly at Lart’s injuries, his brows tightly furrowed. “Captain, these wounds on your body don’t look like something that can just… ‘get better’ on their own.”
And so, Lart was nearly forcibly dragged back to his own residence by Alan.
Even if Lart insisted a thousand times that the injuries were merely superficial, Alan remained firmly convinced that his captain would need a restorative potion. The magical concentration in Green River Village was extremely low, but the herbs produced in the surrounding forest were quite potent.
On the way home with Lart, Alan had already devised the potion formula: some vervain harvested under the moonlight, a touch of violet, ash from burned thyme, honey, and a generous amount of herbal roots, all placed in an oak bowl and stirred with a mistletoe branch.
The potion would be diluted with honey wine blessed by elves. Of course, the honey wine hadn’t reached its ideal tasting time yet, and no magical compendium on the continent ever mentioned this little tip—but Alan was certain that the honey wine would maximize the potion’s ability to dispel curses and corruption.
And let’s be honest…
With the honey wine included, the potion would at least taste good. Alan hadn’t forgotten that his previous captain, though seemingly strong and stoic, had a particular aversion to unpleasant-tasting potions.
In fact, the final potion placed before Lart could genuinely be called “delicious” by potion-making standards. The vervain and herbal roots gave the golden potion a fragrant, plant-like aroma, while the honey wine made it taste crisp and sweet.
Alan had planned everything meticulously, but there was one thing he had not anticipated… that little Green would show such frenzied hostility toward Lart’s arrival.
Oh, forgot to mention: to prevent “an incident” from causing panic among the crowd, Alan had tied Little Green to Mr. Leonard’s fence when he was called away. Only after settling Lart did Alan hurriedly retrieve Little Green. Before leaving, he cast a glance at Mr. Leonard’s yard.
“Thank you for taking care of this little one,” Alan said awkwardly to the pale-faced woodsman and his family, “but I can guarantee that over the next ten years, you won’t need to worry about fernhounds in your yard again.”
—After all, Little Green had already dug up and eaten all the fernhounds buried in the subterranean spore nests.
Perhaps because he was full, Little Green was much quieter on the way back, and from deep within his massive flower-like body occasionally came a long sound that resembled a satisfied burp.
This gave Alan a small sense of relief, but before he could even bring Little Green inside, the dragon vine spotted a handsome, pale man at the window.
At that moment, Lart was peering out, and the instant he saw Alan, a smile appeared on his face.
“You’re finally back! Hey, my dear, I have to admit the restorative potion is really good, but can’t I add just a bit more honey? This stuff is way too bitter—”
He shook the jar of honey beside him as he spoke.
“Bitter?”
Alan paused. He had personally tasted the potion when he poured it from the oak bowl and had found not a trace of bitterness.
A flash of surprise crossed the mage’s mind, but Little Green’s reaction quickly drew all his attention.
The little creature, which had been darting around Alan’s feet like a playful puppy, froze the moment it sensed Lart.
The air suddenly became unbearably thick and heavy, and even the sky seemed to darken.
Little Green’s body shot upward, and every single flower head pointed straight at Lart.
“Sssss—”
At that moment, Alan even felt as if he could hear the sound of venom rapidly secreting from those flower heads.
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Author’s Note:
Little Green: …This guy still wants to eat my honey??!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
