Long tables had been stacked sideways to form a heavy barricade.
From the gap between them, a pair of blood-red, sinister eyes flashed.
A thunderous bang followed.
Thud. Thud.
The pounding grew faster, like drums echoing from the depths of hell.
Bell didn't try to block it.
He gripped his dagger and thrust it through the gap in the tables.
"Gagh!"
A Goblin fell with a cry, its foul green blood seeping through the narrow opening.
As Bell pulled back his blade, a longsword suddenly pierced the tabletop.
The rusted weapon missed his face by mere inches.
He jumped back, and the makeshift barricade of wood collapsed with a crash.
The corridor was now packed with grotesque, terrifying Goblins.
Should he be glad he took one down?
Bell looked at the swarm of monsters and swung his blade forward.
The entrance to the alchemy lab was narrow—but that also meant limited space to dodge.
Claws and fangs came at him nonstop.
Wounds began piling up on Bell's body.
The cramped space hindered his movements—but it also worked against the Goblins.
Their greatest advantage, sheer numbers, had been blunted.
Under Bell's feints and parries, many Goblins ended up striking their own.
The stench of rot thickened as more monsters poured in.
This was turning into a battle of attrition.
Airmid took her chances, healing the boy whenever she could.
At his insistence, she refrained from using her [Mystery] Development Ability to boost her healing spells with a magic circle.
Instead, she only cast healing when his movements faltered.
That wasn't what the Dea Saint would usually do.
But to hold out until help arrived, she abandoned the pride of a healer.
And even that wasn't enough.
It did greatly reduce her mental energy drain—but the total supply remained limited.
To hold this line, they needed more than Bell's grit.
They needed one thing: a Magic Potion.
While keeping a close eye on the youth, Airmid moved carefully through the alchemy lab.
She dared not look away from him for more than a moment, so every step was slow.
Pale blue.
Still pale blue.
Every glass vial she passed contained the same color liquid.
All stamina potions—completely different from what she needed.
Pale blue.
Pale blue...
The color of healing seas. But to Airmid, it felt like the color of despair.
The Goblins were attacking too fiercely. Bell didn't have a single moment to drink a potion.
Even just one Magic Potion... it could buy them precious time.
Airmid watched Bell fight, bloodied and struggling, worry etched on her face.
There had to be one.
If that group's real goal, as their leader claimed, was to bring ruin to Orario—
Then they wouldn't have just stockpiled stamina potions for average adventurers. They'd have made sure to include healing and magic potions for magic-users too.
The latter might be rare, but even a single dose could change the outcome of battle.
If they planned to charm people with their potions, there's no reason they'd only cater to low-level adventurers.
Airmid tried to calm herself as she assessed the state of the lab.
Blue...
Pale orange.
Wait!
A flicker of hope caught her eye.
Inside a hollow glass container, a faint trace of orange potion remained.
That color—it was from a Magic Potion.
But when Airmid looked around, she couldn't find even a drop more.
They'd all been taken?
Just as she glimpsed hope, it was ripped away, plunging her deeper into despair.
At the entrance, Bell had nowhere to dodge. A deep gash opened across his shoulder.
Fresh blood splashed before Airmid's eyes.
The Dea Saint immediately chanted a healing spell.
White light burst forth, but her expression darkened.
The boy was shouldering far too much.
His journey as an adventurer had barely begun.
The only reason he'd lasted this long was his skill and sheer determination.
If one of those mutated Goblins appeared now, this method of healing would collapse the front line in an instant.
"Bell..."
Airmid whispered the boy's name in worry.
He was still locked in fierce battle—how could she possibly give up now?
The Saint calmly counted the materials laid out on the table. If there were no healing potions left, then she would make one herself. That was her duty as an alchemist.
Airmid held her breath. As a healer, she didn't possess the skill for parallel chanting. Healing songs and potion-making—trying to handle both at once would only lead to failure.
Faced with this hellish choice, the Saint raised her voice.
"Cranel-san! I'll start brewing the potion right away, but I won't be able to heal you while I'm working. Please hold on for five minutes!"
"Understood!" Bell shouted back, batting aside the monster's claws.
"If your injuries become life-threatening, call out! I'll stop brewing and cast healing magic immediately!"
Airmid added the most important words. She exhaled deeply and began the process. Even the first step—handling the ingredients—made her hands tremble.
She had done this countless times before, so why did fear seize her now? Biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, she forced herself to focus, letting the pain drive the fear away.
Trust yourself.
The knowledge of potion-making was engraved in her mind, and every material she needed was here. The only thing that hadn't been tested was her devotion to the wounded.
She was known as Dea Saint, the Saint of the Battlefield—her resolve should need no further proof.
The furnace ignited. All other sounds faded away, and time itself seemed to stop. The boiling liquid devoured and melted the ingredients, radiating a strange light.
Miach-sama, please bless us.
As always, Airmid offered her prayer to the God of Alchemy. As a healer, she revered that merciful god deeply. It was also why she so often helped Naaza.
She didn't seek to save everyone like that god—she only wished to save the boy before her.
Yet... that small wish, like a rising bubble, swelled, floated upward, and burst into nothing.
The potion's color was wrong.
Failure.
Failure...
Airmid gasped for air. Where had she gone wrong?
The goblins' screeches clashed with the ring of steel, tearing at her ears. Had the ingredients been stored too long?
The boy didn't call out. With each clash of weapons, Airmid's heart tightened. She feared that sound—because that steadfast youth would never cry out unless it was truly unbearable, choosing instead to silently endure the pain.
But what she feared even more... was the moment that sound stopped.
Countless distracting thoughts swirled in her mind, pushing her deeper into a vicious cycle of despair.
Was the furnace fire not hot enough?
Airmid felt her limbs growing weaker, her breath scorched by the rising steam. And so she sank, bit by bit, toward the abyss of despair.
Darkness engulfed her vision. The world fell silent.
As an alchemist, she seemed to mock herself for this pitiful state. Dea Saint—could she really fail at alchemy? That boy saved you, yet you're dragging him down with you. So this is the extent of your passion, after all.
Passion...
Airmid recalled her first attempt at alchemy. Her mother had been sick then, and a torrential rain raged outside. Unable to go out, she relied only on the knowledge from her books and the herbs in their home to brew a potion.
No distractions. No technique. All that young Airmid had was her love for her mother.
Through years of repetitive potion-making, she had somehow forgotten something so essential.
In the darkness, that young human girl smiled and reached her hands toward her.
You remember now, don't you?
How could I ever forget this origin—the passion of an apothecary?
You've realized it, haven't you?
Yes. I want to be his support. Take him away from here. Help him fulfill his dreams. Keep him far from pain.
I want to tell that boy my true feelings, to stay by his side always. No matter how much pain he's endured until now, I'll use the time ahead to heal him, to let him forget those wounds.
Seems you've found it.
"Yes, I will pour everything I have into that boy."
Unnoticed, the young girl vanished, and their voices overlapped.
"I truly envy you."
Her voice faded in her mind. "Medicine-making is exhausting. The rest is up to you."
Airmid opened her eyes.
Without realizing it, her face was already streaked with tears. The droplets fell through the rising steam like jewels, mixing into the potion.
Inside the vessel, the elixir glowed with a soft orange light.
...
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