Alliyana Etheria's perspective
Four days.
That's how long I'd been here. Long enough to develop a routine.
Wake. Train. Eat. Wait. Healing duty. Sleep.
Repeat.
I lay on my bunk, watching the ceiling beams breathe with the draft, chest rising and falling from the morning session. No magic today—just calisthenics. The old-fashioned way. Pushups, squats, pullups.
No self-healing. No metabolic acceleration. Just sweat, shivers, and routine.
It was almost nostalgic. The same way I started in my first life—no magic, no miracles, only muscle memory and protein. In a world of mana, it feels almost ceremonial. Like carving stone with a spoon while others summon mountains into shape.
And besides, the rations here were generous for someone my size. Adult male portions. I didn't ask questions.
There wasn't much to do after training. Healers were allotted an excessive amount of "recovery" time. Lina used hers to sleep. So did most.
Ten hours of stillness. Ten hours of listening to snoring, flatulence, and debates about ethics.
Eventually, the itch set in. Not restlessness—stagnation. I needed something to press against.
The thought arrived clean and obvious:
What if I went hunting?
No one would stop me. There were no guards tracking who went in or out. No sign-out logs. Just the unspoken rule: if you leave, you leave alone.
Outside the gates: snow, ruins, demonic beasts.
Suicide. At least on paper.
To me? Opportunity.
I sat up, rolled my shoulders. Let the soreness settle.
I wasn't a noble's daughter anymore. My frame was still child-sized, sure—but misleading.
A soldier would see a girl. Maybe agile. Maybe a little too quiet.
But pound for pound? I had the relative mobility of an Olympic sprinter and the endurance of a hound. Years of metabolic training gave me the lung efficiency. I could move. I could last.
And if I could eat?
Then I could grow.
Of course, there was the issue of demonic meat.
Taboo. Forbidden. Lethal.
Stories floated around—soldiers caught in the cold, rations gone, tried to eat corrupted flesh. Dead by morning. Seizures. Vomiting.
But no one asked why. No one studied the corpses. They just accepted it: demonic beasts are unclean. Don't eat them. Praise the gods. The usual.
First rule of pharmacology: Everything is a poison. The difference is dose.
So what killed those men? Neurotoxins? Cardiac arrest? Renal failure? Nobody knew. And worse—nobody tried to know.
In a world full of miracles, science had gone to sleep.
The body was sacred. Untouchable. They didn't dissect. Didn't question.
Which meant I was going in blind.
No lab. No data. No antidotes.
But that wasn't new.
I woke before the bell the next day. Dressed in silence. Scarf. Cloak. Boots.
The hallway was still asleep. Lamps flickered in their sconces like they were trying to stay warm. The air smelled faintly of broth and wet stone.
In the kitchen, a chef was chopping tubers with the resigned precision of someone who lost their dreams to a ladle decades ago.
He looked up. His brow twitched. Recognized me.
Ah yes. The "more rations" girl.
"Do you throw away your bruised produce?" I asked.
He blinked. "Of course we do."
"Can I have it?"
He shrugged. "Storage's that way."
No questions. No suspicion. Just a man too tired to care.
Good.
I found the crates—wilted greens, bruised roots, fibrous stalks. Technically edible. Some mold, but manageable.
Spinach. Asparagus. Kale. Garlic. Mushrooms.
Not quite the Earth variants, but close enough in structure and scent. That would do.
One variable, secured.
I went back to him again. "Can I use a pot and a stove?"
He grunted. "Don't make a mess."
Deal.
I diced everything fine. Tossed it into the pot. Boiled, stirred, simmered.
The scent was... pungent. Earthy. Slightly sulfuric. Not appetizing. Not supposed to be.
This wasn't a stew. It was a biochemical support solution. A crude one—but functional.
I added salt. Stirred again. Poured it into a jar. Sealed it. Set it aside to cool.
As I cleaned the pot, the chef passed behind me and gave the jar a long, suspicious look.
"What's that?" he asked. "A new way to waste scraps?"
I dried my hands. "Glutathione stew."
He stared.
Didn't expect him to understand, but I indulged him anyway.
"One of the ways the body detoxifies poisons is through phase II conjugation. Glutathione helps bind and neutralize toxins—especially reactive oxygen species. All I have to do is provide the precursors. Methionine. B vitamins. The rest should follow."
Blank stare.
I gestured to the jar. "It's an antidote. Hopefully."
He scratched his head. "Just wash the damn pot when you're done."
"I already did."
He walked off.
I looked at the jar. Steam fogged the glass. My reflection was faint in the curve of it.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't conclusive.
But it was a hedge. A maybe.
A calculated step into the unknown.
I tucked the jar into my satchel.
Tomorrow, I'd test it.