With a new line of thought guiding her, Arya no longer looked as withdrawn as before. Her eyes were still dark from fatigue, yet there was a spark within them that hadn't been there a moment ago. The exhaustion clinging to her features was undeniable, but something about her felt more awake, almost energized.
This time, she didn't bother with the enamel mugs she had been using earlier. Instead, she lifted the meteorite crucible, the only one she had, but a piece of equipment that undeniably increased the success rate of potion-making. Even one such item was an advantage she couldn't ignore.
Even though she had mentally reached a point of "succeed or die trying," she still wasn't someone who would waste an advantage when she had it.
Besides, there were only so many materials left, and the Mana Tide was nearing its end. If this batch failed, she would simply have to find another path—there was no reason to stubbornly force herself forward indefinitely.
More importantly…
Something felt wrong with her body.
No normal person could work for such a long stretch, at such high intensity, without collapsing. Yet she had endured—propped up by attribute potions and Rogers' cooking. That alone felt abnormal, perhaps even eerie.
She realized that after finishing this batch, she would have to force herself to sleep. If she didn't, she might actually collapse from sudden exhaustion.
Holding the emerald-colored stirring rod, Arya drifted into thought. Her mind wandered from questioning why she felt so unnaturally energetic, to reminding herself to sleep, to recalling her forced teleportation into this magical world. Somehow, her thoughts circled all the way back to the almost comical moment when she brewed her very first potion.
Thinking back, she was genuinely grateful she had used a success-rate-boosting crucible back then. If not for Albert's crucible, she probably wouldn't have succeeded on her first attempt at potion brewing. That crucible had given her confidence when she needed it most.
Her first potion had even been mocked by the little "system screen," and the ridicule had never stopped since. At the time, she took it as a small, embarrassing piece of her history and nothing more.
But now… the more she thought about it, the more something felt off.
It wasn't the system itself that felt wrong—it was the content of the ridicule. Especially the remarks about her first official Apprentice-level Magic Potion. She remembered the screen complaining that her dosage was too large, too rigid, too formal—too boring.
At first, she thought the criticism was unnecessary nitpicking, especially for her first real potion. But thinking back now… wasn't that the only time the system ever mocked one of her official potions?
Why had it chosen to comment on that particular one?
Was it random?
Or was there meaning behind it?
Could it be that alchemy—or more specifically, potion development—required a bit more spontaneity? A sense of "liveliness"?
Books on potionology never mentioned anything like that. But maybe she was overthinking. Or maybe the system's strange remark held a hint she had missed back then.
Either way… the idea felt interesting.
Suddenly, Arya, who had pretty much given up hope on this batch, felt her perception widening. Perhaps "livening things up" was exactly the direction she needed.
So the question was: How could she liven up the potion?
She stared at the swirling mixture inside the crucible. Obviously she couldn't just toss in random objects like stones or furniture. That would be idiotic.
Then her gaze drifted to her own hands.
Wasn't she considered a material too?
She remembered what Albert once told her:
"If you stake everything you have on alchemy, alchemy will surely respond to your efforts."
If she wanted to "liven things up," then adding something of herself made perfect sense.
Gathering her resolve, Arya picked up the mortar and pestle. She scraped some of her fingernails into the bowl. Then she pulled out a few strands of hair and ground them into fine powder.
After doing this, a new thought struck her.
If she was already adding pieces of herself… why not go bigger?
Her eyes shifted to the distillation vessels she had just used. If magical beast blood could be added to potions, then what about her own blood? A potion designed to enhance her Talent—would it not be natural to include her own essence?
Ancient swordsmiths were known to mix their blood into their forges. She never fully understood the principle behind it, but the symbolism had always intrigued her. Perhaps it was worth imitating.
A single drop of blood was about 0.05 milliliters. A twenty-liter batch meant two hundred portions—which required at least two hundred drops. Roughly ten milliliters. Not too much.
With no hesitation, Arya retrieved a measuring cup and a scale. She drew her moonstone dagger, placed the blade against her wrist, and made a swift, steady cut.
Blood welled up immediately.
"Hiss—still hurts…" she muttered, her voice trembling only slightly.
She shivered, inhaling sharply at the sting. Quickly, she applied a Healing Potion to the wound, drank a second one, and poured the still-warm blood into the crucible.
It almost felt like she was doing some bizarre DNA test.
As the drops hit the surface of the mixture—ding-dong, ding-dong—the potion slowly began to change. The rust-yellow liquid turned reddish-brown, then lightened into purple. Soon blue, yellow, and green began weaving together in an intricate dance of color.
The transformation didn't stop.
Arya froze for a moment, completely taken aback. She had never seen such an effect before. But she didn't dare pause. She tightened her grip on the stirring rod and kept stirring.
Colors continued blending, shifting, merging. The potion, once dull and monochromatic, became a swirling rainbow of vibrant hues.
Surprisingly, it wasn't ugly at all. The colors didn't clash—they shimmered, harmonizing in an almost divine display.
"So many colors… yet it doesn't look harsh at all. It's beautiful…"
Arya murmured to herself, stirring clockwise with both hands.
Before she could finish her thought, a golden explosion of light burst upward from the crucible.
"Ah—!"
The sudden brilliance stabbed into her eyes, forcing tears to spill. Even through closed lids, the light hurt. But she refused to let go of the stirring rod.
She waited until the brightness faded before daring to open her eyes, only a narrow slit at first.
The glow was gone.
The potion inside, which should have been a soft rainbow mixture, was now something… different.
The colors were still there, but they no longer felt gentle. They twisted together in a way that looked wrong—like the oily, swirling sheen floating on polluted water in an underground sewer. Colors that existed, yet shouldn't.
Still…
It had glowed.
Glowing usually meant success.
Right?
No time for uncertainty.
Arya immediately grabbed her appraisal glasses, slipped them on, and stared into the crucible to see exactly what she had created.
Whatever this was… it had worked. Or at least, something had happened.
And now, she would finally know what.
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