In a brightly lit room illuminated by four magic lanterns, a twenty-something Nordic woman with short white hair lounged at her Magic Desk. Dressed in a white lab coat, legs casually crossed, she studied the introduction to [Elementary Potion: Talent Promotion (D)] displayed before her. A monocle rested over one eye, and a finger-length white stick—some kind of wood—hung from her lips.
"A Talent Promotion potion, huh? Now that is an interesting topic."
Her gaze shifted toward the translucent, steaming, frost-covered crucible behind her. Alchemy tools cluttered the area, and shelves overflowed with bottles and jars. Several books lay open nearby—books that noticeably overlapped with those found on Arya's bedside shelf.
"It seems this world isn't as boring as I thought."
She stood, walked over to the crucible, and used her foot to switch off the alchemy base. Then she ladled the potion out and dumped it unceremoniously into the sink, discarding the entire batch. Reaching up to a shelf, she grabbed a jar filled with monster materials soaking in water.
"I wonder what the formula for the Talent Promotion potion is. It would be fascinating to discuss it with that Arya."
With that, she busied herself once more.
Meanwhile, elsewhere…
When the voice of the world will echoed, a certain man frowned at the desk before him. A moment later, the same text he had heard appeared at the top of his Magic Desk. He tapped the potion section and examined its quality.
"If this thing could be mass-produced… it would be a blessing for all humanity, wouldn't it?"
He muttered to himself.
"It has plenty of restrictions—user limits, level limits. But if they can make a D-grade version now, they might be able to create C-grade or even B-grade in the future. Talents like that… are exactly what we need."
"Councilor, a document from the Council."
A young man in a gray-white robe entered and handed him a sheet of paper. The councilor read it, then glanced up.
"And what does the Council intend?"
"They say it must be completed as soon as possible."
The man's brow creased.
"We currently have neither power nor magic to persuade anyone. Even in this situation, they want it done immediately?"
"Yes."
"Hah. Those old fools can't let go of their authority—not even after coming to another world."
He laughed bitterly.
"Do they seriously believe Master Huang has more guns than the Four Great Families?"
"Uh…"
The young man didn't know how to answer.
"Forget it. Let them run around doing whatever they want. Eventually, they'll learn the rules aren't the same anymore."
He shoved the document back into the young man's hands, then returned his attention to the Talent Potion message glowing on his Magic Desk.
"Dad… this Arya—she isn't my cousin… right?"
Inside a certain Shelter, a lean man in his twenties stared at the middle-aged, full-bearded man across the bonfire. His question made the two women next to him—who were replenishing the patterns on the ground—freeze in place.
"Impossible. Absolutely impossible."
The middle-aged man's hand halted. He shook his head firmly.
"I heard that girl was thrown out of the hospital because she couldn't afford treatment. You know the reputation of Federal Hospital. She's probably long dead."
His confident tone made the young man sigh with relief. The two women—one older, one younger—felt the same. After all, when you do nothing wrong, you fear nothing; but their group had never been at ease when the name Arya surfaced.
Were they guilty?
No—just afraid.
Afraid that the girl whose inheritance they swindled would return to settle accounts.
"But it's not completely impossible that it's her," an old woman with messy hair remarked as she tossed a piece of wood into the pattern.
"Either way, we should be cautious."
The middle-aged man nodded.
"Tsk. If only the other side had spoken, or if cross-region friend requests worked. Then we could check if this Arya's avatar is the same Arya we know."
The younger woman clicked her tongue.
"Enough. We don't even have a Magic Desk right now. How would we check?"
The middle-aged man shot his daughter a look.
Before any of them could continue, a blond man strode over, kicked the middle-aged man to the ground, and began shouting.
"Hey! Old man! Keep working! What are you daydreaming for?"
"Sorry, sorry. My hand was just a little stiff."
The middle-aged man didn't get angry; instead, he smiled obsequiously from the ground, like a beaten dog.
"I don't care if you're stiff. Don't forget who kindly took in your family. If this Magic Barrier fails because of you yellow-skinned monkeys, and we lose a Level 3 Shelter, you'll answer to the BOSS."
He scanned the four of them with disdain.
"Yes, yes. I guarantee it won't happen."
"Damn it—the Mana Tide's almost over. Move it! Or don't blame me if I get rough."
With a final threat, the blond man sneered and walked away.
"Damn fundamentalist…" the middle-aged man muttered once the blond man was gone.
Immediately, he found his family staring at him. Perhaps embarrassed by his earlier servility—or angered by his own cowardice—he snapped back into his "head of the family" demeanor.
"What are you staring at? Move! Do you want the BOSS to deal with you?"
There was a saying: a tyrant at home.
And today, the middle-aged man embodied it perfectly.
Startled, the three quickly resumed their tasks—passing materials, reinforcing the pattern, keeping the Magic Barrier stable. None of them wanted the blond man to return, nor to suffer the BOSS's punishment.
They only needed to endure until the Mana Tide ended.
Then they would leave this miserable place.
Their family had had enough.
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