According to this world, I was now considered a youth—no longer a child.
That meant I was expected to work more and play less. In practice, not much had changed. Even when I went out to "play," I usually returned with something useful: fish, good quality wood for my father, meat from hunting, and so on.
My life had settled into a comfortable, stable routine.
The village was peaceful, with no real troubles beyond the occasional drunken dispute.
I began to take an interest in the botany of this world. I learned about various plants used for healing, anesthesia, and other purposes, all under the excuse of collecting herbs for Gertrude during my trips into the forest.
Thanks to that knowledge, my greenhouse was now completely full. I was even considering expanding it.
My mind took a break from runes, and I began to think about potions. If I could recreate some of the potions from games or other worlds, it would greatly improve my chances of survival here.
To work with potions, however, I needed a cauldron made from a material that would not interfere with the mixture. Copper, lead, and iron were unsuitable.
Ideally, I should have used gold—but for now, brass would have to suffice, as long as I carefully controlled the temperature.
The brass I could make was not particularly pure, since I had no access to refined zinc, but it would serve for initial experiments.
Once the cauldron was ready, I inscribed it with containment and conductivity runes—one to restrain any magic I infused into it, and another to distribute heat evenly.
The logic I wanted to test was amplification. I would use both heat and magic to extract the essence of plants and combine them to enhance their effects.
Using Molter herb, which possessed antiseptic and healing properties, I attempted to create something that would improve recovery—or perhaps even a healing potion.
I began by attempting to extract the plant's essence.
I failed miserably.
I tried every method I could think of—using water, infusing magic as a catalyst—but regardless of the proportions, all attempts resulted in nothing more than a foul-smelling tea that did little beyond cleaning a wound.
Thinking back, I felt foolish. I had structured an entire rune-based magic system around symbolism, intent, and communication—yet when it came to potions, I had forgotten how this world actually functioned.
Which raised a new question.
Did plants have symbolism?
The answer, I realized, was yes. In the case of Molter, people associated it with healing. What I needed was to weave materials together that resonated with my intent.
Since my intent was healing and recovery, I needed materials that embodied those ideas—along with intermediaries, just like the linking runes in my arrays.
I used Molter herb as the healing agent, red pine sap as a binder—also carrying connotations of blood and vitality—and blueberries, which hunters consumed to recover stamina during long hunts. All that remained was testing and adjusting the proportions.
I focused my intent, then extended it to the water in the cauldron. Once it reached a suitable temperature, I added the Molter herb, stirring clockwise as it sank. After that, I added the red pine sap, letting it dissolve for five minutes, and finally poured in the blueberry extract.
After a few more minutes of stirring, the liquid took on a faint red-magenta hue. With my senses, I could feel that it contained energy—and that the energy was stable, not dispersing.
All that remained was testing.
I trapped a rabbit and made a cut on its hind leg. First, I applied the potion externally. It worked—weakly, but steadily. The wound began to recover, though it did not fully close.
I applied more. Soon, the rabbit's skin was flawless. Only the fur still needed time to grow back.
For the second test, I made a cut on another rabbit and used my mind to make it ingest the potion. The effect was far stronger. Using the same amount as before, the wound regenerated within minutes, and the rabbit became visibly more energetic.
With potions now at my disposal, I felt significantly safer.
And so I headed home.
As I approached the village, a terrible feeling seized my chest.
I heard screams.
Grabbing my bow and nocking an arrow, I sprinted toward the village at full speed.
What I saw filled me with dread.
Two Urgals were attacking.
The villagers were fighting them desperately. The tavern owner managed to strike one in the neck with an axe, killing it instantly.
The other charged—and struck my father, sending him flying.
I reacted on instinct.
With a shout, I raised my bow and fired without aiming, driven by raw, primal fury.
I did not know whether I hit it. I only ran to my father.
He was breathing—but I could tell he had internal bleeding.
Probably broken ribs.
The relief of knowing he was alive dulled my rage, and my rational mind returned.
I could save him.
But doing so would end my secret.