Charles didn't care about Aris's punishment. As the guards dragged his screaming brother toward the iron maidens, Charles was already halfway down the cellar stairs, his mind occupied by the dense vellum of Alchemillia Vol. 2.
"Aris was a stagnant variable," Charles muttered, clearing his workbench of old Blue Herbs. "His death doesn't advance the work. These do."
He looked at his new creations. Since Cavemother's Milk was a suicidal errand, he had used his Prodigy Soul to bridge the gap, extracting protein-rich bioluminescence from Golden Chanterelles to craft a stable Yellow Vial.
Then, he began the dangerous transmutations:
The Vials of Force:
Orange Vial (Red + Yellow): He mixed the corrosive Red Vial with the yellow base. The reaction didn't melt; it fused into a bubbling stimulant. Strength, he noted as his muscles twitched with an artificial adrenaline.
Green Vial (Blue + Yellow): The calm of the Blue Vial met the yellow protein, turning emerald. He felt his nervous system sharpen, his reflexes accelerating into a state of heightened Agility.
The Vials of Ruin:
Purple Vial (Blue + Red): He watched the healing blue and corrosive red curdle into a bruised violet. This wasn't for drinking; it was a lethal Poison.
Black Vial: A growth hormone of concentrated shadow that caused living tissue to mutate uncontrollably.
Murky Vials: Using lamp oil as a carrier, he infused the Black and Yellow essences. One was a thick, tar-like grease; the other was a glowing, flammable sludge meant for clearing the path.
"The forest is waking up," Lord Ludwig said, appearing in the doorway. He looked at the Red Vial in Charles's hand—a liquid that could melt the lock of a cage or a man's face. "The mutations from the Dungeons are spilling past the tree line."
"Good," Charles said, packing his satchel. He felt the phantom vibration of the truck tires—a reminder that in this world, he was the one with the crushing weight. "I need fresh samples anyway."
As the carriage entered the woods, the air turned cold and smelled of wet fur. Suddenly, the horses shrieked. A massive, Mutated Dog with skin like wet leather and too many eyes lunged from the brush, its jaw snapping inches from the window.
Charles didn't flinch. He uncorked an Orange Vial and handed it to Ludwig. "Drink this and kill it. I need the brain for my next mix."
Ludwig downed the Orange Vial in a single, desperate gulp. The effect was visceral—the prince's veins turned a violent, protruding amber, and his eyes shot open with a predatory light. With a roar of artificial adrenaline, he leaped from the carriage. His sword, normally a tool of disciplined form, became a blur of raw, bone-shattering force. He didn't just fight the Mutated Guards; he dismantled them, his strikes shearing through their twisted, leather-like plate armor as if it were parchment.
By the time the orange glow faded from Ludwig's skin, three mangled corpses lay in the dirt, their black blood steaming in the cool forest air.
"Here," Ludwig panted, wiping gore from his blade. He dragged the heavy, distorted bodies toward the carriage. "Your... samples, Charles."
"Thanks, brother," Charles said, his voice terrifyingly casual.
He stepped out of the carriage, the phantom vibration of the truck in his heels replaced by the steady, focused hum of the Prodigy Soul. He reached into his coat and pulled out a handful of Soul Stones. They were cold, empty vessels, waiting to be filled.
As he held them over the cooling bodies, the stones began to pulse with a faint, sickly green light. One by one, the Lesser Souls of the mutated guards flickered out of the meat and were sucked into the gems with a hollow whistle.
Fuel for the next stage, Charles thought, tucking the now-glowing stones away.
Then, he knelt in the mud, pulling a jagged scalpel and a Red Vial from his kit. He didn't look at the corpses as people, but as a map of the Dungeon's influence.
"Look at the cellular structure," Charles whispered, pouring a drop of the corrosive red liquid onto a patch of the guard's mutated skin. The flesh hissed and bubbled, but instead of melting away, it resisted. "The Black Vial's growth hormone has fused with their original biology. It's not just a mutation; it's a hardening. They aren't rotting—they're evolving to survive the darkness."
He sliced into a bulging mass on the guard's neck, exposing a cluster of secondary, vestigial nervous systems.
"They were being remade into something that doesn't need to think, only to obey the Old Gods," Charles noted, his eyes wide with a cold, academic hunger. "But if I can reverse-engineer this 'hardening,' I can make a potion that makes a man's skin as tough as a Guard's without the madness."
Ludwig watched from the carriage, a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "You speak of them like they're just... ingredients, Charles."
"In this world, Ludwig," Charles said, stood up with hands dripping in ichor, "everything is an ingredient. You just have to know how to distill it."
The clearing was silent, save for the wet thud of the Mutated Guard corpses Ludwig had piled at the center. Charles knelt in the dirt. He didn't pray to the Old Gods. He didn't even acknowledge them as divine. To him, they were simply natural laws he hadn't yet quantified.
He pulled the Soul Stones from his pouch. They glowed with a sickly, trapped light.
Energy cannot be created or destroyed, Charles thought, his eyes tracking the swirling Lesser Souls within the gems. It can only be transferred.
He reached out to the Hexen. In his mind's eye, the stone table of the gods appeared—a vast, shifting map of forbidden knowledge. He forced the energy of the stolen souls into the pathways of Alchemy. The "gears" clicked. Suddenly, the chemical structures of the Purple Vial and Black Vial became as clear as elementary arithmetic. He didn't just know the recipes; he understood the molecular bonds.
Then, he felt the heavy, suffocating presence of Vinushka.
It wasn't a conversation. It was a collision. The power of the Old God of Nature surged through the Hexen, demanding blood and growth in equal measure. Charles didn't flinch. He channeled the remaining soul energy into the Vinushka affinity.
A violent, emerald heat erupted in his chest.
"Charles?" Ludwig whispered, his hand on his sword. "Your eyes... they're changing."
Charles didn't answer. He felt the forest's heartbeat. He reached down and touched a patch of dead, grey moss. Under his fingers, the moss didn't just grow; it evolved. It turned a deep, vibrant teal, sprouting the jagged leaves of a Blue Herb in seconds.
"The efficiency is staggering," Charles said, his voice flat but carrying a strange, resonant hum. "I no longer need to scavenge for reagents. I can force the earth to produce exactly what I require."
He stood up, looking at the mangled corpses of the guards. With a flick of his wrist, thorny vines erupted from the soil, wrapping around the bodies and dragging them beneath the earth to serve as fertilizer for his next batch of herbs.
"We're moving deeper, Ludwig," Charles commanded. He didn't mention the truck, or the rain, or the life he had lost. Those memories were locked behind a wall of cold logic. "I need to see if the Dungeon's influence can be grafted onto the plant life here. If I can grow Red Vials directly from the trees, we won't just win this war. We'll end the need for it."
Ludwig looked at his brother—a twelve-year-old boy commanding the power of an Old God with the indifference of a clerk. The "Gears of Fate" weren't just moving; they were being redesigned.