CHAPTER 8 — “Slow Growth” #3
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ CURRENT STATUS ││ Velthar (Arcane Apothecary, Level 10) │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ HP: 160/160 │ MP: 75/75 ││ STR: 18 │ AGI: 20 ││ INT: 28 │ WIS: 30 ││ DEX: 21 │ LCK: 8 ││ ││ Class: Arcane Apothecary (Rare --- Unique) ││ ││ Active Skills: ││ \[Mana Infusion\] Lv.
1 ││ \[Volatile Catalyst\] Lv.1 ││ \[Alchemical Synthesis\] Lv.
2 ││ \[Basic Bandaging\] Lv.3 ││ \[Poultice Crafting\] Lv.
3 ││ ││ Passive Skills: ││ \[Arcane Sight\] Lv.
2 ││ \[Herb Sense\] Lv.3 ││ \[Soul Echo\] Lv.
1 ││ ││ Traits: ││ \[Fragmented Soul\] --- 80% mana capacity sealed ││ └─ Recovery rate: 4.
7% ││ └─ Current recovered: \~8.2% ││ └─ Time since rebirth: 47 days ││ ││ "Level 10 with 8% of your original power.
││ You're basically a toddler with a grudge ││ and unusually good potion-making skills.
" │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
8.2% recovered. After forty-seven days, countless near-death experiences, and three floors of dungeon clearing.
At this rate, full recovery would take… I do the math… roughly two years.
I don’t have two years.
“So it’s a race.”
“It’s always a race. The question is whether I can cross the finish line before they catch up.”
She sits down across from me, her own cup warming her hands. “Can I help? With the grimoire, I mean. I know I’m not magical, but I can read. I can organize. I can—”
“You can help by being here.” The words come out before I think about them. “I’ve been working alone for a long time. Having someone to talk to, to bounce ideas off… it’s more valuable than you know.”
Something softens in her expression. “You really mean that?”
“I’m a terrible liar. Ask Johnson.”
It’s true, Johnson confirms from his spot by the hearth. He’s remarkably transparent for someone plotting elaborate revenge.
Mariella laughs—a genuine sound, warm and unexpected. “Your rabbit agrees with you. That’s either reassuring or concerning.”
“Usually both.”
We work together after that. She organizes my notes while I puzzle over the grimoire fragments, and we talk—about nothing, about everything. The village, the farm, the cow in the barn that still hasn’t been properly handled.
At one point, I experiment with [Mana Infusion] on a simple healing poultice, trying to understand the skill’s parameters.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ CRAFTING ATTEMPT ││ \[Mana-Infused Healing Poultice\] │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ Base Item: \[Standard Healing Poultice\] ││ --- Effect: Restores 25 HP over 30 seconds ││ --- Quality: Common ││ ││ Infusion Applied: \[Mana Infusion\] Lv.
1 ││ --- MP Cost: 10 ││ --- Stability: 73% (moderate risk) ││ ││ Result: \[Enhanced Healing Poultice\] ││ --- Effect: Restores 45 HP over 20 seconds ││ --- Quality: Uncommon ││ --- Side Effect: Mild warmth sensation ││ ││ Efficiency Gain: +80% healing, -33% duration ││ ││ "Not bad.
The poultice didn't explode this ││ time.
That's what we call progress." │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
“It worked,” I murmur, examining the poultice. The cloth glows faintly with residual mana—visible to my [Arcane Sight], probably invisible to anyone else.
“Better than yesterday?” Mariella asks.
“Much better. Yesterday’s attempt turned into a small fire.”
“I remember. I was the one who put it out.”
“For which I remain grateful.”
She tells me stories about palace life, about the small rebellions she staged as a child, about the moment she decided to run and never look back.
I tell her about magic. About the theory behind spell construction, the beauty of a perfectly balanced equation, the rush of channeling power through your body and shaping it into something new.
It’s been a long time since I talked about magic as something other than a weapon.
It feels good.
Mira arrives in the late afternoon, as she does most days now.
She brings flowers—always flowers, a different arrangement each time, collected from wherever her wanderings take her. Today it’s a crown of dandelions, slightly lopsided, that she presents to me with ceremonial solemnity.
“For you, Mr. Flower Man.”
“Thank you, Mira.” I accept the crown with appropriate gravity. “This is beautiful.”
“I made it myself. Mama helped with the weaving part, but I picked all the flowers.”
“That’s the most important part.”
The System, apparently feeling whimsical, decides to comment.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ ITEM RECEIVED ││ \[Dandelion Crown (Handmade)\] │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ Quality: Crude (but heartfelt) ││ Durability: 1/1 (will fall apart by evening) ││ ││ Properties: ││ --- Morale boost: +5% when worn ││ --- Social perception: "Approachable" ││ --- Combat effectiveness: -10% (not dignified) ││ ││ Sentimental Value: HIGH ││ ││ "A child made you a flower crown.
You're ││ definitely wearing it. Don't pretend you're ││ too cool for flower crowns.
You're not." │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
I put on the flower crown.
Mira beams, then spots Johnson by the hearth and immediately diverts course. The rabbit tenses—I can see his ears flatten—but he doesn’t flee as she approaches with obvious intent.
“Can I pet Mr. Bunny today?”
Tell her no, Johnson says in my head. Tell her I’m busy. Tell her I’m not a pet.
“Johnson would love that,” I say.
I hate you.
Mira settles down next to him, small hands reaching out with exaggerated care. Johnson suffers the attention with what I can only describe as dignified resignation, his eyes fixed on me with the intensity of someone mentally composing a detailed revenge plan.
This changes nothing between us, he says.
“Of course not.”
I’m still a creature of cosmic significance.
“Absolutely.”
I’m merely allowing this for strategic purposes. Building rapport with the village youth. Long-term investment in community relations.
“Very tactical.”
His ear twitches in what might be a reluctant acknowledgment of the absurdity.
Mariella watches the scene with barely contained amusement. “He really doesn’t like being petted?”
“He loves it. He just refuses to admit it.”
I will remember this slander.
I sit down next to Mira, the dandelion crown still perched on my head, and watch her gently stroke Johnson’s fur with all the reverence of someone touching something sacred.
“Mr. Flower Man?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to make the monsters stop?”
The question catches me off guard. I look at her—at this tiny girl who lost her father to dungeon spawns, who talks to his grave, who brings flowers to a stranger because she doesn’t know what else to do.
“I’m trying,” I say carefully. “The dungeon is complicated. But I’m clearing it, floor by floor. Making it safer.”
“Will it take a long time?”
“Probably. Yes.”
“That’s okay.” She continues petting Johnson, her voice matter-of-fact. “Mama says good things take time. And you’re good, right?”
I don’t know how to answer that.
Am I good? I’m planning to destroy an empire. To kill people I used to call friends. To burn down everything they built, regardless of who gets caught in the flames.
That doesn’t sound good.
But this girl—this tiny, earnest girl—is looking at me like I’m a hero. Like I’m someone worth believing in.
I don’t deserve that.
But maybe I can earn it.
“I’m trying to be,” I say finally. “That’s all any of us can do.”
She nods, satisfied, and returns her attention to Johnson.
You’re getting better at this, he observes. The human connection thing. I’m almost impressed.
“Almost?”
Don’t push your luck.
Evening comes with a knock on the door.
I’m not expecting anyone—Bram already left, Mira went home hours ago, and the village doesn’t usually venture out this far after dark. I exchange a look with Mariella, who’s already moved away from the window, out of immediate line of sight.
I open the door.
Garrett stands on the porch, a bottle in one hand and a sword across his back.
“Evening,” he says. “Mind if I come in?”
We sit at the small table, the bottle between us—some kind of spirits that burns going down and settles into a comfortable warmth in the stomach. Garrett drinks like someone who’s done a lot of drinking, measured and controlled, never quite reaching intoxication.
“Heard you trained the blacksmith’s boy today,” he says.
“News travels fast.”
“Village is small. Not much else to talk about.” He takes another sip. “How is he?”
“Terrible. Enthusiastic. Terrible.”
“So were you, once.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know that how?”
“Because everyone is, at the beginning. Talent doesn’t mean much without training, and training takes time.” He sets down his glass, meeting my eyes. “That’s not why I’m here, though.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To tell you something I should have mentioned earlier.” He glances at Mariella, who’s sitting in the corner pretending to mend a shirt. “She can hear this. Probably should, if you’re planning to keep her around.”
“I’m not planning anything. She’s helping with the farm.”
“Sure she is.” The skepticism in his voice is gentle but clear. “The woman who showed up from nowhere, with no history, who just happens to have military-grade construction knowledge and knows how to ask tactical questions about dungeons. She’s just a farmhand.”
Mariella’s hands have stilled on the shirt. Her expression is carefully neutral.
“What’s your point?” I ask.
“My point is that I don’t care who she is or where she came from. I care about what she does. Same as you.” He refills his glass. “What I wanted to tell you is about the dungeon. About why it’s sealed.”
“I know why it’s sealed. I built it.”
“You built the dungeon. But you didn’t seal it.” His eyes are sharp now, focused. “At least, not alone. There were others. A group of mages who came here after you… disappeared. They added their own protections. Made it impossible for anyone to access the deep floors.”
I didn’t know that.
“Why?”