FINAL CORE - Chapter 115 (Patreon)

New pre-chapter note, added to chapter 110

Alchemical mass-production, shipping, and transit are very difficult issues for the logisticians of the world to handle. Potions are very delicate, given their nature, not just because of the glass that is often used as their containers but because of the mixtures themselves.

Potions are often highly volatile and susceptible to various movements. They can be susceptible to being damaged by light or by temperatures that are too hot, too cold, or perhaps simply not hot or cold enough. The act of transporting a carriage full of potions from one city to another is a difficult task, and expert cargo operators are paid premium fees by the alchemical guilds.

Storage is another issue, given the above mentioned difficulties. Because of this, large warehouses, present in all significant cities, have been constructed solely for the storage of these goods. In the best case, expired potions will simply smell off and stop working. However, in the worst case, they may explode, sending glass shards flying everywhere and possibly triggering more expired potions to self-destruct.

For this reason, all alchemical warehouses contain a drain room, in which potions that are close to expiring are poured out at the expense of the merchant.

For this reason, potions are generally made, bought, and consumed locally. However, for specialty goods that are bound by specific processes and reagents that are only available in set locations, there is no alternative.

~ The Alchemical Business, Chapter two, Logistics

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CHAPTER 115

Dear Diary,

It's been a week since I arrived at the magic academy, and so far it's been a struggle. The other students are all so talented and dedicated to their studies, and I feel like I'm so far behind. I'm not sure if I'm cut out for this whole enchantress thing.

But the worst part is not being able to practice with my bow. I've had to hide it in a secret spot out in the forest, and it's driving me crazy not being able to use it. I know I'm taking a risk by keeping it hidden, especially with all the monsters that roam the forest outside of the city. But I can't bear the thought of giving up on my dream of becoming an archer. I try to practice in secret at night by shooting at the trees. So far, I haven’t encountered anything dangerous. I try to stay near the city walls; there are fewer monsters there.

During the day, I'm trying to focus on my magic studies, but it's hard when my heart isn't really in it. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. I'm starting to feel like I made a huge mistake coming here.

I just hope that somehow things will work out in the end. I don't know what the future holds, but I have to keep trying.

Sincerely,

Yours truly

~ Diary entry of a young girl, living in the western city

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Aurin, The Meek

Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Swordsman}

Location: The Sub-Tower, Floor -96

Banners of the grand crusade fly through the air, waving like the embers of wild-fire in the night as he flies past them, the great sword cutting a spiral arc through the emptiness as the heavy blade comes into contact with his opponent, who crumbles into dust. The glass floor cracks but doesn’t break.

Aurin lands down on one knee, holding the sword out to the side as he lifts his gaze forward, always forward.

Many years have passed since he was a boy with dreams bigger than his hands could hope to hold. He’s gotten older now, and his hands have gotten larger, but those dreams are all still so heavy and so significant that there’s just no way he could ever really grasp them. It doesn’t matter if he lived another hundred years. He’s only human, and his hands are as big as they’ll ever be.

Somehow, his dreams have kept growing too, and they continue to do so, out-pacing the physicality of his existence. The body of a man ceases to grow at some point, and then it begins to decay.

But the spirit never stops.

Having dived forward into the fray, he looks around himself at the enemies of the holy and good of the world, at the monstrosities, created by the entities of this world that have but small dreams.

[Floor {-96}] Diligence

The Weight of the Wicked

Floor -96 of the sub-tower of Isaiah

A large bridge made up out of prismatic holy glass that shimmers in the candle light. The bridge is a fragile construction, made out of HOLY magic, rather than physical glass. Possessed suits of armor, embodied by the spirits of paladins, guard the way.

• Room Effect: Should a person’s soul be too heavy, burdened by sin and darkness, they will break through the fragile floor, falling into the abyss.

[Posessed Armor]

• Class: DIVINE BEING
• Element: HOLY
• Type: WARD
• Rank: S
• Level: 100
• Category: ZEAL
• HP: 00/00
• SOUL: 703/750

Possessed armors are a variant of the Hollow Armor monster archetype. Rather than being controlled by the magical powers of a dungeon, they are instead directly possessed by the living ghosts of powerful spirits.

These particular suits are guided by the souls of paladins and priests of old.

Rattling suits of armor line up, piecing themselves back together by the dozens as they recuperate from the radial impact of his strike. Their metal is white, like the snow on the dawn of a kind winter’s mor-

— Aurin grits his teeth, grasping his head as a painful pulsation shoots through it, causing his chest to heave and his body to wick with sweat.

The man looks back up at the approaching army of enemy soldiers, black suits of scar-marked armor, dug out of the battlefields of old and cursed to return to life once more. Foul vapors drift around them, poisoning the very air.

He tightens his grasp around his heavy sword, spinning as he rises to his feet and cutting the armors behind him in half, who had begun to encircle him as he is alone in their midst. The broken suits clamour down to the glassy bridge, the hollow metal rattling as they begin to reassemble themselves once more. The crusade pushes forward strongly. But they aren’t as strong as he is, at least not the normal crusaders.

The others, they sit and wait for the time to come when they’re needed.

Not to steal their glory, but he intends for them to not be needed at all. That’s why he’s here.

Aurin turns back around, looking forward, as the soul of a good man intends.

The heavy blade screams as he leaps onward and presses it against the tide, sending the raging magics of the old world flying out in a maelstrom of dragon’s teeth and claws.

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Taishi-shi

Vildt (Rabbit), Male, Priest of Isaiah

Location: The Far Off Eastern Continent

Taishi-shi pushes open the door of the church, returning home after his long and weary journey, his heart bursting with pride as the door swings open to reveal the heavy darkness inside of the structure. Glum, emaciated faces contour the darkness with the sharpness of their cheekbones as their eyes slowly return to look his way.

“I’ve returned,” says Taishi-shi proudly, his chest flaring as he returns inside, soaked to the bone from head to toe, his robe torn, and his leg that sticks through bearing a deep scar. His fur and hair are dirty, being covered in brambles and twigs and such things. By all considerations, his external appearance would suggest that the display of his internal pride is unwarranted. However, he lugs the sack inside after him, closing the door, and then lights up the room with his magic.

“Taishi-shi!” says a voice from the side. The girl, who had sent him out on his quest, she runs from the side, grabbing his robe and then pulling at the sack. “Did you bring us food?!” she asks excitedly, which garners much attention from around the room.

Taishi-shi smiles and shakes his head, patting her head. “I did not,” he explains. “Isaiah brought us this,” he says, showing some of the contents of the sack to the many hungry, greedy eyes of children who want what he has for them immediately, now, as fast as possible.

But he will deny them this because, like Isaiah teaches, there must be work for there to be food. A tree will not grow to bear fruit if it is never planted.

“Come,” says Taishi-shi. “We will pray together, and then there will be food,” he says, lugging the sack over his shoulder and heading to the altar.

This seems an unpopular decision, but that is because they are viewing the world through the immediate lens of their hunger, he understands.

Taishi-shi sets down the sack. “Only shortly,” he promises to his congregation, which gathers. “Let us say thanks to our benefactor,” he says as they begin to sit. “The gods of our fathers and our mothers have left us to hunger and the darkness of the storm,” he says, gesturing around himself. “But Isaiah has given us shelter,” says Taishi-shi, looking at the quaint little church — four walls and a roof — quite the luxury for children on the run like they are. “And Isaiah has given us food,” he says. “On the condition that we praise it, that we thank it, that we sing its name at sunrise and think of it as we lay to sleep.”

He reaches into the bag, pulling out the first piece of food. “Pass it along to the back,” he instructs, looking at the confused, hungry child who is holding a perfectly good loaf of bread with what looks like berries baked into it.

It takes a deep moment of consideration, but he does so, handing it to the person standing behind him, who then passes it on too. Taishi-shi nods, pleased, and then takes out another one, and then another one; this ritual goes on until everyone has theirs at their appointed time and not a minute sooner.

“Let us say thanks,” says Taishi-shi as he and the many of his flock bow their heads to Isaiah — a worthy god.