It was a rude, familiar wake-up call.  A mocking, curtain ray of sun, announced itself from the top guided window of the gallery. The sleepy man gave sigh. For the tenth time this week, he once again made note to install the missing drapes. Dry weeks of Ar'endal were maddening. Its morning rise with blazing heat of tropical summer noon and the resident in defiance of everything holy, deemed that the correct response to the unlivable swelter was performing similar act of flippance to the nature itself; holding a blasted market day.

 

Standing up, he let the blanket sprawl around to the stone floor. His notes were strewn over the bed. Scrolls and sheaves, all were scattered beside and under his ...pillow. Or at least that what he called his feather-stuffed aberration. A poor imitation of the true bounce of polyester.

 

Still, with eyes half-closed, he walked toward a corner, opening the door of his wooden rack. On the top shelf, a bottle closed half-way. He felt its chilling touch as he held it before twisting the cap and sniffed its content. A wooden note. Which he assumed came from the rack.

 

Taking a swirl, he winced. Then spat. Then harrumphed. The water already stale with a touch of bitter.

 

"Must be the new solv—"

 

"—SQUAAAAAAAAAWK!"

 

The bottle dropped, wetting his trousers and his morning. He felt he had age two consecutive categories hearing those peddled Couchee-Cee screeching its way toward his eardrums. Don't store them in closed box, you dolt! He heard himself scream. Don't they know those fowls used to the open air on 2nd? At least use a damn cage. Cursing the likely deaf peddlers, he massaged his temple. The heat was bad enough. Must he also get a headache too?

 

 

 

 

"Seriously..."

 

The ninth bell. Saying he wanted to lie down and slept for the rest of the day was understatement. But no. His schedule demanded that he must get ready now. She sent Clar home for the night. And with yesterday's rush he's reluctant to have her working today. And it's not like he could tell Leo to man the counter.

 

He needed a holiday. Correction: a vacation. A long one. To the beach perhaps, he heard it was nice this time of year.

 

Still, those were tomorrow matters. Today, well, today. With a heave of defeated sigh, he, the mostly awake man pull himself a schooled distant smile.

 

He extended his hand. Then with a twist to the right, he pulled a stick out of thin air.

 

Gripping it in his hand he flicked it twice.

 

He lit a shimmer, —a slight stilt in the weave.

 

Like a blight, flicker of kaleidoscopic trail slithered. Pulsating the real, yet in the same time —unreal nodes—, giving life to the entangled interlocking web that he knew as the overlapping truth of known existence.

 

A breath later a spark come to be.

 

Magic. One of the few —very few— good things that happen since he came here.

 

Before long, with a slight patter, a light bang and clang, along a rousing tap-tap-tap; the dustpan, the broom; the towel cloth, the bucket; and the rest of knickknack of what and whatnot rose into the air with jagged melody.

 

He chuckled, nodding to how he had been copying from the book of master Merlin himself who could even found wonder from cleaning everyday mess.

 

 

Book, tomes, both magical and mundane were arranging themselves. The shelved, used bottles and containers were washed from their remaining content. Scattered quills, littered sheaves, and splashed ink were cleaned, polished, and returned into their designated place.

 

Scheduled cleaning might be pedestrian, but it was a basic must-have protocol for him, the concerned about safety man. No, it has nothing to do with such horrid like clutter of volatiles or pieces of broken glassware. But, a spill or two. Of heat-stable solvent and concentrated extract, sometimes do make their way into the seep and crack of the floor —also the workbench, no matter how polished and painstakingly coated they were.

 

And after all were said and done. When last linger of herb were expended by virtue of good ventilation rune. When the blasted heat was dimmed by extravagant all-cooling enchantment. There, remain on top of the workbench, his latest work. 

 

No, not an achievement of some sort. That particular "marvel" was sealed under triple-layered, abjurated, climate-stable chamber. All mounted on [Floating Disk] enchantment. That thing can blast the whole room with the slightest vibration. Oh no, what he, the contemplating man means were his agonizingly popular concoction; the regeneration potion.

 

It started like the most common mediocrities. He, a burgeoning businessfolk has a particular fancy about alchemy. And seeing how these undeveloped, backwater hicks here were caved to death by wolf-level floor, he thought to himself what an opportunity for getting yonder wealth!

 

But of course, what he meant to achieve was stealthily placed, mysterious shop with creaking door and cloak-garbed shopkeeper who speak in doom baritone voice, offering cure of unspeakable prices on the chosen few who lucky (or foolish) enough to make a deal with an obviously evil person —the one who dared to put Anicramata effigy in full display.

 

Not this glass-fronted shop with streamlined customer service and bean bag chair's waiting room. Not to mention a full air-conditioned experience with complimentary cracker. And for all that is good, an information board! How could he expect his ignorant, near-death customers to make a basic application mistake from an unheeded cryptic warning, then?

 

Well, to be fair he does feel better from the cooling enchantment and the cracker was nice; crisp but not too salty. But, it didn't mean that he wanted to provide a complete customer experience! And he DEFINITELY never to even imagine. To thought. That advertising, in a three-story-high billboard, that those complete customer experiences were provided by him! The infamous "Wizard" himself!

 

But people made mistakes. Like how he, the supposed all-knowing "wizard", made the mistake of letting her unvetted albeit professional assistant misunderstood his particular brand positioning.

 

People always think that having money was the best. Which was true, but not completely. Having money was the best when you have a robust, fully staffed management network that did your day-to-day busywork for you. While all that you do is watching the number tick by.

 

It's totally different thing from having to manage one hundred "full customer experience" every day. Truly, one can't just take a 14-day emergency business trip and leaving order of just do your best. 

 

So here came his predicament. He knew very well that attention breed misfortune. Already he had to do the unspeakable. Abandoning pH neutralization process on the eanu pod post-grinding step.

 

Couldn't be helped, a damn Hightown officer from the blasted external eye itself has asked his thrice-damned assistant about supplying potion for the "defense of the realm". Which was pathetic sophistry for the "war effort". Temporarily this was deterred by the fact that acidic conditions would accelerate the potion degradation to point of exhaustion by just seven days. 

 

Of course, this only deters temporarily. Phrases such as dungeon-mana dependent, limited batch, and an old mysterious wizard who could just leave at moment notice would not hold sway forever.

 

Fortunately, the rapid influx of hopeful adventurers creates a precarious balance between the external and the adventurer guild. Which admittedly, far from ideal. Still, one does what one can do. 

 

It felt that only yesterday he came to this blasted town.