“Thank you, Ed, you’re excused.”

The man half bowed, placing the large basin on the table center before exiting the room —closing the door behind him.

He stared at the closed door. Focusing all of his attention wholly on the intricacy of the wooden carving, its smooth dark curvatures, the rich history of its bronze-gleam knob. This he did until the weak tap-tap of the footsteps outside cross the border from faint to inaudible.

Until his butler was out of earshot.

“Argh!”

He slumped. Clutching, almost fell down to the floor. His stiff smile collapsed to a straight cringe, barely a step before it managed to broken down to a full-blown scream. He pressed his stomach. Pushing the pressure deep and even deeper —trying to alleviate the churning pain.

Ugh… his reflux.

He felt the bitter chyme gurgling on the base of his gullet. The tang of pre-vomit filled his nostril. He knew, he knew. He should’ve skipped the meil.

He wasn't stupid. Of course, he didn’t drink the beverage without a hearty breakfast just because he liked the flavor zest unsullied. Even though he would if he could. Sipping a cup in an open patio, under the sunset nibbling a little tart; a serving of sweet and bitter. Matcha, milk, and chocolate shaving. That was his perfect afternoon.

No, no. What he hoped to accomplish by downing that meil so early in the morning was the calm. Yes, the theanine calm. His anxiety had been flaring up since last night — since he realized that he’d be trying 'the magic' out of his own free will.

And he thought a little cup, a dose of rich red would help to calm his jitter.

Yet for unknown reasons, which he highly suspected due to the different world had different chemical makeup, the drink only hit him with caffeine bites, stimulating his stomach to pump more of the damn acids. Stinging every square of it.

Still, despite and even with the pain. And his unwillingness. And his fear. It was not something that he could not do.

It was decided.

Clenching his teeth, he took one of the prepared aprons, tying it behind his back covering his whole front. He repeated it once more, but for this once, he did in reverse, the apron was covering his back.

Grimacing, he then pulled a pair of long gloves, the brown canvas one he asked Restia to send. He frowned at the rough, stiff hold. How it restricted his fingers movement, their flick. Well, it simply couldn’t be helped, he supposed. With strings, he tied it tight, keeping his long sleeves inside.

And concluding all that, he did a final check. Wiggling his boots and straightening the crease of his cloth mask. Making sure it covered the whole jawline and tight around his nose; fitted right.

“It’s safe. It’s safe.”

He repeated the chant. Assuring-hypnotizing himself. Perhaps with a bit more than healthy denial.

In fact, that was why this room almost empty. Bared for anything but the necessities such as the previous basin, a table that prop it, another table in the corner, and a stack of large rags mounting on the side of the room.

“Skill.” he willed the familiar blue screen popped.

Glancing under the Alchemist tree, he paused for a moment. Taking a good look at the skill —the magic he was going to attempt today. It flashed loud and clear.

[Create Distilled Water]

Drawing one last breath. He closed his eyes, his hand placed on the flashing word.

Pressing it.

“I’d never get used to this...”

He mumbled as the world whirled around him. He knew the lost footing was not real, but it hard not to be fooled when what greeted him was an expanse of darkness stretching forever.

“Well, at least that one makes sense.” he shrugged at the fountain which began sprouting spout of water from its pipe's top. A trickle then a guzzle, filling the basin. Because you know, he was attempting to [Create Water]?

Yeah. That one was a bad joke, he heard himself chuckled. But it was that or staring straight at the existential dread on the back of his mind.

He chose the former.

And as the time passed, at least in his poignantly named darkquake, he saw the water almost filled and just a hair from overflowing. He couldn’t help but wonder if he could speed up the process next time —using his hand to pour the imaginary water to the black nothing.

Well, perhaps. It was not the time for an impromptu experiment. He had a plan and he was going to keep it.

A proof of concept. Yes. This was intended to be a proof of concept. Whether magic —and the experience of learning it— was dangerous. After all the omniscient, omnipotent system literally put a thought on his head. A thought of otherworldly knowledge. It was wondrous, nothing short of a miracle, and a total violation to his sanctity of mind.

Using this relatively low-tier spell, he aimed to determine whether his continuous learning had unintended side effects besides the obvious PTSD. Whether it had upper limit, and could he understand the true inner working of the spell.

Because he surprisingly didn’t understand the previous two...

RRRRRR!!

He closed his eyes, crouching down.

Here it came.

CRACK!

The quake. It cracked the whole space as it boomed —parting the reality with terrible rend. One moment he was crouching still and then, just a mere second later, he felt the world tilted. Sliding him down and down and down as if he was pushed from the top of a very steep hill.

Then as to mock his conviction, his hold-out vomit, and his still grasping, dragging hand, he felt the ground flip. Creating a 90-degree vertical dip.

It was a free fall. A dance of tilt and dive.

He endured the long forever minutes by minutes. Spinning, tumbling, and all the rest of everything. Until in suddenness it stopped. Ejecting him flat to the real world.

And not even a second to collect himself, he felt it. The knowledge starting to seep. He saw the bundle, unraveling from an infinitesimally small point.

Pushing his churning stomach, his much deserved disorientation, he mustered all his remaining focus, all his remaining attention.

He burned his mind eyes at the forming circle, the weaved knots, and tangles. Seeing how it created mishmash of two dimensional pattern; layering, superimposing, and connecting with each other. How they tiled themselves in geometric beauty like when he doodled with his old primary school ruler that had various shapes.

Then, not even a breath after that cursory whole, he saw two characters popped. Fished out from nothingness, embedding itself to the circle. One right smack at the center, the other a breath from the topmost. He saw the characters shone. Their edges sucked all the floating glow balls of mana, creating sparks.

“Damn.”

It was no use, he sighed. All he managed to obtain, to keep, were nothing but incomprehension and still pounding head. It was nothing but what his knowing had told. That the spell required mana, that it held a water aspect —and that by the word of power, by the gesture of hand, married in intent of will, the three shall formed and activated the spell true.

It was like muscle memory. Like swimming, cycling, even walking. He knew how to performed the spell —and perhaps an inkling of parameters; a how much, a how long. But the true mechanism? It eluded him still.

“[Create Distilled Water]!”

He muttered the word. His right hand palm-facing, half-thrusted. His ring finger raised. Then in front of him, as he felt the mana inside him bubbled. An orb three size of his knuckles, conjured. Warped from nothing, floating on the air. Waiting.

Transmitting his intent, he willed the skin of the orb peeled, opened, —burst. Pouring waterfall to the basin.

“Ah!”

He stopped the orb. Dismissing it from existence. The water splashed around him, slowly dropping from the table’s edges. He spared a quick sigh, thanking the heaven that it avoid his face and only wet an unassuming corner of his apron.

Bringing up the rags, he smothered the spill. Letting them being absorbed to the rags porous pore.

Oh, he totally messed up.

Sighing, he took the prepared lid, closing the basin, tight. Well tight as he could be. Then approaching the window, he unlocked the latch, opening the leaf wide open. Letting the wind blew inside.

“Ed!!!”

He called for his butler, opening both halves of the door. A slight shuffle later, his new butler went out of one of the adjacent room.

“Yes, young master?”

The man inquired. In his hand was a wet cloth and what seemed like to be a dusty box. Is he cleaning? Really, Ed...

“Don’t let anyone get inside to that room,”

“...at least for two hours.”

Well, normally the protocol demanded a twenty-four; but this supposed to be water and he has lots and lots of things to do.

“And prepare a change for me please, I need to take another bath.”

“Yes, young master. Would you be needing any assistance this time?”

“No, don’t. In fact kept away from me…” he paused looking at the wet smudge. “At least until I got cleaned.”

“And cleaned the bath after, also the room, the hallway, Well… everything I walked on since I got out from this room till I reached the bath.”

“Not now though, two and a half hou—sorry, two and a half bell later.”

“Yeah, also use gloves and mask,” he added. “And changed your cloth after that…”

“And the rags inside the room. Immediately drown them with hot water. Boiling.”

“Certainly young master, but why?” Edward’s face frowned. Well, certainly he didn’t look the part. Should he tell him he was a mage or something?

Hmm no… That’d create more questions. Let just allow him to make his own conclusion.

“Just to be safe, okay?” he replied smiling. Will that be enough? Cryptic smile?

“Ah also don’t touch the basin or the table for that matter. Let me handle that.”

 

Feeling the warmth of the boiled bath. He snapped his apron ties. Both the front and the back, folding it inside out. Chucking them into the bin, he scooped half-worth of the tub water. Drowning the apron and the rest of the wardrobes.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch!”

It hot! He jumped frantically from the slight spew. Well, not hot-hot. More like warm-hot. It just he was so cold for a long time that it contrasted against his skin.

He doused himself three times, a vehement scrub in each wash. He grunted, for it reddens and irritated slight. Yet as he always said, it paid to be safe. Safe was better than sorry. Sorry was always too late.

Patting himself dried, he took the provided clothes, the similar long sleeve-long trouser wear. The same apron ties, the same cloth mask, the same gloves. Though for the latter he put it aside for later.

He proceeded to go to his bedroom, the master one located on the second high. The door was this hardwood engrave. The floor warm carpeted. He felt the bounce of the feather, the pelt. Fluffy, warm as he sat on it.

He prepared the tools, the ingredients, Stack of sheaves, quill sharpened. Several long vases, flowers fresh picked. He minded to tried for a boiled broth; filtrated, aliquoted in at least in ten logarithmic decant.

Yet, it couldn’t be. For the vases, he even had to settle with the porcelain. Same as the bowls, the cups. Which wasn’t ideal. The felt-touch indentation, the countless micropores, the hidden problematic permeabilities. It’d breed contaminant, he was assured. Resulting in nothing conclusive.

And as he plucked the final flowers, cleaning the stem from the remaining soil, the bell tolled. Dang Dang Dang, it said, repeating in four consecutive patterns. Three hours had passed.

Wearing all the aprons, the mask; the boots, the gloves. He walked back to the room —the dirty room. He’d have it bleached tomorrow. Perhaps. If there were bleach. Otherwise, he’d ask Mrs. Crombe if she or the maids cleaned with their harshest cleaning skill.

Closing the door, he looked at the dried floor yet still humid table. Opening the basin lid, it was filled three quarters full. In retrospect, he should’ve aimed it a bit lower. Perhaps five centimeters from the bottom, so it wouldn’t splash so much.

“At least it worked fine.”

Pulling the service trolley, he took a ladle and several cups. Scooping a cup worth, he brought it under the bright light of the corner table, taking a closer look. No visible contaminant. It was clear, crystal. Blemish-free, without a tinge or speck of colors. It had no dirt or dust floating.

Nodding, he moved on to the second test. He took the highest volume beaker —the two litre one. And ever so slowly, scooped the water, ladle by ladle, stopping when he around halfway.

Then in line with his plan, he prepared series of concentrates —diluted by the cistern water. 4% for the first treated group, 13% for the second one, 41% for the third one, and 100% for the fourth one.

Using the measuring cylinder, he poured the exact volume to each of the vases, rounding to the nearest integer in case of unmeasurable decimal. And for each group were three flowers, cleaned, fresh. Satisfied, he put them aside, adding two vases containing whole cistern and well water as control. Leaving it for now.

Then the last one of his test. Uncovering the tarp of five series box-shaped cages, it revealed one fowl each. Plucking.

He preferred mice really, or rats, those were human-near in genetic. Still, when he asked for the smallest animal around —even the crawling sewer kind— his butler pointed out to this.

The not-chicken.

Couchee-cee.