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It doable. Probably. The human-couchee cee direct comparability. Like always, he needed, demanded to make do. Which was annoying, unfair.
 
He never studied the species before, he never had chance to glance, to read their physiological makeup or their anatomy. The unfairness. But since as the world —this and his— demonstrated that everything was, well, unfair. What else could he do beside doing what he need to do? That at least seemed more productive instead of keep asking what to do.
 
Still, to elaborate the fog in his head. To shone light to the doubt his mind rambled and ambled. His exasperation started with a very simple fact. The fact that the fowls were different from the usual domestic chickens. Very different.
 
Even though they stood on the same two protruding legs, their stratified claws were this seven-pronged variant instead of the usual four. And below their wings were a pair stub of mini-claws, unfunctional as far as he had seen, likely some form of evolution artifacts.
 
And as if those phenotype divergences weren’t enough, their coloration was another point of his contention. They were white through and through, unlike normal domestic chickens which had this beautiful red contrast on their beak, comb, and not-triangle-shaped wattle.
 
Which brought him to the third point of his reluctance —his enthusiastic housekeeper, Mrs. Crombe, in dashed hope of having large pheasant dinner, said the couchee was the most common fowl people ate around here. Well, not that. Not the fact they were often eaten. He was fine if that just the problem. What exasperated him was the fact they were harvested from the second dungeon floor. Yes, the dungeon. As in the magical, monster-generating dungeon that if Restia to be believed, that in relatively short time frame would spew lumbering monster, bringing disaster all around town. That dungeon.
 
The fact that the couchee came from the dungeon meant these fowls were manifested by both biology and magic. With the latter should play a very large, if not most of the role. This he deduced by the impossibility of the fowl constant supply and relative cheap price without the presence of factory farms. According to his housekeeper, a small roasted thigh, the famous dish here, was priced around fifty coppers a plate on a cheap tavern. Which was too affordable otherwise. Why do you think medieval society (which this world seemed based on) tended to eat vegetables and bread most of the time. Universal meats were the invention of industrialization.
 
Still, the fact that it was magic, contended one big question, could it be used as model for what he needed to do?
 
Maybe.
 
It was not like he had any other choice. It'd be great if he was stocked with his usual mice. But hey, make do. Make do.
 
At least he had mint to brought the ones that still chicks. Their young age should increase their susceptibility to toxins if any were present. Perhaps. He meant he couldn't exactly tell the presence of the toxin without some form of positive control. How if their 'magic' somehow made them immune to mundane chemical toxicity? Well, then it'd be a false negative. Which meant in the worst case (which was a very real possibility) he'd die...
 
Joy.
 
Still if he wanted to add positive control, there still one question. What would be toxic to magic? And could he even handle something that toxic to magic?
 
Pouring the same series of concentrates, he ladled the alleged distilled water to a bowl just outside the cage, he pushed the thought aside. He would proceed with the experimentation for now. It wasn't like there was something he could do at this point. Later, maybe. But now? No.
 
The birds haven’t been given water since this morning. A clear ethical violation on his part. But since the panels weren’t here — getting trapped in another world, he decided to just eff-it. He meant he didn’t even have a gavage, so what could he do? Force feed them with a spoon? Hilarious. It'd spill everywhere, what the point of his over the top PPE by then? At least with this ...brief fasting, they would drink the whole given volume. Also without gavage it mean that their throat wouldn't be inflammed right?
 
“Cluckcluckcluck!”
 
Yeah, buds. This what was called a win-win.
 
 

FNG7Ing-N72hj4sEmtUGPQGLsqoUkjPl5TVTkEdV4yZZf7yj6heQZH8ZMrpzB2Lm0AswEtGj0gxtIJVwehrZtEFxDtFheHhJ2XNMSGPW81XWPvC9-kr5NEjtTpcuK0hHrQIx3vYA

 
 
No visible changes.
 
It was three hours later, the sun almost set. He knew that because seventeen bells had tolled (he successfully count it this time). As it turned out, the trick was listening to the first bang and count the bells not in one, but in three increments.
 
Plucking the flowers, gloves on, he observed them under the bright [Mana Light]. Under the brown gradient of the paper, he compared the treated group —the magically conjured water flowers to the controls; untreated (left for dried), negative one (treated by cistern water), and negative two (treated by well water). Besides their natural difference in shape, and the obvious wetness of the water-treated groups, he observed no stark distinguishing difference.
 
There were no deformations in the roots’ structure, nor any warp in the stems. The flowers also didn't shown any sign of wilting except for the group he left for dried, those did droop a bit. The rest were as new as when they were cut. The coloration of their petals still white and consistent.
 
The couchee-cee, though.
 
Well, more or less the same. The fowls just kept clucking around, likely hungry. But all in all they were still lively without abnormal breathing patterns, watering eyes, or any of those end moribund signs —the hallmarks of acute toxicity.
 
True, there were still the 24-hours mark data to be examined, but from the preliminary result, and assuming that they were comparable to humans, it was very likely that the water wasn’t toxic. Acutely toxic at least.
 
Putting back the tarp. He jotted down this finding, wondering if he needed to do a chronic toxicity run. While he wanted to, there was a fact that his time was limited. His gold was limited. Devoting too much on safety (while made sense) would dip too much to his resource. The resource he needed to survive. Maybe, he’d just commission a semi-clinical observation. A silver of the distilled water a day for thirty days, for let say, three groups of couchee? Ed or Mrs. Crombe could tell him if one of them went crazy or dead suddenly. Well, normally it wouldn't even pass methodological review, but again the committee wasn’t here, so—
 
“Hmm, what skill should I investigate next? Is there anything as safe as [Create Distilled Water]?”
 
“Let see,” he said. “Status.”
 
“What was that?”
 
The screen warped like usual. The blue floating transparent ever jarring. Yet in the topmost right corner, there was a new oddity. A blinking red dot, popping in and out.
 
"Huh..."
 
He pressed the dot, revealing a new screen flashing yellow.
3/4 until WP system activated
 
“What?”
 
He knew he saw it somewhere. But where? Where?
 
Swiping the notification window to the left, he scrolled and scrolled, not stopping even for one bit. Not stopping until he reached down to the bottom.
 
Name: Euca [REDACTED]
 
Current Title: Otherworldly Traveler (Hidden), Lucky One (Equipped), Traveler
 
Status : [LOCKED - ACTIVATED]
 
Skill : [PARTIALLY UNLOCKED - STAGE N/A}
 
Inventory : [PARTIALLY UNLOCKED - STAGE N/A]
 
???? : [INSUFFICIENT AUTHORIZATION]
 
???? : [INSUFFICIENT AUTHORIZATION]
 
WP: N/A
 
“There!”
 
WP: N/A
 
“Could it be…”
 
He ran, exiting the room. This might be a clue, a big clue.
 
“Edward!”
 
He shouted, frantically pouring the boiled water his butler prepared to the basin in front of the room —throwing his gloves, aprons, and mask there.
 
“Yes, young master?”
 
His butler asked, face showing from the top gallery.
 
“Prepare the second box now. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
 
Without even giving him chance to nod, Euca half-ran to the bath and in just three whole minutes, finished his cleaning routine. He knew that if his guess was right, the whole washing thing would be a pointless course of action. Still, if it wasn't, well, then he had done the right thing. Maybe. It was hard to tell with this world.
 
As he splashed the last drown of the water. Gritted against its burning bites, he donned his clothes in record time, practically bolted to the second room as he finished. Toward the right, then right, then again the rightmost of the first floor hallway —the cornermost storeroom he prepared for this exact occasion.
 
“Anything else, young mas—”
 
“No, no. Leave please.”
 
He half-ushered, half-shoved him out, suppressing the bubbling guilt and fear. Not now, not now.
 
He ran to the box that the man had prepared.
 
Pushing the lid with a heft, it clattered against the floor with a loud bang, echoing across the room. He let it be though. It was not the time to care about some inadvertent noise. It was the time to prove his hunch.
 
Inside were a couple of heavy sets of gloves, leather-made; another set of writing implements, and as always, three blankets, the thickest he could found. He spared a second to check on the fireplace, and nodded. The fire was licking, the wood crackling.
 
“I hope this right.”
 
Opening the skill menu. He pressed the [Ray of Frost], plunging himself into the same deep darkness. Enduring the same familiar tremor.
 
Waiting for the same forever.
 
And as the bundle of knowledge popping, skipping all the focus, attention, and need of knowing. As he comprehended.
 
It happened.
 
The yellow screen flashed. Then blue. Then blue-green. Then blue-green-blue-green inbetween. Changing its color every two seconds. Every one second. Every half second.
 
Every—
4/4
 
WP system activated. All stages advanced to tier 0.
 
You obtained Title: First Step into the Unknown
 
You obtained skill: Appraisal
 
You obtained items: [Beginner] Scroll of Guardian x 2, Tome of Basic Rune Application.
 
Yes! He knew it, he knew it! It was just an inkling. A guess. But it was true! He knew he hadn't even use the [Invisibility] spell, so why the WP counter said 3/4 instead of 2/4? It meant that the counting mechanism, the quest or achievement thingy was only counting knowing the spell. Not practicing the spell.
 
If he actually needed to cast the spell, he would of course suspend the freezing ray's experiment to tomorrow. 12-13 p.m when the sun hung high and with Edward beside him. The butler would be given standing order to heat him up in the case he that was, you knew, frozen solid.
 
“Inventory.”
 
He said, his breathing erratic. His hand was pushing against the new blinking column. His heartbeat racing, he trembled as he felt the jelly ripple touching against his skin. It was real. He stood there unblinking, his hand grasping the scroll. The vellum-bound leather scroll.
 
The scroll of guardian.
 
“Is that?”
 
He stared at the roman numeral symbol, a single 'I' inside a blue ring. The I was embed, pressed down as a wax. A seal. A seal that held the scroll furled. To his surprise, he recognized it. It was one of the many, many type of guardians' scroll; the animals type. Using it (at least in Chronicle) could summon animals companion ranging from scavenger mice, caterwauling cats, or if you really wanted it, a transport bull. The last one had only 0.5% chance though.
 
The other one had similar form, roman I but instead of blue ring, it was a green ring. Indicating it was the—
 
“Young master?”
 
A knock on the door rapping. He turned his head, Edward?
 
“Ah, yes?”
 
“Are you all right, young master?”
 
Oh. He must be worried. Yeah, he did act ...weird.
 
“Yes. Yes, I am.” he sighed, putting down the item back to the box and opened the door. Facing his very much worried butler.
 
“Young master…”
 
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he said smiling. “It was just an experiment, I got too excited...”
 
“But—”
 
“It’s fine.” he said again. “Really,”
 
“Now be a good man and tell Mrs. Crombe to prepare some dinner would you?”
 
“...Certainly young master.”
 
Watching his butler walk away, he sighed. That was close.
 
Walking back to his room, he let himself fell on the top of the bed. Above him the mana light was dimming on the ceiling top.
 
He’d sort the rest tomorrow.
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