Two weeks after the disastrous dungeon dive, I expected some kind of reprimand; instead, I was shunned like I was responsible for the guard’s death. Mos left, leaving me alone to work. While I hadn’t killed Mos’s uncle, I hadn’t saved him either. The potions sold like clockwork, but no merchant would purchase my overstock. Either it went to the Republic or rotted on the shelves.
My root research was coming along I managed to cobble together a cycling technique instead of using Heavenly Tribulation to annihilate the blockages in my roots. When I wasn’t busy with my latest ploy to get out of my gear, I worked on cycling my mana. Exploring the system and the databases available took up the rest of my time. There were even educational programs called anime that explored various scenarios an adventurer could find themselves in.
At first, the shunning frustrated me, but time to myself was what I needed. Each day, I became faster as I pushed my body. Recovery potions had another benefit: I could use them to hasten the gains from my training. The runes on my gear continued flaring to life and increasing the difficulty. Still, I was handily reaching the end of my training gear’s restraints.
Since it was impossible to remove the gear, I thought about adding more. Looking like a piece of black coal with legs wasn’t a great look, but it would help me reach higher levels of physical stats. Once I hit 1000 in strength, I should be able to remove the armor myself.
I tapped a screen, taking notes on my latest project.
Purple lighting struck my cauldron as I followed through, controlling the mana as my potions sizzled and congealed. I wanted to create specialized ingredients with my skill. The four stages of classical alchemy were a journey toward perfection. Each step removed imperfections until something truly beneficial was left. Alchemy was a profession that challenged the natural order and skirted the edge of necromancy, from what I could tell from my research.
Looking back, I couldn’t find proof of that relationship until much later.
I read an article on the database that all magic was a story either contained or open, whatever that meant. My class was Lightning Elementalist, so my story was a romantic horror between myself and Lighting Chan. From what my research confirmed, that was the proper outlook to take.
There were so many new words I had to look up, and I often fell into goblin holes searching for gold.
The shunning from the goblins at large came with a restriction on the number of ingredients I could purchase. The human tax on food was an insult I had no way to respond to. Save the ingredients for healing potions and my disease-cure pills; my options had been removed. A lack of ingredients to experiment with should have put a stop to my alchemic advancement. The limit the goblins placed on me only made me want to find a workaround even more.
I knocked back a healing potion when I heard a familiar knock. My Tactile Telekinesis didn’t just improve my eyesight it also helped me remember details like various knocks that I’ve heard before. That could also be my increased intelligence or wisdom, but from my research, those stats were misleading. I didn’t gain knowledge from intelligence; I gained a greater mana reserve and maybe mana intuition. Stats were complicated with disagreeing articles with very convincing arguments and research backing them. They couldn’t even agree if having some stats instead of others was beneficial or harmful.
I had 19 charisma and 15 luck, but I haven’t had any issues communicating.
My door opened. “It reeks in here. When was the last time you went to the bathhouse.”
“The gobs laugh at me and say I have a funny-looking cock. Apparently, it’s too big and long.” Mos gave me an annoyed look; we both knew I couldn’t take my gear off. “Besides, I’m self-cleaning. Someone blocked the vent, hoping the fumes would kill me.” I said.
The goblin’s yellow eyes widened at my words. Fumes were pouring out of my workshop, frizzing her hair and watering the poor gob’s eyes. Besides that, she looked good, a little taller with smaller ears and a more angular face. On her waist, I caught sight of a familiar golden dagger from the dungeon. I wasn’t that unique; only one out of a number of enchanted weapons dropped on the second floor.
“I’ve decided that if you apologize, I’ll forgive you,” Mos said.
I thought about the villagers abandoning me in our time of need. Mos was a part of the Republic and had a great support system. I had nothing but my recurring quest with the Republic and my workshop.
“I’m sorry your uncle died in the dungeon,” I said.
“This isn’t about my uncle. I have hundreds.” The goblin girl paused before she could pick up steam for a rant I wouldn’t understand. “That doesn’t look like a health potion,” Mos said.
“I already paid the Republic a year’s worth of health potions. So, I won’t do anything more for them. You missed the shipping ledger.” I said.
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