All sorts of researchers had struggled with this conundrum. All information regarding the potion had been erased, but consulting history books allowed them to form and exchange theories. They reached an inevitable conclusion—the potion must have been made with techniques beyond just those of alchemy.
To be precise about its powers: the potion made one subservient to whoever gave it to them. This was how it had caused so much grief. This was the defining trait of thrall potions, the reason Strawberry Blaze hadn’t been re-created in hundreds of years, and the cause for so many Alchemists attempting to understand these potions in the hope of producing their own. Determining how to imbue such a trait would alter the history of Alchemy. With its irrational nature, it was less akin to the logical art of magic and closer to the not-so-logical art of curses.
The existence of Strawberry Blaze became known and targeted for extermination after a user passed away, allowing one of their thralls to regain their sanity and escape. This incident also made it clear that the potion could recognize who was meant to be obeyed and couldn’t be fooled. Therefore, if you gave the potion to yourself, there would be no effect.
The Thousand Tricks had probably tested it with this in mind. It was an incredibly risky thing to do, but, and Nickolaf had thought this for a long time, the Thousand Tricks would have made a very good Alchemist.
“An antidote?” he groaned after a moment’s delay. “I can’t turn down a request if it’s from a former apprentice. I’ll get a team ready immediately. And I’ll be discreet about it.”
The Primus Institute was not a monolith. Nickolaf might have been the chief, but he had enemies around every corner. With their varying sets of ethics and objectives, attempting to unify Alchemists was a fool’s errand. While the Primus Institute wasn’t as fiercely competitive as the Zebrudia Academy of Magic, it wasn’t unheard of for someone to be killed over valuable ingredients.
This was an ideal opportunity. They would produce an antidote, but Nickolaf would also attempt to replicate the potion. If he could successfully do that and discover the principles behind the potion, it would open the door to greater knowledge. It might also light the fuse of war, but how knowledge was applied was none of Nickolaf’s concern.
He ordered his trusted assistant to begin preparations. They departed with a tense look on their face.
Once they were done, Sitri steadied her breath and dipped her head. “Thank you for your assistance.”
She was an excellent student. Excellent, but with flaws. As her mentor, he found her competent and easy to deal with.
If the Thousand Tricks were a Level 8 hunter, he should have exceptional mana material absorption. The imperial capital had spots dense in mana material, just below the threshold where phantoms might start appearing, and this man had supposedly taken on a number of high-level treasure vaults. Even if Strawberry Blaze had brought nations to ruin, it was possible it wouldn’t have any effect on a man like him.
The powers of treasure hunters from hundreds of years ago were nothing like those of the current era. With each generation, humans became better suited to taking in mana material. In this aspect, mankind had only improved, never declined.
When that man proved capable of conversation despite having supposedly drunk the potion, Sitri should have been able to surmise that it hadn’t had any effect, even if she didn’t understand why. Was this love-induced blindness? Nickolaf had long ago lost that emotion, but failure was the basis of success. Perhaps this incident would cause Sitri to take a good look at herself.
But then, Nickolaf found himself hit by an intense wave of dizziness. The bell in the corner of his desk started ringing loudly. It took him only a moment to understand what was happening. He placed his hands on his desk and looked around, then up at the vent near the ceiling.
The bell was a device that detected gas, a necessary tool for any Alchemical lab. This was an attack. He didn’t know if it was paralyzing, sleep-inducing, or toxic, but he knew it was meant to bring him down.
As part of his work, he used mana material to bolster his resilience, so this was something extraordinary if it was able to make him dizzy. Only so many people could have unleashed a gas attack this deep within the institute. Sitri, being a hunter, seemed unhurt by the unexpected assault.
The purpose of the attack was all too clear. Nickolaf tightly sealed the bottle before activating every one of the guard golems lined up against the wall. The slim, custom-built golems lined up at his orders.
“Shit, they already caught on to us! I’m the chief, damn it! My golems, kill any would-be thieves who come for the potion! I will not, I repeat, will not hand it over! Sitri’s my former apprentice! This potion is material for my experiments!”
Had his assistant betrayed him? Or had someone from another laboratory seen Sitri looking panicked and decided to follow her? Either way, they were all going to die. Nickolaf would never give up on such a precious asset. He grabbed his self-made omniantidote (still in the test phase) and downed it, relieving him of his dizziness.
“Ummm,” Sitri said hesitantly, noticing Nickolaf’s strained expression, “I’d like to begin working on an antidote with all possible haste—”
“Sitri, get moving! There’ll be no antidote if they steal the potion from us! They’ll do whatever they can to take it from us. This gas is a lethal variety!”
The golems kicked open the door and moved out. At the same moment, a fierce explosion rocked the building. Burning wind and fragments of golems blew into the room. These people were ready to kill. They were intent on taking the potion, even if they had to murder Nickolaf. He couldn’t let the word spread any further. He had to take them all out.
“Let’s go, Sitri. We’re at war!”
The Ignoble watched vacantly as Nickolaf stood determined, a glimmer in his eyes.