Inside the tree, Mr. F stood with his two students. This time, he hadn't needed to involve himself too much in the fight, and thankfully, the intruders hadn't been particularly strong. It was easy for him to repel them. Betty and Albert, however, were visibly shaken. They had just witnessed what had happened outside the tree—the man being dragged into the very tree they were standing in. This had been possible thanks to a spell Mr. F had cast earlier.

"What happens now, Master?" Betty asked, her voice still trembling with fear. "Is the man dead?"

"No, he's not," Mr. F replied calmly. "We will interrogate him now to find out why they came here."

"We?" Betty asked, her voice filled with dread.

"Yes, we," Mr. F said. "You, Albert, and I. You need to learn how the world of mages works. One day, when you're grown, you'll understand why these experiences are important."

At that moment, the man was spit out from the ceiling of the tree, landing in front of Mr. F. Betty and Albert stepped back in shock, but when they saw the man wasn't moving, they cautiously approached again.

Mr. F nudged the man with his foot. "I know you're awake. Stop with the theatrics and stand up."

The man didn't move, lying motionless on the ground. His spirit seemed broken, but he refused to respond to Mr. F's command.

Mr. F placed his hand on the man's head and repeated the order. "Stand up."

With stiff, mechanical movements, the man obeyed, standing before Mr. F with lifeless eyes.

"Why are you here?" Mr. F demanded.

"We were sent to scout the area and report back," the man said robotically.

"Who were you supposed to report to?" Mr. F pressed.

The man remained silent.

"Hmm, it seems there's a higher-ranking contract preventing him from speaking about that," Mr. F mused aloud. "Let's take a closer look, shall we?"

Mr. F kept his hand on the man's head, and his magic began to flow into the man's mind. Suddenly, the man convulsed violently, blood pouring from his eyes, ears, and nose. His muscles tightened, and his body seized in agonizing spasms.

Without being asked, the man's soul began to scream in torment, his very essence writhing under the strain. Betty covered her eyes with her hands, and even Albert turned pale.

"Is this really necessary, Master?" Albert asked, his voice trembling. "To torture him like this?"

Mr. F's expression hardened for a moment before softening slightly. He realized his students were still too young to understand the harsh realities of the world.

Instead of answering directly, he posed a question. "What would they have done if they had found you on the mountain? If I wasn't here and you were alone?"

The man, still twitching, responded automatically. "We would have killed everyone and erased all traces."

"And by 'erased all traces,' what do you mean?" Mr. F pressed.

"We would have used a special tincture to dissolve their bodies until nothing remained," the man answered flatly.

"Who sent you?" Mr. F asked again, pushing more magic into the man's mind. The convulsions returned with even greater force.

Turning to his students, Mr. F said, "Do you see? Do you understand what would have happened if I hadn't been here, if you had been on the mountain or at the house when they arrived? You'd have been killed, and there wouldn't have been a trace of you left for me to find."

He paused, looking between his students. "So, why shouldn't I do whatever is necessary to find out who sent them? If we don't deal with this problem now, it will happen again and again, until one of us is dead. This is how the world of mages works. You need to learn that."

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Betty understood the truth in her master's words, but the sight of the man writhing in agony on the ground was still too much for her. She closed her eyes tightly, unable to bear it. But then she felt Albert take her hand, his grip steady and reassuring. He, too, was pale, but he understood what Mr. F was trying to teach them. They would have to face these things eventually, and turning away now would only make it harder in the future.

With Albert's hand in hers, Betty felt a small measure of calm. She opened her eyes and met Albert's gaze. He nodded at her, then turned back to watch.

The man's convulsions reached their peak. His body twisted and turned in agony, but the pain didn't end. Mr. F poured more mana into him, demanding, "Who sent you? Who sent you?"

Finally, the man's mouth opened, and a single word escaped his lips: "Mal...fesor."

And then, as if a switch had been flipped, the man's body went limp. All movement ceased, and he lay still.

"Is he dead?" Albert asked quietly.

"Not quite," Mr. F replied. "His mind is gone—brain-dead. He'll die in a few minutes because he can no longer breathe. His body will fail without oxygen."

Mr. F looked at his students, his expression stern. "You're done here. Don't dwell on what happened today. Similar situations will occur again. It's a world where you either eat or get eaten."

Albert led Betty outside, guiding her to sit on a fallen log they often used as a makeshift bench. They sat together in silence, the weight of what they had just witnessed heavy on their minds. Neither of them spoke, but they held hands, finding comfort in each other's presence.

Meanwhile, Mr. F took the brain-dead man's body and flew up the mountain. Titan flytraps, each over three meters tall, dotted the landscape, their swollen bellies a clear indication that they were digesting their recent meals. At the mountain's peak stood the Bloodtitan flytrap, towering before the sapling like a vigilant guardian, unmoving even as its subordinates feasted.

Mr. F tossed the man's lifeless body into the air toward the Bloodtitan flytrap. Like a starving predator, it leapt and caught the corpse in its gaping maw.

Curious to see how the flytrap would extract the man's vitality, Mr. F cast a spell on his eyes that allowed him to see through the flytrap's body. What he saw was fascinating. Tiny tendrils emerged from the flytrap's stomach, piercing the man's body. His form began to shrink, deflating like a balloon as his vitality was drained.

Moments later, stomach acids began dissolving the man's remains.

But Mr. F had other plans for the man. As his body disintegrated, Mr. F focused on capturing his soul. For most mages, the soul would be nearly invisible after death, but as the body dissolved, Mr. F saw a ghostly, worm-like form rising into the air.

He leaped forward and seized the soul in his hand. It squirmed and writhed, but it was no match for Mr. F's grip.

"How convenient that you showed up just when I ran out of souls," Mr. F said with a dark smile. "You'll make a fine elixir, my friend."

The soul thrashed harder, as if understanding its fate, but Mr. F shoved it into his soul lantern without a second thought.

Now, it was time to return to the laboratory. There was an elixir to brew, but then a thought crossed his mind. Didn't the system give him a new recipe recently? Perhaps it was time to put that to the test.

Mr. F approached the Bloodtitan flytrap with a vial. "I need some of the nectar you gave me last time," he instructed. "Make sure it's concentrated, and only fill this little bottle."

The flytrap, eager to please its master after receiving such a feast, complied immediately. The vial was filled, and Mr. F sealed it with a cork.

With that done, he flew back to the laboratory, where he spotted Albert and Betty sitting side by side, still holding hands and laughing softly together. He considered telling them to return to work, but then decided against it. They had earned a break. He'd let them rest—at least until the new elixir was finished.

In his laboratory, Mr. F descended directly into the cellar, heading toward the cauldron that had seen countless experiments, both triumphant and disastrous. Luckily, the other materials for the elixir were common enough, which made it convenient that Mr. F had randomly kept them stashed in his spatial pouch.

The more the system adapted his recipes, the more Mr. F began to wonder if it somehow tailored them to match his resources. It was as if the system was aware of his inventory, adjusting the requirements to ensure he always had the right ingredients.

He placed the vial filled with the concentrated nectar from the Bloodtitan flytrap on the table. Beside it, he laid out the remaining ingredients: oil from a Tier 1 black bass, Rank 2 swamp onions, and a bowl of distilled water.

The simplicity of the ingredients perplexed him for a moment. The recipe seemed almost too ordinary for something so potent. Was the system toying with him again? Yet, with no other choice but to trust its design, Mr. F proceeded.

He started by pouring the distilled water into the kettle, waiting as it began to boil and bubble. Next, he added the fish oil, watching as it spread across the water's surface.

Taking the swamp onions, he finely chopped them, their pungent aroma filling the cellar, before tossing them into the liquid. The mixture began to sizzle and pop, and for a brief moment, Mr. F felt as though he were making soup rather than brewing a powerful elixir.

Still, he followed the recipe diligently. The next step was the most critical—he held the soul of the intruder in his hand, feeling its faint struggles.

Now came the hardest part: the wait.

Five minutes. Five long minutes.

Mr. F knew that the success of the entire process would depend on opening the cauldron at the precise moment. Not a second too soon or too late.

He couldn't help but think of the many times the system had led him down an unexpected path, forcing him to question its intent. Was it truly guiding him toward power, or was it manipulating him for some unknown purpose? This elixir felt like a culmination of all those unanswered questions.