Rosemary crouched by the well, her basket of freshly gathered herbs nestled in the crook of her arm. The chatter of women and the laughter of children filled the air as she sorted through her latest harvest. She plucked a sprig of lavender, crushing it between her fingers and inhaling deeply, savoring its calming scent.

“Can you believe how much has changed?” one of the women said.

Rosemary’s ears pricked up, though she kept her eyes fixed on her task. She knew exactly who they were talking about.

“It’s like night and day,” another woman agreed. “Remember how it used to be?”

Groans rose from the gathered women.

“How could we forget?” a third woman chimed in. “There was that time he stumbled out of the tavern, drunk as a skunk, and relieved himself on old widow Marta’s doorstep!”

Rosemary couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “Pah! That was nothing. What about when he tried to gamble away the town’s grain stores? If it weren’t for his steward stepping in, we’d all have starved come winter.”

The women nodded, their faces grim as they recalled Theodore’s past misdeeds.

“And the taxes!” one woman added. “He raised them multiple times since he arrived here.”

“Or the time he ‘requisitioned’ farmer Giles’ prize bull for some cockamamie tournament, only to get it killed in the first round?”

The list of past grievances against their baron grew longer with each passing moment. Rosemary listened, her jaw clenched tight. She’d patched up more than a few folks who’d crossed Theodore’s path during one of his drunken rampages.

“I swear,” Rosemary muttered, “there was a time I’d have gladly slipped some monkshood in his ale and been done with the whole sorry business.”

The women gasped.

“Rosemary!” one of them scolded, though there was no real heat in her voice. “You shouldn’t say such things. You will be executed if he catches a whiff!”

Rosemary snorted. “Who’s jesting? I’ve got a whole cabinet full of herbs that’d have done the trick. Quick, painless, untraceable...” She trailed off, a wicked grin playing at the corners of her mouth. Well... she might’ve just done it.

But the bastard didn’t die.

In fact, his recent change happened precisely after her little escapade that night in that bar.

How did he survive?

It was one of the greatest mysteries in her life.

The women exchanged glances, a mixture of shock and amusement on their faces. One of them leaned in close, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Is that why no man in town will court you? They’re afraid you’ll poison them in their sleep?”

Rosemary laughed and startled a flock of nearby pigeons into flight. “As if I’d waste good poison on the likes of them. Nah, the men ‘round here are too scared of a woman who knows her own mind. They can’t handle a lass who won’t simper and bat her eyelashes at their every word.”

The women chuckled, shaking their heads at Rosemary’s brash demeanor.

As the laughter died down, a thoughtful look crossed one woman’s face. “But it’s all so different now, isn’t it? Have you seen him lately?”

The mood shifted, wonder replacing the earlier recollections of frustration.

“You’re right,” another woman mused. “I can’t remember the last time I saw him stumbling out of the tavern.”

“And what about that new soap he’s been selling?” a third chimed in. “It’s a right miracle, it is. My skin’s never felt so good, and at only 150 aurums a bar!”

Rosemary frowned. Yeah, that soap was another one of the mysteries. She’d heard whispers about the changes in their baron but hadn’t given them much thought until she’d bought a bar of soap to test it out.

Saying it was “good” would be an understatement.

Which is exactly why I don’t believe he’s capable of such a thing.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” one of the women continued. “He’s been acting like a proper lord lately. Fixed up the bridge over Willow Creek, didn’t he? And I heard he’s talking about opening a... what was the word again? School? Yeah, school, for the little ones. Town was on decline before, but now it feels like we’re finally moving forward.”

Rosemary’s frown deepened. She opened her mouth to speak, to ask more about these sudden changes, when a piercing scream cut through the air.

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“Help! Someone help!”

The women whirled around to see a young boy collapsed on the ground, his mother kneeling beside him, panic etched across her face.

Rosemary was on her feet in an instant, her basket of herbs forgotten as she rushed to the child’s side. She knelt down, her trained eye taking in the boy’s pallid skin, the beads of sweat on his brow, the labored rise and fall of his chest. A deeper look at the boy with one of her skills [Eye of Insight] told her all she needed to know.

A shadow crossed Rosemary’s face as realization dawned. “It’s the blight,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The boy’s mother looked up, her eyes wide with fear. “Why?!” she cried. “We have been making sure he washes himself with the soap occasionally!”

Rosemary shook her head, her mind racing. This didn’t make sense. The symptoms were similar, yes, but there was something... off. Something that made her skin crawl with a primal sort of fear.

“No, no,” she murmured, more to herself than to the gathered crowd. “The soap works.” She would admit that much; it didn’t just work, it worked flawlessly. She’d tried breaking one to look inside and test things out, but had been able to see nothing. “This... this is different. It’s like the Blight, but it isn’t.”

The women pressed closer. “Then what is it?!” the boy’s mother demanded.

Rosemary looked up, her eyes meeting those of the terrified mother. In that moment, she knew she couldn’t sugar-coat the truth, no matter how much she might want to.

“Something far worse, as far as I can tell,” she said quietly.

A hush fell over the crowd, broken only by the labored breathing of the sick child.

The boy wasn’t the only one that got sick that day. It was as if someone released an arrow from their nocked bow.

Over half the town fell sick that day.

***

Ethan sat cross-legged on the cool, damp grass, his eyes closed and his breathing steady. He wasn’t meditating in the traditional sense; instead, he was using his [Meditation] skill.

I think I need better insight into what meditation is... Hmm, think, brain, think. Try to remember.

As he focused his thoughts, he began to contemplate the scientific aspects of consciousness and cognition.

The human brain, he mused, was an intricate network of billions of neurons, each forming thousands of connections. These neural pathways were the foundation of thought, memory, and perception.

There were these chemical “messengers” of the brain called Neurotransmitters, and they played a crucial role in this complex system. Dopamine, serotonin, norepinephrine—each had its part in shaping emotions, regulating mood, and influencing behavior.

So, how can all the knowledge I have help me level this thing up?

Ethan’s mind wandered to the concept of neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to reorganize itself by forming new neural connections. This adaptability was the key to learning and memory formation. He pondered how this scientific understanding might relate to his [Meditation] skill.

Perhaps, he thought, by focusing my mind and repeatedly engaging in this practice, I’m creating new neural pathways. Could this be the mechanism behind skill improvement? But, that seems a leap of logic and quite dumb of me, because [Meditation] doesn’t really have anything to do with the brain, or anything physical, for that matter.

As he continued his meditation, his thoughts shifted to quantum mechanics. He recalled the fascinating world of subatomic particles, where reality behaved in ways that defied classical physics. The uncertainty principle, wave-particle duality, and quantum entanglement all hinted at a universe far more mysterious than it appeared on the surface.

What if consciousness itself is a quantum phenomenon? he pondered. Could the act of observation, so crucial in quantum physics, be related to the power of focused attention in [Meditation]? Or, am I again taking huge leaps in logic when I know so little regarding all of this? By fixating on certain outcomes, am I inadvertently affecting my perception of reality?

“Bah. This is dumb,” Ethan shook his head and stood up. “I’m being dumb.”

***

The clang of metal against metal sounded through the cavernous space as Ethan walked through towering vats filled with a viscous, pearlescent liquid. Here, in the heart of the factory—though, it was lacking a lot, it was still his first official factory, of sorts—the magic soap he’d created was being churned out by the dozen. Workers in hooded overalls moved with what he could proudly say was practiced efficiency.

Ethan paused beside one vat, his eyes catching a minor error in the worker’s pouring technique. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he adjusted the flow. A grateful nod from the worker was his only acknowledgment as he continued his rounds.

His inspection nearing its end, Ethan was about to turn back when a figure walked from behind him. Leto cleared his throat.

“My lord,” Leto began. “There’s a situation that requires your immediate attention.”

Intrigued by the urgency in Leto’s tone, Ethan followed him out of the factory. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the path as they walked.

“What seems to be the trouble, Leto?” Ethan inquired.

Leto grimaced. “There’s been a spike in the number of people falling ill today, my lord. Far too alarming and something that can no longer be handled by us alone. Sir Miller has refused to let anyone else inside the isolated areas we erected quickly.”

Ethan frowned, anger burning inside him. “Ill? Shouldn’t I been informed of this far quicker? And, who gave Miller the authority to deny such things? I’m going to have to talk to him. Regardless, should the soap not have taken care of anything related to the Blight by now?”

Leto shook his head grimly. “No, my lord. This is not the Blight.”

Ethan’s frown deepened. It made perfect sense. The Blight was precisely what his soap was designed to combat, so there was no way in hell it would fail.

So, what could it be?

“Well, then what is it?”

Leto shrugged helplessly. “We do not know, my lord. It all happened very suddenly. In quick succession.”

Ethan understood. If it wasn’t the Blight, then the sudden outbreak was indeed concerning. The Blight had been a slow, insidious killer, its effects building over time. This new illness, striking down people “in quick succession” as Leto had put it, was a new and very unwelcome development.

“So,” Ethan began, his voice carefully neutral, “why exactly do you need me involved?”

Leto hesitated for a beat too long. “Because it’s… a bit more complicated than that. A lot of people got sick very quickly. We don’t have the space to house them all, and the physicians are stretched thin. It’s a disaster. It’s like someone flipped a switch, one minute everyone’s fine, the next…” he trailed off.

“Concerning.” Ethan’s mind raced with possibilities. This new illness, its sudden appearance… it all felt unsettlingly out of place. “And?” he prompted, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “What else is going on?”

Leto took a deep breath. “The townfolk… they’re protesting. They’re saying your soap was a deceit, that it doesn’t work, and that they want their money back.”

Ethan blinked rapidly, processing the information.

“What?” he finally managed to say.