The slightly viscous fluid with which Zel filled the vial was not human saliva. The alchemist turned it over inside the flask, sniffed it, poured out some onto a flat alchemical spoon, and set it over a burner. It took some time to boil, yet seemingly refused to evaporate. The whole time, he muttered about how it resembled the saliva of various cultivator-beasts and how curious it was that humans could even produce such a thing without specialized mutagens. After handing the sample off to his queasy assistant, Makhus took the last implement from the table.
“Alright, last one for now, blood pressure.”
The device for measuring blood pressure was a tourniquet of sorts, wrought of unknown, yet incredibly supple materials and enchanted to carry out this specific task, projecting a circular gauge with Ankhezian markings. It was a rare example of traditional, purely magical tools in use at the sect, having been found during cleanup operations in one of the abandoned underground floors.
The moment it was around Zel’s arm, the gauge jumped far beyond any normal human bounds, around 2/3 of the way towards the maximum.
“This is, ah…” Makhus started, finding his words. His eyes lit up as he took the shackle off of Zel’s arm. “I would wager that inducing blood pressure this high in others is a lethal technique in some small far-off sects; this would rupture someone’s organs very quickly, assuming the absence of thorough body reinforcement. My blood pressure might get this high for seconds at a time when I really push it, and even then my elixirs barely bolster me enough to withstand the strain. It certainly explains how you don’t have problems with your blood being as viscous as it is.”
“All tests done?” Zel raised an eyebrow, stepping down off the table.
“Not even close,” the alchemist laughed, shaking his head. “But what I got today will occupy me for a while. You better not go undergoing any further wide-reaching body transformations in the next few months, understand?”
“I’ll do my best,” Zel grinned. “You mentioned something else when you called me — some trouble with the Dragonheart Bolus project.”
“Hey, consider how I feel, won’t you? At this rate I’ll have to make Acala taller again in no time.” he said, jokingly. “And the Bolus… Well, it’s not a problem now that you’re here. Bet you’re itching to flex against a live target — how about we make that target a Dragon Descendant?”
And so, a medical examination turned into a briefing.
Makhus retrieved the Bestias Arcanorum, flipping to the page on reproductive behaviors. It was severely lacking in substantial information, covering the subject as far as it related to threats against human settlements and the hunting of the beasts. This was sufficient.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“In short, we simply got unlucky with the specimen’s age. It turned out to be much younger than anticipated, barely a hundred years where we had expected at least three-hundred. Its alchemically usable draconic essence had thinned out due to it spawning so many young so recently before we slew it. As a result, after what it had spent in battle, there was barely one-third as much as would be necessary for the True Dragonheart Bolus. Its counterpart, however, has not been depleted in such a manner, and if it could be killed without a fight to speak of, every iota of draconic power could be extracted. If. Slaying the first one was trouble enough, and we were working on a plan to achieve a near-instant kill on the second one up until your emergence. Couldn’t be sure that you would be combat-ready by the time of the hunt…”
He looked up from the book.
“...But it’s clear I worried for naught.”
“I won’t say I won’t do it, because I will, but you just reminded me — why didn’t you ask Jorfr?”
“He came back with a whole pile of harvested beast parts and herbs, requisitioned a new tablet, and immediately departed for some place called Scarlet Hill Farm — he seems to be convinced that incorporating them will benefit us greatly. Been sending in reports every three days with the instruction to search for him if he failed to report in for four or more days. I don’t know much about it, but…” Makhus trailed off, his eyes veering towards Zefaris, who had once more fallen into a trance.
She snapped out of it far more readily this time, continuing the train of thought: “I was there, yes. At the Slaughter of Scarlet Hill. Didn’t actually get to do anything, but I was there. It was one of the early battles involving full mechanization. The mortar crews buried the entire Howling Moon Sect under two meters of mud, shit and shrapnel. I’m not aware of any farm in the area, but the place was a subject of constant bickering even before the war due to its nature as a herbal treasure trove. It’s not a far-fetched thing for a farm to have sprung up now that the forces who once claimed ownership of the hill are gone.
“Y’alright? You’ve seemed out of it since—” Makhus questioned.
“I’m fine. I just… Need to go out for once. I’ve been locked up for too long. Every time I close my eyes, I see them,” Zefaris sighed, rubbing her eyes.
“See what?” Makhus asked again.
“The formation patterns from the central spire, mostly…”
Makhus shot Zelsys a questioning glance. After holding eye contact for a few seconds, the gears in his head finally clicked into place, and he immediately moved on from the subject.
----------------------------------------
Across the land, the silhouette of an enormous man carved itself into memory. With an arm of abyssal-blue crystal, the Walking Glacier was said to be among the few to equal the Walking Tribulation in inhuman strength and righteousness. It was said he could halt the flow of a broken dam and cast small armies to the ground with his presence alone. With each passing day, his legend grew and his power grew with it — for that was the nature of Superbia, the god-killing hammer that resonated with his Truth.
In Willowdale, however, the ripples of Eberheim still had yet to calm, and the Walking Tribulation was just now preparing to return into the world once more.