In the shadowy halls of the Baron’s Castle, young Richard, the lord of the estate, accustomed to viewing the many wonders of this magical medieval world through the lens of science.

“So, ghost fires are nothing more than phosphorescence, and the fish with human faces are merely genetic mutations. As for the Fireball spell, it’s just a small-scale chemical explosion—something that could easily be achieved with a bag of flour. But…”

Richard gazed out the window, his brow furrowed in thought. “But the transformation of a werewolf? No matter how you look at it, it defies the law of conservation of mass! I fear we couldn’t hold the good Mr. Lomonosov's coffin down when he heard this stuff. He would be angry and jumped out of it!” With a determined glint in his eyes, he murmured, “It seems it’s time to catch a werewolf and conduct a thorough dissection.”

Richard was the man from modern world. Without any reason, when his mind became conscious, he had traveled to this world with the memory from the last world.

“Very well then... The First Guard Squadron, let’s set out! Target: the Black Forest!”

Lightning cracked across the sky, and torrential rain poured down.

The downpour lashed fiercely against the fields, obscuring the horizon in a wash of white; human traces were nearly lost to the elements. Yet, standing resolute beside a small river, the Baron’s Castle remained unmoved. Inside, in one of its upper chambers, an almost eerie silence prevailed, save for the unmistakable sound of liquid bubbling.

“Glug, glug…”

A boy's voice emerged, rich with seriousness yet youthful in tone, as if he were both talking to himself and instructing others.

“Distillation, quite a simple operation, is based on the differing boiling points of the components within a liquid mixture to achieve separation.” He was about fourteen or fifteen, dressed in a sky-blue short-sleeved tunic.

Nearby, a young maid dressed in rags, probably around twelve or thirteen, gazed wide-eyed at the array of “complex instruments” cluttered on the table.

At the heart of the apparatus was a copper basin heated by a roaring flame, filled with water and a sealed jar floating atop. A single bamboo tube extended from the jar to the outside, first plunging into a basin of cold water to cool down before the other end fed into a small ceramic pot the size of a fist.

“Drip, drip! Pssh, pssh!”

Small droplets of liquid ebbed forth from the bamboo’s end, falling into the ceramic pot, while thick clouds of white vapor hissed from the jar’s mouth and the bamboo tube, filling the air with a faintly acrid scent of alcohol.

“L-lord, are you really distilling?” the girl asked, her eyes shimmering with a mix of awe and curiosity. “But... why use alcohol?”

“Because I need pure alcohol for disinfection or perhaps to create some basic alcohol specimens to prepare for the possible dissection of a… werewolf,” Richard replied, his expression turning serious. “Did I not send Tuku and the others to capture a werewolf from the Black Forest?”

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He seemed to recall something and added, “Of course, it’s not accurate to claim that distillation yields 'absolute purity' of alcohol. To be precise, what I can obtain is 'relatively pure' alcohol, since mixing water and alcohol results in a mixture with a fixed boiling point known as an azeotrope. Thus, using traditional distillation, we can only obtain this type of substance, which explains why the maximum alcohol concentration usually hovers around 95%.”

“How can you achieve 'absolute purity,' my lord?” Lucy asked, her curiosity piqued.

“To acquire 'absolute purity,' one must employ a fractional distillation column for multiple continuous distillations, then introduce calcium oxide—often referred to as quicklime—to remove water. However, considering the current state of technology in this world, we cannot fabricate such a column. Not even a distillation flask is available, so we must keep it simple.”

“Alas,” Richard sighed, his tone heavy with resignation. “The downside is significant; pure alcohol eludes us, and due to the rudimentary equipment, achieving any more than 80% alcohol concentration is a struggle. The best I can hope for is 75% medicinal alcohol—useful for disinfection and some basic specimens, but other uses are out of the question. Well, nearly perfect is better than nothing, wouldn’t you agree?”

As he spoke, Richard filled a small ceramic pot with distilled alcohol, sealing it away before reaching for another pristine jar.

Lucy, watching him in his industriousness, wanted to help but didn’t know how, so she remained frozen in place, wide-eyed. To her, the second heir of the baron, whom she had served for a year, seemed like a mysterious alchemist or wizard, often spouting incomprehensible words and engaging in strange tasks.

To avoid causing any disturbance, her priority was to remain quietly attentive, striving to remember and understand the complex terminology that flowed from his lips. Perhaps, when he asked questions in the future, she might be able to provide answers. Yes, he often inquired of her, and she resolved to be prepared.

At that moment, Richard had finished transferring the contents into a new jar and strode over to the window, casting a glance at the heavy curtain of rain outside. He turned to Lucy and quietly asked, “How long has Tuku and the First Guard Squadron been gone?”

“Um, perhaps... two hours?” Lucy replied, hesitating and stuttering slightly.

Richard’s eyes shimmered thoughtfully. “About two hours? Considering the rain might hinder their progress, that time should be just enough for them to make a round trip on horseback to the Black Forest. Let us hope they do not return within the next hour…”

“Ah?” Lucy's eyes widened in confusion, yet she dared not ask further.

Richard explained, “It’s simple. They are searching for the rumored werewolf! Legend holds that a werewolf possesses the fighting strength of three to five grown men. With only ten men in Tuku’s party, under such weather, it would be challenging to capture a werewolf without significant cost—an hour at the very least.”

He continued, “Considering the time taken to locate the werewolf and potential unexpected delays, they would require even more time. Typically, they should return around three and a half to four hours after departing. If they come back sooner, it only means they either failed to capture the werewolf or…”

“Hmm?” Lucy looked up expectantly.

Richard simply narrowed his eyes, a frown creasing his forehead. “Let’s hope it isn’t… the kind of possibility I dread the most.”

Half an hour later…

“Pitter-patter…”

The torrential rain gradually softened, and the Baron’s Castle appeared refreshed, washed anew by the downpour. Meanwhile, on the muddy path leading to the castle, a cavalry team rode forth at a gallop.

“Clatter, clatter!”

Horses’ hooves pounded against the muck, splattering mud across the riders, leaving them in a disheveled state. Though the horses occasionally slipped, they remained under control, galloping toward the Baron’s Castle.