Chapter 7
Percy's face instantly darkened.
"What do you mean?"
Veris looked around his house and, noticing the potions that attracted magical beasts scattered everywhere, turned back to Percy and said slowly, "It's nothing. You want the Eye of God to make the legendary potion, right?"
Percy stared intently at Veris.
It's practically impossible to know the secrets of a profession between different people. Moreover, Percy isn't exactly a traditional apothecary; the potion recipes in the eyes of the world are completely different from the ones he possesses.
However, Veris was a bard.
That group of madmen is scattered in almost every corner of the continent, outnumbering the priests and reaching farther places. Veris arrived in Albion before him, perhaps having gathered information about the apothecaries elsewhere.
In Albion, almost everyone he paid attention to was dead, except for Veris.
Compared to those damned people, Veris was at best unchanged in appearance, living a life of poverty and destitution for decades, drinking and singing, nothing particularly outstanding.
On this continent, there are many things that remain unchanged.
"...What do you know?" Percy asked, pursing his lips as Veris looked back without flinching.
Veris smiled, and his smile, combined with his pale yet handsome face, created a strange expression. His eyes seemed to carry a hint of pity, like a god looking at a misguided believer. His tone was completely devoid of any rural accent, but rather more formal and official than that of a bishop of the Papacy.
"Legend has it that there are two kinds of ninth-tier potions. Traditional pharmacists aspire to refine the former, which can bring the dead back to life, but the extremely evil pharmacists..." He placed his hand on the table, leaned forward, and got close to Percy, almost peeling the pharmacist's skin and bones, looking him through the skin.
Veris's voice was tinged with laughter: "Thirteen years ago, I sang a story at Martin's Tavern. Hundreds of years ago, an evil apothecary wanted to concoct a ninth-tier magic potion to resurrect the progenitor of the demon race, one of the seven great gods. It's a pity you never went to the tavern and missed this wonderful story."
Percy's face instantly turned ugly.
His fists clenched, his eyes practically turning into venomous snakes, tearing at the young man in front of him who seemed to have everything under control.
“You came to Albion because of that prophecy, didn’t you?” Veris straightened up, dusted the ashes off his clothes, and said.
"Aren't you one too?" Percy immediately retorted with a sneer, eager to turn the tables.
Veris looked at him and smiled, his words utterly cruel: "You can say that, after all, it was me who issued that prophecy."
Percy jumped to his feet, his face turning pale and then flushed as if he'd been punched, muttering, "How could this be? That's from—"
"The Grand Papacy made a mistake in transmitting the secret message that time, right?" Veris said, looking around, then raised his other hand and pressed his fingertips in the air. A magic circle about half an arm's length in diameter appeared and flew towards the counter in the room where the potions that attracted magical beasts were placed.
Percy had no intention of stopping him. From the moment he returned to Albion's cabin in a desperate gamble, he knew that the last person who came for the Eye of God was Veris.
But he never imagined it would turn out like this.
Even the prophecy he obtained decades ago, after nearly exhausting his wealth and connections, is probably a huge lie.
His face turned deathly pale instantly. Had all these decades of planning and scheming been in vain, or even a joke in Veris's eyes?
"impossible!"
"If that's the case, why have you stayed in Albion for so long!?"
"You are a member of the High Holy See!"
Percy became agitated. He and Veris remained separated by the long table, with his hands on the tabletop, peering intently at Veris, his gaze almost completely fixed on him.
How could the people of the Papacy be willing to stay in this remote border town for so long?
After Veris finished sealing all the potions, he turned to look at the excited Percy. Compared to the other's hysteria, he was much calmer. "You haven't heard from the High Priestess for a long time, have you?"
Absolutely sealed off, entirely within Veris's barrier, no communication device could possibly transgress his laws. He brazenly spoke to Percy, "Last year, the Papacy established the Pope's successor, who is the greatest magician in history."
Percy's eye muscles twitched involuntarily; he didn't understand why Veris was telling him all this.
What does the Papacy's decision to establish a papal successor have to do with him?
Veris spoke to him in a cheerful mood, seemingly sharing her son's impressive resume: "Don't be so quick to judge me, Percy. You've watched him grow up too, his name is..."
“Silvan”.
The words that fell on his ears were spoken softly, but they exploded in Percy's ears like thunder. His legs suddenly lost all strength, went limp, and he slumped into the chair.
His pupils dilated as he stared blankly at the youthful-looking man before him.
His hair felt as if it had been ripped open, his muscles began to tremble, then a giant hand appeared inside his internal organs, twisting them violently, and finally his soul, unable to bear the fear, shrank, wishing it could die immediately.
Percy had almost lost his language system.
He attracted monsters, causing great calamity to several villages and towns; he deserves to die.
If it were someone else, he would have had the courage to argue and ask further questions.
But if it were that being… Percy closed his eyes, awaiting death.
"Knock, knock, knock," came the rapid, disordered knocking.
Percy suddenly opened his eyes and was greeted by an intricate and beautiful magic circle that was already in front of him. He dared not move and could only watch through the magic circle as Veris walked to the door.
By the way, he commissioned the mercenary to bring the boy with the Eye of God to the cabin.
Could it be—
Veris opened the door, the moonlight falling on his face. He looked down at the two people standing on the stairs outside and smiled: "Oh, it's you, Allen."
When the young mercenary saw Veris, he was first surprised, then immediately put on his usual harmless smile: "Mr. Veris, what are you doing in the murderer's house?"
“I’m more curious why Alan would carry a unconscious child to find the murderer while everyone else was protecting Albion.” Veris’s gaze shifted to his shoulder.
Alan was carrying the unconscious Arnold on one arm and holding his large scythe in the other; something just didn't look right.
“Arnold was ambushed and injured by a monster. I came here to see if there were any remaining healing potions, since the murderer fled in such a hurry that he didn’t take anything with him,” Allen said. “So, Mr. Veris, what brings you here when everyone is staying indoors?”
Veris immediately realized that Arnold had indeed fallen unconscious, but not because of the monster's attack.
However, he didn't say anything. Instead, he looked at Allen again. The young man was not afraid of his gaze at all. Instead, he tilted his head back and waited for his answer.
Due to the angle, and with Veris blocking most of the doorway, Allen couldn't see what was happening inside the dimly lit room.
However, he had a vague sense of unease.
The next second, Veris lowered his voice and asked curiously, "Does Percy know that the heart he commissioned from the mercenary is an important part of his formula?"
Allen could no longer maintain his smile; the harmless smile froze and then disappeared.
He was about to speak when he heard Veris continue, "But you are innocent, child. Just consider it a nap and get back on your way."
"No--"
Before he could utter his refusal, his vision went completely dark. The last thing he saw was Veris taking a flute out of thin air—a flute that Veris often played on certain nights in the tavern, and everyone there was familiar with it.
The melodious music began, instantly stripping Allen of his memories.
Two young men collapsed onto a magic circle. Veris stood at the doorway, his eyes lowered, playing a tune. The door behind him closed automatically, and terrifying high-level magic raged like a storm within his barrier, executing and destroying evidence.
Setting up a magic circle in advance definitely yields unexpected results.
After playing the short piece, Veris threw the flute away. The air distorted, and the flute disappeared before hitting the ground.
The monsters were mostly dealt with. Without the lure of the potion, and with the aura of the Eye of God concealed by something else, the crisis was considered over.
Veris looked down at the unconscious Arnold, squatted down, and pulled the black rope around his neck.
At the end, a dark red gemstone was tied.
He stared for two seconds, and when he found no reaction, he smiled contemptuously and stood up.
The magic circle lit up, sending the two people back to the Mercenary Guild.
A hero's team usually consists of five people.
The hero himself, the mage, the warrior, and two other beings from another race.
The elves represent the purification of all evil spirits, and the dragons represent the signposts leading to the destination.
This is the most traditional and original configuration for a hero's team.
A note from the author:
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Xiao Wei: Life is dull and boring, she teases her greedy junior.
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