The Alchemist's Elixir
In the year his son turned eight, the boy went to the stream with children his age and fell into a deep section. It was where two currents from upstream met, making the water both deep and fast.
A nearby herbalist pulled him out—but his breathing had already stopped.
At the time, Rashid had been out riding. He had gone quite far to let the horses, which had been tied in the stable for days, stretch themselves. When he returned around sunset, he saw his son lying pale in front of the house.
"The young master met with an accident at the stream."
Even upon hearing the words, he couldn't grasp their meaning. His son looked as though he were simply asleep. Still seated on his horse, Rashid stared down at his wife, who was clutching the child's body.
And then, suddenly, he remembered.
'The vial.'
The one he had taken from the alchemist.
He leapt off his horse and ran into the house. From a wooden box where it had been stored with straw, he took out the glass vial. Even after nearly ten years, the purple liquid inside shimmered vividly.
Rashid had never considered it anything special. Immortality? At most, he thought it might be something beneficial to one's health. Over time, he had even come to think it was nothing at all, eventually forgetting its existence.
But upon seeing his son's death, a conviction arose—one that had never occurred to him before. Perhaps it was an elixir that could even awaken the dead.
He opened the stopper and poured every last drop into his son's mouth.
"..."
He closed the boy's mouth and watched for a reaction.
There was none.
He waited again.
Nothing changed.
His son remained pale, cold, and lifeless.
Rashid hurled the vial away. Disappointment was overtaken by grief, and the reality that his son had crossed an irreversible boundary finally sank in. He entrusted the funeral to a priest and buried his son in a coffin.
Several days passed.
Rashid and his wife tried to forget their sorrow. But less than ten days after their son's death, a strange rumor began to spread.
Voices were being heard in the cemetery.
Not the cries of animals, but something like human sobbing or screaming. The rumor spread among the townspeople, and though Rashid, who had shut himself away, did not know of it, he learned of it when the priest came to see him.
"We must dig up your son's grave."
At the priest's request, Rashid immediately shouted:
"What are you talking about?!"
As he raged, the priest calmed him and explained. A scream was coming from beneath the ground—and it seemed to be coming from his son's grave.
"It seems your son is alive."
Rashid gasped sharply. At that moment, his wife, who had been walking behind him, staggered, and he quickly caught her. She trembled like a leaf, clutching his arm.
"I-Is that certain?"
she asked.
"It is certain."
the priest answered firmly.
Their hands tightened.
The couple looked at each other in silence for a long time, then nodded. That silent agreement was enough—the priest immediately gathered people and headed to the cemetery.
"I hear it. It's from below."
"Oh gods… Hestios…"
The scream truly came from the grave.
The closer they got to the boy's burial place, the louder it became. And when they began to dig, the sound grew even stronger.
His wife sobbed, covering her face with both hands. Rashid could do nothing but hold her as he watched the grave being dug up with wide, unblinking eyes.
At last, the coffin was revealed.
The voice suddenly stopped.
The workers hesitated, unable to touch the coffin, and looked to Rashid. He dismissed them, climbed down, and grasped the lid. Faintly—so faint it could barely be heard unless one listened closely—came the sound of crying.
He tore the lid open at once.
Inside—
his son was crying.
"—And so, I brought my revived son back home."
The recollection ended as the aged Rashid broke into a cough.
He coughed several times, dry and harsh, and when his throat still wouldn't clear, he struck his chest with his fist. Only after Ulrich handed him a cup of water and he took a drink did his breathing steady.
"Didn't you think something was wrong?"
"I did not. What could I have done? A child we believed dead opened his eyes and called out to us—what parent could doubt that?"
After a brief pause, Ulrich asked again:
"Surely others would have suspected something. A priest oversaw the funeral, and he was trapped in a coffin for days. Not a single person found it strange?"
"No one saw me give him the potion. So they believed it was some grave mistake—that the child had been buried alive while unconscious. There was no other explanation. Even the priest thought so."
"The priest as well?"
"Yes."
Ulrich frowned slightly, stroking his chin with his fingers. His lips moved as if murmuring something, but Roberta, listening outside, couldn't hear it.
"My son lost most of his memories. He remembered nothing except that we were his parents. His speech became as clumsy as that of a baby just learning to talk, and his behavior was the same."
"..."
"We thought it was due to shock. He had been trapped in that narrow, dark coffin for days. How could he remain sane? We believed he had suffered too great a trauma, that he would recover in time."
But—Rashid added, biting his lip—
"His body didn't grow. Not at all. He remained exactly as he was on the day he died. And his mind never recovered his memories, nor learned anything new… it became something… strange."
"Like an animal."
At the word animal, Roberta looked at the boy.
The boy, who had been burying his face in the fruit bowl, had now thrown it aside and was picking up dried fruit from the floor with his mouth. Though his limbs were perfectly fine, he behaved like a four-legged dog.
Rashid said he had tried countless times to correct this behavior, but all had failed—and it only worsened with time. The boy lost the ability to sleep, wandered even at dawn, attacked neighbors and livestock, and behaved like a madman, slowly wearing down the couple's hearts.
"You endured for quite a while."
"We only endured. Nothing improved."
"Most wouldn't even manage that, even if it were family."
Ulrich nodded and asked:
"So? Why come to me? Instead of continuing to care for… that, until the end of your life, why travel all this way? What changed your mind?"
"At first, that was our plan. But before my wife died, she said something. She said… our son didn't seem like our son anymore. And then she asked something of me."
That became the turning point.
He left, taking his son with him.
He met all sorts of people in search of a cure—even dwarves and fairies among them. Yet few could even perceive the true nature of the problem. And among those who did, not a single one offered a solution.
"As you said, my lord, finding you was a matter of chance. When I reached Osnover, I heard by coincidence that you had lived for a very long time—and that you were still young. So I sought you out, hoping against hope."
"I see."
Ulrich shook his head.
"You must have high hopes, but it cannot be cured."
Rashid lowered his head and answered, "I see."
"It was never alive to begin with."
"What do you mean? It's clearly alive right here."
"It's not him, is it?"
Both of them looked at the boy.
"Your wife was right. That is not your son."
"…If it's not my son, then what is it?"
"Something that came from the vial."
The boy picked up every last crumb from the floor and ate it. When nothing remained, he sat down, sucking on his fingers—then, growing bored of that, began gnawing on his nails.
When Rashid reached out to stop him, the boy bit down hard on his father's hand instead. Rashid struck his forehead with his other hand to pull him away, but the teeth had already sunk into flesh, drawing blood.
"There is no way to fix it. It will only get worse, never better. When you die, there will be no one to control it—it will go mad. Like all monsters do."
"My son is not a monster."
"Rashid, how long will you deceive yourself?"
Ulrich took out a handkerchief and wrapped Rashid's wound. The old man's wrinkled face crumpled as if he were about to cry. It wasn't the pain from the injury—Roberta could tell from his slumped shoulders.
"You said others noticed before I did. Do you think I don't know what they said—and how you responded?"
"W-what are you talking about?"
He tried to feign ignorance, but his face stiffened, and his voice trembled.
Ulrich did not press further. He simply looked at Rashid—and under that gaze, the old man's face turned pale as he began to speak in a rush.
"Then what was I supposed to do? What should I have done? If you know my sin… then you must know why I did it. Would you have had any other choice?"
As Rashid raised his voice in desperation, Ulrich said nothing. Instead, his gaze shifted to the side of the desk.
There was a single sword, resting in a faded scabbard without decoration.
Rashid's body trembled violently.
"N-no…"
"Sin cannot escape its punishment forever."
Rashid stepped in front of him, glaring.
"There must be another way—"
"There is none."
"How can you be so certain?"
"Because there are countless precedents—and the outcome is always the same."
Rashid's face twisted grotesquely as his body shook.
"Move."
He slowly shook his head.
Ulrich let out a small sigh and placed a hand on Rashid's shoulder, pushing him aside. The old man staggered and collapsed weakly to the ground. Ulrich leaned forward, reaching for the sword.
At that moment, Roberta saw something change in the old man's face.
All emotion vanished. The face that had accumulated wrinkles through a lifetime of hardship became like that of a judge delivering a cold verdict. He shouted—
—and almost at the same time, the boy lunged forward.
The son, who had been silently watching until then, suddenly sprang into action as his father fell and called his name for the first time in that room. Baring his teeth, he attacked Ulrich from behind.
"My lord!"
Roberta shouted.
There was no time to stop it. In an instant, the boy clung to Ulrich's back, biting into his neck. With one hand, he drove a dagger from his clothes into Ulrich's side and twisted it.
Ulrich collapsed without even a dying scream.
"What have you done?!"
Only then did Roberta rush inside and shout.
"I—I had no choice!"
Rashid stood frozen, then flinched and stepped back at her outburst. He looked startled by the sudden intruder—and then startled again upon realizing she wore priestly robes.
Avoiding her fierce gaze, he kept repeating that he had no choice.
"No choice? For something like this?!"
"There was no other way!"
She was about to demand why there wasn't—but Rashid suddenly shouted and drew his sword, stepping forward in a single motion. Even at over sixty, his experience produced a clean, decisive strike.
But to Roberta, it was far too slow.
She stepped forward roughly, twisted her body slightly, grabbed his sword arm, and snapped it. The broken hand released the blade, which she caught midair and swung diagonally.
Blood sprayed.
"Did you think the same trick would work again?!"
She glared at him, shouting, then swiftly turned.
The boy was already lunging at her, just as he had done to Ulrich.
She dodged easily and swung her blade again. This time, the boy twisted his body, but his right shoulder—the arm holding the dagger—was cut open, revealing what lay beneath the skin.
Roberta clicked her tongue at the sight.
Outwardly, it looked human—but inside, it was not. The cross-section of the shoulder looked like roots embedded in the earth. Red tendrils filled the interior, writhing.
She had never seen nor heard of such a thing.
The creature wearing the boy's form let out a shriek and glared at her.
She frowned and glared back.
"A mere monster, daring to—"
The creature before her lacked the aura typically emitted by creations of evil gods. That meant it was not something born from their influence. If it were, she would have recognized it without needing to overhear Ulrich and Rashid's conversation.
But the Pantheon did not define monsters solely as creations of evil gods. Any being not recorded in scripture—or one that committed wicked acts—could be called a monster.
She examined it carefully.
Despite losing part of its shoulder, its balance remained intact. There was no sign of pain or fatigue. Blood poured from the wound, yet it seemed indifferent.
Was the boy's body merely a shell?
From the severed section, red tendrils protruded like unraveling threads, writhing.
"O Ganimeas, punish the sin of ignorance and savagery."
Reciting a prayer, Roberta moved the mana within her body. The blade of her sword began to glow faintly. Mana flowed from her body into the blade, sharpening it beyond steel itself.
The creature took a step back.
She gripped the hilt tightly, leaning forward, preparing to strike.
A monster like this was not worth capturing. She intended to end it in a single blow. The creature, sensing this, bared its teeth and braced itself.
And then—
Ulrich rose behind it.
"…?"
Sensing his presence, the creature tried to turn—but it was too late.
Ulrich grabbed its shoulder with one hand and seized its head with the other, pulling.
Rip—!
With a tearing sound, the creature's head was ripped out by the roots, crushed in his grip.
"My lord? How…?"
Roberta stepped back, her raised foot retreating.
"Well… this is the reason I've lived so long."
The blood spilled across the office floor began to move.
It flowed toward Ulrich.
The pooled blood gathered at his feet, climbed upward, and flowed into the wounds on his chest and neck. The blood he had shed was returning to its owner.
His wounds began to close. As the blood was fully absorbed, the injuries sealed rapidly, as if they had never existed.
Ulrich stepped toward Roberta, took her hand, and guided her fingers to touch the wounds on his neck and side.
Then he said:
"I am not a monster, so you need not worry, Roberta."