The arrival of a single adventurer completely transformed the atmosphere of the apothecary.
"Lady Riveria, thank you for saving me," Eina said respectfully.
"There's no need to be so stiff. This isn't Alf's Royal Forest."
Riveria cast the man a look of contempt before surveying the wrecked shop.
"R-right… thank you for responding to my request, Lady Riveria."
Though Eina quickly adjusted her tone, the honorific slipped out from habit before she could stop herself.
Before coming here, she had met a female Elf from the Loki Familia. Eina had inquired about Riveria's whereabouts and asked her to deliver a personal request for help.
"It's fine. After the failure of our expedition, the air in our manor has been as heavy as this rain. I needed some fresh air anyway."
Riveria's voice was composed and measured. Paired with her beauty—so striking even the gods envied it—she carried an effortless grace that drew others in.
"About the reward—I'll make sure to prepare it properly," Eina said again.
"Protecting someone is the right thing to do. If you have spare coin, save it for your mother instead. Besides, seeing how much you've changed makes me glad."
Riveria smiled softly.
Compared to humans, elves lived far longer—and that long life often made them stubborn, unbending.
Eina, who always preached that "adventurers shouldn't take risks," had now willingly thrown herself into danger.
That courage—to break her own chains and step beyond the safety of her cage—was something truly rare.
"I understand."
Eina didn't insist further. Her gaze turned toward the scarred man kneeling on the floor.
Riveria, ever perceptive and experienced, understood her intent immediately.
She raised her staff and took a single, deliberate step forward.
Tap.
The staff struck the floor.
To the scarred man's ears, that sound was like the world collapsing.
"Speak, human. Why did you commit such barbarity? And where is the victim?"
Riveria's tone was cold and commanding, evoking the divine judgment of the elven royalty themselves.
The scarred man didn't dare lift his head. He pressed his forehead against the ground and began confessing everything.
...
Inside the casino.
Unlike the dilapidated exterior, the interior showed no trace of decay.
The gambling tables had been repurposed into potion-making stations, cluttered with materials and bottles of shimmering liquid.
Naaza sat bound in a private room, the only exit a single door with a narrow gap.
Once a luxury suite for guests, it had now become a chamber for criminal dealings.
Naaza was tied to a chair, facing an empty square table.
"My apologies—my men were a bit rough," said a man sitting across from her.
He was obese, dressed in fine clothes that barely contained his bulk.
He looked less like an adventurer and more like a merchant whose eyes gleamed with greed.
Naaza's gaze was vacant, unfocused—she stared at the tabletop without a word.
It was as if she hadn't heard him at all.
The merchant scowled and stood abruptly, shouting at the mercenary nearby.
"I told you to be careful! What good is she to us like this?"
"Ask your own men," the mercenary replied flatly.
"Useless trash!" The merchant's anger flared as he learned that the scarred man was missing. In a fit of rage, he kicked at the mercenary.
The mercenary dodged easily. The kick hit nothing, throwing the merchant off balance and sending him crashing to the floor.
"You—!"
Before he could curse, the mercenary stepped forward, took out an antidote, and carefully poured it between Naaza's lips.
"Listen. I'm cleaning up the mess your scum made. Understand?"
His voice was low and gravelly, carrying more weight than the merchant's frantic bluster ever could.
The medicine took effect quickly.
The Chienthrope girl stirred, her dull eyes flickering back to life.
Seeing Naaza regain consciousness, the merchant brushed off his humiliation and used the wall to push himself upright.
"I... I'll pay you more."
The merchant forced a smile as he made his offer.
The mercenary said nothing, stepping silently aside.
Their agreement included more than just the kidnapping of Naaza and guarding the casino—there was an unspoken clause as well.
He had the right to observe the interrogation, and if the merchant ever crossed a moral line, the mercenary would not hesitate to draw his blade.
The merchant had agreed easily enough.
For one, he hadn't planned anything too extreme. And for another, this mercenary was exceptionally competent at his work.
"This is..."
Naaza's faint voice drew both men's attention.
"You're finally awake," the merchant said with a grin, settling back into his chair across from her. "I've invited you here to ask a favor."
"A favor?"
Naaza recalled the thugs' violent assault. They had ransacked the Blue Pharmacy beyond repair, yet this man still dared to use the word favor.
Her expression hardened. She cast him a cold glance but didn't speak.
After all this effort to bring her here, she doubted someone like her—a retired adventurer—was worth the trouble.
She decided to wait and see what kind of scheme he was plotting.
"My subordinate offended you," the merchant said with false civility. "When he returns, I'll make sure he's properly punished."
He shot a glance at the mercenary.
The man stepped forward and loosened the ropes around Naaza's wrists.
"I'll give you one piece of advice," he said quietly. "If you don't want to get hurt, don't do anything reckless."
Once she was untied, the merchant pulled two bottles of Potion from his robes and placed them on the table between them.
"Take a look at these two and tell me what's different."
Naaza frowned. At first glance, both looked like ordinary healing potions—same clear sky-blue color, same texture.
"You can open them if you'd like," the merchant added.
"If this is about potions, you're wasting your time," Naaza said coolly. "You'd be better off asking the Dea Saint."
"Do you think we wouldn't, if we could?" the merchant replied, his smile widening, sickly sweet.
He wasn't wrong—when it came to potion-making, the Dea Saint was unmatched.
But unlike the struggling and impoverished Miach Familia, Dian Cecht's people were far too well-guarded to approach.
Naaza understood his implication, yet the situation only puzzled her more.
Healing potions were common in Orario. Why go to such lengths for something so ordinary?
The answer, she realized, lay within the bottles before her.
Under the mercenary's watchful gaze, she uncorked both vials.
A faint, unpleasant odor wafted out—something no normal healing potion should have.
Naaza's eyes narrowed. She remembered encountering something similar before.
A few days ago, a customer had brought a sample to her shop, asking if she sold that kind of potion.
She'd taken one whiff to analyze it, but before she could identify the mixture, the customer had abruptly withdrawn his request and hurried out.
It wasn't a healing potion at all. It was an addictive substance disguised as one.
Naaza had reported her suspicions to the Guild, but she hadn't expected to see it again—here, of all places.
One of these bottles was real. The other was an imitation, crafted by blending random materials in an attempt to reproduce the original.
Now it made sense.
They weren't the original creators of the drug—they were trying to recreate it to profit from its sale.
As if reading her thoughts, the merchant leaned forward, a sycophantic smile twisting his face.
"Tell me, then—what do you think is the final missing ingredient in our little potion?"