The magic stone lamp pushed back the gloom of the room, its harsh white glow making the air feel tense and uneasy.
Just as the merchant had claimed, the potions they'd made were nothing but cheap imitations of the real thing—convincing on the outside, worthless within.
If anyone drank it by mistake, they'd only curse its uselessness, calling it a foul-tasting scam.
"Where did you get this potion?"
Naaza ignored the question.
Though both vials looked and smelled identical, one of them gave off a faint, alluring trace of magic.
Whatever was inside it, even she couldn't tell.
"I'm not sure of the exact source," the merchant admitted. "But I can tell you this much—this bottle's price is far beyond what you'd expect."
"Hmph."
Naaza let out a short, cold laugh. Once someone tasted this kind of potion, they'd inevitably grow dependent on it.
Like a bottomless abyss, it dragged people down—shattering reason, breaking their limits, until all that remained was a puppet ready to be used.
To think someone would actually try to reproduce such a thing... this merchant was already rotten to the core.
"I don't know how it's made," Naaza said flatly.
"You don't know?" The merchant's fat, flabby face twisted into a snarl. "Tell me what ingredient's missing, and I'll let you go. Otherwise..."
Naaza's clothes were soaked through with rain and potion, clinging to her uncomfortably.
The mercenary drew his sword with a slow, metallic rasp.
The merchant's eyes darted to the glinting blade. His face paled, then his smile returned awkwardly. "I... I was only joking."
Turning back to Naaza, he spoke again, almost pleadingly. "You must be aware of the recent incidents with the Treatment potions. This kind of potion is already circulating all over the black market. A few more bottles from us won't make a difference."
Naaza looked at him as if staring at a crawling parasite.
His words were no different from watching someone commit a crime right in front of him—murder, arson—and instead of reporting it, choosing to profit from the chaos.
"What I don't know, I can't tell you. No matter how many times you ask, the answer won't change."
Naaza had no intention of getting involved in such filth.
The God she served would never allow something so vile.
The merchant clenched his teeth, glaring at her hatefully.
He lifted his hand halfway, hesitated for several seconds, then slowly lowered it.
"I see... how could you possibly know what's missing if you've never even tasted it?"
The mercenary frowned but said nothing, remaining in place.
She hadn't asked much about the job and didn't know the potion's true effects or value.
Naaza didn't either. Her theory about its addictive nature came only from observing that strange customer's behavior.
Now, it seemed she might have been right.
Since becoming an alchemist, she'd encountered similar substances before.
A single taste likely wouldn't cause harm.
Naaza glanced toward the armed mercenary and reluctantly nodded.
"If I taste it and still can't identify the missing ingredient... will you let me go?"
"No," the merchant snapped, his greed burning in his eyes. "Not unless you tell me exactly what's missing!"
"To be clear," the mercenary said from the doorway, voice calm and cold, "I'll see her out myself."
The merchant whipped toward him in outrage. "Do you even understand your position? You're just a hired blade! You have no right to—"
His words died as the tip of the sword hovered before his throat.
"Tell me," the mercenary said quietly, "what's faster—your men outside rushing in... or my blade?"
Her tone was low but carried a deadly weight.
Ignoring the merchant's trembling fury, she continued, "We don't have much time. If we keep her here any longer, the Guild will send people—and when they do, this whole operation goes down."
The merchant's face twitched.
Crude as his manner was, he wasn't wrong.
If the standoff dragged on, the kidnapping would soon become a Guild matter.
Better to blindfold Naaza and dump her somewhere before that happened.
"Alright, if you still can't identify the ingredients after drinking the potion, I'll let you go," the merchant conceded.
It sounded like he was compromising, but he still held his winning card. That was the essence of a traveling merchant's craft.
Among the three present, only the merchant had personally witnessed what became of those who drank this potion. It was something so alien that even he felt a chill down his spine. And that was exactly why he sought to recreate it. If he succeeded, he would gain endless wealth and power.
In the merchant's delusion, Naaza slowly raised the potion to her lips and drank. The moment she swallowed, the glass slipped from her hand—
Crash.
With the sound of shattering glass—
In an instant, Naaza understood. This was not something humans could have made. That missing element came from a God.
Mad divine will surged through her body, seizing her consciousness, raking through her nerves. Naaza felt every inch of her skin, every strand of hair, exulting in that endless divinity. That overwhelming pleasure consumed her, split open her heart, and ravaged her soul.
"Naaza."
Before her appeared her God—gentle as ever. Miach's voice was soft and familiar, calling her name again and again. Beside him were the smiling faces of her familia.
"Honestly, what are you spacing out for?" complained the human girl who always liked to stroke her ears.
"Aren't we heading to the Lower Floors today? Pull yourself together," said her senior, the one who always looked after her, as she raised their banner.
"We finally did it—the familia's revival. Miach-sama will be so happy."
"Naaza, you're falling behind!"
"Still as clumsy as ever."
Her companions laughed and reached out their hands to her.
...
It was a sight she had never seen before—a dream that, no matter how deeply she prayed, Heaven had never granted. Their words were filled with warmth and joy, enough to make her wish she'd never wake.
At that moment, the God Miach held her right hand tightly. The warmth from his palm seeped deep into Naaza's parched heart. Yet to her, that warmth felt unbearably cold.
She wanted to surrender to the dream, but the heat was too intense—because it screamed at her constantly: this isn't real. It's a fleeting, impossible mirage.
Ever since the day she lost her arm, she hadn't felt anything. Even recalling the day the God invited her into the familia, taking her hand in blessing—she couldn't summon a trace of warmth from the memory.
Until she cleared her debt, until she atoned for her sins, Naaza didn't deserve any of this.
Tears welled up and spilled from the Chienthrope girl's eyes. She bid the dream farewell—without hesitation.
She had made herself a promise long ago. When she restored the familia, when she gave her companions and her God a home, she would be the one to reach out and take that hand. Even if it took her entire life.
With sorrow and tears burning hot against her cheeks—Naaza returned to reality.