The dawn of the following day saw Enid clutching a thick roll of parchment. Eric had spent the late hours translating the geometry of his soul into ink, detailing the Principles of the Single Pillar and the botanical secrets of the unseen fungi. She bowed her head in a gesture of profound gratitude, her silken hair catching the light of the Forge.
"This is a gift of a thousand years," Enid whispered. "I shall take this to my scholars. May the stars watch over your mountain, Eric Bloodstone." With a final look at the Underground Throne, the Elder departed, her silhouette vanishing into the morning mist.
But as the sun dipped again, Eric's scholar-brain turned to a darker necessity. He needed the catalyst of decay. He shouldered his Shepherd's Club and stepped into the indigo night, only to find a trio of elven scouts—Deith's finest—waiting near the timber-gate.
"The Elder speaks of your 'Mind's Eye'," the lead scout said, his hand resting on a longbow of polished yew. "We wish to see the harvest of the invisible."
Eric grunted, his breath blooming in the cold air. "Follow if you must. But do not step where I do not. The night holds more than just mushrooms."
He led them away from the fertile valleys, climbing toward a jagged ravine where the air grew heavy and stagnant. The scent of old rot and cold iron clung to the rocks. This was a Primal Kill-Zone, a place where mountain predators had dragged their prey for centuries, and where ancient skirmishes had left the soil saturated with the echoes of the fallen. To the elves, it was a place of ill omen; to Eric, it was a garden.
"Here," Eric muttered, kneeling in a patch of earth that felt unnaturally cold. He closed his eyes, centering his balance until the Mind's Eye flickered to life.
The scouts watched, bewildered, as Eric reached into a pile of bleached bones and pulled a cluster of pale, grey fungi from the dirt. They were translucent, ribbed like tiny ribcages, and pulsed with a sickly, rhythmic light that only Eric could truly perceive.
"What is that foul thing?" a scout asked, shivering as the Death Energy of the site seemed to prickle at his skin. "It looks like the fingers of a Drowner."
"This is the Corpse Mushroom," Eric explained, carefully placing the specimens into his Spatial Pouch. "It does not drink the rain or eat the sun. It feeds on the lingering essence of the dead. You will find them in graveyards, on battlefields, or in holes like this where life has been snuffed out in great numbers."
He stood, the grey light of the mushrooms reflecting in his eyes. "In alchemy, life requires a balance. To brew the draughts of the living, I must understand the harvest of the grave."
The elves exchanged uneasy glances. They had seen him brew medicine, but seeing him pluck life from a tomb of bones reminded them that their host was a strange alchemist who walked hand-in-hand with death.
******
The descent back into the limestone sanctuary was silent, the elven scouts trailing Eric like shadows. They were drawn by a morbid curiosity, their eyes fixed on the Spatial Pouch that held the grey, pulsing Corpse Mushrooms.
"You do not hide your craft," one of the scouts remarked, watching Eric move toward the Alchemy Workshop. "Most mages in the south would kill to keep such secrets behind locked doors."
Eric grunted, setting the mushrooms beside a pile of glistening Cave Spider Fangs. "A scholar has no need for shadows. If what I do is natural, it is not forbidden. Knowledge is a tool; it is the hand that wields it that determines the sin."
The elves watched, mesmerized and repulsed, as Eric began the process. He crushed the pale, ribbed mushrooms into a grey mash and distilled them alongside the venom-slicked spider fangs. The Distillation Boiler hissed, and the resulting liquid flowed out as a viscous, Dark Red fluid.
"Water of Death," Eric announced, holding the vial to the light. "This is both a potent venom and a vital potion base. By itself, it can stop a heart in three beats, but for a hunter, it is the foundation of the wild's mastery."
Without hesitation, Eric took a measured amount of the dark red liquid and added it to a batch of Lesser Strength Potion. Finally, he dropped in the Wolf Fangs he had harvested during his first days in the valley. The mixture roiled and settled into a vibrant, predatory Green.
"This is the Lesser Hunter's Brew," Eric explained, corking the vials. "A must-have for any who walk the deep woods. When you drink this, you project an invisible aura that wild animals instinctively fear. It grants the drinker profound resilience, making your body far more resistant to the claws and teeth of beasts. Furthermore, any attack you make—be it physical or magical—becomes twice as lethal to the wild things of this world."
The elves exchanged glances. In a land where Wolves, Bears, and Draconids claimed more lives than any war, such a brew was worth its weight in gold.
Eric reached out and pressed three vials into the lead scout's hands. "A gift for your troupe. The Dragon Mountains do not forgive the weak. Take these for when the tracks grow fresh."
The elves bowed, their respect for the "Iron Sage" now tinged with a healthy dose of fear. They had seen him heal, they had seen him build, and now they had seen him brew the very essence of the predator.
"We thank you, Eric Bloodstone," the scout said, his voice solemn. "You arm us with more than just glass and liquid."
With a final farewell, the scouts ascended the stairs, leaving Eric alone in the humming silence of his forge. He looked at his Copper Shield and then at the dark tunnels of the mines. His haven was growing, but the "Paradise" he envisioned required more than just potions.