Day one.
I went into the forest and gathered herbs while consulting the herb encyclopedia.
Day two.
I mixed the herbs I'd collected.
Day three.
I left home on impulse. Heading for the witch's place.
I didn't want to go.
But the witch's place was my only option now.
I'd kept using the crescent vessel's mixing function for three straight days.
I used up all the herbs I'd gathered, and I understood.
It was hopeless. I couldn't even make a potion, not the way I was.
I mixed the herbs the encyclopedia listed as potion ingredients.
Blackish-red liquid, blue-green liquid — but no matter how many times I tried, whether dozens or hundreds...
Not one came close to resembling a potion.
In other words, I hadn't even made it to the starting line.
I'd been naive. I'd thought that with the mixing function, it would be simple.
None of what I'd produced over three days of mixing were potions.
Not even healing draughts.
I tried drinking one anyway. I cut my finger first, then drank.
It wasn't bad enough to make me gag. But it wasn't good enough to chug, either.
It just tasted bad. Not good. And the wound didn't heal.
I tried again and again, over and over, different approaches. Nothing worked.
I at least wanted to reach the starting line.
The way to reach the starting line.
I realized it instantly, and at the same time I was stunned.
It wasn't here.
If it existed anywhere, it was at the witch's place.
Yes, I'd been told it wasn't in any other location — not at Ambrosius's place either.
A book that recorded methods for brewing potions and the like.
I suddenly wondered. Had the witch anticipated this?
She probably had. After all, she was the witch.
She was the kind of woman who could brew potions I couldn't make even if her life depended on it — and she'd do it while humming.
I remembered that time.
The witch's demonstration with the crescent vessel.
I'd thought she was just tossing ingredients in willy-nilly.
I figured even if she was being sloppy, she could at least manage potions.
That was how carelessly she handled the whole thing.
But now I understood. Her brilliance. She'd mastered it to the highest degree.
I hurried along, dealing with monsters on the road at the same speed you'd swat flies.
It was past noon by the time I finally reached the witch's home.
A brick house nestled in the hollow at the base of a massive, gnarled tree.
A wooden door. I ring the bell diagonally above it.
Chirin, chirin.
"Oh my, oh my, do come in, I've been expecting you. Let me open up right now."
The witch pops her face through the crack in the door, her large fox ears swaying.
She spots me and her eyes go wide.
"Well, well, my my, if it isn't young Wof."
"H-Hi there."
The witch wore a pitch-black patterned robe over a pitch-black patterned dress.
As always, an impeccably witch-like outfit.
The neckline was daringly low-cut and the skirt was short. Her three fluffy tails stood out prominently.
Good grief — bend over just slightly and you'd be able to see right up that skirt.
"Now now, come in, come in, don't be shy, just come right in."
"O-Okay. Excuse the intrusion."
I was led into the living room.
The living room, as always, was cluttered with all manner of things.
Piles of books that didn't fit on the shelves. A wave of suspicious tools whose purposes I couldn't begin to guess.
Wands spilling out of their storage tubes, rolling across the floor.
For some reason, there were any number of paintings, pots, sculptures, necklaces, and rings scattered everywhere.
The only thing that was remotely intact was the sofa.
"Well now, go on and sit down. I'll bring you some herbal tea in a jiffy."
"Ah, no, please don't trouble yourself—"
She was already gone.
I gave up and sat down on the sofa.