CHAPTER 29: CHAPTER 29- POTION MAKING (2)

Hours had passed

Kaidren lay sprawled across the white couch, eyes half-lidded, posture sunken deep into the cushions like a man melting into the fabric of exhaustion. The television had played without protest, flickering with shows that ranged from overacted dramas to half-baked comedies that were more stupid than funny. The kind of humor that missed the mark so widely, even the laugh tracks felt awkward. Yet Kaidren’s face remained the same—unmoving, expressionless, utterly uninterested.

The room was quiet save for the hum of the air conditioning and the soft, flickering static from the screen. His phone sat abandoned on the sleek, glass coffee table in front of him, its screen black and untouched. Behind the TV, through the transparent wall-to-ceiling glass panels, the city shimmered in hues of violet and blue. Neon signs blinked from distant buildings, casting ripples of color across the polished marble floor. Based on the sky’s hue it was around 3 or maybe 4 a.m.—not that Kaidren was keeping track anymore.

The current show was a low-budget horror flick. Two regular human males were trying to escape an esper serial killer stalking them in a rundown suburb. Kaidren didn’t blink. His gaze stayed on the screen, uninvested, as if the movie were little more than an afterimage in his mind. He wasn’t here for the story. He was here to survive the night.

And then it came—the smell.

A pungent, sharp stench crept through the apartment like a living thing, clawing its way from the kitchen and into the living room. It was bold. Sour. A strange blend of monster blood, boiled herbs, and liquified natural enhancers. If rot had a floral cousin, this was it. Kaidren barely reacted, but even he subtly shifted further into the couch, burying half his face into the cushion to block the assault on his senses.

Mmh. That’s... stronger than expected, he thought dryly, his inner voice muffled by the soft upholstery. I never thought boiling potion ingredients would produce something this potent.

His thoughts hung in the air like steam. He didn’t question it too deeply. The scent was part of the process—a sign that something inside the twin pots was changing. Underneath all that sludge and stench, an alchemy was taking place.

Still, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about needing to taste it later.

He exhaled through his nose, immediately regretting it as the odor hit him like a slap. He turned his head slightly away and muttered under his breath with deadpan precision, "I really hope I didn’t just cook up a potion that gives cancer."

The flicker of dread passed through him like a whisper—quick and silent. He didn’t fear the result as much as he prepared for it. The worst-case scenarios were already accounted for: toxic fumes, skin-rotting acid, temporary blindness. He’d already accepted those risks. That’s why he was doing this alone. No assistants. No lab coats. Just Kaidren, two pots of randomized ingredients, and the faint, absurd hope that one of them might turn into a potion with positive effects.

Or at least something that doesn’t kill me in my sleep.

________

________

Time ticked on, and eventually, the first rays of sunlight breached the skyline. City Z slowly transitioned from a neon-soaked wasteland into something more serene. The sunrise poured through the apartment’s glass walls like liquid gold, casting long, soft shadows across the floor and counter. Dust particles shimmered in the beam’s glow, twinkling like stardust in the morning stillness.

Kaidren remained on the couch, a man trapped between the noise of cartoons and the silence of his thoughts. The horror film had ended sometime during the night, replaced now with a morning show—a colorful cartoon with high-pitched voices and exaggerated movements, the kind meant to wake children up, not lull them to sleep.

But Kaidren didn’t move. He looked like he was holding onto something. Or rather, trying not to lose something.

A couple more minutes passed.

Then, with no warning, Kaidren’s nose twitched, and a sharp, audible exhale burst from his nostrils. He groaned—not in pain, but in surrender—as he sat up slightly and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to filter the scent away.

He murmured with a flat, unimpressed face. "How the hell did the smell get worse?"

He tilted his head toward the kitchen, eyes narrowing slightly as he imagined the pots still bubbling gently on the induction stove. The contents had been stewing for nearly six hours now, slowly breaking down, dissolving, fusing into whatever concoction fate had decided. It was a gamble—a roulette of nature and energy. A game played with monster parts and herbal chaos.

The scent didn’t lie. Something inside those pots was reacting, evolving. He could practically feel the thickness of the air around them.

Kaidren scratched the back of his head and slowly pushed himself up from the couch. His joints cracked a little from the long sitting session, even if his body didn’t truly ache. Mental fatigue weighed heavier than physical exhaustion these days.

He moved like someone surfacing from deep water—lethargic, deliberate, as though each motion required thought. His hands pushed off the cushion, and his feet met the cool marble tiles with a muted sound. He said nothing. No grunt. No yawn. Just a breath, calm and quiet, as he straightened himself.

The apartment was dimly lit, with only soft morning light seeping through the tall windows. The skyline of City Z glittered faintly beyond the glass, kissed by the sun that had just started to rise over the east. But Kaidren’s focus wasn’t on the outside world.

His eyes drifted to the kitchen.

The two pots still sat on the induction stove like relics from an occult ritual—twin cauldrons of unknown results. They had been boiling on the lowest heat setting for nearly six hours, ever since Kaidren had decided, on a whim and a thread of logic, to brew something using the random ingredients he’d bought.

And now, the time had come.

He walked forward in silence. Not even his footsteps made much noise on the polished floor. Only the faint bubbling from the stove could be heard—two steady streams of simmering sludge thick enough to form their own atmosphere.

As he neared, a new presence greeted him.

The smell.

By the Veil, Kaidren thought, eyes narrowing faintly. How the hell is it even worse up close?

It was indescribable—beyond rotten, beyond chemical, something ancestral in its offensiveness. Like fermented blood mixed with burnt licorice, overlaid by a sweetness that felt like it came from something still alive. His instincts told him to leave.

And yet, he showed no reaction. His face remained blank. Not a flinch. Not a twitch. He could be mistaken for a man approaching a warm soup, not an abomination.

He stopped in front of the induction stove.

The pots hissed lightly, steam swirling up from beneath the fogged glass lids. The condensation on the inside was tinted—mostly green, but with streaks of brown and yellow clinging to the dome like some unholy smear.

Without saying a word, Kaidren reached down and turned the dial of the induction stove.

Click.

The faint hum ceased. The low boil slowed... and then faded. The kitchen grew still.

He didn’t move. Not right away.

Instead, he just stared—arms at his sides, posture unreadable—as the heat within the pots began to settle. Steam still rose in slow spirals, thick with green mist and the scent of something deeply unnatural. Minutes passed. Five? Maybe ten. He didn’t count. He only stood there, watching the mist coil within the lids like ghosts searching for release.

His eyes traced the misty glass of the first pot. The slime-like moisture coating its surface formed grotesque patterns, and he could see something twitching—barely. A shadow, maybe. Or just the light playing tricks. But he couldn’t see the contents. The lid was sealed with both heat and mystery.

Still, he didn’t seem surprised.

"I’ve probably created two potions with negative effects," he said quietly, his voice as dry and emotionless as stale air.

It wasn’t an exaggeration. The conclusion came naturally, even if he hadn’t tested them yet. The clues were obvious.

One: The smell. It wasn’t just foul—it was offensive to his enhanced senses. The kind of funk that suggested decomposition and toxic reaction. No healing potion in the known world smelled like this.

Two: The residue. The lid of the right pot had a brownish-black crust around the edge, like the remnants of something digested and expelled. A smear the exact color of—

"...poop," Kaidren muttered aloud, confirming his earlier suspicion with absolute neutrality.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, more out of ritual than stress.

Still, despite all logic telling him to dump the contents into the trash and sterilize the apartment, he didn’t turn away. Because the point of the test wasn’t perfection—it was information. And he’d already wasted six hours waiting. If even one of these turned out usable—even by 1%—then it would be worth it.

Besides, if it turned out to be garbage?

"I’ll just go to the bank later," he said to himself, shrugging faintly. "Take a loan. And just make do of it."

His tone carried no frustration. Just cold acceptance. It wasn’t optimism. It was strategy.

After a final breath, he stepped forward and placed his hand on the lid of the left pot—the one that looked slightly less cursed. His fingers gripped the handle slowly, cautiously. His instincts whispered that whatever was inside might not like the idea of being released.

"Let’s see what flavor of disaster this is."

With a slow twist, he lifted the lid.

Instantly—whoosh—a plume of green gas erupted upward, as if the pot had been holding its breath. The scent was immediate. A pungent fusion of rotting herbs, raw fishblood, and something intestinal and warm. Like roadkill fermented under a sunlamp.

Kaidren’s body flinched before his mind could process. He snapped backward, enhanced reflexes pulling him away from the open pot in a blur of movement. The lid clattered against the edge of the kitchen counter as he dropped it mid-motion, recoiling several meters until he found himself behind the small white dining table on the other side of the kitchen.

His expression hadn’t changed.

His instincts had acted, yes—but his face remained flat, emotionless. No wide eyes. No grimace. Just Kaidren, now watching from a distance as the green gas poured upward like smoke from a haunted pit.

He stared at the scene in front of him.

The open pot hissed. Its contents gurgled in soft pulses. Whatever was inside had consistency—thick, syrupy, with layers of color he couldn’t define. And the gas... it didn’t rise and vanish. It lingered. Hanging around the rim like tendrils, curling out like fingers trying to escape.

Kaidren tilted his head slightly, as though he were staring at a work of abstract art and trying to make sense of it.

"...What in the world... did I just make?"

His tone was as flat as ever. Almost bored. But the question hung in the air with genuine weight.

The gas moved. It shifted and curled, not entirely random. Almost as if alive. He didn’t feel immediate danger—but he wasn’t about to take a deep breath, either.

He placed a hand on the table and leaned slightly, watching from behind the safety of distance and common sense.

No explosions. No melting floor. No summoned creature clawing its way out—yet.

Still, whatever this was... it was alive in some way. Maybe not biologically. But energetically. Mystically.

He exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring.

"Well," he muttered. "Definitely not tea."