System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 115
It felt like a beautiful dream; when he woke, everything had slipped back into place.
Roy, his mind returned after the Glacier Virus, dimly recalled several jolting encounters, silk-smooth, warm and yielding to the touch.
What on earth had happened?
Coral, however, behaved as if nothing had occurred, calm and composed, teasing him as she always did. Roy let out a breath of relief and felt, faintly, a pang of disappointment; perhaps he had imagined the whole thing.
What followed was a week of buffer time. Under the Sorceress’s guidance he studied basic magical theory for a week, but progress was scant, only a rudimentary grasp of Chaotic Energy.
After a short rest, his frame, wasted to skin and bone by the Viruses, recovered, and he began infection with the third and fourth Viruses.
With prior experience, the next infections passed without incident and proceeded smoothly. Roy’s immune system was reforged by the four Viruses; his skin grew finer, his features keener, his body brimming with energy.
Coral worked magic on him to tune him to optimal condition, everything under control.
Two months and eighteen days after arriving at the Temple of Melitele, they stepped into the lab across dew-damp grass at dawn. Today the Witcher mutation would enter its final stage, the mutagenic elixirs of the Trial of the Grasses.
Beforehand Coral had notified Nenneke, Iola, and the other elusive Witchers that no one was to come near the lab.
If the mutation failed, Roy would never leave the lab alive.
By the by, during this period Dennis Cranmer sought out Letho with a Contract, and Roy had turned Gwyhyr over to the Witchers’ use.
The Contract’s outcome would have to wait until the mutation concluded.
...
A heavy thud.
The door shut. With the snap of a slender finger, fierce light flared in the four corners of the dark hall and the lab was flooded with brightness.
Five or six empty long-necked vials were aligned on the operating table, beside them neatly sorted alchemical bases: Wyvern spinal fluid, Griffin venom glands, Alghoul tongue, Ranogrin, Longrube, Mandrake root, and the like. The Sorceress’s magnetic voice rolled slowly through the chamber.
“Roy, I must warn you. The first two stages of the Witcher mutation only lay the foundation; the third stage is the hardest, the most crucial. The majority of Witchers fall at this step. You must steel yourself for the pain ahead.”
The boy nodded, his face composed; what could be worse than the Virus?
“Before you drink The Decoctions of the Grasses, you have to make a choice...” Coral licked her lips, “based on the formula Letho gave me for The Decoctions of the Grasses, and ... Lytta Neyd’s Supplementary Research on the Trial of the Grasses...”
“For the three basic elixirs — Mother’s Tears, Wildrye Juice, Speargrass Sap — you may mix in Mutagenic Potions of varying concentrations—”
“Lowest concentration adds Lesser Red Mutagen, Lesser Green Mutagen, Lesser Blue Mutagen, in a ratio of 2:2:1.”
“Medium concentration adds the three Basic Mutagens.”
“Highest concentration adds the three Greater Mutagens, including that Blue Mutagen taken from an Ancient Leshen.”
“Different concentrations change the strengthening effect?” Roy said after a moment’s thought.
“Concentration, enhancement level, and lethality scale together, the choice is yours,” Coral said, pursing her red lips, offering advice, “but I suggest Lesser, at most Basic. With your constitution you should get through it with no more than scratches.”
“I choose Greater.” Roy refused the Sorceress’s kindness with firm eyes. His XP was full; Full Restoration sat primed. If he could not gamble here, he might as well be a salted fish.
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