“Nightmares?”
“Indeed,” Anthea, the Dean, continued her explanation.
“Compared to pleasant dreams or ordinary ones, nightmares delve deeper into the human heart, touching upon painful memories, unwanted past events, the departure of loved ones, and so forth. Treating certain unique plagues often yields clues and causes from these dreams, and with good fortune, can even lead to a direct cure for the ailment.”
“However, these effects have failed to manifest in your case, or rather, their impact has been limited. The most direct indication is the absence of nightmares, which prevents us from pinpointing the cause of your illness.”
More precisely, Ghervil added silently to herself, she hadn’t even had a dream at all.
“This formula is so straightforward that even a novice can master it in a single attempt. The five ingredients mentioned must be mixed in a precise ratio of 3:4:1:1:6, without the slightest deviation. The prepared liquid then requires at least ten hours of undisturbed rest in a lightless environment to be complete.”
“Adding too much or too little of the Phantom Butterfly Wings will cause strange alterations to your eye color, perhaps making it more enchanting than red, or perhaps even duller than its current shade. The Silvermoon Flower is highly toxic; an error in its proportion exceeding two grams could see you slumbering eternally in a dream, never again to behold the sun of spring or autumn.”
“The other ingredients generally require no special attention; you should be able to bear the consequences of any misuse. While these materials can be found to varying degrees in the market, this particular formula is one of a kind.”
“I understand!” Ghervil affirmed with a firm nod, pressing her lips together.
“Excellent,” the Dean replied with a smile.
Reviewing the formula in her mind, a rather absurd question, yet one concerning a major life decision, suddenly occurred to her.
She wondered if this world possessed any patent protection laws. If so, with such a miraculous elixir, she could potentially earn a steady stream of wealth from the formula, should she encounter someone knowledgeable.
This, however, hinged on the Dean’s approval. Seeing that the Dean appeared to be in good spirits, Ghervil decided to cautiously inquire.
“If you would permit it, I would like to sell this formula through appropriate channels. The profits earned could then be used for the repair and reconstruction of the Abbey.”
Employing a slight cunning, and considering the formula’s importance to the Dean, she presented the most persuasive reason: the money earned wouldn’t be for her personal consumption, but primarily for the Abbey.
Once the money was in hand, its actual use would be her prerogative. The Abbey currently had only one member—no, two—so the reconstruction could certainly be postponed slightly.
“You are not the first member of the Abbey to entertain such thoughts. In fact, her considerations were even more thorough than yours; she sought to control the elixir’s price and reap exorbitant profits by securing various supply channels.” Slightly lifting her head, the Dean gazed at the ceiling, lost in thought.
“So, you agree!” Ghervil exclaimed, struggling to rein in her excitement and her body, which had nearly sprung to its feet, before settling back into her seat.
“Perhaps you should hear the instructions for these petals before making your decision. My personal opinion neither supports nor opposes your idea.”
Pushing the mold containing the roses towards Ghervil, the Dean leaned closer. In the dim light beneath her headscarf, only the general outline of her smile was visible, yet it filled Ghervil with a sense of foreboding.
Ghervil watched carefully as the Dean’s hand slowly glided across the table, a silver object clutched between her index and middle fingers.
A finger-long needle?
Before she could confirm, a hand resembling a withered branch tightly gripped her wrist, pressing it against the tabletop. Despite its appearance, the skin of that hand was as fair as her own.
The touch of those slender fingers felt as coarse as an unpeeled vine.
She was startled, a faint ache blooming in her wrist.
Her brow furrowed, yet she offered no resistance, her trust in the Dean overriding any instinct to fight. She allowed the other woman to hold her right hand.
‘Could she be angry about my little bit of cleverness? But she said she neither supported nor opposed…’
“Dean, I…”
“It will be over quickly. Just bear with it for a moment.”
Her tone was steady, devoid of anger.
“Alright,” Ghervil replied, glancing at her as she watched the needle slowly pierce her skin.
“Hiss—”
A sharp sting shot through her fingertip. She bit back a cry of pain, sucking in a sharp breath.
Despite her mental preparation, this body’s sensitivity to pain had not diminished.
‘It would have been better if she hadn’t given me time to react at all; just pierce it directly,’ she thought, a hint of resentment stirring within her.
In approximately three seconds, the silver needle, which had begun to redden at its tip, turned a vivid crimson.
Not a single drop of blood was wasted, and upon withdrawal, no wound was visible on her skin.
Using her left index finger and thumb to pinch the edge of the mold, the Dean used the silver needle in her right hand to pierce the petals.
Swiftly, a deeper red spread along the petal’s veins, like crimson roots unfurling.
Something entirely unexpected occurred. After smoothly absorbing all the blood, the petals did not become more delicate and refined, as Ghervil had imagined.
Instead, they slowly curled and withered into black.
They emitted a faint ‘crunching’ sound, similar to dry leaves being crushed.
By this point, the Dean had released her hand for some time. Together, they observed the transformation of the petals in the mold until it ceased.
Her blood, it seemed, was not nourishment for the petals but rather a poison. She had always suspected the Blood Rose, true to its name, required fresh blood for cultivation, but now it appeared her guess had been wrong.
She cautiously stole a glance, awaiting the Dean’s explanation.
Reading her unspoken question, the Dean gestured with her right hand for Ghervil to wait. She then picked up the mold, retrieved a light green test tube containing other pre-prepared ingredients from a small wooden box, and poured the three withered black ‘flower clusters’ into it.
With a gentle shake, the flower clusters shattered and dissolved.
The pale green mixed with black, then incredibly transformed into a light red.
The test tube was half-filled, roughly a single mouthful’s worth.
The familiar, invigorating scent of roses vanished as the stopper was twisted into place.
“Your blood is the primary ingredient for Nightmare Revelation. If you intend to sell the formula, I suggest one milliliter of blood could fetch 1 Trin Gold Coin. It would be wise to hire a capable security detail for any transactions.”
The Dean’s surreal words echoed in her ears.
‘My blood is a crucial raw material. How was that previous bottle made then…’
‘Did she secretly draw my blood in the same manner while I was asleep?’
“Couldn’t someone else’s blood, or even an animal’s, suffice…?” she asked, suspecting the Dean was jesting, hoping to dissuade her from impractical notions.
“Perhaps, if you could find someone with the exact same bloodline as yours.”
“But you know that is impossible. I discovered this formula even later than you arrived alone in this world.”
The Dean emphasized the word ‘alone’ with a deliberate pause.
‘The same bloodline… that would mean a blood relative then.’
‘Let alone in this world, even if I returned to my original one…’
Her idea was completely dashed.
She understood that the Dean would not joke about such a topic.
If the blood of the girl named Konehl-Ghervil could not be sold alongside the formula, the formula itself would be utterly meaningless, utterly worthless.
Besides, no one truly desired nightmares, rendering the elixir’s practical uses rather limited.
For the remainder of their time, she questioned the Dean about the cultivation and application of the Blood Rose, as well as the feasibility of large-scale cultivation and sale.
Firstly, regarding cultivation, this special plant indeed required blood as nourishment, though only a small amount, and it was not limited to human or animal blood.
It could only be grown by burying seeds in soil; attempting to propagate it through cuttings would only yield ordinary roses.
During the seedling stage, the seeds needed to be soaked in blood until they germinated, absorbing no more than one to two times their own weight in blood.
This was the entirety of the blood required for a single Blood Rose to mature from seed.
Its growth cycle was two years.
Upon hearing this, Ghervil felt as though she had received truly terrible news.
All the Blood Roses on the balcony constituted the Dean’s entire stock.
Based on three mature petals yielding one dose of the elixir, the remaining Blood Roses at home would last for merely three to four months at most.
Cultivating new ones now would not only fail to yield a new batch in time but would also necessitate expensive purchases.
A pang of heartache shot through her.
Discussing purchases led to new complications.
The Blood Rose’s effects were linked to ‘dreams’—pleasant dreams, nightmares, prophetic dreams, dreams of past recollection, all could be achieved through Blood Rose-related elixirs.
Due to its unique properties, it was strictly controlled by The Order; ordinary individuals were neither qualified to purchase nor sell it.
Even if they were, the price would be prohibitive for most.
The importance of earning money suddenly escalated once more.
Finally, she asked if she could candidly disclose her illness to Dr. Callan.
The answer she received was:
“If she were still the woman she once was, you could be frank.”
“As for now, my understanding of her is even less than yours. Therefore, this decision rests with you; make it carefully, considering your observations of those around you and this world over the past while.”
Nodding, half-comprehending, Ghervil decided she would ponder it thoroughly later.
“It’s about time.”
The grandfather clock on the wall chimed ten, and Dean Anthea opened the wooden door to the room for her.
Holding the wooden box containing the remaining raw materials, Ghervil bowed in farewell and turned, stepping into the darkness beyond the room.
After a few steps, a light appeared from an oil lamp on the ground.
Bending down, she picked up the oil lamp, which should have been on the table, and shone it behind her.
Not far away, a bare, mottled wall stood silently.