I followed Matra back to her home, a house that still smelled like herbs, fire, and disappointment. Mostly disappointment. Maybe that was just me.

  She didn’t say a word as she opened the door and hobbled inside with the grace of a retired adventurer and the temperament of a wounded bear. I stepped in behind her and promptly bumped my shoulder against the doorway.

  “Boy,” Matra muttered, not even turning around, “try not to break anything before the cure’s brewed.”

  “No promises,” I said, rubbing my shoulder. “If I die, I’m haunting you first.”

  “Bring snacks.”

  I looked around her cluttered home. Jars on shelves, dried pnts hanging from strings, piles of old papers, and a table that somehow always looked like it was mid-apocalypse.

  Matra was already gathering materials from various corners like a seasoned hoarder with a checklist.

  “Alright,” she said, dropping a bundle of dried herbs on the table. “Let’s get to work. Step one: grind the Sagegrass.”

  I grabbed a mortar and pestle, because if nothing else, I knew how to grind things. Thank you, high school chemistry b. And also that one brief week I tried cooking before giving up and discovering food delivery apps.

  “Nice and fine,” Matra said. “If it looks like crushed disappointment, you’re doing it right.”

  “Just like my life,” I muttered, grinding away.

  Once the Sagegrass was pulverized, she dropped in the Moonbloom petals and told me to mix them in gently. I stirred it like it was soup… and got whacked on the knuckles with her cane.

  “Gently!” she snapped.

  “That was gently!”

  “For a drunk ogre, maybe!”

  “You wound me.”

  “I wish.”

  After some more grinding, mixing, measuring, and me getting hit three more times, we finally reached the fun part: adding the Silver Ash Powder.

  Matra opened the tiny vial with a reverent expression. “This is the most expensive part.”

  I stared at it. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “It never does,” she said, carefully sprinkling it in like fairy dust made of cash.

  Then came the big moment. I opened my Buy & Sell interface and dropped 650 to purchase the Queen Web Lurker Heart.

  It appeared on the table with a soft thump, pulsating faintly with a gross, squishy sound.

  Matra stared at it in quiet awe for a moment, then gave a respectful nod. “You really did it.”

  “Don’t give me credit yet,” I said, pushing the still-beating organ across the table. “You’re the one turning this mess into a miracle.”

  She dropped it into a boiling cauldron of herbs, powder, and boiled water that smelled like death, depression, and something vaguely minty.

  We stood there for a while, watching the mixture bubble, shift colors, and emit a weird, glittering vapor.

  “I think it’s working,” Matra said.

  “You think?”

  She sniffed the air. “Either that or we just created a very deadly perfume.”

  “New business idea.”

  “Boy, I will end you.”

  We waited as the potion thickened and finally settled into a glowing, light blue liquid. Matra scooped a dleful into a wooden cup and gave it a swirl.

  “Well,” she said, holding it up. “Moment of truth.”

  “Wait, are you going to drink it?”

  “I’m not stupid,” she said. “We test it on someone already sick.”

  I raised a brow. “Like…?”

  She grinned at me.

  “Oh hell no.”

  ___

  Matra and I left her hut, potion in hand, heading straight for one of the sick vilgers. I carried the wooden cup carefully, trying not to spill any of the glowing blue goop sloshing around inside. Honestly, it looked way too magical to be real. I half-expected it to start singing.

  Elise was already waiting outside, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “We brewed it,” I said. “Smells like a goat’s armpit, but it’s ready.”

  Matra gave her a nod. “We need someone sick. Preferably the one closest to death.”

  Elise arched an eyebrow. “That’s a hell of a criteria.”

  “It’s effective,” Matra said simply.

  Eventually, we settled on Old Man Jori, who’d been bedridden for three days, coughing up green slime and sweating like he’d run a marathon in a fur coat.

  We stepped into his tiny home, and I immediately regretted it. The stench was evil. Like socks, mildew, and fear.

  Jori looked half-dead already, skin pale, lips cracked, eyes sunken. He groaned as we entered, barely able to lift his head.

  “Hey there,” I said awkwardly. “Brought you a drink.”

  Jori blinked slowly. “Is it ale?”

  “Nope,” I said, kneeling beside him. “It’s a cure.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding profoundly disappointed.

  I helped him sit up—well, Elise helped him sit up while I stood awkwardly pretending to assist—and Matra handed me the cup. I held it out to him with all the ceremony of a holy chalice.

  “Bottoms up, old man.”

  He sniffed it, frowned, then shrugged and chugged the whole thing like it was beer.

  We all stared in silence.

  Jori made a face.

  Then his eyes widened.

  “Oh,” he croaked.

  And then he vomited. Hard. A bck, tar-like sludge exploded out of him, spttering the wooden floor and making everyone flinch.

  “What the actual fuck,” I muttered, stumbling back.

  Jori kept heaving, more thick gunk pouring out of him, until finally, finally, he slumped back against his pillow with a long, loud burp.

  “Whew,” he said weakly. “Feel ten pounds lighter.”

  We just stared at him.

  Nothing else seemed different.

  He still looked like death warmed over. Still pale, still bony, still coughing faintly. But the bck sludge on the floor? That looked like something had come out of him that didn’t belong.

  “Is that… normal?” Elise asked.

  Matra tilted her head. “Technically, yes.”

  “Technically?” I repeated.

  “It means something got expelled,” Matra said. “Could’ve been the disease. Could’ve been lunch from three years ago. Who knows?”

  Jori gave a thumbs up. “Tastes like both.”

  “Eugh,” Elise said, turning away.

  I crouched beside the bck goo, poking it with a stick I immediately regretted picking up. “So… we think it worked?”

  Matra shrugged. “We’ll know by tomorrow. If he’s not dead, we call it a success.”

  “That’s a really low bar for success,” I said.

  “It’s the vilge standard,” she replied ftly.

  We all looked at Jori again. He was already snoring.

  Elise folded her arms. “So… what now?”

  I scratched my head. “We wait. Hope that sludge wasn’t just metaphorical trauma getting expelled.”

  Matra smirked. “And if it was, I’m feeding you the next dose.”

  I sighed. “Of course you are.”

  By the next morning, most of the vilgers had taken a dose of the potion. Matra and I had brewed more all night, pouring, stirring, muttering nonsense that made me feel like a medieval barista with a death cure menu.

  And just like with Old Man Jori, every single person puked out a lovely helping of bck tar. Some passed out afterward. Others just burped so hard it echoed off the walls. A few even cimed their joint pain was gone.

  But visually? Nothing changed.

  They still looked sick, still sounded like death, and smelled like… well, a bunch of people who’d just purged evil from their guts. The only difference was that they felt better.

  Which meant, naturally, everyone started suspecting me of running a scam again.

  "I'm telling you," I said for the tenth time as I stood in the vilge center, hands raised like I was preaching, "this is what a cure looks like!"

  Brent squinted at me. "Then do they still look like shit?"

  "Because they looked like shit before the disease!" I snapped. "This isn’t a beauty potion! It’s a cure!"

  He grumbled but didn’t argue. Probably because the tar puddle next to his house still hadn't stopped bubbling ominously.

  Matra stepped up beside me, her arms crossed. “The symptoms are gone. That’s proof enough.”

  Elise added, “No one’s coughing, bleeding, or vomiting blood anymore. Just regur, healthy vomiting.”

  “Exactly!” I cpped. “This means it’s time for Phase Two.”

  Everyone turned to look at me.

  Garron frowned. “Phase two?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded seriously. “We spread the word. We let the king know we’re cured so he can lift the containment order.”

  Matra blinked. “You want us to what?”

  “Tell the king we’re all good now!” I waved my hands. “Get a pigeon, send a message, shout really loud—whatever works!”

  The elder, who’d joined us te and looked more annoyed than usual, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Boy… there’s no way to contact the capital directly. The roads are still closed.”

  “What about messengers?” I asked.

  “They don’t send messengers into pgue zones,” Garron said dryly.

  “Right. Okay. Smoke signals?”

  “Are you trying to make us look like we’re still on fire?”

  “…good point.”

  I sighed and plopped down on a nearby crate. “Fine. New Phase Two: Figure out Phase Two.”

  Elise sat beside me. “You really want to leave that bad, huh?”

  “More than anything,” I groaned. “My bed. My cat. My internet. I even miss those stupid gas station hot dogs.”

  “Ugh,” she muttered.

  I looked up at the sky. “Maybe I could just walk to the next town.”

  “Past monsters, bandits, and possibly another ogre?” Garron said. “Sure, go ahead. I’ll start carving your tombstone now.”

  “Alright, alright. I get it.” I sighed again. “But you better believe, once the king shows up and sees this pce in one piece, I’m out of here faster than a firebolt from Vix.”

  Speaking of which, Vix wandered over, groggy-eyed, holding a mug of tea. “You guys still whining?”

  “No,” I said. “We’re pnning. You’re just in time for Phase Two: We don’t know what we’re doing anymore.”

  She sipped her tea. “Sounds like Phase One.”

  I buried my face in my hands. “I need a vacation from this vacation.”

  Matra patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, boy. I’m sure the next crisis will come soon.”

  I stared at her. “…Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

  She grinned. “Wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  The following days were, strangely enough… peaceful.

  Too peaceful.

  I brewed potions, people stopped vomiting bck tar, the sick regained color in their cheeks, and the vilge started looking a little less like the background of a post-apocalyptic survival game.

  Sure, food was still scarce, and everyone was rationing like it was the end of the world (again), but at least no one was dying anymore. That was progress.

  And me? I was thriving.

  Okay, “thriving” was a bit generous. But I’d learned how to scam my Buy & Sell skill. Sort of. Turns out if I bought bundled items, sold them individually, and bought different bundled items, I could actually turn a tiny profit—or at least minimize my constant losses.

  In other words: I’d become a con artist… against my own system.

  Capitalism, baby.

  One evening, I was sitting on the broken fence again, watching vilgers walk around without bleeding from their eyes or coughing up lung chunks, and I turned to Elise with the smuggest grin imaginable.

  “Yup,” I said, stretching my arms behind my head, “everything’s perfect now.”

  Elise raised an eyebrow. “Perfect?”

  “Perfect,” I nodded confidently. “Cure’s working, vilgers are alive, the ogre’s asleep, and I’ve officially mastered the art of scamming a scam system. I mean, it’s all downhill from here.”

  Elise squinted at me. “You sure you wanna say that out loud?”

  I waved her off. “Please, what’s the worst that could—”

  Thunder cracked across the sky like the universe itself was telling me to shut up.

  A few seconds ter, heavy rain started pouring down.

  Then, from the forest, came a sound that made every hair on my body stand up—low, guttural, and deep enough to rattle the wooden pnks beneath me.

  Roooooooaaaaaarrrrrr.

  "...Nope," I said instantly, standing up from the fence like it had caught fire.

  Elise turned her head slowly toward the treeline, then looked back at me.

  “Looks like the ogre’s up,” she said, deadpan.

  I stared at her.

  Then stared at the forest.

  Then stared at the sky.

  Then back at the forest.

  “…You jinxed this, didn’t you?” I said.

  “Nope,” she replied. “This one’s all on you.”

  “Perfect,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. “Absolutely perfect.”

  Because why wouldn’t the giant, murderous, ogre wake up after I said something?

  “You know,” I said, still standing in the rain with water soaking through my boots, “I was just saying how everything was perfect.”

  “That’s on you,” Elise said, casually flipping her damp hair out of her face.

  And then—of course—because the universe loves proving me wrong, again, I heard a voice right behind me.

  “Hey.”

  I yelped so loud I probably woke up half the vilge. My foot slipped on the wet wood, and I tumbled backward off the fence, nding ft on my back with a very undignified thud.

  “Jesus—! You scared the shit out of me!”

  Elise doubled over ughing.

  Rowan just stood there, expressionless. “You’re jumpy.”

  “No,” I groaned, rubbing my back. “You’re a sneaky bastard.”

  He shrugged. “Not my fault you’re so loud.”

  I groaned again, pushing myself up. “What do you want?”

  “Everyone’s gathering,” he said simply.

  “Of course they are.” I dusted off my soaked pants. “Let me guess—there’s a new problem.”

  Rowan nodded. “Potentially.”

  “Isn’t there always a potential problem around here?” I muttered. “What is it this time? Rampaging chickens? A cursed turnip? Someone started floating?”

  “Nope,” Rowan said. “Bandits.”

  I froze. “Wait, bandits?”

  “Yeah.”

  Elise frowned. “Seriously? Why the hell would bandits come here?”

  “Beats me,” Rowan said. “Brent spotted them from the lookout hill. Said there’s a group headed this way on the road. Too far to confirm anything, but they look armed.”

  “Wonderful,” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Absolutely wonderful. Bandits. Just what this happy little vilge needed.”

  “Hey,” Rowan added helpfully, “at least they didn’t bring spiders.”

  I gave him a deadpan stare. “Don’t joke like that.”

  Elise crossed her arms. “Why would they even want to raid here? The pce is practically falling apart.”

  “Exactly!” I gestured broadly toward the sad excuse for a vilge behind us. “There’s nothing here except disease, death, and a really moody old woman who hits people with a stick.”

  Rowan shrugged. “There was a disease.”

  “Right,” I muttered. “But they don’t know that. So why risk it?”

  Elise tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Desperate people do desperate things.”

  “That’s so vague it hurts.”

  “Could be refugees,” Rowan said. “Could be raiders. Could just be some bored mercenaries looking to cause trouble.”

  I groaned again. “This better not be a full-on invasion arc. I’m still emotionally recovering from the st one.”

  “Brent said there’s more than a dozen,” Rowan added.

  I stopped. “Wait. More than a dozen?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “Some of them even had horses.”

  I just stared at him.

  Elise whistled. “Well, that’s not good.”

  “Yeah,” I echoed, “well isn’t that just peachy.”

  I looked at the sky, as if expecting a giant hand to reach down and punch me in the face.

  Honestly, I wouldn’t have been surprised.