The test of the potions bore positive results, short term and long term—Hunter’s Worth: Feedback was good to go for his Astylinds. Thus, when Lance broke through to Step-1 and when the stack of files for the tasks shrank, Ewan ramped up the brewing of the potions. Most were for feedback, and some were for combat, arming everyone on the team with a few vials of ‘Tonic’, ‘Anima’, ‘Zeal’, and ‘Enliven’ from the series according to their needs.

  The purchased stock of the ingredients dwindled with each success and failure, while the temporary boost in feedback skyrocketed his Spirit—the threefold enhancement tingled his head and birthed an itch he couldn’t scratch. His Astylinds too shared the progress with an abundance of Step-1 Anima Potion, the regular hunts and loot from the battles funding the brew, and Frost’s and Orange’s stagnant levels finally popped up by one—Frost took the lead with digesting his enemies’ souls. Iris trailed behind them in levels, and though not far, Ewan focused more on her grade along with Ghost. They eased from ‘D’ to ‘C’, but as the accumulated luck or a lack thereof deemed it, both their transitions from ‘C’ to ‘B’ failed.

  The second try came after a month of rest for both.

  Iris succeeded this time and gained a dormant spell , Ewan’s database showing her Noble Rite.

  [Grade-Exalt Requirements: Noble Rite (Thromb Ciard)—A creek of blood; force the Anima beneath you and create a creek of blood.]

  But Ghost failed again. His misery ran deep in his bloodline. And the damage to the psyche was deep enough for the little crow to attempt suicide thrice—he tried drowning, he tried jumping onto Ewan’s burner, and he choked on his own feathers. This was his first breakdown since Nana joined the pack, she’d only heard about it from others till now. Thus, when she saw his wretched self, he gained her undying sympathy. Her maternal instinct kicked in, and as she pampered him and played with him all day long, the spoiled bastard forgot about his master and his grade-exalt…

  ….

  “Boss, I’m telling you, they’re all nutjobs,” Kidd said, looking at the quiet and freshly rained island from the sky with Ewan and Lance, the verdant forest and the protective shield glistening and shimmering from the recent shower. “They attacked me on sight last time; we really can't have a peaceful dialogue with them.” He hovered, fiddling with the dagger hidden in his sleeve.

  “You couldn’t even speak their tongue at the time, what dialogue do you want to have. Let’s just give it a try, let me do the talking,” Ewan said, inching out his Ryvia towards the puddled beach for a cordial hello. “This is the only clue we got after so long, and it has both in the same place. It’ll save us a lot of time and effort if it’s true.”

  “If it’s true, Boss,” Kidd said, weighting his word. “I still don’t believe the source.”

  “I have my doubts too,” Ewan said. “But it’s worth a try at least. If something goes wrong, us three are enough to handle it.” When he ended his words, the forest rustled as the protective shield opened a gap, and a middle-aged man with patchy beard and scruffy yet pristine dove-like wings floated out to meet them, armed men lining the beach behind him, their wings quivering from time to time. The hostility seethed the air around, and their flaming eyes glared at Ewan and the two. They were Seroyotes—once known for their peaceful and amicable nature but had long succumbed to ferality due to the struggles of survival.

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  “To what do we owe the pleasure of having the Peacekeeper personally pay us a visit?” the man asked in an archaic dialect of Kaaleria when he came to level with the three. “Are we on your list too?”

  “We come in peace,” Ewan said, showing his hands and matching his tongue. “I would like to ask something of you, if it’s okay.”

  “You bring the Reaper with you,” the man said, glimpsing at Lance. “I can't help but doubt your intentions.”

  “We really don’t bear any malice. I’m Ewan Ayres,” Ewan said and bowed in greeting. “This is Kidd Yales, and this is Lance Silvester.” The two inclined their bodies too. “May I have your name?”

  “Abelard,” the man said and bowed back with his hand at his heart, mirroring Ewan. “Abelard Siever.”

  “Sir Abelard, may I ask if your island has the two contrasting mountains of ice and fire?” Ewan asked, glancing at the protective shield that hid the bulk of the island. “If so, would you please allow me their use for a period of time?”

  Abelard stared at him, and Ewan’s query hung in the air, the breaking waves and the chirping seagulls frolicking in their silence.

  “You’re a Potioneer, aren’t you?” Abelard asked.

  “I am.” Ewan smiled, for the possibility of success just soared with Abelard’s question.

  “Help us out with something, and you can use the mountains for as long as you want,” Abelard said.

  “Before that, can I confirm if the fire mountain has slumbering and active lava and the ice mountain has Ceran Hynith, the millennium ice?” Ewan asked.

  “They do,” Abelard said. “You’ll have to take my word for it. I’ll only let you in once you sign the contract.”

  “Fair enough,” Ewan said. “What do I have to do in return?”

  “Brew us some aphrodisiacs,” Abelard said. “As potent as possible. I want every man and woman on our island in heat.”

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