CHAPTER 41: CHAPTER 41- DAYDREAM

The sound of the pen scratching against paper filled the quiet room, a steady rhythm that replaced the earlier exchange of words. Kaidren had already finished sketching the ingredients—every leaf, root, vial of fluid, and crystalline shard he could recall from memory—meticulously outlined across the smooth white sheets Logan had provided. He hadn’t been content with mere drawings either. To avoid unnecessary confusion, he added notes beside each sketch, brief descriptions of their qualities: bitter root, sap-like fluid, frost-coated stem, feather-like petal. Simple but effective.

He knew well enough that if two ingredients looked remotely alike, it could easily spiral into trouble. Imagine Logan or whoever the bank entrusted with the process mistaking one for another—it would ruin the batch and, worse, possibly harm whoever consumed it. He wasn’t about to allow his formula to be discredited simply because someone confused a fern for a weed.

Satisfied with the two pages, Kaidren set them aside, his expression unmoved, though inwardly he acknowledged the faint spark of relief. That should spare me at least a few headaches later.

His hand didn’t stop there. On the next sheet, Kaidren’s pen began forming unfamiliar shapes—slender flasks with long necks, round-bottom beakers, test tubes lined neatly in racks, holders with clamping arms, funnels, and other rudimentary laboratory apparatus.

Each was drawn with surprising precision, as if he had spent years studying them, though the truth was far simpler: his memory was sharper now, enhanced by the latent abilities of an esper. Every detail he once glanced at, every scrap of information buried in the recesses of his mind, surfaced as clearly as though it had been studied yesterday.

He didn’t just sketch their shapes. Beside each image, he wrote their names and provided a brief explanation of their use.

Beaker – for heating and mixing liquids. Durable glass, wide mouth. Capacity: 200 ml.

Flask – for boiling under steady heat. Narrow neck, prevents evaporation. Glass must be heat-resistant.

Test tubes – for storing and measuring small amounts of liquid. Use cork seals. Strong tempered glass preferred.

And so the list continued, each item described in clean, matter-of-fact strokes of handwriting. He even specified that all of them should be crafted from durable glass, a material strong enough to withstand heat without cracking.

Pausing, Kaidren leaned back in his chair. The irony of what he was doing was not lost on him.

Though, he had never once used any of these tools to brew his potions. Nor even one existed in this world to begin with. He created the potions in the simplest way possible: tossing herbs and monster parts into a stainless steel pot, crushing them into a rough paste, heating it over a flame, and waiting. Six hours later, he had produced a result.

So why bother introducing a whole arsenal of lab equipment that this world didn’t even have?

Kaidren’s gaze lingered on the paper, his pen still tapping against the page. The answer was obvious: perception.

If he told Logan and the Aegis Bank’s higher-ups the truth—that potions were brewed with nothing more than crude pots, bare hands, and patience—it would seem laughably simplistic. Almost insulting, in fact. They were about to pour millions of AUR into his formula. The least he could do was make it appear sophisticated.

If I said, "just toss herbs into a pot and heat it for a few hours," they’d think I ripped them off. Or worse, that I’m mocking them. His lips curved faintly in dry amusement before fading back to neutrality. No... better to complicate things a little. New tools, new methods. That way, they’ll believe it requires skill and equipment only they can provide.

It wasn’t deception, not entirely. He wasn’t lying about the ingredients. The potion worked. He was simply dressing the process in layers of illusion, giving it a sense of depth it didn’t inherently need.

His pen returned to the page. Slowly, methodically, he began writing down the brewing process.

"Step one," he murmured quietly to himself as the words formed. Crush the labeled ingredients together into a fine paste.

That was the only true step needed. Everything else flowed from his own improvisation, half instinct and half artful embellishment.

"Step two... place the crushed ingredients into the first flask. Heat gently at one hundred fifty degrees Celsius for exactly four hours."

He wrote steadily, crafting instructions that sounded precise, scientific—utterly convincing.

"Step three... transfer mixture into beaker. Allow to rest for three hours."

"Step four... reheat at medium flame for twelve hours."

His pen glided faster, weaving in fabricated details that carried just enough weight to sound real.

"Step five... after heating, let mixture cool for three hours. Pour into test tubes, seal tightly with cork stoppers."

"Step six... freeze at precisely negative forty degrees Celsius for twelve hours."

Kaidren paused, eyeing the sentence critically before setting the pen down for a brief moment. Freeze it? He smirked softly. Might as well make popsicles out of it.

Still, he didn’t erase it.

Though these steps were nonsense—extra layers of meaningless procedure—they would not ruin the potion. The quality of a potion was determined by the strength and rarity of its ingredients, not the process. As long as the right herbs, minerals, or monster parts were used, the potion would form.

And yet... a quiet thought lingered in the back of his mind.

This world is different from the game. It’s real now. What if process matters now? What if... the method can enhance or degrade the final product?

That possibility gave him pause. It was faint, but not impossible. The rules of this reality were no longer bound by the simplicity of a game’s coding. There were no shortcuts written into existence. Reality had its own logic, and even absurd instructions might bear unexpected consequences.

"...All the more reason to make them believe in it," Kaidren muttered. He pressed the pen once more against the page, continuing his elaborate list of fabricated steps until both sides of the paper were filled with instructions.

By the time he leaned back, five full sheets of paper lay scattered before him: two filled with sketched ingredients and notes, one with detailed laboratory equipment, and two with the brewing process itself. His handwriting remained neat, his lines unshaken, a product of both natural composure and esper-enhanced clarity.

The room was still silent, save for the faint rustle of the papers shifting under the breeze of the cooling vent above.

Kaidren’s expression remained plain, eyes lingering on his own handiwork without pride or regret. To him, this wasn’t artistry, nor even innovation. It was strategy.

In the end, they’ll see what they want to see: a formula dressed in slight complexity. That’s enough.

He gathered the papers neatly, stacked them together, and set the pen aside. The ink had dried dark and sharp across the sheets, evidence of hours of steady focus.

Leaning back once more in the chair, Kaidren closed his eyes for a brief moment, breathing evenly. He felt no triumph, only the faintest hum of relief that the task was complete.

"...Done." His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the quiet room.

And with that, he waited for Logan’s return.

________________________

After a while a faint creak split the silence of the room.

The massive double doors behind Kaidren stirred, their hinges groaning in protest as the panels inched open. A thin draft of cooler air slid into the chamber, brushing against his back. Kaidren, who had been slouched in the chair, half-sprawled like someone who had just run a mental marathon, straightened at the sound. His body, tired from the long process of writing and drawing, protested with a subtle stiffness as he sat upright.

The opening widened until the shape of a figure slipped into view. Logan stepped inside, his tall frame bathed in the muted glow of the ceiling lights, his usual calm and composed demeanor wrapped around him like armor. His red hair, neatly falling just past his ears, cast faint shadows over his eyes—eyes that were steady, red, and unyielding as ever.

"Apologies," Logan said, his voice carrying a respectful weight, neither hurried nor dismissive. "I took longer than expected."

Kaidren’s gaze drifted toward him with its familiar plainness, no ripple of annoyance or concern in his expression. "Doesn’t matter," he answered simply, his tone carrying the same indifferent steadiness that always seemed to shield him from the weight of the world.

Hearing this, Logan’s lips curved into the faintest ghost of a smile. He found something strangely disarming about Kaidren’s aloofness—how someone so young could remain untouched by pressures that would break others. Watching him stretch his arms slightly, loosening his shoulders after hours bent over the desk, Logan thought for a brief second that this man—this genius—was entirely at ease within the chaos of the extraordinary.

Logan moved forward slowly, each step purposeful, until he reached the desk. Without hesitation, he lowered himself into the chair across from Kaidren, their positions now aligned across the scattered collection of papers. His eyes, sharp and curious, swept over the desk.

The five sheets Kaidren had filled earlier lay spread out in careful order, each marked with drawings, scribbled notes, and crisp labels. Some showed ingredients, others detailed steps, but one page in particular drew Logan’s attention. His gaze anchored on it instantly—lines and shapes he didn’t recognize, things that seemed foreign to this world entirely.

He leaned closer. Glass tubes, curved containers, and complex apparatus were carefully rendered in Kaidren’s precise hand. Labels and measurements lined the page in neat order. Logan’s brow furrowed slightly as he studied the unfamiliar instruments.

Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out and lifted the sheet. His fingers held it delicately, as though the paper itself carried fragile knowledge. He glanced up briefly, as if to ask permission.

"May I?" Logan’s voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of fascination, almost awe.

Kaidren blinked once. Inwardly, he questioned the necessity of such a request—after all, Logan was already staring at the paper intently, holding it as though it were a sacred relic. But outwardly, he gave the smallest shrug.

"Go ahead," he said, his voice flat yet courteous.

Logan inclined his head at the response, accepting it with quiet respect.

The room fell into silence, broken only by the soft rustle of paper as Logan’s eyes traced every line, every curve of the drawn apparatus. Beakers. Flasks. Tubes and holders. The annotations beside them—explanations of purpose, measurements, the durable glass required—all filled his vision. He read them again and again, his mind circling the possibilities.

At last, he exhaled slowly, almost as though he had been holding his breath.

"...You truly are a genius," Logan murmured, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity. His eyes lifted from the page to Kaidren’s impassive face. "To think of objects such as these, so intricate, so refined—it’s as if you’ve stepped into another age of invention altogether."

Kaidren’s expression remained unchanging, but deep inside, a thin line of guilt flickered. These weren’t his inventions. They belonged to Earth, to another world, his past world, where minds greater than his had forged them centuries ago. To be praised for something that was never his... it sat uneasily in the hollow of his chest. Yet what could he do? This world had never seen such equipment. And if credit fell upon him, he could only let it rest there.

"Don’t overpraise me," Kaidren replied at last, his tone even, almost dismissive. "It’s simple."

His face betrayed nothing, but his words carried a quiet resistance, as if he didn’t care for such flattery.

Logan studied him closely. Even though Kaidren’s expression never wavered—calm, plain, unreadable—he understood enough to know that this man did not hunger for recognition. He nodded slowly, accepting Kaidren’s quiet refusal of praise.

"Very well," Logan said softly. "I’ll hold my admiration silently, then."

He carefully set the paper back down, aligning it with the others. His attention shifted, now drawn to the other sheets. The detailed sketches of ingredients, the written process outlined step by step—it was all laid bare before him. His eyes sharpened as he leaned forward, absorbing each word with meticulous focus.

Kaidren didn’t interrupt. He leaned back slightly in his chair, arms resting lazily on the armrests, watching Logan immerse himself in the notes. For him, the only pressing concern was whether Logan would remember the hundred million AUR he was owed. Everything else was secondary.

Then, after a long silence, Logan’s voice broke through, steady but tinged with something else—hesitation.

"This," Logan said, pointing toward the small jar that rested on the desk. Inside, the yellow liquid shimmered faintly under the light, glowing like captured sunlight. His brows knit with quiet curiosity, yet there was reluctance in his tone. "This potion here... is... an energy recovery potion?"

His voice carried the weight of implication. Not just any recovery potion, but that kind—the kind whispered about, the kind that restored an esper’s Nexarion. Items that can recover one’s Nexarion like that were beyond priceless, bought only by clans, families, guilds with staggering wealth. The mere possibility that such a thing sat so casually in front of him seemed almost impossible. A revolutionary liqued, a cheaply made one as well.

Kaidren’s eyes flicked to the jar, then back to Logan. He immediately read the assumption woven into the question. His reply was quick, his tone calm and stripped of embellishment.

"Not that kind," he said flatly. "It doesn’t restore Nexarion. It recovers the body’s energy—physical stamina, not esper reserves. Useful for work, training, or... anything that demands endurance."

Logan stilled, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the words. For a moment, disappointment tugged at his features, dimming the sharp interest that had flickered there before. Yet almost as quickly, his mind recalibrated. His thoughts spun anew, weighing possibilities, opportunities.

"...I see," Logan said quietly. A faint exhale left his lips, less disappointment now, more contemplation. "So it’s... in essence... a potion for human performance. For fatigue, exhaustion. An instant recovery."

His mind wandered further, painting scenarios. For soldiers on long marches. For workers pushing through grueling shifts. For athletes and even ordinary citizens who needed strength when theirs faltered.

"This is..." Logan whispered almost to himself, eyes narrowing with fresh intensity, "practically an instant energy drink—but with real effect. Affordable enough, it could spread to every corner of society. And expensive enough, it could become an indispensable tool for the wealthy..."

He trailed off, his imagination spinning threads of profit and influence, of who would want such a product and at what cost.

Across from him, Kaidren watched quietly. Logan’s daydreaming mattered little to him. Whether the man imagined markets, monopolies, or empires built on potions, it was none of his concern. Kaidren’s focus remained sharper, simpler:

He had better not forget about my hundred million AUR.

And with that silent thought, Kaidren leaned back further in his chair, his face the same unreadable mask it always was.