A Motherlode, Without A Doubt (3)

“Kuooooo…”

I looked at the monster called an ogre as it let out a death rattle and collapsed pathetically, then turned to Debik, the bear Beastkin and registered citizen.

“It looked really strong, but you’re stronger, Debik?”

At my words, Debik—who had ripped the ogre’s jaw apart without so much as a scratch—replied.

“We bears get stronger as we age. And I’m in my middle years. An ogre like that isn’t even a post-meal snack.”

Watching him hunt that brutal monster like it was nothing, I understood why humans were scared.

The pressure was no joke. Just seeing the corpse sent a chill down my spine, and Debik had killed it with a single blow.

One punch, all teeth out.

“How do you process that?”

“We skin it, but it’s hard to preserve, so most of it rots.”

“What if it doesn’t rot?”

“Then we haul it to a human fief and trade it for food.”

As I nodded at Debik’s words, a recipe surfaced in my head—a “potion” whose main ingredient was ogre blood. As long as I removed the monster’s noxious taint, the recipe itself didn’t look hard.

“Could I take some of its blood?”

When I asked, Debik held up three fingers. I stared, unsure what he meant, and he said,

“Three invigorators for the ogre. How about it?”

Even if we brought that massive ogre to the manor, I doubted anyone could handle it. But a few vats of blood would easily be worth more than three invigorators, so I nodded.

“Good deal.”

I offered my hand, and Debik shook it—bits of ogre flesh still stuck under his nails.

Manners: atrocious. Still, since I couldn’t haul the ogre myself and had said I’d use only the blood, Debik dragged a big wooden tub and the ogre along and delivered them to the manor. The problem was the uproar that delivery caused.

The knights—who usually kept to themselves on the first floor—burst out, tense faces, hands on hilts. I told them,

“Stand down. Debik hunted an ogre, so I brought it back.”

At the words “brought it,” they flinched. They examined the corpse, then blanched and asked,

“Isn’t that… Lord-class?”

“Lord-class? Monsters have classes too?”

“…Of course they do. The ogre lord’s… jaw…?”

While the confused knights looked like they couldn’t process it, Debik asked me,

“If we hang it there and drain the blood, that’s enough, right?”

“I’ll give you one more pill as labor. Please handle it.”

“Heh-heh, you really are a lord who knows business.”

Debik dragged the ogre to a tree, grabbed near its Achilles tendon with a rough hand, yanked something out, then used it to bind the legs and hoist it.

“H-he pulled a tendon out that easily…?”

One of the knights gasped. I hadn’t expected him to use the sinew like that.

Judging by the knights’ shock, byproducts from an Ogre Lord were likely expensive. After handing Debik four invigorators and sending him off, I turned to the knights and asked,

“Anyone know how to dress an ogre?”

One knight raised her hand.

I asked her,

“That’s valuable in human markets, right?”

“…The hide, sinew, and blood all sell at very high prices. A Lord-class… is almost unobtainable. And… it’s very dangerous.”

Watching her stare in a daze, I said,

“Mm, what’s the value in gold coins?”

I needed a sense of value to make better use of Debik and others. The knight answered,

“With an unscarred hide… from an Ogre Lord, you could make four—no, five—sets of leather armor. One set averages 20 great gold coins.”

A killing.

‘Not the sort of price commoners could afford; the clientele will be nobles, huh?’

That was the only conclusion. And the ones I had to set to work were “knights.” I couldn’t just demand unfair labor, so I sounded her out.

“I’d like you to process the thing for me. Possible?”

“…It’s possible. But I’m a knight; I shouldn’t accept private gain…”

“Oh, I don’t mean to pay in cash. Let’s ‘barter’ in the Ingrad style. You provide the labor; I provide whatever medicine you want. Beauty tonics… or, say, an attribute-boosting potion I can make from this one’s blood…”

Her eyes gleamed for a moment. Knights were people who revered strength.

This wasn’t a world that prattled on about “chivalry.”

‘If I follow the recipe, the physical-ability enhancement potion is also known as the “Pathfinder Potion”…’

It was called that not just because of its instant boost, but because after the duration ended a long “trace” lingered—allowing one to pile up hard training gains and, literally, get stronger faster by improving training efficiency.

I could make such a potion—but since I’d use mana to craft it, its effect would likely be markedly different from the ones already on the market.

“I expect it’ll be a cut above the Pathfinder Potions out there. What’s the going rate?”

“Five gold coins for a low-grade dose. Higher grades are scarce and often ‘name your price.’ Upper-grade averages 30 gold coins.”

Not cheap. And from Ogre Lord blood, I could produce “top-grade.”

I also knew I could dilute one top-grade bottle with purified water to create various grades.

‘First I should test performance with the very lowest grade.’

“If you help, I’ll brew Pathfinder Potions and give you an appropriate grade. For quantity… too much is a burden, so how about 100 bottles?”

At lowest grade, a hundred seemed fair. One top-grade bottle could make about fifty lowest-grade.

But at my offer, the knight flustered and waved her hands.

“I can’t accept that much. Twenty—no, ten bottles will do!”

The other nearby knights glared daggers at her for turning down largesse—clearly thinking of their own shares and unhappy at the prospect of fewer crumbs.

People were the same everywhere. I decided to treat it as an “investment.”

“I’ll still give you 100. Keep what you need and share with your comrades. It benefits me if the knights guarding me for a year get stronger.”

“Th… thank you. I’ll give it my all!”

She bowed almost ninety degrees. After confirming the ogre lord’s blood had been fully drained, I estimated the amount—roughly fifty liters.

At about 200 ml of blood per bottle, I could make around 250 bottles.

Trial and error? The recipe was straightforward; there was no reason to fail—so 250 bottles would be mine. Even if I diluted two of them into lowest-grade bottles for the knight, I’d still have 248 left.

How much would those 248 fetch?

Hard to even guess. If my lowest-grade performed like other pharmacists’ low-grade…

‘That’s, what, about 62,000 gold coins in value?’

Insane. In great gold, 620. Considering I’d been rewarded 2,000 great gold for my merits, that showed just how valuable a single Ogre Lord was.

‘And I bought it for four invigorators…?’

More than a bargain. I wondered if I’d found a golden field to roll in for life.

‘I should treat the Beastkin even better.’

It seemed I’d acquired the most efficient workshop-fief imaginable.

Most humans couldn’t exploit this fief. It was, in effect, optimized for me. If that was fate, I intended to make full use of it.

Leaving the knights to process the ogre, Vincent and I lugged the blood—grunting—into the workshop and began preparations to brew the physical-ability enhancement potion.

Purified water would only be used for dilution, so I set it aside and started prepping the reagents to detoxify the ogre blood.

‘First I need powdered Flame Herb…’

An herb shaped like a flame—red leaves with a blazing shape—fairly common in the Forest of the Demon Dragon.

I grabbed a heap and began roasting it so it would grind easily. The recipe said to dry it thoroughly and powder it ultra-fine.

Roasting wasn’t hard; grinding was. With my current tools, turning it into flour-fine powder would take absurd time and effort…

My tools were too limited.

And there was no way to make new ones now—so I had to brute-force it. Hard labor was booked; I couldn’t foist it off on someone else, either.

“Damn. It can’t be helped…”

I sighed—and the slog began.

Just the Flame Herb work alone took over two hours. I needed five herbs in total. With only the first done, I was drenched in sweat—and annoyed the powder still wasn’t as fine as I wanted.

Just then, I wondered if there might be a solution.

‘Maybe… a sieve?’

Thinking the kitchen might have one, I dashed out of the workshop—only to pull up short when I ran into the three maids waiting outside.

“…We have a conversation to have, don’t we?”

They nodded silently.

“Let’s go to my room—no, the workshop—actually, the parlor.”

The room had last night’s memories; the workshop reeked of what I’d just done and of blood. In the end, we headed for the parlor prepared for receiving guests.