Wulf spent the next half hour distilling the rest of the [Dandelion] leaves with the same technique as before.

  Though the leaves were a low quality, he could in theory increase the strength of the ingredient before infusing it with mana, thus resulting in a higher tier potion. That is, so long as he stirred properly. Swirled the stir-stick (or quill) at the right time, brought it up to the surface at the right time or cleaved through a swath of darker, thicker liquid fast enough.

  After a few hours, he finished distilling the pseudo-tincture. That was what the textbook called it, because it wouldn’t be a proper tincture until he found some sort of solvent to dissolve his ingredients in. He tested it with the Field:

  Distilled Dandelion Juice (Middle-Wood Quality)

  An ingredient made to be consumed in potion-crafting. No effect.

  But still, he’d raised the quality of the ingredient one tier. Normally, it’d make Middle-Wood tier potion when he completed it, but with his Skill, it’d have to give him a potion a tier higher.

  So he tried infusing it with mana. To trigger the aura, he took a single swig of his Mothwing potion, hoping that it wasn’t enough to irritate his throat (but if it was…well, he’d dealt with worse discomforts in his time).

  With a single swig of a potion, the aura was weaker. He pushed it into the new potion still, and the flask let off a chime, but not as loud, nor did it shake as violently or glow as brightly. The colour shifted to a pale blue, though.

  He assessed the potion’s quality:

  Sleep Potion (Low-Wood Quality)

  Makes the user mildly sleepy for two minutes.

  [By crafting a potion, you have increased your mana. Advancement progress: 20%]

  Only Low-Wood. Wulf scrunched his eyebrows.

  But then that meant the mana he infused it with also counted as an ingredient. He didn’t drink much of his Mothwing potion, so his aura wasn’t strong. It was essentially a Scrap-tier ingredient.

  Then that meant his ability also only worked off the lowest tier ingredient.

  But at least now, he didn’t have a potion that risked melting his throat. From his small sip of the Mothwing potion, there was only a slight tingle now, and when he coughed a few times, it disappeared.

  Still, probably not a good idea to go drinking corrosive liquids in the future. He’d have to keep some sacrificial potions—like the sleep potion—around that he could use to power his aura.

  With his last flask, he set to creating one more potion. He added the [Dandelion] stems and boiled them down, repeating the same process as before, but creating a slightly gray liquid. It thickened a little more than his last potion had, and his stirring had already gotten more precise and smooth. Still a Middle-Wood tier “juice” though.

  He took a long sip of his sleep potion. It was bitter, but there was a faint sweetness. It elicited a little drowsiness, but it was a weak potion. However, that was enough to make an invisible aura erupt around him, and he pushed that into his last flask.

  The potion ran to completion, now filled with mana, and the glass let off a signature chime before calming. The liquid within turned a faint shade of magenta, and Wulf assessed it.

  Strength Potion (High-Wood Quality)

  Enhances the user’s strength for thirty seconds. Poisons the user with greenvein.

  [By crafting a potion, you have increased your mana. Advancement progress: 25%]

  Wulf grinned. The best potion he’d made so far. He removed it from the rack and put a stopper in it, then blew out the burn-box and placed the entire apparatus on the floor. To keep it away from prying eyes, he tossed his spare uniform over it, making it look like the average mess that a boy his age would leave behind. No one would think twice about it at a glance.

  For a few minutes, he sat still, staring up at the ceiling, barely thinking. The drowsiness of the sleep potion was taking effect, but it wasn’t enough to quell the excitement of the day. Less than eight hours ago, the world had been ending, and he was preparing to go with it.

  Now, he had a chance to fix that. He wasn’t sure if it’d dawned on him, yet.

  Hells, he wasn’t sure if this was even the same version of him. Was it the same soul in his body, or just the memories, and it felt the same anyway?

  It’d take a little time to process it all, but he had promises to keep. He patted his belt, where the pouch with his master’s ashes hung.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Master Arnau had found him after his time at the Academy, worked with him, and trained him to pilot golems in a way that suited him—not through the rigid rules of the Academy. Though stern, she’d guided him and been a second mother to him. And on her deathbed, she had made Wulf vow to distribute her ashes around the world.

  That had never happened. Pesky demon incursions had always gotten in the way. Defending the realm, all that.

  But Wulf had a few months to get started. The demons’ sky-spheres hadn’t fallen yet, and there was a little time.

  He stood up, opened the window a crack, and sprinkled a few ashes out into the breeze, before shutting it and standing up. He placed both his potions and his canteen inside his haversack, then snatched up his rank badge and room key.

  The common room was a small, low-ceilinged hall at the very center of the wing of their dormitory. There was one common room for each floor.

  By now, the sun had set entirely. Candles sat in sconces at the room’s edges, and a brazier crackled at the room’s center. Seats surrounded it, where Ján and a couple other students were chatting. A dragonfolk boy—an upright reptilian race from the edge of the Litterlands, with scaly skin, dragon snouts, horns, and a mane of sinew behind their head—and an elven girl sat next to Ján, holding their hands out over the brazier to warm them.

  The elf…was that Brin? Wulf squinted. He barely recognized her with her short brown bob-cut hair and messy uniform. A textbook hung out of her haversack, with the title Oronith Support for Rangers.

  Wulf blinked quickly, then steeled himself to talk to the younger versions of his old friends.

  “Oh, hey!” Ján exclaimed. “Finally got the hermit to leave the dorms. I thought it was going to be a few more weeks at least.”

  Wulf chuckled. “So did I.”

  “He’s been gloomy all this time,” Ján said to Brin, speaking softly, but not so soft Wulf couldn’t hear. “Not sure what was up with him, but on the first day, I could barely get a grunt out of him.”

  Wulf rolled his eyes. “I distinctly remember saying ‘hello’.”

  Ján made a skeptical face. Then, after a pause, he said, “Yeah, so anyway, we were just—”

  A crash rang out on the other side of the room, and Wulf spun around, hand on his haversack.

  “Somebody’s jumpy,” Brin said with a giggle.

  “And I’m usually right.” Wulf narrowed his eyes.

  To no one’s surprise, except maybe Ján and Brin’s, Wulf was right.

  In the corner of the common room, the three Fletchers he’d encountered earlier in the library stood, backing a human-shaped lump into the corner. He groaned. “Just my luck to be on the same floor as them…”

  “That book’s mine,” the boy with wolf ears growled. His ears flattened down against his curly hair. He bent down over a fourth boy—one with a Fletcher pin, but also a Low-Wood. The boy, much like Brin, was an elf with fair skin, but he had red hair and leaf-like markings on his cheekbones. Orange leaves, but still elven.

  Wulf didn’t recognize him, but then again, he hadn’t spent much time in the common room.

  “Hey,” the elf boy whispered. “No, no, that’s—”

  The Fletcher with wolf ears snatched up the book—some sort of ranger textbook—then pulled a quill out of his pocket and scribbled a signature on the inside of the cover. “Oh, look here! It’s got my signature on it, now.”

  The elven boy tried to snatch the book back, but the Fletcher pulled it out of reach.

  “Wait!” the boy exclaimed. “Ferbig, you can’t—”

  “Oh, yes I can.” The wolf-boy smirked. “Go, run home to daddy and complain, and see how well he does in a dispute with my branch—twice as large as yours. No one will believe you, what with your antique uniform and ancient badge. Are they hand-me-downs?”

  “Wulf,” Ján hissed. “Don’t. They’re Fletchers.”

  Wulf hadn’t realized it, but he was already walking toward the Fletcher boys. He didn’t stop. If he understood the hierarchy well enough, these guys weren’t as important as Harrel, but they were clinging to the glory of the more prosperous branches in order to throw their weight around.

  And, despite the headmaster’s warning, Wulf couldn’t just do nothing.

  He reached out and snagged the wolf-boy’s—Ferbig’s—stolen textbook. He pressed the cover shut, smearing the still-drying ink of the signature.

  The three Fletcher thugs turned toward him. Ferbig, who seemed like their leader, another elf, and a human.

  “You!” Ferbig exclaimed.

  “I think your signature got smudged,” Wulf said. “It’d be a shame if no one could read it. You should give it back.”

  “You should mind your own business, dog.”

  “You…do see the irony in calling me that, right?” My name might be Wulf, but you literally are one.

  With a growl, Ferbig made a fist and threw a punch at Wulf’s face, but he telegraphed it from a mile away. Wulf leaned to the side, then reached into his haversack and drew his canteen out. He unscrewed the cap, then splashed a glug of the Mothwing potion in Ferbig’s face.

  Ferbig stumbled back, grasping at his eyes, and the other two Fletchers converged. Wulf dropped his canteen, then reached for his strength potion. He took a long swig, downing half the flask. It was bitter, too. Wulf was starting to think most potions were going to taste like garbage, but maybe a little sugar wouldn’t hurt.

  As soon as the liquid hit his stomach, strength flooded his veins.

  When the elf Fletcher tried to tackle him, Wulf just widened his stance, and with a combination of the strength potion and experience, resisted the elf’s pushing entirely. It didn’t hurt that elves were half as heavy as an average human.

  As soon as the elf tired himself out, Wulf struck him on the top of his head with a fist—just hard enough to knock him out, then turned to the human.

  The human turned and ran, sprinting out of the common room and back through the hallways.

  It left only Ferbig, who flailed his arms wildly. “What did you do?”

  “Wash your eyes out in the bathhouse, and you’ll be fine,” Wulf grumbled. He grabbed Ferbig by the collar, then pushed him toward the door as well, then ripped the textbook from his grasp. “Now get out of here.”

  Without a second of hesitation, Ferbig sprinted out the door.

  Wulf dropped the textbook back in the ranger’s lap—the elf boy they’d been cornering. “Keep hold of that, and sign your name in the cover. That way, they can say it’s theirs. Are you alright?”

  “I’m—I’m good,” the elf gasped. “Like, not good good, but I’m alright. Like, unharmed. Who are you?” He blinked a few times, then replaced his expression with a stupid grin.

  “Just another guy on this floor.” Wulf tucked his strength potion back into his haversack, then knelt down in front of the elf. “Why don’t you take off the Fletcher pin and join us by the fire, hm? You don’t need those guys.”