Chapter 93 Chapter 94 Whisper of the Green Dragon
Saint John walked alongside Jema, keeping a distance of two steps between them. The two passed through the crowded corridor, exited the castle, entered the dungeon, and stepped onto the stairs leading to the cells below.
It was much quieter here, with only Saint John and Jema present, the oil lamps casting dim light.
“Actually, George has been trying to save you; I’ve seen it all,” Saint John began. “But the war chief and the large orc held him back.”
“I know, I know… He is kind and good-hearted. He must have asked you to speak for him.”
“You are very clever,” said Saint John. “The misunderstandings among you young people aren’t that significant.”
“I am smarter than you think,” Jema said. “I resent my own foolishness. I could have figured out that he must be trying to protect the saintess Jenna, and at that moment, the war chief’s best strategy was to attack the immobile Jenna. Who would have thought he would end up chasing me, turning victory into a hollow win? And I was even more foolish to seek help from the tower instead of running for the castle.”
“Jenna is responsible for many lives.”
Jema replied, “That’s why I feel I was being foolish. I already knew they were kind to people, which would benefit me nothing and could even harm me. I should have just fled the moment she decided to cast a spell or hidden away.”
Saint John shook his head, saying, “You only care about your own interests; it’s rather selfish.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
“Think about it; if George hadn’t been kind, you would have died in the basement or become a plaything.”
Her voice echoed in the dungeon as she said, “This is the fundamental reason for my foolishness.”
After saying that, Jema added, “I will be leaving this castle and putting as much distance as possible from those green-skinned ones.”
“Fleeing?” Saint John frowned and asked, “Are you going to abandon so many innocent people?”
“I’m not the one who wants to kill them. They’re wishing for me to leave; they foolishly believe that if I go, that large group of orcs will surely chase after me and spare them.”
“I heard from George that you aim to advance to gold rank; you have the ability to save people, and they need you.”
“What do their lives have to do with me? I have no responsibility or obligation towards them.” Jema said coldly, “I haven’t even asked them for a fee for saving their lives; I’ve been more than reasonable.”
“How do you plan to escape?”
“George has a random teleportation scroll,” Jema replied. “If I stay behind to guard the castle, I’ll probably die. The green dragon, Cilith, is targeting me and wants my life; although I’m not sure why, I can guess a bit.”
Saint John shook his head, seemingly disbelieving Jema’s ramblings. He asked, “If I save you, can I request a favor in return?”
“What happened to saints doing good deeds without expecting anything in return?”
“I hope you can assist us in guarding the castle, but if you don’t want to repay the favor, that’s fine. I cannot force you with my morals, succubus.”
“Since you’ve put it that way,” Jema said, “I’ll think about it.”
As she spoke, Jema pushed open the heavy cell door.
…
…
There was no sunlight in the dungeon.
A man with a pale face and deep-set eyes sat on the bed, his hollow eyes staring at the wall, beside him lay an empty flask.
From outside the cell, the sound of another inmate snoring could be heard, deep in slumber.
The prisoner envied him. He reached to touch his own heart, feeling the heartbeat, and thought it was becoming slower and weaker.
The potion promised to him by the succubus was utterly ineffective; the flower fairy had been right.
Suddenly, a green, translucent mist appeared, floating before him, accompanied by a pleasant whisper echoing in his ears: “My dear Drew, I’ve thought of a way to save you.”
The prisoner perked up.
“Just pretend to agree to all the succubus’s demands, and when the time is right, you can draw your sword against her.”
The prisoner clenched his fists, wanting to hear that whisper again, which seemed warm and gentle, as if a stunningly beautiful woman was softly speaking in his ear.
“Absolutely, you must…”
The prisoner nodded vigorously, the whisper gradually fading away, and he tightened his fists.
At that moment, the sound of the cell door opening could be heard from outside.
A deceitful female voice came through, “I’ll think about it.”
The prisoner immediately concealed his hatred, regaining his composure.
…
…
The dungeon was very dark, with only a few flickering lights, creating a heavy atmosphere. To the left and right, there were three cells each, sealed off by iron bars, along with a room for executions. The sound of snoring echoed from deep in the dungeon.
“You locked the lord in a cell?” Drew raised his hand, and a ping pong ball-sized sphere of light floated up, dispelling the darkness.
“This is the quietest and most spacious place right now.”
Jema said as she led Saint John to the deepest part of the dungeon.
Perhaps hearing the sound of the door opening, the snoring ceased.
Drew was sitting on the bed, next to an empty flask, his face still somewhat pale.
Jema asked, “What have you decided, Lord Drew?”
Drew turned his head, revealing his pale face; his eye sockets were still dark, but compared to before, he looked more human, at least not frightening to children.
“Heh.” He scoffed, “I won’t forget how you seized the power that rightfully belonged to me.”
“It seems he’s recovering well,” Jema said to Saint John, “so no further treatment is needed. Goodbye.”
Drew immediately interjected, “But with great danger approaching, I can only put aside past grievances.”
“Very well,” Jema said. “Your people need you to give a speech, declare that you are well, and that’s the truth; soon you can return to the sunlight, and the sun will welcome you back.”
Drew said, “I’d better leave this damned place quickly.”
Jema personally opened the door, handing the key to Drew, who released the heavy chains from his wrists.
On the table lay a platter with half-eaten food; looking at the chewed sausage, Jema’s stomach growled.
“Are you hungry?” Drew asked. “I don’t mind giving you the leftovers.”
“Forget it, my lord.” Jema said. “Is this how you thank a trained doctor?”
“I am still very grateful to you; things would be much better if you weren’t messing around with that scoundrel George.” Drew stretched his wrists and raised his head, noticing Saint John standing at the door, a joyful expression appeared as he walked over and opened his arms.
“My old friend, you’ve come.”
Saint John smiled, hugging Drew and patting him on the back, saying, “I’m so glad to see you safe.”
“You scared me to death last time when you said I had a terminal illness.”
“Don’t blame me; I didn’t expect there to be such miraculous medicine in the world.”
The two embraced and reminisced as they stepped out of the cell, with Jema following behind.
Drew pointed to another prisoner in a nearby cell and turned back to Jema, asking, “Who is he?”
Jema looked at the prisoner, who was sitting on the bed, muttering something incomprehensible.
“I don’t know,” Jema replied. “I heard he has a mental illness; I gave him some psychiatric potion.”
“Oh, I see,” Drew said, continuing onward. “The scent of your potion today seems a bit odd.”
“What’s odd about it?”
“It seems to have a faint smell of sweat?”
Jema recalled that she had casually filled a bottle with foot-soaking water; she maintained her composure and said, “That’s normal; different stages of treatment use different medicines. These potions have their own essence of life; it’s normal for the smell to change. Some even have a foot-soaking water scent. Saint John, you agree, don’t you?”
She knew very well that Saint John had a deep understanding of herbalism and potions, so she didn’t dare to invent some miraculous ingredient.
Saint John thought for a moment and replied, “She’s not wrong.”
“By the way, I heard from George that you have a deep understanding of herbalism?” Jema asked. “I encountered a small problem while concocting my potion and haven’t been able to break through to the next stage.”
“Potion?” Saint John asked. “Advancing to a magical potion?”
“Exactly.”
Drew asked, “What advancement to a magical potion?”
Only Saint John explained, “A potion that enhances a person’s extraordinary powers; it’s very easy to lose control.”
“That’s a side path.”
Jema retorted, “If you can abandon the family inheritance, it’s no different from a magical potion.”
“Don’t compare magical potions to my family inheritance.”
Drew lightly coughed and asked, “What specific problem have you encountered?”
“A pale witch’s finger hasn’t dissolved in the strong liquor; it’s swirling around, quite frightening.”
“As long as you stay in the castle and assist,” Drew said, “I’m happy to help you.”
“Please don’t put it that way; if things turn dire, I will run very quickly,” Jema said. “I always keep a teleportation scroll on me.”
“You could also look for a seasoned alchemist,” Drew suggested. “This problem is neither big nor small; it’s somewhat tricky for a novice alchemist.”
“I know nothing about potion-making,” Jema said. “I’ll reluctantly agree.”
Before long.
Jema led Saint John to her designated alchemy room, where on the stove, a black liquid was boiling in a flask, with a pale finger swirling within.
Saint John examined it closely, the light distorting before him as he enlarged the flask. After a moment, he raised his head confidently and said, “This is not a magical potion; it’s merely some cheap potion.”
“Of course,” Jema said. “How could I risk leaking the recipe for a magical potion? I haven’t even told George about this; I just need help with this one dilemma.”
Saint John shook his head and said, “Being suspicious will eventually ruin you.”
“More likely, it will save my life,” Jema replied as she couldn’t help but reach for the missing tip of her horns.
“Alright, just add a root of mandrake,” Saint John said, adding the root to the flask; it turned into a purple bubble in the water.
“Isn’t that poisonous?”
“You are too unfamiliar with alchemy,” Saint John shook his head. “Many times, toxic substances neutralize each other and turn into good medicine.”
Jema thought for a moment and said, “I understand now.”
But she still looked skeptically at the boiling black liquid in the flask, watching as the finger within gradually softened and dissolved.
Jema poured out a bit of the potion, checked it, and said, “Thank you so much for helping me solve this problem. I believe a step was intentionally hidden in the original recipe.”
“I’m glad I could help you.”
“I will stay in the castle and do my best to guard it.”
Hearing the black-haired girl’s vow, Saint John smiled, and Jema looked at him, her face breaking into a smile as well.
