Chapter 87: A Difficult Choice
The farewell lunch had been peaceful, surprisingly so.
Laughter, light teasing, and even Lannete’s stoic expression softened for a heartbeat as the princess piled honey cakes onto her plate.
But now, hours later, the shop felt quieter, the absence of Cassandra’s sharp wit and the princess’s bubbly energy leaving behind a lingering hollowness.
I’d spent the afternoon buried in work, reviewing inventory with Emory (who, to his credit, only stuttered twice) and sketching out plans for the "Student Survival Kits." By the time the sun began dipping toward the horizon, my brain was numb from numbers and logistics.
Now, onto the next meeting.
The library was quiet at this hour and day, and even the usual small studious crowd was nowhere to be seen as dusk approached.
My boots clicked against the polished floor as I wove through the aisles, searching for a certain silver-haired menace.
Ah, there you are.
Zephyr sat in his usual corner, a book open in his hands. As I approached, he snapped it shut—but not before I caught a glimpse of the title: "...Poisons."
A chill crawled up my spine.
Is he really trying to poison me?
"You’re here," Zephyr said, his voice as flat as ever.
"Ah, yes," I replied, forcing nonchalance. "So, what training plan did you prepare for me?"
Zephyr stood without a word, slashing a portal into existence with a flick of his fingers.
"...Follow me."
I stepped through before the portal could close—and froze.
A laboratory stretched before me, shelves lined with vials of bubbling liquids, jars of shimmering powders, and rows of pill bottles labeled in neat, precise script. The air smelled sharp, a mix of herbs and something metallic.
"Are you an alchemist too?" I asked, unable to hide my awe.
Zephyr didn’t look up as he stopped at a table. "Hmm. You could say that."
Then, without warning, he tossed two objects at me. I fumbled to catch them—a glass vial filled with murky green liquid and a small pill bottle.
Clink.
"What are these?" I asked, eyeing the vial with suspicion. The contents seemed to glisten unnaturally. "They aren’t... poisons, right?"
"..."
Zephyr met my gaze, his ice-blue eyes glinting.
"...Your training resources."
That doesn’t answer my question.
"Follow me," Zephyr repeated again, and we entered another room through the black door.
The room was empty—eerily so. The air was clean but carried a faint humidity, like the stillness before a storm. My footsteps echoed against the polished stone floor as I turned in place, taking in the barren space.
"What is this place for?" I asked, my voice bouncing off the walls.
Zephyr stood near the center, his silhouette stark against the sterile backdrop. "Your training room."
His gaze pinned me in place, unblinking.
"First, I want to tell you what this is," he said, each word deliberate. "So listen closely."
A beat of silence. Then—
"I’m going to train you myself. And it will be hard. Painful. Unbearable." His eyes gleamed like shards of ice. "But the results will be worth it."
I nodded, swallowing hard.
"...I’m going to train you with poisons."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"...Poisons?" I repeated, as if I’d misheard.
"Yes." Zephyr tilted his head slightly. "But don’t worry. I’ve spent these past days preparing the perfect plan—we’ll start with the most basic and painless ones."
I stayed silent, my mind racing. Why poisons?
I quickly formulated guesses in my mind, but I really didn’t expect this from Zephyr. Or, I just don’t know him well.
As if reading my thoughts, Zephyr continued, his voice low.
"Poisons are hard to detect. Unlike in fights, you can’t defend against them unless you have antidotes... or a powerful healer resonator." A pause. "Or you develop a-"
"...poison immunity," I finished quietly.
"Right." Zephyr’s fingers twitched toward the vials at his belt. "If you train your body to resist them, you won’t have to fear poisoned food, drinks, or blades. You’ll fight without hesitation."
Although he spoke less and in short words, they carried a weight that went beyond instruction—a bitterness that hinted at experience.
What kind of life did he live?
...
"...How long did you train?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Zephyr stilled.
"...Three years."
"...Did it work?"
Instead of answering, he uncorked a vial from his pocket and downed its contents in one swift motion.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then—
His face contorted. Veins bulged along his neck, his knuckles whitening around the empty vial. A strangled breath escaped him, his body trembling with visible effort.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the tension bled away. His breathing steadied. The veins receded.
When he opened his eyes again, they were calm.
"...I see," I muttered.
"Let me think for a bit."
"Alright."
The silence stretched as I weighed the decision.
I knew this trope—characters ingesting poisons to build immunity, enduring agony to emerge unshakable. In stories, it was brutal but effective. In reality?
Painful. Long. Arduous.
Unless you had insane or compatible talent, dumb luck, or a teacher who knew exactly what they were doing, the odds of success were slim. And the odds of dying?
...Higher than I’d like.
So... should I do it?
I was already getting pummeled daily by turtle brothers, tossed through cosmic voids by Virion, and juggling a shop that might collapse without Cassandra. Did I really need to add voluntary poisoning to the list?
Was it even necessary?
...Maybe the System will give me a poison resistance skill or an ability eventually.
The thought was tempting. A quick fix, a cheat—no suffering required. But—
When?
Would I survive long enough to get it? An unknown assassin already tried to kill me once, and I have a feeling it’s not that simple - that my life is still in danger.
If another assasin—or anyone—decided to slip something into my tea, I’d be dead before I could blink. No amount of cleverness could outmaneuver a toxin already in your veins, as Zephyr said.
And then there was Zephyr himself.
He’d done this himself. Survived it. Maybe he even mastered it.
He wasn’t just a learner but also an experienced trainer—the proof that it could work. And he’d already prepared a plan, tailored to minimize risk.
...So...
What should I do?