Lord of The Mysterious Realms Chapter 852

Jenkins mulled over the mystery of the saint's remains from every possible angle, but a solution remained stubbornly out of reach. He was also growing anxious that the gravedigger would finish his task and wander over. In the end, he had to bite the bullet and admit that this investigation was a total failure.

As he was leaving the cemetery, Jenkins brushed past the gravedigger once more. The man was holding a long string of plump rats, a triumphant expression on his face as if he'd just settled a great score.

"Need one, sir?" the man offered. "Your cat could use an extra meal. It's looking awfully skinny."

The cat glanced at the string of mud-caked field mice and turned up its nose with an air of aristocratic disdain.

"No, thank you," Jenkins said. "Chocolate is on a diet at the moment and can't have anything so rich."

The excuse was perfect. It deflected the gravedigger's enthusiastic offer while serving as a warning to the greedy cat not to overindulge.

"Fair enough," the gravedigger conceded. "But that's a truly beautiful cat of yours. I like cats, though not black ones, of course. Around here, a black cat means bad luck, disaster..."

Chocolate, meanwhile, was busy pouncing at a butterfly, utterly unconcerned.

Jenkins made his way back to Old Jack's herbal medicine shop, surprised to find customers still inside even as the sun began to set.

"It's a simple potion. I've posted the recipe on the wall." ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ novel·fıre·net

Jenkins immediately suspected he'd been set up.

The potion was called "Wit-Sharp Potion," a name so blunt and simple it bordered on tacky. The recipe called for a large quantity of fruit juice to sweeten the taste, while the active ingredient amounted to less than a single drop.

Drinking it wouldn't permanently increase one's intelligence. Instead, it temporarily filled the body with energy, sharpened the mind, and instilled a sense of positivity and optimism.

A single vial of the potion, about the length and thickness of a thumb, lasted for roughly half an hour, depending on the user's constitution. For a full day after taking it, however, the user would experience extreme fatigue and an overwhelming urge to sleep. In very rare cases, the potion was known to cause permanent brain damage, though the reason remained a mystery.

"So what's this stuff good for, anyway?"

Jenkins muttered under his breath, swirling a vial while clad in a white apron and leather gloves.

The greatest challenge in brewing these potions wasn't the process itself, but constantly keeping Chocolate away from the spare fruit. The cat, for its part, showed no interest in the heaps of herbs piled around the room. At least its palate was normal, Jenkins thought.

After closing up for the day, Old Jack and Jenkins had dinner together in the back of the shop. Jack sampled the potion Jenkins had made and lavished praise on his technique.

"Maybe you really should become my apprentice."

The refusal was swift and unequivocal.

"Well, would you mind learning how to brew some of the more common potions, then?"

Jenkins had no reason to refuse.

He spent the rest of the night in Old Jack's quiet room. Together, they brewed not only the common "Blood Potion"—a red liquid that accelerated healing—and "Spirit Potion"—a blue concoction for restoring mental fatigue—but also attempted the far more complex "Aqua Potion." Flavored with mulberries, the liquid took on a deep purple hue. It combined the effects of both the Blood and Spirit potions, but of course, it also came with much stronger side effects.

Saturday arrived uneventfully. Before breakfast, Jenkins went to the door to collect the newspaper, milk, and mail. To his surprise, there was a letter for him. The sender was none other than his father, Robert.

"Did your father need something?"

Old Jack asked, glancing over the top of his newspaper.

Jenkins shook his head emphatically. But as he unfolded the letter, his expression changed to one of utter disbelief.

"My father says we have distant relatives here in Shire City," Jenkins murmured. "I've never heard a word about this in all my years... Well, now that I think about it, I seem to recall my older brother mentioning something once, a long time ago in my childhood."

The memory was buried in the deepest recesses of the original Jenkins's mind. If not for Robert's letter, he likely would have never recalled it.

"Are you going to pay them a visit?"

Old Jack asked, taking a sip from his teacup.

"Yes. Father said our families haven't been in contact for years, and it's not like we ever come to Shire City. Since I'm here on business, it only makes sense to stop by... I do have one question, though. How exactly am I supposed to address the adopted son of my grandfather's cousin's grandson?"

Old Jack thought for a moment.

"No blood relation, then... In that case, just call him by his name. Just be sure to be polite."

Realization dawned on Jenkins.

The visit was destined to be pointless. Jenkins knew perfectly well that the Oakland Williams mentioned in the letter was already buried in the cemetery just outside of town; he had seen the grave just yesterday. But he couldn't mention that, of course, because officially, he had "never been to that cemetery."

There was always the possibility of a shared name, of course, but Jenkins doubted the birth years would also match.

According to Robert's letter, the Williams of Shire City lived in a rented apartment on the edge of town. When Jenkins knocked, the door was answered by a gaunt landlady with an impatient expression. She held a cup of hot tea, and peeking out from behind her woolen-socked legs was a white cat, regarding the visitor with curiosity.

It was a she-cat, by the looks of it, with a small bell and a ribbon tied around its neck. It seemed quite taken with Chocolate.

The white cat offered a friendly greeting.

Chocolate's tone was one of pure disdain.

"Who are you looking for?"

The woman's tone was brusque, lacking any of the usual pleasantries.

"I'm looking for Oakland Williams."

Just as Jenkins had expected, a look of surprise crossed the woman's face. She then studied his features.

"Oh, you must be his relative," she said. "I thought you looked familiar."

Now it was Jenkins's turn to be surprised. Oakland Williams was the adopted son of a distant relative. There was no way he could possibly resemble Jenkins.

"I mean, I've seen your face in his photographs," she clarified. "I'm sorry, but he passed away last autumn."

At the mention of the dead, the woman's dismissive expression finally softened. Instead of turning him away, she unlatched the chain and opened the door wider.

"Old Oakland didn't have any family. I've kept his things, never got around to tossing them. If you're the 'relative from Nolan' he mentioned during the Year's End Festival a couple of years back, then you might as well take the box. It's not worth much, anyway..."