Chapter 215: Industrial Products

With ample manpower and resources backing it, the alchemy factory on the outskirts of the town was finally completed. At the ribbon-cutting ceremony, to everyone’s surprise, Gawain even agreed to let Rebecca hurl a few massive fireballs into the sky from a safe distance to liven things up. The magical flames bursting high above were both a celebration and a message to the people: soon, their survival would be secured even further—not lacking food, clothing, or firewood for warmth, and now, they would no longer lack medicine.

Most people didn’t understand how this new “alchemy factory” worked, nor did they grasp the connection between the metal pipes and tanks brought into the factory and the magical art of alchemy. But the notice posted in the town square made it clear: with this new facility, all healing potions and druidic agricultural elixirs in the entire territory would never be in short supply again. The newly opened alchemy shop on Trade Street would sell a variety of potions at prices so low even the poorest could afford them. This was undoubtedly thrilling news for everyone.

Inside the factory’s workshop, Gawain was inspecting the first batch of rejuvenation potions.

These potions were bottled in tiny, finger-sized artificial crystal vials, neatly arranged in wooden boxes with many compartments. Soft wood shavings surrounded the bottles to prevent damage during transport. Following Gawain’s instructions, each vial was not only carefully packaged but also labeled—a small paper tag stuck to each bottle bore the potion’s name, effects, production date, expiration date, and the Cecil territory’s emblem.

This standardized labeling struck many as novel, especially the “expiration date,” which was a fresh concept. Traditionally, alchemical potions rarely considered “expiry” because they were handcrafted by extraordinary practitioners in limited quantities, always in high demand. Their users were usually nobles or battlefield heroes who had trusted aides or magical advisors managing their supplies, so expiration wasn’t their concern. Moreover, potions rarely lasted long enough to expire. Traditional alchemists would at most label a bottle with its name, leaving the “validity” to the user’s discretion.

But factory-made products couldn’t be so casual. Gawain insisted on instilling a sense of standardization from the start.

Everything was still in its infancy, so the labels were simple, but even so, the uniform tags and pleasing packaging left a strong impression on those present. Rebecca stared wide-eyed at the neatly arranged bottles on the table, scratching her head. “It’s so strange… just seeing these bottles lined up so neatly makes me feel inexplicably happy.”

“That’s your OCD being satisfied,” Amber, standing nearby, explained knowingly, then pointed at Gawain. “I’m not saying you’re crazy—those words come from your ancestor.”

“It’s the first time I’ve seen precious alchemical potions stacked like this in bulk,” Hetty remarked with some emotion. “Suddenly, they seem almost worthless.”

“In fact, compared to ordinary alchemical potions, they really are ‘worthless,’ madam,” Pittman said proudly, standing by the table. “The biggest cost in traditional alchemy was the caster, but now reaction tanks and their magical apparatus replace the caster. And these machines can produce far more potions in one run than a few flasks and test tubes on a small alchemy bench. Actually, the most valuable part of these potions isn’t the liquid inside—it’s something you probably wouldn’t expect.”

“The most valuable part?” Rebecca blinked. “If the potion itself isn’t worth much, then what is?”

“The bottle,” Pittman spread his hands. “These crystal vials cost even more than the potion inside. If a bottle sells for thirty copper coins, at least fifteen of those are for the bottle itself.”

Amber jumped. “The bottles are that expensive?!”

“They’re not more expensive; it’s just that the production cost of the potions is so low,” Rebecca quickly caught on and looked thoughtfully at Gawain. “Ancestor, I remember you mentioned before that there’s a kind of artificial crystal called ‘glass’ that’s cheaper than all the current artificial crystals…”

Gawain cleared his throat awkwardly. “Ah, glass… let’s not think about that for now. I haven’t found a substitute raw material yet.”

They say every world-traveler’s three treasures are paper-making, glass, and gunpowder—but Gawain hadn’t gotten any of those. This world already had papermaking, albeit with room for improvement, so it was a mature technology that didn’t need reinventing. Gunpowder had been a failed project early in the territory’s development. As for glass…

This world had a special technology called “artificial crystal.” According to Gawain’s judgment, the most common “white crystal” among these was essentially the equivalent of glass here. Its main materials were quartz sand and colorless crystal rock—both magical materials.

Quartz sand was cheap, the most affordable magical material, but colorless crystal rock, while not exactly expensive, was definitely pricier than sand. Until a substitute was found, crystal rock remained the highest cost in producing artificial crystals.

“Actually, it’s not too bad. The smaller the artificial crystal vessel, the easier it is to make. The bottles for alchemical potions use the cheapest crystal, so they’re already quite affordable,” Pittman explained. “Our alchemical potions have an unimaginable cost advantage. A slightly pricier bottle doesn’t matter much.”

Hetty nodded. “Makes sense. But I do worry—potions made with these metal tanks and magic arrays… can they really match the quality of those handcrafted by druids, alchemists, or mages?”

“You don’t need to worry about that at all,” Pittman said proudly, his face lighting up. “In fact, I think the potions made in the factory are far more reliable than those from an alchemy bench. These reaction tanks and magic arrays are precisely calibrated. As long as the initial settings and raw materials are correct, and the containers aren’t faulty, whether they produce one bottle or ten thousand, every potion will be exactly the same. Traditional alchemists vary in skill, and even the best can make mistakes. Many so-called side effects of alchemical potions come from that. I don’t deny that an excellent alchemist might produce a better potion under ideal conditions, but imagine how many defective potions come out of their colleagues’ workshops at the same time—and how many quality potions our factory can produce in that process?”

Pittman was beaming, his beard practically curling with pride. Amber muttered under her breath, “Showing off like that… that old rogue’s starting to sound more and more like an old codger lately…”

Suddenly, every ear that wasn’t deaf turned toward her, several voices chiming in unison: “What did you say?”

Amber’s pointed ears twitched sharply, and she jumped back two or three meters. “Who’s the elf here?! How come all your ears are so sharp?!”

“I’m watching your mouth. The moment you open it, I start sifting through the nonsense,” Gawain shot a glare at the half-elf troublemaker, then turned to Hetty. “These potions will first supply the territory internally. The army will also distribute them to every soldier, ensuring each has three doses of rejuvenation potion and three doses of disease-curing elixir at all times. You tally up the numbers, keep an extra fifty percent in reserve after meeting these needs, and pack the rest. Cecil territory’s first signature product will be these potions.”

Hetty sighed sincerely. “With just this, Cecil’s fighting corps might already be the most well-equipped army in the world.”

Gawain smiled. “Ever since we put enchanted gear in everyone’s hands, they’ve been that way.”

At that moment, the workshop door suddenly opened. An apprentice hurried in, bowed respectfully, and reported, “My lords, the carriage from the Kant territory has crossed the bridge.”

“Looks like Mr. Patrick has arrived,” Gawain turned and patted the packed boxes of alchemical potions. “Load this batch up and send it to the lord’s manor. I want to personally have a good talk with the gentleman praised so highly by Sir Philip.”

As the Cecil territory’s alchemical trade line officially launched on this historic day, far away within the Typhon Empire, in a secret and unknown sanctuary, a special gathering was underway.

The hidden sanctuary was heavy with tension. In the circular main hall, a ring of chairs was arranged, each carved with closed-eye patterns symbolizing dreams. Parts of the chairs seemed almost alive, writhing slightly in the darkness. Numerous nerve-like tendrils extended from holes in the floor and walls, connecting to the living parts of the chairs.

A dozen or so figures clad in white or black robes stood around the chairs, their faces hidden behind smooth, eerie masks that revealed nothing of their identities or emotions.

One white-robed figure stepped forward, scanning the room. From beneath the mask came a deep, genderless voice: “Good. Everyone is here. Number 22, you will preside over this ceremony.”

The white and black robed figures took their seats. A black-robed figure raised a hand. “We will now begin the seventeenth ‘Deep Dive Test,’ attempting to decrypt the memory fragments scattered by Gawain Cecil. Nightmare bishops, send the signal to your ‘subordinate node clusters.’ Connection will begin in one minute.

“Safety first, everyone.”

(End of chapter)