Chapter 127: The Method of Naming by Appearance

These days, in Comfort Harbor, the news that a certain ship had returned with treasure was known to everyone, from the port district to the cathedral.

While everyone’s meager minds remained confined to venturing north to the ice plains or stealing gold from the barbarians, a ship returning from the south pioneered a reverse approach.

William stood with arms crossed at the stern. The cheering sailors praised their captain’s wisdom and generosity, dispersing into the hazy glow of cheap glass lanterns like an old fisherman’s net cast over a shimmering, leaping sea.

A few unlucky men who drew short slips stayed behind to guard the ship, watching enviously as their comrades rushed into buildings with suggestive signs, carrying double pay and coins.

These were the second group of sailors to disembark; they would carry the news to the city’s taverns, brothels, and churches—the very places rumor-mongers loved for their crowds—and the coins in their hands served as proof of the tale. No further instructions were needed; the captain understood his men’s habits well—anyone who could brag for days in a tavern would never fail to flaunt the coins they’d earned.

“Aren’t you going to unwind?”

“No, I don’t want to go ashore. If not for waiting for our hidden client, I wouldn’t even have entered the harbor—let these boys row over themselves.” William inhaled deeply the sea mist, laced with alcohol and perfume, thin as a gauze veil, making him want to lift it and see what lay just out of sight.

He had tried it before: the moment his foot touched the dock’s stone slabs, a faint tremor—like an illusion—gave him seasick discomfort, born of psychological aversion, even though the vibration came only from cart wheels or drunken sailors’ stumbling steps.

Perhaps he could only entrust sailors to buy his wine from now on, and would no longer be able to visit certain “reliable special service establishments.” The former could be managed; the latter would be far harder.

It was curious that sailors generally believed bringing women aboard invited misfortune—a belief as widespread as faith in the Father. Though neither was deeply held—Yin Feng, as a “child” and passenger, barely qualified as an exception—this meant breaking the norm for personal needs would provoke serious crew resentment.

Since no one had yet invented an industry innovation to move such venues onto ships, the captain would likely have to say goodbye to one of his two great pleasures for a long time.

“Father, why is this so?” William picked up his small bottle, pulled the wooden stopper, and the thick scent instantly overwhelmed the weak, perfumed, sour wine smell of the dock. Father Adrian’s craftsmanship had improved again; the fine liquor eased his spirits slightly.

Today’s view was poor; the Father’s radiance on earth could not pierce the city’s fog to reach the harbor, but he knew the building was operating—and so was the double-story annex behind it. The wine in his hand came from there, brought to him yesterday by Kraft.

“By the way, why don’t you go?” After two sips, the conversation turned open. William carefully recalled Kraft’s behavior since he’d known him, and found it utterly illogical: “You’re this age, you don’t drink, and you’re not interested in this at all.”

“Not even with this face?”

After removing the bandages, the healing scar had not marred the face untouched by the Face-Stealer’s touch—it only added a touch of maturity, or hardness, at certain angles, shifting the overall impression from a soft scholar toward the more popular knightly type of the age. Even without rolling up his scholar’s sleeves, others could tell the sword was not for display.

With this appearance, a fifty percent discount would be no problem.

To William, who dealt often with the Church, Kraft’s lifestyle was far stricter than most self-proclaimed moralists, and his need for money appeared remarkably limited.

“So what exactly do you care about?”

“Plenty.” Kraft fanned away the alcohol scent from his nose, shaking off his sleep-deprived lethargy. “More than I can finish.”

Yesterday, after visiting and confirming that Father Adrian had followed his alcohol-abstinence plan during his absence, the two went together to Vechum’s workshop and obtained a simple glass flask with a curved neck, then began their experiment with high hopes.

To prevent any leaks before the deal, they bought no green crystalline powder—instead, they purchased many unrelated alchemical materials: lizard heads, herbs, dried mushrooms, fungi of plant and animal origin—all highly misleading. The real experimental material was borrowed from the batch William’s friend had given him to mix into his chart ink.

The experiment… did not go well. When the pale green powder began to change color, the keen-eared Kraft heard a faint popping sound.

Father Adrian probably assumed the candle used for heating was defective and leaned in closer to examine it, but Kraft noticed from a distance a faint ice-crack pattern near the flame, amidst the fluff-like impurities.

“Step back!”

He dared not touch the flask—only managed to shove Father Adrian’s overly bulky frame under the table—when the pop became an explosion.

The bottom of the seemingly sturdy flask shattered completely; scalding glass shards burned a blister on the part of the priest’s buttocks that hadn’t fit under the table, forcing him to sit on only half his chair for a week.

Then came the cleanup: sweeping up glass shards, clearing mineral powder. Even now, fine fragments could be felt sticking into their shoe soles—Father Adrian should avoid barefoot walks on the wooden floor.

After this incident, Kraft understood why that alchemist used pottery vessels that couldn’t be seen through.

Though it met corrosion resistance requirements, glass of this era simply couldn’t be trusted under high heat; pottery clearly offered superior cost-effectiveness and performance.

Hmm, now he understood why that face had such severe chemical burns.

…

“That’s about it. Before the next experiment produces that alchemical agent, we need a custom pottery vessel—Vechum will handle it.”

In fact, the craftsman was even more eager than Kraft; they could expect the finished product within two days.

“When this is over, I’m switching to a bigger ship—a three-masted one.” William corked the bottle; the new wine, improved by distillation, was strong—he couldn’t yet adjust to it. “What about you? I don’t think you’re here purely for the money. Is the alchemical agent itself useful to you?”

“Yes, but not just useful to me.” Kraft admitted openly—there was nothing to hide. “As for money, I want to open a surgical clinic somewhere first.”

“I thought you were the refined type of doctor, not one who gets his hands dirty.” William chuckled. “Like wielding a sword—both involve blood and screams, but for opposite purposes?”

“Not for long.”

“By the way, since you’re the one who recovered this alchemical agent, naming rights are yours. Have you decided what to call it?”

“Uh…” Naming wasn’t easy. Kraft scratched his damp, flattened hair, immediately ruling out chemical names.

“How about ‘Green Vitriol’? The product will be oily—call it Green Vitriol Oil.”

“Strange name. Isn’t it too simple?”

“You don’t understand. Many people will thank me someday. They won’t have to curse another hard-to-remember name the night before their exams.”