Chapter 280

In the time it takes to perform a thoracentesis, all the ingredients in the formula were sorted out by the apprentices and placed on the table.

Kraft saw both familiar and unfamiliar items— the familiar ones mostly appeared in kitchens and on dining tables as seasonings.

The unfamiliar portion was utterly unidentifiable; occasionally, Kraft could match one to a name he'd heard in Davie's explanations, but he still couldn't distinguish them well.

After all, plant mummies were much like human mummies—shriveled, slender strips, hard to recognize their original form.

Sliced tubers, segmented stems, curled leaves, and powdered substances.

Davie, with rare precision, took a small amount from each, weighed and estimated proportions on a smooth birch board, then used what might have been an animal-bone tool to scrape away all the powder at once, striving for exact measurements.

His movements were stiff, occasionally pausing half a beat, as if deliberately performing a long-neglected standard procedure.

There was reason to question the point of this. The natural variation in active compound content among plants should far exceed the tiny mass left on the scale.

In a specific order, half the herbs were added one by one into a lead pot and simmered.

Davie noticed Kraft's expression and explained: "Lead accelerates reactions and improves the potion's taste."

Whether it accelerates reactions is unknown, but it certainly accelerates life.

Under low heat, half the water in the pot evaporated; Davie poured in the remaining herbs, refilled with water, and continued heating.

Kraft watched patiently, though confused, as the water turned from clear to yellowish-black, finally concentrating into less than a third of its original volume—a thick, dark liquid.

A smell like cough syrup, mustard, and burnt rice crusts spilled out, delivering a powerful punch to the nasal mucosa.

The maker used a spoon the size of a coffee spoon but deeper to scoop a small amount of the potion, placing it on the tip of his tongue for a taste.

"Tsk tsk." Davie made a clicking sound, his expression relaxing—apparently, the final product met his approval.

Tongs removed the scorching lead pot from the charcoal fire and placed it on a charred cork pad, sliding it toward Kraft, along with a fresh spoon.

"Thank you." Kraft's politeness made him take the spoon and thank him, but his sense of safety made it hard to even consider tasting it.

The substance resembled an artificial version of black liquid—black, viscous, and deeply suspicious; the only difference was that the black liquid enticed contact, while this one made you want to flee.

It was hard to imagine how Mr. Barber and other patients must have felt swallowing this—perhaps the pursuit of certain functions could drive one to madness.

"Actually, the taste isn't as bad as the smell," Davie said, seeing Kraft's hesitation. "Honey would mask some of the bitterness."

【No, what I'm worried about isn't the bitterness】

His eyebrows twitched toward a knot. Not tasting it felt like betraying Davie; tasting it felt like betraying his body.

Kraft reluctantly scooped a small amount, held it before him, lips moving as he recalled the glorious deeds of medical pioneers who tested drugs on themselves—yet he still couldn't convince himself, settling for merely holding it beneath his nose to smell.

No miracle occurred. The scent of heated spices masked most of the odor; he wasn't a human analyzer capable of identifying molecular formulas by smell.

"Have you never thought of breaking down the ingredients one by one to test them?"

"Why would you think that?" Davie showed mild surprise at the suggestion of separation.

"Reactions during formulation are unpredictable; altering even one or two components could have effects. Only a few highly skilled individuals can optimize them."

"Ah, of course, I'm not suggesting your skill is lacking—drug combinations are simply a complex subject, heavily reliant on luck. Even experienced physicians may spend vast time and gain nothing."

It sounded a bit like alchemy—and in fact, it was much the same.

Kraft gave up trying to extract valuable information from Davie, yet still held onto a sliver of hope.

He didn't recognize dead herbs—what about live ones?

"Could you show me the… I mean, the fresh materials?" Before reluctantly trying each one, he wanted one last desperate attempt—to trigger memory through the plants' appearance.

"It's difficult. Fresh medicinal materials are mostly only seen at their source. But if you don't mind, I have a pictorial guide."

Some people's "Human Anatomy" was an old edition, but his herbal guide was brand new.

High-grade leather binding, silver-capped corners, pure white paper, written in tiny classical script, even featuring colored illustrations. The drawings themselves used the latest perspective techniques, striving to reproduce true colors and forms.

The page corners showed creases from repeated folding and flattening, indicating frequent use and careful maintenance.

The book had no table of contents, but Davie flipped to the right page by feel alone, describing these miraculous plants—and some miraculous minerals and animals—with intimate familiarity.

"This is fresh pepper—smooth green beads in a string, rarely seen, since we mostly use the dried kind. Dried pepper is sometimes used to clear the nose."

"Cinnamon too—it's actually tree bark. Harvesting causes great damage to the tree, and rumors claim it enhances fertility, so demand always outstrips supply, and the price isn't friendly."

"But precisely because this formula contains cinnamon, I believe it wasn't randomly invented—it's at least a formula developed by someone who understood certain medicinal properties."

When speaking of his field, Davie became far more talkative. Whether his claims were accurate or not, his knowledge of herbs was undeniable.

Compared to the pharmacology professor at Rivers University, Davie's understanding of drugs might lack systematic structure, but he was deeper in specific details and non-mainstream applications, leaning toward practical use.

Davie flipped through the formula, pulling out each herb in order of priority: "... nd this one, Purple Bell. The illustration is quite beautiful, isn't it?"

The drawing matched its name perfectly: purple bell-shaped flowers hung in clusters from slender branches, dark spots clinging to their openings—beautiful, yet subtly dangerous.

"Actually, it's not entirely purple; there are also pale yellow and red varieties. More rigorous formulas specify which one to use, but this one doesn't."

"Notably, Purple Bell is toxic in both flower and leaf, and this formula doesn't mention it."

"Toxic?" For natural plants, toxicity often meant medicinal property.

"Ingesting this plant causes vomiting, dizziness, headaches—there have been fatal cases. Even professional pharmacists strictly limit dosage."

"Any palpitations?"

"Not clear. Poisoning cases are rare, and we use such small amounts, so detailed records are scarce."

A picture from a pharmacology lecture, long buried in memory's trash heap, surfaced and overlapped with the illustration before him, sparking a flicker of insight.

Immediately, related information responded, unfolding in his mind: "What about visual disturbances? Did patients report colors shifting—turning yellow or green?"

"Maybe? Most poisonings involve some hallucinations."

"Hmm…" Kraft thought rapidly, searching his knowledge of drug names for any traits he could use to describe to Davie: "Does this plant have a lot of fuzz?"

Davie took a few seconds to process the sudden shift from poisoning symptoms to herb texture. Had he not handled the herbs himself, he couldn't have answered: "Ah, yes—you've encountered it before?"

"I've never seen it growing, but now I very much want to see it."