Chapter 89: That

【Acid】

In Northese, the property of "sour" and the taste of "sourness" share the same root and can also refer to certain corrosive substances. The alchemists at school like to use it this way, much like the usage in early chemistry's alchemy; it is unknown who borrowed from whom.

Currently, there is no rigorous definition standard; anything that smells sour or tastes sour can be called "some acid." If the discoverer fails to name it in time, a representative segment of their own name is taken by default.

But this acid has no name. After the creator made it, they accidentally discovered its use in glassmaking and immediately put it to work, producing a batch of crafts and alchemical instruments.

At its peak, due to its extremely exquisite effect, the Consolation Church selected it as the building material for the wings of the holy emblem, and the largest, most perfect glass product in the entire North Kingdom was born from this.

On the day it was completed, the covering was removed at night as an exception. The radiant wings did not seem like something of this world. Some even mistook it for the Heavenly Father manifesting and directly worshipped it in the square, repenting the sins deep within their hearts.

Everything ended there. Just as everyone thought the hero of this miracle would have a glorious title, the supply of that alchemical potion, which should have been named "some acid," was suddenly cut off.

Most of the production was bought out during the church's construction; the remaining stock was quickly snapped up on the market, producing the last batch of glass products sold at sky-high prices. A very few were kept by various alchemists eager to get rich, trying to crack its secret, but nothing came of it once they were exhausted.

The inventor, who made a fortune on the secret formula, vanished into thin air, never having time to name the work, nor leaving behind their own name.

Some say he made enough money and feared being targeted, so he hid his identity; others speculate the Church, to ensure the uniqueness of the holy emblem, sent the inventor to the Heavenly Father to build the church.

Various theories exist, but none can change the fact that "that acid" cannot be produced currently. The few remaining samples, no longer enough to make new objects, were kept by a few keen individuals and are now almost forgotten.

"Here it is, look for yourself. It is still the tiny bit I secretly kept back then."

The man with a short beard and short hair pulled out the wooden stopper of the glass bottle, took a large gulp to his lips, and became intoxicated in the aftertaste of the alcohol. "It is rare for Adrian to be so generous; I have never seen him give me a whole bottle before."

An unremarkable, dirty, thick glass vial was pushed before the guest, sliding across the greasy table for a distance, nearly rolling onto the floor.

Kraft, quick-eyed and quick-handed, reached out to block its path, preventing it from joining its scattered counterparts on the ground. Inside the frosted bottle, the pale liquid shadow swayed, with a slight film clinging to the walls; the bottle mouth used a rare glass stopper, sealed with wax.

Such a casual action made it hard to believe the contents were a rare alchemical potion in existence, rather than someone just finding a broken bottle to fill with water to fool them.

The priest shrugged, signaling Kraft not to mind; this man was like this every day. They had already talked about Vichem yesterday; the gift brought to the door was high-proof alcohol made by a new distillation method, hoping to get this somewhat decadent glassblower to start work again and light the furnace that had been neglected for many days.

It seemed the purpose of this visit had some difficulty. They stepped into the workshop on glass that had not been swept for who knows how long and had been trampled into shards, with glassware of various sizes placed casually around the room.

They were of various shapes; the most common were cylindrical and round-bellied bottles, followed by plates and basins, and the most broken were flat glass sheets.

Most were unfinished; after being taken out of the furnace for blowing and shaping, they received no further processing, just roughly pinched into a bottle shape and set aside. The flat glass sheets were not painted; fibrous impurities settled within the monotonous base color, and the slightly cleaner parts after breaking were picked out for comparison.

A pile of long spindle-shaped shards was stacked in the corner, crafted to resemble the feather-like image of the holy emblem's wings. The craftsmanship was not bad, but the transparency was not on the same level at all.

All kinds of glass were covered in dust, including the glass bottle Kraft had just taken into his hand, thick enough to leave a handprint on it.

According to the priest, when the church glass was still being made, Vichem and he were good drinking buddies, and distilling glass bottles was also a product of that time. The glassblower poured his passion and talent into the new material, creating the wings and also drawing out long and sturdy bottle necks.

The discontinuation of the alchemical potion hit him hard; the house was filled with a decadent atmosphere no different from other parts of this port district. Without goals, without hope, after repeated attempts, he concluded that the problem could not be solved through breakthroughs in craftsmanship.

"Keeping it is useless; this amount isn't even enough for a small cup. If you could give me more in exchange for more alcohol, that would be nice." He had integrated well into the port atmosphere, temporarily forgetting his disappointments outside with alcohol, but he never went to the church again because he could not avoid the peak work that had become a lost song.

Even Father Adrian could no longer bear to see him like this. He moved a chair to his side and comforted him with his unskilled professional abilities: "Do not force what fate is unwilling to give; perhaps the gods simply feel it has completed its mission and have taken back the right for mortals to cast crystal."

The effect was not ideal; Vichem muttered "stingy" in a low voice while holding his wine. Considering he still had to ask him to make a distiller later, the priest did not mind his slander of the Heavenly Father to his face, nor did he feel he could change his mind in a few sentences, so he quietly watched him drink to satisfy his craving.

Kraft scraped off the wax seal at the bottle mouth and discovered it actually used a matching glass stopper; this took much more effort than a wooden stopper. If not out of boredom, then was there a necessity for it?

He took out a small piece of hemp cloth from his pocket, first used it to wipe his hands, wrapped the stopper, and carefully lifted it. A belated reminder came from across: "Do not touch it. Now it is not so viscous; it is still very easy to burn your hand off. If you don't believe me, try this."

Vichem reached into the cabinet and pulled out a small, pitted piece of tin, handing it to Kraft. Several burn and corrosion-like scars stretched across the back of his hand; fortunately, they did not affect the movement of his palms and fingers much.

A few drops of liquid were poured onto the tin sheet; bubbles hissed in the newly added small pit. "You say it used to be even more concentrated?"

"Yes, at first it could scorch the wood chips that fell in; now it can no longer be seen."

Kraft's eyes widened; he never thought he could make up for the regrets of his middle school chemistry class here. "Incredible, I thought..."

In the eyes of someone with insufficient knowledge of chemical formulas, one would think this substance could not exist in this era, at least not for another few hundred years, waiting until alchemists one day figured out a new method.

Sulfuric acid, and concentrated sulfuric acid with a concentration once high enough to carbonize wood. A path that was still very distant in a certain original plan had its key point opened.

If he did not misremember that meager knowledge of chemistry—of course he could not misremember—by using the dehydrating property of concentrated sulfuric acid, mixing it with alcohol, and heating it at a suitable temperature, a long-desired substance would be generated: the earliest widely used surgical anesthetic.

【Ether】

"Where can I find more?"

"None left, just this bit. That group of useless alchemists still hasn't figured it out and wasted all the remaining stock for nothing." Vichem hugged the wine bottle and shrank back into his chair. "If you want to investigate the source, I can provide the information for free, as long as you are willing to sell me some after finding it."

"There is someone who used to follow that inventor; I know where he lives."

"Forget it. Since he fell, his life depends entirely on his daughter's care; it is no different from being dead." The priest splashed a bucket of cold water in time; he had heard this line many times, originally hearing it from an alchemist he drank with and then telling Vichem.

He had seen many strange illnesses; cases where one suddenly lost control of part or all of the body were also among them. Back when he had not yet been driven out of the confessional, he was often invited to exorcise demons, but he had never seen any case where the patient recovered.

This man was no exception; all the visitors who hired doctors to come to the door gave up one by one; only his daughter was still making a last struggle, but it was meaningless.

In a sigh, Adrian suddenly discovered a blind spot; wasn't there a doctor of decent skill right here?

"I think you can go try."