A Trap

Rashan was currently in a medical ward.

The air stung with the sharp blend of crushed herbs, iron, and the bitter vapor of alchemical solvents. A copper still sat on a stone slab in the corner, releasing slow droplets of clear solution into a clay jug below. The liquid hissed faintly when poured over metal tools and open wounds.

Wooden cots lined the walls, each holding patients in various states—bandaged limbs, blood-soaked wrappings, sweat-drenched brows. A young boy gripped a splint with white knuckles while a healer bound it tight. A soldier with a wrapped shoulder murmured quietly to himself between clenched teeth.

An alchemist moved from bed to bed, his satchel clinking with vials and folded herbs. He rinsed instruments in steaming basins, layered poultice onto stitched cuts, and measured tinctures into wooden spoons. The scent of resin and fireroot clung to his robes.

A helper kept the still running, eyes watching the flame as if the entire room depended on its rhythm. Bottles were laid out along a shelf—some cloudy, some clear, all labeled in a careful hand.

Linen sheets hung between beds, rustling with every step. The soft hum of focused work filled the space—quiet voices, muted groans, the snap of thread as it pulled through skin.

Each patient waited with a kind of settled endurance, eyes tracking every motion, every tool.

Rashan was, pretty much, what translated to a CNA—doing all the shit work.

The staff had been very reserved at first. After all, he was a noble.

But his teacher had just laughed and said it'd be good to start like a normal person.

Rashan usually did not want to goad his status—but he really didn't want to change bedpans.

What was ironic, though—with perfect recall and all his time in hospitals, he could remember a lot of things that helped him learn Restoration.

But his teacher didn't know that.

And he wasn't about to tell him, "Hey, I came from another world, lost my legs, ruined my spine, and got a brain injury. Also, I have perfect recall, so I don't need to do this as I have years of memories to draw from!"

As he worked in the ward he looked at the potions the alchemists were using…

Honestly, the potions worked. If they were brewed right—and if you could afford the good ones—alchemy did everything it promised. Just like in the games.

Healing wounds. Restoring Will. Restoring Vitality. Making you invisible, resistant, faster, sharper. Those effects weren't fantasy here. They were real. Tangible. You drank the bottle, and something changed.

But none of that mattered in a place like this.

Here, in the ward, the shelves held the cheapest brews. Basic red-stained tonic for blood loss. A weak green mixture to cool fever. Chalky stamina restoratives that barely worked unless you drank two. Nothing exotic. Nothing rare.

The good potions—the concentrated healing draughts, the instant-clot formulas, the fortified vitality brews—they went to nobles, soldiers, or merchants who could pay upfront. Everyone else got water down alchemist ingredients and the thread.

So the ward ran like a backwater battlefield clinic. Boiled bandages. Bone needles. Burnt salve and spit.

And that was fine, honestly. The healing worked.

What bothered Rashan wasn't the medicine.

It was the lack of structure.

From the moment a patient staggered in, there was no intake, no triage. No assessment chart or case rotation. One healer might start a treatment. Another might finish it—or not. Names got forgotten. Doses weren't tracked. There was no standard between one bed and the next.

Back on Earth—even in the worst hospital, even in a war zone—there was a chain. A rhythm. A way things moved.

Here, the only rhythm was who shouted loudest, who bled fastest, or who collapsed first.

Every healer worked from instinct and routine. Some were brilliant. Some were guessing. All of them were too busy to fix it.

Rashan moved from task to task like everyone else—wringing out sheets, checking pulses, washing dressings—but the whole time, part of his mind stayed on the flaw.

There was no system.

Just people.

And that meant too much was being left to chance.

He sighed as he changed the sheet.

A week later on the start of his second week, Rashan had been pulled from the worst grunt work and told to assist the alchemist.

Which, honestly, was a huge step up from bedpans and soiled linens.

"Prepare this. Boil that. Crush these," the alchemist barked, pointing him toward a heavy wooden counter stacked with glassware and ceramic jars.

The day before, they'd handed him a tome of common ingredients—basic roots, salts, minerals, powders, and reagents used in everyday medical tinctures. Maybe sixty pages.

Rashan read it once.

That was all he needed.

With perfect recall, every preparation, measurement, shelf life, and volatility warning stayed locked in his head. He knew what needed steeping, what needed to be powdered, what spoiled after exposure to light or flame. And he made sure to act like it.

The first day, the alchemist gave him five ingredients. Kept a close eye on him the whole time.

Rashan followed every instruction to the letter—exact portions, clean separations, tightly packed vials.

The second day, he was handed ten. The alchemist hovered a little less.

By the third, Rashan had taken initiative—set up separate prep areas for dry and wet processes, labeled everything with careful charcoal marks, and started working in silence before being asked. He didn't wait for instructions. He already knew what was needed.

By the fifth, the alchemist had stopped talking altogether. He just stood nearby, arms folded, staring in disbelief as Rashan breezed through complex prep work most apprentices took weeks to learn.

The look on the man's face said it all: confusion, curiosity… and just a little unease.

Rashan said nothing. He just kept working.

He didn't care about impressing anyone—but he definitely didn't want to go back to folding linens and emptying bedpans. So if showing off a little kept him at the workbench, so be it.

By the seventh morning, he laid out over fifty ingredients—categorized, labeled, prepared, and arranged by application. Infirmary-use, infection treatment, blood thickening, fever coolants. Every jar sealed, every measurement exact.

The alchemist froze mid-step.

Then slammed his fist on the table.

"You! You're mine now. Apprentice. Mine. Adrien was right!"

Rashan blinked. "What?"

"He said you were born for this! Said you had the hands and the head of a proper alchemist. I didn't believe him. I figured you'd spill fire salts on the first day and beg to leave. But this—this is gods-damned insane."

He pointed to the bench, then to Rashan. "Seven days. Seven. Days."

Rashan just stood there, arms loose at his sides.

And then it clicked.

Adrien had set this up.

No one got out of grunt duty this fast.

He exhaled and muttered under his breath.

"Bastard planned this."

Rashan found him exactly where he expected—lounging in the courtyard fountain like it was his personal chair.

Adrien had one leg dangling in the water, the other crossed lazily over his knee. His sleeves were rolled, robe half open, posture loose. He looked like a man who had nothing to do and every reason to enjoy it.

A plum floated nearby in the water. Rashan didn't want to ask.

"I already told you," Rashan said, marching up, "I don't want to be an alchemist."

Adrien didn't even look up. Just flicked the plum with one finger. "Mmhmm."

He'd brought it up before—several times, always with that same smug tone. Said Rashan's memory made him perfect for it. That most apprentices would kill for what came naturally to him.

But being good at something didn't mean you wanted to do it for the rest of your life.

"I'm serious," Rashan said.

"You usually are," Adrien replied, finally lifting his gaze.

"You set me up."

Adrien gave a lazy shrug. "Of course I did."

Rashan stared at him. "You could've at least pretended."

"Why? You're the one who crushed it. You think I told them to let you prep fifty ingredients? You earned that."

Rashan didn't argue. He had a point.

He didn't want to go back to bedpans and mop buckets. And showing off had bought him the bench. But still.

"I'm not doing this forever."

Adrien leaned back, letting his hand trail in the water. "Then don't. Do it for two years."

Rashan narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"Two years," Adrien said. "Stick with it, show some discipline, and I'll teach you Conjuration."

Rashan stared at him, watching for the catch.

The silence stretched. Adrien didn't move.

"One year," Rashan said cautiously.

"Deal," Adrien said instantly.

Rashan blinked. He opened his mouth—then shut it.

"…Damn it," he muttered. "I should've asked for less."

Adrien stood up, boots dripping, grin wide. "Too late. Tomes are already waiting for you. Dustier than a necromancer's cellar. You're going to love them."

Rashan turned to walk away, muttering under his breath.

"Don't forget your apron, apprentice!" Adrien called cheerfully after him.