"Why do you say that?" Rowe asked.
Sigurd's expression darkened. "First, their appearance—you'll understand once you see them yourself. But more than that, the Skrins are an inherently evil race. I used to believe no creature was born evil, but after encountering them, I changed my mind."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "In short, don't sympathize with any Skrins—not even their women and children."
Rowe fell silent, lost in thought.
He had heard before that the Skrins were a ruthless and barbaric species, but he hadn't expected their nature to be so thoroughly despised.
Asgard was a land of order and security, where crime was rare and punishable with swift justice. If the Skrins were truly evil by nature, could they serve as the perfect targets for his Sanctions?
The two conversed for a while longer before Sigurd eventually returned to his room.
---
The next morning, after breakfast, Rowe and Sigurd headed to the camp pharmacy to begin their work for the day.
The pharmacy was filled with shelves upon shelves of herbs, their scents blending into a rich, fragrant aroma. The sight made Rowe's eyes light up in excitement.
Though Liphia Mountain was known as a holy land of medicinal herbs, its resources were still limited, with the rarest ingredients being hoarded in the royal medicine garden. By comparison, Vanaheim had a far greater abundance of medicinal plants, available even to ordinary people.
I wonder how many of these can be used as ingredients for a Talent Mixture… Rowe mused.
A group of senior healers entered the pharmacy, immediately getting to work.
"Let's begin," one of them instructed. "We need to restock our antidotes—especially Greenhild's Antidote."
As Rowe prepared his workstation, Sigurd explained, "Aside from healing stones, the most commonly used potion here is Greenhild's Antidote. Because Vanaheim is rich in herbs, it's also rich in poisonous plants. The Skrins, in particular, love using poisoned weapons."
He picked up a handful of dried leaves, crushing them between his fingers. "While most poisons aren't fatal to the Aesir and Vanir, they can still cause severe discomfort, impair movement, or weaken stamina. And in battle, even a slight disadvantage can be deadly."
Turning to Rowe, he asked, "Have you studied Greenhild's Antidote before?"
Rowe nodded. "I learned it recently."
Sigurd grinned. "Good! If you run into any trouble, feel free to ask. I'm quite skilled at making antidotes."
Rowe didn't respond—he simply started working. His movements were swift and precise, preparing the herbs with practiced efficiency.
At first, the two worked in silence.
Then, after a few minutes, Sigurd glanced at Rowe and frowned.
"…How are you so fast?" he blurted out.
Rowe paused briefly before replying, "Fast? My cousin is much quicker than me."
Thinking about El, Rowe felt a pang of nostalgia, and his hands unconsciously slowed.
Seeing his opportunity, Sigurd hastily sped up, determined to match Rowe's pace.
However, Rowe quickly refocused, and his movements became even faster than before, effortlessly pulling ahead.
Sigurd's eyes widened in disbelief, sweat forming on his brow.
By the time Rowe finished making his batch of antidotes, Sigurd had barely completed half of his.
Sigurd's face flushed with embarrassment. He had been trying to mentor Rowe earlier, but now, it was clear that Rowe far surpassed him in skill. After an awkward pause, he muttered, "Didn't you say you just learned this?"
"It's been over two months," Rowe said as he pulled out his Holy Deed and placed it on the table.
Sigurd blinked. "…Oh."
---
Rowe brought a medicinal herb over and placed it on the blueprint of the Talent Mixture, activating his identification function.
Since outsiders could not see the contents of the Holy Deed, it simply looked like Rowe was referencing notes—an inconspicuous habit.
One by one, he tested the herbs:
[Cannot be used as a substitute material]
[11% substitution for Purple Lotus]
[26% substitution for Heather]
[92% substitution for Silverleaf Grass]
Rowe's eyes lit up at the last result.
A 92% match? That's excellent.
He hurriedly jotted it down. If nothing else, this Gray Thread Grass would likely replace Silverleaf Grass in his final Talent Mixture.
Sigurd leaned over. "What are you writing?"
"Just taking notes."
Sigurd squinted at the page but couldn't understand anything.
This was intentional—Rowe had deliberately used obscure terminology from the Greenhild Pharmacopoeia, ensuring that no one else could decipher it.
Sigurd hesitated before giving up. "Never mind…" He turned back to his work, his expression conflicted.
By the end of the day, Rowe had identified several useful herbs, including one with 59% substitution for Heather and another with 51% substitution for Golden Thorn Grass.
However, he wasn't entirely satisfied.
After all, these ingredients were relatively easy to replace. The true difficulties lay in acquiring:
Orkin
Blood of Mountains
Blood of Dragon
Thunderbolt Core
The Thunderbolt Core, in particular, baffled him. He had no recollection of such an ingredient, and he had even started wondering whether it was something from another realm altogether.
But no matter how difficult it was, he was determined to collect them all. Without them, he would never reach his full potential.
---
As the days passed, Rowe quickly adapted to life at the camp, spending his time making potions and tending to the wounded.
Fortunately, the Skrins' attacks rarely caused serious injuries. The Aesir warriors were powerful, and most wounds could be treated with basic healing stones and antidotes.
However, one night, as Rowe was lying in bed, a sudden alarm whistle pierced the air.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"
Rowe's eyes snapped open, his drowsiness vanishing instantly. He bolted upright and rushed to the window.
Outside, torches blazed across the camp as soldiers scrambled into formation. From the surrounding forest, a chilling sound echoed—high-pitched, sharp cries that were neither human nor animal.
Yet, there was structure to them, as though they were part of a language.
Then, through the firelight, Rowe finally saw the attackers.
A horde of green-skinned creatures swarmed forward, their bodies humanoid yet grotesque. Their scaled flesh glistened under the moonlight, and long, lizard-like tails swayed behind them. Their insectoid heads, complete with mandibles and compound eyes, made them look like a horrifying fusion of reptile and bug.
These were the Skrins.
And there were thousands of them.
They surged toward the camp in waves, shaking the very ground with their numbers.
Some wielded rusted weapons, others carried crude spears, but none wore armor. Instead, they let their twisted, unnatural bodies serve as their only defense.
Most disturbingly, many of them… were completely naked, their inhuman anatomy on full display as they screeched and charged.
Like a swarm of locusts, they came from all directions, threatening to engulf the camp in chaos.