Three potions appeared before him, materializing silently out of thin air. Rashan studied them closely, instinctively recognizing each potion and the class it represented:
The vibrant yellow potion for Jalil—the Warrior.
The inky black potion for Cassia—the Nightblade.
The softly glowing white potion, the Healer, was clearly intended for himself.
He stared at the potions for a moment and sighed deeply. "Guess I might as well go first," he muttered, picking up the delicate white vial. Without another thought, he uncorked it and downed it in a single swift gulp.
Instant regret.
"Gaaaaah," Rashan gagged, nearly dropping the empty vial. His face twisted sharply in disgust. "It's so nasty! This must be how devil fruit users felt when they ate their fruit in one piece… gods, that's awful."
He shuddered violently, trying to scrape the lingering taste from his tongue. "Bleh…"
Then it hit him, sudden and ruthless—a sharp, icy shock stabbing deep into his skull. The pain felt like the worst brainfreeze he'd ever imagined, magnified tenfold, wrenching a groan from deep in his chest as he doubled over, clutching his head tightly.
It lasted far longer than he thought possible. Ten agonizing minutes passed before the sensation finally faded, leaving him breathing raggedly, hunched forward in relief.
"Ugh…" Rashan grumbled, blinking slowly as clarity returned, replaced quickly by curiosity.
Had it worked?
It was as though he'd been staring at the world through cloudy glass all this time, and suddenly everything snapped into brilliant clarity. Rashan's mind buzzed with newfound insights, ideas sparking effortlessly into existence. Immediately, he visualized exactly how he could merge his previously separate incendiary potion and accelerant into a single, cohesive mixture—far simpler, yet significantly more devastating. Poisons, resistance potions, alchemical traps… possibilities flooded his thoughts in rapid succession.
He'd just taken a monumental step forward.
Unable to hold back his excitement, Rashan raised his hand and cast a ward. Instantly, he felt a difference. Understanding unfolded effortlessly in his mind—he saw exactly where he could streamline the spell, maintaining its integrity longer with far less effort. As he sustained the ward, it appeared less ethereal, more tangible, dense enough to truly deflect blows rather than merely absorb energy.
"Nice," he muttered appreciatively.
Next, he cast Ironflesh—something he'd long mastered after surpassing Oakflesh years ago. His eyes widened slightly in satisfaction. The protective shell was noticeably improved: solid, sturdy, and far more substantial than before.
His thoughts drifted briefly toward the special alteration spell he'd spent months carefully developing—a unique defensive enchantment designed not just to reinforce his body like Ironflesh or Oakflesh, but to integrate directly with the physical structure of his armor itself. Such integration would provide protection far superior to his existing spells. The problem had always been finding armor compatible with the intricate spellcraft he'd devised. His current leather armor simply lacked the structural integrity and magical receptivity required.
Glass armor, however—rare, expertly crafted, and magically conductive—would be perfect. With this new depth of comprehension, the combination of his alteration spell and glass armor could finally reach its full potential, creating a synergy of physical and magical defense unlike anything he'd wielded before.
He couldn't help but smile widely, anticipation growing. This enhanced comprehension was exactly the breakthrough he'd hoped for—and the path ahead now seemed clearer than ever.
Rashan took a deep, steadying breath, consciously trying to quiet his racing thoughts. His mind was already overflowing with ideas—half a dozen ways to significantly enhance his layered enchantment process, improving the spell functions and weaving protective magic seamlessly into armor and equipment. But now wasn't the time to indulge in theoretical brilliance, no matter how exhilarating.
He closed his eyes briefly, forcing his attention back toward the war, toward his responsibilities. The ANBU. His elite unit. He had high elves to butcher, a Dominion to terrorize, a war to win.
A fierce smile tugged at the edge of his lips, anticipation thrumming through him. Gods, he was excited.
But first things first—he needed Cassia and Jalil. It was time for their own transformations.
It was already deep into the night, so Rashan figured his comrades would be settled in their tents. Cassia's was closest, but when he glanced inside, he found it predictably empty.
A knowing grin crept across Rashan's face. He knew exactly where she'd be.
As he approached Jalil's tent, faint sounds drifted toward him through the canvas—soft, restrained moans barely audible. Even mute, Cassia still made subtle sounds, quiet but unmistakable.
Rashan chuckled quietly to himself, turning away. He wasn't about to ruin their night or stand around like some kind of voyeur, so he set off on a leisurely walk around camp. Twenty minutes later, he circled back. The tent was now silent, the night still.
He didn't bother peeking inside. Instead, he cleared his throat softly. "Jalil, you awake?"
There was a rustle of movement inside. A moment later, Jalil emerged, half-dressed, pulling a tunic hastily over his broad shoulders. Cassia appeared right after, casually buckling her armor straps without the slightest hint of embarrassment or concern. She met Rashan's eyes calmly, her expression entirely nonchalant—as if being caught slipping quietly from Jalil's tent in the dead of night was the most normal thing in the world.
But beneath the outward calm, Rashan saw the subtle tension in both of their postures. They weren't embarrassed, but they were certainly concerned—he didn't usually interrupt them at night unless there was trouble. Jalil watched him closely, worry clear in his expression. Cassia tilted her head slightly, eyebrows raised in a silent question, her eyes cool but attentive.
"Relax," Rashan said, offering them a mischievous grin. "No emergency. But I do need you both to follow me."
Jalil visibly relaxed, matching Rashan's grin with one of his own, instantly intrigued. Cassia's cautious expression softened, replaced by quiet curiosity as she silently nodded her understanding, waiting patiently for whatever came next.
As Rashan walked back toward his tent, excitement hummed beneath his carefully controlled demeanor. Jalil and Cassia weren't just his trusted comrades—they were family, siblings bound to him by something deeper than blood. They'd faced countless trials together, surviving battles, sabotage, and skirmishes, forging bonds of loyalty and trust stronger than steel. He knew them better, more completely, than he had ever known his own brothers.
Reaching his tent, Rashan ducked inside, motioning them to follow. The two remaining potions sat waiting for them, shimmering faintly in the dim lantern light—a vibrant yellow, fierce and bright, and an inky, shadowy black that seemed to swallow the light around it.
"Alright," Rashan began, his voice low and serious as he fixed them with a stern look. "These potions will make you stronger—much stronger. No, you can't ask where they came from. And most importantly, you can never, under any circumstances, discuss them. Ever."
Cassia and Jalil exchanged a quick glance, sharing an entire conversation in that single, silent moment, before turning back to him. Jalil shrugged, completely unbothered. "Don't talk about mysterious, magical potions? Sure, boss. Seems fair."
Cassia signed calmly, expression perfectly nonchalant, Sure, as though being sworn to secrecy about mysterious potions appearing in the dead of night was as ordinary as sharpening her blade before a mission. Still, Rashan didn't miss the slight crease of concern between her brows—she wasn't worried about the potion, but rather that Rashan had summoned them at night. It was reassuring, seeing her sharp mind at work even now.
Their unwavering trust warmed Rashan deeply, but he kept his voice firm, returning to the role of commander as he turned toward Jalil first. "Jalil, your potion—the yellow one—will permanently sever your connection to magicka. In exchange, though, your fighting skills and your overall vitality will dramatically improve. You'll fight harder, last longer, and be even tougher to kill."
He turned toward Cassia, meeting her attentive gaze. "Cassia, yours—the black one—will significantly boost your stealth, agility, and illusions. You'll find illusions intuitive, second-nature. Moving in your armor will feel smoother, easier, and even your swordwork should become more precise and fluid. The trade-off is a slight reduction to your vitality."
Cassia listened carefully, eyes calculating. Rashan could practically hear the multitude of questions silently racing through her mind, but she didn't voice or sign any of them—only giving him a calm, decisive nod, fully accepting his judgment. He'd never known her to shy away from risk, especially when she trusted his decision implicitly.
Jalil, on the other hand, stroked his chin dramatically, brow furrowed in exaggerated distress. "But, Rashan—what about my lifelong dream of being a mage? No magicka? Oh, the tragedy! Whatever will I do?"
Cassia rolled her eyes openly, nudging Jalil hard enough to throw off his mock-serious pose. Rashan snorted softly, fighting back a smile.
Jalil cracked into a wide grin, hands raised in cheerful surrender. "Fine, fine. Warrior it is. Who needs fireballs anyway?"
Rashan shook his head with affectionate exasperation and handed each of them their potion. Without hesitation, trusting him implicitly, they each uncorked their vials and drank deeply.
Rashan stood back and waited silently.
One heartbeat…two…
Then it hit them.
The same horrid expression Rashan had worn earlier now crossed both of their faces simultaneously, contorting their features into near-identical masks of disgust. Jalil coughed, shaking his head violently as he struggled to clear his mouth.
"Gods above—did you brew these from troll piss?" he groaned through clenched teeth, forcing a weak, shaky grin even as his face twisted sharply in revulsion.
Cassia, normally unflappable, turned alarmingly pale. She doubled over slightly, hand clutching her stomach, looking for a brief moment like she might empty it entirely. But she fought through it silently, jaw clenched tight as she tried to maintain her dignity.
Before Rashan could say anything reassuring, the real pain arrived.
Jalil gasped sharply, stumbling to one knee, his hands gripping his arms as if trying to scrape away something invisible. "Feels—damn it—like my skin's on fire," he hissed through clenched teeth.
Nerve pain, Rashan realized instantly. He grimaced sympathetically; clearly, each potion came with its own unique agony.
Cassia fell silently to both knees, eyes squeezed shut, breathing sharply through her nose. Unable to voice her pain, she clutched her stomach tightly, fingers trembling slightly. Her calm composure cracked, revealing genuine distress beneath.
Rashan watched carefully, concerned but confident. He'd survived his own potion's brutal effects, and he knew his comrades had the strength to withstand theirs. It was intense, undoubtedly—but it was also temporary.
Slowly, painfully, both Jalil and Cassia began to steady themselves. Jalil rose first, his breath still ragged, sweat beading his brow—but his eyes already clearer, sharper. Cassia rose more slowly, her expression regaining its usual steely calmness, though the lingering discomfort still shadowed her eyes.
Rashan felt excitement ripple through him, anticipation sparking at what their future now held. This was only the beginning; he knew his comrades would soon see exactly how powerful they'd become.