The Ghost Knight King’s Dungeon Project

Ch. 15



Chapter 15: [Potionology of Life]

The morning sunlight at a little past six o’clock shone down upon the streets of Thornfall Outpost, reflecting between the bright white stone walls.

People came and went along the roads, though most of them were merchants; few idle adventurers wandered the streets.

Mid and high-ranking adventurers were usually still resting — only with adequate sleep could they maintain their active and healthy state for missions.

Those already awake were either at the training grounds, workshops, or barracks, honing their strength, studying their craft, or working on follow-up planning and team coordination.

Meanwhile, a large crowd of lower and mid-tier adventurers had gathered noisily at the entrance of the Adventurers’ Guild Hall in the center of Thornfall, anxiously waiting for the doors to open at exactly seven o’clock.

One reason was simple: arriving early meant perhaps snatching up some relatively easy tasks — missions that had no strict requirements on level or ability but still offered slightly better rewards.

The other reason was as mentioned before — most low-level adventurers lived day by day.

Trapped by life and unable to move forward, with no savings to fall back on, a single day without work meant a day of hunger.

They at least had to earn enough to cover today’s food and lodging.

They had abandoned their pasts and, after much hardship, arrived here — chasing dreams like gold prospectors of the Suparl Empire, venturing into the desolate lands in search of fortune. Yet here, they found no future waiting for them.

After all, the Wasteland had never promised them anything.

It was all just a one-sided fantasy.

Many residents from the habitable zones had never once seen the barren Demon Domain in their lifetime.

Yet, they creatively stitched together half-true rumors of sudden riches with their own fanciful dreams of plucking wealth like grass — passing the stories around, swearing oaths as they did, calling the Wasteland “the Land of Flowing Gold,” “the Golden Country,” and “the Creator’s Garden.”

These rumors, born from mild and severe hysteria alike, lured both the brave and the reckless — young men and women filled with dreams — to embark on their journey toward the fertilizer barrels of the Demon King’s garden, sliding smoothly into the dungeon’s gaping maw like children down a playground slide.

Life, existence, and dreams all passed through the intestines of reality, becoming feces — and when squeezed out of life’s stinking anus, they landed with a clang like a falling steel pipe.

The adventurers who had truly lived in the Wasteland would all warn the young:

“Don’t come.”

Not because they feared competition, but because there were already far too many who had stayed there forever. Some might still be alive. Some might already be dead. But once you arrived, it became very hard to leave.

From the moment you set foot in this land, you were no longer part of civilized humanity — you had become part of the Demon Domain’s food chain.

Welcome to the bottom of the food chain, idiot.

The Demon Kings, deep within their lavish domed palaces underground, yawned lazily as they scratched the chins of their Earth-Devouring Worms, caressed the green vines and colorful fungi winding up the white marble railings, then casually picked up their breakfast trays — and dumped the adventurers’ remains into the flower pots.

At 6:55 a.m., in the heart of Thornfall Outpost, stood a tall building of stacked white stone bricks. Before its oak doors — engraved with a golden eye and the emblem of twin iron hands — a dense crowd of adventurers had gathered.

From above, the throng resembled a swarm of ants, surging anxiously like waves before the entrance, shouting and pushing.

Five or six Guild Guards, clad in dark blue cloaks and light armor, long spears in hand, yelled loudly as they struggled to hold back the crowd and maintain order.

“Stop pushing! The doors will open any minute now!” one guard shouted. “Line up! Line up! LINE UP, DAMN IT! Those submitting tasks from yesterday, get in line first! You’ll have to queue up inside anyway, so why not start now?”

“The clerks inside are still posting new mission sheets on the board! Wait a little longer! Rushing in now won’t help — the walls are empty!” another guard roared. “For hell’s sake, can’t you lot keep some order?”

Most of the adventurers in the crowd were newcomers — typically under level three, and mostly young.

“Newcomer” usually meant “inexperienced and ignorant of the rules.”

“Low-level” often meant “headless flies, without direction.”

“Young” frequently equaled “impulsive and hot-headed mules.”

When all three of these cursed traits combined, they formed exactly the kind of adventurer the guards feared most — clueless, rule-breaking brats charging about while your job was to keep them in order.

It was like trying to leash a herd of screeching, rabid donkeys — except the leash was tied to your own limbs and neck. It sounded like torture. Some poor transmigrator trapped in armor might have called it “Shang Yang’s punishment.”

“Every morning, around this time — maybe six fifty-two — I ask myself why my life has come to this,” said Guard No. 3.

While barking orders like a shepherd driving sheep, he flipped his spear around, poking at the adventurers who got too close, chatting idly with his fellow guard beside him.

“Maybe it’s because, when I was young, I studied Potionology at the Mashus Academy in the Empire. I was a spoiled rich kid, didn’t take learning seriously, learned nothing, never became a proper potionist. Then my father’s shipping business hit a storm and went bankrupt. We moved from our mansion in the Imperial Capital to a shabby house — couldn’t even afford my tuition at Mashus anymore.”

“My brother died at sea. My parents were crushed by bankruptcy and grief. Since I never became a potionist, I learned a bit of swordsmanship and enlisted, handing my enlistment pay to my parents. In the army, a respectable centurion finally beat some sense into me — and just as I was getting somewhere, the damn army got downsized.”

“I’m forty-eight now, still a nobody. And that’s why I’m stuck here, jabbing clueless young fools who remind me of myself with a spear shaft — all because I didn’t study Potionology properly when I was thirteen!”

“That’s what you think about while working? Daydreaming about your life memoirs, imagining going back to your Potionology class at thirteen?” Guard No. 4 snorted. “There’s no such thing as a Potion of Life Reset. That’s just something bards made up to beg for coins.”

“No, no, I mean — I recently bought a self-study set for Potionology. It’s never too late to change your life!” said Guard No. 3 proudly. “Every night after my shift, I’ll spend two hours studying it… I’m not drinking anymore either. No more numbing myself with booze!”

“Lunatic.” Guard No. 4 gave a blunt, accurate judgment. “You’re too old for this crap. What’s the point of learning Potionology now? The Potionist Guild only recruits top-ranked newcomers! There are plenty of young, smart potion apprentices out there — and even they can’t pass the qualification exams! Most end up broke, can’t even afford alchemical reagents, forced to become adventurers!”

“I’m not studying to get certified or to make money,” said Guard No. 3. “It’s for me. For the kid I used to be. You get it? When I was young, I really dreamed of becoming a potionist. A lot’s happened since then, but life’s funny that way — who’s to say—”

Ding-ling-ling-ling...

The brass bell fixed above the oak doorframe of the Guild Hall rang — the signal that the hall was opening.

“Ohhh! It’s time—!” Guards No. 3 and 4 quickly leapt aside, clearing the doorway.

As the oak doors swung open, the flood of young adventurers burst through like a high-pressure stream of water.

In an instant, the corridors, the mission board, the front counters — the entire hall filled with the chaos of headless flies.

Figures scrambled to snatch task sheets off the wall, then rushed to the counters, shoving and shouting all at once.

Each clerk at the counter was surrounded by a dozen adventurers, task slips shoved in their faces, all talking at once.

The din was deafening.

“Please, everyone, line up!” cried Lillian Watson, poking her cowlicked head out from between stacks of papers.

“One at a time, please!” another male clerk wailed.

“Line up at the counter! Clerks can only handle one task at a time! Anyone who doesn’t line up — get the hell out!” Guards No. 5 and 6 bellowed, turning their spears around and jabbing the spear butts like pig-prods to scatter the low-level adventurers crowding the desks.

“No fighting! No grabbing! Whoever touches the commission slip first gets priority!” Guard No. 3 roared through the chaos. “Anyone who starts a brawl gets thrown out!”

“I swear, we should add disorderly conduct to the Adventurers’ Code,” Guard No. 4 cursed. “In the Edric Empire Army, this would be twenty lashes! Idiots!”

——

On Old Timber Street, at the entrance of Barracks No. 3, two tall figures in heavy armor stood silently, watching the distant chaos at the Guild Hall.

“The hungry worms always rise the earliest,” Thaleia murmured with a soft laugh. “They live and die within a day, after all.”

“This batch looks like the lowest-tier adventurers — newcomers, low-level ones. Most probably don’t even have teams and can’t take on difficult, high-reward missions,” said Samael, gazing toward the crowd. “That’s why they’re out so early, hoping to snatch meager solo tasks to survive. But they’re also the starting point of everything. Perhaps Randall was once like them. Maybe one of these youths will, like Randall, learn and grow into a capable mid or high-ranking adventurer.”

“Hard to imagine… your dung-worker friend isn’t among them?” Thaleia asked.

“Probably not,” said Samael thoughtfully. “Randall has his own team now, capable of taking advanced commissions. He wouldn’t need to fight over low-paying errands at dawn… it wouldn’t be worth it.”

“Then he’s late,” Thaleia said. “By our agreement, the dung-worker should’ve arrived at six-thirty. Weren’t we supposed to form the team today?”

“Maybe something delayed him.” Samael sat back inside the hall, thinking.

“How unreliable,” Thaleia snorted.

After registering as an adventurer the day before, Randall Ryska had agreed to meet them at the barracks around six-thirty in the morning to form a team and explain the mission details.

But now it was already seven o’clock — and there was still no sign of Randall.

“Would you two like some tea while you wait, adventurers?” asked the innkeeper lady behind the counter, wiping a wooden mug. “It’s hot and free. Life’s not easy here — a cup of tea helps soothe the throat.”

“No need,” said Thaleia.

Samael didn’t even have the ability to eat or drink.

Besides, both needed to keep their identities hidden, avoiding removing their helmets as much as possible.

“Ah… no, thank you, madam,” Samael said politely.

“Maybe we should just go to Randall’s room ourselves? He’s in Barracks No. 2, room 301, right?” he murmured to Thaleia.

“Excuse me… are you two Brother Samo and Sister Talan?” came a sudden voice.

Samael and Thaleia instinctively turned toward the sound — but no one was there.

“Who’s speaking?” Samael asked reflexively.

“Um… down here,” said the voice. “Please, look down, you two.”

They both lowered their heads.

Standing there was a short blonde girl, barely reaching their elbows, looking up at them with an expression full of resignation about her height.

She wore a cloak over light leather armor reinforced with copper plates and rivets for extra defense. Her bright golden hair was neatly trimmed, the ends brushing her neck, and her pale blue eyes brimmed with frustration.

At her waist hung a strange, needle-shaped rapier — its tip fashioned like a serpent’s fang with an injection port. Around her belt was a ring of leather potion pouches identical to Randall’s.

Samael and Thaleia exchanged glances, both lowering themselves slightly, like adults trying not to intimidate a child with their two-meter frames.

“Judging by your height… and from that idiot captain’s description, you two must be Brother Samo and Sister Talan, right?” the little blonde girl asked. “I’m Ruby Ellis, potionist of Randall Ryska’s team, a Level 1 adventurer. Graduated last year from the Edric Empire’s Mashus Academy of Potionology.”

“Oh, the novice potionist who can’t remove Blood Thorn toxin,” Thaleia remarked.

The little blonde girl clutched her chest, visibly wounded.

“Oh-oh! A top student! Boundless future! The new century belongs to Potionology!” Samael instinctively smacked Thaleia’s helmet to stop her from crushing the poor girl’s spirit further, blurting out a string of blessings.

Yet somehow, even that offended her — Ruby glared at him with an expression that read (。′︵‵。).

“Uh… sorry about that,” Samael realized.

Right, if her future were truly bright, she wouldn’t be here adventuring in the first place.

“Anyway… Randall’s caught up with something, so I came to fetch you two,” the short blonde — Ruby — said, hands on her hips and looking up at the two towering figures with a pout. “Everyone’s waiting at the public workshop across from the barracks. Follow me.”


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