Chapter Twenty: The Field of Foundlings
"Greatness starts with gathering—people, potions, purpose."
The grass fields rippled gently under Lux's amber light. The sky was a calm canvas of blue and gold, a breeze whispering through the blades like a lullaby after chaos.
Garrick Ironhart flopped backward into the tall grass, arms stretched like a sun-dried shirt. He panted heavily, the massive backpack weighing down his whole frame like a steel boulder.
His blonde curls stuck to his forehead, and sweat soaked through his red shirt. "...We're alive. Somehow."
Riven, standing nearby, straightened his blue wool cap and ran a hand through his messy black hair, eyes narrowed as he opened up the Systematic Guide. A flicker of light scanned his form:
> [RANKED: BLUE]
[ACHIEVEMENTS: ZERO]
"Well," he muttered, brushing dust from his jacket. "At least we're consistent."
Just then—a swish from the woods.
The air shimmered. A figure strolled into the clearing, tail flicking with bored elegance.
Nico Finnikin Faelwyn, the foxkin boy, had arrived. His bushy orange tail curled behind him like a scarf, and his vibrant hair bounced with each step. He wore modern human clothes—hoodie, dark jeans, and sneakers—as if he'd come from a convenience store rather than a fantasy world.
Behind him came Aurelia Dawnmere, blonde-haired with silvery highlights, wearing a long black-and-white dress. Her expression was stiff, irritated—but her arms were full of practical supplies, like she'd just raided a survival aisle.
She held up a bag of water bottles. "Before anyone says it, yes—I'm useful."
Trailing behind was Eryndor Hale, sharp-eyed, red-haired, a white headband tied across his brow. He wore turquoise traveler's robes and carried himself like someone used to walking alone, yet curious enough to stay.
As they gathered, Riven stood tall and serious.
"Welcome, all," he began, "to the revolution of misfits."
Goldie squeaked happily and darted over to Aurelia, who knelt down, mesmerized.
"She's adorable," Aurelia breathed, scratching behind Goldie's fuzzy cat ears. "Where'd you find her?"
"I didn't. She found us," Garrick said, grunting as he tried to remove the massive pack.
Riven clapped his hands. "Now then—let's talk potions."
He projected a new Systematic window, listing types of potions with animated icons dancing around:
> 🔥 Fire Resistance
🌊 Water Breathing
💀 Sickness Removal
☠️ Poison Resistance
👻 Invisibility
💪 Strength Boost
🌀 Speed Potion
🔥 Fat Burning
💉 Pain Resistance
❤️ Healing
🌿 Regeneration
🍀 Luck
🦘 Leaping
🪶 Slow Falling
…and countless more…
Garrick groaned. "I'm not listing all that, my mind is overheating."
"That's fine," Riven grinned. "Because I already have a plan."
He paced in front of them like a teacher before a class. "We don't just want potions. We want all the potions. We're going to build a mobile supply chain. A potion empire. And then—"
"—We pull the poor, the lost, the misfits out of society," Garrick added, catching on. "And give them somewhere new to belong."
Eryndor raised an eyebrow. "Sounds bold. But... potions like that, they don't just grow on trees."
He tapped the Systematic.
"They mostly come from the Netherworld, right? The hellish zones?"
Riven paused. His smile turned more serious.
"Yes. The Netherworld is crawling with danger—ridiculously freezing and hot lands, infernal beasts, orcs factions. But…"
He swiped the screen again, showing alternate icons.
"We don't have to go there yet. Some potions can be crafted. Others bartered, and some we might get from local witches, herbalists, or Systematic anomalies."
"But eventually," Riven added, voice sharpening, "we will have to go into the Nether. That's where the rare stuff is. That's where our worth will be tested."
Silence. The wind whispered over them again, lifting blades of grass and strands of hair.
Nico cracked a grin. "Well, if we're gonna storm hell, might as well look good doing it."
Aurelia stood, brushing off her dress. "I've already been disowned. Might as well go full outlaw."
Goldie raised a paw.
Garrick sighed. "Fine, but I'm not carrying the witch's cauldron."
Riven's eyes gleamed. The party was forming. The vision was real.
The Travelers had gathered.
And the potion empire was about to begin.
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Vast Grassfield Blowing Landscape:
The grassfield stretched endlessly beneath a pale, open sky, its golden-green blades swaying in unison like an ocean of earthbound waves. A steady wind rolled across the land, rustling the tall grass in waves that shimmered in the Luxlight. The breeze was cool and restless, carrying the scent of pine from the distant woods that bordered the field's edge, their dark silhouettes dancing with the whispering leaves.
Beyond the field, faint outlines of old wooden fences creaked softly in the gusts, marking the boundary between the untamed meadow and forgotten pasture. The fences leaned with age, weathered by time, yet still standing firm in the wind's embrace. Further out, distant structures—perhaps barns or watchposts—stood as tiny figures against the horizon, softened by the haze of motion stirred by the breeze.
Everywhere, the field breathed with the wind, alive with movement and sound—the low hum of grass brushing together, the occasional cry of a bird wheeling overhead, and the deep, rhythmic pulse of nature shifting in harmony. It was a place where silence was not stillness, but a quiet storm of motion and life.
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