The South loved three things above all else.
Power.
Profit.
And survival.
Everything else—
Honor, loyalty, morality—
Came afterward.
Sometimes not at all.
And because of that…
The Southern market reacted faster than any battlefield.
Morning sunlight descended heavily over the capital as the first official batch of House Veil's potions entered circulation.
The city was already alive before dawn.
Merchant caravans rolled through crowded avenues, their wheels grinding against ancient stone roads while laborers shouted directions through humid morning air. Mercenaries gathered outside guild halls carrying freshly sharpened weapons. Noble servants rushed through markets purchasing supplies before the day's prices rose.
And quietly—
Without ceremony—
The first crates marked with House Veil's silver insignia were delivered.
No grand announcement.
No public celebration.
Just potions.
Simple glass bottles packed carefully inside reinforced wooden containers.
Yet within hours—
The city began changing.
At first—
People doubted them.
Naturally.
The South was not a place where trust survived long.
Especially not regarding products tied to rising nobles.
Most assumed House Veil was simply attempting to increase influence through exaggerated claims.
Until the potions were used.
A mercenary guild near the western district became the first major location where the effects spread openly.
The guild hall was massive, filled with noise and tension as always. Wooden tables stained by years of spilled alcohol and blood lined the interior while bounty boards covered nearly every wall.
Arguments echoed constantly inside such places.
Until today.
Today—
The conversations had changed.
"What the hell is this?"
A scar-covered mercenary stared down at the empty potion bottle in disbelief.
His breathing remained uneven from recent combat, yet the deep wound stretching across his shoulder had already begun closing visibly beneath fresh bandages.
Nearby adventurers looked over immediately.
"You actually used one?"
Another man leaned forward.
The mercenary nodded slowly.
"I thought it was another overpriced noble scam."
A pause.
"…it isn't."
Someone else grabbed the empty bottle from the table carefully.
The remaining traces of crimson liquid shimmered faintly against lantern light.
"…Impossible."
One of the older mercenaries frowned deeply.
"This level of purity shouldn't exist in mass production."
Another adventurer spoke quietly.
"I heard House Veil recruited a new potion maker recently."
The room grew slightly quieter.
"A potion maker?"
Someone scoffed.
"This isn't the work of some random alchemist."
The scarred mercenary flexed his previously injured arm slowly.
The movement was smooth.
Stable.
Too stable.
"No…"
His eyes narrowed.
"…whoever made this…"
A faint silence followed.
"…is dangerous."
Elsewhere—
Within the merchant district—
The reaction became even stronger.
Inside a luxurious trading hall lined with polished marble and gold-trimmed furniture, wealthy merchants gathered around several potion samples recently acquired through House Veil's distributors.
The atmosphere carried less noise here.
But far more calculation.
A thin merchant wearing layered silk robes adjusted his glasses carefully while examining a stamina potion beneath crystal light.
His expression gradually shifted from curiosity…
To disbelief.
"…No impurities."
He whispered quietly.
Another merchant immediately stepped closer.
"Impossible."
"It's true."
The older merchant lowered the bottle slowly.
"The mana stabilization inside the mixture is nearly perfect."
A third merchant frowned deeply.
"How much are they selling these for?"
The answer came.
And silence followed immediately afterward.
"…That cheap?"
One merchant almost stood from his seat.
Because now—
They understood the true problem.
This wasn't merely quality.
It was accessibility.
If House Veil could mass-produce potions of this caliber at affordable prices…
Then the Southern market itself would shift.
Mercenary survival rates would increase.
Trade expeditions would become safer.
Military campaigns would become more sustainable.
Even noble influence would change.
One merchant exhaled slowly.
"…Viscount Landon secured a monster."
No one argued.
Meanwhile—
Inside the noble district—
The reaction carried a different tone entirely.
Less excitement.
More tension.
A gathering of lesser nobles sat within a private garden pavilion beneath flowing curtains and hanging lanterns. Servants poured wine silently while quiet music drifted through the warm afternoon air.
But none of the nobles seemed relaxed.
Because the discussion at the table had become increasingly serious.
"I confirmed it personally."
A middle-aged noblewoman placed a potion bottle carefully upon the table.
"…House Veil's products are genuine."
A younger noble frowned immediately.
"How genuine?"
The noblewoman's eyes narrowed.
"…Good enough that my personal alchemist nearly shattered the bottle trying to examine it."
Several expressions shifted immediately.
Because personal alchemists possessed pride.
Dangerous amounts of it.
For one to react that way…
The implication was obvious.
Another noble leaned back slowly.
"…That Northern-born viscount…"
A faint pause.
"…he keeps growing."
The conversation darkened further.
"Military strength."
One noble counted calmly.
"Mercenary influence."
Another added.
"Trade routes."
A third continued.
"And now…"
Silence.
"…potions."
A faint tension settled across the pavilion.
Because every noble present understood one thing clearly.
Potions were not luxury items.
They were strategic resources.
Wars had been won because one side possessed superior recovery mixtures.
Entire territories collapsed due to lack of healing support during monster outbreaks.
And now—
A newly risen viscount possessed access to a potion maker capable of disrupting regional balance.
One older noble finally spoke quietly.
"…How sharp are Landon Veil's eyes?"
No one answered immediately.
Because they were wondering the same thing.
How had he found such a person so early?
Before larger houses noticed?
Before powerful merchant organizations intervened?
Before the Southern Dukes themselves extended invitations?
A younger noblewoman spoke carefully.
"I heard the potion maker appeared recently."
Another frowned.
"Name?"
"Heral."
The table fell silent again.
A merchant-born noble tapped his fingers slowly against the table.
"…Unknown background."
"Unknown affiliations."
Another added.
"And somehow…"
The older noble narrowed his eyes.
"…House Veil secured him immediately."
Suspicion slowly spread beneath the conversation now.
Not because they distrusted the potions.
But because they understood ambition.
Nobody in the South believed in coincidences.
Elsewhere—
Inside another mercenary guild—
The conversations became even louder.
"You idiot, don't waste it all at once!"
A large mercenary grabbed a smaller recovery vial from his companion angrily.
"Do you know how hard these are getting to find now?"
The younger man frowned.
"They only entered the market yesterday!"
"Exactly."
The older mercenary leaned closer.
"And today half the city wants them."
Nearby adventurers nodded immediately.
"They work too well."
"I used one after a beast hunt."
"My mana recovered twice as fast."
"House Veil's name is spreading everywhere now."
"…Not just House Veil."
One mercenary corrected quietly.
The room gradually stilled.
"…The potion maker too."
Far away—
Inside House Veil's eastern workshop—
Kel quietly stirred another potion mixture beneath controlled blue flame.
The room remained calm.
Warm sunlight filtered through tall windows while shelves filled with completed potions lined the walls around him.
The scent of herbs and mana lingered softly in the air.
Peaceful.
Almost ordinary.
Yet beyond those walls—
The South was already reacting exactly as he predicted.
Sairen's voice echoed softly through the soul-link.
This time—
Carrying unmistakable amusement.
"…You started a storm using glass bottles."
Kel adjusted the temperature beneath the silver container calmly.
"Not yet."
Far away at Scarder Lake—
Sairen rested against the endless mist-covered waters while observing the city through his senses.
"…The nobles are already paying attention."
A faint pause.
"…And the merchants are becoming nervous."
Kel's eyes reflected the faint blue glow of the potion mixture before him.
Calm.
Unmoving.
"Good."
Sairen tilted her head slightly.
"…You wanted this?"
Kel nodded faintly.
"Influence gained through force creates resistance."
His voice remained quiet.
Controlled.
"But influence gained through necessity…"
A brief pause followed.
"…creates dependence."**
The flame beneath the potion flickered softly.
The liquid within shifted colors slowly—from blue…
To silver.
Perfect.
Outside the workshop—
Servants moved through House Veil carrying new orders faster than ever before.
Merchants waited impatiently for supply negotiations.
Mercenary guilds requested bulk purchases.
And nobles quietly began investigating the mysterious potion maker named Heral.
Because something had become painfully clear to everyone.
Viscount Landon Veil had secured something extremely valuable before the rest of the South noticed.
And now—
The rest of the South had finally noticed too late.