When he stepped in to take a look at its contents, Makhus knew the governor hadn’t exaggerated a single word of his claims, and he felt like a child in a candy store.

Within the box, there were recesses padded with pure white Fog-infused silk which gleamed iridescently in the light. In the largest recess, taking up some half of the box’s total volume, there was a flask of four necks and shaped like a human heart, densely etched with very particular, smooth-flowing glyphs both within and without. These glyphs were a masterful replication of a dead genius’s attempt at mimicking a dungeon’s internal machinations, improved upon and adjusted through decades of trial and error.

“Carved from a single piece of quartz that had been submerged in liquid Aether and bathed in moonlight,” Crovacus remarked, even though Makhus already knew this to be the case. It had to be, otherwise the flask wouldn’t be able to hold the core of its operation.

A spherical stone of black quartz no larger than an eyeball, so black it looked like a hole in the world itself. It was suspended in the center of the flask, surrounded by three concentric, glyph-etched rings that were each made from an alloy of cold-iron, electrum, and copper brass, bathed in human blood, and worn by a dying man at the moment of his death.

It was a tool that was so vital to the modern alchemist’s trade, so miraculous in its capabilities, that its name was almost an understatement of its importance - the Philosopher’s Heart. Never had the archaic creation rituals been strayed from with a successful result, for nearly nobody understood the bizarre machinations behind it all. Even its enigmatic creator seemingly didn’t understand his creation, his notes having been written in an alchemically-induced creative delirium that inevitably led to his death.

This inadvertently completed the containment ring creation ritual of the very first flask before it was assembled by the one who discovered his corpse: none other than the Sage of Fog himself, if the stories were to be believed. Makhus wagered the Sage was simply given credit.

The other recesses held more mundane, but equally vital, items for the creation of the Fivefold Philter. There were three phials labeled as blood, assumedly the governor’s, three phials of glimmering, silvery liquid that he assumed to be liquid Aether, and nine phials filled with crystalline grains of varying colours.

Blood-red, sulfur-yellow, coal-black, bright orange, and light blue.

Rubedo, citrinitas, nigredo, ignis, aqua.

Pure, highly reactive essentia, stably suspended within a variety of salts. A highly compact, more shock-resistant alternative to seal-bottles, but far more resource and time-intensive to produce.

Struggling to tear his eyes away from the black sphere, the alchemist looked the governor in the eye. “I trust that you will make good use of this tool beyond making Fivefold Philter for me,” the governor said with a knowing smirk.

“You won’t want this back once I’m done?” Makhus questioned, having assumed up until now that he would only have access to the flask temporarily. It was a terribly expensive thing to procure, after all.

Except, the governor just shook his head. “A Philosopher’s Heart is useless without a competent alchemist to make use of it. Unfortunately, or rather, fortunately for you, an ex-military nobody like you is more trustworthy than most of my other options.”

Makhus left that office with the lockbox, its key, and the numbers to unlock it, plus the first half of his payment. It was of course under the promise that he would deliver three doses of Fivefold Philter as quickly as he could make them. He hadn’t lied about knowing how to make it - it was difficult and complex compared to basic elixirs, but the process was solid and consistent when done right. There was no need to babysit the setup throughout the entire process, like had to do with the Necrobeast Infusion.

As he made his way through the town’s streets towards, Makhus dwelled on that creation. It was a resounding success as far as his original method of Azoth refinement went, but… Makhus’ inner curiosity wouldn’t let him leave well enough alone. He knew it could be improved with better equipment, the trait-bestowing effects could be made more potent, the impurities further purged.

After having dwelled in his own thoughts for most of the walk back, the alchemist finally recognized the familiar buildings that surrounded Riverside Remedies. A pang of concern shot through his head, for he heard a great deal of ruckus coming from the storefront. Yelling and arguing in a mix of heavily accented Ikesian and native-level Pateirian, which blended together into a mess that was barely coherent even as he got close enough to see what was going on.

A suspiciously heavy-set young man was banging on the door, yelling about how he’d “have the filthy war-criminals that run this drug den arrested”. He wore outwardly civilian clothes, but Makhus recognized a few telltale signs that pointed him out as a Pateirian operative, even though by his darker skin tone and brownish hair he looked to be some mix of Ikesian and Grekurian ethnicities. Very particular folds on the beige dress shirt, the green jade of his cufflinks, his distinct facial hair, and, most egregiously, the fact his boots were just outright taken from a Pateirian officers’ uniform. It wasn’t too uncommon to see folks wearing salvaged or traded ones, sure, but these were damn-near pristine, and they fit perfectly. In Makhus’ mind, there was no way in hell this guy didn’t answer to some malfeasant zipperhead.

With a heavy sigh, he sped up a little bit and switched the lockbox to his wounded arm so that he could knock the guy out with his good arm, if it came to that.

“Y’mind layin’ off the ruckus? We’re closed, says on the door,” he said in as polite a tone as he could manage to grab the thug’s attention. The man whipped around, looked Makhus up and down, and grinned.