The air in the high passes was thick with the scent of ozone and ancient stone. Enid made the trek herself, guided by Deith through the jagged ridges of the Dragon Mountains. She expected a crude fortification; she found a silent, humming perimeter guarded by towers that watched her with the cold, amber eyes of Guardian Runes.
Eric Bloodstone was not there to greet them. He was deep in the jagged crevices of the lower peaks, engaged in a far more visceral task. His Shepherd's Club cracked against the chitinous armor of Cave Spiders, the rhythmic thud echoing through the ravine. With a scholar's precision, he harvested what he needed: the venom-slicked Fangs, the translucent Eggs, and the pale, stringy Meat. On his journey back, his hands—stained with ichor—plucked the delicate Honeysuckle, Hop, and Dandelions from the frost, adding them to his Spatial Pouch.
When he rounded the final bend toward the limestone shelf, he found a woman waiting. She stood with a grace that made the harsh landscape seem clumsy, her eyes tracking his every movement.
"I am Enid," she said, her voice steady despite the towering presence of the man in Copper Armor. "I have tasted your miracles, stranger. I came to see the hand that brews them."
Eric wiped the spider blood from his forearm with a tuft of dry grass. "I am Eric. It seems my reputation travels faster than I do. Welcome to the hearth, Elder."
He led her past the timber-shell gate and down the stone stairs. Inside, the Underground Haven was a symphony of industry. Enid's eyes swept over the Sawmill and the Forge, but they locked onto the workbench in the Alchemy Workshop. There, sitting in earthen bowls, were the ingredients Deith had described.
She leaned in, her fingers hovering over a shimmering, obsidian-capped mushroom and another that seemed to radiate a dull, internal heat. "These," she whispered. "I have walked these lands for centuries, yet I have never seen their like."
"The Boletus," Eric explained, moving to the Distillation Boiler. "A potent catalyst. Without it, the mind cannot bridge the gap to the body's hidden strength. And that," he gestured to the glowing one, "is the Lava Mushroom. It feeds on the heat of the deep earth, growing where the mountain's blood runs hot. Its name is no metaphor."
Enid reached out, but Eric caught her wrist with a gentle, firm grip.
"Careful, Elder. They are edible, yes, but to eat one directly is to invite the mountain's fire into your throat. It will burn the tongue from your mouth before you can taste the magic. They are ingredients for the pot, not a meal for the hungry."
Enid looked from the dangerous fungi to the man who handled them with such casual expertise. "You bring things into this world that do not belong here, Eric Bloodstone. You harvest the night and the fire."
"I harvest what the world provides," Eric replied, beginning to sort his Spider Eggs. "The question is whether you intend to watch me work, or if you brought a scholar's curiosity to help me refine the next batch."
******
Inside the limestone halls, Enid watched the obsidian-capped mushrooms with a fascination that bordered on disbelief. To an elf of the Aen Seidhe, who lived in harmony with the land for centuries, the idea that a resource this powerful had been under their noses all along was a humbling thought.
"You say they were always here?" Enid asked, her voice hushed. "In these very mountains? My scouts have walked these ridges since the humans first crossed the Yaruga. They have never seen a single one."
Eric began to crush a Boletus mushroom in a stone mortar, the obsidian shards glistening. "They only appear when the sun is absent, Elder. They are children of the night. But even then, they are invisible to the naked eye. To see them, one must possess the Mind's Eye—an ability not born of magic, but of a discipline your world has forgotten."
Enid's silver-blue eyes narrowed. "What discipline? Our mages meditate for decades to touch the Power."
"Not like this," Eric replied, his voice a low rumble. "In my home, we do not simply sit in a circle. To gain the Eye, one must meditate upon a wooden plank, balanced atop a single, narrow wooden pillar. It is a test of the soul's weight. You must maintain absolute stillness and perfect balance while your mind reaches for the invisible. If your focus wavers for even a heartbeat, you fall."
He looked at his own massive, calloused hands. "As a child, I fell more times than I can count. It is a brutal practice. Most give up after the first dozen tumbles onto the cold stone. I was stubborn. It took me more than two hundred attempts before the world finally peeled back its veil and showed me the truth."
Enid stood in stunned silence. In the Witcher's world, power was often a gift of birth or a result of dangerous mutations. The idea of a man—especially one who looked like a mountain of muscle—achieving such a refined state of meditation through sheer, repetitive failure was alien to her.
"Two hundred times," she whispered, her gaze shifting to the Lava Mushroom. "You broke your body to see what others could not. No wonder you build your kingdom in the dark; you are the only one who truly knows what is hidden here."
Eric nodded, the Rune of Constant Motion on his sawmill providing a rhythmic backdrop to his words. "The mushrooms were the reward for the struggle. Now, they are the foundation of this Paradise. But if you wish to see them, Elder, you might want to start practicing your balance."