Tyrion truly volunteered. No one forced him.
He had seen Shireen Baratheon.
The little girl had a patch of bluish-gray stone-like scales covering half her face. It looked utterly terrifying.
If it were only a matter of appearance, with his pants covering the area and others unable to see the base of his thigh, Tyrion could barely accept it.
But the patch of greyscale on Shireen's face had also severed her sensory nerves.
In simple terms, although Shireen's greyscale had stopped spreading, half her face was numb and hard as stone—devoid of any feeling.
Unfortunately, Tyrion's infected area was rather... delicate. It began when Clinton gave his inner thigh a squeeze, and that's where the greyscale took hold.
Now, the disease was steadily creeping upward.
If the infection wasn't halted immediately, he'd soon be in the same situation as young Aegon.
Aegon had it far worse—his you-know-what had been directly infected.
And if his recovery turned out like Shireen's—cured, but leaving a blue-gray, numb stone scar—then Aegon...
Lately, young Aegon had been crying into his pillow at night and drowning his sorrows in alcohol by day.
Such misery!
But he wasn't suffering alone. Aside from Tyrion, all infected sea merchants and red priestesses from the Garden of Desire were just as unfortunate.
Because Tyrion and the other nobles resided on the second level of the pyramid, and three infected cases had suddenly appeared on that level, Daenerys had them quarantined and converted the floor into a laboratory.
At this moment, inside the lab—
Bu Tian and Lalesa were busy at the scrying lens.
On the other side of the workbench, Kweixi stood guard over a bubbling pot of blue-brown liquid simmering on the stove.
Between the lab and the stairs outside the pyramid was a spacious hall. There, young Aegon, Tyrion, and Aemon lounged on soft couches, waiting for Kweixi's potion.
Kweixi, the Wildfire General, oversaw more than fifty fire mages. When he asked his subordinates, every one of them insisted that Tyrion was the most favored by the evil gods—a premium offering for blood sacrifices.
Just three days ago, the bony man Bogba had approached him in secret, inquiring if the dwarf was for sale.
Bogba wanted a magical amulet like the one from Lys.
"The infection's creeping upward. Soon, it'll reach that spot. Why not cut it off before it turns to stone and sell it to me?"
Such a suggestion wasn't even considered particularly rude.
Desperate greyscale patients often removed healthy body parts to preserve them as mementos.
For instance, Illyrio had sawed off and preserved both hands of his wife, Sylla—who had suffered from greyscale.
Tyrion had told Bogba to get lost. "If I turn into a stone man, at least let me be a stone man, not a stone eunuch!"
Also—
Tyrion remembered clearly. During the Wildfire bomb incident, Clinton had touched him there. Multiple times.
And the infected area just happened to be the exact spot Clinton had grabbed last—his inner thigh.
Daenerys' magical research had proven that mages with magical abilities had stronger immunity.
But Aemon shook his head and said, "It has nothing to do with magic. Once a part is infected, the disease spreads outward from that point. It won't randomly start somewhere else."
Looking back, Tyrion realized his earlier worries had been quite foolish.
Neither Aegon nor Tyrion knew if they would survive. And even if they did, they might not retain their manhood.
How would such versions of them fight among the true dragons or compete for the Iron Throne?
Kweixi heard their conversation from outside, glanced over at Tyrion, and as he stirred the ladle, silently let a pinch of powder slip from his sleeve into the pot.
Then the tall woman from the Eastern Lands took the clay pot off the stove and poured the concoction into a bowl. Without bothering to cool it, she carried the steaming bowl over to the little dwarf and said calmly, "Tyrion, time for your medicine."
"Ow—hot!"
Tyrion grimaced, recoiling. The blue-brown liquid in the bowl nearly sloshed out.
"Hurry and drink it. If it cools, it won't work," Kweixi reminded him.
"If it burns me to death, I won't need a cure!"
Tyrion huffed and blew on the bowl for a long while. Then he lifted his head and gulped down half a bowl of the bitter, foul liquid.
Letting out a burp that stank of rotten eggs, cabbage leaves, and decayed organs, Tyrion rubbed his violently churning belly and muttered, "This batch of dragon extract soup seems way more potent than before."
"Previously, the potion was made by Master Bu Tian—its effects were mediocre. This time, Master Kweixi prepared it using the principles of the Five Elements. Feeling different is to be expected," old Aemon explained.
Indeed, Kweixi had really taken the Five Elements theory to heart.
She believed dragon dung belonged to the 'earth' element and contained 'fire,' which could suppress the 'water' element that defined greyscale.
For subsequent formulas, she also continued using the Five Elements theory—it was all experimental anyway, and she wasn't the one volunteering.
"Drink and apply externally," Kweixi said, then walked away.
Tyrion had gone through this process several times already and knew the routine.
He turned around, ducked behind a high-backed chair, spread his legs, took off his pants, and applied the remaining liquid to the infected area.
Gurgle gurgle—grumble—
Suddenly, his stomach erupted with rumbling noises, as though a volcano were erupting inside.
Aemon rushed forward, took the bowl from his hands, and began helping him apply the potion to harder-to-reach spots. "What's wrong? Did it upset your stomach?"
"No idea—ow, ow, hot! It burns!" Tyrion cried out, wincing.
Seeing his twisted expression, Aemon stopped and asked curiously, "What is it? The stinging is that bad?"
"It feels like it's on fire. Don't stop. It hurts so good," Tyrion urged him on.
"Feels good?" Aemon was stunned for a second, then grew very excited. "That's great! If you can feel pain, it means the medicine is working!
Master Kweixi really lives up to her name. In just a few days, she applied the Yin-Yang and Five Elements theory to dragon essence soup—and it actually works!"
Tyrion felt a burning pain in his thigh, nearly bringing him to tears.
Clutching his churning stomach, he sighed and said, "I can finally feel something again. This batch is more effective than the ones Master Bu Tian made before.
I thought Master Kui Xi was no better than Lisben, who was stabbed to death by mercenaries. I didn't expect her to be so capable—her concoction is even better than the old sorcerer of Yidi.
Sigh, the title of 'Number One Among the Young Generation' truly isn't just for show!"
Clang! A ceramic jar shattered in the laboratory.
Aemon craned his neck toward the door and saw Kui Xi also looking over. She stood perfectly still, her wooden mask facing Tyrion, paying no attention to the broken jar at her feet.
"Master Kui Xi, Tyrion can feel it. Your medicine works!" Aemon reported gleefully, thinking she was concerned about the effectiveness of her remedy.
"Feel something?" Kui Xi's tone was strange, as though laced with incredulous delight.
"Awooo—" Suddenly, Tyrion let out a wail as he bent over to apply the medicine. Without another word, he rolled and crawled desperately toward his bedroom.
Gurgle—
His stomach roared like a stormy sea.
"No—" he cried, clenching his legs together after only seven or eight steps, still several meters from his bedroom door.
He collapsed to the ground.
SPLASH!
It sounded like a kitchen sink with the valve yanked off.
Golden liquid flowed. The stench was overwhelming.
Aemon and Aegon clutched their noses, retching.
"What happened?" Hearing Tyrion's howls, Clinton, Ashara, and Ser Duck stepped out of their rooms.
"Seven hells! What are you doing, little imp?!"
Their faces twisted in horror as they exclaimed, then all collectively gagged.
Tyrion lay on the ground, letting the warm liquid stream between his legs.
"Ughhh…" He dared not raise his head, only pressed his face against the floor and sobbed.
Psssshh—SPLASH—
The nauseating sounds continued.
"That's more like it," Kui Xi muttered softly, then walked lightly to the laboratory door and shut it tightly.
"Hmph, I've said it before—don't call me 'Number One Among the Young Generation.'"
By noon, the Dragon Queen had returned from the steelworks outside the city on dragonback, only to hear that Tyrion had collapsed from exhaustion.
"Is he… still breathing?"
Seeing the pale, nearly translucent skin of the little imp lying on the bed, Dany was startled.
"Maybe," said old Aemon, his expression full of uncertainty.
Soon after, he said, both excited and anxious, "But Master Kui Xi seems to have found a cure for greyscale. After using her medicine, the little imp actually responded. It's just… the side effects are a bit terrifying."
"It worked? If it worked, then a little diarrhea is no big deal!" Dany said cheerfully.
"No big deal? Tyrion passed out in a pile of his own filth. He's unconscious and still going—it's bloody now!" Aegon said in horror.
"That bad?" Dany turned to look at Kui Xi.
"Well, he's not dead, is he? This is just detoxification—it's perfectly reasonable," said the Shadowbinder calmly.
Since the expert had spoken, neither Aegon nor Clinton could refute it.
Leaving Tyrion's room, Dany caught a faint whiff of the strange odor lingering in the hall. She quickened her pace and climbed the stone steps. The air grew fresh again.
"The steelworks are complete. Tobho Mott assured me the new forge can produce steel on par with Qohor's famed black steel."
Dany's face showed little joy. As she walked, she spoke to Kui Xi beside her: "But I need more than ordinary steel—I want to smelt Valyrian steel, or at least reforge it.
The problem now is that the incantation Tobho gave me includes a key step: blood sacrifice to a demon god.
Worse still, the god to be sacrificed to is Qohor's Black Goat. That's something I absolutely cannot accept."
"Qohor is also known as the 'City of Sorcerers.' Blood magic and necromancy are prevalent there. Blood sacrifices to demons are par for the course," Kui Xi replied matter-of-factly.
"I don't want to perform blood sacrifices," Dany said.
"But you've killed, haven't you? If you can kill, why are you so repulsed by blood sacrifices? You must pay the price for what you want. If you wish to wield a demon's power, you must offer a sacrifice to that demon," Kui Xi said, puzzled.
"No. Killing is law enforcement, an act of justice. Sacrificing humans defiles humanity itself—it is the greatest evil under heaven," Dany replied.
"Ha! Justice," Kui Xi sneered.
Dany smiled proudly. In that moment, she felt like Hong Qigong standing calmly and righteously before Qiu Qianren.
"To this day, I've never wrongfully killed anyone."
"But your 'Earl of Broken Chains' walks atop bones, with rivers of blood beneath his feet."
"He fights for justice too—his methods are just more extreme." The Dragon Queen's tone was less confident now.
Kui Xi smiled faintly and dropped the topic. "In truth, you're riding a donkey while searching for a donkey. Blood sacrifices are meant to borrow the power of a demon. But if you are the demon, why would you need to offer sacrifices to another?"
(End of chapter)
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