Soon, the "New Ways" had moved beyond the laboratory. His Healing Cream and Stamina Powder had become a hit among the city's poorest districts, widely used by those who could never afford the gatekept treatments of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. To the commoners, he wasn't just a prince; he was a lifeline.
Arthur decided to go for a walk to observe the social health of Tretogor's outskirts. He moved with a quiet, observant grace that felt out of place in a child's body, eventually coming upon a dense crowd of Elves gathered near a thicket. The air was thick with the scent of pine and raw panic.
Pushing through the throng, he found the source of the commotion. A group of elven children lay on the ground, their faces pale and eyes rolling back in their heads. Beside them lay a spilled leather pouch containing small, vibrant red berries.
The elves noticed his presence immediately. Some hands went to the hilts of knives, but they recognized the young boy as the Prince of Redania—the twin of Radovid V.
The elder elf, a man with centuries of sorrow in his eyes, looked at Arthur with a mixture of suspicion and hopelessness. He did not ask for help; he simply stated the grim reality.
"Their lives are fading, Prince," the elder said, his voice flat. "These children found a cache of Balisse fruit. It was meant to be gathered for a Witcher, whose mutated body can withstand the fire in the juice. To any other creature, it is a poison of the highest order."
He gestured to the healers who were desperately crushing leaves and chanting over the small forms. "They are poisoned. We are treating them as best we can, but the fruit of the Trail does not forgive the innocent."
Arthur stood over the children, his eyes scanning the specific shade of red on the berries and the trembling of the children's limbs. He knew the chemical composition of the fruit better than any mage in the North. He knew exactly what the toxin was doing to their nervous systems.
******
The elves looked at Arthur with expressions that hovered between horror and disbelief.
"You want us to bring you what?" the elder asked, his voice trembling.
"Fools'-parsley, root of celandine, and the venom of a common adder," Arthur repeated, his voice as cold and sharp as a scalpel. "The children's neuroreceptors are being overwhelmed by the Balisse toxins. You understand the herbs, but you do not understand the science of competitive inhibition. The snake poison is a venom, yes, but in the correct dosage and chemical combination, it will act as the key to unlock the paralysis."
"It is suicide!" one of the elven mothers cried. "You would add more death to their veins?"
Arthur stepped closer, his gaze pinning her. "It is an order from your Prince. Do as I say, or watch them stop breathing before the sun moves another inch."
Driven by a sliver of desperate hope, the elves complied. Under the shadow of the palace walls, they gathered the requested herbs.
For three hours, the room was a tomb of silence. The elves watched their children, expecting the worst. But as the third hour approached, the black veins began to recede. The children's breathing, once shallow and mechanical, grew deep and rhythmic. One by one, they opened their eyes, the feverish haze replaced by the clear light of recovery. They were detoxified.
The elves collapsed to their knees, stunned. They had seen mages heal with Chaos, but they had never seen such a rapid recovery from the Balisse toxins.
Arthur didn't smile. He looked at the elder. "Your children survived because I had the knowledge. But your people possess centuries of lore on the flora of this continent—knowledge that is currently trapped in your oral traditions and superstitions."
He stood tall, the five-year-old body belying the ancient soul within. "I have saved your blood. In return, I require your minds. You will provide me with every scrap of common knowledge you have regarding the herbs and roots of the North. You will help me catalog the world."
The elves, still reeling from the sight of their children's recovery, bowed their heads. "We... we agree, Prince Arthur," the elder whispered. "The knowledge of the Aen Seidhe is yours."
*****
The clearing was silent as the elves watched their children sit up, the lethargy of the Balisse fruit poison replaced by a steady, rhythmic life.
Among the elders, a hushed, intense conversation broke out. "A five-year-old," one whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and bruised pride. "We have lived centuries, yet it was a human child who saw the path we missed."
"It is the greater irony," the elder replied, looking at the empty tea bowl. "We spent generations seeking a 'cure,' yet he found it in another poison. Our knowledge is not just old; it is stagnant. We have been reciting the names of plants like prayers, while he treats them like soldiers in a formation." The elves realized then that their lore was outdated. To survive this new age, they would have to update their knowledge of herbs and learn to see the world through Arthur's analytical eyes.
Meanwhile, Arthur stood by his makeshift workbench, watching the children recover with a clinical satisfaction. He was relieved that his experiment had succeeded, for it confirmed a vital truth. In his past life, there had been no magic. Science had reigned supreme, and everything had been governed by the laws of nature. He had feared that this world, with its monsters and sorcery, might defy the logic he knew.
But the recovery of these children proved that this world was a mix of Earth's logic and the supernatural. The chemistry worked. The biology responded. This meant that the recreation of Earth's technology was not just a dream—it was entirely possible.
He looked at the elves, who were now approaching him with a new, fearful respect. They were no longer just refugees; they were the first contributors to his new global encyclopedia.
"The Aen Seidhe have a long memory," the elder said, bowing low. "We will bring you the knowledge of every root in the Blue Mountains. If our lore can be forged into such miracles, then it is yours to command."
Arthur nodded, his small hand already reaching for a quill. "Good. We start with the plants of the Mahakam foothills. Redania will not be built on swords alone, but on the very atoms of the Continent."