The Insane Regressor: Throne of Pride

Ravian looked over the containers again, searching for something different this time. He was no longer concerned with which substance was the deadliest; instead, he began comparing their effects, what disappeared when they were mixed with other substances, and what remained afterward, according to the notes their makers had left.

If he could make these monsters struggle to stand or slow their hands when they reached for their weapons, he would not need the food to do the rest of the work for him.

The memory of his shattered arms was reason enough to pursue that idea.

He collected the removable tags attached to the crates and barrels, then found a thin notebook resting on a box and picked it up to examine its contents.

Its pages were filled with the names of substances, calculations of quantities, and notes in several different hands, clearly the work of more than one person. Some pages were so stained that parts of them had become illegible, but what remained readable offered far more useful information than trying to guess the contents of each container by looking at it.

He pulled a small stool up to a nearby table and sat down, arranging his chosen materials and pages before him as he began to read.

The poisons had been extracted from creatures and plants that had never existed in his previous world, carrying remnants of spiritual power that differed in both nature and effect. Memorizing their names would not tell him what would happen when they were combined, so he started with observations repeated in several places and compared them with the comments someone else had written in the margins, until he could distinguish what had actually been tested from what appeared to be an unverified assumption.

As always, his mind worked at full speed toward the result he wanted.

Then he closed his eyes.

The table took shape inside his mental world first, followed by the containers and tags exactly as he had seen them; even the dark stain obscuring half a word on one page remained in place. His attention spread through everything he had read as he reorganized the information, gathering the scattered observations about each substance before examining its relationships with the others.

Whenever he reached a conclusion based on incomplete information, he set it aside and moved on, until only a limited number of combinations worth testing remained.

Within his mental world, he opened his eyes and reached for the imagined tools, knowing that he had to finish the work before dawn, whatever it took.

Then he opened his eyes in the real world and reached for the tools on the table.

The first attempt failed quickly, leaving a thick substance clinging to the sides of the container, its smell worsening whenever he stirred it. Ravian stared at it with evident dissatisfaction, then set it aside and recorded his observations on a blank page of the notebook before returning to his mental world.

This time, one of the outcomes he had considered possible based on the notebook’s contents was eliminated. The failed experiment had given him information he had not found in writing, and Absolute Focus spared him from forgetting it or repeating the same mistake as he worked through the other possibilities.

He continued like that, opening his eyes to test his conclusions, then bringing his observations back into his mind while the sounds of the camp reached him, muffled by the tent walls.

An orc passed nearby, laughing loudly, and Ravian stopped writing, his hand suspended over the notebook until the orc had moved away. Then he resumed exactly where he had left off, without needing to review what he had done.

Failure bothered him less than the time it consumed; the feast that had given his plan this opportunity would eventually begin, whether he had finished his work or not.

When something different from his previous attempts finally settled before him, he leaned toward it slowly, his interest sharpening.

The reactions had subsided, and the pungent smell that had ruined most of his attempts was gone, while the effect the notes described as a heavy lethargy remained after the substances had lost other properties he no longer wanted.

He returned to the pages, then to his own notes, reviewing the entire process before finally allowing satisfaction to show on his face.

As far as he could determine from the notes and his own observations, what lay before him was a sedative, and he had succeeded in eliminating the taste and smell that had made the original poisons useless for his plan.

’Good, we can finally come to an understanding, can’t we?’ Ravian thought with renewed hope.

That gave him no reason to believe the camp’s commander would fall as easily as an orc who had yet to awaken, and he certainly did not expect the effects to appear at the same speed in everyone; that was utterly impossible. But he did not need a miracle that worked equally well on a hundred and fifty bodies. He wanted to change the conditions under which he fought them and give himself a better chance than standing before an enormous axe with a sword he did not even know how to use.

And if he had to try again, this time he would have something worth repeating.

But in truth...

Ravian had never intended to fail here. He was here to succeed, and he would accept nothing less.

He rose from the stool and fetched a larger container, then turned his attention to preparing enough for the enormous pot he had seen in the camp’s clearing. The pressure of time grew as he worked, and he found himself glancing toward the entrance whenever footsteps approached, but his hands remained steady, while his mind held on to the details he had established without confusing them with his earlier failures.

’Come on...’

He was almost finished when the entrance flap lifted.

”Shiro?”

Ravian turned to find an unawakened orc standing at the entrance, a bundle of firewood cradled in its arms and an irritated expression on its face.

”They’re asking for you outside. I told them you were here, but—”

”Has the fire been lit under the large pot?” Ravian interrupted.

The orc nodded immediately.

”A long time ago.”

”Then go and watch it instead of standing here. I’ll join you when I’m finished.”

The orc looked at the containers spread across the table, then at his face, as though considering whether to ask what he was making, but Ravian kept his eyes on it until it adjusted the firewood in its arms and backed out of the tent.

He waited for its footsteps to recede before looking at the container again.

He could carry it out as it was, but a substance with no smell or taste would leave him without a convincing answer if anyone asked what the cook had added to their food, and Shiro’s prolonged stay in the storeroom would make that a perfectly natural question.

He moved to the sacks of spices and selected something that would give the mixture a mild heat, noticeable without overpowering the food. He watched the change carefully, making sure the added flavor had not spoiled what he had spent so much time creating, then closed the container and lifted it in both hands.

Now he had something he could proudly present as a spice blend he had prepared especially for the feast.

He inspected the table one last time, removed the pages containing his own notes, and returned the tags, containers, and notebook to their places. Then he gathered the remnants of his experiments and concealed them along with those pages in his void space—which he had forgotten entirely before this attempt—before wiping away the visible traces of his work.

At the entrance, he paused to look down at the container in his hands, his smile widening until both large tusks showed.

’The Feast of Death, was it? Well, I won’t spoil the name for you, guys.’

He lifted the flap and stepped outside with his new blend, wearing the satisfaction anyone might expect from a cook preparing to serve his finest work.

Meanwhile, within his mind, Ravian made one more move, intent on ensuring his success with every fiber of his being...

Sovereign Paradox.