The taste was bitter.
Michael barely paused before grabbing the second vial.
Then the third.
He stared at the next vial in his hand, then exhaled with a half-laugh.
"…Aunt Mia would probably cry if she saw me now," he muttered.
He raised the vial in a half-toast to the empty air.
"Sorry, Aunt. Your nephew with a bright future is now a potion-chugging addict. But if I want to keep putting food on the table, I gotta keep chugging."
And with that, he downed the next one.
One after another, he drank.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Michael cracked his neck and kept going.
Thirty.
Thirty-five.
Forty.
He chuckled again, this time breathlessly.
"Gods, this stuff's strong…"
He paused.
Then grinned.
"…But not as strong as I'll be."
Michael lifted another vial.
Forty-one.
Forty-two.
He was careful not to rush—each potion needed a moment to settle.
By the time he reached fifty, he finally stopped for a while.
Not because he was done.
