Arwen, meanwhile, was on the other side of the lab, stacking reports and loose sketches into neat piles. His movements were careful, almost reverent, the way one might handle holy scripture.
The boy had good hands, Reynard noticed, quick and steady. A shame he was cursed with the worst of masters: himself.
[Professor Reynard.]
The system purred in his head, smug as always.
[Your dear disciple is working on something revolutionary. Don't you think it's time you contributed? Or are you content to be the villainous footnote in his success story again?]
Reynard waved a hand dismissively, picking up a quill from the desk and twirling it between his fingers."Not my problem. Let the boy work. He's the protagonist, isn't he? I'll just sit back and watch."
Arwen sat hunched at his desk, carefully arranging parchment after parchment, his quill scratching tirelessly as though every second mattered. He was the kind of youth who radiated a quiet intensity, focused and diligent, but perhaps too earnest for his own good.
Reynard, meanwhile, was lounging half-asleep in his chair by the window. He'd been ignoring the growing pile of books and notes stacked dangerously high on Arwen's desk, but when the inevitable happened.
Thud, flutter, scatter!
Reynard has no choice but to crack one eye open lazily.
The papers danced across the floor like startled birds.
Arwen cursed under his breath and dropped to his knees, scrambling to gather them.
Reynard sighed. It was the kind of sigh that spoke of infinite reluctance, but still, he stooped down, sweeping the nearest parchment toward the boy.
That was when his eyes caught the bold title at the top of one sheet.
"Distillation & Medicinal Alcohol."
Reynard blinked.
He glanced over the draft, skimming through the tidy but incomplete diagrams and half-formed notes. His professor's brain, which was trained in both modern chemistry and years of absentminded lectures, kicked into gear despite himself.
Purpose: Medicinal alcohol, antiseptics, and luxury spirits.
Impact: Medical improvements for troops, prestige in noble circles.
The system chuckled darkly.
[Then why, Professor, does your heart beat faster when you look at those pages?]
Reynard scowled. "I was a material science professor before. It's just my natural instinct. That's all. I can tell from here, his equations are missing a ratio. His apparatus will crack the first time he tries to distill anything stronger than flavored water."
The system hummed.
"…This kid," Reynard muttered, lips quirking. He's trying to reinvent ethanol like he just discovered fire.
Before he could stop himself, his sharp eyes already pinpointed the issue. The apparatus sketch was wrong, and the heating method was inefficient. If Arwen followed it exactly, he'd end up with a foul, diluted mess.
Reynard clicked his tongue softly.
And then, inevitably—
Ding!
[New Mission Assigned!]
[Assist Arwen in Completing the Distillation Project.]
[Reward: +10 Reputation (Professor), +System Tokens
Penalty: Public humiliation event triggered at random.]
"…Oh, come on!" Reynard groaned aloud.
"Are you serious right now? Public humiliation? Who wrote these penalty conditions, a sadist?!"
The blue window pulsed cheerily.
[Host, please do your job. Arwen is destined to be the cornerstone of this world's progress. Help him develop antiseptics and you'll save thousands of lives.]
[And if his apparatus explodes in the lab, you'll be covered in soot, the boy will glare at you, and your lazy life will be ruined. Better fix it.]
[Or don't. You'll look like an idiot in front of everyone. Your choice ♥]
"Ah—!" Arwen scrambled, crouching to gather them. His ears burned red, embarrassment written all over his young face.
Reynard pinched his nose bridge. "You… really are the protagonist, aren't you? Clumsy luck magnet who attracts trouble for me everywhere..."
With a sigh, he leaned down, helping gather the fallen papers. It was awkward because he hadn't bent properly since arriving in this borrowed body, and every joint protested, but eventually his hand landed on a single sheet that made him pause.
Reynard pinched the bridge of his nose again. He wanted to toss the parchment back and return to his nap. Really, he did. But the system's threats were no joke; if it could drop random "public humiliation" flags, he wasn't about to risk waking up tomorrow with donkey ears in front of the entire faculty.
His eyes swept across the bold black ink at the top of the paper:
Distillation & Medicinal Alcohol
Reynard's lazy eyes sharpened. The notes weren't written like a noble's idle whim; they were meticulous, page after page of ratios, early-stage sketches of distillation coils, and lists of herbs with annotations.
"Medicinal alcohol, antiseptics, and… luxury spirits?" Reynard muttered aloud before he could stop himself.
Arwen froze, still crouched on the floor with papers clutched in his hands. His eyes widened like a child caught stealing sweets.
"Professor— I… I was just experimenting. It's not— it's not complete—"
Reynard's fingers traced the diagrams with ease, seeing the flaws immediately. The boy had the right instinct, but he lacked grounding. He didn't know which temperatures mattered, which ratios stabilized, which impurities ruined the batch.
But Reynard did.
He clicked his tongue. "Tch. What an idiot, you'll blow your eyebrows off trying this."
"Fine," he muttered. "But I'm not about to turn into some inspirational mentor type. Nope. Not happening."
He cleared his throat and leaned over Arwen's shoulder.
"You'll boil that retort dry if you heat it like that," Reynard said, pointing lazily at the diagram. "And then you'll get nothing but a charred flask. If you want alcohol pure enough for an antiseptic, you'll need controlled cooling. Here— your condenser's all wrong."
His finger tapped a crude sketch. With a few quick strokes, he adjusted the design, adding a cooling coil, a water basin. It wasn't perfect, but it would work.
Arwen froze. His eyes narrowed instantly.
Arwen blinked at him, something strange flickering in his expression. "I— I only wanted to try improving the antiseptic solutions. If it could help the army medics… or the city hospitals…"
The earnestness was disarming. Reynard had expected greed or ambition for glory of the protagonist. Instead, what he found was sincerity.