The bonfire blazed fiercely in the central square.
Sparks rose with the heat waves.
Creating fine, golden trails in the air under the night sky.
In the distance, an elderly woman was bandaging the wings of a few injured "Wind Chime Birds" whose feathers glowed faintly like stars fallen to the ground. Ian stood at the edge of the crowd, his gaze sweeping over those dancing figures — their faces still bore bruises from the battle, yet they laughed with reckless abandon.
The injured, who were barely alive a few hours ago, were now energetically dancing around the fire pit. A Thunder Scale Tiger, burnt by dragon breath, was carrying three children around in circles. The scorched wounds on its back had already scabbed over, glowing amber under the firelight. These were the fantastic beasts that were severely injured and nearly lifeless before.
The fantastic beasts whose injuries were not severe seemed completely unaffected by their past wounds now. A beast named "Shadow Feather" was using its tail to lift a wine jug, clinking glasses with a few teenagers as they drank merrily.
Chefs brought out their specialties, one steaming dish after another was served, the aroma wafting everywhere. Someone brought a big pot and brewed a batch of "Flame Heart Soup" on-site, a traditional victory night dish made with seven different root vegetables, rich in flavor and warming the body as you drank it.
"Isn't the effect of your medicine a bit too good?" Ian couldn't help but question the pharmacist next to him, who was munching on beef ribs then using hands with inevitably high bacterial counts to tend to patients' wounds.
Indeed.
After handling greasy grilled beef ribs, he didn't perform any cleaning, reaching a pollution degree where even treating a simple thumb slice could land a patient in ICU.
Yet this pharmacist, with no concept of microorganisms, bacteria, or infections, was reportedly the most skilled pharmacist in the town.
Moreover.
He indeed cured all the patients, leaving not a scar on their wounds through impossibly absurd methods according to all medical students.
The reason?
Of course, the medicine used was excellent, ignoring all minor complications, nearly healing the torn and tattered flesh the moment the medicine was applied.
Bacteria?
Microorganisms and infections?
They simply don't exist.
It's all about forceful prowess.
"This medicinal effect doesn't feel like magic to me."
Ian had been observing his surroundings, noting how the seemingly seriously wounded populace and fantastic beasts became lively under robust medical treatment despite the exacerbating pollution from the pharmacist's dirty hands.
Yet.
They still recovered at an astonishing speed beyond normal comprehension.
Even broken bones.
Healed very quickly.
Not affecting their participation in the victory celebration.
Ian somewhat understood why these folks celebrated despite mass injuries; perhaps anything less than death was merely a trivial matter?
"What is magic? I don't understand, I only know herbal proportions; the correct mixture of herbs can achieve very magical effects."
The pharmacist responded to Ian.
He was a middle-aged man with a colorful headscarf.
"Isn't this too magical?"
Ian's dignity as a master of magic potions was being harshly rubbed against the ground by the witch doctor's crude methods.
Upon hearing.
The pharmacist wiped the greasy corners of his mouth.
"Magical? This is nothing! Last month, a Rock-Breaking Bear was squashed into a meat patty by rolling stones, drank our special Regeneration Potion, and was back on its feet in three days!"
He proudly patted the herbal pouch hanging at his waist.
"..."
Ian was truly speechless, knowing either the guy in front was bragging, or the fantastic beasts and humans here had life forces comparable to supercell regenerative beings.
"Can I take some medicine back to my hometown?" Finally, Ian couldn't hold back; he previously hesitated as he knew the likelihood of taking it back was slim.
But.
Realizing the legendary effectiveness of these herbs, even with a small chance, Ian felt compelled to try, so he asked for some herbs, intending to test whether he could take them back for cultivation.
"Red for external injuries, blue for restoring energy, purple... er, I wouldn't suggest drinking unless you're near death, last time a Howling Wind Wolf grew three heads after stealing and drinking this Revive Potion."
The pharmacist turned and took out a few crystal bottles from his vine chest.
He thought Ian wanted finished medicine.
"Hero, did you also have some hidden injuries before?" This pharmacist was quite enthusiastic about his profession, looking ready to give Ian a personal examination.
Thankfully, he wasn't like those priests of later generations.
Thus didn't frighten little Ian.
However.
Ian still avoided the pharmacist's greasy hands.
"Actually..." Ian pondered over his words, expressing his desire; he certainly didn't want to take back these crude finished medications since the master of magic potions could utilize good materials in a more remarkable way.
"I prefer to have plantable seedlings." Yes, this was Ian's desire as he planned to attempt cultivation back home. The pharmacist's crude application barely extracted one-tenth of the pharmacological effects; though potent, Ian didn't want to use such a potion while traveling.