[Null POV] Year 5, Days 203-204

  Null stood there. Holding the answer. Holding the help. Holding the choice.

  Uncertain which path was right.

  Through the seed network, Spy's voice came. Calm. Practical. Cutting through uncertainty.

  ?Show her the roots. We don't know what they actually are. Don't know how to use them properly beyond "make tea." 22 might recognize them. Might know better usage. Might be able to help everyone instead of just one person.?

  Pause. Pragmatic weight in his tone.

  ?Just make sure she doesn't use them all herself. Void needs help too when he wakes.?

  Null nodded internally. Sensible approach. Solved the dilemma through better information.

  But before she could move—before she could retrieve the roots—22 stood.

  Unsteady. Wavering. But vertical. Moving.

  She started pacing. Walking circuits around the living room. Over and over. Like movement might help somehow. Might distract from pain.

  The cursing continued. Constant stream. "Damn this. Damn everything. Damn X especially."

  Her path kept taking her toward X. Still unconscious on the couch. Sleep deep and absolute.

  22 approached. Getting close. Hand reaching out like wanting to shake him awake. Mouth opening like preparing to ask question.

  Then: stopping. Last moment. Hand pulling back. Mouth closing. Turning away.

  Walking more circuits. More cursing under breath.

  Then: approaching X again. Same pattern. Getting close. Reaching toward him.

  Stopping. Pulling back. Walking away frustrated.

  Over and over. The behavior repeating. Clear desire to wake him. Clear refusal to actually do it.

  After the fifth repetition, Null asked. Direct. Curious. "Why do you keep walking toward X? You clearly want to wake him. But you stop every time."

  22 paused. Looked at Null through obvious pain. Expression carrying agony and frustration mixed together.

  "Because waking someone who's sleeping off blood wine hangover is TERRIBLE idea." Her voice strained. Each word costing effort. "Makes the hangover worse. Much worse. Massive backfire. Amplifies everything."

  She gestured at X. Frustrated. Helpless. "And this dummy is useless anyway. Super focused into single field—life magic—but never learned ANYTHING about potion brewing. Zero knowledge. Complete incompetence outside his specialty."

  Pause. More pain showing. "Chance he could help is exactly zero. You probably know more about potion brewing than this idiot just from learning how to make tea. High-end tea with magical components? That's just specialized potion brewing. Same fundamentals, different focus."

  Null processed this. The insults. The careful avoidance despite desperation.

  Does 22 actually care about X? Or does she genuinely believe he's useless?

  The words said contempt. The behavior said... something else. Probably the first option—caring shown through harsh vocabulary. Pattern 22 used constantly.

  Filed away. Interesting.

  Now: time to show the roots.

  Null retrieved them from storage. Dried. Prepared. Held them out to 22.

  22's reaction: immediate. Eyes widening despite pain.

  "OH MY GODS—" She grabbed them. Hands trembling. "Those aren't Wyrmfang! Where did you GET these?!"

  Null explained simply. "Shaman at the establishment. Before we left. Said: make tea, give Master, will help."

  22 stared at the roots. Processing. Understanding settling.

  "Of course she didn't think you'd know how to make anything more with these." Professional assessment emerging through agony. "She probably just gave first thing she had that could help. Making tea would definitely help a bit."

  Pause. Hope building. "But did you remember who I am? I actually know how to use these PROPERLY."

  She clutched the roots carefully. "I'm saved. We're all saved. And these are really nice quality."

  Then: literally running toward kitchen despite hangover. Door swinging open. Disappearing inside.

  Null followed. Concerned about priority.

  In the kitchen, 22 moved systematically. Opening cabinets, checking drawers, taking inventory.

  All the tools present: pots, pans, oven, everything standard.

  But supplies: almost nothing. Sugar. Tea leaves. Coffee. Not even salt or spices.

  22 turned back. "Gimme ALL the food stuff you have in your Item Box. Everything. I need ingredients."

  Null hesitated. "Master first! Master needs—"

  22 looked at her like she was an idiot. Expression: exasperated but almost fond despite pain.

  "Oh. Right. Sometimes I forget how little you actually know." She gestured at everything. "The way it works—more drunks the better. Multiple people using same preparation? Stronger reaction. Master Void is saved. Even this dummy X will be. All three of us."

  She held out hand. Demanding. "Now gimme everything. Don't worry—Master comes FIRST in the formula anyway."

  Null processed. Accepted. Started pulling items from storage.

  Everything cooking-related. Tea supplies. Baking ingredients. Random accumulated items.

  The table filled quickly.

  22 also contributed from her storage. Not much but something.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Final result: table covered with various supplies. Mostly from Null's inventory.

  22 examined the collection. Talking while assessing. "Hmm. Need to improvise a bit. Really need to start keeping basic alchemical reagents in my storage. Can't serve the Divine One properly if I'm in agony for days."

  She started sorting. Professional mode engaged. Expert organizing ingredients by some system Null couldn't follow.

  Then began working.

  What followed was entertainment.

  Almost funny actually.

  22 moved with desperate efficiency. Grabbing pots. Adding ingredients. Applying heat. Magical and mundane both.

  First pot: scorched within minutes. Black residue forming. Smell: bad.

  22 cursed. Scraped residue carefully into bowl. Set pot aside. Grabbed new one.

  Second pot: same result. Scorched. Scraped. Collected.

  The pattern continued. Pot after pot. Each one heating something. Each one scorching. Each one producing dark residue that 22 collected meticulously.

  The cursing never stopped. Constant stream. Pain and frustration and focus all mixed together.

  "Damn headache. Damn improvisation. Damn missing half the proper components."

  Third pot scorched. Fourth. Fifth.

  Kitchen started running out of equipment.

  22 turned to Null. "All the pots and pans you have. Everything. Now."

  Null pulled more from Item Box. Her cooking supplies. Things she'd accumulated for tea experiments, cake attempts, and cooking for the Twins during their outings.

  22 grabbed them. Incorporated them into the process. Kept working.

  More scorching. More collecting. More cursing.

  The smell got worse. Much worse. Not just bad—horrible. Acrid. Wrong. Chemical and organic mixed together in ways that shouldn't exist.

  Null watched with fascination. This was... this was actual expert work. Master-level skill. Just: expressed through destruction and profanity.

  Approximately two hours in—maybe three, time difficult to track—X woke.

  He sat up slowly on the couch. Looking like walking corpse. Pale. Haggard. Pain written across every feature.

  But the moment he saw what 22 was doing—the moment his eyes focused on the kitchen, on the process, on the scorched pots and collected residue—his expression transformed.

  Holy revelation. Divine recognition. Religious awe.

  He stood. Wavering. Walked toward kitchen doorway. Stopped there. Just: watching. Witnessing. Experiencing something sacred.

  Said nothing. Did nothing. Just: observed with complete devotion.

  Shortly after—Null felt it through the bond—Void waking upstairs.

  She moved immediately. Up stairs. To his room. To help.

  Master was in extreme pain. Worse than anything felt through connection before. Hangover hitting with legendary force.

  Dressing him took time. Real time. Every movement clearly torture. Every piece of clothing a challenge. Patience required. Devotion expressed through careful handling.

  Eventually: ready enough. Dressed minimally. Supported properly.

  She helped him downstairs. Slow progress. Gentle assistance. Absolute care.

  They reached the kitchen.

  The scene: even worse than before.

  More pots destroyed. More equipment ruined. Scorch marks everywhere—counters, walls, even ceiling somehow.

  New items present: elaborate pieces. Art-quality metalwork. Precious metals visible. Clearly expensive. Obviously not standard kitchen equipment.

  Probably from X's Item Box. Contributed while Null was upstairs.

  22 worked frantically now. Magic flowing visibly. Not holding back anymore. Raw power applied directly to final stages. Wanting to finish. Needing to finish. Desperate to complete before pain overwhelmed her completely.

  Void managed single question. Directed at X through obvious suffering. Voice barely functional. "Is she making—?"

  "YES." X's response immediate. Absolute. Reverent.

  And Void joined him. Standing beside X in the doorway. Both watching like witnessing second coming of some divine something.

  Two ancient elves. Both in catastrophic pain. Both standing witness to third ancient elf destroying a kitchen while creating salvation.

  Religious experience. Shared devotion. Complete faith.

  Another hour passed. Maybe more.

  Finally—FINALLY—22 stopped.

  A large pot sat on the counter, containing the result.

  Black substance. Tar-like. Thick. Sticky. Clinging to bottom of pot like it didn't want to be liquid.

  The smell: HORRIBLE. Worse than anything during process. Chemical. Organic. Wrong on fundamental level. Assault on senses.

  The kitchen: destroyed. Completely. Utterly.

  Scorch marks everywhere. Equipment ruined. Precious metalwork scorched beyond recognition. Smell permeating everything—walls, floor, ceiling, probably permanently embedded.

  Would take weeks to air out. Would need complete equipment replacement. Would require serious cleaning magic just to make habitable again.

  Null hoped seamstress or her maids wouldn't make issue over it. Or that elves could sort it out somehow. Because this was... this was catastrophic damage.

  But 22 looked satisfied. Exhausted. Triumphant despite pain.

  "Done."

  Single word. Carrying weight. Carrying victory.

  They moved to the living room. All four of them—three elves and one pot of black tar substance.

  Then: the absurdity.

  Three ancient beings. Three master-level experts. Three people who'd lived centuries each.

  Heads to pot. Licking it. Taking turns. One by one. Literally licking tar substance from bottom of pot like animals at feeding dish.

  Undignified. Absurd. Ridiculous.

  But effects: clear. Immediate.

  Through the bond—Null felt it. Void's pain reducing. Rapidly. Dramatically. Hangover disappearing like it had never existed.

  Within hour: all three functional again. Standing straight. Speaking normally. Pain completely gone.

  Like nothing had happened. Like eleven hours of blood wine followed by legendary hangover had been erased from existence.

  Magic. Real magic. Master-level potion brewing demonstrating why it deserved that classification.

  X turned to Null eventually, noticing her confused expression. Her complete lack of understanding about what had just happened.

  Decided to explain. Shameless as always but genuinely wanting to educate.

  "This stuff is called Divine Tar." Casual tone. Like discussing weather. "It's kind of the only thing that can actually help blood wine hangovers properly. Not just reduce them—actually CURE them. Complete restoration."

  He gestured at the pot. At the substance. "It's not that much of a drink. More like... we lick it. Give bad mana into it. Creates reaction. Gives back mana that heals. The process cycles. Self-reinforcing."

  Pause. Thinking. Trying to explain complex magical theory to someone with zero background.

  "More different people use the same tar? More powerful the reaction becomes. Better the result. That's why having three of us worked perfectly. Three drunk elves providing mana? Strong effect. Complete healing."

  He continued. Educational mode despite shameless delivery. "Many elves use ability to create Divine Tar as test to separate proper potion brewers from everyone else. It's one of the hardest things to make. Requires master-level skill. Requires extensive knowledge. Requires ability to improvise when missing components."

  Another pause. Glancing at 22. Respect showing through casual mask. "If it was easy to prepare, blood wine hangover wouldn't be so 'famous.' Wouldn't be so feared. Wouldn't have entire cultural weight behind avoiding it."

  He looked at the pot again. Assessment visible. "Not fully sure if this can be called proper Divine Tar given that 22 needed to improvise significantly. Missing lots of traditional ingredients. Missing proper tools. Missing ideal materials."

  Then: grin. Genuine pleasure. Real appreciation. "But result is the only thing that matters. And if nothing else, it shows 22's supreme skill at potion making. Master-level work. Possibly beyond that actually."

  Null processed this. Filed away. Important information. Significant demonstration of capability.

  22 truly was expert. Not just competent—genuinely master-level in multiple fields. Unlike X who specialized entirely in life magic, 22 knew many things. Potion brewing. Element magic for raw power. Other skills. Polymath where X was specialist.

  Interesting. Useful. Worth remembering.

  By the time 22 finished brewing, by the time they licked the tar and recovered, by the time X explained what Divine Tar actually was—it was nearly morning.

  Early morning. Approximately 5 AM. Dawn approaching but not yet arrived.

  Null had been awake the entire time. Monitoring, observing, processing. Never sleeping, never tiring. Just existing through the long night.

  Then: sound from upstairs.

  Footsteps. Someone waking. Someone descending.

  Kira appeared. Coming down stairs. Professional bearing. Rested. Ready for day.

  She reached the bottom. Entered living room. Looked around.

  Saw: four people. Three recovered elves. One observant monster.

  Then her gaze moved to kitchen. Visible through open doorway.

  Expression: frozen disbelief. Complete incomprehension of what had happened here.

  The destruction. The smell. The evidence of catastrophic potion brewing session. The ruined equipment. The scorch marks. The SMELL permeating everything.

  She opened mouth. Started to speak. Ask question. Demand explanation.

  Then: stopped. Closed mouth. Expression shifting.

  Calculating. Assessing. Deciding.

  Whatever happened here—whatever insanity occurred during the night—probably better not to know. Probably better not to ask. Probably better to just... accept and move forward.

  She looked at the group. At Void standing comfortably. At X and 22 both recovered. At Null monitoring everything with characteristic attention.

  At the destroyed kitchen that would require serious explaining to seamstress's staff.

  Said nothing. Just: gave look. Serious utter-bewilderment look that communicated everything without words. [I don't know what happened here. I don't want to know. But someone needs to handle this. And it better get handled properly.]