Barbarian (2)

The memories of my past life hadn't just made me cautious—they'd turned me into the kind of person who plans five steps ahead for every single decision. Some might call it paranoia; I call it survival instinct. With 20 years left until the next calamity, I had a long to-do list.

Top priority? Reach master rank as quickly as possible. Second? Pick up a craft to diversify my skills. Alchemy seemed like a logical choice. My clan had a strong foundation in it, and my affinity for life from my past life gave me a distinct edge. It was also practical. If I could brew a potion that healed injuries, boosted mana, or even gave me extra stamina in a fight, it could be a game-changer. Besides, I missed the satisfaction of crafting something with my own hands.

After three straight days without sleep, pouring over books in the clan's library, I finally collapsed into bed. And what a bed it was. Being the "beloved" young master had its perks—luxurious pillows, silk sheets, and a mattress so soft it felt like I was sleeping on clouds. Apparently, everyone in the household lived in mortal fear of me throwing a tantrum over something trivial. I suppose it didn't help that I'd inadvertently adopted the airs of a typical young master before regaining my memories. At least now I could enjoy their paranoia.

When I woke up, refreshed and ready to tackle the day, I decided my first stop would be the clan's Shaman. If anyone could teach me alchemy, it was him. The man had a reputation for being stern and knowledgeable, with decades of experience under his belt. Surely, convincing him would be a walk in the park.

The Shaman's hut smelled like a concoction of herbs, burnt wood, and something I couldn't quite place—maybe fermented roots? He was hunched over a bubbling cauldron when I walked in, his expression shifting between concentration and mild irritation.

"I want to learn alchemy," I said, getting straight to the point.

He froze mid-stir, his eyes darting to me like a startled deer. "Young master, forgive me, but... I cannot teach you that."

"Why not?"

"Because the patriarch—your esteemed father—has forbidden it," he said, his voice quivering slightly. "He believes your focus should remain solely on combat and leadership. Alchemy is... a distraction."

For a moment, I just stared at him, trying to process the absurdity of his response. It wasn't the refusal that got to me; it was the fact that my father apparently thought the best way to prepare for leading the clan was to turn me into a one-trick pony. Did he not understand the concept of versatility?

Still, I managed to keep my tone calm. "You can report to my father that I insisted. If he has an issue, I'll handle it."

The Shaman hesitated, clearly torn between his fear of disobeying the patriarch and his equal fear of offending me. "I—very well, young master. But only if you assure me you'll take full responsibility."

"Of course. My father won't blame you."

It wasn't until later that I realized my words might have sounded... ominous. The poor man probably thought I was plotting some grand rebellion against my father. Not that I had any plans to clarify. His misunderstanding worked in my favor.

The Shaman's initial lessons were a little... half-hearted. I could see the doubt in his eyes every time he explained something, as if expecting me to quit the moment things got difficult. But as I absorbed his teachings with surprising speed, his skepticism slowly gave way to genuine curiosity.

"You have a natural instinct for this," he remarked one day, watching as I effortlessly combined ingredients to brew a basic mana potion. "Your life affinity gives you a sense of harmony with the ingredients. It's... remarkable. Geniuses like you appear once in 10,000 years."

I blinked. A genius? Me? If he'd seen the disasters I'd created during my early rune-crafting days, he might have reconsidered that statement. But I wasn't about to argue.

"Uh, thanks," I muttered, focusing on bottling the potion.

Unbeknownst to me, the Shaman had already begun spreading tales of my supposed brilliance among the clan. By the end of the week, whispers of my "unprecedented talent" had reached almost everyone.

"Did you hear? The young master is not just a warrior but also a prodigy in alchemy!"

"I heard he's already brewing advanced potions. The Shaman says his instincts are unparalleled!"

"That's why he insisted on learning alchemy—he's preparing for something big."

The rumors spiraled out of control, each retelling adding more layers to the legend. By the time they reached my father, people were convinced I was some kind of messianic figure destined to lead the clan into a new golden age.

Meanwhile, I was blissfully unaware of all this as I focused on mastering the basics. Alchemy was both frustrating and rewarding. It required precision, patience, and an understanding of the natural world. Every ingredient had unique properties, and combining them incorrectly could result in anything from a harmless puff of smoke to an explosion that left the Shaman's hut smelling like singed hair for days.

Still, I enjoyed the challenge. It reminded me of my rune-crafting days—experimenting, failing, and eventually succeeding.

One evening, as I was cleaning up after a particularly intense session, the Shaman approached me with a hesitant expression.

"Uh, young master, may I ask... what your ultimate goal is?"

I raised an eyebrow. "To not die when the calamity shows up."

He looked at me like I'd just recited a prophecy. "You mean... you're preparing for a disaster? Do you foresee one?"

Well, that escalated quickly. "Not exactly. I just think it's better to be prepared for anything."

The Shaman nodded solemnly, clearly interpreting my words as some kind of cryptic warning. "I see. You truly are wise beyond your years."

Before I could correct him, he scurried off, presumably to spread the "good news."

Over the next few weeks, my alchemical skills improved at an astonishing rate. I could brew basic and intermediate potions with ease, and my life affinity gave me an edge when it came to creating experimental recipes. The Shaman, now fully convinced of my genius, had become an eager and dedicated teacher.

But the real surprise came when my father summoned me to the clan hall one morning.

"You've been busy," he said, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp. "The Shaman speaks highly of your alchemical talents."

I braced myself for a lecture about staying focused on combat, but to my astonishment, he continued, "If this is your way of preparing to lead the clan, I won't stop you. Just remember your responsibilities."

Wait, what? Did my father just... approve of my side project? Was this real life?

"Uh, thanks, Father," I said, trying not to sound as bewildered as I felt.

"Good. Now, go. And don't embarrass me."

As I left the hall, I couldn't help but chuckle. If this was the result of a few misunderstandings, maybe I should let people misinterpret my actions more often.