Chapter 180. If You're Scared, Then Do It Scared

I'm really sorry about the releases lately as I'm much slower than I'd wish I were right now. I can't really use my hands at the moment, so I've been editing through dictation, which is also the sole reason the chapters were slowed down even on Royal Road, as I couldn't edit them the way I wanted to.

This chapter was supposed to come out on Sunday, and here it is now. I'm seated and working on editing the rest of them. Will try to update the chapters, as well as two more of The Gamble King, this Wednesday before 8pm.

I hope it's enjoyable, and I'll see you tomorrow!

The hospital room smelled like burnt sage and copper.

Adom stood near the wall, out of the way, watching his mother and Mia work. The preparation table was covered in alchemical equipment—glass vessels, burners, measuring tools, containers of reagents he recognized and several he didn't. Sam's mother lay on the bed behind them, still and silent except for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Her name was Celene.

The family was outside now, along with Kim, Lysandra, and about half a dozen other people Adom didn't know well. He could hear them through the door. Quiet murmuring. The occasional nervous laugh. Someone was pacing.

Inside the room, it was just the four of them. Three conscious, one not.

The potion base hissed softly as it heated. Mia adjusted the flame underneath it, her movements precise. She'd been doing most of the physical preparation while his mother handled the more complex mana work—layering preservation spells, stabilizing the mixture's magical properties, making sure nothing degraded before it was ready.

The liquid in the vessel was gray. Thick, almost paste-like. It looked deeply unappealing.

"Temperature's holding," Mia said.

Maria nodded. She had both hands raised, fingers moving in small, deliberate patterns. Mana rippled in the air around the vessel, visible as faint distortions like heat shimmer. "Good. Keep it there for another two minutes, then we'll add the bloom."

Adom shifted his weight. He'd been standing here for forty minutes while they worked through the preliminary stages. It was fascinating to watch, but also nerve-wracking. This was Sam's mother. If something went wrong—

"Stop that," his mother said without looking at him.

"Stop what?"

"Whatever anxious thing you're doing. I can feel your mana fluctuating from here."

Ah. Healers were known to have a high mana sensitivity. Adom made a conscious effort to settle himself. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just breathe."

He breathed.

Mia glanced at the timepiece on the table. "Two minutes done."

"Alright." Maria lowered her hands. The shimmer around the vessel stabilized, then faded. "Adom, the bloom."

He pulled the container from his bag and opened it carefully. The Somnusbane Bloom inside still looked perfect—petals intact, stem firm, the faint violet glow undimmed. He'd kept it under preservation spells for the entire trip back.

He handed it to his mother.

She took it gently, examining it for a moment. "This is excellent quality. Well done."

"Thanks."

Maria held the bloom over the vessel. "Watch carefully. This part is delicate."

She dropped it in.

The bloom hit the surface of the gray mixture and immediately began to dissolve. Not melting—dissolving, like sugar in hot water. The petals separated first, their violet color bleeding into the gray, and then the stem followed, breaking apart into fine particles that dispersed through the liquid.

But not everything dissolved evenly.

Maria's hands rose again, and this time the mana work was different. More focused. Surgical. Adom could see the spell taking shape—a decomposition array, designed to separate useful compounds from inert material at the molecular level.

The bloom's remains began to separate inside the vessel. Some parts condensed, sinking toward the bottom. Others rose to the surface, forming a thin film. Maria's fingers moved, guiding the process, isolating what was needed and pushing aside what wasn't.

"Active compounds settling," Mia murmured, watching the vessel closely. "Looks good."

The gray mixture was changing color now. Slowly at first, then faster. Gray shifted to purple—not the bloom's original violet, but something darker, richer. Then the purple deepened to black, an opaque, lightless black that seemed to absorb the glow from the heating element beneath it.

Adom leaned forward slightly. He'd never seen a potion do this before.

The black held for maybe ten seconds.

Then it started to lighten.

The change was gradual. Black to dark gray. Dark gray to lighter gray. The liquid's consistency shifted too, becoming thinner, more fluid. It began to steam, wisps of white vapor rising from the surface.

Lighter gray to pale gray.

Pale gray to off-white.

"Almost there," Maria said quietly.

The liquid continued to pale until it was the color of milk. Pure white, smooth, with a faint luminescence that hadn't been there before. The steam stopped rising. The hissing from the heating element faded as Mia reduced the flame.

"That's it," Maria said. She lowered her hands and exhaled. "We're done."

Mia extinguished the flame completely and carefully lifted the vessel from the stand. The liquid inside barely moved, thick and stable. She carried it over to where Adom stood.

His mother followed, looking tired but satisfied. "Are your hands clean?"

Adom looked down at his hands. He'd washed them twice before entering the room. "Yes."

"Good." Maria gestured to the vessel Mia was holding. "I'm going to need you to dip your hand into the mixture. Just your fingers will do. We need the rune in direct contact with the liquid for the amplification to work properly."

Adom nodded and held out his hand, the one with the tattoo.

"It's still hot," Mia warned. "It won't burn you—the preservation spells prevent thermal damage to organic matter—but you'll feel the temperature."

"Understood."

Mia tilted the vessel slightly. The white liquid inside shifted, catching the light.

Adom extended his index and middle fingers and dipped them into the mixture.

It was warm. Very warm, but not painful. The sensation was strange—like putting his hand into bathwater that was slightly too hot, except there was no discomfort. Just warmth. The liquid clung to his skin, it was thick and smooth.

He channeled mana into the rune.

The tattoo flared to life immediately, golden light spreading across the lines etched into his forearm. The warmth in the vessel intensified. Not burning, just present, growing stronger. The white liquid began to glow.

Faintly at first.

Then brighter.

Adom kept the mana flowing, steady and controlled. The glow built, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. The liquid's color shifted—white to pale gold to something richer, more saturated. The luminescence intensified until the vessel itself seemed to be filled with light.

His mother and Mia watched in silence.

The transformation peaked, then settled. The glow stabilized into a steady, saturated gold.

Adom felt the enhancement lock into place, that distinct sensation of the rune's work completing. He withdrew his hand. The liquid remained changed, glowing softly in the vessel.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

His mother stared at the potion. Mia stared at the potion. Neither of them moved.

"Is it..." Adom started. "Is it good? Did it work?"

Maria leaned closer, her hand rising. Mana channeled through her fingers as a sort of diagnostic spell took shape around the vessel. The spell shimmered, probing the liquid's properties.

She frowned slightly. Not in displeasure, but in concentration. Her eyes tracked something Adom couldn't see.

The silence stretched.

"I don't know what this is," Maria said finally.

Adom's stomach dropped. "What?"

"It's not the same potion anymore." She glanced at Mia, who looked equally uncertain. "The base compounds are still there, but the magical structure has completely changed. It's more potent—significantly more potent—but I've never seen anything configured quite like this."

"Is that... bad?"

"No. I don't think so." Maria studied the glowing liquid. "It should work. It should work better than what we had before. But I can't tell you exactly how much better, or what side effects there might be, or—"

"Mother, will it wake her up?" Adom interrupted.

His mother looked at him. She didn't answer immediately.

Adom felt his chest tighten. What if it wasn't enough? What if he'd enhanced it wrong somehow? What if the bloom hadn't been the right ingredient, or he'd mistimed the channeling, or—

A hand patted the top of his head.

He blinked and looked down at his mother. She was smiling at him. Not her healer smile, the real one. The one she used to give him when he was younger and had worked himself into a panic over something he couldn't control.

"You've done everything you could have done," she said gently, "given everything you had. More than anyone could have reasonably expected, honestly."

She paused, then added, "Don't worry so much about things you can't control. We'll know whether it worked or not when she drinks it."

Adom smiled back at her. A small, tired smile. She was right. He knew she was right. He had a tendency to spiral when he couldn't see the outcome clearly, and it never helped anything.

He took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to settle the anxious energy in his chest.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Multiple sets. Voices followed, low murmurs at first, then clearer as they approached the door.

One voice stood out among them.

Sam's.

Adom's head turned toward the sound. Sam was here.

The door slammed open.

Not opened—slammed. The sound of wood hitting stone echoed through the room, and Adom's head snapped toward it.

Sam stood in the doorway, breathing hard. His chest heaved. His hair was disheveled. Sweat dampened his collar. He looked like he'd sprinted the entire way here.

Behind him, the hallway was packed.

Adom saw Elena first, her face tight with worry. Then Sam's father, one hand on his daughter's shoulder. Kim was there too, and Lysandra. Damus stood near the back, arms crossed. Karion beside him. Naia and Emma were pressed against the wall, trying to see past the crowd.

Gus was there too, positioned strategically near the doorway with Luna at his side. The two of them seemed to be acting as a barrier, keeping the crowd from pressing forward into the room.

Hugo and Kaius, their seniors from the combat athletics club were present as well as a few other faces Adom recognized from Xerkes but couldn't name.

And then there were the people he didn't recognize at all.

A fox beastkin woman with a notebook in her hands stood near the front of the crowd, her ears twitching as she tried to catch what was happening inside the room. A journalist, Adom realized. And once he noticed her, he saw the others. Three more, maybe four, clustered in the lobby beyond the hallway. One of them was arguing with someone—probably a staff member trying to keep them out. Another had what looked like a magic pencil, the kind that could sketch what the user saw with unsettling speed and accuracy.

It was a sea of people. Too many people. The lobby looked like it had tripled in size and still wasn't large enough.

"What—" Adom started.

"I asked for the room to be closed," Maria said sharply. She was looking past Sam, toward the crowd. Her voice had gone cold. "There was a leak. Someone mentioned there might be a... miracle happening here. Or a revolution in healing. I don't know what word they used. But it spread fast."

"Hence the chaos," Mia muttered.

Adom looked back at Sam.

Their eyes met.

He'd had seen Sam in a lot of states. Calm and focused during training. Relaxed and joking around with their friends. Frustrated when a technique wouldn't click. Tired after a long day. Excited when something went right.

He'd never seen this before.

Sam looked like he was barely holding himself together.

"Hey," Adom said quietly.

Sam blinked. He seemed to register where he was for the first time—standing halfway into the room, people staring at him, his mother still unconscious on the bed behind Adom. He straightened slowly, his breathing starting to even out.

Then he turned and looked at the door.

The handle was bent. The wood around the frame had splintered. He'd broken it.

Sam turned back to face the room. His face reddened slightly.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, his voice strained. "It's just—I heard—and I thought—"

"It's alright," Adom interrupted.

Sam stopped. "Is it?"

It wasn't really a question about the door.

Adom glanced at the potion in Mia's hands. The golden liquid still glowed softly, luminescent and warm. He reached out and took the vessel from her carefully. She let him have it without protest.

He held it for a moment, feeling the weight of it, then looked back at Sam.

"Why don't you check?" he said.

Sam hesitated.

Adom walked toward him, the vessel held steady in both hands. The crowd in the hallway quieted. He stopped in front of Sam and held the potion out to him.

"Go ahead," he said.

Sam reached out and took the vessel.

His hands were shaking. "I'm scared," he said quietly.

Adom almost took it back. The liquid was still glowing, still precious, and if Sam's trembling got worse he might spill it or drop it or—

But he stopped himself.

Sam had always struggled with this. With fear. With the weight of things he couldn't control. And Adom had spent too much time trying to shield him from it, trying to make things easier, smoother, safer.

Maybe that wasn't helping.

"If you're scared," Adom said, "then do it scared."

Sam swallowed hard. His throat worked. He looked past Adom toward the bed, then back at the potion in his hands.

Behind Adom, footsteps. Elena and Sam's father had entered the room. They stood close, not speaking. Just there.

Sam turned around and walked to his mother's bedside.

He sat down slowly, carefully, the vessel still clutched in both hands. The bed dipped under his weight. His mother didn't move. She hadn't moved in fourteen years.

There was a tube. It ran from the corner of her mouth to a stand beside the bed, one of the feeding mechanisms that had kept her alive all this time. Sam's hands hesitated over it, then he looked at Mia.

She stepped forward and removed it gently, efficiently. "We can administer it directly," she said. "It'll be more effective that way."

Sam nodded. He lifted the vessel to his mother's lips.

The room went silent.

Adom watched. He couldn't look away. Sam tilted the vessel slowly, letting the glowing liquid trickle into his mother's mouth. A little at a time. Steady. His hands were still shaking, but he didn't spill a drop.

The potion disappeared bit by bit. Golden light reflected off Sam's face.

Adom's chest felt tight. The same thoughts came, again and again. What if it didn't work? What if he'd miscalculated something, enhanced it wrong, chosen the wrong ingredient—

He forced the thoughts down. This was do or die. The moment was already happening. Overthinking again wouldn't change anything now.

The silence behind him was thick. Palpable. No one moved. No one breathed louder than they had to.

Sam finished. The vessel was empty. He set it down on the bedside table and stayed where he was, sitting next to his mother, staring at her face.

Waiting.

Adom wasn't sure what to expect. Would it wake her up instantly? Would there be a delay? Or would there be nothing at all?

The instant passed.

Several seconds went by.

Still nothing.

Maybe a delay then? He wanted to believe that was the case. It had to be.

Elena's breathing hitched behind him. A sob, barely contained. Sam's father was breathing heavily, each exhale audible in the quiet. Someone was praying, low, murmured words in a language Adom didn't recognize. Another prayer in a different tongue overlapped it. The scribbling of the journalists' magic pencils continued in the hallway, sketching the scene.

More seconds passed.

Sam's mother remained motionless.

The young man was still looking at her, his back to everyone. His shoulders trembled slightly. He was murmuring something. Barely audible. Just loud enough for Adom to hear.

"Please... please... please..."

Adom hadn't noticed how tense he'd been until he felt a hand grab his.

He looked down.

His mother was holding his hand. She was looking up at him, smiling. Warm and steady. She nodded once.

It'll be okay. Wait and see.

Adom exhaled. He held her hand and turned back to watch.

More seconds.

Sam's mother didn't move.

Adom closed his eyes.

Suddenly, a gasp.

His eyes snapped open and he looked at the bed.

Sam's mother—her skin was changing. The pallor that had clung to her for years, that sickly, greyish-white color of someone hovering at the edge of death, it was fading. Warmth was returning. Color. Pink touched her cheeks. Her lips lost their ashen hue.

Then her fingers twitched.

Just one hand. A single, small movement.

But it was movement.

Then her chest rose. Fell. Rose again. The rhythm changed—less mechanical, more natural. Her breathing deepened.

Her eyelids fluttered.

Someone gasped behind Adom. He wasn't sure who.

Sam leaned closer, his hand hovering over his mother's, not quite touching. Afraid, maybe, that contact would break whatever was happening.

Her eyes opened.

Slowly and sluggishly. Like someone waking from the deepest sleep imaginable.

Brown eyes. Unfocused at first. Confused.

She blinked.

Her hand moved. Slowly, trembling, it lifted from the bed. Her fingers reached toward Sam's face, hovering uncertainly before touching his cheek.

The touch was feather-light. Tentative. Like she wasn't sure he was real.

Adom could hear Sam's sobs. Quiet at first, then breaking through completely as his mother's fingers traced his jaw, his cheekbone.

Her lips moved. The sound that came out was barely more than a whisper—hoarse, rough, unused for so long it hardly sounded human.

"Sam?"

The word cracked in the middle.

Sam's breath hitched. He pressed his hand over hers, holding it against his face.

"It's me, Mother," he said.

His voice broke on the last word.

She stared at him. Her eyes moved over his face, taking in features that must have seemed impossible. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been seven years old. Small. A child.

Now he was nineteen. Taller than her. Broader. A man.

Her expression shifted—confusion, disbelief, then something that looked like grief and joy tangled together.

"It worked," someone whispered behind Adom.

"It worked!" Elena's voice, louder now, breaking. "It worked!"

The room erupted. Voices overlapping. Relief. Disbelief. Joy. Someone was crying. Multiple people were crying. The journalists in the hallway were shouting questions, trying to get closer, but Gus and Luna held the line.

Adom felt his knees go weak.

Relief hit him like a wave. Pure, overwhelming relief.

His first thought was simple.

Delay it was, then.