The Laziest God Mortal Reincarnation

Izabella began demonstrating how to prepare a basic salve for minor cuts and burns, her hands moving with practiced ease.

I watched every step, my sharp memory absorbing the sequence of actions: crush the dried silverleaf, mix with powdered moonroot, add a single drop of distilled spirit to activate the blend. Each movement was deliberate, and each small sound, the crunch of leaves, the scrape of a pestle, felt like a rhythm, a steady heartbeat in the quiet chaos of the apothecary.

After a while, she turned to me. "Do you want to try?"

I glanced at the ingredients laid out before me. My small hands hesitated over the tools, but my intelligence, my memory, and my willpower aligned with surprising clarity.

’Slow, precise, no mistakes,’ I told myself.

For the first time since entering the camp, I felt a spark of focus that wasn’t forced by duty or fear. This was something I could do.

And so, I began.

I prepared the salve exactly as Izabella did, my small hands moving with deliberate care, each motion echoing the rhythm I had memorized from her demonstration.

The world outside the apothecary tent seemed to blur and fade, leaving only the soft crunch of dried silverleaf under the mortar and the faint, earthy scent of moonroot powder rising in the air.

I focused entirely on what lay before me, the herbs, the tools, the measured steps, and the subtle glimmers of change as each ingredient responded to my touch. My senses narrowed to that single line of purpose.

The murmurs of the camp, the distant clinking of armour, even the faint breeze shifting the tent’s canvas, all of it ceased to exist.

It was just me, the salve, and the quiet knowledge that flowed through my fingers.

With each careful motion, the mixture became smoother, its texture turning from gritty to soft, until the faintest sheen began to catch the light.

I could almost feel the essence of the plants merging, the potential for healing coalescing right there in the small bowl cradled in my hands.

When I finally set the pestle aside, I exhaled slowly, realizing I had been holding my breath. The salve sat ready, a small pool of muted green, alive with the subtle fragrance of life restored.

Izabella watched the salve with pure amazement. She proceeded to inspect it carefully, her black eyes glinting under the soft light of the apothecary tent. Her fingers hovered just above the smooth, green surface, as if even the slightest touch might disturb its perfect texture.

Then, she turned toward me, her expression softening into something between wonder and approval. The air carried the faint scent of crushed herbs and distilled spirit, the quiet hum of the camp outside distant against the stillness of this moment.

"You made this?" she asked, her voice calm but laced with quiet astonishment.

I nodded, my small hands resting on the edge of the table, still faintly stained with fragments of silverleaf and moonroot powder. "I followed your instructions exactly."

Izabella leaned closer, the red strands of her hair falling over her shoulder as she inspected the salve once more, this time touching it lightly with a fingertip. She lifted the faint trace of green to the light, rubbing it gently between her thumb and forefinger.

"It’s perfect," she whispered, almost to herself. "Smooth texture, correct blend, no excess moisture... it’s as if you’ve been doing this for years."

She met my gaze again, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You might be a natural at this, Alash."

I felt a small, quiet satisfaction settle in my chest. Unlike the grand displays of magic or my awakening, this was calm. Precise. The kind of work where effort and focus left behind something tangible, something that could help someone beyond the walls of this tent.

Izabella placed the small jar on the shelf with the others, her movements careful, almost reverent. Then she turned back to me, her black eyes studying me with renewed interest. "If you can make a salve this well on your first try, I think you’ll master the apothecary faster than anyone I’ve trained."

She then walked to a shelf and took a huge book with a brown cover. The worn leather creaked softly as she lifted it, its weight evident by the way her arms adjusted. She held it out to me with both hands, her black eyes glinting in the lantern light.

"This book encompasses the entire foundation of apothecary," she said, her voice steady but carrying a hint of warmth. "Sir Alzette told me to give this to you from the start, but I was reluctant. I thought it would be too complicated for a ten‑year‑old boy."

She paused, glancing at the salve I had just prepared. The soft green sheen caught the light, perfectly smooth and balanced, and a faint smile softened her features. She nodded in quiet approval.

"But..." she continued, placing the heavy tome carefully into my small, waiting hands, "you have proven yourself."

I took the book, sat down in a quiet corner and started reading it.

***

Walking toward my tent, I felt my body ache with a heavy weariness that went beyond simple fatigue. Each step dragged in the soft earth, my small hands clutching the thick apothecary book to my chest as if it were the heaviest weight in the world.

The camp around me was alive with muted sounds, the distant shuffle of soldiers, the low murmur of healers, and the faint clink of armour, but all of it felt far away, dulled by the fog of exhaustion clouding my mind.

Inside, I was drained in ways I had never experienced before. My limbs carried the sluggishness of hours spent hunched over the apothecary tome, my fingers still faintly stained with the green and brown traces of crushed herbs. I had entered the day with curiosity, thinking that if I could read anatomy and memorize every bone and organ, then surely this book wouldn’t be so different.

I was wrong.

Izabella hadn’t exaggerated when she said the book was complicated. The neat brown cover and carefully inked pages hid within them a labyrinth of knowledge, teachings that demanded more than just reading. Each page carried layered instructions: the properties of countless herbs, the delicate balances between roots and extracts, and the subtle art of combining them without disaster.

Recipes blended with theory, and theory wove into warnings, until I felt as though every word carried the weight of life and death.

Despite my intelligence, I hadn’t even finished half the book. My mind had soaked in the knowledge like a sponge pressed to its limit, and still, there were oceans left to drink. Even now, walking toward my tent, the contents of the book swirled in my thoughts, the difference between infusions and tinctures, the precise temperature for brewing a sun‑leaf decoction, the dozens of subtle errors that could turn a healing salve into poison.

The tent flap came into view, my quiet sanctuary waiting. With a deep sigh, I pushed it open and stepped into the cool, dim space.

My pillow lay waiting on the bed, soft and inviting, and for the first time in hours, the heaviness in my chest eased slightly.

I set the book down carefully on the small table beside my bed, and hug my pillow instead.

"You are late."

I lifted my head to the voice, and there he was, Valerian, seated with a calm composure and an amused grin tugging at his lips. The warm light of the evening lamp caught in his brown eyes, deepening the glint of mischief there.

Dread crawled down my spine as I immediately realized the reason behind that smile.

Before I could so much as open my mouth to protest, he moved his hand with casual grace. The air shimmered faintly as a dagger materialized in his palm, the same silver blade he had used yesterday. The memory of green light, the taste of fatigue, and the weight of mana exhaustion all rushed back at once.

"Master..." I said slowly, clutching my pillow as if it could shield me from whatever came next. "We can talk about this..."

"No," Valerian interrupted, his tone calm but firm. "Healing is not something you can run from. And today, you will do more than yesterday."

He turned the dagger in his hand, letting the polished edge catch the lamplight, and a quiet smile played over his lips. My stomach dropped, and I could already feel the phantom weight of mana gathering, the heavy thrum in my core that always followed the act of healing.

I hugged my pillow tighter, muttering, "I really preferred the apothecary..."

Valerian’s grin widened, patient and unyielding. "Then consider this your first lesson of the night. A true healer must be ready for both."

Inside, I could only sigh, knowing resistance was futile.

"But master, what’s the use of continuing that when we already know that I don’t have enough mana? Wouldn’t it be better for me to start by healing a small but complicated injury?"

"You are right," Valerian said. "But this is not to train your healing knowledge. There’s another reason we will do this every night until your mana is exhausted. And until you are able to deduce the real reason for this training, we will not stop."

I frowned, clutching my pillow tighter, the soft fabric pressing against my chest. If this wasn’t about learning to heal, then what exactly was he trying to teach me?

I could feel my heartbeat in my fingertips as I stared at my master. He was calm, unyielding, and patient in a way that made my protests feel like whispers in a storm.

I swallowed and nodded, preparing myself for another long night of mysterious, exhausting training.