Two people stood within an interdimensional void. One of them was most certainly a human, but the other seemed more like a monster at first glance. But if one was to look closely, they would immediately detect the presence of a 'soul' within that living silhouette. In the man's grasp was a faded sheet of parchment, and upon his face was a look of strange satisfaction.
"I wouldn't believe it under any other circumstances." He sighed, "That Yamora was the one who wrote this. The old woman didn't have a sensitive bone in her body."
"I concur. Perhaps she was under the influence of some sort of stimulant."
"Are you feeling alright?" Barion asked.
"Yes. I am not ill." She answered, "Why do you ask?"
"Well, it's a pretty emotional letter. I'd probably be tearing up if I was you."
"I was not created to be emotional."
"Do you really think that's still going to work on me?"
The girl paused, "...Excuse me?"
Though Barion's words carried a joking tone, the expression on his face was anything but. Rather, he seemed incensed by the girl's words. His glare didn't seem at all natural, as if he had been destined from the day of his birth to wear nothing but a smile. Yes, a frown didn't suit him in the slightest, but there was no better way to change the mood.
"If you were a golem, I wouldn't think twice about taking you seriously. But you aren't." He began, "You're a creature with a soul, not an automaton designed to carry out orders. No matter how harsh of a teacher Yamora might have been, people don't lose their emotions to circumstance. There's nothing strong or noble about hiding how you feel. This letter wasn't written for you to just nod your head at. Treating the final words of a woman who couldn't express herself in any other way with an attitude like that is just plain disrespectful."
Walking forward, he thrust the letter into the girl's hands, "Yamora wasn't your 'master', she was your mother, and one who loved you. Maybe she never told you so herself, but this letter--this single piece of evidence, is enough to convince me that you were the greatest thing that ever happened to her."
Tightening her grip, the shadow-girl met his glare, "I know that."
"Do you really?"
"I do!" She shouted, before lowering her head, "Of course I do…"
"Being 'perfect' isn't what she wanted from you. It was enough that you were there, but you exceeded her expectations in every way. From the sound of it, she wanted you to realise that being 'created' doesn't mean you have to act like a servant."
"...Then, why didn't she tell me?"
"Because she wasn't perfect herself. Maybe seeing it happen to someone else--and her own daughter, no less, made her realise how pointless it is to focus on perfection when there are so many other things to enjoy in life."
The two of them fell into a momentary silence. The unyielding impression he had gotten from Yamora's apprentice crumbled away as the girl conveyed what little anguish she could through a set of yellow eyes. Allowing herself another skim of the letter, she let loose a stressed breath, inky-black hands trembling amidst a storm of emotion.
"I don't…" Her voice was hoarse, "Why didn't she…?"
There was a sniffle, though no tears ran down her silhouetted face. Barion wasn't entirely certain that her body was one capable of crying, but the 'soul' which resided within her had certainly been pushed to the threshold of it.
"Fusala." She managed, "Is that my name? Fusala…"
She posed that question to him, but the reverence with which she repeated it had already exposed the answer.
"Fusala…" She said again, "I have a name… my mother gave me a name…"
In that void, it couldn't be said exactly how long she remained like that. When the heart becomes overwhelmed with emotion, it's as if time loses all meaning. Whether it inspires anger, or grief, or sadness, it's never good to keep oneself pent up with their frustrations. So, for a little while, Barion stood there as Fusala grieved for her mother--an occasion which had moved inexorably to its natural conclusion, one in the making for several hundred years. For a moment, he was reminded of his own youth, and the emotions which had followed him across the journey of the hero. No, not one person in that world was perfect, he thought to himself.
When her tearless sobbing had ceased, Fusala folded the parchment and returned it to its envelope, placing it upon the simple wooden table alongside its ornate box.
"Feeling better?" Barion asked.
"Mm. Very much so." She sniffed, "I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders."
"Sorry for talking down to you earlier, but I couldn't think of any other way."
"No. It was necessary. I wanted to conceal my emotions regarding Mas- my mother's passing." She replied, "I am… still quite upset that she did not speak to me about this."
"What else would you expect from a stubborn old mule like Yamora?" Barion crossed his arms, "It was her responsibility, but even she wasn't perfect. Too caught up in her ways. Exactly how you would have turned out, if she hadn't swallowed her pride and written that letter."
"Even if she was not perfect, I…" Fusala hesitated, "I loved her."
"She felt the same way about you. But you're the one brave enough to state it plainly." He replied, "It's just like she wrote--you've already surpassed her."
"Yes..." Sounding relieved, she paused for a moment, "Thank you for your help, Barion."
"I didn't do much."
"Please, do not humble yourself." Fusala insisted, "If it were not for you, the thought would have never crossed my mind to use potions of truesight. Furthermore, I would have remained impervious to the last words of my mother. I see now why you of all people were chosen by the Goddess to defeat the Demon King."
"If you want to repay me, I'd like that Demon-Detecting Stone."
"Of course. I believe this box may hold the reagents we seek." She said, turning her attention to the table, "It is very much an alchemist's way to keep one's collection well-organised."
"So, is it like a bag of holding?"
"A bag of holding is simply a bound extra-dimensional space stabilised by magical leather." She explained, "They suffer the disadvantage of being limited in their maximum storage. An alchemy box may store a theoretically infinite amount of objects."
Saying that, Fusala turned around and took the small, ornate box in both hands.
"I will keep this. As a final memento from my mother." She proclaimed, "Shall we return?"
"After you."
The quaint marsh hut awaited them on the other side of the portal. Once Barion crossed through after Fusala, it shimmered before disappearing in a gust of air, transforming back into the 7-coloured sphere. As Fusala placed the box upon the room's central table and tapped its lid, it opened with a soft creak, revealing a pitch-black void within that would fill one with a certain sense of fear if they were to stare at it for too long. Sticking a shadowy hand in, Fusala immediately pulled a shred of dried skin furred with onyx-black hair out from its contents, which quickly grew to fill both of her hands as it exited the box.
"Chimera flesh." She summarised, "It would not be unreasonable to assume that this is one of the only remaining samples in the known world."
"I imagine you'll be able to make some pretty ancient potions from the things in there."
"Yes. Potions of longevity, regeneration, and invulnerability are no longer possible to create without an abundance of Demons to source the necessary materials from."
"Wonder how much those kinds of things would go for nowadays…"
"Potions of longevity were once sold for 29,000 silver pieces a bottle."
"That was a lot back then, but we use gold nowadays, you know?"
"Excuse me?"
"Once the Holy Alliance was founded, Fleecia's gold deposits were exploited and consolidated to create a currency that would be shared by all kingdoms." Barion explained, "Silver's been phased out completely in Tor."
"...Of course." Fusala blinked, "I-I was aware of that."
"Suppose there are some things that history books from who-knows-when can't teach you."
"In any case-" She cleared her throat, interrupting him, "All the necessary reagents are accounted for, but I will require at least two hours to create the Demon-Detecting Stone."
"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."
"Then, I request that you do not disturb me during the process. Please excuse me."
Barion didn't pretend to understand the methodologies or steps behind the creation of magical items, and so he was more than happy allowing Fusala to work in peace. It wasn't long before the sun had begun to droop below the thick treeline at the edges of the marsh, with the sky transforming into a swirling vortex of oranges by the time Fusala was ready to announce the results of her work.
"It is done." With the acrid scent of smoke in the air, she approached him, "Is this satisfactory?"
Held in both of her hands was an orb of sorts. Barion had never thought to consider it before, but it really didn't look anything like a stone at all. The shape and glow reminded him of the sacred treasures sometimes carried close to the chests of dragons, albeit unmarked and compact enough to keep in one's pocket. What caught his attention more than anything else, however, was the red aura that seemed to be emanating from the stone.
"It's pulsing." His words were laced with a deep foreboding, "As expected, there are still Demons roaming free in the world."
"It seems the closest is located in Anjima." Fusala answered, privy to the stone's knowledge as its current holder, "Is this what you were expecting to happen?"
"I had a bad feeling, but this just confirms it." He answered, "It seems that after 500 years, my work is still incomplete."
"I suppose you will be travelling to Anjima?"
"If that's where a Demon is closest, then that's where I'm headed." He replied, "Why?"
Fusala seemed to hesitate for a moment, breaking eye contact with him. But then, as if spurred forward by a sudden inspiration, she stared at him with the most determined expression a being of pure shadow could muster.
"I would like to accompany you."