I Became A Playwright In Medieval Fantasy

“The Philosopher’s Stone? Are you telling me this is the Philosopher’s Stone, the one that only exists in legends?”

“Shh! Keep it down, will you? Are you trying to make the whole of Bronde go into a frenzy?”

Maurice blinked, opening and closing his eyelids, as he asked the question. Meanwhile, I broke into a cold sweat trying to keep his volume down.

Then, with a sigh, Maurice let out a short chuckle and said, “So now you’ve got the royal family’s ring, the Hero Candidate Medal, and now you’re even getting the Philosopher’s Stone? At this point, nothing surprises me anymore.”

Yeah, right? It’s like I’m collecting set items or something, one after the other.

Should I just start wearing them as parts on my body? A ring on my finger, a medal on my chest, and a potion dangling from my waist?

“So, are you really going to take it?”

“Of course, I am. What, should I just throw it away?”

“Ugh, are you really going to gulp down some concoction made by alchemists without hesitation? You know how crazy the side effects of their stuff are, right? Don’t come crying to me if you wake up tomorrow with horns sprouting from your forehead.”

Maurice was visibly disgusted by my answer, which was a perfectly reasonable reaction in this world.

This is a world where rumors abound about vitality potions keeping people awake for days or recovery potions making you grow two extra fingers.

‘And the changes are permanent, so that’s a bit terrifying.’

If it were only temporary, I might’ve tried it without hesitation, but the fact that the effects are permanent makes me a bit hesitant to take a sip.

I mean, what if some weird side effect makes me end up with twelve fingers or… something else doubling up down there? How could I possibly live with that?@@novelbin@@