The stench of the sludge was immediate, a metallic tang of rot mixed with something acrid, like burnt copper. It steamed on the flagstones, a viscous, tar-like puddle that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light. Niccolo stared at it, then at me, his face pale beneath the grime. “That,” I stated, my voice crisp, cutting through the heavy hush, “is the reason you’ve been dying, Niccolo Dandolo.” I knelt, not to comfort him, but to examine the black goo. It was riddled with tiny, iridescent flecks, like corrupted essence of mother-of-pearl. “Abyssal Rot, advanced stage. Your internal alchemical core is corroding, shedding these corrupted residues. That draught I gave you… it’s a powerful emetic, designed to force out necrotic matter. But it’s only a temporary measure. A bucket for a leaking dam.” His crew, three grizzled sailors who’d watched impassively, now shifted. Their eyes darted between the sludge and my unwavering posture. They were accustomed to battle, not this unsettling quiet dissection of their captain’s insides. “Corroding?” Niccolo rasped, pushing himself upright with a visible effort. “What does that mean?” I looked up at him, my expression devoid of pity. “It means your core, the very heart of your alchemical power, is decaying. When it reaches critical mass, it won’t just cease functioning. It will detonate. A miniature nova, centered right here. Given the rate of degradation I’m observing, and the quantity of this… waste… you have until the winter solstice. Roughly three months. After that, this manor, you, me, and anyone else inside will be vaporized. Utterly.” The quiet that followed was far more potent than any shout. The ex-marines exchanged uneasy glances. Niccolo, for all his attempts at stoicism, flinched. The forced marriage suddenly took on a new, decidedly explosive dimension. “Three months,” he repeated, his voice hollow. He finally looked at me, really looked at me, a flicker of something beyond pain in his eyes. “You knew this when you came here.” “I deduced it,” I corrected, standing. “The Vendramin family’s reputation for medical alchemy isn’t built on guesswork. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to assess my workspace.” I sidestepped the puddle of sludge, careful not to track it, and swept my gaze around the vast, neglected hall. It was even worse than I’d imagined. Rusting halberds leaned against damp-stained wall hangings depicting faded sea battles. Cobwebs draped from a chandelier that hadn’t known a polish in decades. The air itself tasted of salt, dust, and something indefinably stale. “Your workspace?” Niccolo’s voice was incredulous. “This is the Dandolo ancestral hall.” “It’s about to be my clinic,” I declared, already striding towards a heavy, ornate door. “Leo, find some tarps. We’re going to need to section off areas. And some proper light. This gloom won’t do for sterile procedures.” My younger brother, Leo, who had been hovering nervously by the entrance, startled. “Right away, Fiorella!” His cheerful disposition was a stark contrast to the manor’s decay, and, I suspected, a balm to my own terse demeanor. Over the next hour, I moved through the manor like a force of nature. Every room I entered looked thoroughly abandoned. The grand dining hall had a hole in the roof, allowing seawater to pool on the flagstones. The library was a mouldering tomb of forgotten texts. And the kitchens… the kitchens were a biohazard. Everywhere, there were signs of a crew living in squalor, making do with what little they had, and drowning their sorrows. “Captain Niccolo, you must see the problem,” I said, returning to the hall where he still sat, his chair now facing the door, as if waiting for me. “This manor is an extension of your own condition. Neglected, decaying, and prone to explosive release. If I am to save your life, this entire structure needs a deep, thorough scrubbing. Starting with… this.” I pointed to a stack of crates by a wall, overflowing with empty bottles of grog, their labels faded but recognizable as cheap, potent spirits. One of the deckhands, a burly man with a scarred cheek named Goran, stepped forward. “Now hold on, mistress. That’s our rations. Our comfort.” “Your poison,” I countered, not breaking stride. “Alcohol dulls the senses, slows reflexes, and exacerbates the very despair that has allowed this rot to fester. It’s going. All of it.” “We’re soldiers, not monks!” another retired sailor, a gaunt man named Rado, protested, his voice cracking. I stopped dead, turning to face them fully. My 'doctor mode' was now fully engaged, my eyes sharp and unblinking. The stutter that usually plagued me was gone, replaced by a cold, unwavering clarity. “You are patients. And I am your alkahest. You will follow my instructions. Or you will be removed from this property. Do I make myself clear?” Goran scoffed, taking a step closer. “Removed? By a slip of a girl? We’ve seen leviathans bigger than you, mistress. We faced the Crimson Fleet at Pontes.” “Indeed,” I said, a slow, dangerous smile touching my lips. “And I’m sure you’ve witnessed the power of raw, unstable alchemy. Leo, fetch me the leviathan liver extract from the satchel. The one labeled ‘Experimental – Highly Volatile.’” Leo, who had been setting up oil lamps, instantly paled but scurried to obey. He returned with a small, corked vial containing a swirling, phosphorescent crimson liquid. “Now,” I said, taking the vial. I scanned the hall, my gaze landing on a massive, rusted artillery piece, its barrel fused shut with corrosion, serving as a ghastly centerpiece. “Goran, Rado, observe.” I uncorked the vial, the air immediately thick with a sharp, metallic aroma. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed a single drop of the extract onto the bronze surface. It sizzled. The corrosion around the drop began to bubble violently, emitting a thin wisp of green smoke. The men watched, their bravado evaporating, replaced by an uneasy apprehension. The green smoke thickened, swirling around the tube. A low hum vibrated through the flagstones. “This little drop,” I explained calmly, as if discussing the weather, “is designed to break down the hardest calcifications, the most stubborn metallic bonds. It’s what we use to process the shells of the deepest-sea leviathans. Unstable, but highly effective.” The hum intensified into a high-pitched whine. The green smoke erupted, and the iron weapon began to glow with an eerie, internal light. A spiderweb of cracks spread across its rusted surface. “Usually,” I continued, raising my voice slightly over the growing noise, “we dilute it to a near-inert state for medical applications. But here, for a demonstration… it’s rather pure.” Suddenly, with a deafening *BOOM* that rattled the very foundations of the manor, the bronze cylinder exploded. Shrapnel of rusted metal flew across the hall, embedding itself in the far wall with sickening thuds. A cloud of acrid smoke filled the air, briefly obscuring everything. When it cleared, only a charred, smoking crater remained where the fieldpiece had sat. Nothing moved. Absolute, terrified stillness held the room. The men stood pale, mouths slack. Niccolo, despite his weakness, had lurched forward in his chair, watching me with a mixture of shock and reluctant awe. Leo, meanwhile, had ducked behind a pillar, peeking out with a mix of fear and pride. “The booze,” I said, my voice cutting through the ringing in their ears. “It goes. Now. And then you will all grab brushes, buckets, and lye, and begin scrubbing this manor until it gleams. Understood?” “Understood, mistress!” Goran barked, practically leaping towards the crates of alcohol. Rado and the third crewman, a quiet man named Piero, were right behind him, their earlier defiance utterly annihilated. They began hauling the crates outside with an almost frantic energy. “Excellent,” I murmured, watching them go. “Leo, prepare a neutralizing agent for the air. That particular reaction can be… lingering.” Hours later, the Dandolo Manor was a cacophony of scrubbing, splashing, and the grumbling of sailors who, despite their complaints, were following every instruction with surprising diligence. The faint glow of a powerful alchemical lamp I’d set up illuminated the previously dark hall, revealing just how deeply ingrained the grime was. Niccolo had remained in the hall, observing the transformation, a complex expression on his face. I was in the middle of directing Piero on the proper technique for removing algae from a damp stone wall when a sharp, choking gasp ripped through the air. All heads snapped to Niccolo. He was slumped in his wheelchair, his body rigid. His chest, beneath the worn tunic, began to emit a blinding, scorching purple light that pulsed with an alarming intensity, threatening to ignite the newly cleaned manor around him.

Explosive Cleaning