Kokuyou Apothecary Diaries Novels & Stories

Looking under the table, there were two water-filled ceramics Jars, a wooden mortar-pestle and a long-handle mahogany spoon leaning against the wall beside a portable cauldron. The Kyriar took the oregano leaves from Fiona and stuffed them into one of the apothecary Jars. She filled it with water before covering it up with its airtight lid and going over to pluck a petal from her Lily. Fiona closely watched her as she enclosed the petal in her hands and closed her eyes.

“There’s not much to talk about. I’m an exile with a death warrant and a mate who’d rather kill me than have me expose the pack secrets.” Cassie’s eyebrows lift. “Is that what you think?” The question sits there, sticky and sharp. I look away, up at the line of drying herbs that bisects the room. There’s more variety here than in most apothecaries: sage, mugwort, skullcap, dried poppies hanging like little brown bells. Bundles of pale birch bark, glass jars packed with yellow roots and bitter leaves, whole shelves dedicated to vials of what I’d guess are poisons if I didn’t know Cassie’s reputation.

"The master ledger should be in the drawer." While he went to the desk, I approached the locked wooden cabinet on the wall. The door was made of dark, heavy plum wood, carved with the seal of the imperial apothecary. I used the brass keys to open it. Inside, the shelves were lined with small, blue-and-white porcelain jars. I began reading the labels. Red nightshade. Black locust. Death-cap extract. Then, my hand stopped on a small, unpainted grey clay jar. The label on it read: Gray Wolfsbane.

The air was filled with the rich aroma of herbs, spices, and exotic botanicals, creating an intoxicating blend of scents that wafted through the space. Rows upon rows of wooden shelves lined the walls, laden with jars and vials of every size and shape, containing ingredients both mundane and mystical. The apothecary seemed to hold a treasure trove of rare and fantastical components. A long, marble-topped counter extended the length of the room, where skilled apothecaries in embroidered robes had been meticulously mixing potions and elixirs in gleaming glassware.

Jiro was truly angry and frustrated at this time. The Apothecary Stomach Pill provided the exact same kind of treatment as the Kobayashi Stomach Pill. This was an absolute benchmark product in itself. However, the effectiveness of the Apothecary Stomach Pill was much stronger compared to that of the Kobayashi Stomach Pill! Moreover, what was even worse was that the packaging specifications, the net content of the medication, and the price of the Apothecary Stomach Pill, were all the same as the Kobayashi Stomach Pill!

There was a large table in the center of the room, with a cloth spread out and several jars of different liquids arranged neatly. Derek moved towards the table and saw an open book placed on it. The pages were filled with intricate drawings and descriptions of different plants and their properties. The ink on the pages had begun to fade, and some pages were torn at the edges. Derek picked up the book and flipped through it, trying to find something that could be of use to him. As he read through the book, he noticed the apothecary had made notes in the margins, detailing the combinations of herbs and roots he used to create different potions. Some of the ingredients listed were rare and hard

The interior of the medicine shop looked much more reliable than its exterior. At first, James had worried that the place might be too dirty for their young master to even get treated. But now, looking around, he saw the clean, traditional layout—very much in the Chinese style. The central focus was a wooden medicine cabinet, and the space had an air of an old Beijing courtyard house, much like the apothecaries from ancient times. Carl, with his calm, indifferent gaze, scanned the surroundings, his eyes falling on a piece of calligraphy and painting. His fingers absentmindedly twirled the Buddhist beads around his wrist.

Episode 49 – The Confessional Diary The attic smelled of dust and forgotten things. Ophelia’s fingers traced the spine of a leather-bound journal, its surface cool and smooth, tucked away in a cedar chest that had belonged to her grandmother. She hadn’t been looking for secrets; she’d been looking for old photo albums. But the moment she lifted the diary’s cover and saw the elegant, looping script, her own script, from years ago, a peculiar heat bloomed in her chest.