Hygiene and Experiments

After spending a week at the Crowned Boar Inn, I wake up this morning with a taste of death in my mouth. It’s the kind of foul, sour aftertaste that takes me right back to those thirty-six-hour shifts in the ER during my old life… except this time, it’s not sleep deprivation to blame — it’s the local alcohol.

"Ugh… what the hell did I drink last night?"

Next to me, Pururun quivers softly, like she’s smugly confirming that yes, I did in fact empty half of Marta’s booze reserves. Morning light filters through the tiny window of my room, illuminating just how atrocious my dental hygiene has become overnight. Honestly, if my breath were any worse, necromancers would start taking notes.

In my previous life, I loved to scold colleagues who neglected their hygiene.
"How can you be a professional when you smell like the Ghazipur landfill and your breath could kill a sewer rat?"
And now here I am, living proof of poetic justice.

I take a deep breath, focus, and channel my Chirurgia Arcana. The energy flows through me more smoothly than before — days of practice are finally paying off. Slowly, something familiar materializes in my palm.

A surgical toothbrush. The kind we used for cleaning infected wounds — small, stiff, incredibly precise. And suddenly, a spark of genius: why not use it for dental care?

I test my improvised brush on my teeth. It’s rough, but surprisingly effective. One problem remains: no toothpaste.

Pururun watches me curiously, her gelatinous body wobbling slightly. I get a stupid, reckless idea.

"Hey, dessert… think you can make something that works like toothpaste?"

She quivers, then starts secreting a foamy white substance. One sniff and I instantly regret my life choices.

"Oh, holy sht — this reeks like a Paris sewer in mid-summer!"*

But hey, beggars can’t be choosers. I dip my surgical brush into the dubious slime and start scrubbing.

The experience is… traumatizing. I feel like I’m brushing my teeth with fermented slime diarrhea. The taste is beyond description — a nauseating cocktail of rancid soap and something I’d rather not identify.

"You know what, Pururun? Next time I get an idea like this, remind me to smash my head against a wall until it goes away."

She vibrates with what is unmistakably amusement. The little bastard enjoys my suffering.

Still, despite the abominable taste, the results are undeniable. My teeth are spotless, and my breath is — well, neutral. Which is a major win, considering where we started.

Encouraged, I ask if she can produce soap. This time, she excretes a translucent little block that smells faintly floral and foams nicely with water.

"Not bad, jelly girl. You’d almost be indispensable if you weren’t so damn sassy."

A knock interrupts my hygiene experiments. Marta’s voice rings through the door:
"Ethan! Breakfast is ready!"

"Coming!"

I head down to the common room, Pururun lazily oozing behind me like a smug pet. Marta and her daughter Lena are busy arranging tables. When Lena spots me, she flashes that same flirtatious smile she always does.

"Sleep well? You look… different this morning. Did you dream about me again?"

"Calm down, kid. I was just testing some new personal hygiene tricks."

I pull the soap bar from my pocket. Both women approach, intrigued.

"What’s that?" Marta asks, sniffing it cautiously.

"Soap. The real kind. Not that greasy gunk you people usually use."

Lena touches it, and I notice just how rough and cracked their hands are from washing with harsh lye all the time.

"It smells nice," she remarks. "Where did you get this?"

I nod toward Pururun. The two women exchange a dubious look.

"Your… slime… makes soap?" Marta asks, stunned.

"Among other things, yeah. She even makes toothpaste, though using it is like licking a public latrine."

Lena bursts out laughing.

"You have a very… colorful way of describing things."

"It’s a gift. I suck at poetry, but I excel at brutal honesty."

Marta examines the soap with the critical eye of a woman who’s fought grime her whole life.
"This would be perfect for the public baths. The customers would love something like this."

Her words light a spark in my brain. She’s right — here, hygiene is a luxury. High-quality soap and toothpaste could be a goldmine.

"Ladies, I have a proposal for you…"

I explain how Pururun can produce moderate amounts of soap and toothpaste. Their eyes light up as I mention the commercial potential.

"But fair warning," I add, "Pururun’s toothpaste tastes like hell. I’ll need to come up with a better formula."

"And toothbrushes?" Marta asks.

"That’s my domain. Leave that to me."

I can materialize brushes for myself, but I can’t mass-produce them — magical tools vanish after a while, so no stockpiling.

Then I remember my medical history courses. Before modern toothbrushes, many cultures used bark or root sticks — siwak — which were surprisingly effective.

"I need to explore the forests around Lowstone. I’m looking for trees or shrubs whose roots or bark can act as natural toothbrushes."

Lena looks at me with shining eyes.
"You know so many things. You’re like a god."

Right on cue, a single thunderclap echoes through the clear sky. Everyone in the inn jumps. I’m pretty sure it’s Being X, the cosmic stalker, expressing disapproval. I glance upward and smirk sarcastically.

I spend the rest of the morning scouting around the village with Pururun in tow. Eventually, I find promising candidates: a shrub with tough, flexible fibers and a small tree whose bark, once chewed, releases mild antiseptic compounds.

Back at the inn, I craft my first improvised siwak sticks. They’re actually pretty decent — once you chew one end, it frays into a soft, plant-fiber brush.

"Ladies, allow me to present: Lowstone’s dental hygiene revolution!"

Marta and Lena inspect the sticks curiously.

"How does it work?" Lena asks.

"You chew one end until the fibers separate, then brush your teeth with it. It’s biodegradable, antiseptic, and way classier than picking your teeth with a rotting stick."

Lena tries one, and somehow, I end up guiding her hands to demonstrate proper technique. My hand on hers. Her eyes locked on mine. The atmosphere gets… charged.

"Like this?" she murmurs, her voice suddenly soft and suggestive.

"Y-yeah… exactly like that."

Marta watches with a knowing grin.
"My daughter’s always been a very… diligent student."

I pull away before this turns into a scene from some awkward romantic comedy.

"Right! You get the idea. With these products, this inn could become the most popular place in Lowstone."

"And what’s in it for you?" Marta asks pragmatically.

"A roof, good booze, and the joy of annoying the Temple. Better hygiene means fewer diseases, which means fewer people running to them for divine blessings."

The women exchange a glance, then Marta extends her hand.
"Deal. But you’ll have to teach us how to make all this ourselves. I doubt your little companion will stay here forever."

She’s right. Pururun and I will have to leave eventually. I’ll need to give them workable recipes.

"No problem. Give me a few days, and I’ll set up easy methods you can replicate without her."

Lena steps closer — too close.
"You really are… special, Ethan."

Pururun growls lowly. I swear if she could shoot lightning, she would.

"Yeah, ‘special’ is one word for it. Most people prefer ‘professional pain in the ass.’"

But Lena doesn’t back down. She’s clearly decided to flirt, and nothing’s going to stop her.

I can already tell the next few days are going to be… complicated.

Later that night, as I climb the stairs to my room, a thought hits me. These hygiene products are amazing, sure. But in a world this corrupt, they’re bound to attract attention — the wrong kind.

The Temple won’t like an outsider healer shaking up their cozy little system with non-divine methods.

But honestly? Let them come. I’ve survived worse than a bunch of charlatans in holy robes.