Chapter 130: The Alchemist's Gambit
A Ring Forged in Exhaustion
At dawn, Gegawu shuffled into Bennett's chamber, his rodent-like frame sagging with fatigue. Clutched in his grimy paw was a crude metal band—a "ring" so misshapen it resembled a thimble salvaged from a blacksmith's scrap pile.
"You call this craftsmanship?" Bennett arched an eyebrow, holding the lumpy circlet to the light. "If you ever opened a jewelry shop, you'd starve within a week."
The mouse-mage hissed, tail lashing. "Mockery? After I burned half our mithril reserves to forge this? Listen well, brat—its ugliness is genius. No enemy will glance twice at this 'trinket' before you drain its magic to roast them alive."
Bennett's jest died as he inspected their dwindling supplies. Mithril—the rarest of arcane conductors—now barely filled a thimble. Yet Gegawu's logic held. The ring's true power lay hidden: a sliver of rainbow-hued Wucai Stone nested within layers of iron, invisible to greedy eyes.
"A weapon disguised as garbage," Bennett conceded, slipping the ring onto his finger. It sat cold and unremarkable, its secret humming against his skin.
Whispers in the Ivory Tower
The carriage to the Magus Guild rattled with unspoken tension. Captain Alfonse rode shotgun again, his silent vigilance sharper than any blade.
Aireke's apprentice awaited them at the guild's obsidian gates, pity etched across his face. "The old lunatic's in one of his… moods," he warned, shooing Bennett toward the central spire. "Dial the crystal plate to nine. Touch nothing else—unless you fancy being turned into a toad by the alchemist on floor seven."
The ninth-floor workshop struck Bennett like a dragon's hoard. Priceless reagents lay trampled underfoot: century-old Abarakalee Man-Eater Vines tangled with Neljaro Goldgrass, their mystic properties ignored beneath layers of dust.
And there, amidst the chaos, stood Aireke—a mad titan straddling a mithril-laced workbench. Flames licked at a水晶 crucible, green sludge bubbling into emerald smoke.
"Condensation!" The archmage roared at his apparatus. "Why won't you stay gaseous, you stubborn—"
"Add Moka Blossom pollen," Bennett interjected, eyeing the clogged filtration system. "It dissolves crystalline structures mid-phase."
Aireke whirled, soot-streaked face splitting into a grin. "Ha! Not another mindless sword-swinger! Come, boy—behold Aireke's Blood!"
Liquid Revolution
The parchment thrust into Bennett's hands listed thirty-seven rarities: Starwhisper Orchids, Duskroot, species extinct for centuries. Yet their proposed alchemy was staggering—a liquid that could mimic mithril's magic-channeling properties.
"Imagine!" Aireke's eyes blazed. "Every peasant's dagger crackling with spells! Every arrow tipped with fire!"
Bennett's pulse quickened… then stalled. "Brilliant. But half these ingredients are mythic. You'd burn a kingdom's treasury to arm a single battalion."
The archmage deflated like a punctured bellows.
Click.
In that moment of vulnerability, Bennett's eidetic memory devoured the formula. Timeworn Spring water can regrow even 'extinct' plants, he realized, tucking the knowledge away like a smuggled gem.
Seeds of Tomorrow
Dusk found Bennett brooding in his carriage. Gegawu's ring weighed heavy—not from metal, but possibility. Aireke's folly could be reshaped. Perfected.
Captain Alfonse cleared his throat. "The guild's shadows grow longer, young master. Best tread carefully."
"Shadows?" Bennett traced the hidden Wucai Stone, its resonance answering the Quintessence Ring's corrupted thrum. "Let them come. We'll light torches they've never dreamed of."
As wheels clattered over cobblestones, two truths anchored him:
One day, Aireke's Blood would flow through armies.
And Bennett would control the fountainhead.
Chapter 131 (Part 1): The Alchemist's Awakening
A Formula in Flames
Aireke's shoulders slumped as green flames devoured the parchment, its ashes curling like dying moths. Bennett watched silently, guilt gnawing at him. He'd memorized every glyph—the extinct Starwhisper Orchid ratios, the Duskroot distillate volumes—but the old alchemist's despair was palpable.
"Wasted decades," Aireke muttered, sleeves singed by his own emerald fire. "A fool chasing mirages. Even my apprentices…"
Bennett stepped closer, the Quintessence Ring cold against his finger. "You're wrong. You've done what no one dared—proven mithril can be replaced. That alone reshapes magic itself."
The archmage's head snapped up, rheumy eyes narrowing. "Pretty words. What good is a key heavier than the lock it opens?"
"Keys inspire locksmiths." Bennett gestured to the scorched workbench. "Tomorrow's apprentices will build lighter keys because you proved the door exists."
A spark flickered in Aireke's gaze.
The Microscopic Revolution
When Bennett mentioned the flying broom, the old man flushed crimson. "That cursed thing? A vanity project!"
He dragged Bennett to a cluttered shelf, unveiling a monstrosity of lenses and brass—a microscope the size of a wine barrel. "Found this in mithril's heart. 'Mana-crystals' they call it. Tiny specks making magic stick. Spent years grafting them into walnut saplings…"
The explanation unfolded like a tragicomedy. Aireke's engineered trees died faster than mayflies. Surviving saplings oozed metallic sap, their "broom-ready" wood crumbling after three flights. Two apprentices nearly plummeted to their deaths—until Aireke sealed their magic mid-test.
"Genius," Bennett breathed, examining a shriveled sapling. Its leaves shimmered like tarnished silver. "You've created living mithril."
"Living failure." Aireke kicked the microscope. "Cost ten mithril ingots to grow one twig!"
Bennett's pulse quickened. Timeworn Spring water could stabilize these…
The Unspoken Pact
"Take them." Aireke shoved the dying saplings at Bennett. "Bury my folly in your garden. Just… water them sometimes. They like rain."
The uncharacteristic softness startled Bennett. Behind the mad inventor's bluster lay a creator's grief—watching dreams wither untended.
"Teach me," Bennett said abruptly. "Not as master to apprentice. As one visionary to another."
Aireke's beard twitched. "You're Gandolf's whelp. Traditions—"
"Screw traditions. Teach me to build, not chant."
Silence hung thick, broken only by the microscope's faint hum. Then Aireke grinned—a wolfish baring of teeth. "Ever reforged a soulgem? No? First lesson: always wear asbestos gloves."
Roots of Rebellion
Hours later, Bennett staggered from the workshop, arms laden with cursed saplings and scorched blueprints. Aireke's voice chased him down the spiral stairs: "And boy! If those trees die, I'll turn your boots into homing pigeons!"
Gabriel awaited in the courtyard, Tu's shadow looming behind him. The boy gasped at the metallic saplings. "Are those… swords?"
"Better." Bennett knelt, letting Gabriel touch a leaf. "Seeds to change the world."
Tu's eyes flickered—the first emotion Bennett had witnessed—as the leaf's edge drew a bead of blood from Gabriel's thumb.
Living mithril. Living weapons.
But with Timeworn Spring's power, Bennett could cultivate an army of trees. An army no king controlled.
Chapter 131 (Part 2): Legacy and Royalty
The Alchemist's Bequest
Aireke's trembling hands thrust a weathered scroll into Bennett's arms. "The broom's core design—a micro wind-glyph array hidden within the shaft. Simple craftsmanship, but the wood…" His voice cracked. "Nurture those saplings well. They're… they're all I have left."
Bennett cradled the shriveled plants like newborn dragons, tucking them into his archaic dimensional satchel. The burlap pouch—a Gandolf heirloom—drew Aireke's sneer. "Preposterous! Even apprentices carry better relics."
The old mage rummaged through shelves crusted with alchemical residue, finally producing an ebony chest. Inside glimmered artifacts of absurd opulence: rings threaded with starlight, bracelets swallowing their own tails. "Take them. My life's work in trinkets."
Bennett's fingers brushed cold platinum. Each piece thrummed with spatial folds vast enough to swallow carriages. "But these are priceless—"
"Dust collectors," Aireke snapped, slamming the lid. "At 152 winters, what need have I for vaults? See them used, boy. Let my follies breathe."
The Weight of Knowledge
Hours dissolved in the workshop's amber glow. Aireke dismantled reality itself—demonstrating how Tunie Three-Legged Dragon blood could turn pig iron into adamant, why powdered Voidspore lichen neutralized mana backlash. With each revelation, Bennett's satchel grew heavier:
A vial of viscous black ichor ("Sprinkle this on armor. Let fools break their swords.")
Six crystallized Phoenix Tears ("Emergency resurrection. Don't waste them on papercuts.")
The complete skeletal remains of a juvenile Frost Wyrm ("For… ambiance.")
When the satchel's seams groaned, Aireke finally noticed the setting sun. "Off with you! I've a bone to pick with the poison-brewer downstairs." His dismissal held unexpected warmth. "Return tomorrow. We'll discuss… priorities."
The Emperor's Shadow
Twilight dyed the guild's ivory spires blood-red as Bennett exited. His mind still churned with fractal equations for mana crystallization when firelight erupted behind him.
The figure emerging from the teleportation array moved like liquid mercury—a young aristocrat in brocade so gold it hurt to behold. Platinum hair cascaded over shoulders broad enough for epics, eyes bluer than glacial crevasses.
"Bennett of House Rowling?" The stranger's smile could thaw tundras. "Chen-Augustine, seventh son of His Radiant Majesty. An honor to meet Gandolf's protégé."
Bennett's Quintessence Ring flared hot against the hidden Wucai Stone. Augustine—the imperial house. Yet here stood royalty amidst alchemical stench, unguarded, smelling faintly of jasmine and decay.
Veiled Thorns
"You're… remarkably informed, Your Highness." Bennett bowed just shy of mockery.
Chen's laugh tinkled like windchimes. "When a commoner inherits Gandolf's mantle, even princes take notice." His gaze dropped to Bennett's overloaded satchel. "Though it seems Master Aireke favors you above kings. How… curious."
The unspoken threat hung crystalline: I know what you carry.
Before Bennett could retort, Chen pressed a silk-wrapped token into his palm. "Visit the palace gardens sometime. We'll discuss… mutual interests." The cloth unfolded to reveal a lotus sigil—the Augustines' private crest.
As the prince dissolved into shadows, Bennett realized two truths:
First, his days of anonymity were over.
Second, that vial of dragon blood might prove useful sooner than expected.
Chapter 132 (Part 1): The Prince's Gambit
A Stranger in Gilded Shadows
Bennett's isolation had been his armor. While noble scions schemed in salons and sparred at galas, he'd cloistered himself with dusty tomes—a deliberate exile from the viper's nest of Imperial politics. Now, standing before this golden-haired prince, he felt the weight of his ignorance like an ill-fitted cloak.
"Chen-Augustine," the young man repeated, the name dripping with lineage. "Seventh son of His Radiant Majesty."
Seventh. Bennett's mind raced. Emperor Augustine VI, the septuagenarian whose naval campaigns bankrupted provinces for the sake of fireworks-lit parades… and this? This polished creature with eyes like glacial fractures couldn't be older than twenty. A son born when the old lion's roar had turned to wheeze.
The prince's smile widened, catching sunlight through the guild's stained glass. "You study me like an alchemical formula, Master Rowling. Does my face not match the court's gossip?"
Bennett schooled his features. "Your Highness honors me with attention. I'm but a novice—"
"Novices don't leave Master Aireke's workshop clutching living mithril saplings." The prince's gaze flicked to Bennett's satchel, where metallic leaves peeked through worn leather. "Nor do they make hermits of themselves while half the capital hungers for their favor."
The Dance of Blades and Blossoms
Alfred's arrival cut through the tension like a whetstone. The stoic swordsman materialized at Bennett's flank, hand resting lightly on his blade's pommel. His bow to the prince was textbook perfection—and utterly frigid.
"Sir Alfred!" Chen's delight rang hollow. "How fares Count Rowling's rose gardens? I hear his black tulips bloomed crimson this season. An… ominous omen, some say."
Alfred's jaw tightened. "Flowers heed no omens, Your Highness. Only the hands that tend them."
The prince laughed, airy and dangerous. "Well said! Perhaps you should advise my father's botanists. His Imperial chrysanthemums keep dying." He turned to Bennett, conspiratorial. "Terrible business. One might think the soil itself rebels."
Bennett's nape prickled. This wasn't small talk—it was a chess match, and he'd missed the opening gambit.
The Gilded Cage on Wheels
The carriage awaited like a predator in lace. Gold leaf swirled across its frame in motifs of thorns and lilies, each petal edged with frost-blue sapphires. Four stallions—purebred Southern Whites worth a barony's taxes—snorted impatiently, their silvered hooves etching the cobblestones.
But Bennett's eyes locked on the undercarriage. Miniature wind-glyphs glimmered beneath the chassis, their mana-crystal cores pulsing faintly. Aireke's designs… bastardized into royal toys.
"Admiring the suspension?" Chen purred. "Your Master Aireke refused to sell the patent. Said it 'profaned true craft.'" The prince traced a glyph with manicured nails. "I had my artisans… reverse-engineer it. Do convey my regards—and condolences."
As Bennett stepped inside, the scent of night-blooming cereus enveloped him—a cloying sweetness masking something rancid. The cushions, stuffed with phoenix down, seemed to sigh beneath him.
Silent Sentinels
They materialized like wraiths: four figures in blood-crimson robes, their high collars embroidered with wilted roses. No guild insignia adorned them—only the Augustinian crest stitched in black thread over their hearts.
Alfred's blade hissed free. "Your Highness travels with curious escorts."
"Peace, noble knight!" Chen raised a languid hand. "My Thornmages merely ensure our discourse remains… uninterrupted."
Bennett's pulse quickened. Thornmages—the Imperial House's answer to rogue sorcerers. Their magic fused blood botany and curses, rumor said. One glance at their gloved hands, veins bulging like roots under parchment skin, made the tales credible.
The prince leaned close, his whisper a serpent's caress: "You've read of the Sundering Wars, yes? How mithril turned the tide?" A chill finger brushed Bennett's satchel. "Imagine an empire where every soldier wears living armor. Where ships sail on timber that mends itself."
Bennett's throat dried. He knows about the saplings.
"Dine with me," Chen pressed. "Let us discuss… cultivation."
The Unseen Currents
Alfred's eyes screamed warnings across the carriage step. But Bennett had already slipped the trap's first snare.
As the Thornmages took formation—a living barricade of crimson—Bennett glimpsed their true purpose. Not guards. Witnesses. Whatever transpired in that gilded cage would be etched in their cursed memories, ready to spill before the throne.
The prince's laughter followed him inside, sweet as poisoned mead. "Fear not, dear Bennett. I only wish to water strange seeds. After all…" The door sealed with a sigh. "What's more thrilling than watching miracles bloom?"