067 Teresa’s Curiosity and Initiative

Alchemy is a wondrous discipline. Through its mysteries, things seemingly unrelated can be fused together, giving birth to something wholly new and unique, passed down through the ages, making it an extraordinarily intricate field of study. There are countless branches accepted as orthodox, and just as many left unrecognized. We habitually refer to those doctrines and principles unacknowledged by scholarly circles as “mystic arts.” Not all “mystic arts” are unfathomable or devoid of rules; rather, their controllability simply falls short of the standards of formal alchemy. Of course, many such arts forever drift beyond the limits of human understanding—or, should you venture to the Orcish Alliance, Dwarven Tribes, or the Realm of Nature, you may be astonished to find that things deemed inexplicable by humankind are worshipped as truth by others…
—Excerpt from “Theresa’s Alchemical Notes”

Before Pedia lay a report, its contents scant—one might even say pitifully so, for it bore only a single name: a long, cumbersome name clearly belonging to an ancient noble lineage. Pedia studied the first and last letters, signifying the given and family names respectively. Whether due to the lamplight or other cause, an uncharacteristic gloom shadowed his usually impassive face.

Benjamin Carman—a notorious scoundrel, who, from the moment he could reason, had never done a thing worthy of praise. Oh, one must admit, he was at least clever; though a wastrel, he acquitted himself well in all the education and trials expected of a scion of the great houses. This earned him favor among his elders, who thus indulged his recklessness beyond the family’s walls.

That such a disreputable character would set his sights on his beloved sister was an outrage to Pedia—a feeling akin to having his own kin defiled. In the thickening silence, this resentment fermented within him… Yet what vexed him more was the reason Benjamin had taken an interest in Theresa.

“Hey, little one. Don’t wear such a long face.” A rough, burly man shoved a cup of liquor into his hand with a laugh. “It’s just a girl’s curiosity—nothing serious. You were younger than her when you first came here, weren’t you?”

His words earned only a cold glare from Pedia—though, given their difference in age and status, the glare seemed tinged with childish petulance.

The middle-aged man only laughed, sprawling into a soft sofa, limbs spread wide, wild but at ease. “Still, her dancing is truly remarkable. Why did none of you ever mention it? You should’ve seen her—so poised, so alluring! She hardly seemed twelve—twenty would have been more believable. At that age, such charm… No wonder the Carman wastrel took notice.”

The man’s effusive praise only deepened the shadow in Pedia’s gaze. Turning the glass in his hand, he sipped before finally speaking. “I hear Benjamin has been rather close to Nansy lately?”

“Indeed. The boy’s generous,” the man replied with a chuckle. “No sooner had they become involved than he paid off all her debts for her. Of course, he’s cunning—kept the debt rights in his own hands.”

Pedia’s brow arched. “So Nansy’s creditor has shifted from me to Benjamin Carman?”

The man raised his glass, confirming the fact.

Pedia was silent for several seconds, then let out a derisive laugh. “She brought this hardship upon herself. I’d thought to let the matter rest if she left the academy—but it seems even the gods themselves frown upon her now.”

With that, Pedia drained the amber liquor in a single gulp. He pressed a palm to the sheet of paper, and with a surge of inner force, the report was reduced to powder, which scattered on the air as he lifted his hand—drink finished, report destroyed. Only then did he rise and nod a brief farewell to the older man before leaving the room.

Stepping through the great doors into the sunlight, Pedia looked up at the clear sky and exhaled softly—not with any negative emotion, but in the pure relief of having everything once more under his control.

☆☆☆

In the bright, spotless library, Theresa was once again buried in her studies—since Mufei had departed for the Realm of Nature, she had found herself alone more often than not. On this day, the tome before her was so massive she was forced to heave it onto the reading desk and leaf through it slowly. The book was of unmistakable antiquity and mysterious origin, nearly the size of half the desk. When opened, it covered almost the whole surface, leaving only the barest border exposed.

Its cover was of alloy, icy cold to the touch, yet somehow possessed a peculiar, plush sensation—like stroking the fur of some short-haired beast. Each page glimmered with a metallic sheen, yet was as soft as silk; the deep-blue, gold-tinged script seemed to bear mineral grains to the touch—the ink doubtless compounded from rare minerals, or else the writing would have eroded with time.

Who, she wondered, would use such a strange and precious book to record “mystic arts” that, to orthodox alchemists, were little more than “heretical”? Both book and ink were clearly of the highest quality!

While inwardly cursing the scribe’s prodigality, Theresa swiftly sought out the information she needed.

“…Ancient and mysterious exorcism rituals are often performed in shadowy corners—a circle of shamans, bodies covered with bizarre totems, dance around a fire in twisted, uncanny movements, chanting words no one understands. Some merely play at mysticism, others act in earnest… Soak in the purest dissolving water, cleanse with the bravest blood, boil with the strongest bones. When all the aged fermented rice has turned to a viscous white gel, pour it upon the polluted object—curses recede, evil spirits depart. Smear it upon oneself to ward off possession…”

Her finger traced the uneven page, feeling the subtle ridges beneath her skin. Theresa could not help but feel deep skepticism toward such “mystic arts.” The passage was rife with mysticism: shamans, “the purest,” “the bravest”—such utterly unquantifiable terms chafed against her rational mind.

Alchemy had a strict system. In it, success depended closely on precise, decisive, and swift operations—yet however precise one was, nothing could be done with the unmeasurable. What was “purest”? What did it mean to be “bravest”? Beyond every person, there was always someone stronger—who could claim to be the “most” brave?

Moreover, this “mystic art” used only water, blood, bone, and aged rice; there was no trace of magical elements to catalyze the rice’s alchemical reaction. No wonder Theresa doubted it so much. Nevertheless, doubts aside, she would record and experiment all the same—facts spoke louder than words.

…

As a competent, even outstanding alchemist, curiosity and initiative were indispensable companions, and Theresa was no exception. After consulting seven or eight books on “mystic arts” and seeking out half a dozen strange rituals involving aged rice, she set about studying them one by one. For some reason, she felt an unexpected anxiety regarding Baman’s actions and the needs of the Northwest Front—anxiety so strong it was as if something were knocking incessantly at her heart.

She had to admit, this unease was much like what she had once felt in a certain ancient elven “tomb” sealed with a “binding spell”—uncannily similar.

…

In the old house’s alchemy chamber, all manner of odd objects—none looking much like alchemical ingredients—were arranged. Theresa tested and retested, dismissing each “mystic art” she had copied down, one after another, until finally a small bowl of white, gelatinous substance, boiled from reinforced ice wolf bone, began to take shape. Despite herself, Theresa wrinkled her nose—the stuff smelled truly foul…

Elsewhere in the house, in a hidden corner, Mu watched with a faint smile as the water mirror reflected Theresa’s every move… Only when she saw Theresa carefully scrape the milky “gel” into a crystal bowl for safekeeping did Mu raise an eyebrow in surprise. “No effect at all? Now, that’s interesting…”

☆☆☆

Three items rested by Carol’s hand, each a source of vexation. First, an invitation from the military—summoning him to participate in a “critical, challenging, and profoundly impactful” research project. Second, a report attached to the invitation, detailing every anomaly at the Northwest Front in recent times. The last was from his pupil—one who made him both proud and exasperated—Theresa Bolger.

In the crystal bowl, the milky “gel” reflected a faint golden light, trembling minutely with the slightest disturbance of the desk. Beside it lay a perfectly composed experimental report, recording with rigor and clarity every step and outcome of Theresa’s “mystic art” experiment. Any alchemy apprentice could reproduce her process from this model report.

But what troubled Carol was not the report’s quality, nor the “gel” submitted for his inspection and guidance—but the web of tangled affairs lurking behind it. Troublesome affairs, indeed—major ones…

(To be continued)