Chapter 4: The Alchemist's Folly
The following dawn, Kael awoke not with dread, but with a thrumming, nervous energy that was entirely new to him. Before his eyes even fully opened, he checked the bar in his vision.
Creation Energy: 3.4
Another day, another point. The steady, reliable growth was a profound comfort, a secret wealth that was his alone. The 0.4 points he had earned from repairing Mistress Gable's cart still felt like a jolt of victory, a testament to a different kind of power—the power of impact. He was no longer just a passive recipient of this strange gift; he was an active participant in its growth. For the first time, he felt a flicker of control over his own destiny.
He went about his morning chores with a newfound focus, his movements crisp and efficient. The forge, once a symbol of his mundane future, now seemed like a laboratory, a sanctuary where he could unravel the mysteries of his abilities. He stoked the coals, the orange glow illuminating a fierce determination in his eyes. Brom watched him from across the forge, a curious expression on his weathered face.
"You've got a fire in your belly this morning, boy," the blacksmith rumbled, his voice laced with surprise. "The Ceremony seems to have… settled you. I expected more moping."
Kael's heart skipped a beat. He had to be careful. Too much change would draw suspicion. "There's no use moping, master," he said, keeping his voice even. "The stone said what it said. All I can do now is be the best blacksmith I can be."
Brom grunted, a sound of approval. "Good lad. That's the spirit. A man is made by his hands, not by some flashy light show."
The words, which would have felt like a consolation prize only two days ago, now felt like the perfect cover. Let them all think he was simply accepting his fate. Let them see a diligent, unremarkable apprentice, while in the secret theater of his mind, he was exploring the very limits of reality.
As soon as Brom left to haggle with a trader over a new shipment of iron ore, Kael secured the forge. His mind was racing. He had created a perfect tool. He had created a simple nail. He had learned that his power grew with time and with action. But what were the true limits? Could he create something other than metal and wood? Could he create something… complex? Something with properties beyond its physical form?
An idea, both thrilling and terrifying, took root. He had spent his life surrounded by the mundane and the physical. But Eldoria was a world steeped in mysticism. There were alchemists in the larger towns who brewed potions that could mend bones, grant temporary strength, or sharpen the senses. These weren't grand Awakened powers, but a science, a craft that anyone with the knowledge and ingredients could practice. Knowledge and ingredients. Two things he sorely lacked.
Or did he?
He pushed the thought of creating a potion itself from his mind. That seemed too far, too complex. But what about the instructions? The knowledge?
He stood before his anvil, the heart of his known world, and tried to conquer a new one. He closed his eyes and focused. He didn't picture an object; he pictured information. He imagined a piece of worn, slightly yellowed parchment. Upon it, written in neat, precise script, was the formula for a basic Strength Draught. It was a common enough potion, one that militia soldiers often used. He didn't know the actual recipe, but he held the idea of it in his mind with unwavering intensity. He pictured the list of ingredients, the brewing instructions, the precise temperatures and timings.
He pushed his will outwards, feeding his energy into this abstract concept. The air grew thick and heavy. This felt different from creating the hammer. It was a strain on his mind, not just his will. He felt a pressure building behind his eyes.
A soft fump sound, like a book falling flat, broke his concentration. He opened his eyes. Lying on the anvil was a roll of parchment, tied with a simple leather thong. His breath caught. He reached out with a trembling hand and untied it. It was exactly as he had imagined. The script was clear and elegant, the ink a dark, earthy brown.
Formula: Draught of Minor Strength
Ingredients:
Three leaves of Iron-leaf, crushed.
The petals of one Sun-daisy, dried.
A single, shavings-thin sliver of Ogre's Tusk.
One drop of Gryphon's Tear (as catalyst).
Instructions:
Steep the crushed Iron-leaf in…
He stopped reading, his eyes fixed on the last two ingredients. Ogre's Tusk was rare and expensive, harvested from the brutish creatures that roamed the wilder parts of the kingdom. But the last one… Gryphon's Tear. It was the stuff of legends. A single, solidified tear shed by a gryphon, said to hold a spark of the creature's own potent magic. It was a catalyst of incredible power, and impossibly rare. A single drop would be worth more than Brom's entire forge.
Kael looked at his energy bar.
Creation Energy: 1.6
The parchment of knowledge had cost him 1.8 points. Far more than the hammer. Creating pure information, it seemed, was costly. He felt a pang of disappointment. What good was a formula for a potion he could never hope to create?
But then, a new, audacious thought struck him. A thought so bold it made his head spin. If he could create the recipe, why not the ingredients themselves?
He started with the simplest. He pictured a single, metallic-sheened leaf of the Iron-leaf plant, imagining its texture, its cold touch. With a faint shimmer and a cost so small it barely registered on his bar, a perfect leaf lay on the parchment. He did it twice more. He then created the bright, yellow petals of a Sun-daisy. Success again. The energy cost for these simple, non-magical plants was minuscule. He was a farmer who needed no seeds, a botanist who needed no garden.
His confidence surged. The final, impossible ingredients remained. The Ogre's Tusk was a biological component, far more complex than a plant. He focused, picturing a thin, ivory-colored sliver. The effort was greater, the drain on his energy noticeable, but after a moment of intense concentration, the sliver appeared. It felt real, dense and slightly coarse to the touch. The cost was 0.3 points.
Now, only the Gryphon's Tear remained. The heart of the potion. The spark of magic. His energy bar was low, reading just over 1 point. This would likely take all of it, and perhaps more. He hesitated, a knot of fear and excitement tightening in his stomach. This was the true test. Could he create not just matter, not just information, but magic itself?
He poured every ounce of his focus into the task. He imagined a tiny, shimmering bead of liquid light, a teardrop that held the essence of a majestic, magical beast. He pictured the raw power contained within it. The air in the forge grew unnaturally cold. The flames in the hearth seemed to shrink away, their light dimming. He felt the energy draining from him at an alarming rate, a dizzying, hollowing sensation. The pressure in his head intensified until it was a splitting agony.
A pinprick of brilliant, silver light appeared above the parchment. It pulsed, growing into a tiny, perfect, shimmering teardrop. For a single, breathtaking moment, it hung there, radiating a palpable aura of pure magic. He had done it.
And then, with a sound like shattering glass, it exploded. The teardrop didn't just vanish; it violently disintegrated into a cloud of inert, grey dust that settled onto the parchment like fine ash. A wave of force, cold and sharp, slammed into Kael, throwing him back against a stack of barrels. His vision swam, the energy bar flashing a desperate, empty red before vanishing completely. A searing pain lanced through his skull, and the world dissolved into blackness.