Draven's breathing grew heavy, his chest heaving violently.
He stared at Allen's outstretched hand. It was slender and steady, but in his eyes, it was like a verdict proclaiming the end of an era.
In his mind, the data from countless failed experiments, precious materials burned to ash, and his mentor's disappointed gaze all intertwined with Allen's clear and methodical analysis, creating a violent storm.
He did not take that hand.
Instead, he spun around abruptly, rushed to the central laboratory's Energy Shield, and pressed his hands against it, feeling the chaotic fluctuations from within. It was the creation he had poured his heart and soul into, and it was also the shackles from which he could not escape.
"You're right..."
Draven's voice was hoarse, as if squeezed from the depths of his throat, filled with bitterness and pain.
"With every experiment, I could feel that rejection. No matter how I adjusted the formula, the fusion of the soul and the Magic Mark was only temporary, like oil on water, dispersing at the slightest touch. I thought my alchemy skills weren't good enough, that the purity of the materials was insufficient..."
His back was to Allen, his shoulders trembling slightly.
For a gambler who had wagered all his dignity and future on a single high-stakes bet, only to be told his dice had been loaded from the very beginning, all that was left to feel was an endless void.
But Draven was Draven, after all.
He wasn't some ordinary apprentice who would be completely crushed by a single blow.
A few seconds later, he took a sharp breath, and the trembling stopped.
He turned around. Though his eyes were still bloodshot, the fanatical flame within them had been replaced by a cold, cautious calculation.
"Your blueprint is very tempting, Allen Wesren."
He no longer called Allen "kid." The word was no longer fitting for the unfathomable new student before him.
"But why should I believe your 'diagnosis' isn't just more theory on paper? Why should I bet my workshop, my connections, and my last bit of capital—all of it—on you alone?"
"Talk is cheap."
Allen calmly withdrew his hand. "We can run a test."
"A test?" A cold sneer tugged at the corner of Draven's mouth. "How? Have one of your group members put on a show? How would I know it isn't something you arranged beforehand?"
"That won't be necessary."
Allen's gaze swept over the busy Alchemy Puppets and apprentices downstairs. "Right here in your workshop. Find an apprentice whom you consider your most difficult case, one your methods have completely failed to solve. Have him come up, and I'll diagnose him right in front of you."
The proposal brimmed with absolute confidence.
Draven stared at Allen, as if trying to find the slightest hint of hesitation on his face, but he failed.
Allen's expression was as calm as the surface of a bottomless lake.
"Fine!"
As if having made his decision, Draven walked to the top of the stairs and shouted down, "Roy! Get up here!"
A moment later, a sallow-faced, frail apprentice came running up.
He looked a few years older than Allen, but his energy was low and his eyes were dull. His Apprentice Robe was covered in stains that wouldn't wash out. The moment he saw Draven, a look of fear crossed his face.
"Master Draven."
"Roy," Draven said to Allen, pointing at him.
"A distant relative of mine. His total Spiritual Power is above average, but his control is a complete mess. He's been at the academy for two years and can't even form a stable Wizard's Hand."
"I've given him three 'Focus Potions' and two 'Clarity Draughts,' and even had him try a diluted version of Spark of Inspiration. The result is that now he can barely concentrate enough to enter Meditation."
Draven's words carried a hint of self-mockery. Roy was living proof of his theories' failure.
"Roy,"
Allen spoke, his voice gentle and in stark contrast to Draven's severity. "Right now, in front of us, try to form a Wizard's Hand."
Roy glanced timidly at Draven. After receiving an impatient nod, he took a deep breath and held out his right hand.
A ball of pale blue Magic Power gathered in his palm, trembling as it tried to take shape.
The magical light flickered, struggling to form the blurry outline of a hand. But after only two seconds, the "hand" collapsed into a shower of light particles, like sand scattered by the wind.
The color drained further from Roy's face.
"See?" Draven sneered.
Allen ignored him, speaking only to Roy.
"Your problem isn't a lack of Spiritual Power output. It's that you're too eager for results and have been neglecting to train the precision of your Spiritual Power. You push all of your Spiritual Power out at once, trying to forcibly mold it into the shape you want. That's like trying to carve an ice sculpture with a flood—you'll only wash it away."
He walked over to Roy's side.
"Now, close your eyes. Don't think about the shape of a 'hand.' Imagine your Spiritual Power is a single thread, not a ball of cotton. From your Sea of Consciousness, pull out just the single finest strand, and let it extend from your fingertips."
Doubtfully, Roy closed his eyes and did as Allen instructed.
Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The process was clearly very difficult for him.
"Good,"
Allen's voice was like a precise metronome.
"Now, imagine a second thread, parallel to the first, and focus on keeping the fluctuation of your Spiritual Power output within ten percent. Then a third... Don't worry about whether they will form a hand. Your only task is to arrange these 'threads' in a stable line."
Several minutes passed. A few faint yet stable strands of blue light began to appear in front of Roy's fingertips.
They were no longer wild and chaotic like before. Instead, they were like taut instrument strings, suspended quietly in the air.
Although this was still a far cry from a complete Wizard's Hand, an expression of shock and elation spread across Roy's face.
He could feel it. This was the first time he had ever truly "controlled" his own Spiritual Power.
The sneer had long since vanished from Draven's face, replaced by an expression of unconcealable gravity.
With just a few words of guidance, Allen had found the root cause and provided a solution with immediate results.
This wasn't just skill. It was insight—a terrifying ability to pierce through superficial phenomena and grasp the very essence of a problem.
"Have him practice this method for an hour every day. In a week, he'll be able to form a stable Wizard's Hand.
In two weeks, he could even try lifting a brick with it."
Allen turned back to face Draven. "The test is complete. Senior Draven, is my 'diagnosis' still just a theory on paper?"
Draven fell silent.
He looked at Roy, who was trembling with excitement, and then at Allen, who remained as calm as ever. Finally, he let out a long breath.
It was as if that single breath expelled all his pride and stubbornness.
"How do we split the profits?" he asked hoarsely.
He no longer spoke of threats or of offering protection. He had moved directly to business negotiations.
He understood now. He wasn't facing a new student in need of protection, but an equal holding the core technology.
"I provide the diagnostics, modeling, and all core solutions. That's the intellectual property."
Allen held up four fingers. "Forty percent of the profits. You provide the workshop, potions, manpower, and sales channels for the other sixty percent."
"Forty percent?"
Draven's eyes bulged. "The amount I've invested in this entire workshop is a number you can't even imagine, and you want to take nearly half the profits for just flapping your gums?"
"My 'flapping gums' are the sole source of profit for this enterprise."
Allen didn't give an inch. "Without my solutions, your workshop will only continue to produce those dead-end consumables until it's forced out of the market. Senior Draven, the foundation of our partnership is equivalent value. My value is worth forty percent."
The two stared each other down, the air thick with an invisible clash.
This was the final collision of two worldviews.
In the end, Draven backed down.
He slumped back into his chair and said wearily, "I need a trial period. In the first month, we'll collaborate on three 'custom solutions.' If the results are truly what you claim and the profits can cover my workshop's basic overhead, I will agree to your proposed split."
"Done," Allen agreed with a nod. "But all client data models can only be used for research. They cannot be leaked."
"Deal," Draven said, forcing the single word out through gritted teeth.
Allen extended his hand once more.
This time, Draven did not hesitate. He stood up and grasped Allen's hand.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Allen Wesren."
Draven's expression was complex. He looked at the young man before him as if gazing at a monster. "I hope you don't disappoint me."
Allen's grip was firm and steady. He met Draven's gaze and replied with confidence,
"You won't be disappointed, Senior. For the path that lies ahead of me, this is just the beginning."