After my lessons with Master Orion, I began to see the world differently. Everything seemed connected — people, stars, thoughts, even the air I breathed. But knowledge of destiny also stirred new questions in me: What is life really made of? And when it ends, where does it go?
Elder Aarion must have sensed my confusion, for one morning, he said, "You have understood the stars above, Mukul. Now, it is time to understand the body that carries them."
He sent me to the northern gorge, where warm springs ran between black stone cliffs. The air smelt faintly metallic, like herbs and smoke. The water glowed light green, as if infused with life itself.
And there, sitting beside a steaming pool, surrounded by bottles, scrolls, and strange glowing liquids, was a man who looked both like a scientist and a sage.
He had long black hair tied high, with a few thin silver streaks that caught the light. His sharp, handsome face carried years of wisdom behind a constant half-smile. His robe was white, but the sleeves were stained with colours—blue, green, and gold from mixing unknown elements. A faint scent of herbs, ash, and something sweet surrounded him.
When he looked up, his eyes shone golden, like twin suns captured in human form.
"You must be the boy marked by the Seven Stars," he said in a deep, mellow voice. "I have been expecting you."
Elder Aarion bowed respectfully. "This is Master Lysander Veris, the Alchemist of Life and Death. Once renowned as the greatest healer, scientist, and biologist across realms, his discoveries merged the impossible—turning sickness into strength and death into understanding."
Lysander stood and bowed slightly. "Titles are heavy, Aarion. I prefer just 'teacher'." Then his gaze shifted toward me. "You will not only learn healing from me, Mukul, but also how to understand death without fear."
His words made my heart skip. Death — the one thing I didn't want to think about since I lost my mother in that terrifying attack.
He sensed my unease. "Don't fear it," he said softly. "Death is not an ending, merely a door. I will teach you to knock before you step through it."
And thus began my long days under Master Lysander.
His laboratory was unlike anything I had ever seen. Ancient scrolls and modern tablets lay side by side. Mortars filled with glowing herbs rested beside digital microscopes powered by faint crystals. Bottled light floated across the ceiling like fireflies.
"The ancients learnt from nature," he told me. "Moderns learn from logic. Combine both, and you will never lose a patient again."
Each morning, I ground herbs until my hands turned green, memorised the effects of thousands of plants, and mixed potions that changed colour when stirred clockwise or anticlockwise. "In nature," he said, "movement decides meaning."
He taught me Ayuric Synthesis, the art of combining herbal energies through pulse resonance. He said every plant carried an elemental song—earth, fire, wind, or water—and proper rhythm could unlock new compounds that modern science could never replicate.
Then came the modern side. Lysander introduced machines that could shape cells using light — technology beyond anything human civilisations had yet built. " This, he explained, as he adjusted glowing panels, "is what your world will call biotech energy reconstruction. A man with this knowledge could rebuild nerves… or destroy them."
He looked at me intently. "That is why a healer must have stronger morals than a king."
His lessons were challenging but beautiful. Some days, he made me dissect small samples of rare creatures to trace energy flow in living tissue. Other days, he made me brew tonics that glowed when my thoughts were calm — if they turned dark, the potion spoilt instantly.
"Medicine listens," he said often. "The healer's mind changes the cure's purpose."
One day, I asked him quietly, "Master… Why are you here, on this island, if the world needs you so much?"
He stopped stirring his flask, his golden eyes dimming. "Because once, the world needed someone else more — and I couldn't save her."
He didn't say who. Maybe a friend, maybe someone dearer. He set the flask down gently. "I spent years building miracles, but when I failed once, I stopped believing I had the right to continue. So I came here to learn to forgive myself."
That day, he taught me Rebirth Pulse, his most sacred technique. A fusion of ancient spiritual breathing and modern electric field therapy, it reactivated fading organs by channelling life energy directly from the healer's aura.
I practised tirelessly on wounded animals near the springs, guiding warmth from my palms into their wounds until they stirred back to life. Each success lit something within me — a quiet joy unlike any praise could give.
But one evening, a test came. A small bird fell from the cliffs, broken and lifeless. I carried it to him with trembling hands and asked, "Can we save it?"
He shook his head slowly. "No. The line between life and death is not ours to rewrite endlessly."
I didn't understand—not until he added, "A true healer knows when to stop trying. To let go with grace is also healing."
Then he knelt beside the bird, placed two fingers over its heart, whispered a prayer, and released a faint light that turned the small body into golden dust, returning it to the wind.
He looked at me and said, "Life is precious because it ends. Your duty is not to fight death, but to make every moment before it count."
His final gift to me was an armband forged of silver threads and roots intertwined. "This will read your heartbeat and remind you when it quickens without reason. A healer's calm is their strongest medicine."
Before I left, he said softly, "Remember, Mukul—to protect life, you must not fear death. Learn its rhythm, and you will never be ruled by it."
As I walked away from the northern gorge, the wind carried the scent of herbs mixed with something brighter — wisdom. I understood now that healing wasn't just about saving lives. It was about respecting them, even in their last breath.
And that was how I met Lysander Veris – the Alchemist of Life and Death, the master who taught me that medicine is not only a skill but understanding; that to truly heal, one must first see how fragile, and how sacred, life truly is.