CHAPTER 97— Alchemy city(3)
The students of Grand Aetherion continued exploring the sprawling campus of the Grand Academy of Alchemy (GAA), thoroughly overwhelmed by the breathtaking architecture and magitech surrounding them.
Naturally, a designated group of local GAA students had been assigned to guide the visitors through the grounds.
"Haha! It is an absolute honor for me to escort the elite minds of Grand Aetherion around our humble campus," their assigned guide An Alchemist student named — Timl Masau—announced, flashing an impossibly wide, blindingly cheerful grin.
Rowan, Sarina, and Ritvik stared at him with utterly deadpan expressions. The sheer intensity of his theatrical enthusiasm radiated straight past polite and landed squarely in the realm of cringe.
The GAA student cleared his throat and gestured grandly toward a towering bronze sculpture in the center of the courtyard.
"Here we have the statue of the Foundational Alchemist, Nagarjuna. He was a revered master monk who laid the blueprints for the world's very first institutionalized alchemical academy." Timl explained proudly.
Rowan narrowed his eyes, pointing an accusatory finger upward. "Why is he wearing a crown? Isn't he supposed to be a monk?"
Timl coughed nervously, adjusting his collar. "Cough—well, not all monks take vows of absolute poverty or celibacy! He was a reigning monarch who later abdicated to pursue alchemy, and he happened to be quite wealthy, which is how he funded the university's construction."
Without missing a beat, Timl herded them toward the indoor exhibition wings, stopping before a massive, aged portrait of a middle-aged man dressed in traditional robes, crowned with a stiff, flat-topped ceremonial cap adorned with hanging bead tassels.
"This is Ge Hong," Timl continued with rising passion. "He is celebrated as the first alchemist to successfully commercialize and mass-produce medicinal formulas, making vital cures widely accessible to the public. Modern pharmacology is heavily inspired by the herbal texts he documented during his travels. Rumor has it he spent his entire life desperately searching for the secret to immortality."
Rowan stared blankly at the canvas. "Okay, but what's with that bizarre hat on his head?"
Timl ignored the critique, steering them onward through the gallery until they reached the historical portrait wing, which housed the founding milestones of the city.
"And here, ladies and gentlemen, we have the legendary portrait of the founding fathers of Alchemy City."
Rowan stepped forward to inspect the canvas. Three distinct figures were rendered in a dramatic, heroic oil style.
The first man stood on the left, sporting a sharp three-piece suit, a round face, and a neatly trimmed beard.
The second man stood proudly in the center, wearing a structured military-style uniform adorned with a tiny Alchemy City flag pinned to his pocket. He sported a thick, unmistakable mustache—looking astonishingly like a younger, sharper version of the Alchemist King, Stalin Bolievia.
And then there was the third man.
Rowan's eyes sharply hitched. The third figure stood on the right, but his entire face, neck, and upper chest had been aggressively blotted out by a thick, opaque layer of black paint.
"In the background, you can see the original structure of the primitive GAA," Timl droned on, caught up in his own historical monologue.
Rowan raised his hand, pointing directly at the defaced canvas. "Hold on. Why is that guy's face completely covered in pitch black?"
Timl rubbed the back of his neck, his cheerful facade faltering for a split second.
"Ah... well, that's a bit of a long story—"
"Please keep it short," Ritvik groaned, visibly wilting as his eyes glazed over from boredom and continuous history lectures.
"Right, right. Well... the three men you see here are the three founding pillars of Alchemy City," Timl explained, gesturing broadly.
"Lenin Dansatu, Stalin Bolievia, and... Al Salvador."
He pointed a finger directly at the blackened silhouette.
"These three were the greatest alchemical masterminds of the post-magic era."
Timl declaimed, his voice swelling with dramatic flair as tiny tears of pride welled up in the corners of his eyes.
"Following the collapse of the ancient empires, the situation for alchemists worldwide was utterly critical. First, they had no unified sovereign territory. Second, almost all alchemists relied entirely on royal courts for patronage. When the Progenitor Magis dismantled those empires alongside his mages, alchemists everywhere became instantly jobless, bankrupt, and destitute."
"For years, they lived in poverty. It felt like the definitive end of alchemism as we knew it."
Timl took a theatrical breath.
"But then, three visionary alchemists emerged as a beacon of hope! They not only united scattered alchemists across the Aetheris, but they carved out a sanctuary—a city built entirely for alchemy and its practitioners. Those three heroes were Lenin Dansatu, Stalin Bolievia, and... Al Salvador."
The trio stared at him with completely unimpressed, deadpan stares.
"That," Ritvik deadpanned, "was the exact opposite of short."
"And then—" Timl turned to continue, but Rowan cut him off again by raising his hand.
"Okay, fine, but that still doesn't explain why this guy's face is painted over in black ink. If he was a founding father, why erase him?"
"Cough... yes, I was getting to that." Timl stammered defensively.
"Twenty years ago, after the city was successfully established, our alchemical research flourished under their joint protection. However, Al Salvador—one of those founding fathers—began conducting illicit, forbidden research. He started human experimentation, refused to spare even his own loyal disciples, and even worse, began desecrating the battlefield graves after the Second Grand Mage War to harvest deceased soldiers for his dark experiments."
"Ew... that is deeply repulsive," Sarina muttered, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
"Indeed! Fortunately, Lenin and Stalin discovered his atrocities and hunted him down." Timl continued, leaning in.
"Al Salvador initially escaped, but they cornered him and went to arrest him personally. A catastrophic battle erupted. Tragically, Lenin fell in combat, but Stalin managed to strike down Al Salvador, walking out of that ruined laboratory as the sole survivor. If Lord Stalin hadn't eliminated him and returned safely, Alchemy City would have collapsed into dust, and none of this magnificence would exist today."
Rowan stared at the painted face of the young Stalin, marveling at how even in a historical oil portrait from decades ago, the man still wore that same grandfatherly, warm smile.
'So this old uncle is actually a hero who saved everyone, huh?' Rowan thought.
His eyes flickered back to the blackened canvas. "Wait... is that the real reason his face is plastered all over the city?"
Timl nodded firmly. "Yes! Lord Stalin is the father of our nation. Without him, our city would never have become an independent sovereign domain."
"Oh..." Rowan stared at the portrait.
Suddenly struck by a strange sense of deja vu. He vaguely remembered seeing something eerily similar back at Grand Aetherion—the historical portrait of the First Astral Conclave hanging in the primary archive wing, where a specific founding member's face had also been brutally painted over in solid black.
The resemblance between the two censored traitors sent an odd chill down his spine.
"You're staring at it awfully intensely," the guide noted, smiling nervously. "Did you grow a sudden fondness for this historical painting?"
Rowan shook his head quickly. "No. It's just... I've seen a portrait almost identical to this one back at my own academy."
"Ah, you must mean the portrait of the First Astral Conclave," Timl sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's always tragic, isn't it? I honestly can't understand why legends gifted with such brilliance always choose to cross the line into villainy. It's truly bizarre."
Sarina glanced at the GAA student, noticing the lingering tension in his posture. "You look genuinely unsettled talking about this."
"Well, how can I not be?"
Timl lowered his voice anxiously.
"Because... Al Salvador has returned."
Rowan's breath hitched. "Didn't you just say Stalin killed him?"
"Not the original Al Salvador," Timl clarified, his expression darkening. "Before he died, Al Salvador left behind a designated successor who inherited his name. Not only that, that successor had also infiltrated and launched an assault on the GAA from inside out last year, Many Alchemist died during that sudden assault and It's not even 12 full months since that incident happened."
Rowan's expression hardened into ice at the revelation. Sensing the sudden drop in the atmosphere, Timl quickly offered an encouraging pat on Rowan's shoulder.
"Hey, no need to look so grim! The campus security grid has been upgraded tenfold, and there is zero chance any lackey of Al Salvador would dare attack GAA again while Lord Stalin is here keeping watch. So cheer up!"
With a bright, forced smile, Timl clapped his hands together. "Now then! Let us move along to the advanced kinetic synthesis wings, shall we?"
---
Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the campus quad, Master Orven was marching at a brisk, determined pace. A heavy duffel bag was slung over his shoulder, and his face was twisted in a desperate attempt to look casual while internally vibrating with excitement.
'I can't wait to show the Alchemist King this rune sample.' Orven thought frantically.
'Why is his office complex a mile away?!'
Thawck—!
Lost in his rapid stride, Orven slammed his shoulder directly into an oncoming pedestrian.
"Oops~ Sorry please give some way."
Orven didn't even bother stopping to apologize. He muttered an angry curse under his breath and kept walking, only to freeze dead in his tracks two steps later as his brain registered the voice and appearance of the person he had just collided with.
Slowly, Orven turned around.
Standing right behind him, wearing his absurdly fake deerstalker hat and Inverness cape, was none other than the secret operative.
"Oh, hello there, Master Orven," Pratik greeted with a bright, obnoxious grin, flanked closely by an exhausted-looking Aoi.
Orven's eyes went wide, his face contorting into an awkward grimace. "...Officer Pratik Jha? What are you doing here?"
Orven's eyes scanned Pratik from head to toe, looking at the exaggerated Detective outfit.
"What's with this ridiculous outfit?"
"Oh, this old thing?" Pratik chuckled, smoothing down his cape. "You don't need to call me 'officer' though, Master Orven— I'm technically retired anyway. Besides, I'm just dabbling in local theater arts. Method acting for a drama, you know, living out my passion."
"Hah... hahaha."
"Hahahahaha."
Both men exchanged an intensely forced, highly artificial round of laughter. Aoi stood a foot away, staring at their bizarre exchange with dull, dead eyes.
'Hah.. Fuck! Why on earth do I have to cross paths with this lunatic out of everyone in the entire City?!' Orven screamed in absolute internal agony, while plastering what he hoped was a natural, friendly smile on his face.
'And what did he just said theatre? Performing in a drama? Who does this clown think he's fooling?'
"Ok so, nice catching up, Officer Pratik, now I would —"
"What's that weird thing sticking out of your pocket?"
Panic seized Orven's chest. He slapped his hand violently over his pocket to secure the confidential rune sample, only to realize half a second later that his pocket was completely empty.
Orven stared at Pratik with wide, hollow eyes of pure, generation betrayal.
"Hahaha! You totally fell for it, Master Orven!" Pratik burst out laughing, clapping a heavy hand against the master smith's rigid shoulder. "Gotcha! Classic misdirection, just a little prank—agh—!"
Before Pratik could finish his sentence, Aoi's hand shot out like a lightning bolt, grabbing his ear and twisting it downward with ruthless, practiced precision.
"Ow! Ow, ow, Aoi! Have some respect for your superior in public!" Pratik yelped, stumbling sideways.
Orven stood completely paralyzed like a stone statue, staring at the squabbling duo with dead eyes.
'This bastard... I swear I'm going to forge a special sword just to throw it at his head someday.'
"My sincerest apologies, Master Orven. Please, continue on your way," Aoi said flatly, maintaining her polite bow while keeping a death grip on Pratik's ear.
Orven blinked rapidly, recovering his motor functions. "Right. Well then, I'll take my leave."
He gave a stiff, mechanical wave and practically bolted down the pathway, clutching his duffel bag tightly against his chest.
Aoi watched him leave before turning her gaze back to the wincing man beside her.
"Focus. When are you actually going to start taking our task seriously?"
"Keep it going," Pratik whispered, his tone suddenly dropping it's playful cadence.
Aoi blinked in confusion. "What?"
"Keep chewing me out, but listen close," Pratik murmured under his breath, leaning in slightly. "I pointed at an empty pocket, and he panicked and clutched his side like he was guarding crown jewels. That proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's carrying something classified in that duffel bag."
"How can you possibly be that certain from a simple reflex?" Aoi whispered back, keeping up the performance of an exasperated junior agent by scolding him with hand gestures.
"Oh, come on, Aoi. Even after being with me for 2 years, you still doubt my intelligence? Watch this—just keep up the act and keep your eyes on him. If he's carrying contraband, guilty conscience will make him look back over his shoulder within ten seconds."
"Come on you have to act like a senior if you claim to be one." Aoi snapped aloud for the benefit of any onlookers, while secretly casting a sharp, analytical glance out of the corner of her eye.
True to Pratik's prediction, Orven was power-walking at an Olympic pace, desperate to vanish around the corner.
But just as he reached the edge of the pavilion, paranoia won out—he nervously glanced backward over his shoulder for a fraction of a second before scrambling out of sight.
Aoi stood frozen, still holding Pratik's ear between her fingers. Pratik looked up at her, wearing a smug, triumphant smile that clearly said, told you so.
---
CHAPTER ENDS