Chapter Twelve: Farewell to a Life Lost

On nights when there is work to be done, time always passes exceptionally quickly. By the time I once again stood before the door of the alchemist Edgewell, dawn had already broken.

I lingered for a long while at the foot of his building—this madman, obsessed with alchemical research, possessed enough intelligence to frequently create terrifying, violent explosions, and, as I had learned from deep personal experience, miraculously survive each earth-shattering accident. It was hard not to be apprehensive about meeting him.

But my concerns were soon dispelled. Just as I hesitated, another massive explosion erupted from the rooftop. Only when the aftershocks had fully faded did I finally muster the courage to ascend the stairs—experience had taught me that the moments immediately following an explosion were the safest, for it always took some effort and time to cause such a commotion.

At the top of the stairs, as I expected, I found Mr. Edgewell, his face blackened, looking utterly disheveled.

“Oh, you’ve brought them! That certainly saves me a lot of trouble. You know, those big rats with wings are a real nuisance, and they never brush their teeth…” Tossing the pouch filled with quartzite jade before him, he fished out a piece and, turning it in the light, chattered on delightedly, “…Wait just a moment, this won’t take long.”

He tossed three or four chunks of ore into a barrel-shaped metal vessel, added assorted powders and liquids, and then set the container atop a particularly large furnace. The furnace was clearly enchanted with some special magic, for the flames it spewed were not the vivid red and yellow one would expect, but a blue-white fire, strangely spectral. Though the blue flames were not especially fierce, they seemed to hold an unusually intense energy—even as I stood at the stairway, a wave of heat washed over me.

Just as I considered taking some precautions against a potentially spectacular explosion, droplets of crimson liquid slowly began to trickle from a pipe at the side of the vessel, collecting in a mold that Edgewell had prepared in advance. The liquid was clear and crystalline, like the tears of a newborn phoenix rising from immortal fire—a dazzling beauty that was almost intoxicating.

Soon, the molten liquid cooled, shedding its fiery hue and solidifying into irregular, transparent granules within the mold. Yes, “transparent”—I had never before seen a solid so flawlessly clear, purer even than ice or snow—though, come to think of it, I had never actually seen ice or snow, but somehow I just knew what they must be like. It was as if the soul of water had congealed, or a dream had taken tangible form, blending seamlessly with everything around it, making one question its very existence.

Oblivious to my amazement, Edgewell picked up a slender metal tube with a slot, deftly and gently inlaid the transparent slivers, and inserted it into the nearby device.

“Take this to Elder, and let’s hope he hasn’t grown too impatient…” With that, Edgewell pointed to the completed instrument. “…Thank you for bringing me the quartzite jade. Whatever is left, I can put to other uses. As your reward, you have my gratitude.”

He placed five silver coins in my hand, and at the same time, my soul power increased by two hundred points.

“If you acquire more quartzite jade, bring it to me, and you’ll be well compensated…” he added, “…And if you wish to learn the secrets of alchemy, you may come to me. However, my tuition is not cheap.”

“I want to learn alchemy!” I responded hastily. The wonders I had just witnessed left me deeply shaken; the ragged, middle-aged man before me suddenly seemed immensely impressive. The miracles he could create were far more than mere grand-scale, controlled explosions.

“Two gold coins, and I’ll teach you some basic beginner techniques,” he said, extending his hand.

“That’s too expensive! It’s just throwing things into a pot to cook, and Aunt Fettel, the cook who teaches culinary arts, charges only four silver coins,” I bargained, my mercenary instincts kicking in.

“One gold and ninety silver,” Edgewell replied, reducing the price according to the five percent standard for human “haggling.”

Though the price had dropped, even so, not even if I sold everything I owned—including my last pair of underpants—could I scrape together a fraction of that exorbitant tuition. No wonder some Voidspeakers would bitterly complain in private that “education is a profiteering business.” This painful lesson gave me a deeper understanding of the phrase “knowledge is money”:

Knowledge is not just money—it’s “a lot, a lot of money.”

Noticing my indecision, Edgewell seemed to guess the reason. He waved his hand dismissively and said, “Come back when you actually have the money. Alchemy isn’t for paupers.”

With my material poverty so acute, I had no choice but to temporarily abandon my pursuit of alchemy. I packed the blood analyzer into my magic satchel and left Edgewell’s house. As I reached the door, another explosion thundered from upstairs, as expected. Although I knew such blasts were only enough to dust off that bomb-crazed money-grubber, hearing his shrieks still gave me a wicked sense of vengeful satisfaction.

I delivered the blood analyzer to Elder the apothecary, who immediately set to work. He poured the green blood into a clear vessel, dripped in two drops of pale purple liquid from a tiny vial, placed it in the analyzer, and pressed a button. The analyzer emitted a gentle hum. When it fell silent again, Elder peered through the transparent crystal lens Edgewell had crafted, making small adjustments.

“Hm, so that’s how it is… Very interesting…” I had no idea what he found so captivating, but he nodded intently and took notes with great interest. My curiosity piqued, I stole a glance at the “blood analyzer” while he was busy writing. Through the crystal, I saw fuzzy little particles wriggling restlessly in the violet potion, occasionally dividing in two to become identical pairs. Disgusting as they looked, I guessed these tiny creatures came from the green blood, simply too small for the naked eye to see. This analyzer—or rather, the crystal lenses inside—magnified them a hundredfold, making them visible to us.

After a short while, Elder stood up, smacked his lips, and said:

“This blood contains a unique active hormone that causes ordinary beasts to mutate and become even more ferocious. I believe it’s artificially made; I’ve never heard of such a thing. Judging by its components and color, it seems more like something produced by the undead and demons of the Withered Lands. I don’t know what this means, but caution is always wise. You’d best warn Gerard to prepare.”

With that, he returned behind the counter, awaiting his customers.

The Withered Lands? Elder’s answer startled me. Never had I imagined that an ordinary stray dog could be connected to such a dangerous and infamous name.

It’s said that some two hundred years ago, the map of the Farvi Continent was far larger than it is today. Back then, what is now half the territory along the Comet Coast, belonging to the Kingdom of Montica, was merely a landlocked nation without access to the sea.

Perhaps the continent’s prosperity attracted the envy of demons, or perhaps the arrogance of the people provoked the gods’ punishment. Whatever the reason, one day a rift in space suddenly opened above Farvi—a gateway to terror, destruction, and annihilation. Endless hordes of savage invaders, led by their ruler—the apocalyptic King “Heartbreaker” Dalenthil from another world—poured through the rift and set foot on the continent. Like a plague of locusts, these bloodthirsty fiends sowed the seeds of war and obliteration in every corner, devouring all before them.

It became a battle for survival across the entire plane, thrusting every race and every life into the frontlines of carnage and resistance. Humans, dwarves, elves, minotaurs, half-orcs—the peoples of Farvi united as never before to face a common enemy. In this war, every soul was a warrior; none could remain mere bystanders.

Though the continental races fought valiantly, they could not withstand the invaders’ calculated campaign. Their weapons shrouded the sun, their armies swept over the land like tides, and none could withstand their banner of annihilation. Those who resisted were either utterly destroyed or broken by terror into servitude, turning on their former allies. Soon, the apocalyptic King’s armies took hold of nearly half the continent, and their conquest continued to erode the remaining free lands. Despair hung over the land, and the surviving peoples were on the verge of abandoning hope, making their last stand not for life, but for dignity.

Then, one day, hope dawned for the oppressed. Dedotan—the great mage known to later generations as the “Guardian of the Skies”—sacrificed his own life to cast a godlike spell: “The Devouring Gate.” He reversed the rift’s flow, transforming the portal into a black hole that consumed all matter. The Heartbreaker Dalenthil, his armies, and the territory they had seized were swallowed whole, vanishing without a trace. No one knows where they were taken or what fate befell them.

Since then, the continent took its present shape. The land once ruled by the apocalyptic King, then devoured by the black hole, became known as the “Withered Lands.”

That was more than two centuries ago. Though I knew the tale well, I had always thought it more legend than history. But now, someone was telling me that traces of that story might have resurfaced—and that my actions were somehow entwined with it. How could I not be shocked?

I immediately reported the news to Sheriff Gerard. He clearly grasped the gravity of the situation and said to me,

“Let’s hope this is just a false alarm. If it’s true, we’ll have serious trouble. Still, thank you for your help, young warrior. Please accept this as your reward.”

He placed a cloak in my hands—a “City Guard Officer’s Cloak” that increased both my defense and agility by two points. At the same time, my soul power surged again, a white light rising from my feet and coursing through my body. Completing this task earned me another five hundred points, enough to reach level six at last.

This time, Gerard did not return to his desk but watched me expectantly, as if on the verge of saying more. I ventured, “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“It’s a report on the Kaplan Beast Incident…” Sure enough, he produced an envelope sealed with red wax. “…I’d like you to deliver this to Colonel Pecra at Valen Fortress as soon as possible, and request that he send someone to investigate.”

When had he found time to write the report? I had only just handed over Elder’s analysis, and he hadn’t written a word in my presence. Puzzled but obedient, I accepted the envelope and the commission.

I had no intention of completing this task right away, for I had no idea where Valen Fortress lay, nor what dangers might await along the way. I doubted I’d have the same luck as Niu Baiwan, who crossed mountains and survived countless perils shirtless and alone. Travelers like him are one of a kind, and I had no desire to become the second to pull such a reckless stunt.

Wherever my path led, it was always wise to accumulate strength and raise my level; moreover, despite the prohibitive cost, I had not abandoned my desire to study alchemy. For these reasons, I chose to remain in Campnavia City, taking on every job I could to earn more rewards.

The next three days were busy and fulfilling as I dashed through every street and alley of Campnavia, helping those in need overcome their troubles. As I had long known, I delivered Pierre the innkeeper’s error-ridden love letters, fetched new stone for Dacra the tombstone carver from the ruined temple, collected debts from Baron Potter’s tenant farmers, and searched for candied hawthorns to restore the innkeeper’s sister’s appetite. From my earliest memories, these mundane errands seemed to happen every day—and everyone seemed to have them.

Pierre’s writing skills, like his love life, never improved; the poor tenant farmers never managed to pay off their debts to Baron Potter. It was as if time itself reflected back, endlessly repeating these cycles. I used to find it wearisome. Yet, gradually, I saw another side of life within it—a peaceful, genuine side:

Once, I was a distant observer of such trivialities. Now, I too was swept up in them, tasting the quiet emotion they contained. Perhaps, the endless little tasks of life are destined to become an unavoidable part of everyone’s existence—no matter how proud or wild you are in youth, one day you’ll be surrounded by the messiness of daily living, yielding willingly to life’s captivity.

No one’s life is filled entirely with legend. However great you may be, most of your days will be spent on the most ordinary matters. In the pursuit of passion and glory, sometimes we must pause and pay attention to these subtle, gentle feelings—they may not set the blood alight, but they carry a different warmth.

I did not forget the wager I had made with my partner—“City Gate Guard Fred Guderian.” Under cover of night, I stole the piece of “ironwood” from Old Rama’s house, helping the man who had replaced me as gate guard win his little bet.

When all was done, I saw that guard—who so resembled me—wear a triumphant smile.

It was a simple, almost foolish smile, holding within it the authenticity of life I had lost forever.