Starlit Ridge, Warringstum.
Victor · Rail sat alone in the tossing carriage as it maneuvered across the narrow rocky valley between the high cliffs of Starlit Ridge. It was the type of valley that a river used to flow through but gradually dried off with time, you could see it from the typical V-shape feature formed by years of rushing water that cut into the soft bare ground as it washed away layers of mud.
The landscape is ephemeral compared to the eternity of time itself, the only thing that does not change and fade with time is the fact that everything does. You cannot see ethereal mountains bore into the sky from low plains, but you do see time take away your acquaintances, thought Victor.
This line of thought does not usually occur in the disturbed turbid mind of a child of ten, but it so happens that Victor had lost the person whom he revered and feared at the same time all his ten years of life.
He was lucky enough to be beside his father's deathbed in the final hour. The mission school gave him a week to see and, to imminently morn his father.
He was not a typical little boy who would be scared and confused, in fact, he had not felt a shred of grief at his father's decease. Perhaps it was because he did not yet understand what it was like to be sad, or perhaps he was born that way, without empathy, and could relate to nobody.
His father, Capewell · Rail was an eccentric alchemist who would venture into faraway places for strange ingredients, at least, that was what he claimed to be doing. Every time Capewell return from an expedition, he would give Victor a strange potion. Victor did not like the look of these potions, but he would obey Capewell's commands and swallow the evil liquid with difficulty. After that, he would pass out for a day or so. And when he woke up, he would see Capewell looking visibly older than before.
In Carving town, the place where he lived all his life, everyone would come to the church and listen to an old man with white beard rant on and on for hours about someone very special, they would call this person, The Lord. Capewell never attended these sessions but allowed Victor to go with the mob. The weekly meeting in the church hall seemed to be very important to the people of the town, and according to Victor's observations, the town's people despised Capewell for not being there. But the hatred towards Capewell did not, thankfully, pass on to his son. He also observed that people came to church as families, and one important element of a family was the mistress, the kids would call their mistress "mother", and the master of the families would call them "honey", or "dear". But he had no mistress, he inquired about this phenomenon to Capewell but only got clobbered, so he decided that this was a major deficiency of Capewell's and it would be better for him to not mention it ever again.
For the first few years of his life that his memory permitted access, his routine was quite fixed, he would go to the mission school, finish the day's work and play with the others in the red mud typical of southern villages until dawn. And this code of action would have continued if not for the special event that happened when he was six.
The root cause of this was a girl whose name he had forgotten, she had asked him in mission school.
"What's your mother like? Is she also a heretic like your father?"
He had developed the simple notion that heretic meant bad or evil. And if you act normal like the others, you won't be called heretic, and people won't mind what you do.
"I don't have a mother." he replied.
"Everyone does!" said the girl.
"I don't!" he insisted.
"Everyone has a mother, you must have had one too." concluded the girl.
Victor was shaken, he had believed that he had no mother, but the girl was so sure he did that he became uncertain himself.
A growing doubt occupied his happy-go-lucky little head.
Did he have a mother? Was she a heretic?
He picked a night when Capewell seemed particularly happy to bring up the matter.
Capewell ignored the first question but became alarmed when he heard the second.
He squinted at Victor as if he had just realized for the first time in his life that he actually had a son.
"How old are you, Victor?" He asked, after a while.
"Six." said Victor.
"Six." sighed Capewell in a long drawn-out voice.
"Six." Victor confirmed.
"Six." said Capewell, brow furrowed as if he finally understood the unmitigated magnitude of this special age.
"Who taught you this word 'heretic'?" asked Capewell.
Before Victor could reply he answered himself, "That fucking idiot of the The Feu Mob, huh."
"It's The Church, father." said Victor automatically, "Feu Mob" was Capewell's term for the Church.
"No Victor, we must know things by their real name, but still mingle with these idiots to harness them." chuckled Capewell. "Let me show you something, before it's too late." Victor couldn't quite understand what Capewell was talking about, he was still too young too slow to follow, and the woolly mission school and the monotonous southern diet did not help improve his intellectual development, but he nodded in unapprehensive agreement.
Capewell had his back towards him and did not see his reaction, he just mumbled something under his breath, "Almost forgot...Thank goodness..."
He took Victor into his reading room and showed him a strange graph lying on his desk, it was not like a blueprint or a mind map of any kind, there were hieroglyphic markings gleaming in the corners, and series of smooth curves that crossed each other, looped in places and converged into nodes.
Victor could only marvel at the complexity and chaos of it, chaotic though it seemed, it was nonetheless, beautiful, harmonic, like art.
"What is this?" asked Victor.
"A mapping." said Capewell with hidden glee. "An alchemy mapping."
And that was start of Capewell's monthly expedition. Victor would attend the mission school during the day and learn strange things in the category of Alchemy from Capewell deep into the night.
He found himself confounded yet mesmerized by Alchemy, and would beg Capewell to teach him him even more.
The application of Alchemy was considered the highest form of profanity and was therefore strictly banned in Warringstum and Capewell refrained from teaching him the practical use of Alchemy for fear that he would be discovered when trying it out, Capewell did taught him the theory of Alchemy, however and gradually gave meanings to the graphs he was taught to learn.
There was conjugation, endomorphism, bijection, homotopy, symbols and equations that could succinctly denote the wiggling graphs.
Capewell led him into the wild abyss of an entirely unknown category, algebraic integers, modules, functors...things he could never had imagined existed.
The days of learning was pleasant and full of joy for him, the only thing he detested was potions. He would be downcast and gloomy for days after waking up from the stupor of each dose but would feel more connected and lively after the recovery.
During those weak periods, Capewell taught him other things, things beyond the wildest dreams of a boy brought up in Carving town.
That somewhere in the Lutski mountain ranges there were high winds that could carry people and send them to places thousands of miles away with its sheer might.
That in the northern Empire green and purple light would sometimes light up the night sky and cast its mysterious colors down onto the snowy tundra.
That people in the eastern islands could learn to fly standing on their magical swords.
That there are seven Lords parallel in position to the High Lord Feu, that people in other places worship the Lord Pangu, Lord Leau, Lord Mona, Lord Ciel, the Cardian of North, the Baratheon of the far South.
"Does this Baratheon have something to do with our Barats?" asked Victor.
"Yes, the currency of all the empires in all four continents are the same, the Barats, this uniformity was reached in the old days when the Lords would still speak to men."
"And about them, Victor, You don't worship anyone of these damn Lords, pretend to worship anyone of them when they could come in handy. But there is one, one Lord above all else that you must believe." said Capewell in one of his nightly sessions.
"Who?" asked Victor.
"Finale." said Capewell solemnly.
"Finale will come for everyone eventually, nobody can defy her, not even the Lords, Finale will come for them, too, one day. She will come for you and me, she will tell you it's to time to rest and take you to Carlando."
"Finale is always just, and that's why she will always be."
"Carlando?" asked Victor.
"Yes, Carlando. Carlando is nowhere to be found but also omnipresent." said Capewell, his eyes suddenly glistening with tears as he gazed deeply into the obscene drawing of the half-elf new waitress of the bar with nothing on tagged onto the wall, he drew this himself after days of intense observation and calculation to get the correct numbers for her build, he even suspended Victors lessons for that purpose.
The years passed quickly. Capewell taught Victor everything he knew, but he aged unnaturally quickly, and had grey hair at only thirty-three.
"Take the rucksack under the floorboard beneath the bed in the reading room, scrounge every hole between the bricks of the house 'cause I forgot where I put the money. Go to Starlit Academy, you'll learn nothing from these idiots in Carving Town. Show them the letter in the rucksack and they'll accept you." said Capewell and he closed his eyes.
He looked so tranquil that Victor thought Finale had already taken him and was about to leave and prepare for the funeral before Capewell suddenly opened his grubby old eyes and said.
"Oh, almost forgot, your mother, her name is... eh...Can't recall, doesn't matter, I guess she loved you and yes, she must have been a heretic like me."
He died right after he finished. Victor checked his breath and pulse to make sure he's totally dead. Kind hearted Finale had taken him to merry lands of Carlando, there was no cause for grief, but you'll be heretic if you don't look a little sad right now, so he pinched his leg as hard as he could to squeeze out tears and bawled loudly. This was a signal for the outsiders: that the guy is finally dead, and they should come in to look sombre and and console the relatives of the dead and give them space after some some useless gab.
He was now officially a child who lost his parents, an orphan. That would be a status that could come in handy if you want get things for free as Capewell had told him, but he wouldn't have the chance to use it, he had to go now.
Had Capewell not shown him the wide world and its marvels, Victor would have been comfortable staying in Carving town. But now he knew that a dazzling new world is lying somewhere beyond the red mud of the corny southern Warringstum town, how could he resist the urge to see all the wonderful miracles with his own eyes.
The funeral of the heretic Capewell Rail was held in the moor beyond the town's vicinity where his corps was buried. He was not a disciple or a worshipper of lord Feu so he had no chance of being buried in the public graveyard owned by the church.
But the towns people were good-natured enough to show up in this funeral for the heretic.
And even more surprisingly, the priest at the church decided to come and give his condolences, his speech was held by the priest himself, he would not use the words he would usually says on the funeral: the piety and loyalty to faith. Instead he praised capewell for his intelligence and wisdom and whatever little he knew of Capewell's achievement in architecture, yes, Capewell was officially an architect.
Victor was too young to be the protagonist of this funeral, he did not know what to say to the crowd, he just tried to look mournful. People patted his head and his shoulders and the priest said something he couldn't quite understand.
The ceremony drew on for a long time, Victor couldn't help thinking what would Capewell would have said to this if he was here. Probably curse the church, add some swear words and mutter in an undertone about how superficial these people are.
But Capewell wasn't here. He was dead, the full impact of this information came to him, and he felt kind of lonely, it wasn't sadness, it was just the kind of longing.
He collected everything he could from the old mansion of capewell and packed up for Starlit academy. one thing Capewell did not tell him was where this starlit academy is.
He figured that capewell would have some recollection of it or written something about it in his belongings, since Capewell seemed to know this starlit academy very well.
And there it was written on a piece of parchment in the notebook for alchemy.
It was a map drawn with intricate accuracy, with names of places labelled on it.
But among the myriad of names, there was no startlit academy.
Exasperated and disheartened, Victor imagined life in Carving town, perhaps he would open up a bar with the money Capewell left him, and maybe he will marry someone here and have children, just like every other boring townsmen.
He shuddered at the thought of never being able to breach the stern walls of Carving town and busy himself all his life working just for bread to fill his stomach like everyone else.
He fished out the letter Capewell mentioned from the rucksack and opened it.
It was empty, no content, no address, no name.
Finally realizing what had happened, He laughed dryly.
Well bless you Capewell, he thought bitterly, it must have been hard to keep the smirk off your face before you died, when you amused yourself by picturing my expression when I finally saw this. That's a damn good one Capewell, and I really fell for it.
As his hands stroke the paper, he felt a sharp pinch, and saw with surprise that he had spilled blood.
Damn old Fucker. He tossed the letter away and left Capewell's room, slaming the door behind him.
...
"I PAY YOU TEN BARATS A DAY AND YOU WON'T EVEN LET THEM TOUCH YOU! LET ME TELL YOU WHAT YOU SHOULD BE YOU IDIOT! YOU ARE A HORE!" It was customary for bars to provide special services in Warringstum, the church wouldn't say a thing, because these obscene industries make up a large portion of their income.
The pretty half-elf waitress, Molly felt something hot in her pocket as she was cleaning the floor while enduring the endless reprimand of the barkeeper.
"Finally." She sighed, her sweet obedient air suddenly changing, it was afternoon and there were only a few retched old drunk men in the bar, she tore off her apron and threw it at the yelling barkeeper.
She approached the now furious barkeeper with a cold scowl.
"Save your breath, hog." she said and slammed his fat head onto the counter, and she didn't stop there, in the astonished gaze of the drunkards, veins popped out on her arms and with a sickening crack, the skull of the barkeeper succumbed to her force and disintegrated into a pool of blood.
Fire emitted from her body and licked her torso. Black smoke fumed from her body, demonstrating undisguised evil.
"IT'S THE ONCLE!" cried someone, the oncle was the legendary opponent of the Lord, now, an ultimate word to describe the level of evilness.
people saw the fire and Molly standing in it, the crowd shrieked and scrambled for the church, stepping over each other, their face contorted by fear, looking somewhat comical.
Molly couldn't help laughing at the running crowd and made several threatening gestures, and the crowd responded with satisfyingly equivalent alarm.
"AHHHH! The oncle is smiling at me! she cut off me legs! I'm going to die, I'm going to die" cried someone who stumbled over his leg.
A boy who mistook a vase for his hat in the confusion cried while despairingly running into things cried with immense panic.
"SHE BLINDED ME, MAMA HELP——"
Their desperate cries incited the crowd even more and they pelted towards the church with watering eyes.
Molly felt she could enjoy this some more, but she had to complete her mission first. So she turned and vanished with an evil crack.
Capewell's mansion sat in the farthest corner from the church hall, and Victor who was still angrily thrashing in the reading room did not catch the commotion outside.
He was smashing Capewell's beloved drawing of the beautiful unclothed half-elf waitress Molly into splinters when Molly suddenly appeared with a crack right in front of him.
For a split second Victor thought this was some alchemy trick Capewell applied to the drawing, this must be one of Capewell's realistic puppets that could do basic programmed conversation.
So he said in bad humor.
"You! Uncloth! Like in the drawing!"
He saw puppet's friendly-looking facade broke and contorted into a dangerous smile.
"Do not defy your mast——" he continued with a condescending tone.
The puppet vanished in a quick flash and he felt a sharp whack on the back of his head before he fainted.
On the other side, as the crowd rushed away, howling as they went, the stumbling boy lifted the vase off his head, his face was red with excitement and he stretched out a hand to pull the young man who had "fallen" to his feet.
Looking at each other, they burst out laughing.
"Well done Ray, did you see their faces!" said the boy.
"HAHAHA! You did fine too, Francois!" chuckled the man.
A crack sounded from behind them, and Molly appeared carrying Victor on her shoulder.
"Oh Hey, Alice, you done already?" Francois turned to see "Molly" smiling dangerously, apparently in outrage.
"Wow, why is our good fellow asleep." asked Ray.
"I think it's better this way." said Alice, gritting her teeth.