Chapter 40 – The Light of Creation
The city under stone was quieter without the others.
Three days had passed since Tamara and Blake had left with Lion's Mane, and in that time John had barely stepped outside his rented room.
The inn's walls hummed faintly with heat wards. Sunlight filtered through a lattice of crystal, painting thin lines of gold across the floor. On the table before him sat rows of glass vials—hundreds of them—catching the light like captured stars.
Each bottle held effort, failure, and progress.
A faint shimmer pulsed inside the last one as he finished pouring. The liquid wasn't just clear—it glowed, soft and steady, like living light.
John exhaled, steadying his hands.
"Three hundred and one," he murmured.
From within his chest, the familiar voice stirred—deep, patient, edged with pride.
"Three hundred successes, boy. I expected half that."
John smiled faintly. "You expected me to fail?"
"I expected you to learn. Failure is just a symptom."
He set the vial beside the others, the soft click of glass against wood sounding like punctuation. The room smelled of light-aloe resin, spirit daisy dust, and the faint metallic scent of spiritual heat.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, then uncorked another flask to cool the air. Alaric's laughter was low, like wind rumbling in a forge.
"Tier Two alchemy. You've earned it. The Light answers you now when you stir."
John eyed the table—rows of Tier 2 Meditation Potions and Tier 2 Healing Potions, each one stable, clear, and humming with gentle aura.
"I can feel it," he said quietly. "The mixture pulls toward balance on its own."
"That's the trick of true alchemy," Alaric said. "You're not forcing harmony; you're listening for it. The ingredients want to become something greater—you just help them remember how."
He leaned back in his chair. The once-dull cauldron in the corner—ancient, bronze, etched with forgotten sigils—now pulsed faint gold from within. What had once looked dead now beat like a heart.
Alaric had guided him through its repair, line by line, rune by rune, until it drank in spiritual energy again.
"When you brew," Alaric continued, "remember what that cauldron was built for. It doesn't obey flame. It obeys intent. Your will is the fire now."
John glanced at his hands. The skin beneath his knuckles shimmered faintly with light energy—residue from hours of refining spiritual heat.
He'd come a long way since the crude potions in Revenak.
By the third evening, his supplies were nearly gone and his shelves full.
Three hundred meditation potions. Two hundred and fifty health potions.
All Tier Two. All high-grade. A few even near perfection—the liquid smooth as crystal, light coiled within like captured dawn.
He cleaned the table, set his tools aside, and stretched. "That's enough."
"Not quite," Alaric said. "You haven't learned the last step."
John frowned. "Which is?"
"Value. A true alchemist knows not just how to create, but how to trade creation for progress. You'll need materials. Reputation. Influence. All of that requires coin and credit."
John nodded slowly. "So it's time."
"Go back to the Merchant Association," the spirit advised. "Show them what you've become. Let them understand your worth."
He hesitated a moment, glancing at the vials—hundreds of hours of focus, each one glowing faintly in the dusk. Then he packed them carefully into reinforced cases and slipped them into his storage ring.
When he left the room, the innkeeper blinked at the faint light spilling from under his cloak. "You carrying a lantern?"
"Something like that," John said, and stepped out into the city.
The building stood near the city's center—a massive dome of white stone and gold lattice, sunlight refracted through glass panels in shimmering color. Inside, the noise was a steady hum: traders bargaining, attendants scribbling on slates, guards watching every movement.
The front attendant recognized him, or rather, recognized the quiet confidence he carried now.
"Welcome back, sir. Can I—"
John placed a small vial on the counter. The potion inside glowed pure silver, its light refracting off the marble. The clerk's words died in his throat.
"I'd like to speak with your manager," John said.
The clerk blinked twice, swallowed, then darted away so fast his ledger hit the floor.
Moments later, a familiar woman appeared from the archway above—a composed figure in silver robes, hair pinned back, eyes sharp with calculation. Manager Ruthen Vael.
"hello John," she greeted, descending the steps. "You return quickly. Did the desert treat you kindly?"
"As kindly as it treats anyone," John said evenly. "I have results."
He opened his storage ring and set several potions on the table—first a meditation potion, then a healing one. The glow they released filled half the hall. Conversations died around them.
Ruthen studied them, her expression flickering from interest to disbelief. "Tier Two. And this quality—how?"
"Alchemy," John said simply. "Real alchemy."
She smiled thinly. "Most Tier Two brewers can't produce this refinement even with Guild support. You've made hundreds?"
He nodded once. "Three hundred meditation. Two hundred fifty healing."
Her quill snapped mid-note. She caught herself, composed. "You mean to sell them."
"I mean to auction them through your Association," John corrected. "In exchange, I want credit—merchant grade. And a line of material supply for future work."
The woman's gaze sharpened. "So you're asking for partnership, not trade."
"I'm asking for growth," John said. "The more I make, the more you earn. The Light Cactus I sold you last time paid for the ingredients. Consider this proof of what that investment became."
A long pause.
The manager studied him like a puzzle—one hand resting against her chin. Around them, even the clerks pretended to be busy while straining to hear.
Finally she said, "If we accept, the Association claims fifteen percent of all auction profits, plus handling fees. You'll receive store credit equivalent to eighty-five percent of the final bids."
John met her eyes. "Ten percent."
She arched a brow. "Bold."
"Fair," he said. "I'm offering something none of your internal alchemists can replicate."
Ruthen smiled, faintly impressed. "You assume we'll fetch a high enough bid to make the difference matter."
"You will," John replied. "Because you'll test one."
He slid a potion toward her. The bottle was cool to the touch; the liquid inside shimmered with golden veins of light.
Ruthen uncorked it cautiously. The scent of purity filled the air—sharp, clean, invigorating. Even the ambient energy in the hall grew calmer, brighter.
Her eyes widened just slightly. "…Refined with spiritual resonance. Impossible at Tier Two."
"Apparently not," John said.
The silence that followed wasn't disbelief—it was appraisal.
Then Ruthen's smile returned, professional and predatory. "Ten percent it is."
She offered her hand. John shook it once, firm and even.
"You just made your first deal," Alaric murmured approvingly.
Ruthen called for attendants. "Prepare the auction hall. Reserve the top platform. These go in tonight's sequence." She turned back to John. "We'll send word of the results and deposit your credit accordingly."
He inclined his head. "I'll be in contact for new materials."
As he turned to leave, she said softly, "John—most merchants hide their strength behind coin. You walk in with light. Try not to blind them too quickly."
He allowed himself a rare smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
The evening air outside was cooler now, the streets glowing faintly beneath hanging lanterns of spirit-glass. John walked the edge of the bazaar, past the call of vendors and the scent of spice, until the noise became distant enough for thought.
"You handled that well," Alaric said. "Negotiation is another form of alchemy—balance between greed and wisdom."
John nodded slightly. "She's smart. She'll make sure the auctions go well."
"And now you have credit."
"Enough for more materials," John said. "And a few upgrades."
"Good. The next step will need them."
He raised a brow. "What next step?"
"Now that you've mastered control, you'll learn transformation."
"Tier Three alchemy?"
"Eventually. But first—you'll need recognition. Go to the Alchemist Association. Their libraries hold what I can no longer recall."
John slowed, watching lantern light ripple across the street. Tamara and Blake were somewhere out there, probably bleeding or laughing in equal measure. For the first time since Revenak, the three of them had separate paths—but they all led upward.
He turned toward the eastern district, where the tall spires of the Alchemist Association rose above the rest of the city, faint blue light spilling from their windows.
The wind carried the scent of hot metal and powdered herbs.
John adjusted the strap of his satchel and smiled faintly.
"Alright, Master," he murmured. "Let's see what's next."
The voice in his chest hummed, satisfied.
"Now you sound like a cultivator."
And under the eternal stone roof of the desert city, the alchemist walked toward the towers of light, the quiet gleam of five hundred potions behind him—and the promise of a future built in fire and glass.