Chapter 43 – The Alchemist's Seal
Morning light crept through the slats in the shutters, striping John's room in gold and shadow. The air smelled faintly of smoke and crushed fruit—the remnants of his cultivation from the night before.
Ember slept curled beside the bed, no larger than a housecat now, his fur a dim glow of silver fire. John rubbed his eyes, then froze.
"…You got smaller," he muttered.
The Lumibear blinked at him, tilted his head, and—like water filling a mold—his body expanded. Light rippled across the floor as he swelled to full size, nearly brushing the ceiling beams.
John blinked again. "Okay. That's new."
Ember huffed, amused, then shrank back down in a single pulse of light until he was barely knee-high again.
Alaric's voice stirred in John's mind, deep and measured.
"The Pact did more than fuse your cores. It allowed the beast to harmonize its form with your intent. He can change size now—his body answers to the bond between you."
John smiled faintly. "So now you can actually walk through doors. Useful."
The little bear gave a soft growl that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Breakfast and Revelations
Downstairs, the inn's common hall buzzed with morning noise. Merchants shouted orders, travelers clattered plates, and the scent of fried bread and sweet cactus syrup filled the air.
Tamara and Blake were already at a corner table. Tamara looked half awake, steam rising faintly from her tea, while Blake tore into a plate of roasted lizard like he hadn't eaten in days.
John slid into the chair across from them, Ember hopping lightly onto his shoulder like a glowing scarf.
Blake paused mid-bite. "Since when does he fit on your shoulder?"
John smirked. "Since this morning."
Tamara's eyes sharpened as she set her cup down. "Your aura's stronger."
John met her gaze. "I reached Step 3 last night. Formed a Spirit Pact with Ember."
For a heartbeat, both of them stared.
Tamara's lips parted in awe. "You actually did it? That kind of bond—most cultivators can't manage it until late E-Rank."
John shrugged, a ghost of pride in his tone. "Guess we got lucky."
Blake snorted. "Lucky, he says. You just keep skipping steps, huh?" He leaned back with a grin. "You're not the only one leveling up, though. I hit Step 2 yesterday."
Tamara added softly, "I'm close. Another day or two, maybe."
John nodded. "Good. I'll find something in the Alchemist Association that'll help you push through. A frost-based catalyst, maybe."
She smiled faintly. "You don't have to—"
"I know," he said, cutting her off gently. "But I will."
Blake wiped his mouth and leaned forward. "Speaking of which, Lion's Mane sent word. They've got a new contract—missing caravan south of the city. Probably Sand Pirates again. We're tagging along."
John's expression tightened slightly. "Be careful. They're not the kind of scavengers you laugh off."
Blake grinned, flicking his dagger open and closed. "Relax. Rendal's crew can handle a few pirates."
Tamara rose from her seat, adjusting her cloak. "We'll meet you tonight."
John nodded once. "Good hunting."
They left through the inn's open doors, sunlight spilling across their backs.
He watched them go, then exhaled. "All right, Master," he murmured inwardly. "Your turn."
"To the Alchemist Association, then," Alaric replied. "Let's see if these people know the meaning of the word craft."
The Stranger in the Street
The city buzzed with late-morning life. Stalls lined both sides of the sandstone road—jars of spice, glowing orbs, glistening fruit that hummed faintly with Light essence. Merchants barked prices while cultivators haggled and guards pushed through the crowd in pairs.
John moved with steady ease, Ember perched small and content on his shoulder, earning curious stares but no fear.
He didn't know exactly where the Alchemist Association was, and the winding streets weren't helping. He paused by a fountain where traders filled water skins, scanning the signs.
"Lost?" a voice asked.
John turned. The speaker was a young man—mid-twenties, maybe—with sand-colored hair and a clean gray robe trimmed with gold thread. He carried a slim satchel of scrolls under one arm and wore the faintly smug expression of someone used to being right.
"Looking for the Alchemist Association," John said.
The stranger smiled. "Then you're in luck. I'm headed there myself." He extended a hand. "Volgat. Alchemist, Rank 1."
John shook it lightly. "John."
Volgat looked him over, eyes lingering on the bear-shaped glow at his shoulder. "Interesting pet."
"Partner," John corrected.
"Of course." Volgat's tone made it clear he didn't believe him. "Well, come along. It's a few streets east. Can't miss the towers—they smell like burnt flowers and failed experiments."
They walked side by side. Volgat filled the air with talk—how he'd brewed a flawless Tier 1 potion in half the time of his peers, how the Association was looking to expand its labs, how his master said he had real promise.
John listened, nodding occasionally, offering polite murmurs of agreement but never mentioning his own work.
"Have you brewed before?" Volgat asked, clearly fishing for an opening.
"A bit," John said.
"Ah," Volgat grinned, mistaking modesty for inexperience. "Then today you'll get to see real craftsmanship."
The Alchemist Association
The building was impossible to miss—an octagonal tower of white stone veined with silver, its surface etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the heat. The air outside carried the sweet-sharp scent of alchemical reagents—flowers, metals, and smoke all blended together.
Inside, dozens of apprentices hurried through wide marble halls, carrying trays of glass vials and scrolls. The hum of brewing cauldrons came from rooms beyond.
A guide in a green uniform approached. "Testing or trade?"
"Testing," Volgat said proudly, gesturing at John. "My friend here's interested in registration."
The guide's eyes measured John, then nodded. "Follow me."
They stopped before a rune-locked door. "You'll brew in private," she said. "We'll assess the product. No one interferes. You may use your own materials."
John entered alone. The chamber was circular, silent, lined with clean stone tables. He unpacked his small cauldron from his ring, set it on the pedestal, and inhaled slowly.
"Simple," Alaric murmured. "Make a meditation draught. Nothing too perfect. Let them underestimate you."
John smiled faintly. "You enjoy this too much."
"Teaching arrogance a lesson is an art form."
He worked quickly—steady hands, silent breath. Light flowed from his palms as the mixture swirled and brightened. Within minutes the scent of pure clarity filled the air. When he poured it into a vial, the liquid shimmered between gold and blue—a Tier 2 Meditation Potion, clean and stable.
He placed it on the pedestal, stepped out, and shut the door behind him.
The guide approached, picking up the vial. One look and her brows shot up.
"This… this was brewed just now?"
John nodded once.
Voices rose around them as others noticed. Apprentices leaned in. A senior alchemist appeared from the adjoining room, eyes wide.
"A Tier 2 Meditation Draught?" he whispered. "And he made it alone?"
Volgat's jaw went slack. "Impossible… That's—That's Master-level precision!"
John simply crossed his arms.
Within moments, a half-dozen elders in gold-trimmed robes arrived. The oldest, a woman with silver-streaked hair, examined the vial closely.
"Not perfect," she said, "but close enough to fool half my board. You'll take a Tier 2 badge. Welcome, Alchemist John."
Murmurs swept through the hall. Volgat turned scarlet.
John inclined his head politely. "Thank you."
The Library
They led him through carved wooden doors into a vast library spiraling upward around a central lightwell. Thousands of books lined the shelves—recipes, treatises, failures cataloged beside triumphs.
The silver-haired elder gestured to the room. "Tier 2 members have full access. Study, copy, experiment—but respect the craft. Every page here was written in blood, sweat, or madness."
John's lips curved faintly. "Understood."
He spent hours among the shelves, fingers tracing spines, until one slim tome caught his eye—The Refinement of Essence: Core-Infused Mixtures.
Opening it, he found a page describing a Cultivation Enhancement Potion. It could be tailored using beast cores of varying attributes.
"Frost core for Tamara," Alaric noted. "Poison for Blake. Fire for you. A rare brew—but within your reach."
John copied the instructions carefully into his journal, every line exact.
When he closed the book, he could feel the next step forming in his mind—a clear path forward.
"Now," Alaric said softly, "to the Merchant Association. We'll need materials, and a cauldron worthy of your hands."
John rose, tucking the notes into his ring. Ember leapt to his shoulder, bright eyes gleaming like two stars.
Outside, the afternoon sun blazed over the city. The streets were alive again, full of sound and promise.
John smiled slightly. "Let's go shopping."