Chapter 44 – The Black Potions
The sun was sinking behind the dunes when John stepped out of the Alchemist Association. The stone walls caught the last of the light, turning white into molten gold. The air stung of smoke and heat, thick with the city's endless heartbeat—merchants calling, carts rolling, metal striking metal.
Volgrat was already waiting at the foot of the stairs, face flushed, robe askew. He caught up with a short jog, words tumbling out of his mouth before John could take two steps.
"Hold on—hold on, wait! You—how—how did you do that?" he panted. "You're—what—twenty-two? Maybe twenty-three? And they just gave you a Tier Two badge. Do you realize most of the masters in there are Tier Two?"
John didn't slow. "Luck."
"Luck?" Volgrat echoed, incredulous. "You brewed a flawless meditation draught in less time than it takes me to light a cauldron. That's not luck!"
John's silence was answer enough. The glow of Ember on his shoulder reflected faintly in his eyes as he turned onto the main street that led toward the Merchant Association.
Volgrat followed, half talking to himself. "You're not even sweating. My first time in there, I almost passed out. You—what are you—"
"Quiet," John said softly.
Volgrat blinked. "What?"
John's steps slowed. His head turned slightly—toward a narrow break between buildings where the light didn't reach. A current of air drifted from it, wrong in its temperature, colder than it should've been under the desert sun.
Alaric's voice slid into his mind, a deep murmur like metal against stone.
"Dark energy. Three sources. Around the corner."
John's expression didn't change. "Stay here."
"John, what are you—"
He was already gone.
The alleyway smelled of blood and sand and something worse—sweet rot, like fruit left to die in the heat.
Three men in desert wraps stood halfway down the passage. Two were dragging burlap sacks that moved faintly, muffled cries trembling inside. The third stood guard, his curved blade resting against his shoulder, grin sharp under a cracked scarf.
The air around them shimmered—light bent wrong. Their cores burned dark red, pulsing too fast.
John's jaw tightened.
He moved.
One breath—he crossed the distance between them.
The first man barely had time to register a shadow before John's hand closed on his throat and lifted him off the ground. A twist, a snap, and silence. The body hit the dirt with a dull sound.
The guard shouted something—too slow. Ember flashed from John's shoulder in a streak of gold, slamming into the man's chest. The light detonated. Bone cracked. He fell without a sound.
The last pirate froze, eyes wide, one hand gripping the sack like a shield.
John's gaze locked on him. "Drop it."
The pirate hesitated. Ember growled, the sound low, molten. The sack hit the ground immediately.
John's voice stayed calm, too calm. "Volgrat."
The younger alchemist peeked around the corner, pale as chalk. "You—you killed them."
John didn't look back. "Two. One left." He pointed. "Take the girls to the city guard."
Volgrat swallowed. The sacks rustled—two young women, barely conscious, faces bruised. He nodded stiffly and knelt to lift them.
John's eyes never left the last pirate. "Go."
When the footsteps faded, the silence returned. The pirate stared at John like a man staring at his executioner.
John stepped forward once. "On your knees."
The man's aura flickered with defiance. He reached for his knife.
Light burst in John's hand. The knife shattered before it left its sheath.
The pirate dropped instantly.
John grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up like a child. "You're coming with me."
The inn room was dark when John kicked the door shut. He dropped the bound man into a chair.
He slumped, sweat already breaking across his forehead.
John sat across from him, silent for a long time. The room felt too small, the heat pressing in like a living thing.
Finally, he spoke. "Your core burns dark. Why?"
The man's lip curled. "What's it to you?"
John's gaze didn't waver. "Because that kind of energy doesn't grow on its own. Someone gave it to you."
"Ha." The pirate spat blood and sand. "Maybe I was born blessed."
John leaned forward. "You were born weak. I can feel it in your body. Tell me who feeds you."
The man laughed—jittery, wild. "You don't get it, do you? You think you can stop this. You think killing me changes anything."
"Answer," John said.
The pirate smirked. "Make me."
The knife on the table gleamed faintly.
John didn't raise his voice. He just reached out, took the pirate's hand, and pressed the tip of the blade beneath a fingernail.
The scream tore through the room. Ember stirred in the corner, growling low.
When the sound died, John wiped the knife clean and set it down again. "Now talk."
The man was shaking, eyes wide.
A pause. Then words began to spill, forced out between gasps.
"Our leader… Koro. Koro the Great." His voice quivered on the name, half-fear, half-devotion. "He gives us potions. Said it's made from… something holy. Said it opens the light inside us. I was barely F-Rank before. Couldn't lift a blade. Now look at me."
"You call that light?" John's voice was disgusted
The pirate's grin wavered. "You don't know power when you see it. He's a god out here. You're just another fool playing hero."
"Where does he get the potions?"
"I don't know. The shipments come through the south dunes. We just deliver the girls."
John's fingers tightened around the armrest. "Why girls?"
"Koro trades them. Men in cloaks. They bring potions—real strong ones. We hand over the girls, and he gives us the potions. Says the girls are offerings."
Alaric's voice slid like a knife through John's thoughts.
"Offerings… to what?"
John ignored him. "How strong is he?"
"Step Eight." The man said it like a death sentence. "A monster. Strong enough to crush you and your little bear with one hand. You think you're something special? You just signed your own grave"
The silence that followed felt heavier than any threat.
John exhaled slowly. His face didn't move, but something behind his eyes did—a tightening, a flicker.
He reached forward, lifted the man's chin. "Let's see then."
He slid the blade just under the ear. One clean motion.
The body went still.
For a moment, John stood in the dim light, the smell of blood and chalk thick in the air. Ember padded up beside him, eyes glowing faintly gold.
Alaric's tone was unreadable. "He was telling the truth."
"I know."
"A Step Eight in the Dunes. That's no mere raider. That's a lord."
"I know."
"And your friends?"
John's jaw clenched. "They're out there."
He wiped the blade clean, methodical, every motion precise. The blood ran red, then clear, then stopped.
He stared at the wall a long time. In the space between heartbeats, he saw the hive again—the screaming drones, the frost, Tamara's calm eyes, Blake's reckless grin. The way she smiled when she didn't mean to.
A weight settled in his chest.
He didn't fear death. But the thought of her in the hands of someone like Koro tightened something he couldn't name.
He sheathed the knife. "We're going to the Merchant Association."
Alaric's reply came soft, steady. "To ask for help?"
"To find it," John said. "However I can."
He stepped outside into the evening air. The sky was the color of copper dust, clouds cut thin across the horizon. The streets buzzed faintly with life, oblivious to the rot creeping beneath.
Volgrat was waiting near the fountain, face pale but determined. "The girls are safe. City guard took them in."
John nodded once. "Good."
Volgrat's throat bobbed. "All right. Where now?"
"The Merchant Association."
Volgrat blinked. "At this hour?"
John started walking. "You don't have to come."
"Like hell I don't," Volgrat muttered, hurrying after him.
They moved through the streets side by side, Ember padding silently ahead, a streak of faint gold against the gathering dark.
As they reached the wide avenue lined with banners, John looked east—toward the horizon where the dunes melted into night. Somewhere beyond that line, the Pride would be moving through the sand, chasing caravans that no longer existed.
"
The Merchant Association rose ahead, its towers gleaming faintly in the torchlight. The guards at the door glanced at him, then at the insignia on his alchemist badge, and stood aside.
He climbed the stairs slowly, cloak whispering against the stone. The heat of the day was gone, replaced by the chill that comes before a storm.
Behind him, Ember shifted into his smaller form again, curling like light around his master's shoulders.
Alaric's voice came one last time, softer now.
"You know what you're walking into."
"I know," John said.
He pushed open the doors to see what he can make happen. Hopefully Tamara and Blake are gonna be okay John thought as he walked into the merchant association.