The scent of faint herbs and fire still lingered in the room as Argolaith cleaned his work area.
Dozens of vials and pill jars floated gently into his storage ring, sealed with mana-locks and categorized neatly by function. Each one glead faintly—magic-rich, perfectly balanced, and made to perfection.
He looked over the finished work once more.
Satisfied.
Then he turned, laid back on the bed, and stared at the shifting constellation illusion overhead.
Tomorrow would be his first true day at the Grand Magic Academy.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep ca easily.
When the false-sunlight of the pocket realm's dawn filtered through his window, Argolaith rose with calm efficiency. No alarm. No lingering thoughts.
He stretched once, then made his way to the kitchen alcove near the back of his quarters.
With practiced movents, he summoned ingredients from his ring: fresh Saint beast eggs with a golden sheen, a handful of blue-veined fla peppers, sliced crimson leaf-spinach, and a rare stalk of whisperroot that glowed faintly in the morning air.
A flick of his fingers ignited the stove rune.
Monts later, the room filled with the warm aroma of a high-protein, mana-rich olette, steaming slightly as he folded it onto a plate and sprinkled crushed frostgrass over the top for a cooling finish.
He ate in silence, enjoying the mont.
Strength for the day ahead.
The Alchemist and Apothecary Departnt was located along the eastern arc of the academy—housed in a cluster of towers whose upper floors rotated slowly, each sealed with reinforced magic to contain explosive reactions.
Argolaith passed through the outer arch and stepped into the departnt's reception hall. The scent of incense and dried petals lingered in the air, mingling with the occasional puff of volatile herbal smoke drifting from nearby labs.
But to his surprise—
There were no students.
Only instructors.
Each dressed in deep green robes embroidered with silver dicinal , so speaking quietly to assistants, others writing notes or floating potion trays from room to room.
One of them—a lean, sharp-faced man with a streak of white in his otherwise black hair—noticed Argolaith and approached with a polite, if distracted, expression.
"You're early, aren't you? Breakfast rush is still in the café."
Argolaith raised an eyebrow. "I already ate."
"Ah. Well, you might want to hurry if you plan to eat later—labs don't break until lunch."
"I'm not here for breakfast," Argolaith said simply. "I'm here to get so pills and elixirs evaluated. For rit exchange."
The instructor stopped, his polite smile fading into a more skeptical expression.
"You're a new student, aren't you?"
"Yes."
The man's brows pinched together.
"Then you shouldn't be brewing anything yet." He gestured toward the upper halls. "New students aren't allowed to make alchemical products unsupervised. Too many accidents. We've had cauldrons explode. Walls collapse. Spells misfire. It's standard policy—you need a registered spectating instructor present during your sessions."
Argolaith's patience began to wear thin.
He spoke flatly.
"Just let pass."
The instructor's eyes narrowed, his tone turning firm.
"I may be new to this academy, but that doesn't give you the right to talk back." He folded his arms. "You're here early. You're out of uniform. And now you want to push protocol without even following the rules?"
Argolaith stared at him, unimpressed.
"I don't need a spectator to make a pill. I don't need permission to know I'm better than half the people working this wing."
The tension in the air sharpened instantly.
A few other instructors turned to glance over, sensing the rise in volu.
The man in green stepped closer, his voice lower now—but colder.
"Is that so?" He gave a slow look up and down. "You don't even carry a proper robe. For all I know, you stole those potions from a rchant's stall and ca here to pass them off as your own."
Argolaith's eyes glinted.
He reached into his storage ring and, with a flick of the wrist, conjured one of the Focus Elixirs. It hovered in the air between them, suspended by a slow spin of mana. The liquid inside shimred with iridescent layers, a clear sign of high-grade refinent—far beyond beginner level.
The instructor's expression faltered—but only briefly.
Then he straightened.
"Fine. Prove it. Make sothing. Here. Now."
A glowing summoning glyph appeared in the floor beside them. A fresh cauldron rose from below, automatically calibrated with academy paraters.
"Let's see if the arrogant new student knows his way around a fire rune."
Argolaith stepped forward.
"You want a pill?" he said, rolling up his sleeves.
"I'll give you one."
Argolaith stepped forward with silent confidence, ignoring the cauldron that had risen from the academy's storage glyph. Its surface was shiny and silver, with faint shimring runes. The fire runes beneath it pulsed slowly, barely containing their heat.
He didn't even glance at it.
Instead, he reached into his storage ring—and drew out another cauldron.
It landed with a thunk against the floor—old, worn, and dark as ancient stone.
The runes carved into it weren't glowing with modern refinent runes or school-issued control seals. Instead, they pulsed slowly with a deep golden hue—ancient reinforcent inscriptions no one in the room recognized. Each line was etched with such perfect craftsmanship that it felt more like a living artifact than a tool.
The cocky instructor scoffed.
"What is that? So old pot you dug out of a ruin?"
Argolaith ignored him and summoned his ingredients next.
The air shimred.
Leaves like silver fla. Blossoms that glowed with starlight. Crushed bark with colors that shifted as light passed through it. A few herbs weren't even known to the academy—they weren't even in the alchemical catalog.
The instructor leaned in, sneering.
"You're a fool to ignore the cauldron I gave you. That one's fitted with balanced heat channels and reinforced stability runes—state-approved for high-tier refinent."
Argolaith smiled.
Then laughed.
"The one you gave is trash. Any real apothecary would know that just from looking at the material. It's a decorative training cauldron."
He pointed to the one before him.
"This one is legacy-forged. And it's not designed for comfort—it's designed to survive."
The instructor's expression twisted.
"That thing doesn't even have modern calibration runes. It's unstable. You'll burn the entire lab down!"
Argolaith didn't answer. He simply knelt, placed a hand on the floor beneath the cauldron, and inscribed a precise fire rune. Not a basic one—this one used a spiral-folded tri-core channel, designed to distribute heat evenly through rare materials.
The rune activated, and the cauldron's underside glowed red-gold with steady, perfect warmth.
He began.
First, a layer of Driftpetal blooms—soft purple leaves that soothed volatility. He crumbled them slowly into the cauldron, stirring them with a long-handled jade rod.
Then ca starberry cores—raw fruit essence that pulsed with ambient mana. He sliced one open, letting the syrup run into the mix, thickening it into a glowing base.
Next, he added Ashvine powder, harvested from vines that only grew near ancient magical wildfires. The powder swirled in the cauldron, turning the mixture into a liquid that shimred like molten opal.
One by one, the herbs entered—each more rare, more vivid, more unstable.
Each chosen with purpose.
asured.
Balanced.
Refined.
By the ti he was halfway through, steam began rising from the mixture. Sparks danced along the rim of the cauldron.
And then—
A distant crack echoed through the room.
All heads turned.
High above the pocket realm, the sky fractured.
The instructor laughed nervously.
"Must be one of the other instructors attempting an epic-grade pill. We see this now and then. Don't let it distract you—focus."
But even as he spoke, several other instructors rushed in and dispelled the warded barrier that protected the apothecary wing from external interference.
Their expressions froze.
The storm wasn't forming across the academy.
It was directly above them.
Above the boy.
The one they thought was making a basic alchemical demonstration to prove he wasn't a thief.
Argolaith.
The clouds above twisted into a spiral of lightning and glowing mist—a Pill Storm—a phenonon that only appeared during the creation of an epic-grade pill or higher. Dozens of faculty mbers stopped their brewing. Observers from nearby departnts peered through enchanted viewing windows.
The cocky instructor crossed his arms tightly, shaking his head.
"This must be a misreading. It's impossible. No new student could draw a pill storm. Soone else must be—"
A deafening boom cut him off.
A streak of divine lightning tore from the sky and slamd into the cauldron in front of Argolaith.
The floor trembled.
The air quivered.
But nothing was destroyed.
The cauldron flared, its ancient runes glowing blinding gold—and the bubbling mixture inside shifted. The impurities burned away in an instant, reduced to nothing, leaving behind a flawless, glowing pill that floated in midair within the cauldron's mouth.
A single epic-grade magic pill.
Perfect in shape. Dense with power. Fragrant enough that the instructors could sll its energy in the back of their throats.
Silence.
The entire room stood frozen.
Argolaith remained still.
The instructor who had mocked him… shook his head, stepping back.
"That can't be right…"
"That's impossible…"
One of the senior alchemists near the viewing platform whispered:
"That cauldron… where did he get that cauldron? That design—it's pre-Golden Age…"
Another murmured:
"He's not just talented. He's terrifying."
The clouds above slowly began to dissipate, the last traces of the storm breaking like dawn.
And at the heart of it all, Argolaith stood calmly beside the cauldron—hands behind his back, posture relaxed, eyes steady.
The pill floated upward.
He plucked it gently from the air.
"Proof enough?" he asked.
Reviews
All reviews (0)