Is this the sa Alchemical Fire that every alchemist possessed?
Damien stared at the aged scroll in his hand, brows furrowed. The ancient script shimred faintly in the dim treasury light, so letters faded with ti, others still sharp as if inked yesterday.
He couldn’t be sure.
Alchemy was a field he had dabbled in only briefly—far from his area of expertise. If this was the foundational fla used by all alchemists, then its value was imasurable.
"I’ll have to ask the Divine Researcher when I get the chance."
With that thought, he gently rolled the scroll back up and secured it carefully inside his inner coat pocket. Even if it was basic, knowledge was sothing you didn’t leave lying around.
As he turned to explore deeper into the vault, sothing caught his eye—partially buried beneath a mound of gold coins and dull trinkets, a tallic box, sleek and ominous, with a grinning skull etched onto its lid.
Damien’s steps slowed as he approached it.
"What’s this?" he muttered, puzzled.
He glanced around the surrounding walls, half-expecting traps or formation inscriptions, but saw none. Still wary, he crouched beside the box and gently traced the skull symbol with his finger.
A sudden chill ran through him.
A low hum resonated beneath his fingertips as the tal ca to life. Runes carved on the surface began glowing—one by one—like ancient eyes slowly opening, scanning him.
Then, without warning, the lights flared sharply, as if sensing sothing... off.
A mont later, a confused, gruff voice echoed from within the box, as if speaking through layers of static and ti.
"Kid, didn’t I already tell you? You’re not getting the recipe unless you give another ten thousand mana crystals!"
"And don’t think I’ll fall for the sa excuse again! If you want the recipe, you pay fair and square!"
Damien blinked in surprise, raising an eyebrow.
"What recipe is he talking about?" he murmured, genuinely puzzled.
He didn’t recognize the voice. It wasn’t threatening—just annoyed, like a rchant sick of being swindled by the sa custor. Whoever—or whatever—this was, Damien had clearly triggered so kind of mistaken identity protocol.
Still... it was talking about a recipe.
That alone was enough to pique his interest.
He straightened up, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
He had no idea who the voice belonged to, nor did he particularly care. If there was a recipe hidden inside, he was determined to claim it.
After all, recipes—especially rare or forgotten ones—were nearly impossible to find in the current age. And this one clearly had so level of protection behind it.
That ant value.
And Damien wasn’t about to walk away from value.
Suddenly, the voice spoke again—this ti tinged with confusion and rising disbelief.
"Wait... you’re not that stupid kid. Who are you? How did you get inside?"
By the end of the sentence, the voice had sharpened into a shriek, like a scholar realizing soone had just spilled wine across a priceless ancient scroll. Whoever—or whatever—it was, Damien’s unexpected presence had clearly rattled it.
Damien’s lips curled upward in amusent, curiosity twinkling in his eyes.
"Don’t you know it’s rude to ask soone’s na before introducing yourself first?"
His voice was calm, even playful, as if he were enjoying a civil debate instead of speaking to a possibly demonic entity inside a cursed box.
For a heartbeat, silence fell.
The presence within the box seed genuinely stunned by the response.
Then—crack. The steel casing began to tremble violently, bolts rattling and runes flaring erratically, as if sothing ancient and suppressed was awakening from deep slumber.
The very air around the box grew heavy.
The temperature dropped. Frost began to spread from the box’s edges, and a low, grinding groan filled the chamber like stone being dragged across stone.
"Tch."
Damien instinctively stepped back, eyes narrowing. He wasn’t about to get pulled into so portal to the void because of a smart remark. He had enough chaos in his life already.
Then—hissssss...
A plu of purple smoke erupted from the seams of the box, coiling and slithering through the air like sentient mist. It twisted upward, congealing into a humanoid shape with alarming speed.
Shoulders ford. Then arms. Then a bloated belly.
Finally, a figure fully erged from the haze.
"Hmm. Genie," Damien muttered under his breath, blinking.
The being before him certainly resembled the fabled wish-granters from Earth’s stories—plump, round, hovering slightly off the ground. But there was one key difference.
Two thick, spiraled horns jutted from the man’s forehead.
His skin shimred faintly with a bluish sheen, like polished steel dipped in frost. He wore flowing garnts made of fine, dark material that shimred with runic embroidery. As he rubbed his bald head with a casual motion, he muttered to himself.
"Arctic... Arctic... dammit, stop rubbing your head in public," he scolded, almost chanically, then dropped his hand abruptly.
It was clearly a habit—one he was trying to break. Whether he was making progress, though, was... debatable.
Arctic’s grayish-blue eyes—radiant and unnaturally clear—snapped toward Damien. He scanned him from head to toe with unsettling intensity.
Every ti he breathed, his wide nostrils flared, comically expanding as if trying to inhale Damien’s soul right off his skin.
Then he pointed a stubby finger.
"You have that kid’s scent. Who are you?"
Damien only grinned, folding his arms casually.
"Sa question again? Didn’t I ask you to introduce yourself first?"
His words were accompanied by a subtle tilt of his head, eyes gleaming with silent challenge.
For a second, Arctic looked offended.
Then he coughed loudly, puffed up his chest, and announced with theatrical grandeur:
"I am the great Baron Arctic!"
"A proud noodle of the Infernal Realm, directly serving the Lord of Hell himself!"
He floated slightly higher, body inflating and turning red like an overblown balloon as his expression turned haughtier and more dramatic with each word.
"Now who are you, young man? Introduce yourself or prepare to suffer for all eternity in the lowest pits of Infernal damnation!"
Damien’s lips curled wider, his grin now openly amused.
This so-called genie was full of surprises.
Infernal Realm? Lord of Hell? Baron Noodle?
It was hard to tell how serious this creature was... or if he was insane. But sothing else caught Damien’s attention.
He suddenly had a nagging suspicion that the Blue Hamr King had made so kind of deal with this strange being.
The alchemical fire scroll in Damien’s hand suddenly felt heavier.
Whatever secrets were buried in this treasury... they might be deeper and more dangerous than he’d initially expected.
Just as Damien was about to ask a question, a thunderous sound rang out from outside the treasury chamber.
"QUINCY! LOOT EVERYTHING!"
"THE KING IS DEAD—THE PALACE GUARD’S VANISHED!"
"WE’LL TAKE BACK WHAT’S RIGHTFULLY OURS!"
Voices roared like wildfire, chaotic and savage, echoing through the walls.
Damien’s expression darkened. A frown crept across his face.
So the vultures have begun to circle...
Motivated by greed and desperation, the people of the kingdom were no longer holding back. The walls of power had collapsed, and now, everyone wanted a piece of what was left behind.
Every ti Arctic breathed, his wide nostrils flared comically, puffing in and out as though he were trying to sniff Damien’s soul right out of his skin.
"You have that stupid kid’s scent on you... Who are you?"
His voice was sharp and suspicious, and his narrowed eyes shimred with a faint bluish glow. He stared at Damien with a seriousness that didn’t match his ridiculous nose.
Damien raised an eyebrow and grinned, his expression unbothered.
"That sa question again? Didn’t I ask you to introduce yourself first?"
He stared intently at Arctic, the corners of his lips curling up slightly with casual amusent. The audacity of the situation was just too much—so kind of infernal genie trapped inside a skull-marked box, interrogating him?
Arctic blinked, taken aback. He gave an awkward cough, then suddenly straightened his posture and puffed out his chest.
"I am the great Baron Arctic!"
"A proud noble of the Infernal Realm, directly serving the Lord of Hell himself!"
His voice echoed theatrically in the vault as if he’d rehearsed the line a thousand tis. Then, as if soone had hit a pump, his entire rotund fra exaggeratedly inflated, glowing faintly crimson. His skin turned a shade redder, and his face contorted into sothing ant to be terrifying—but ended up looking more like a blushing tomato on the verge of bursting.
"Now tell , young man! Who are you? Or prepare to suffer for eternity in the endless depths of damnation!"
Damien’s grin widened. He couldn’t help himself. This so-called genie was throwing surprises like candy at a parade.
Infernal Realm? Lord of Hell?
This guy’s really out here living his best afterlife.
But what made Damien’s eyes narrow was the subtle, creeping feeling in the back of his mind. Sothing about this situation wasn’t just absurd—it was suspicious.
The Blue Hamr King.
Damien was now increasingly sure that the man had made a deal with this creature at so point.
He looked down at the alchemical fire recipe still clutched in his hand. His fingers tightened unconsciously around it.
Whatever this box had been storing... it wasn’t just treasure.
He opened his mouth, ready to probe Arctic for answers—but before the words could leave his lips—
> "Quick! Loot everything!"
"The king is dead!"
"The palace guards have vanished!"
"Take back what’s ours!"
A sudden barrage of shouts erupted from outside the treasury chamber.
Chaotic, desperate, and full of greedy fervor—the voice of a mob freed from restraint.
Damien’s body stiffened as his ears sharpened. His expression darkened into a scowl.
So they’ve started...
Motivated by the chaos outside, the vultures had begun circling the carcass of a fallen kingdom.
With the Blue Hamr King likely dead and no imdiate guards in sight, opportunists were already swarming the palace, treating it like a banquet of unattended riches.
No fear. No hesitation. Just hunger.
> Of course they would move now.
To them, this is the perfect storm. The power’s collapsed. The law’s gone.
The only thing that matters now... is who grabs what first.
For so people, this kind of mont was a once-in-a-lifeti opportunity—a lawless, fleeting hour when rules didn’t apply and strength dictated ownership.
And Damien, standing in the middle of the treasury with a possibly demonic genie, a powerful alchemical recipe, and half a palace torn to shreds, knew one thing with certainty:
He didn’t have much ti left.
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