Victor swiftly cut the fire, stopping the water from boiling. The shimring glow inside the cauldron gradually dimd as well, letting Vesemir finally see the strange sight within.
Along the outer ring was crystal-clear water. But at the center—where a whirlpool spun—there swirled a lump of blue liquid, held apart from the surrounding water by so unknown force, as if the two simply refused to mix.
Victor picked up three vials and, with a ladle, carefully scooped the blue liquid into them, one spoonful at a ti. Once he'd filled them, the central vortex dispersed. Only clear water remained in the cauldron, as though that pungent, sickly yellow mystery sludge had never existed at all.
He handed one potion over. On his thoroughly ordinary face, the expression hovering there was sowhere between a smile and not a smile.
Vesemir accepted the blue vial with the solemnity of a man receiving a relic. He gave it a gentle shake—no sedint, no grit, only a clean, limpid clarity. He brought it to his nose: a faint fruity scent. He drank.
Sweet. Smooth. A mild warmth blood in his stomach, followed by a clean, invigorating surge—like waking up after a perfect night's sleep, only faster.
From every angle, this was the perfect version that had only ever existed in imagination—sothing alchemists chased but never truly reached. The stamina tonic's effect wasn't just improved; it was dramatically improved. And the absence of impurities ant it wouldn't spoil easily. The shelf life still needed testing, but it certainly wouldn't require staying up every night to brew a fresh batch.
Thinking that, Vesemir looked at the boy with a complicated expression. Just as he'd warned beforehand… this really was miraculous alchemy.
And then the miraculous boy fainted.
…
The next day, at Victor's insistence, nothing about their routine changed. Training went on as usual—except at midday, when he confidently demonstrated miraculous alchemy again, from a completely different angle.
This ti, it was by the great hall's hearth. He laid out firewood, set up a small pot, lit the fla, and boiled water. In went flour, spices, milk, sugar, eggs—then he stirred the whole pale batter-water mixture. Only a few minutes later, that rainbow shimr returned.
Vesemir watched as that sa unknown force lifted a food called "caral cream pancakes" up from the surface of the pot—becoming their lunch for the day.
Victor speared a pancake with his fork, took a bite, and let out a satisfied sigh. "...So, the more unfamiliar the combination, the longer it takes—and the more ntal energy it consus. Yesterday's blackout happened because I wasn't used to the recipe yet. Once I've done it a few more tis, even if I can't make it as fast as pancakes, it'll still shorten the ti by a lot."
"In your world… anyone can use this… miraculous alchemy?" Vesemir tested the question while lifting the pancake to his mouth. The texture was exactly like sothing that had just co off a hot skillet.
"Uh… no. This kind of alchemy needs talent. Even where I'm from, it's an extrely rare gift."
He swallowed, then continued, casual as if he were talking about the weather.
"I learned it from my grandmother.
"She said: 'You can either do it, or you can't. One try tells you everything.
"'Now—toss these herbs and eggs into the pot and stir it up, like this—glug-glug-glug, clack-clack-clack… then—flash!—and whoosh, it turns into spiced eggs…'"
Victor pointed his fork like a weapon. "Hey. Don't look at like that. I swear I rember it word for word.
"Anyway, from the day I managed to make those spiced eggs, she said that made an apprentice alchemist. A few days later, she unilaterally declared she was retiring from the kitchen and that I was taking over as head cook…"
…
Vesemir swallowed the last piece of pancake, caral sweetness lingering on his tongue. "I want to try… see if I can do it…" He pulled out the final vial of superior stamina tonic from inside his coat, staring at the potion inside—still crystal clear, still without the slightest sedint. "This mind-over-matter alchemy has trendous potential. At the very least, I've never seen a stamina tonic of this quality in hundreds of years.
"Deny the impurities, and the impurities vanish. Imagine the finished product, and the finished product is born.
"I have to say, boy—you've overturned everything I thought I knew about alchemy."
Victor shrugged, unconcerned. "No problem. Let's try together tonight. I want to know too—can people in this world learn miraculous alchemy?"
"Boy, I can try it in private. But you… you need to start learning traditional alchemy, even if it seems slow and low-quality to you."
"...To hide miraculous alchemy?"
"Yes. An emperor would start a war just to put you in his hands." Vesemir's voice hardened. "Promise : until you can protect yourself, don't show this technique to anyone. Not a single soul."
"Understood, Uncle Vesemir. I'll learn traditional alchemy." Victor paused, then added honestly, "But I'm probably not as amazing as you think. I'm still just an apprentice—anything even slightly difficult, I can't do."
"I believe you won't remain an apprentice forever."
…
As everyone knows, Miraculous Alchemy contains three realms.
The first realm is called The Alchemical Wish of Faith: you put in the correct materials, and as you stir, you visualize the finished product in detail. When your intent is strong enough, the door to miracles opens. Essentially, almost all modern alchemists fall into this realm.
The second realm is a talent possessed only by the world's favorites, known as Listening to the Voice of All Things. This ability lets you hear the voices of every ingredient—each one telling you its hidden traits and its intangible concepts.
Thus, from the second realm onward, an alchemist holds power great enough to face gods and demons head-on. In the last five hundred years, the number of known second-realm alchemists—including the Flabearer Sage—is only three.
As for the third realm, it exists only in the Flabearer Sage's oral accounts. Only the grandmother who taught him alchemy ever reached it. He nad it If I Say It Works, and in Elder Speech it's pronounced sothing like Aen Synn.
aning: if his grandmother felt it ought to work… then it truly worked.
The most famous alchemical creation of this realm is the Flabearer Sage's legendary Endless Herb Satchel. Supposedly, when making it, his grandmother decided that a normal herb pouch made from a single piece of cloth was too small. So she tossed a few more pieces of cloth into the cauldron, figuring it should hold a bit more.
And thus, the satchel that boasted "the void has limits, but my bag does not" was born.
—Excerpt from Origins of Modern Alchemy, Volu Two
…
Another month passed. The season rolled into June, and early sumr sunlight blazed bright.
After growing familiar with the Ox Guard stance, Victor's sword training continued into the High Guard stance. His reading finished the histories and began cross-referencing geography.
His progress in traditional alchemy was obvious, too. He had steady hands, a cautious mind, and a soul-kernel tempered by scientific thod. No matter how strict traditional alchemy claid to be, it still lacked the theoretical grounding of a chemistry lab.
On the night Vesemir reluctantly admitted he couldn't use miraculous alchemy, he watched Victor's talent steadily take shape—and began to teach him every secret witcher formula he possessed.
"I hope that one day you can break the curse of the Trial of the Grasses. It's the last wish of an old man whose candle is nearly burnt out," Vesemir said with real emotion. But judging by an apprentice's understanding of alchemy, Victor suspected that unless sothing went horribly wrong, the old bastard could live another hundred years without much trouble.
…
Ti didn't stop, and Victor could endure solitude.
He trained the four basic sword stances until they were solid, then moved on to three paired attack motions—chopping slashes, thrusts, and draw cuts. At this stage, his main opponent was an armored wooden dummy.
Thanks to his strong foundation, he picked up the attacks quickly. Then Vesemir stepped in personally to feed him exchanges—because defensive counters and close-in techniques had to be learned through the feel of steel, through two people connected by the blade. Only the body, drilled in real practice, would rember them properly.
A witcher master truly deserved the title. By the ti Victor progressed from "getting styled on in creative ways" to "no creativity, just getting beaten"—several months had already slipped by.
And at this age, a boy was growing fast to begin with. With high-intensity training and superior stamina tonic supporting him, Victor shot up to five feet seven, shedding the look of a child and becoming a lean, sturdy teenager.
Unfortunately, his looks did not improve to match. Still thoroughly ordinary.
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