On the outskirts of the Imperial Capital, in a dubious-looking shop straddling the border between the Decadent District—the area with the highest crime rate in Zebuldia—and the Central District, Hugh Legrand of the Zeroth Knight Order was locked in a heated argument with the shopkeeper.
The store was cluttered with all manner of goods: well-worn weaponry, firearms, and even suspicious pharmaceuticals.
Zebuldia was one of the most prosperous nations among the surrounding countries, and its Imperial Capital drew every conceivable commodity. Enforcement existed, but it couldn't block all illicit flows—search the shops near the Decadent District and you'd find at least one or two items that skirted the law.
"We don't deal in cursed objects, sir! Something that terrifying—this shop doesn't handle it. And as any knight should know, buying or selling cursed items knowingly is forbidden under Imperial law."
"No, but—you must be running some kind of under-the-table deal, right? Hand it over now and I'll let it go. I'm fully authorized to tear this place apart. There's bound to be dust everywhere once we start shaking things down."
The brute of a shopkeeper, who had weathered countless shady customers over the years, went pale at the sight of the man leaning over the counter with threats rolling off his tongue.
The Imperial Capital housed many social strata, but the Knight Orders held extraordinary authority—tasked with policing Treasure Hunters, criminals, and dangerous Treasure Weapons. That authority included the rarely exercised right to search a premises without concrete evidence. The Third Knight Order, currently responsible for maintaining order in the capital, was no doubt sniffing around the city right now based on a prophecy of cursed objects delivered by the Astrological Mystery Academy.
But Hugh's threats only earned a vigorous head-shake from the shopkeeper.
"I-I'm not lying, Sir Knight. If we touched cursed goods, we'd be the ones getting cursed! Only a daredevil would buy them, and nobody brings them in to begin with. Same story for every shop in the Decadent District. Heh heh... sure, there's the occasional case where something slips in without anyone noticing—"
"...Tch."
Reading the unmistakable glint of truth behind those fawning eyes, Hugh clicked his tongue.
This was the problem. Curses were indiscriminate in most cases. The demonic sword found by Thousand Transformations had consumed even the apprentice of the renowned Sword Saint.
None of the Sword Saint's apprentices had died, but that was only because they were exceptional swordsmen. Most people were far weaker, and more often than not, a user simply couldn't withstand the burden.
And once the bearer was gone, it fell to someone ignorant to dispose of the cursed object.
By the time anyone realized it was cursed, they were already dead. Even if they survived, the item was sealed away under heavy guard. The information never saw daylight.
Five shops visited so far. Every single one had given roughly the same reaction.
Hugh didn't know how Thousand Transformations had obtained that demonic sword, but this "order" was proving to be a real headache.
Stepping outside, he caught sight of a shopfront exuding a vaguely gloomy atmosphere and furrowed his brow.
The storefronts on the main road had surely already been swept by other Knight Orders. Most of the borderline-illegal establishments had been checked. If he wanted to dig deeper, he'd need to make contact with the scum even the Decadent District shunned.
The root of all evil—this was where the Decadent District still maintained de facto extraterritoriality. The Third Knight Order had attempted to subdue it on several occasions, all failures.
Inside lurked former high-level Red Hunters, criminal organizations, and the strongholds of Arcane Societies. The labyrinthine streets had no reliable map—above ground and down to the tangled underground waterways alike, everything was controlled by their hands.
Hugh didn't consider himself incompetent, but neither did he think a frontal assault would accomplish anything. He'd be stripping off the armor that represented the pride of the Zeroth Knight Order and going undercover.
Commander Franz had ordered Hugh to cooperate with Thousand Transformations and extract information, but he surely hadn't imagined it would go this far.
Still, nothing less would likely pique Thousand Transformations' interest.
If Hugh's discerning eye was correct, that young man was easygoing and rather irresponsible. But there was no denying he had clawed his way through countless crucibles to reach Level 8.
His senses had surely gone numb from it all. That was precisely why a bold approach was necessary.
The chances of being taken on as an apprentice were probably slim regardless, but he was sure to witness something interesting—the essence of the power that had brought someone to Level 8, the missing piece Hugh needed for his own rise.
A smile crossed his face. Hugh Legrand did not stop before the difficulties that awaited him.
§ § § Alchemists.
The essence of their craft lay in the principle that anyone, given identical conditions, could produce an identical result.
Mages, by contrast, relied fundamentally on the practitioner's aptitude. It deeply affected what spells could be cast and at what potency. Alchemy was different.
Often called the fusion of science and magic, the discipline had progressed slowly but surely through countless trials by the many mediocrities and the few geniuses who practiced it.
Its aptitude for the crisis-driven breakthroughs demanded of Hunters was low, so it seldom drew attention, but its history was ancient—calling it the bedrock of modern civilization would be no exaggeration.
And when history ran that long, certain things inevitably became "erased achievements."
Dominion Potion. Strawberry Blaze. Named for its resemblance to the scent of strawberries, this potion was one such achievement buried by history.
Acting directly on the brain, a single drop could overwrite the consciousness of any living creature. Its sheer danger led to its complete erasure—from the potion itself to the recipe, and even the alchemist's family line. All that remained was its name and its characteristics.
Rumors still circulated occasionally that some practitioner had recreated it, but no实物 had ever been confirmed. The fact that centuries had passed since its erasure without anyone successfully reproducing it spoke to the inventor being either a true genius or using extremely rare materials.
Imperial law prohibited attempting to develop it, but there was surely no alchemist at the Primus Arcane Academy—the empire's foremost institution of alchemy—who hadn't at least considered recreating that legendary potion. Even if they had no intention of using it to conquer the world—for alchemists, the process mattered more than the result, and the exploration of new knowledge and the attainment of truth were the true pursuit.
Brought in a panic by a former student to the desk of Nikolarf Smokey, head of the Primus Arcane Academy, this potion—if authentic—was something that would shake the world.
Sealed in a metal flask, the liquid was an opaque pink, just as the legends described, with a scent reminiscent of strawberries. He peered cautiously inside and swallowed hard.
"How is this... it can't be—the genuine article still exists?"
"A mage from the Zebuldia Arcane Academy had been hiding it."
"Zeb-Aca... a mage, you say. Well—production aside, preservation might indeed be within a mage's capability..."
Strawberry Blaze was said to have been born from the combined use of magic and alchemy.
On closer inspection, the metal flask was specially crafted—powerful enchantments had been applied to preserve the contents. It was certainly no cheap novelty item.
And above all—the state of the former student who had brought it in.
Citry Smart. She had once knocked on the doors of Primus Arcane Academy, conducted countless experiments, and amassed a wealth of knowledge. Known also as a Treasure Hunter, she had built her own laboratory in just a few years. Her role within the Party had probably contributed, but achieving that much in a field where alchemists tended to lose themselves in experiments was undeniable talent.
An incident had earned her the inglorious epithet "Worst of the Worst" and led to her expulsion from the Academy, yet she had still come and gone from Primus many times since, maintaining ties with the various laboratories.
She had clearly sprinted all the way here—her hair and clothes were disheveled, and she was out of breath. Her complexion was terrible.
Citry was the quintessential alchemist: she would perform experiments without batting an eye even when they skirted the edge of ethical taboo. Hugh had known her a long time, but he had never seen her like this.
And that was precisely why the potion she had brought carried credibility.
"I need an antidote! Klein accidentally drank the concentrate—"
So that was it... as always, she was completely distracted by matters of the heart.
Nikolarf suppressed a sigh behind an impassive face.
He had found it strange that Citry—old stomping grounds or not—had brought in such a legendary potion instead of hoarding it, but this explanation made perfect sense.
It was Citry Smart's sole and fatal weakness in an otherwise nearly flawless profile. If not for that flaw, her position at the top would have been unshakable—but no matter how infrequent it occurred, abandoning critical experiments to dash off whenever a lover called was something no serious alchemist could afford.
Under normal circumstances, Citry would have attempted to replicate the potion first, not sought an antidote. No—any other alchemist would have done the same. A legendary potion that had defied reproduction for centuries, yet analyzing the genuine article should at least yield clues to its manufacture.
The reason Citry had handed it over without a second thought was likely because crafting an antidote was harder than replicating the potion.
It required time, equipment, and manpower. So she had reluctantly sought help. She was sacrificing the glory that would come with being the one to recreate a legend—as an alchemist—to do this.
Nikolarf cut through her barely contained composure with a sharp bark.
"An alchemist must always remain calm! Stop panicking, Citry!"
"But..."
There was a fundamental misunderstanding on Citry's part—one she would certainly have caught if she were her usual calm and collected self. And that was exactly why he couldn't help but admonish his pathetically flustered former student.
Strawberry Blaze was a magic potion. Magic potions were fundamentally different from ordinary potions in certain respects.
According to the legends, the Dominion Potion could achieve total control over anyone who consumed it. But how had the target recognized the one who administered it?
Someone standing right in front of them immediately after ingestion? No—with such an uncertain condition, that level of devastation wouldn't have occurred.
Countless researchers had puzzled over it. All information about the potion had been erased, but by delving into historical texts and debating based on the sole surviving record of its aftermath, they were forced to reach an inevitable conclusion.
Precisely obeying the user. That was what made it a magic potion. And that utterly unreasonable power was the main reason Strawberry Blaze had never been successfully recreated.
This potion likely could not be reproduced through alchemy alone—its太过 unreasonable properties were closer to "sorcery," which was far more irrational than the theoretically structured discipline of "magic."
The potion's existence had only been exposed—leading to its annihilation—when the dominator perished and the freed victims escaped and raised the alarm.
And now, this incident had confirmed that theory to be true.
This potion placed the target under the user's control. Therefore—when a person administered it to themselves, it had no effect.
Thousand Transformations had likely tested it with exactly that reasoning in mind. The risk was enormous, but—as he had thought for some time now—the man was truly suited to be an alchemist.
Nikolarf was silent for a long moment, then spoke in a strangled voice.
"...An antidote, you say. If a former student asks, I suppose I have no choice. I'll assemble a team right away and get started. This stays top secret."
The Primus Arcane Academy was not a monolith. Even as headmaster, he had enemies aplenty. An institution that united alchemists and scholars with differing ethical standards and objectives was inherently fractured.
The intensity of competition was incomparably greater than something like the Zebuldia Arcane Academy—rare materials brought in for experiments were fought over so fiercely that deaths sometimes occurred.
This was an extraordinary opportunity.
They would produce the antidote, but simultaneously attempt a replica. If they succeeded and deciphered the principle behind it, a door to entirely new knowledge would open. Once that principle was understood, the accepted understanding of potions could shift fundamentally.
It might even spark a war, but what direction the resulting technology took was none of Nikolarf's concern.
He issued preparatory instructions to his trusted assistant. As the assistant left the room with a stiff expression, Citry caught her breath and bowed her head.
"Thank you so much."
An excellent student. Excellent and yet with flaws. As a teacher, that made her wonderfully easy to work with.
At Level 8, his mana absorption capacity would naturally be considerable. The Imperial Capital Zebuldia, by virtue of its location, was saturated with just barely enough Mana Material to avoid Phantom manifestation. And he had surely challenged high-level Treasure Halls countless times.
Against someone like that, even Strawberry Blaze—the potion that had toppled nations—was unlikely to work. The power held by Treasure Hunters today was nothing like that of centuries past. Humanity's capacity for Mana Material absorption had been on an upward trajectory with each generation.
The fact that he could hold a conversation after supposedly drinking it should have been proof enough that it hadn't worked, regardless of the reason. Love was truly blind.
The sentiment had long since faded from Nikolarf, but failure was the mother of success. Perhaps this incident would prompt the young man to take a good look at himself.
It was at that moment that a sudden wave of intense dizziness struck Nikolarf. A large bell on the corner of his desk began to ring with a piercing clamor.
He steadied himself against the desk, surveyed the room, and looked up toward the ventilation shaft near the ceiling.
The bell was a gas-detection device—an essential piece of equipment in any alchemist's laboratory.
He grasped the situation in an instant. This was—an attack.
Sleep gas, paralysis agent, poison—he couldn't tell, but it was a gas assault designed to incapacitate him. To produce dizziness in Nikolarf, who had invested heavily in resistance-type Mana Material given his profession, it had to be potent stuff.
And there were only a limited number of people who could attack this room, located in the deepest wing of the Arcane Academy.
Citry, as a Hunter, appeared unaffected by gas of this level.
The objective was obvious. He sealed the metal flask tightly, then activated the laboratory's security Golems—specialized models with slim frames that had been lined against the walls. At Nikolarf's command, the Golems formed ranks.
"Damn it—they've already sniffed it out? I am the headmaster! Golems, slaughter every last thief who tries to seize the potion! I will not hand it over—do you hear me? Citry is my former student! This potion is my research material!"
Had that assistant betrayed him, or had researchers from another laboratory spotted Citry's frantic arrival and followed her here?
Either way—they all had to die. He could not let this invaluable material slip away. He injected himself with a homemade universal antidote (still in trials) and steadied his dizziness.
Citry approached the grim-faced headmaster tentatively.
"Um... I was hoping you'd let me start working on the antidote right away—"
"Citry, you need to fight too! If they take it, we'll never be able to produce the antidote! They'll use every means at their disposal to seize it. This gas is lethal!"
The Golems smashed through the door and charged outside. Almost simultaneously, a violent explosion shook the building. Fragments of Golem debris scattered across the room.
They intended to kill. They would eliminate Nikolarf if necessary to claim this Strawberry Blaze.
He couldn't let this spread. Everyone had to be dealt with— "Move out, Citry. It's war!"
The Worst of the Worst watched in grim silence as Nikolarf rose to his feet, eyes blazing with fighting spirit.