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Chapter 10: Alchemy
Brandon met the person—or rather, the group—that the riders had brought to see him in a clearing bathed in the golden light of the post-noon sun, nestled among towering firs. He slid down the densely wooded slope with the guidance of one of his mercenaries and emerged from the forest to find about a dozen weary-looking individuals scattered across the open space. Two or three of them had horses, some were bandaged, and most wore thick leather armor or tightly fitted chainmail. Small, colorful round shields and swords hung from their belts—clearly mercenaries like Mano and his crew.
Standing near Uriel was their leader, a man whose imposing stature Brandon rarely encountered in the southern regions of Goran-Elsun. The man appeared to be of Anlek descent, or at least partially so—his fiery red-brown beard, square jaw, and a sword scar above his brow made him unmistakable. His shirt was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, revealing sinewy muscles beneath.
This man clearly exuded confidence in his strength; otherwise, he wouldn’t have ventured out wearing only a simple leather shoulder guard and minimal armor. At his hip hung a set of throwing axes—a favored weapon among Anlek warriors, useful for both close combat and ranged attacks.
Yet, when this berserker-like figure saw Brandon, he respectfully removed his hat and bowed his head. “Respected knight, greetings. On behalf of the Red Jackal Mercenaries, I offer you our respects. I am Barthom, their leader.”
The name "Barthom" meant "red" or "scarlet" in the Anlek tongue, further confirming his origins. Brandon rested one hand on the hilt of his sword and gave an imperceptible nod, waiting for the man to state his purpose.
At this moment, Brandon’s identity as a noble knight whispered about among the refugees served him well. Maintaining this persona was advantageous—he neither confirmed nor denied it but instead adopted an enigmatic demeanor that bolstered his authority.
When Brandon remained silent, Barthom grew uneasy. He cautiously asked, “Sir Knight, are you leading these refugees to evade pursuit by Madara’s army?”
Brandon glanced at him and nodded.
“And might I ask,” Barthom continued, “do you still need more hands?”
“So, you wish to join us?” Brandon paused, quickly realizing these mercenaries must have retreated from Thornstone Valley. Exhausted and in dire need of shelter, they sought refuge.
If that was the case, then the battle between the White Mane Legion and Magus’ forces had likely concluded. From the looks of things, Luc Besson must have been defeated.
Brandon raised his gaze, peering through the layered fir trees toward the rolling hills beyond. Refugees fleeing the conflict, along with remnants of the White Mane Legion, would soon arrive here, swelling the refugee numbers even further.
Seeing the young noble standing silently with one hand on his sword, lost in thought, Barthom grew increasingly anxious. He hurriedly added, “Yes, Sir. We only require a bit of food, medicine, and rest before we can fight for you again.”
“What’s the situation ahead?” Brandon suddenly asked.
Barthom hesitated.
“I mean Thornstone Valley. How many undead troops does Madara have there?”
“Countless, Sir. Waves of skeletal cavalry have been pursuing relentlessly since last night, driving the refugees forward. That bastard Luc Besson offered no resistance—he fled under constant pressure until ambushed by a horde of monsters. His forces were nearly annihilated.”
Brandon wasn’t surprised by Luc Besson’s failure. Though a formidable commander of the White Mane Legion, he couldn’t escape the constraints of history; defeat was inevitable.
Waves of skeletal cavalry? Had Kabirus and Corpse Grub combined forces? A sudden thought struck him: “A horde of monsters? What kind?”
“They were roughly human-sized, with smooth, bluish-black skin and long iron claws. They reeked of decay. They leapt out from the rocks surrounding the valley and attacked without warning. Fewer than two or three out of ten survived.”
Ghouls, Brandon thought grimly. He wondered if wraiths were involved too. These undead creatures hailed from the Black Borderlands and ranked higher than skeletal cavalry in Madara’s military hierarchy—below Black Warriors and Pale Knights but representing the highest tier of low-ranking undead capable of mass mobilization in this era. How many ghouls did Magus command? A hundred? Two hundred? Each ghoul was a Level 20 creature, possessing lower-tier iron-rank strength. It was no wonder the White Mane Legion had crumbled under their surprise assault.
“Sir?” Barthom ventured nervously, seeing Brandon lost in thought.
Brandon finally nodded. “If you wish to join my group, you’ll follow my rules. Consider yourselves hired. In addition to payment, I’ll provide shelter. Follow him”—he gestured to the mercenary beside him—“and he’ll give you food, medicine, and bandages. Rest up, then prepare for battle.”
He patted the nearby mercenary’s shoulder. “Take them.”
“Thank you for your generosity, Sir!” Barthom bowed deeply. Brandon’s terms far exceeded his expectations. Despite traveling widely, he’d never encountered such a magnanimous noble.
The rider who accompanied Brandon earlier asked, “And what about you, Sir?”
“You go back first. Let me stay here alone for a while.” Brandon surveyed the surroundings, finding them suitable for his needs.
Of course, Brandon didn’t intend to simply sit quietly. He planned to perform alchemy. While not a mysterious art in Vonder—given the prevalence of magic, many craftsmen dabbled in it—elevating it to a magical art required profound knowledge and years of practice.
In gaming terms, alchemy before Level 5 resembled chemistry, allowing craftsmen to extract unusual materials. Beyond Level 5, it became a mystical discipline. Wizards used advanced alchemy to refine pure crystals and magical substances, create potions, and craft natural magical items. Combined with skills like forging, crafting, and enchanting, it formed the foundation for creating legendary magical equipment.
Among the refugees were numerous craftsmen and apprentices. For Brandon, learning basic alchemy posed no difficulty. As a noble, no one would suspect him of appropriating knowledge. Yet, ironically, that was precisely his intent.
Advancing alchemy from Level 0 to 5 required 122 skill points—a trivial matter for Brandon. After the previous night’s battle, he had accumulated 967 experience points, enough to raise his mercenary level to 9. With 164 leftover points, he could easily afford the investment.
Unfortunately, as a physical-class character, Brandon could only develop alchemy under his civilian identity, which capped skills at fixed levels. Civilians could reach Level 5, nobles Level 7, and alchemists Level 15. Skill progression depended on identity and class pairings—a nuanced aspect of gameplay. Players often adjusted identities to acquire desired abilities without multiclassing penalties.
Ideally, Brandon aimed to reach Level 6 to craft magical potions, but circumstances limited him for now.
Once Barthom and his men left with the rider, Brandon waited until he was certain no one was around before moving to the clearing’s center. He swept away debris, drew a simple magic circle with his sword, and prepared for alchemy.
First came the energy conversion array—a technique learned at Level 4 alchemy. Craftsmen used it to extract free-floating energy from material objects and seal it into crystalline form.
Next, the blood refining array.
This was why Brandon avoided others. Blood refining, a forbidden technique originating from Madara’s alchemical practices, was strictly prohibited within the Temple of Flames. Its use harmed the caster, violating the temple’s core tenets.
Yet, blood refining was undeniably practical. It bypassed the need for alchemical tools, enabling synthesis anywhere.
Though banned, players in Eruin and Cruze frequently employed it, prioritizing results over consequences. Detection typically resulted in a mere level penalty—a minor risk for players but potentially fatal for Brandon. Despite having Chael keeping watch outside, Brandon still felt uneasy about so blatantly defying the authority of the Temple of Flames.
Nervously, he placed a tooth extracted from a mid-level skeletal wizard in Ridenburg at the circle’s center. Pricking his fingertip with his sword, he let a drop of blood fall onto the array. A flash of red light transformed the tooth into a small gray crystal.
As the process completed, Brandon felt his heart skip—a -1 backlash damage penalty. Wiping cold sweat from his forehead, he picked up the crystal: a crude soul energy crystal. Unlike Soul Gems, its murky essence would poison anyone who absorbed it directly.
Despite its rudimentary appearance, this crystal was crucial for tonight’s plans.
But Brandon couldn’t afford to relax just yet. Thirty-two teeth and four fingers awaited processing, and he had already resolved to use his precious bottle of Holy Water No. 5. It was a significant investment, but he hoped it would pay off in the end.
Midway through, after about fifteen minutes, Chael’s voice interrupted: “Who’s there?”
Tensing, Brandon hastily erased the magic circle, gathered his materials, and grabbed Lustrous Stinger before rushing toward the sound. Emerging at the edge of the fir forest, he spotted a middle-aged man facing Chael. To his surprise, it was the same man he’d saved the previous night.
How did he get here?
Brandon remembered the man’s defiance against Markov’s guards—a brave but foolish act. Yet what startled him was the man’s first words: “Sir, are you using a blood magic array? Please take care of yourself.”
The statement shocked not only Brandon but also Chael. How did he know? Had he been watching unnoticed? Impossible—Chael prided himself on detecting even civilians.
Instinctively, the young mage apprentice began preparing a spell.
But the man, sensing their confusion, bowed deeply. “Sir, I haven’t thanked you for saving me last night. My name is Tama, an alchemist.”
“Tama?”
Recognition dawned on Brandon. Wasn’t Tama the chief court alchemist of Madara three hundred eighty years later—the Year of the Golden Star? Could this be the same man, human before being turned undead during this war? Perhaps Markov’s cruelty had driven him to hate the nation, especially after losing his son. Everything clicked into place.
What truly convinced Brandon was Tama’s keen insight into alchemy. Only someone with extraordinary talent could deduce forbidden techniques from mere backlash effects.
Historically, Tama was an unparalleled genius—a figure whose abilities seemed almost otherworldly. Alongside Messart and Cerilando, he stood as one of the three legendary necro-alchemists whose work revolutionized Madara's military might. The majority of Madara’s high-tier undead conversions could be traced back to their groundbreaking efforts. But Tama’s most infamous creation was the Black Array Technique, a method that allowed for the direct transformation of corpses into skeletal soldiers. This single innovation had effectively doubled Madara’s military strength, turning the tide in countless battles.
Now, however, it seemed unlikely that Madara would achieve such a breakthrough again. As Brandon gazed at the man before him—Tama, still human, still uncorrupted by the forces of undeath—he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of excitement. Here stood a living legend, a mind capable of reshaping the battlefield with his craft. The possibilities swirled in Brandon’s thoughts, and despite himself, a grin spread across his face.
“Sir?” Tama flinched at Brandon’s amused expression, fearing the knight harbored peculiar tastes. Rumors of nobility’s depravity unsettled him despite nearing forty.
Chael’s cough snapped Brandon out of his reverie. “You’re the alchemist master from Ridenburg, Tama?”
Alchemist master? Such a title signified mastery in the field. Tama blinked, shaking his head. “I’m just an obscure alchemist, Sir. I worked for the noble council with little success.”
Not yet famous? Brandon’s heart soared. This was a treasure trove!
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