“—now, if we use conjured water as the basis of our potions, that suddenly opens up a whole new realm of possibilities. For example, incorporeal potions?”

Their teacher, Mr. Havens, went up with his voice as if he had just mentioned a completely novel idea.

Some of his classmates did perk up with interest while they scribbled notes. Micah might have looked the same, but he had come across the concept before in his research.

At the front of the lecture hall, the man demonstrated by tipping a flask of vibrant blue water over his lab bench. The liquid phased through the reinforced food … and the floor. They were on the second floor.

He moved the flask toward himself and the trickle splashed off the air around his polished shoes. Rejected by his aura.

“After all, if an [Elementalist] can conjure fire that burns oxygen selectively by accident, us [Alchemists] should be able to create all kinds of wonders!” His smile gave his lampshade mustache twin bumps.

Mr. Havens was one of three alchemy teachers he'd had at school. He wasn’t mean like Mr. Jung. He wasn’t as well put-together either. His mustache was combed. His hair was not. Micah gave it a week before his briefcase would be a mess of loose papers again. The man reminded him of those classmates who swore, This year, I’m going to be organized!

But his enthusiasm was infectious? And he gave them time to catch up.

While the sounds of pens scratching on paper slowed to a crawl, he traded the flask for a piece of chalk in front of the blackboard.

“There are risks and disadvantages to this of course. First and foremost: it is a magnum opus to make physical ingredients incorporeal, so those cannot phase through the patient alongside the potion—the pill maker's plight.

“Secondly, as I demonstrated, without a physical anchor to bind the formula to, it is easier for the patient to reject it. This can happen instantaneously. It can happen over time once the potion is already in their system. In that case, the rejection process can have unpredictable and often harmful results.

“Thirdly, without an anchor, incorporeal potions tend to have much shorter shelf lives. That depends on the [Conjurer]’s skill and Skills.

“And lastly, incorporeal potions require expertise. Anyone can purify tap water. It takes years to master the spells needed to make potions that can be used on most patients.”

He finished writing in a quick scrawl and whirled on them. “Now. These problems are not without solutions. Let’s start at the beginning. Who can tell me how an alchemist could deal with the lack of resources in an incorporeal potion?”

Micah’s arm immediately shot up, even as he continued to take notes with his other hand.

His teacher waited for a few more hands to rise before he called on him anyway. “Yes, Mr. Stranya?”

“You don’t? If you’re going to make an incorporeal potion, design one that won’t need resources other than what is in the patient. Or, well, I guess you could conjure fake resources, but then you deny the patient’s body the chance to filter them out, so you’d want it to affect something with a high turnover rate like, uhm … blood cells …?”

Mr. Havens hemmed and hawed. His arm twitched like he wanted to cut Micah off, but he let him finish.

“There is a lot to unpack there but, yes, you are mostly correct. Incorporeal potions often work only with what already exists inside of the patient. For example, a pacemaker shot is an injection that forces a heart to beat steadily, even a recently stopped heart. To do this, it only requires the heart muscles and the magic that goes into fueling its own formula.

“Using conjured resources in a potion can carry serious risks as the potion forces the body to use them in ways which it might not want to do on its own. However, there are times when using them is desirable. Can anyone tell me when that is?”

Mason, sitting next to him, thrust his arm up before Micah could even think of an answer. To his surprise, Andrew raised his hand as well one row over.

Mr. Havens called on him and Andrew answered almost without looking up from his notes.

“When you wish to neutralize or contain substances inside of the patient’s body. For example, to treat venom, drug overdoses, and heavy metal poisoning. The fake— I mean, conjured resources,” he corrected himself with a sideward glance at Micah, “bind to the target substance and can then be expelled or extracted so there is no risk of involuntary metabolization.”

“Exactly! Good answer,” Mr. Havens praised him.

Micah shot him and his bench neighbor, Forester, an annoyed look … and was surprised to realize there was no bite to it. He might as well have stuck his tongue out as a joke.

He tried to evoke how he had felt about them last year, but then all he could picture was Andrew and Forester in the Tower, fighting the Pretender by his side. To save him, even.

While Mr. Havens summarized Andrew’s answer on the board, he spoke over his shoulder in a far more casual tone, “There are other times when using conjured resources would be desirable, although you might have trouble thinking of them now. I might have led you in the wrong direction. Any guesses?”

A few students threw ideas out. Not all of them were wrong, but none were what their teacher was looking for apparently.

“It’s my fault for starting this discussion by talking about patients. The answer is transmutation—industrial alchemy. Incorporeal potions are incredibly useful when you wish to refine substances in extreme conditions where a physical potion would be ineffective, like high temperatures or delicate chemical reactions. Even in situations where you could use a physical potion, incorporeal ones are sometimes preferred. Can anyone tell me why? Here’s a hint: It’s the same reason why they are preferred in medicine.”

Micah frowned as he thought about it. He pictured stirring a potion into a vat of soap, and he pictured injecting a syringe into a man having a cardiac arrest … and then what?

Ah—!

His and Mason’s arms both shot up at the same time. But even though Micah sat up to stretch his arm a little higher, Mr. Havens called on Mason.

“Time?” he said, stealing Micah’s own thought. “If the potion can phase through the patient’s body, it can act much faster than traditional medicine.”

Mr. Havens nodded sagely. “Sometimes, the difference can be less than a second, but seconds can make all the difference when you are trying to save a life …”

He swept a heavy gaze over the rows of students, blinked, and his expression faltered.

“… Oh, or when you are trying to make a profit, I suppose.” He snapped back to his energetic self by rapidly tapping the chalk piece against the second point on the board.

“Now, who can tell me how to deal with rejection? Ah—” He immediately caught what he had said, but everyone else in the lecture hall was laughing already.

Micah almost chuckled, too. He wanted to. He just couldn’t.

The second session of their Alchemy and Spellcraft course wrapped up, and a mass of students pushed toward the exits.

Some dawdlers had to copy down the homework from the board first. Micah was one of them, with a cramp in his hand, but unlike the others, he didn’t hurry to catch up. He stayed behind alongside several other students who wanted to consult with their teacher on various subjects.

New Skills. New spells or spells they wished to learn … boon feathers they had to digest or get rid of.

“Do you know what you’ll do with yours?” Micah leaned against the second row from the front with his backpack on his shoes.

Mason sat on the bench, elbows on the desk. Unlike the rest of them, he didn’t have a question for their teacher. He was just waiting to walk to the workshop together.

He opened his hand and a phantasmal nettle leaf appeared in mid-air. It vanished in a swirl of mana when he closed his fingers. When he opened them again, a phantasmal puff of perfume billowed up.

His new Skill, [Conjure Irritants]. The school day was over, the distraction. His nerves were showing.

“No idea. I’ve gotten letters in the mail, stacks of them, with offers, and requests, and … I could sell it,” he said, staring straight ahead with wide eyes. “I could sell it for a lot of money.”

One of their classmates further down the line cheered, “That’s what I’m doing! This one dude wrote he would give me fifty gold coins for it.”

Micah’s jaw went slack. Fifty!? You could fund a climbing team’s healing supplies for half a decade with that. Or buy a dozen tailored suits. Or a new set of teeth!

All for some stupid boon from a liar spirit?

But he didn’t have a boon—hadn’t wanted one, not for himself—and Mason did. Micah turned to his friend with an excited smile. “Why not do that? You wouldn’t have to worry about tuition or even rent for a year if you sold it? No matter where you go.”

Behind him in the line, Golsa asked, “And who got you that boon?”

“Thank you, Delilah!” their classmate called without hesitation. He added in a singsong voice, “I love you, Delilah!”

Delilah made a flustered noise, but Micah was focused on Mason, who mumbled, “I got other letters, too. Requests … I’ll have to think about it.” He shook his head and splayed his hand again. A phantasmal strawberry appeared, and Micah plucked it from the air and ate it.

The line moved forward, so he grabbed his bag with his other hand and took the last step down.

With a final glance back, he urged his friend, “That kind of money could fund a lot of alchemical research, too. Whatever you want to do.”

Their teacher must have overheard. “A word of advice,” he said and raised his voice, “That goes for all of you. Fifty gold coins might seem like a lot of money to you now, but you’re still young. You’ll also have to pay taxes on the sale. If someone put that in a letter, it was to grab your attention. They might be willing to offer you more in person.”

“More!?” their classmate who had called out gawked.

“You can always haggle. But please, do not go to meetings with strangers you met in a letter on your own. If you have concerns, you can always consult with me or another member of the faculty.”

“Vice Principal Walker and Mr. Jung both already warned us,” Golsa reassured him. “On separate occasions.”

Their teacher smiled.

When it was Micah’s turn to step up to the podium, that smile strained a bit. It was still genuine. The crinkles around the edges just revealed his disappointment.

Not so long ago, Micah had attacked another student. And none of the faculty would let him live it down.

“Ah, Mr. Stranya. I looked into your new Skills—”

“Actually,” Micah cut him off, “I just wanted to say you were right, sir. I figured out how it worked on my own.”

The man froze in the middle of pulling a clip of papers from his briefcase. He slipped them back in with a small sigh. His research had been for nothing.

He still seemed interested, though. “Do you mind sharing what you discovered?”

Micah summarized what he had found out since last week. He mostly spoke about [Sympathetic Catalysis] since his other two Skills were far more common.

As he listened, Havens tilted his head back in vague confusion. “That doesn’t make sense to me. Magic doesn’t have emotions. Or, I should say, nature magic doesn’t. What it does have, however, is a kind of receptive intent.”

Micah had been about to correct the man before he did it himself. Because emotion essences existed, and those were a part of mana. Ergo, mana—the most common form of magic for their people—had emotions.

But, no, nature magic did not have emotions. And yet, Micah could use [Sympathetic Catalysis] on monster crystals.

“This is something we will explore later in this course, but seeing as it is relevant to you now, I can give you a bit of a preview. Where to start …? Ah!”

Micah was listening.

“As you probably know, most people first learn to cast spells using scripts, but that is just one form of wizardry, a spellcasting technique to help structure and guide your spells. No matter how thorough you make your scripts, it would take hours, days, or even weeks to make one that would tell a spell to behave exactly as you wish it to.

“That’s where intent comes in, another technique. Most people use the most basic version of it instinctually: you can simply will the spell to do as you wish.”

“We learned a bit about that last year,” Micah said, “and it’s come up in a few guides. The script is like the outline of a picture. It’s easier to use stuff like intent or affinities to color in the blanks? But uhm, don’t you have to be alive to have intent?”

Havens beamed at him. “Exactly. Monster crystals aren’t alive, and they weren’t made to have intent, so they don’t. Instead, we refer to receptive intent, although its name differs under different circumstances. It is the same base principle as that which defines the properties of monster crystals—”

The moment he said it, Micah gave an understanding and disappointed sigh. He knew that already.

“—Basically, it is easier to cast a water spell with a water crystal than it is to cast one with a fire crystal. Not impossible, mind you. Energy is energy. But water crystals want to be liquid. They just need a little help. If you intend to make them liquid, and you can communicate that, they’ll readily accept.”

“So you think I am using my emotions to … communicate my intent?”

Mr. Havens nodded. “More likely, to access it, but yes. It’s one of the most common approaches, to be honest—the [Evoker]’s approach. However, since one of the subjects of your Skill is nature magic, it may be limiting you. [Druids] spend a lot of time meditating on nature magic to understand it in all its facets. By using emotions, you are limiting yourself to that facet of nature that most resembles ourselves.

“If you want to leverage your new Skill to its fullest, those are two options you could pursue. The first would be druidic meditation exercises to gain a deeper understanding of nature magic. That way, you could do more with the connections you already know to forge.

“The second would be intent spellcasting exercises to use the Skill more reliably.

“There might be a third option in-between, depending on whether your Skill uses true witchcraft or if ‘connections’ is just your brain’s interpretation of what you are doing. It would be … studying witchcraft.” He gave a helpless shrug. “You might be able to manipulate the connections you make, for example, to make them last longer, or connect to more esoteric things like potions or the seasons. The Harvest Festival is a popular time for witchery.”

Micah could already do some of that, and he thought he understood nature essences well. He still grew excited at the prospect of learning more … until he remembered the time.

They had to hurry to claim the workshop time slot Mason had signed up for. He had so much else on his plate.

His shoulders slumped. “I’ll keep it in mind, but this has helped me a lot, sir. Really. Thank you.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” the man said as Micah began to step back. “If you want to learn more, you can also leaf ahead in our course textbook. We’re starting with some of the more complicated topics so you have time to study conjuration spells over the course of the school year, if you want, but our next topics should be easier to apply, like using intent in alchemy.”

That sounded like a good idea. Micah thanked him again.

Golsa took his place at the podium. He heard the beginning of their conversation as he left.

“The others convinced me it was okay to ask for advice. I got this new Skill, [Pressurized Alchemy], and I was wondering …”

Mason and he climbed the stairs. “So, workshop,” Micah said. “Are you sure you only want to make one thing?”

“I’ll just brew some quick focus potions. You can have the lab bench afterward.”

Micah smiled. Because the student body had doubled in size, there was an actual sign-up sheet for the workshop now, which the teachers regulated.

Workshop students and students fishing for extra credit had priority. Students who attacked other students got blacklisted.

Micah was lucky he had friends to sneak him in … even if it was somewhat humiliating to have to beg for help, if he was being honest. He only did it because it beat the trek to his sister’s place on the weekends.

Mason crushed his latest conjuration and turned to him to distract himself. “What did you want to make?”

“I’ve got Combat Training with Mr. Sundberg on Wednesday. He said we’re doing two rounds of sparring, one martial, one mixed.”

“So … strength potions? Ammunition?”

“Mm.” Micah considered for a moment and said honestly, “No idea.”

Vladimir gripped his longsword with both hands in a low stance, the tip of its blade pointing upward at Micah’s stomach.

Micah circled him with an arming sword and a shield, for all the good the added layer of protection did him. He pushed forward two steps. Vladi retreated one step. With every millimeter his roommate swayed, he revealed the charge in his legs. Rearing to strike like a viper.

Screw it, he thought and charged. He froze to dodge the swipe at his shins, blocked the thrust to his waist, and opened his guard to lunge.

Vladimir took a knee, swept his longsword low beneath his shield, and flicked it up into his gut, as promised.

Two points, he thought, and I’m dead. Vladi had even dodged his strike. He brought his sword down to repay the favor but, without a pause, his roommate twisted his longsword around into an upward block, spun back onto his feet, and circled him. As if he had predicted him all along.

Suddenly, Micah was on the defensive while his opponent poked and prodded at the gaps around his shield.

When Micah spotted an opening, he took it and got a sword tip to his coif for his efforts. Three points. I have to heal up or die choking on my blood. In a real fight. This was not a real fight.

Micah pushed on to close the distance, and his opponent grappled his sword, flipped his longsword around, and bonked him in the helmet with its pommel.

Two more points. And a broken nose. Focus!

He retreated as far as he could in the ring and took a steadying breath. Vladi was merciful or bored enough to allow it. When they reengaged, he focused on his defense, on his footwork, on the lessons he had learned over three months ago.

He lost miserably.

Mr. Sundberg called the match. His roommate straightened with perfect posture. He watched Micah, blinked, and thrust a hand out in exasperation. “What was that?”

“I’m rusty!”

“So I see. Did you not practice at all during summer break?”

“I exercised. I fought monsters?”

“Monsters make for poor sparring partners. All they teach is how to hack and slash with all the finesse of whacking weeds. You should have joined a sword school.” They fell into step beside one another, passing by the next duo to come after them as they stepped out of the ring.

Mr. Sundberg raised his voice to remind the next round of fighters of the rules, so Micah lowered his voice in kind, “I had other things to do. It’s not like I want to be a [Swordsman].”

Vladi nodded once and turned around. They waited until their teacher barked, “Begin!” Then, ten similar scenes played out: students with nearly perfect stances fumbled the moment it came to an actual exchange. If their opponents were just as rusty, they stumbled their way through an embarrassing ‘spar.’ If not, they mercilessly took them apart or went so easy, they barely fought at all. Until Mr. Sundberg barked those people back into action.

The rarest duel saw two people of equal skill fighting one another.

“You only began to practice martial combat last year, didn’t you? It is clear to see who has been doing this for a while, or else who has dedicated vocations or Skills for it …”

Micah blinked in surprise. That was right. The first time he had picked up a practice sword had been, what? April of last year? Nineteen months. Those first four months, he’d spent training under Ryan. These last two months, he had barely trained at all. And it wasn’t like he had devoted every second of the year in-between to sword fighting. He had tons of stuff on his plate!

Vladi glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and glared. “Why do you look relieved? That was an explanation, not an excuse. You have a dual combat vocation, too. Do better.”

“Who asked you?”

His roommate smirked. “Your mom. Just kidding, Thomas did.”

Before Micah could think of a quip in response, he turned to nod at the benches where the remnants of their group sat: Navid, Alexander, and Thomas.

Navid sat sideways, facing away to chat with the next group over. Alexander was hunched over his legs, his head almost cradled between his knees. Thomas had been spectating the fights, but he perked up at the mention of his name. “Huh?”

“Just last week, he wouldn’t shut up about how much he looked forward to fighting you again.”

“That— Don’t say it like that. You’ll give him the wrong impression.” Thomas looked at Micah. “You beat me during the festival. I was new to being a [Spellblade] back then so I wasn’t fighting at my best. I want a rematch.”

That was the rematch, Micah thought. Thomas used to trash him in combat training last year. So Micah had tried his best and, with the help of a strength potion and his newly-discovered dominion, challenged him to a duel during the summer festival and barely eked out a victory.

Vladi was quicker to reply once more. “Tough luck,” he said, “Micah was just telling me how he spent his summer break: every day with his nose in a book, every night at a different party. ‘He’s rusty.’ Just look at his beer belly.” He flicked his shirt up.

Micah rammed him with his shield, and Vladi toppled, laughing, over the benches. Navid made no effort to catch him. Alexander groaned as he flopped sideways, dodging like a dead fish.

He took his time fixing his shirt because there were girls in the gym and he didn’t have a beer belly.

“I’m rusty with a sword. If you want to fight with magic, uhm … I’m also recovering from a magical wound, and I got a bunch of Skills I haven’t tried out yet … but I’d do better!”

“Magical wound?”

“I cannibalized my … I guess the equivalent would be my mana channels a bit? I can meditate on the damage. It already feels much better than it did last week. It just smarts when I use too much wind magic.”

“Huh. I wouldn’t mind getting some practice in myself. If we’re going to be sparring a lot in this course, we can have a proper rematch—“

“We won’t,” Mr. Sundberg cut into their conversation, glancing over without turning away from the matches, “this is just to see where you stand. We’ll rehash some combat exercises each week, focus on tactics, and move into guardian scenarios with the guest speakers from the Guild building up to your midterms. You’re in this course to learn how to fight monsters together, not each other.”

The man was always grumpy, but he shot them a glare, and Micah could have sworn it was directed at him. Yet another teacher who was disappointed in him. That sucked.

Micah sat next to the dead fish. Keeping his voice low this time, he asked, “You alright?”

Alexander groaned and swung himself up with a stifled yawn. “I’m up. Long nights, is all.”

Micah nudged him with a teasing smile. “With whom?”

“My nose in a book. Combing through libraries for information on … certain spirits.”

His smile vanished.

It reappeared on Navid’s face. The backstabber spun around with a bright smile at the slightest whiff of gossip. “Don’t you have spells for that?”

“‘They’re not infallible,’” Alexander answered with the air of quoting an answer someone else had given him, “‘it’s better to do it the right way.’ And when I wasn’t doing that, I was shadowing people to observe how to act in a crisis: run about like headless chickens, I suppose.”

“Woah. Alexander Tor openly criticizing his own house? You must be in a truly horrible mood. Unless,” he leaned in to whisper, “are you an imposter?”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

Micah panicked. Could the Pretenders impersonate humans to leave the Tower? How would they even know? He leaned in front of Alex and asked, “Did you find anything?”

Thomas nudged him. “Don’t ask him that, man. It’s confidential.”

“No, it’s just—sorry—we have spells to detect spirits, right?”

“It’s being handled, Micah,” Alex insisted. “You can sleep knowing that. On the bright side, I leveled up?”

“In [Warrior]?” Vladi asked. “From research?”

“New Class. [Investigator]. And a new Skill … [Word Finder].” He scrunched up one half of his face. “Not so great.”

“Not the plan?” Navid asked.

“No, but it can lead to better things further down the line. It’s fine. Necessary.”

“Naturally. I’m actually trying to convince my father to endorse an accelerated leveling strategy for myself given current events.”

“Didn’t you level just last week?”

“Yes, but all I got was [Weighted Words].”

“Mm. A word of advice? Use that sparingly or people will think you’re annoying.”

“I’m well aware. The human brain can even build up a tolerance to the Skill—”

Micah twisted his head back and forth and listened to their exchange with bated breath, waiting for the slightest pause to ask about that. Their leveling strategies. The Theatre.

But the pause didn’t come soon enough. And then he realized that, no, actually, he didn’t want to ask. He would rather have just been there. In the Theatre. With his friends.

Sure, he’d had other plans at the time, but they hadn’t even asked! That sucked.

So instead, he interrupted whatever dumbass thing Navid was saying and nudged Alex, “I’m a [Warrior] now, too. Got any fellow Class advice?”

He blinked rapidly. “Brain’s a bit fuzzy now, sorry … You remember the basics, right? [Fighters] lean more toward toughing their way through fights. Some seek out fights. [Warriors] lean more toward preparing for war, often with a binding cause like employment, duty, or a vendetta. Stuff like that. Your future Skills might lean more in that direction, which seems like it might be useful for you …? As an [Alchemist]?”

“Yeah, I already got an alchemy Skill from the Class change.”

“Right, so, the important thing is to find out what the Class means to you, why your Class changed, and then use that to guide your actions and level more easily.”

Alexander wasn’t looking at him while he spoke. He was leaning forward and bouncing one leg while he watched the fights. “I think we’re about to be up.”

Sure enough, Mr. Sundberg called the match a few moments later. Alexander scooped his sheathed sword up and stifled another yawn. “Wish me luck.”

Micah gave him a thumbs-up, and Navid surprised him by slinging an arm over his shoulders before he left. “Hey. Are you angry with me?”

Micah shoved him off, and he went toppling over the benches. Vladi made no effort to catch him, and Mr. Sundberg barked at him to get a move on.

Thomas stayed behind and wordlessly offered him a hand.

They performed masterfully, of course. Thomas seemed a better fighter with just a sword than with sword and sorcery. And Navid and Alexander, despite the former’s attitude and the latter’s drowsiness, snapped to attention and dismantled their opponents.

Vladimir had been right: it was obvious to see who had been doing this for a while. Micah wanted to find comfort in the thought. If he kept this up for a year or two, he would be as reliable with a sword as the rest of them. He barely had any martial Skills yet.

Why then did he feel that pain in his chest, like his time was running out?

Two days. Fifty years. Two years of Teacup Salamanders and Kobolds, and Golems, Coldlight Bats, the Rat Hermit, Maria, a Collector, a Pretender, the mad Avashay—

I have nearly died, he thought, so, so many times. He was already on his second chance at life.

Micah turned to his roommate, who was acting far less stoic than he had two months ago. “So did you go to any parties during summer break?”

Vladimir smiled. “All of the parties, Stranya, my man.”

When Micah paid attention, it was obvious Vladi was playing this new behavior up. Micah didn’t mind.

“Sooo … d’you know if there’ll be any parties grade skippers like us can go to during the Harvest Festival? To get drunk?”