The wheelbarrow tray shone like newly forged iron in the torchlight, though from the look of the wooden handle, the wheelbarrow itself had been built two or three decades ago—ancient, yet no more than half the age that its owner looked to be. The Scholar touched the side of the tray, marveling at the liquid-like smoothness of the grey metal. The Sorcerer must have cast some powerful spell upon the wheelbarrow to preserve it over the years. He was not just a Sorcerer, then, if he knew such methods of warding metal from the wears of time, but an Alchemist as well.

The distant village rooftops grew into humble farmers’ huts and shacks, many with collapsed chimneys or termite-eaten walls. The Scholar shivered from a stiff breeze that blew between the small houses. This was not a thriving village, as the Scholar had expected, but an empty town.

The Alchemist wheeled the Scholar to a building that towered above the rest of the village. The sign over the front door proclaimed, in lettering of faded gold, that herein resided the mayor. By the abandoned state of the rest of the town, the original mayor had long since handed over his house to new management. The Alchemist helped the Scholar out of the wheelbarrow, steadying him when his legs threatened to collapse.

Inside was a sparsely decorated meeting hall with a large table, its surface completely covered in pouches and jars, and several chairs stacked on the side. A faded blue rug with gold embroidery had been rolled up and stashed in the corner nearest to the dark fireplace. Two side doors led off from the main hall, one on either side of the room. The Alchemist led the Scholar to the door on the left side, and they entered a cluttered workshop that seemed to double as a storeroom.

The Alchemist deposited the Scholar in the middle of this workshop and disappeared into the main hall. The Scholar sank to the ground beside a low wooden table, relieved to no longer be supporting his own weight. The tabletop was covered in unidentifiable jars, tools, and pieces of wood. Near one edge sat a long, curved rod of blackened metal with a string attached to one end. Glyphs from an unidentifiable language were partly engraved along the side of the rod, and a pen-like etching tool sat beside the marks. The Scholar puzzled over the crooked shape of the rod for a time. He finally decided that it must be some sort of fishing pole.

The walls and floor of the workshop were covered in racks and shelves, respectively, upon which countless pieces of wood, metal, and stone were stored. The few open segments of wall were filled with pieces of slate covered in chalk sketches. The only clear floor spaces were by the table, where the Scholar currently sat, and a small path leading from the doorway to the unlit fireplace. The Scholar shivered, wishing for a fire to dry his sodden travel clothes before the rot could set in. He inched closer to a shelf of rocks, but he could not tell which ones might be able to create sparks.

The Alchemist entered the room again, this time carrying the rolled-up rug, an armful of cloth rags, and a cup of water. The water he offered to the Scholar. It tasted clean and fresh in the Scholar’s parched mouth, though it held the faint bitterness of medicinal herbs. Unfortunately, the cool temperature soon had the Scholar shivering even more.

The Alchemist arranged the carpet and a few larger cloth pieces to form a makeshift bed. He then held up a bundle of small cloth strips.

“Bandages,” said the Alchemist, setting the bundle on the floor. He crouched by the dark fireplace, and a wisp of flame leapt up between his hands.

Warmth reached the Scholar immediately. He moved closer to the fireplace, attempting to soak in as much heat as possible. The Alchemist seemed to understand, and he moved aside, allowing the Scholar to sprawl fully in front of the hearth. They sat there for a time, the Scholar absorbing heat while the Alchemist prodded the fire into a more prominent blaze. Once the Scholar’s shivering had abated, he decided that he ought to communicate with his rescuer.

“I noticed your fancy fishing pole,” the Scholar said, waving at the table. “Impressive construction. But where could you possibly go fishing? This area only seems to have tiny creeks.”

The Alchemist laughed.

“To think that, all these years, I have been shooting arrows from fishing poles! It seems that I have much to learn from you, good Scholar.” Humor, or perhaps madness, danced in the eerie patterns of firelight that reflected off the Alchemist’s eyes.

The Scholar looked away, searching for a way to salvage the conversation. A rack of shiny metal implements hanging on the wall caught his attention. If small talk did not work, perhaps outright flattery would convince the Alchemist to spare him.

“You have an impressive collection of weapons,” the Scholar said, wincing at how false the repeated praise sounded. He waved at the set of shiny implements for good measure.

“Not weapons. Tools,” said the Alchemist. “Useful in some of my recent experiments. When testing explosive compounds, it is unwise to handle the chemicals directly.”

The Alchemist picked up a long tool shaped like a miniature spoon. He mixed two powders onto the surface and added a drop of clear liquid. With a sound like thunder, brilliant green flared through the room. A dark spot remained in the Scholar’s vision long after the light faded.

“Sorcery,” the Scholar gasped.

“Alchemy,” the Alchemist corrected, smiling faintly. He brought a pot of cold stew from the other room and hung it on a metal tripod over the fireplace.

Once the stew warmed, the Scholar discovered it to be a hearty blend of tubers, meat, and more bitter herbs. The food chased back some of the Scholar’s fatigue and numbed the soreness of his wilderness travels. While he ate, the Alchemist cleared tools off the floor, opening a slightly larger walkable space within the workshop.

After eating, the Scholar introduced himself formally. A scribe by trade, he ran afoul of the City Guard and was threatened with imprisonment or execution. He fled the city, managing to survive in the wilderness for several days, but the soldiers caught up to him on the outskirts of this village. He knew not where this village was relative to the Empire, and he hoped only that any surviving soldiers would not call for reinforcements soon.

The Alchemist accepted this tale with a nod.

“We are west of the Capital but still within the Empire’s borders. This village has been my home for some years now. You need not fear your captors; they shall never again walk among the living.”

The Scholar closed his eyes, releasing a shaky exhale.

“Tell me, Scholar—how does a learned man earn the ire of the City Guard?”

The Scholar considered avoiding the question, but then he recalled the fate of the soldiers in gruesome detail. The Alchemist was not someone whose patience he should test.

The Scholar revealed the full tale: his discovery in the Archives, his attempts to rectify the doctored reports, and his excommunication. Later, he had made pamphlets and speeches in an attempt to enlighten the public. Instead he brought the wrath of the City Guard upon those open-minded enough to consider his words. At the end of this tale, the Scholar buried his head in his hands and told of the paper peddler’s misfortune—an unrelated incident, yet still one that he could not erase from his mind.

“All my life, I have only ever wanted to serve the Empire. Then, I found out that the Empire was fundamentally broken. And when I tried to fix it, they called me the problem,” the Scholar said mournfully. “Those in power have exploited the people’s trust for too long without challenge. Truth is obscured from the eyes of the curious. Fairness is discouraged among the ambitious. Power is determined by the heaviness of one’s purse, rather than the sharpness of one’s wit. Honest men exhaust their lives in the shadow of petty gold-grubbers without principles.”

“The outside world has become far worse in my absence,” the Alchemist said, agreement written on every inch of him. “When I left, it was already sliding downhill.”

He launched into his own tale of woe, wherein a loyal and honest soldier fell victim to the petty agendas of his superiors.

“When I served in the Imperial Army, my unit was sent against a bandit infestation. We torched their stronghold in record time—no soldiers lost, all outlaws defeated. For that victory, I was dismissed from the Army. I humbly went to the Military Council for an explanation. They said, ‘You set fire to the brigands’ treasure stash. Under your watch, half of the stolen jewels melted, all of the looted brocade burnt to ashes, and you salvaged nothing.’”

The Alchemist’s fist slammed upon the table, sending it clattering across the floor. When his hand lifted, a depression two inches in diameter marred the wooden surface.

“We executed every last bandit, yet all the Council cared about was riches. Though the authorities don the guise of patriotism, their true loyalties show—to think that leaders value material wealth more than the extermination of lawbreakers! Such greed is a blight upon our nation.” The Alchemist stilled, regaining his center in the space of a silent breath. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and resolute. “Back then, I did not challenge the Council. I thought they would see their own errors in time. Yet from your account, I see that the Empire is indeed beyond redemption. If time cannot correct our nation’s course, then we must stage a more direct intervention.”

The Scholar nodded.

“Exactly my thoughts. I have long dreamed of a better world. Though I am but one insignificant Scholar, I see the path clear as the sun in the sky,” began the Scholar. Thus, he spun a vision of a new order—a world in which the people would know the truth and understand; a world where the talented, not the well-connected, would gain power and status based on earned merit; a world alike to what the Empire already boasted itself to be, yet different from reality in that the new nation would indeed be as virtuous as it claimed.

In this new order, the nation ought to take precedence over the self always. To accomplish this, the Scholar proposed radical refurbishment of all positions. Low or high, civil or military—all ought to be investigated for corruption, and, if found wanting, removed or replaced by more effective stations. Even the Emperor himself, if unwilling to accept the change needed to purify the Empire, ought to be overturned. A thorough redesign of the existing system was vital to the renewal of the Empire.

The Alchemist listened, solemn and resolute, and he absorbed every word. By the time the Scholar had quite exhausted himself of ideas, the Alchemist peered into the fireplace with the thoughtful expression of a man who had seen light for the first time in years.

“As my old teacher once said, ‘When the rot is deep, it must be excised before healing may begin.’ Your words are the very definition of treason, but I cannot deny their necessity.”