The Alchemist and the Scholar traveled to a nearby populated town, hoping to recruit some followers via speeches and pamphlets. The Alchemist brought his metal bow, a bundle of arrows, food, and a few tools. The Scholar brought food and a few blankets graciously donated by the Alchemist.

Unfortunately, the two would-be revolutionaries owned not one penny between them: the Scholar had given all of his money to his daughter, and the Alchemist had been out of society for long enough that such trivialities as finance escaped his mind. This would not have been an issue in the wilderness, where natural food and shelter could be found in abundance. However, food and shelter in a town were typically owned by other people, and use of either by travelers required money.

The Scholar, following old habits, managed to earn a few coins reading and writing letters for various uneducated townsfolk. He collected scrap paper from people who no longer had use for the old messages any longer. After soaking these sheets in hot water to wash out the ink, he wrote on the pages with charcoal. Ink would have been the Scholar’s preferred writing medium, but it cost too much for a fugitive, and the coins that he earned were better spent on food or medical supplies.

The Alchemist was impressed by the Scholar’s essays, though not many other people were—mostly due to a lack of literacy and appreciation for the fine arts among the common folk. Nevertheless, the Alchemist openly expressed his admiration for the boldness of the Scholar’s work.

“How bright the mortal flame; how bold the vision...”

After hearing of the Scholar’s difficulties in gaining an audience, the Alchemist decided to help spread the word. The Alchemist’s methods proved a bit more effective than the Scholar’s methods, which heretofore had consisted of standing in the town square and begging, “Open your eyes, good fellows, and see that the Empire’s glory is nothing but a facade meant to placate the masses!”

For one, the Alchemist did not beg. For another, the townspeople found it a lot more difficult to ignore a foreign Alchemist with a commanding air than a squirrely, half-starved fellow who looked about to collapse on his feet.

Although the Alchemist was no expert at speeches either, he spoke with a single-minded passion that attracted the attention of a local blacksmith. The blacksmith grew most impressed at the Alchemist’s advertising ability, which he saw as a great potential benefit to his own business. The blacksmith also appreciated the metalworking quality of the Alchemist’s longbow, which the latter waved around during his speech attempts, although the smith rather doubted the usefulness of such springy metal. After the latest speech concluded, the blacksmith tipped the Alchemist with three coins.

“Good talk. Why don’t you join my smithy? Two meals a day; two coins an hour,” the blacksmith offered.

“For one who appreciates our cause, it would be my pleasure,” the Alchemist agreed, accepting the offer with a shallow bow. If the Imperial Guard attempted to arrest the Scholar again, weapons would provide a definite advantage. Besides, from what the Alchemist remembered of society, people always respected a fellow more when he had several swords and knives strapped to his person.

The Alchemist proved to be a dedicated and hardworking employee. As the seasons turned, the blacksmith grew more and more pleased by his hiring choice. The Alchemist was the blacksmith’s most productive hireling, and the cheapest too. As payment, the Alchemist accepted only food, not quite grasping the point of money, which was too soft to use in weapons and too metallic to eat. During his free time at the smithy, the Alchemist forged a fine steel sword.

One day, the soldiers of the Imperial Outlands Patrol came to town for a routine inspection. As they marched through the streets, one patrolman spotted the Alchemist delivering a load of wood to the smithy. He was dressed in the customary working leathers of the smithy, yet he carried a shiny, expensive-looking sword of foreign design at his belt.

“That sword looks dangerous. You could hurt someone. Hand it over,” the patrolman demanded. Envy glinted in his eyes: a fine sword was worth a fine price, and the owner of valuables would also gain the admiration of all.

“No,” said the Alchemist, who had been minding his own business during a meditative firewood-fetching trip. His dismissive tone drew the soldiers’ ire.

“Hey, show some respect for your betters!” the patrolman shouted. He drew his own weapon and attacked, trying to disarm the Alchemist. In return, the Alchemist dis-armed him rather literally. Screams rang through the street. The patrolman’s arm flopped three feet away from the thrashing body.

“Do not speak of what you do not know.” Silhouetted against the sky, blade still dripping crimson, the Alchemist watched the maimed patrolman struggle to crawl away with the same disdain as one might regard a half-squashed mosquito. The remaining members of the patrol fled in every direction, abandoning their injured fellow to bleed out in the street.

The severed hand was still twitching by the roadside when the town militia arrived. The militia leader, a middle-aged and tired-looking fellow, took in the sight of the Alchemist standing over a severely injured Imperial Outlands Patrol soldier. The Alchemist flicked his sword, and the abrupt motion drove every trace of blood from the surface of the blade.

“You are under arrest, sir,” the militia leader said, a tremor in his voice. “Please come with us. This does not have to end in violence.”

“Indeed not,” agreed the Alchemist, sheathing the blade. Surrounded by a crowd of nervous militia members, he retrieved the load of firewood and set it outside the blacksmith’s door. Task complete, he then followed the militia leader peacefully to the prisons, offering no protest. He laid the sword outside the cell door before stepping inside, much to the relief of the militia.

Later that day, a most displeased Scholar visited the Alchemist. The Scholar had only learned of his colleague’s misdemeanor from the rumor mill, and such rumors were wont to exaggerate the facts. From such whispers, the Scholar gained the impression that the Alchemist slaughtered an entire imperial patrol in broad daylight in the town square. He rushed to the Alchemist’s cell. The Alchemist sat in the center of the cell, eyes closed and face tilted upward in a meditative pose. His sword leaned against the wall outside the cell door, located just out of reach of the cell’s inhabitant, yet still far closer than the Scholar had expected it to be.

“You... you... how could you?” the Scholar gasped, torn between the horror of the deed and fear for his benefactor. “Attacking imperial officers! You have brought the wrath of the Empire upon us. The punishment will surely be exile at the least, or even execution.” He dropped to his knees, clutching the cell bars between them for balance. “Why are you still a prisoner? With that sorcery of yours, you could have escaped long before anyone caught you.”

The Alchemist’s eyes opened, leaving no doubt as to whether he had come willingly. His gaze was level and unrepentant. However, concern crossed his face at the sight of the Scholar crouched outside his cell. He gestured for the Scholar to rise.

“Do not fear the Empire’s lackeys. Escape?” The Alchemist made a derisive noise. “I have no cause to flee. I am not the one who has transgressed. Moral law must be enforced without regard for rank. Is this not as you have decided, Scholar? The soldier who would steal from a simple smith’s assistant overestimated the power of his station; thus, I taught him his place. I have only done as righteousness demands.”

The Scholar sighed. The Alchemist would admit to the deed but never the crime, for in the Alchemist’s mind, no crime had been committed. Such an attitude would hardly win the sympathy of the locals. The Scholar went off to find the leader of the town militia and negotiate the Alchemist’s release.

Unfortunately, the militia leader refused the Scholar’s coins. “Bribery may work on those city-born pigs in the Outlands Patrol, but while they laze about in the taverns, drinking and scaring honest folks, we’re the ones who have to keep the town safe.”

The Scholar found the militia leader’s principles impressive, but at the same time, he rather wished that those principles were a bit more flexible. After all, the Scholar could not let his only ally remain a prisoner. Without the Alchemist’s past support, the Scholar might never have survived in the wilderness; without continued support, the Scholar’s dream of a better world might remain precisely a dream. For several days, the Scholar wandered around town, pleading with anyone who would listen to support the Alchemist’s release.

“He isn’t a crook. His methods may be a bit violent, but he fought those soldiers for the right reasons,” the Scholar insisted to anyone who would listen. “It was to protect the townsfolk from their bullying. He saved my life from similar troubles. He would save all of you, and the Empire besides, if he had the chance.”

Most of the townsfolk turned a deaf ear to the Scholar’s pleas, for they did not care to question the judgement of the militia. However, a blacksmith took the time to hear out the Scholar. As the blacksmith listened, he realized that this Scholar was the very fellow whom his assistant, no other than the Alchemist himself, had spoken of with deepest respect. Seeing the Alchemist’s present plight in a new context, the blacksmith faced the town militia to vouch for his character. The blacksmith’s boldness encouraged other townsfolk to step forth as well. Soon, the Scholar had the support of several people who had witnessed the fight between the Alchemist and the Imperial Outlands Patrol.

“It was self-defense. The soldier attacked first. That fellow only acted to protect his property,” the witnesses confirmed.

Moved by the witnesses’ testimony, as well as the town’s unspoken but generally accepted disapproval of the Imperial Outlands Patrol’s conduct, the militia released the Alchemist from confinement.

The fight and ensuing arrest had brought the Alchemist no small amount of notoriety among the townspeople. Though he attempted to resume honest work at the smithy, he gained a sizable entourage of fans who followed him around his daily duties. The Alchemist soon discovered that doing fancy sword tricks in town square, particularly with a flaming sword, earned far more money than work as a blacksmith’s assistant. Incidentally, he also gained several devoted followers among the local youth.

“Teach us,” they begged the Alchemist, eyes sparkling with wonder.

Hence, the Alchemist taught the town youth about swordplay. He also taught them about corruption, honor, and revolution as the means of transforming the former into the latter. The boys, being still young and headstrong, absorbed the Alchemist’s idealism like sponges. Horrified at the thoughtless greed of those city folk who held themselves above others, the town youth pledged themselves to the Alchemist’s movement. Since the Alchemist followed the Scholar, the Scholar’s proposed revolution thereby gained a promising new set of followers.