The Survivor crashed into the ground, a pleased twist in the line of his mouth. Red fabric spilled from between his fingers. The blade at his neck and the foot between his shoulder blades no longer mattered; with red fabric in hand, he had met the Alchemist’s challenge and won his freedom. He laughed as the foot left his back, releasing him from the floor.

“Well done,” the Alchemist said, looking impressed. The Alchemist held two swords, both short and shiny with oil coatings. As the Survivor climbed to his feet again, the Alchemist sheathed one and offered the handle of the other. “Keep it for your travels. A souvenir.”

The Alchemist stepped aside, leaving open the path out of the prison.

The Survivor walked toward the door eagerly, but his resolve faltered midway through the corridor. He looked at the items in his grasp. In one hand, red fabric held the key to freedom; in the other nestled the practice blade that he had learned to use as well as a second arm. At some point, fighting to escape had turned into sparring for new skills. Though faced with only one victory after almost two months of fighting and losing, his swordsmanship had improved significantly since their first encounter. He had lasted almost three minutes in the latest bout, and seeing the Alchemist’s surprised expression was well worth the extra bruises earned today.

The Survivor turned the sword over, inspecting the shiny steel closely. In the latest round, the Alchemist had flicked the tip with one finger, and the whole blade had been consumed with a wave of flame. The fire was gone by now, but the sudden brightness blinding both fighters had given the Survivor a moment to swipe the key before being knocked to the ground.

“How do you shape the flame to your will?” asked the Survivor, looking to his captor once more. No torch-fire he had ever seen could react to a man’s touch with such obedience.

“To me, fire is but a thought and a breath,” said the Alchemist. He held up one gloved hand, and a blue flame no bigger than that of a candle appeared in his palm. It wavered for a moment before the Alchemist twisted his fingers, and blue rose into more natural orange. That hand closed into a fist, extinguishing the little light. “To most, it is the Fell Magick of the Mountain Sages, far beyond the comprehension of ordinary folk who would use it for petty ends.”

Red fabric flopped to the ground, forgotten. What was the use of freedom when he could have the power of the ancients? The Survivor pivoted on his heel, retreating from the beckoning corridor. Like a moth to a candle, he stepped toward the one whom he should have taken as an enemy, now hailing the other as a Student to his Master. He bowed formally, and though his posture was that of one who had never paid such respects before, the sincerity of his intent could not be mistaken.

“Teach me,” the Student said, dark eyes wide with wonder.

Among the infantry training regiments, the Student excelled in fighting with a bladed weapon. Though most familiar with the sword from his past training, the Student nevertheless adapted to the common pike and archery tactics with relish. He swiftly rose to become one of the top recruits, spending almost as much time helping others refine their techniques as practicing his own.

The Student’s combat skills were undeniable, but excellent physical prowess was commonplace among their enemies in the Imperial Army. The growing Sun Army had not survived conflicts time and again through sheer martial skill, but rather via judicious use of the Alchemist General’s pyrotechnic inventions: smoke screens, oil and powder-based grenades, and carts of fire-propelled arrows. Such technology granted an edge in battles otherwise impossible to win against a professionally trained, more experienced, and better-equipped Imperial Army.

Unfortunately, recruits privy to such superior weaponry often grew overconfident from access to such power, becoming reliant upon their superior technology in combat situations. Dependence on firepower had been the downfall of many of the Alchemist’s most promising recruits; once the grenades and rocket-boosted arrows ran out, steel was a soldier’s final judge. Hence, the Alchemist had turned to teaching Sun Army recruits the fundamentals of pyrotechnic synthesis only after they gained proficiency in using the common weapons: shortbows, polearms, and swords.

The Student had just passed a weapons proficiency exam, much to the Alchemist’s delight. Intense practice led the Student to claim the top rank among his cohort, and the Alchemist recognized a shadow of his own youthful focus in the Student’s dedication. Before the instruction began, however, the standard disclaimer was due. A Sage had once spoken these very words to the Alchemist, and now the Alchemist transferred this ancient wisdom to his own Student.

“Do not learn pyrotechnics as a means to an end,” the Alchemist warned. “If you seek mastery while your heart is impure, you will never grow beyond a mere user of existing techniques. Power will consume your mind, blocking greater discoveries.”

Impatience flared across the Student’s face, but he visibly swallowed his protests. Raising his chin, the Student spoke in a steady voice.

“I understand. I do not expect it to be easy or quick, but I do want to learn.”

The Student devoted himself entirely to his studies. He practiced as the Alchemist guided, and he worked late into the night on new formulas. The Student learned to mix blackpowder and throw sparks using phosphorus; he discovered which blends of oil produced a bright flame, and which created only a choking smoke. Impressed by the Student’s persistence, the Alchemist spent long hours mentoring him one-on-one.

He followed the Alchemist like a shadow, drinking up every scrap of knowledge offered. Even his former peers in arms training rarely found the Student free to socialize—so much time he spent with his teacher, and so focused was he upon learning the Fell Magicks of the Sages. On the rare occasions that the Student did find time to interact with his peers, he reveled in flattery while ruthlessly crushing any challengers.

When the Student was not accompanying the Alchemist, he helped coach the junior recruits. Once, the Student brought a special sword, lent to him by the Alchemist, to show the new recruits at the sparring fields. A flame shot down the length of the blade when he lunged, vanishing into smoky wisps when he paused. That day, he missed no opportunity to flaunt his new sword, berating juniors for minor mistakes and demonstrating each correct move with such skilled grace that they could only watch his weapons-play with envy.

As the Student mocked one recruit’s mediocre form, driving the poor youngster almost to tears, a bolder recruit dared interrupt the criticism. “Do you look down on us, Senior?”

“Of course,” the Student laughed in his face. “If not for the view from the top, why else would anyone climb?”

Even if the Student had not mastered every skill yet, who else among the recruits could compete with him for that title? He was the quickest learner, the fastest fighter, the most eager disciple of the one whom all of the Sun Army obeyed. The Alchemist’s delight with his rapid progress was evident to everyone, and the Student knew this most of all.

After months of studying the elemental forms, the Student absorbed the Alchemist’s lessons like a parched sponge, yet the Alchemist still did not have a clear picture of the Student’s status. His proficiency in physical tasks was undeniable, but his understanding of the conceptual basis was questionable. If the Student comprehended all of the principles that he practiced, then the Alchemist’s teaching had succeeded; however, if the Student simply copied the motions of formulation in mimicry of his teacher’s power, then the Alchemist had not truly imparted the necessary skillset. A test of discovery would reveal more than simply continuing the lessons.

The Alchemist led the Student to a small storage shed at the edge of the garrison. Inside the shed, wall-to-wall shelves were lined with various rocks, powders, and fluids. A heavy wooden table occupied the remainder of the space. The Alchemist emptied a bin of metallic cubes onto the table.

“Sort these samples by composition. You may use any of the supplies present.” The Alchemist gestured to the shelves: lumps of chalk or quartz crystals to gauge the hardness, water or vinegar to measure reactivity, flint or oil to test the heating properties, and many more. In this workshop, the possibilities were only limited by the Student’s imagination.

“I will return in an hour,” said the Alchemist, and he left to inspect the infantry drills on the other side of the garrison.

The Student began to poke at the samples randomly. Perhaps he would find the pattern in time.

When the Alchemist returned, the Student had indeed sorted the samples.

“Time,” said the Alchemist, walking over to inspect the Student’s progress.

All of the samples were divided into neat piles on the table, and the Student had successfully grouped copper, bronze, and brass alloys. The gold sample was also mistakenly placed in the same group—likely a result of categorization by color more than other key properties, such as density and hardness. However, the Student had not managed to place the different blends of steel together—some highly lustrous, and some with matte surfaces or darker undertones.

The Alchemist selected two samples from the pile that the Student named “iron.” The first block of metal had a slightly paler, more liquid sheen to the surface.

“Silver: an ornament that tarnishes the moment it is no longer prized.” The Alchemist held up the second cube, which was more roughly cut and slightly less dense. “Steel: a tool that holds an edge for decades. Remember the difference. Swords in the Empire are made from both; useful swords have only the latter.”

The Alchemist set these aside and selected two more samples: the first a block of lightweight metal even paler than silver, and the second a denser cube with a hint of reddish rust at the corners.

“Aluminum: difficult to purify and too soft for weapons.” He pointed out the discoloration on the second block. “Rust: a byproduct of ill-maintained iron alloys. Mix these two together, and you have the ingredients for a grenade.”

The Alchemist proffered a rectangle of black glass. It was smooth to the touch, but too dark to see through and not shiny enough to use as a mirror. After a quick glance, the Student set it aside.

A nearby shelf held several jars of chemicals, and the Alchemist selected two jars labeled with the respective metal names. He mixed a spoonful of each powder together on the tabletop, then took a heated metal rod from the fireplace. Holding another shard of dark glass in front of his own face, the Alchemist applied hot metal to the powder. A brilliant white flame leapt up.

The Student flinched, shielding his eyes with a hand. The glass rectangle still sat upon the table, and he blindly fumbled for it in the moments before the light diminished.

“I see.” The Student nodded, blinking rapidly in the wake of the sudden brightness. A fist-sized crater now scarred the tabletop.

The Alchemist then swept the samples into a crate, overturned the crate, and scattered the samples across the table again. He bade the Student to sort the samples. The Student did so, naming each in turn, in the exact order as the Alchemist had identified the cubes just moments before.

The Alchemist’s brows pinched together. “Memorization is no substitute for understanding.”

Silver skies hung above, and a stiff breeze whipped over the world below. A storm would come soon, nourishing the parched farmlands back to full productivity.

In the Sun Army training camps, one particular Student sat with wounded pride outside a storage shed. The Alchemist’s comments on his test results had stung. For once, the Student had not followed his teacher after the unexpected quiz.

Fellow recruits spotted the Student sitting alone. They wandered over, calling out greetings. At the sight of a few members from his former training cohort, the Student perked up. Even if the Alchemist was disappointed with his progress, his current level was still far higher than that of the other recruits. A smirk spread across his face, and he began to boast of his new skills to his curious peers.

“You want to know how the Alchemist makes fire with a flick of his wrist?” the Student had asked not two hours previously. “I’ll show you after lunch.”

Now it was after lunch, and quite a sizable crowd had turned up to witness the Student’s revelation. Around ten fellow infantrymen in training circled the Student, while he in turn crouched on the ground. On the rocks before him sat a small pile of blackpowder. The other trainees had spent twenty minutes watching the Student synthesize it with great effort from burnt wood, a yellow rock, and bird droppings.

“Behold... as I create... fire.” The Student rubbed his palms together, using a pair of stones concealed in his gloves to drop sparks over a small pile of kindling. When a wisp of flame caught, he heated a twig until embers glowed on one end. A thin trail of smoke rose behind as he waved the twig through the air. “Now for the real fun.”

The other trainees leaned forward in anticipation. The Student stuffed the twig into his sleeve until the smoldering end dangled just below the tip of his thumb. He slowly brought the glowing twig toward the pile of powder. Reveling in the suspense, he dramatically touched thumb to second finger, then brought his thumb and forefinger together to produce a snapping sound.

A throat cleared. One trainee looked up and gasped. The audience scrambled away from the Student, raising their arms in respectful salutes. The Student froze, his thumb and forefinger a hair’s width from clicking together.

The Alchemist stood just behind the Student, dressed in a light practice uniform, a wooden sparring sword at his belt. The Student scrambled to his feet, turning, but he was too slow to hide the burning stick behind his back. The Alchemist sniffed and raised an eyebrow.

“Pigeon droppings again? How unoriginal. You learned this method months ago.”

The Alchemist plucked the stick from the Student’s grip. It burst into brilliant flame in the Alchemist’s hand, and he tossed the charred remnants to the ground. The blackpowder pile ignited without witness; the Alchemist had already stolen the trainees’ attention.

“Do not always try the same formula. If you only use the ingredients that you already know, you will never learn to make full use of your environment. Use your eyes and observe what similarities exist between the familiar and the novel. True skill is a measure of adaptability.”

With each word, the Student’s head dropped lower. By the end of the scolding, he was staring at the ground. New scuff marks had appeared in the dirt by his feet. The Alchemist grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing their gazes to align. The Alchemist’s voice softened infinitesimally.

“You should not interfere with other students’ learning before you have mastered the subject. You will only lead them astray.”

In a sullen voice, the Student said, “Got it.” He ticked off the items on his fingers. “Be more practical, use my eyes, and stop being concerned with other people’s problems when I can’t even solve my own.”

The Alchemist glanced at the other trainees, taking in their poorly concealed satisfaction at the scolding. They were glad to see the boastful Student humbled before the Alchemist’s authority. They did not understand: the Student’s fault was not pride in itself, but rather the unjustified pride of a youngster whose confidence outweighed his capability. The Alchemist sighed. He was building an army, not a school. For every prodigy, there were a thousand mediocre but dedicated individuals; while a teacher had the luxury of choosing a star student, an effective leader could not afford to choose favorites who were not themselves favored by the army’s foundations.

“Meet me at the western gate at dusk.” With those terse words, the Alchemist turned on his heel and left.

At dusk, it was just starting to drizzle outside. The Student found the Alchemist on the road to the western gate. The Alchemist carried a cloth bundle and a sheathed sword, but he was not wearing the customary weatherproof travel cloak.

“Are you going somewhere?” the Student asked.

“Follow.”

The Alchemist continued westward toward the very edge of the training grounds, where a barred metal gate appeared in the base of the high wooden enclosure surrounding the garrison. The soldier unlocked the gate as the Alchemist approached. Just beyond the wall, the Alchemist stopped walking. The Student stopped as well, glancing at the open gate with a puzzled frown. The Alchemist held up the sword. “Sword.”

Taking it, the Student drew the long blade from its sheath and gasped. The blade shimmered brightly, casting a perfect reflection of the Student and the land behind him. This sword felt light yet sturdy, and it looked to be of an even higher quality than the previous training blade that the Alchemist had given him. The Student happily said as much—“Nice blade. Thanks!”

The Alchemist thrust the bundle at the Student. “Travel cloak and rations. Farewell.”

Performing a neat about-face, the Alchemist re-entered the enclosure and shut the gate between them. The lock engaged with a click. Outside, the Student gaped at him through the metal bars, still clutching the sword and bundle.

“Are you... are you kicking me out?”

The Alchemist nodded.

“I don’t understand.” The Student dropped the bundle and sword, grabbing the bars of the gate. “Why me? I’m your best student. I learned everything that you taught.”

The Alchemist nodded again, ever the patient elder explaining the basics to a child.

“You did, and yet it is not enough. That is the problem. I can teach you to imitate, but only you can teach yourself to innovate.”