Argrave laid in bed, staring up at the bronze hand mirror he’d once so loathed owning.

Traits: [Tall], [Black Blooded], [Intelligent], [Magic Affinity (High)], [Insomniac], [Blessing of Supersession (MAX)]

Skills: [Elemental Magic (C) {LOCKED}], [Blood Magic (C) {LOCKED}], [Healing Magic (C) {LOCKED}], [Illusion Magic (C) {LOCKED}], [Warding Magic(C) {LOCKED}], [Druidic Magic (C) {LOCKED}], [Inscription (E)], [Imbuing (E)]

Two accursed traits that had plagued him ever since he’d arrived at this place were now completely absent. Something else had taken their place—something glorious and black and bloody. He might’ve been alarmed by the giant words reading ‘LOCKED’ beside every rank of magic he’d learned but he’d been expecting such a thing. His magic pool had diminished significantly—he was only capable of casting spells of D-rank, now.

“What does it say?” questioned Anneliese.

“It says things that make me very, very happy,” Argrave answered, setting the mirror beside him on the bed. “Hot damn. I want to dance.” He cleared his throat. “‘When marimba rhythms start to play, dance with me, make me sway,’” he sung.

Anneliese smiled. “You are just as bad at singing as last time.”

Argrave laughed. “I know, I know—I’ve got no talent, I’m flat. But do you know what I am talented at? Or rather, will be?” Argrave pointed a finger.

“I can think of some,” she nodded.

“Flattering statement, little lady,” Argrave lowered his finger. “Henceforth, I will grow as a mage with ridiculous speed. Unprecedented. My magic will replenish faster than you can blink. I can diminish it just as fast, repaying that massive magic debt I accrued at Sethia. I suspect that’ll happen before we even leave this place. Each time I do this cycle, it’ll grow a little larger, a little larger...” Argrave held his fingers close together, and then widened them. “Before long, I won’t even need the Blessing of Supersession. My magic pool will be larger.” Argrave paused, then recanted, “Alright, that’s one hell of an exaggeration. But still!”

Anneliese moved to sit on the bed. “Your emotions are returning. Does that mean…?”

Argrave nodded. “I wasn’t being delusional. I feel it coming on. It’s like…” Argrave paused. “You remember, when you were young, you’d feel this weird aching, throbbing, in your legs? Growing pains, some called them.”

She looked to her legs, thinking, and then nodded. “I think so,” she confirmed.

“Well, it’s like that… but all over,” Argrave moved his hands around, touching various places. “And… it’s getting worse.”

“Things have only just begun,” a voice echoed throughout the room.

The Alchemist stepped inside. Argrave clammed up immediately and focused his gaze on the returned giant. Anneliese stood from the bed, coming to attention, yet remained quiet otherwise. The bed shook with every step he took.

Soon enough, he came to stand over Argrave’s four-poster bed, his upper half concealed by the bedframe. He held his hand out, and the fingers retracted within. A great eye opened on the now-fingerless palm. The gray pupil shone with spell matrixes, darting about and scanning Argrave’s body. Anneliese stepped back, startled, then bravely stepped back and sat beside Argrave.

“If I were to open your chest once again, we might see the heart working. Blood enters it normally and exits changed. Insignificant, now, but in time it will all be replaced. Black Blooded.”

The Alchemist walked around the bed. “You must eat much. If you do not, you will be eaten from within and die. Avoid biting your tongue from the pain—be cautious of seizures, too.” The Alchemist rubbed his fingers together. “In addition, waste will be forcibly expelled from the body. At the peak, I suspect you will begin sweating, vomiting, and defecating blood. It will leave no lasting damage, I suspect. In addition, your skin, hair, and nails may fall off, regrow. I am uncertain of this. All test subjects and chimeras die by this point, generally.”

Argrave swallowed.

“Your bones, organs, muscles, et cetera, will all adapt to the changes in time. Bones will grow larger, gain strength. Your muscles will exhibit no visible changes, but they will morph as well. Your organs will become much more efficient as magic permeates throughout your body.” The Alchemist stepped to the bed’s nightstand and retrieved Argrave’s report.

“In essence, everything your body does will become better. Exemplar, muscle growth: the same effort will produce tremendously improved results. Alcohol, poisons, and many potions will dissolve from the intensity of the magic in your blood.” The Alchemist flipped through Argrave’s written report, reading as he spoke. “Infection and disease become impossibilities. Wounds will heal better, and faster,” he continued. “That same principle wards away aging to a large degree.”

The Alchemist shut the book with a light pop. “Sufficient,” was his sole comment for the report. “I tell you this because I expect you to keep noting these things. You will describe what occurs within, daily, and continue to be subject to my scrutiny. In return, you will receive my continued tolerance of your presence within my home and garden. Elsewise, you and yours will be banished.”

“I agree, then,” Argrave nodded. “Any rules to note for my stay?”

“Do not pester me needlessly. Beyond that, my other condition remains in place.”

Argrave nodded. The Alchemist set the book back down on the nightstand and left, his exit jarringly abrupt. The both of them sat in stunned silence for a long while. Eventually, Argrave took a deep breath and sighed.

“Surgeons aren’t much better than lawyers in terms of arrogance.”

“What other condition?” Anneliese questioned, ignoring his little quip.

“If I scream too loud, he’ll take my larynx,” Argrave explained, staring at the blankets atop him.

“Larynx?” she repeated.

“Throat… thing,” Argrave held a hand to his throat. “Lets me talk. Breathe, too, I think. Not sure.”

She stared at him. “How loud is ‘too loud?’”

“Uhh…” Argrave trailed off. “Loud enough to annoy him.”

Anneliese sighed. “A simple enough thing to combat. I will make sure no sound gets out. Still, what a terrifying man.”

“I’m curious… what did you feel from him?”

“It is not… a feeling, per se,” Anneliese explained. “It is more of reading their body, their face, than something external. I cannot read animals, nor things drastically different from humans or elves. The only reason I was able to read those creatures in the Low Way was because their basis was human. And… I cannot read him. His movements are all far too foreign.”

Argrave nodded. “That’s fine. Still, I was hoping for something to make this nonsense less nonsensical.”

“Do not be nervous,” Anneliese reassured. “I vowed that absolutely nothing would go wrong. And I will be sure of that, even now.”

Argrave did feel reassured by that, knowing they were more than empty words coming from her. “No sight of Galamon or Durran?”

She looked frustrated. “No. I saw nothing of them. It is a vast jungle, granted, but I did not think it dangerous. And I did not think they would not care about your wellbeing…” She shook her head. “I will go look for them, if you wish it. I can fetch more to eat, too. It would be good to stock up.”

“I mean… I got what I came here for. I don’t think they can take that away,” Argrave clenched the blankets tight. “But Durran and Garm were definitely being shady.”

#####

“I refuse,” said the Alchemist, plainly and loudly, voice ever-grating on the ears.

Garm stared up at the gargantuan man, his pupils shaking. Durran and Galamon stood within the vast library that Argrave had discussed his surgery in, Garm held in Galamon’s hand. Though the area had been clean and tidy when Argrave left barring some misplaced books, it was now strewn with innumerable books containing diagrams and long paragraphs of data—some of them seemed to be wholly numbers.

“Why?” Garm questioned against his better judgement.

The Alchemist raised his nose up into the air, and vague cracks echoed out around his neck.

“I will not be party to killing something that I have interest in,” he said plainly, though his voice was noticeably lower in pitch. “A necromantic creation that retains its sentience, retains its soul in toto, barring foolish, unnecessary damages that seemed to have been self-inflicted by a B-rank spell—that is interesting indeed. Worthy of study, certainly.”

Galamon shifted on his feet, looking to Garm in his hand.

“But I told you—I’ll allow you to study me.”

“Until the Black Blooded one recovers. A process taking a month at most. Insufficient time to draw my interest enough to do as you wish,” the Alchemist concluded, staring down at Garm.

“I have other things to offer,” Garm continued. “Spells of the Order of the Rose.”

The Alchemist turned around and walked back into the library, saying nothing in response. It was clear he had no interest in further conversation.

“What would it take, then?!” Garm called out.

Cracking bones echoed throughout the obsidian library, as though the Alchemist was popping his neck or fingers. He came to a stop. Rather than turn, the hair on his scalp receded within, and a face identical to the one on the front took its place. His frontside carried on unaffected, staring down and writing into a book as he spoke from the face on his back.

“Surrender yourself to me, completely,” the Alchemist said, voice another pitch lower. “And refrain from this foolishness of merging souls. I can still deliver your eyes to the Black Blooded one. I will allow you to write down what spells you know. In return, submit. The tests will last some years. Depending on how they go, I may allow you to die when they are finished,” he finished apathetically.

Durran lowered his gaze to the ground, raising his brows and shaking his head as if resigned to things. Galamon remained patient, staring down at Garm.

“But I… I’ll do things myself. Then I’ll be gone forever—no opportunity for anyone any longer,” Garm threatened, desperation very evident.

More cracking and popping filled the room. The book the Alchemist held slammed shut, echoing throughout the library. The face on the back of his head sunk away, replaced by hair, and the Alchemist turned to face Garm.

“How sad,” the Alchemist said, voice now as deep and guttural as Galamon’s, though magnitudes more powerful.

“Garm…” Galamon cautioned, already stepping away towards the hall.

“You have to help,” Garm said resolutely.

At once, the odd cracking of bones turned into a deafening noise, like the sound of a giant tree finally breaking and splintering. The Alchemist’s movements were barely discernible, and he arrived before the three of them in not a second. His hair rose and writhed as if alive and his rigid back bent down, face contorting into one giant eye that stared at Garm while shining with green light.

A mouth opened on the Alchemist’s stomach, wide enough to swallow Galamon whole and with teeth the size of Garm himself. A black mist poured out of his ears, eye, and mouth, dancing up into the air. His hair surrounded Garm, each strand like threatening needles.

“Why is that?” the Alchemist asked, each word spoken slowly and deliberately. His voice could be likened to the devil itself, so terrifying it had become.

As the needle-thin strands of hair poked at his skin, drawing blood, Garm’s gaze remained steady.

“Because you want to stop Gerechtigkeit as much as anyone in this world. And Argrave stands to be the vanguard against him,” Garm answered. “I want to help him. This is the best way I have. Besides, you get to use the Unsullied Knife more. Doubtless you’re eager to.”

The Alchemist became still for a moment. Then, he began to pull away. “Gerechtigkeit,” said the colossal mouth on his stomach, emphasizing the harsh portions of the word. The mouth groaned loudly, then slowly, the lips sealed shut, fading away into flesh until naught but ivory skin remained.

Durran had fallen to the floor at some point, and he slowly stood up, head moving about frantically. Even Galamon had shied away.

“Get out,” the Alchemist commanded. “Begone. I must…” he trailed off, his speech hesitating for the first time any present could recall.

All were eager to obey this directive, exiting as quickly as their feet would allow. The Alchemist looked up to the ceiling. He stared silently for a long while, then let out a long, contemptuous groan.

“Annoying,” he said, voice returned to its normal pitch.