[Severed Divinity] 64. Alchemical Hunger

By the time Isen left the Welco’s mansion late in the evening, he felt exhausted but fulfilled. His main objective had been to attract the patriarch’s interest, and there was no doubt that he’d succeeded.

Isen was most happy about the pointers Welco had given him on his shadow cloak. Before, he’d been tired after a few seconds of channeling it. Now, he’d more than doubled the length of time he could hold it. Welco assured him that the more he practiced, the more efficient he’d become.

Eventually he’d encounter diminishing returns, reaching the limit of what was possible for his cultivation level. When that happened, the solution to bettering the technique was simple: advance.

Smiling, he returned to his room, shucked off his clothes, and collapsed into bed.

The next morning, he finally made a breakthrough on his alchemical flame.

One of the unexpected gains of going to see Welco had been studying the mage’s fireplace. It had been magical, but in a very distinct way from the fire he’d seen Druinala control and the original brazier that had held Lumina Eldrassin’s severed divinity.

It wasn’t really fire at all. He hadn’t figured out what it was, exactly, but he had realized that he was thinking about the alchemical flame the wrong way.

He was trying to create alchemical fire, perhaps as distinct from real fire as Lumina Eldrassin’s resplendent starfire, which functioned more as a searing beam of radiance.

There was a problem, though—he didn’t understand what alchemical fire was supposed to look like and how it should function. The illustrations and explanations in the book were helpful, but Isen was still missing something.

He’d never seen anyone concoct pills before, so maybe if he saw an example—

He froze. He had seen it once, on the Twining.

He tried to picture it, the cultivator woman meditating on the Twining’s golden corona. How she’d pinched the formless energy, seizing control of it. She’d murmured something as she’d done it, that she’d been looking for light aspected abyss energy.

Then she’d used it to transform her alchemical flame. The Twining’s corona had melded with her fire, turning it a beautiful, golden hue, riven by black lightning. She’d blasted her ornate furnace with spiraling undulation of energy, heating it from all sides.

From what Isen had gleaned from the pill primer so far, such a technique was very advanced. The expectation for a novice was to hold little more than a small, controlled ember beneath a vessel.

What stuck out to him was how her flame had changed to incorporate external energy. An alchemical flame wasn’t some static, magical fire. It was a force of transformation, and it burned fuel. That fuel could be Isen’s energy, the ambient mist, or even specific types of energy in the environment.

That was the key insight he’d lacked. Ignition.

His energy shaped the fire... and the fire consumed and sustained itself on the ambient energy, which kept it stable. The primer mentioned something along those lines, but it hadn’t fully clicked until now.

He cupped his hand beneath the clay vessel and breathed in deeply. Energy vented at his fingers, formless and weak. He focused his intent. Hunger wasn’t an aspect he’d ever heard of, but that’s what he thought of as the little ember came to life. Breathe, he thought, and it swelled. Feast. It unfurled like a rose, petals of flame reaching out at the air, grasping for sustenance.

Like an infant, it didn’t seem to understand what it needed, that the air itself was full of energy. It contracted and sputtered, almost withering as it collapsed on itself.

Isen’s eyes bore a ferocious intensity as he stared at the flame over his right palm. On instinct, he waved his left hand through the air, stirring the mist. He pulled at it, pinching it between his hands, like he did whenever hiding himself in depths’ ambient energy.

He plunged his fingers straight into the fire.

Alchemical flame wasn’t hot, but it still seared when fully manifested. Isen’s wilted ember made his fingers ache.

The infusion of energy jolted the flame to life, but Isen wasn’t done. He gathered more of the ambient mist, pulling it toward the flame and enriching it.

Then, suddenly, the flame latched. It pulled the ambient energy on its own, blooming beneath the clay vessel.

Isen’s brow furrowed as it continued to grow, flames hungrily licking at the sides of the small furnace. His first alchemical flame was supposed to be small, controlled, little bigger than a human eye. This flame was already bigger than two fists.

It was strong, but uncontrolled—unsuitable for pillmaking.

A vortex of energy spiraled around the flame, drawn into its center. He could cut off the flow of energy from his palm, but that would only destabilize the fire further. He needed to—

A loud knock sounded on the door, shattering his focus. “Isen!” Freyan called. “Breakfast!”

What answered her was a loud boom as the flame exploded in a crackle of power, knocking Isen into the wall, his head impacting with a loud crack. Gritting his teeth, blood dripping from his temple, he staggered and rushed to the clay vessel.

It was in pieces—unsalvageable. He hadn’t even tried concocting anything yet. It was a terrible waste.

The door tore open as Freyan and Arthum forced their way inside, eyes wide with alarm. “Gods, Isen!” she cried, eyes watering, her voice panicked. Arthum grimaced and ran ahead, reaching to support Isen’s side.

Without thinking, Isen shifted his body away, cradling his injured hand to his chest. Blood trickled down his forearm, though his hand didn’t exactly... hurt. It felt tingly and the sensation in his fingers was numb.

“I’m fine,” he said stiffly, taking a step back toward the wall. His gaze flickered between them. “Go eat. I need to clean up.”

Freyan’s lip quivered. “I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, joining Arthum. Her coming closer only made Isen feel more boxed in. She continued speaking, oblivious. “If I’d known you were doing something dangerous, I wouldn’t have...”

Isen tuned her out. He took deep, steadying breaths. He was okay. He was barely injured. Just a bit of blood.

It was the first time Isen’s own power had reacted in such a violent manner. Even when he’d experimented with forming his energy ball, he’d never lost control like that. It was a point of pride, and also a badge of survival. His energy balls were truly dangerous—if he lost control of one forming in his mouth, for instance, he might die.

The further he walked the path of cultivation, and the greater the power at his disposal, the greater the danger.

He’d thought the Pill Primer author’s call to use tribulation as a catalyst had been so cool. He’d almost forgotten what it was really like.

His body locked. Suddenly, he was back on the Twining, powerful winds roaring around him, lightning spearing the earth, turning all it touched to smoldering ash. Even that powerful cultivator, the master of golden-and-black flame who had concocted the pill using the Twining’s energy, had fled in haste.

She’d left him all alone with the tempest and the monsters. Powerless Isen in a world so out of control.

He closed his eyes and shuddered. He wanted Ros.

“... I don’t know what’s wrong with him!” Freyan hissed. “He hit his head, maybe—”

“Freyan,” Isen said sharply, eyes opening. “Arthum. I was trying to perform alchemy and lost control. I’m okay, just rattled. Seriously, go on without me.”

Arthum gave him a scrutinizing look, then nodded, tugging at Freyan’s sleeve.

“We should at least help clean—”

“He wants to be alone,” Arthum stated.

Freyan deflated. “Oh.”

The two left through the torn front flap, sealing it behind them.

Isen slumped against the wall, his head and hands on his knees. He inspected his injured hand. It looked fine, aside from a small laceration on his ring finger. The tingling sensation had abated.

He stood and padded over to his small bathroom and washed his face. The shallow cuts on his temple and hand had stopped bleeding almost immediately courtesy of his enhanced physique, so he didn’t need to bandage them, just clean off the blood. He’d worried that his clothes might be in disarray, but a pat-down was enough to fix them. His hair was chaotic, so he pooled water in his hands and rubbed it into his hair, smoothing it to his scalp so it no longer stuck up.

Next, he gathered up the furnace shards in his hands, painstakingly, almost as a self-imposed penance. He tossed them into a little black cloth cube near the bed—it was empty, and might as well become a trash receptacle—and curled up in the fetal position on his bed.

He wanted to understand why he felt so terrible in the wake of the explosion. Why had his chest seized, why had the world felt so overwhelming and dark?

Was it just because he’d lost control? It seemed too simple, and also, a bit pathetic. He’d failed his technique, it wasn’t the end of the world.

No—it wasn’t because he’d lost control. There was something deeper and uglier at the center of this truth.

Isen recalled his advancement to the second tier, where he’d pondered the nature of divinity and his own path. It was then that he’d resolved to be better than he was—to become someone unafraid of leading people, not second guessing himself. Trusting himself to navigate dangers and seize opportunities to change the world.

That was the crux of the issue—trusting himself. Trusting his body, his mind, and the inexplicable sense that guided him. In the end, he had to rely on himself. And if he couldn’t... He knew he’d never reach the end of his path. It was hard to trust himself when he made such stupid mistakes.

Isen clenched his teeth.

Another knock sounded out on his door.

“Who is it?” Isen asked, stirring.

“Jorin.”

He walked to the door, pulling it open. “Come in.”

Jorin looked the same as ever, his clan robes impeccable, his two pins shining on his collar. “I heard a... minor explosion. I ran into Freyan and Arthum and they explained what happened.”

Isen cringed. “It was that loud?”

Jorin rubbed his earlobe. “Not loud, but distinctive. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.”

Isen just nodded.

Jorin peered over at the black cube. “Broke your furnace I see.”

“Yeah.”

“How, exactly?”

Isen’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Should I show you?”

“Do you want to?” The man’s gaze was inscrutable.

Isen looked away. “Not... particularly.” He paused. “For a moment, it felt like... I was falling. You know, that moment when your stomach flips, when you realize you’re no longer on stable ground.” He looked down at his hands. “Maybe you wouldn’t know.”

Jorin snorted. “I have tripped before.” Then, he sighed. “You’re not very used to failure, are you?”

Isen bristled, staring wordlessly in disbelief.

“With respect to cultivation,” Jorin added.

Somewhat mollified, Isen asked, “What do you mean by failure?”

“What I mean, is that you learn techniques in hours, or even minutes, rather than weeks or months. You don’t get stuck in the same way others do.”

“I still fail in the beginning,” Isen argued. “I try over and over until I finally get it right. All those little failures amount to a single success.”

Jorin’s eyes flashed. “Don’t be difficult. We both know what I mean. Not little setbacks, but true, echoing failure. A complete inability to move forward.” He leaned slightly forward. “I’m sure you’ve seen it before.”

An image formed in his mind. Goldbounty was a giant wheel, stuck in the mud, and its people dim, flickering tapers, living hopeless, meaningless, bleak lives.

“If I were used to that kind of failure, I wouldn’t be here,” Isen said.

“It’s not a question of becoming used to it, but overcoming it.”

“There are some failures so big, so overwhelming, that no one can overcome them. What then?” Isen asked.

“Then you become strong enough to overcome them anyway, or you falter. Failures are opportunities, Isen. Not little failures from experimentation, but bigger ones. The failures that scare us.”

“I’m not scared,” Isen blurted.

“Then show me what power broke your furnace.”

Isen hesitated, but his stubbornness won out. He wasn’t scared. The loss of control of his alchemical flame hadn’t been a failure.

He almost convinced himself as he manifested an ember on his palm.

Jorin smiled. “Very good.”

Isen glanced his way. “This isn’t what destroyed my furnace.” If Jorin wanted the full show, Isen would give it to him. He cupped the flame with his other hand, drawing in the ambient energy with the movement. He twined it around the ember by dipping his fingers into it, his nails gleaming with an iridescent sheen in the light.

The ember surged. Isen shaped the flames with more intention than before, spinning them slightly, spooling the energy inward. The flame grew as it sucked in the world’s power. It curled over Isen’s hands with its numbing cold.

“Isen,” Jorin barked, “stop that at once!”

Isen rotated his hand in the opposite direction of the energy vortex, halting its spin. It was what he’d planned to do before Freyan’s interruption. He released the energy venting from his hand and the flame dwindled, then winked out.

“What... was that?” the half-elf asked quietly.

“Not sure—I came up with it this morning.” Despite Jorin’s less than stellar reaction, he smiled down at his hands. He’d manifested the flame, expanded it, and depleted it, all without losing control. He wasn’t sure if the same would remain true if he’d been startled like before, but he pushed such concerns away.

Jorin tapped his fingers together, his expression suddenly exhausted. “I’ll be honest with you, most of our alchemists are mages and have left on a... trip, of sorts. That said, there are a handful of cultivators here who are alchemists.” He rubbed his jaw. “I think it’s best you receive proper alchemy instruction, rather than playing around unsupervised.”

Isen’s expression must have shown on his face. Jorin gave him a weak smile. “It’s not a punishment, child, but an acceleration.”

“When can I start?”

“Soon,” Jorin said. Just then, the bell tolled. “You should get going to class. I’ll let you know about the alchemy tutor as soon as I have news.”

Without giving Isen a chance to respond, the cultivator was gone.