Chapter 61 – Return to the Sands
The desert was quieter than usual.
The wind that usually carried the hiss of shifting dunes was still, muffled beneath the early light. Each step left a sharp print in the pale sand. The sky burned pale gold — morning, endless and dry.
J-Crew moved in a loose wedge across the ridge, the temple far behind them now. Packs strapped, cloaks drawn tight, the warmth rising already.
Blake walked point, his blade over his shoulder. "Step-ones," he muttered, pointing to the fresh prints curling near a dune slope. "Probably sand serpents."
"Just keep moving," John said. "They're not worth slowing down for."
He didn't even raise his voice, but everyone heard. That was enough.
A moment later, three serpents erupted from the sand — thin, whip-quick creatures with crystal scales glinting red in the sun. Tamara lifted a hand; frost spiraled outward in a single breath, and the first froze mid-strike. Blake cut the second in half with one lazy swing. Ember leapt, jaws flashing, and dragged the last one down with a crunch.
The fight was over before the sand settled.
Mara stooped to gather the cores, wiping sand from her gauntlet. "Ten cores total," she called. "Step Twos and a few Ones."
John nodded. "Good. Bag them."
No one celebrated; no one complained. They were efficient now — practiced. Each small fight only reminded them how far they'd come to almost something that resembled a unit.
By midday the dunes thinned, giving way to stone and dust. And beyond that, the walls of the City of Sands shimmered like a mirage — rising gold and pale marble in the heat. The massive gate towers caught the sunlight, reflecting it like burning mirrors.
By the time they reached the outer market, the city was already awake. Merchants shouted prices, carts clattered over cobblestone, the air thick with spice and smoke. Above them, banners of the three Associations hung from towers: crimson for the Mercenaries, blue for the Alchemists, gold for the Merchants.
Sera let out a small sigh. "I forgot how loud it was here."
Ember sneezed, offended by the smell of fried lizard meat.
They were weaving through the main street when Lysa's quiet voice cut through the noise.
"Someone's following us."
Everyone froze — just slightly. Only John turned his head.
She didn't look back; her eyes tracked a faint reflection in a shop window. "A scout," she said softly. "Light armor, sand cloak. Was shadowing us since the gate. He bolted when he realized I noticed."
John frowned. "Which way?"
"East quarter rooftops. Too fast to chase now."
He nodded once. "Alright. Stay sharp."
The thought itched at the back of his skull — the first shadow since they'd come back. Maybe nothing. Maybe not.
They moved on.
By the time they reached the central plaza, John had already decided what came next.
"Head back to the mansion," he told the group. "I've got to handle some trades."
Tamara fell in beside him immediately. "I'll come with you."
He gave her a look. "Okay"
The Merchant Association's branch hall towered over the plaza — a half-circle building of glass and polished stone, its crest gleaming above the archway. Inside, the temperature shifted instantly, the air cool and perfumed with incense. Lines of clerks moved like clockwork, ledgers open, quills scratching.
But when John stepped through the doors, the rhythm changed.
Clerks looked up. A few froze, whispering to each other. Then, as if by unspoken rule, they straightened, bowed slightly, and made space.
A man in fine beige robes hurried over — mid-aged, neatly bearded, a small gold sigil pinned to his collar. "Master John!" he said, bowing quickly. "Welcome back. The branch manager's occupied, but I can assist you personally. Please, this way."
Tamara arched a brow as they were ushered down a carpeted hall. "Master John?"
He didn't respond.
They entered an office lined with scrolls and glass cases of crystals. The merchant gestured toward a broad table. "Please, sit. What brings you in today?"
John placed a small storage ring on the desk. "Trade."
The merchant touched the ring, and light shimmered — revealing piles of glowing blue cores that floated briefly above the surface.
The man's eyes widened. "Two hundred and fifty lightning cores… ten Step Threes… this is—"
He caught himself. "—quite the haul."
"I want to exchange for an assortment," John said. "Fifty Step-Three cores: fire, frost, poison, earth, light — a balanced set. The rest in Step-Two variety for brewing stock. I'm also buying ingredients."
"Name them."
"Five hundred units of mystic grass. One thousand grams of solidifying core dust."
The merchant blinked. "Five hundred — ?"
The man hesitated, calculating. "That quantity will cost roughly… three million credits, plus trade differential."
John nodded. "Use the cores to cover the rest."
The merchant scribbled notes, handed over an exchange slip, and rose with a polite bow. "Give us an hour to assemble it."
When they were alone, Tamara leaned on the table. "You just spent everything you had."
"Not everything," he said. "We've still got enough to pay rent."
"You're impossible."
He smiled faintly. "I don't have a choice we have to take risk to grow."
They left the Association with two reinforced crates following on levitating discs — one stacked with ingredients, the other with sealed containers of glimmering cores. The heat outside hit like a wave, but Tamara barely noticed; she was still watching the clerks bowing as they passed.
"They respect you," she said finally.
"They respect that I have a contract with the branch leader."
"Don't be modest. You've built something real."
He didn't answer. His mind was already cataloguing what he'd bought — how long it would last, how much essence he could refine before supplies ran out again.
They'd almost reached the main bridge when a courier in the Association's light-blue uniform ran up, panting. "John!"
He stopped. "Yes?"
The courier handed over a sealed scroll stamped with the Alchemist Association's sigil. "This just came from the alchemist association . They said it was important."
John broke the seal. Inside, written in fine script, was an invitation:
You are hereby invited to participate in the City of Sands Annual Alchemy Tournament — Tier 2 Division (Age 25 and under).
Date: Five days from now.
Prizes:
• First Place — Five million credits.
• A Tier 3 Pill of Ascension ("Power Boost Pill").
Tamara's eyes widened. "Five million?"
John's focus caught on the second line. "Tier 3 Pill."
"Pill?" she echoed.
Before John could reply, Alaric's voice slid quietly through his mind.
"once you cross the third tier alchemy."
John blinked. What do you mean?
"You've only worked with liquid mediums — unstable, fluid. Pills are condensed alchemy. Solid form. Far purer, far harder."
So the impurities—
"Nearly nonexistent," Alaric finished. "The process requires mastery over flame, compression, and essence balance. One mistake, and it explodes in your hand. Only Tier 3 alchemists can form true pills."
John's heart quickened. So the Power Boost Pill—it actually works?
"Yes. Temporarily, depending on refinement. But either way…"
A pause, then: "You need it. It'll give you a glimpse of Tier 3 work. Compete."
John looked up from the scroll, his eyes steady again.
Tamara was watching him. "You're going to enter."
He nodded. "Of course I am."
By the time they crossed the merchant quarter bridge, the city was glowing with late-afternoon heat. The wind carried smells of spice and stone, and beyond the rooftops, their mansion's silhouette stood like a dark crown against the pale sky.
They walked in silence for a while, the crowd parting instinctively around them. The city felt different this time — not hostile, not cold. More like something watching him back.
At the gate to the mansion, Ember bounded ahead, barking once before disappearing inside. Sera's voice floated faintly from the garden — she was already scolding him for tracking sand across her clean floor.
Tamara paused beside John, her expression soft in the fading light. "You really are something else, you know that?"
He tilted his head. "How so?"
"You grow at an incredible rate with alchemy, and you have become an amazing leader."
"Maybe," he said, glancing at the crates floating behind them. "But i have a long way to go."
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. "Just try not to blow up the house with your potions."
"No promises."
They stepped through the gates together. The sun dipped lower, painting the mansion walls gold and red.
And in the quiet that followed, the City of Sands seemed to hum — as if the ground itself was waiting for something to ignite.