Chapter 64 – The Morning of the Crucible
The lab smelled of smoke, ink, and victory.
John leaned over the cauldron, eyes red, the silver-blue liquid inside pulsing like a living heart. The air vibrated with quiet exhaustion; every instrument hummed the same weary note. Vulgrat was at the second bench, hair pointing in three directions, knuckles white around a dropper.
"Hold the temperature," John murmured. His voice came out rough from hours of silence. "Let it breathe on its own."
The potion brightened, a deep amber veined with gold. The runes carved into the table flared once, then softened, and the smell of mint and ozone drifted through the cellar.
Vulgrat exhaled. "It stabilized."
John looked at him over the flame. "You finished it."
Vulgrat blinked, stunned. Then he laughed—a short, cracked sound. "I actually finished it."
On John's table, the Step 3 core potion gave a soft hiss, settling into perfect clarity. Alaric's voice slid through John's mind like smoke over stone.
"That's amazing you're finally able to make the potion."
The flame guttered out. Both men stood in the sudden quiet, realizing dawn had crept in through the vents. The faint blue light of morning touched every glass bottle.
Vulgrat's head snapped toward the clock. "Wait—what time—?"
John followed his gaze, and the silence broke.
"Oh, no."
They ran.
They tore through the corridor like fugitives from sleep. John snatched his coat from a hook and almost tripped over Ember, who yawned so wide he made a sound like a squeaky hinge. Vulgrat's apron was still smoking slightly from an old burn; neither of them noticed.
"John!" Tamara's voice hit them from upstairs, sharp as a bell. "You're late!"
"We won't make it!" Vulgrat shouted back.
Sera appeared at the landing, flour on her cheek, ladle in hand like a weapon. "Breakfast—"
"No time!" John said, hopping into his boots.
She shoved two wrapped buns into his pocket anyway. "You're going to need the strength."
By the time they reached the street, the rest of the J-Crew was already waiting. Blake leaned against the gate with a grin that said he'd been waiting his whole life for this.
"You two look like crap," he said.
"We were working," Vulgrat muttered, adjusting his belt.
Mara folded her arms, trying not to smile. Lysa was already counting their tickets, efficient as ever. Ember padded between them, tail swishing like a banner.
Tamara stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "You smell like boiled metal."
John's mouth twitched. "That's the smell of awesomeness."
They set out together.
The City of Sands was unrecognizable that morning. The streets gleamed, swept clean; banners hung from every archway, marked with the triple sigils of the Alchemist Association. Market stalls overflowed with sweets shaped like potions and miniature glass flasks filled with colored sugar. Children darted between legs holding paper wands that sparked with harmless light.
The closer they came to the central district, the louder the city grew—drums echoing from towers, vendors shouting bets on contestants, sand-glass balloons bobbing above the crowd.
Blake walked with his hands behind his head, grinning at everything. "Man this city is crazy today."
"It's the tournament, it can be pretty exciting." Mara said.
Sera smiled faintly. "Yeah it's a lot of fun."
Lysa adjusted her gloves. "Come on guys we need to hurry."
Tamara walked beside John, matching his pace, cloak brushing his arm. "You ready for this?"
He glanced at her, eyes still rimmed with sleeplessness. "Always."
She studied him for a heartbeat. "You haven't slept in two days."
"Who needs sleep." He said with a grin
They passed under the final archway, where the crowd split into three lines: spectators, officials, and participants. The arena rose ahead—a colossal bowl of pale glassstone, carved runes glowing along its rim like molten script. Sunlight poured through crystal panels, scattering across the sand like shards of light.
"This is insane," Blake breathed.
"Beautiful," Sera corrected.
Ember barked once, agreeing with both.
John and Vulgrat broke away from the group at the gate where a golden sign read Contestant Entrance. Tamara caught John's wrist before he could vanish into the press.
"Good luck," she said simply.
He met her eyes, saw something steady there, and nodded. "Keep them out of trouble."
"That's impossible," she said, and let go.
The rest of the crew turned toward the upper stairs that led to their private box. Blake called after him, "Don't make us look bad!"
"Don't worry," John said without turning.
The contestant corridor was colder. Rune-lamps burned white, humming against polished stone. At the registration desk, a clerk in immaculate robes looked up and froze.
"Name?"
"John Caster," he said. "And Vulgrat Senn."
The clerk rifled through a crystal ledger. "You're late."
"We're here," John countered.
The clerk hesitated, then slid two engraved tokens across the counter. "Tier Two Division for John Caster. Tier One for Vulgrat Senn. You made it with one minute to spare."
Vulgrat puffed out his chest. "Perfect timing."
John signed both names in quick strokes. The ink flared, binding their entries.
Vulgrat leaned on the counter. "Actually, I want to enter Tier Two."
The clerk blinked. "You're registered as Tier One."
"I can handle Two."
"That's not how certification works."
John put a hand on his shoulder before the argument could ignite. "Win Tier One first," he said quietly.
Vulgrat scowled, then sighed. "Fine. I'll smoke them anyway."
He pocketed his token. "See you at the top, Master."
John's smirk was faint but real. "We'll see."
They split at the corridor's fork—Vulgrat heading left toward the Tier One staging area, John right toward Tier Two.
The waiting hall was a sea of muted nerves. Forty contestants stood among tables stacked with sealed crates of ingredients, the air thick with the tang of powdered minerals and nervous sweat. Rune-lines pulsed faintly beneath the floor.
John scanned the room automatically. Most of the faces were local—freelancers, city apprentices, minor guild alchemists. But one cluster stood out.
Seven students, all wearing the same white-and-silver uniform, sigils stitched over the heart. Their posture was identical: proud, composed, quietly confident. From the center of their group sat a slender blond youth, maybe five-eight, blue eyes distant but sharp. He looked like he could hear the rhythm of the world and didn't care if anyone else did.
When he looked up, his gaze brushed across John's and moved on—not dismissive, but assessing, like measuring weight.
Frank Gottem. It had to be.
John turned slightly and found another presence in the far corner—a boy, younger-looking but radiating something colder. Pale skin, dark hair with a silver streak, eyes that glinted frost. There was refinement in his stillness, the kind that came from endless discipline. And something else—familiarity, like seeing a reflection in warped glass.
Jackson Green. The Rina prodigy.
"Recognize the look?" Alaric's voice slid through John's thoughts, dry and approving. "That's someone with the gaze of a predator."
John's lips barely moved. "Sounds like fun."
But John couldn't help but feel like he's seen Jackson somewhere before. He had a very cold demeanor and his eyes were sharp.
He let his gaze sweep the rest of the room—thirty others who would try their best and fall short. The thought didn't bring arrogance, only calm. For the first time in months, he would get to work under pressure that would show his progress.
A bell chimed. Doors at the far end groaned open, spilling sunlight and the roar of a thousand voices.
They stepped into the light.
The arena stretched wide as a cathedral, its floor divided into glowing circles, each a working station. Furnaces flickered along the outer wall; water conduits shimmered beneath transparent glass panels. The audience loomed above in terraced stands, a living wave of noise and color.
From his vantage point, John caught glimpses of power in the royal boxes:
Kyle Skiddard of the Mercenary Association, still and watchful; Kevin of the Brutalists, grin sharp as a blade; Dokabas speaking quietly with the Merchant Branch Leader. And higher still, behind the veils of light, the judges descended.
Elder Seraphine Vel moved like flame under control—silver robes breathing with every step. Beside her walked Calvin Sparks of Rina, his aura heavy, old furnace heat that bent the air. On her other side, Alex Burrow of Valin, precise and calm, eyes reflecting the rune-light like polished glass.
Their combined presence tightened the space until even breathing felt ceremonial.
John kept walking.
As he approached the Tier Two circle, movement flickered at the edge of his vision. Jackson Green crossed in front of him, gaze sliding sideways—cool, faintly amused. The kind of look that weighed a man.
Their shoulders brushed.
"Watch your step," Jackson said quietly, voice smooth as chilled metal.
John didn't look back. "You first."
"That boy's arrogance burns brighter than his flame," Alaric said. "Show no mercy."
John's reply was soft enough to vanish in the noise. "Gladly."
He reached his station as the announcer's voice rolled across the arena, echoing through the runes and into the lungs of thousands.
"Welcome to the City of Sands Annual Alchemy Tournament! The Tier Two Division begins now!"
Light flared across the circles. The roar of the crowd became thunder.
John lifted his hands over the table; the flame obeyed.
The competition had begun.