Cassandra steps inside the office and closes the door softly behind her.
The room is spacious and carefully composed, designed less like an administrative chamber and more like a controlled environment.
A chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, its frame forged from pale silver alloy, embedded with dozens of sun crystals.
The crystals emit a warm, steady radiance that mimics natural sunlight so precisely that it is easy to forget the room lies deep within the Crown's inner complex.
The walls are a muted rose colour, smooth and flawless, neither cold nor overly ornate.
Along the perimeter of the office, counters run continuously, broken only by alcoves.
Upon them sit living flowers sealed within alchemical glass, their petals vibrant and untouched by time.
Between the floral displays stand statues carved from ivory stone and obsidian, figures of historical significance frozen in quiet dignity.
Above the counters, framed paintings line the walls, scenes of ancient treaties, forgotten wars, and long-dead monarchs whose gazes still seem sharp enough to judge the present.
Cassandra turns to her left.
At the far end of the room, behind a large desk crafted from dark redwood, sits her superior.
A wide table stretches before the woman, its surface cluttered with open files, loose documents, and thin crystal slates glowing faintly with recorded data.
Her boss looks up.
Ava Everblood.
Her black hair is pinned neatly behind her head, streaked faintly with silver that does not belong to age but to lineage.
Her posture is straight despite the fatigue etched subtly around her eyes.
As Cassandra steps further in, Ava exhales slowly and rubs her temple.
"Do you get any clue?" Ava asks, her voice calm but strained. "Earl Vane has calloused my ear with his questioning about his missing grandson."
Cassandra walks forward, boots quiet against the polished floor.
She takes a seat opposite the desk and carefully places the wrapped package onto the table between them.
"I got a clue," she says.
Ava's fingers still. She leans forward slightly.
"What is it?"
Cassandra unties the wrapping and reveals the porcelain doll, setting it gently atop the desk.
"Alchemist Kaelan identified the array on the doll," she says. "It's a spirit alchemy array."
Ava freezes for a fraction of a second.
"Spirit Alchemy," she murmurs, almost to herself.
The words linger in the air, unfamiliar and heavy. Ava straightens and looks directly at Cassandra.
"How do you know this Alchemist Kaelan?" she asks.
Cassandra answers without hesitation.
"Alchemist Kaelan was the one who saved me during the Stitcher case. He's an alchemist from the Sand Temple. He runs an antiquity store in the underground Sand Market."
Ava hums quietly, tapping her fingers against the table in a slow rhythm. Her eyes drift briefly to the doll, then back to Cassandra.
"What does this spirit alchemy array do?" she asks.
Cassandra draws a breath.
"According to Alchemist Kaelan, the array absorbs the emotion of fear and transports it elsewhere."
Ava's eyes widen.
For a moment, the carefully controlled composure of a Crown official slips.
Ava Everblood is an official alchemist herself, deeply trained, widely respected, and yet this is the first time she has ever heard of such a technique.
She leans back slowly and exhales.
The clue is not merely unsettling; it is humiliating.
It exposes just how far behind the kingdom truly is.
Even though Steam Alchemy originated within the kingdom, even though it prides itself on innovation and mortal ingenuity, she has read the reports.
Some alchemists have already warned that the Sand Temple is catching up in steam alchemy.
Others are more pessimistic.
In a few years, the reports say, the Sand Temple will reach their level.
After that, it will surpass them.
Ava closes the file before her and looks back at Cassandra.
"You can leave," she says. "Arrive tomorrow on time. We'll verify whether this clue is correct."
Cassandra nods, rises, and turns without another word. She leaves the office quietly, the door sealing behind her.
Far away, in a modest but orderly living room, Clive stands alone.
The curtains are drawn, and alchemical lamps cast a steady glow across the room.
At the centre of the floor lies a large alchemy array drawn in dark crimson lines.
The substance is horned whale blood, thick and faintly luminous, its potency preserved carefully through stabilising runes.
This is his initiation array.
A standard array used by those who wish to become blood alchemists.
Clive kneels beside it, inspecting every line, every curve, every junction. He has checked it countless times, but he checks it again. There is no room for error.
He reaches for the prepared items.
First, the heart of a Vampire Bat, preserved and sealed, still pulsing faintly with residual vitality.
Second, a thorn branch from a Spirit Blood Tree, its surface dark red, veins glowing softly with latent life energy.
Finally, the rarest component.
An alchemy stone.
It rests in his palm, unassuming, dull, and heavy.
He obtained it easily in the Sand Market, yet even there he had waited in line for a full month for a single piece. Scarcity is not always about difficulty, but timing.
Clive places the three items at their designated nodes within the array.
Then he moves to the centre.
He sits cross-legged, breath steady, heart pounding just a little faster than usual. He raises his hand, bites down on his thumb, and draws blood.
A single drop falls.
It lands upon the alchemy stone.
The reaction is immediate.
The stone hums sharply, light flaring from its surface as Clive's blood activates it.
Energy surges outward, racing along the array's lines, filling the horned whale's blood channels with violent brilliance.
The energy flows into the Vampire Bat's heart and the thorn branch.
The two items tremble.
Refinement begins.
The heart darkens, compressing inward as impurities are burned away.
The thorn branch cracks softly, layers peeling as its essence is extracted. Slowly, both items dissolve, absorbed completely by the array.
The refined alchemy energy surges inward.
It enters Clive's body.
His muscles tense as the transformation begins.
The refined alchemical energy surges into his body like a rising tide, spreading through his limbs, sinking into flesh and bone, awakening something dormant and fundamental.
Vitality stirs, no longer a vague warmth but a living force, responding to the array's call.
Clive's heartbeat quickens as his vitality rapidly increases, blooming under the stimulation of blood alchemy.
Then the array reverses.
The warmth vanishes.
An invisible pull grips him from the outside, ruthless and precise.
His vitality is torn free from his flesh, drawn out through his pores and meridians, accompanied by his spirit itself. It feels like being hollowed out from within.
The strength drains from his limbs as threads of crimson vitality and translucent spirit essence flow outward, entering the alchemy array beneath him.
At the same time, the air in the room distorts.
A tiny hole appears near the ceiling, no larger than a coin, its edges trembling unnaturally.
It is not a tear of force, but of authority. From within it, pure spiritual energy pours out, colourless and vast, descending like a silent waterfall.
The energy does not scatter.
It obeys the array, sinking into the engraved lines and merging with Clive's extracted vitality and spirit.
The array brightens.
In front of Clive, just beyond arm's reach, a phenomenon takes shape.
A tiny crimson cloud forms, no bigger than a fist at first, swirling slowly, pulsing with rhythm.
It is neither smoke nor mist, but something alive, something embryonic.
As it grows denser, Clive feels the drain intensify.
His vitality continues to be consumed, his spirit thinned and stretched as the spirit life begins to stabilise.
His body reacts violently.
His skin loses all moisture, turning ashen and tight.
Fine cracks spread across his arms and face like dried earth.
His muscles shrink and harden, strength bleeding away until even holding himself upright becomes difficult.
Beneath the surface, his bones creak faintly, brittleness spreading as marrow vitality is siphoned away.
His breathing turns shallow.
The crimson cloud sharpens, condensing into a defined form, its core glowing with deep red light. The spirit life is nearly complete.
Another second passes, and Clive knows instinctively that if the drain continues, his body will fail.
The moment the spirit life fully forms, he acts.
Without hesitation, he pulls it back.
The crimson spirit life streaks toward him, dissolving into light as it enters his body, sinking directly into his spirit space.
The sensation is overwhelming, like swallowing a living flame.
His consciousness wavers, then stabilises as the spirit life anchors itself deep within him.
Instantly, everything reverses.
The spirit life pulses.
Energy floods outward from his spirit space, rushing through his body with explosive force.
Vitality pours back into his flesh, far purer than before.
His cracked skin knits together in seconds, moisture restored as if it had never been lost.
His muscles refill, strength returning in controlled waves.
His bones hum softly as brittleness vanishes, replaced by a dense, resilient solidity.
His breath evens out.
His heartbeat steadies.
Within moments, he is fully recovered.
Clive exhales slowly, sweat cooling on his skin, his entire body thrumming with unfamiliar awareness.
Before he can examine the changes, before he can even properly sense the spirit life now residing within him, a loud banging echoes through the apartment.
The sound is sharp and urgent.
"Mr Clive!" a voice calls from beyond the door. "Mr Clive!"
The knocking repeats, faster this time.
Clive straightens, his enhanced senses catching every detail of the sound, the anxiety behind the voice unmistakable.
"I heard you," he shouts back. "Wait. I'm coming in ten minutes."
There is a brief pause, then muffled movement outside.
Clive moves quickly.
He steps into the bathroom, strips away his ruined clothes, and washes himself thoroughly.
Dried blood, sweat, and residual alchemical scent vanish under running water.
He dresses in clean clothes, smooths his hair, and steadies his breathing until nothing outward betrays what just occurred.
Exactly ten minutes later, he pulls open the door.
A young man stands there, breathless, eyes red and wide with fear.
"Detective Clive," the boy says urgently, voice shaking, "you have to come with me. My sister has disappeared."
Clive's gaze sharpens.
He recognises the boy immediately.
The baker's son from his street.
Without asking another question, Clive nods, steps past him, and follows.
The spirit life within him stirs quietly.
And somewhere in the city, another child is missing.