Clive drifts back toward consciousness to the sensation of violent shaking.
Something grips his shoulders and rattles him hard enough that his teeth click together. A splitting headache detonates behind his eyes, sharp and merciless, as though someone is driving nails straight through his skull. Noise surrounds him—voices, boots, metal clatter—and every sound worsens the pain, each vibration echoing inside his head.
He groans faintly.
The shaking continues.
With effort that feels disproportionate to the movement, Clive forces his eyelids open. His vision swims, the world reduced to smeared shapes and pulsing light. His throat is dry, his tongue heavy, but he manages to croak out a single word.
"Stop…"
The shaking halts immediately.
"Stop, he's awake," Cassandra's voice says, clear and close.
Clive blinks again, the blur resolving slowly. He becomes dimly aware of faces hovering above him, their outlines sharpening as his senses crawl back into alignment.
Ben's voice follows, mildly satisfied.
"See? I told you shaking him would wake him up."
Understanding dawns with painful clarity.
Ben had been shaking him.
In his foggy, half-formed thoughts, Clive curses Ben's ancestors—eighteen generations back, at least—and silently vows that if the opportunity ever presents itself, he will extract repayment in full. The vow is comforting, grounding.
Then memory crashes back into him.
The explosion.
The cloaked figure.
The scythe.
Clive jerks upright far too quickly.
The world spins violently, his stomach lurching as dizziness slams into him. He sucks in a sharp breath and nearly topples over before strong hands steady him.
"Easy," Simon says.
Ignoring the nausea, Clive forces out the words that matter most.
"Is Old Rick… okay?"
He lifts his head fully now.
Cassandra stands near him, expression taut. Ben is close by, arms crossed. Simon supports him from the side, one hand firm on his shoulder. Beyond them, the muddy street is crowded with patrolmen, their uniforms darkened by grime, lanterns casting uneven light across shattered debris and scorched ground.
Rosalyn's voice cuts through the scene.
"He is awake."
Clive's gaze shifts to her.
Simon answers quietly, his jaw tight.
"We found Old Rick dead."
The words land heavily.
Clive exhales, a slow, hollow sound. His fingers curl into the mud beneath him.
"So what happened after you got down from the carriage?" Simon asks.
Clive looks at Rosalyn as he answers, his gaze locking onto her emerald eyes.
"Got down from the carriage," he says hoarsely, "or thrown down?"
Rosalyn sneers, unimpressed.
"I don't have time for your tantrum," she says coolly. "Tell us what happened, or—"
Clive doesn't know why she irritates him so deeply. The reaction is instinctive, immediate, and disproportionate. Instead of complying, the words slip out before he can stop them.
"What can you do if I don't tell?"
For a moment, Rosalyn looks amused.
Then she turns sharply and raises her voice.
"Come here. Throw this criminal into prison. He may cool down there."
Clive's eyes widen.
"Hey!"
He looks around desperately at the others.
"Are none of you going to say anything?"
Ben steps forward, expression hard.
"You are a criminal," he says flatly, "and you should be thrown into prison. How do we know you're not responsible for this?"
He gestures broadly, indicating the destruction around them—the collapsed walls, the scorched mud, the remnants of alchemical impact.
Clive swallows.
"It wasn't me," he says. "It was someone else."
Ben's eyes narrow.
"Who?"
Clive raises his hand instinctively, but Simon catches it, steadying him before he can overbalance.
"I don't know," Clive admits. "The man was fully cloaked."
With Simon's help, Clive pushes himself to his feet. His legs wobble, dizziness washing over him again, but he breathes through it and slowly regains his balance, standing upright at last.
Cassandra steps closer, her tone firm but not unkind.
"Clive, you have to tell us everything you know. A fifth-tier alchemist apprentice who concealed his identity was killed inside the city. That alone is a disaster."
Clive nods once.
"I came here after she threw me out of the carriage," he says, glancing briefly at Rosalyn. "I wanted to get information about the clay from Old Rick, since you didn't allow me to go to the Dynamite Clay Factory."
His eyes linger on Rosalyn, narrowed.
She snorts.
"Continue."
Clive looks away, focusing instead on the ruined street.
"When I arrived, the shop exploded. After that, I saw a cloaked figure fighting Old Rick. So I helped Old Rick."
They question him carefully then.
About the explosion.
About the doll.
About the battle.
Clive answers everything truthfully—describing the large doll, the black scythe, the strange protection on the cloaked figure's back, the unnatural speed and power.
He does not mention the Church of Disaster.
Some instincts are stronger than pain.
When the questioning ends, Simon escorts him home personally. The walk is slow, Clive leaning more heavily on him than he would like, but the familiar streets eventually blur past, and at last he is inside his room.
He collapses onto his bed fully clothed, exhaustion dragging him down the moment his head hits the pillow.
In the dim quiet, thoughts resurface.
The Church of Disaster.
The cloaked figure's aura.
Fear refined into power.
Another name emerges naturally in his mind.
"Alchemist Kaelan," Clive murmurs faintly. "He's from the Sand Temple. If anyone knows something about the Church of Disaster…"
His eyelids finally fall shut.
Sleep claims him unevenly, fractured by half-formed thoughts and unfinished connections, and even in the darkness, questions continue to grow.
The next morning, as the city stirs awake and the first sounds of carts and footsteps echo through the streets, Clive makes his way into the underground Sand Market. The familiar descent brings a strange sense of calm. The noise of the surface fades, replaced by controlled murmurs, regulated light, and the steady hum of alchemical arrays embedded into stone and structure.
Kaelan notices him the moment he enters.
"Congratulations on becoming an alchemist," Kaelan says calmly from behind the counter.
Clive allows himself a small smile.
"Thank you."
Kaelan leans back slightly, studying him with quiet attention.
"What brings you here at this time?"
Simon exhales and rubs the back of his neck.
"Many things," he admits. "But I don't know where to begin."
Kaelan nods once.
"Then start with what's most important."
Simon looks down at the floor for a moment, then lifts his head and leans forward slightly.
"Mr Kaelan," he says carefully, "can you tell me something about the Church of Disaster?"
Kaelan's expression remains composed, but his eyes sharpen almost imperceptibly. He already knows everything about Clive, his family massacre, his movements, his questions, the battle, and why this question is being asked now.
"The Church of Disaster," Kaelan says evenly. "They are the major religion of the Teaga Kingdom, and the new world beyond it."
Clive already knows this.
He lowers his voice and asks quietly,
"Do they perform human sacrifice?"
Kaelan reacts instantly.
His eyes widen, and he straightens slightly, genuine surprise flashing across his features.
"What?" he asks. "Truly?"
He leans forward, concern evident.
"Where did you hear such a thing?"
Clive hesitates.
He cannot say.
He has no proof, only the words shouted in the heat of battle, spoken by a dying man, and the symbol of the Church of Disaster left behind after his family massacre. Accusing a major religion without evidence would not only ruin him, but it would paint a target on his back. And if the Church of Disaster truly is involved, that target would be fatal.
He shakes his head lightly.
"Nothing concrete," he says. "Just… rumours."
Kaelan relaxes slightly and nods.
"Oh."
He studies Clive for a moment, then says,
"It should be a rumour. I haven't heard anything about such practices."
Clive nods in return.
He knows it is not a rumor. But without proof, knowledge alone is useless.
So he changes the subject.
"Mr Kaelan," Clive says, "I've read that the cultivation of Blood Alchemists is different from orthodox alchemy cultivation."
Kaelan nods.
"Yes. In blood alchemy, during the alchemist apprentice period, you do not refine arrays into your body. Instead, you refine the blood of spirit beasts—Tier One, to be precise."
Clive's interest sharpens.
"Is it one Tier One blood," he asks, "or three, similar to the three arrays refined in orthodox alchemy apprentice cultivation?"
Kaelan considers the question.
"It depends," he replies. "Both in blood alchemy and orthodox alchemy."
Clive frowns slightly.
"Depends on what?"
Kaelan's gaze meets his.
"On your foundation. On your comprehension. And on what you intend to become."
Clive pauses, then asks,
"Is there something hidden?"