Kaelan does not answer immediately.
He remains leaning back behind the counter, fingers resting loosely against its edge, posture relaxed yet unyielding. His eyes stay on Clive's face, steady and unblinking, as though weighing not the question itself, but whether the one asking is ready for the answer.
The silence stretches.
Not awkward.
Not evasive.
Deliberate.
Only when it has settled fully does Kaelan speak.
"You must know," he says calmly, "that the usual alchemist apprentice refines three elementary-level arrays, one after another, and then merges them to form a star-level array to break through into the Official Alchemist realm."
Clive nods slowly, then replies without hesitation.
"That is true for Stone and Iron Alchemy, Nature Alchemy, and Life Alchemy. But for Flesh and Blood Alchemy and Steam Alchemy, the cultivation path is different. And I am taking the path of Flesh and Blood Alchemy."
Kaelan lifts one hand slightly.
"We will go there later."
His gaze sharpens as he continues.
"You should understand this first. The true goal of an apprentice is not the number of arrays, but to refine a star-level array within their body."
Clive stiffens.
He is not foolish. The implication strikes him immediately.
He inhales, then speaks carefully.
"So you are saying… if an apprentice can refine a star-level array directly, then they can become an Official Alchemist without engraving any elementary-level arrays."
Kaelan smiles faintly.
"And how," he asks mildly, "would an apprentice refine a star-level array on themselves?"
His tone remains gentle, but the answer comes without mercy.
"It would shatter their body. And tear their spirit apart."
Clive frowns.
The answer does not sit right.
He lowers his gaze, thoughts racing as he replays Kaelan's earlier words. Three Tier One spirit beast bloods… or one Tier One spirit beast blood. The phrasing had bothered him even then, but now it sharpens into something precise.
Tier One spirit beasts correspond to elementary-level arrays.
Tier Two spirit beasts correspond to star-level arrays.
If that is the case, then Kaelan should have said three Tier One spirit beast bloods, or one Tier Two spirit beast blood.
But he didn't.
Realisation clicks into place.
Clive lifts his head.
"Mr. Kaelan," he says slowly, "you mean refining one elementary-level array—or one Tier One spirit beast blood—and then slowly improving it until it becomes a star-level spirit array… or a Tier Two spirit beast blood."
Kaelan nods once.
"Now you get it."
The words settle heavily.
Clive falls silent.
His mind accelerates, thoughts branching rapidly as he considers the paths before him. One array, refined slowly, strengthened over time. One bloodline essence, cultivated, purified, evolved. Both are safer than direct refinement. Both demanding patience, comprehension, and restraint.
He frowns.
There is a problem.
Clive taps his fingers lightly against the counter, the motion small, almost casual, masking his tension. He hesitates, then asks, voice low and careful.
"Mr. Kaelan… I understand that arrays can be slowly improved. But what about blood?"
Kaelan's smile deepens, genuine this time.
He opens his mouth to answer.
BOOM.
The explosion tears through the Sand Market like a hammer striking the world itself. The ground shudders violently beneath their feet. Shelves rattle. Alchemical lights flicker, some extinguishing entirely before stabilising again.
Clive's eyes fly wide open.
Before he can speak, another shockwave rolls through the market, followed by the low, grinding echo of collapsing stone.
"What's going on?" Clive shouts.
He spins and runs toward the door.
Outside, thick smoke billows through the market streets, colliding violently with the projection arrays overhead. For a moment, the illusion glitches, flickering erratically and revealing the jagged rocky ceiling of the underground cavern before the projection reasserts itself.
People shout.
Guards move.
Alchemical alarms scream to life in layered pulses.
Kaelan steps out behind Clive, his expression no longer relaxed.
His spirit spreads outward instantly, vast and controlled, threading through the market like an invisible net. In the distance, he connects with the stationed guards, his will carrying authority without need for a raised voice.
"Contain the area," Kaelan orders calmly. "Seal the damaged sector. Evacuate civilians. Identify the source."
Acknowledgements ripple back through the spirit network.
Kaelan turns his head slightly and looks at Clive.
"Wait here."
Then he walks forward, already moving toward the heart of the disturbance, robes shifting soundlessly despite the chaos around him.
Clive stands frozen for a heartbeat.
Hesitation flickers across his face.
His brain screams caution. Kaelan is far beyond him. This is not a place for curiosity. He has already been warned and already injured once for stepping where he should not.
But curiosity claws at him harder.
This explosion is not random. Not here. Not now.
And Kaelan had been about to answer his question.
Clive clenches his fists.
His brain tells him to listen.
His curiosity tells him to follow.
Curiosity wins.
He breaks into a run, slipping through the confusion, following the tall, unhurried figure of Kaelan deeper into the Sand Market as smoke and fear continue to spread.
People scatter in every direction. Merchants abandon stalls, alchemical lanterns flicker, and warning arrays pulse red along the stone walls. The air smells of burnt metal and ozone, sharp enough to sting the lungs. Clive weaves through the chaos, nearly colliding with fleeing civilians, his eyes locked on Kaelan's back.
Kaelan does not hurry.
He walks forward as though the turmoil parts for him by instinct alone.
They emerge into a widened sector of the market, one of the central trade junctions where several tunnels converge. The damage here is severe. Cracked stone radiates outward from a blast point, and fragments of illusion arrays spark and sputter overhead.
A battle is already in progress.
On one side stand Rosalyn, Cassandra, Ben, Simon, Bell, and a mixed force of knights and patrolmen. Six knights form the front line. Among them, one radiates a noticeably stronger presence—an official knight—while the others are apprentice knights, their movements sharp but lacking refinement. Rosalyn stands slightly ahead of the line, alchemical light pulsing faintly around her body, marking her as an official alchemy apprentice.
Cassandra and Ben move between the ranks, directing formations and reinforcing weak points. Bell and Simon remain farther back with the patrolmen, firing steam pistols in controlled volleys, the weapons hissing and snapping as compressed force tears through the air.
On the other side stand twenty figures clad in uniform cloaks.
Their robes are dark, their faces hidden behind smooth, white, featureless masks that reflect the flickering light without emotion. Three among them stand apart, their presence heavier, more oppressive. Their strength rivals that of official knights or priests. The remaining cloaked figures move with less confidence, clearly apprentices, but their numbers make them dangerous.
Steel clashes.
Alchemy detonates.
Rosalyn fights at the forefront, her movements sharp and decisive. Two of the stronger cloaked figures press her from either side, but she holds them off, not through raw power, but through preparation. Alchemical items integrated into her attire glow in layered patterns, reinforcing her body, accelerating her reactions, and projecting thin barriers of light that deflect killing blows.
She counters with precision, vials shattering at her feet, clouds of reactive mist bursting outward, forcing her opponents to retreat and reposition.
Around her, the rest of her side struggles but holds.
Apprentice knights engage two or three enemies at once, surviving only because of the alchemical gear strapped to their armour. Reinforced boots let them leap farther. Stabilising runes keep their limbs from tearing under strain. Shock talismans discharge on contact, stunning cloaked attackers long enough for follow-up strikes.
Bell and Simon fire steadily from the rear, coordinating with the patrolmen. Steam pistols bark in rhythm, bullets tearing through the battlefield to suppress advancing cloaked figures. The patrolmen are ordinary men, untrained in cultivation, and they keep their distance, relying entirely on their weapons.
Despite the coordination, the balance is fragile.
Then Kaelan arrives.
He steps into the open without raising his voice, without changing his pace. For a heartbeat, no one notices him.
Then lightning blooms in his hand.
It is not summoned with incantations or gestures. It simply appears, brilliant white-blue arcs coiling around his fingers as though alive. The air screams as energy condenses, pressure collapsing inward.
Kaelan lifts his hand and releases it.
The lightning explodes outward, branching instantly into dozens of strands. They strike the ground, the walls, the air itself, then twist back inward, coiling like enormous serpents made of pure energy.
The lightning snakes wrap around the cloaked figures.
All of them.
The electricity binds their limbs, crawls over their cloaks, seeps beneath masks, and locks their bodies in place. Screams tear free as the shock surges through them, bodies convulsing uncontrollably.
The lightning does not discriminate.
It lashes outward again, striking Rosalyn, Cassandra, Ben, the knights, and even the patrolmen. The shock is lighter, controlled, but enough to drop everyone to the ground in an instant. Weapons clatter. Knees slam into stone. Muscles seize, then go limp.
The battlefield falls silent.
Clive skids to a halt at the edge of the scene, staring in open awe.
He watches Simon, Bell, the knights, and even Rosalyn collapse to their knees under a single casual strike. The cloaked figures remain bound in writhing coils of lightning, suspended like insects caught in a web.
His eyes stay on the masked figures.
Church of Disaster.
The thought surfaces unbidden.
Are they?
A slow smile touches Clive's lips as he notices Rosalyn forcing herself upright, teeth clenched, fury blazing in her emerald eyes despite the humiliation. Even shocked to the ground, she refuses to stay down.
Kaelan lowers his hand.
The lightning remains, humming softly, holding the cloaked figures immobile.
He turns his head toward the market guards who have rushed in, weapons raised but frozen in uncertainty.
"Arrest them all," Kaelan says calmly.
No hesitation follows.
The Sand Market guards move immediately, efficiently, and unyieldingly. They step past the stunned patrolmen of the Royal Griffon Kingdom and begin binding not only the cloaked figures, but also Rosalyn, Cassandra, Ben, the knights, and the patrolmen alike.
No explanations are offered.
No authority is questioned.
Around them, merchants and civilians stare in stunned silence. Whispers ripple through the crowd as the implications settle in.
In the capital city.
In the heart of the Royal Griffon Kingdom.
The Sand Temple has just arrested the kingdom's own police force.
Clive stands among them, breath shallow, eyes wide, fully aware that he has just witnessed a line being crossed, one that cannot be undone.