Even if Dunyarzad felt, absurdly, as though her miracle had been "stolen" by someone other than the Little Lord Kusanali, she couldn't deny what the light in her veins was saying. Relief warmed her cheeks. She nodded to Idris, lay back, and let the glow do its work.
Nilou slid aside with a sigh. "Grand Sage… please save her."
Dehya tipped her chin. Once, the desert lioness had filed "Grand Sage" under the same drawer as "bureaucrat" and "enemy." Watching scales recede from a friend's skin had a way of melting labels.
Idris fed Dunyarzad a Su Xin Dan and water, then quietly watched the color return. When the blue-green sheen finished retreating from wrist and ankle, he left her a second pill and strict instructions. Dunyarzad murmured thanks—flustered, embarrassed, genuinely moved.
Around them, the clinic buzzed. Two patients, two recoveries. That wasn't rumor; it was proof.
The clinic master, hands shaking, edged forward. "Grand Sage, if I may—how did you… distill a cure into a single pill?"
Ears tilted in from the doorway; even the corridor seemed to lean closer.
"Pray to no one," Idris said. "Pray to your own hands."
Puzzled looks met the line.
"It isn't a miracle. It's alchemy—the art of concentrating the essence of herbs under measured flame and breath, binding it so the body can take it in without harm. The pill is called Su Xin Dan. It smooths agitation, purges hidden rot, and gives the body enough strength to finish the fight."
"Alchemy…?" The word felt new in Sumeru mouths.
Idris glanced once at the crowd, then made up his mind. If the Six Darshans wanted to drag their heels, he would use the city itself as a lecture hall.
"Good," he said. "You're curious. Then come learn."
He turned to the clinic master. "Prepare the courtyard. Ten tables, clean water, mortar and pestle at each. Send a runner to the Akademiya—announce an open demonstration. Anyone who wishes to watch, watches. Anyone who wishes to learn, listens."
The master nearly tripped over his thanks.
"Tighnari," Idris added, "you'll verify pulse changes and note adverse reactions. Your judgment carries weight."
Tighnari's ears flicked. "Understood. I'll set a baseline and draw up a report."
"Collei." Idris faced her last. "You'll speak. Not as a spectacle. As a patient who can tell others what you felt, before and after. And if anyone tries to heckle you, Dehya will handle it."
Dehya smirked. "Gladly."
Nilou squeezed Dunyarzad's hand. "We'll be there."
—
By late afternoon the clinic courtyard had transformed. Sunlight spilled over basins and glass jars, over ordered piles of kalpalata, padisarah petals, sumeru rose hips, rukkhashava mushrooms—each labeled in a neat, spare hand. A small, travel-sized furnace—scaled down from the Eight Trigram Furnace in the Grand Sage's quarters—sat at the center like a squat, patient heart.
Scholars in green robes trickled in, pretending they weren't curious. Merchants came for the story. Porters came for the shade. A pair of Matras watched from under the eaves. Somewhere above, a little pulse of verdant light lingered—someone listening, unseen.
Idris stepped up on a crate. He didn't project power; he simply occupied it.
"Today," he said, "we will make a medicine. You'll see every step. You will leave with recipe and ratios. And before any old men in the back start coughing about 'trade secrets'—" his eyes slid lazily across a knot of senior researchers who had, in fact, begun to cough— "understand this: we don't sell miracles here. We save lives."
A murmur, then a hush.
"Principles first. Alchemy rests on three pillars:
Truth of Materials — You cannot turn weeds into cures with poetry. You must know each plant's nature, warm or cool, dispersing or consolidating, and how they change together.
Governed Fire — Heat is a language. Too fierce, and you burn away what you need. Too timid, and nothing binds. We measure in breaths and pulse beats, not guesses.
Right Intent — No scam tonics. No 'miracle pills' for coin. Every batch documented, every effect recorded, every failure owned."
Simple words. Sumeru understood rules.
He lit the small furnace. A steady flame answered. "This is a field furnace—what the craftsmen will build in the new Department of Alchemy once certain committees stop stalling."
A few of the "certain committees" found the paving stones suddenly fascinating.
Idris began: washing, drying, slicing in exact angles that showed an unfamiliar but deliberate logic. He added powders in measures that matched the rise and fall of his breath. When the mixture began to pearl, he lowered the heat, folded in a binding syrup he'd clarified at dawn, then raised the flame just enough to coax the mass together.
As he worked, he spoke without looking up. "The Akademiya will post the Su Xin Dan formula to the Void Terminal under open license. Clinics may produce it free, sell at cost, or accept donations. Private profiteering over a plague will be punished."
He didn't raise his voice on the last word. He didn't need to. The Matras heard it anyway.
"Quality control?" a surgeon called. "What if counterfeits appear?"
"Stamped seals, randomized batch markers, clinic audits," Idris said. "And Cyno's squad will enjoy the exercise."
A few laughs; more relief.
He pinched the softened mass into pellets, rolled, dusted, and set them to finish. The courtyard smelled faintly sweet and clean, like rain after smoke. When the first tray cooled, he set a single pill on his palm and looked to the crowd.
"Demonstrations are nothing without data." He nodded at Tighnari.
The forest watcher had already taken Dunyarzad's and Collei's pulses—before, and now after. He spoke crisp and clinical: "Pulse more even. Breathing deeper. No tachycardia. Skin tone improved. We'll follow up for rebound over seventy-two hours."
Idris gestured to Collei. She fidgeted, then squared her shoulders.
"It didn't feel like fire," she said. "It felt… clear. Like the bad dream unclenched." She laughed, a little watery. "I know that's not scientific, but you asked me to say it how it was."
"That is data," Tighnari said gently, to approving murmurs.
From the rear, an old scholar finally tried. "Grand Sage—if this knowledge spreads, won't our Darshans lose… influence?"
Idris didn't feign patience. "If your authority depends on ignorance, you deserve to lose it." His gaze hardened. "Sumeru's authority will rest on results. Anyone who blocks this department over 'influence' will find themselves retired—generously if they step aside, swiftly if they don't."
The old man swallowed and sat.
Idris's tone softened a hair. "We will need teachers. Herbalists. Healers with steady hands. If you are competent, apply. If you are greedy, don't bother."
A ripple of energy moved through the courtyard—hope shaped like purpose.
He turned to the clinic master. "You'll host the first public practicum here, tomorrow at dawn. Batch logs on the wall. I'll send apprentices and a copy of the Field Furnace Manual to every district clinic within the week."
"Y–yes!" the master said, nearly giddy.
Idris faced the crowd one last time. "You want to thank me? Don't. Thank the patients when they walk out of here. And thank the hands that do the work—yours."
He stepped down. The courtyard erupted—not into cheers, but into motion: buckets drawn, herbs weighed, mortar pestles thudding in sober rhythm. The city of wisdom had been handed a new grammar; it was already conjugating.
From the shade of a plane tree, Dehya watched, arms folded, faint smile tugging at her mouth. "He really isn't like the others."
Nilou's eyes were bright. "Dunyarzad will dance at the Sabzeruz Festival. I know it."
High above, the little green light hovered a heartbeat longer—pride, and something more difficult, warming through a goddess' chest—before slipping away toward the palace.
And in a dark, far-off lab, the Doctor glanced up from a spiteful set of notes as distant Void Terminals began to sing with a new file flooding from the Akademiya: Su Xin Dan — Open Formula, v1.0.
He ground his teeth. Then he smiled—a thin, terrible thing.
"Very well," he murmured. "If you'll teach them to cure, I'll teach them to fear."
Back in the courtyard, Idris adjusted the fire a fraction lower by the rise of his breath and counted ten steady beats with his fingers.
Measured flame. Clean hands. Clear intent.
Sumeru's first alchemy lesson had begun.
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