The World Tree isn’t just a title; it’s a concept steeped in mist. Every sorcery artery on Earth converges into its trunk and boughs. You know what that means?

Yekase shook her head, like a wind‑ruffled leaf.

It means every spell anyone casts pays a toll, a trickle siphoned off. That tithe flows like sap to feed the World Tree.

Wha— Yekase’s voice snagged like a thread on a nail.

By that logic, France is the planet’s magic heart, pumping wide. A cluster of sorcery cities around a man‑made World Tree—hardware fit for empire. Yet in Yekase’s memory, modern France never rose on it.

Soon, the World Tree bore fruit, a lantern in the canopy.

A single… golden “apple,” a sun‑drop gleaming on the branch.

Yekase seemed to guess what came next, like a shadow stepping ahead—

Yes. The ultimate truth every alchemist chases for life—the Philosopher’s Stone, a grail blazing in the mind!

I knew it! And then you stole it and ate it, right? Like a fox snatching dawn.

Steal?! Sandryon slammed the table; veins rose like cords. That was fair competition! In alchemy, do you call that theft?!

Right. It was only a hunch, but hearing that, it sounds like she snuck a bite, crumbs on the lip.

She ate the Stone and became ageless, undying—classic, exaggerated yet expected, a legend stitched into modern cloth. Sandryon wasn’t bluffing.

For some reason, the World Tree never bore fruit again. Two hundred years rushed by like wind… Isaac Newton arrived with his damned modern magic.

Oh… Her sigh drifted like a small cloud.

At the World Tree’s roots, he inscribed the base array of modern magic. With the Tree’s power, he spread it a thousand kilometers wide, a spiderweb over land—the cornerstone of the modern magic net.

So he turned all of France into a server? With results unknown, why would France agree to that, like bolting engines onto a cathedral?

The French couldn’t beat Newton—swords dull before a cannon.

That’s it?! The question snapped like a twig.

That’s it, flat as a stone.

Yekase bowed her head and sorted the facts, like laying cards on a table.

The history lesson was decent. Sandryon’s teaching lacked shine, but the content had teeth that bit like a cold apple.

So modern magic sits on the bones of Ancient Alchemy, a small program coded in its tongue. No wonder alchemists look down on it, scaffolding on old ribs.

As for Sandryon, through intrigues I won’t name—or a mid‑road ambush—she won, and the lone Philosopher’s Stone landed like a crown on a commoner’s brow.

Ah! I almost forgot the real job, like a bell striking.

It hit Yekase like a gong: on her last day before the trip, she hadn’t binged twenty hours of mecha brawls. She’d come to hear Sandryon, to sort out Rice Rice.

The cloak on her shoulders rippled, poured onto the table by her chest, and became a cat, ink become fur.

A living droplet? Your new toy? The words popped like bubbles.

No. It’s an alien that fell onto Neptune, a star‑speck slipped in deep blue. For some reason, it followed me like a shadow. Got a way to let me talk with it?

Sandryon sighed, her face smooth as still water. Bring me curios born of Earth, and I might have a take. But study of the starry sky was strictly banned in the Middle Ages. You know that, don’t you?

So there’s no way, huh, the door closing soft.

Go ask the folks in Area 51, the ones with eyes growing in their brains—Byrgenwerth Academy. They might sketch you an answer in chalk. Whether this little one can stay with you is a new problem.

Eh… forget it then, the word fell like ash.

Rice Rice eyed Sandryon, wary as a stray. It huffed, then sprang into Yekase’s arms like a flick of shadow.

Yekase loved that reaction. She kneaded it up and down like warm dough, grinning like a petty victor. It’s fine, it’s fine. She won’t hurt you.

Fine by her. It’s only been two days, and they only talk one‑way, yet a faint rhythm forms—two dancers trading jackets without a word. One day, they’ll understand each other.

One more thing. A friend asked me to investigate a small Gobi town. I leave tomorrow, sand wind at my back.

Investigate? That’s foggy—investigate what?

If I knew, it’d be simple, a straight road.

Yekase raised her teacup, only to find the red tea gone, cup dry as a creek bed.

No teapot on the table. Too lazy to ask Sandryon for a refill, she fished a dark beer from the transit box like a rabbit from a hat.

She braced her thumb by the cap and gave it two silent twists. Nothing budged; the lid sat nailed.

Uh… The sound hung like dust.

Her enhanced grip rivals elite fighters; for two months she’d popped caps one‑handed. Now her true form showed, paint flaking off a prop.

Luckily, the box keeps an opener, a little silver moon for foam dreams.

Want a cup? The offer chimed like glass.

Drink muddles work. I’m out, fog choking gears.

What work could it muddle? Yekase popped the cap and poured into the teacup, amber rain threading. If one cup derails it, it’s not a big thing.

Hey, you— Her voice snapped like a twig.

Sandryon watched, eyes wide, as her beloved antique teacup filled with dirty amber. Foam spilled like snow over the rim; her heart pinched hard.

…Master, the word hung like incense.

Hm? A soft tap like a raindrop.

Yekase rarely used titles with Sandryon; unless needed, she never said Master. If she did, she wanted something. Yet in that airy “Master,” Sandryon heard a trace of confusion, mist over the road.

Yekase smoothed Rice Rice with one hand, pinched the teacup with the other, teeth lightly on the rim. Her eyes followed the alley’s center line toward the workshop’s dim, secret depths, like a river drawn into a cave.

Tell me—can I live five hundred years? The question floated like a feather into night.

With your current body of Flash Energy, it’s no problem, steel under silk.

Sandryon hesitated a heartbeat, then gave a firm answer, a seal pressed in wax.

Yekase nodded, her expression a little blank, a moon behind thin cloud.

Immortality—you don’t like it? The word shimmered like a blade.

Not that I dislike it; it’s sudden. A few days ago I dreamed of mechanical ascension, knowing it was a dream. Now I look up and I’m a cultivator, gears traded for clouds.

Huaxia’s cultivators—at the founding, some were absorbed, titles erased, made instructors in the army, forbidden to ascend. The rest refused, clung to old freedom, and were crushed like reeds under wheels.

Yekase had tossed it off, yet Sandryon veered wide. A serious thread loosened, a kite drifting off string. It was tea—and beer—talk, so fine.

The Severed Way to Heaven—a key test point in modern Huaxia history, a stone step on an exam stair.

They cultivated well, then the immortal road was cut overnight. What fault was theirs? I had two or three cultivator friends; they died under that suppression, candles snuffed by a boot.

Sandryon spoke like a complaint, yet her tone stayed flat, no anger, no nostalgia—a river moving under ice.

Yekase shook her head. Don’t dodge the heavy stuff. Even I know cultivation gathers the breath of heaven and earth, hoards heaven‑born treasures for oneself. Isn’t that a fault? So many resources, eaten like snacks by a few dozen or hundred full‑time cultivators. Anyone who makes a name does it standing on the so‑called commoners’ heads. They weren’t wronged.

Don’t say that outside. I’m afraid people will taste something else in it, spice that burns more than food.

Exactly that “something else,” a shadow under the lantern.

You dare say it to me? A card flipped.

Because you’ll remind me not to say it outside, a hand on my sleeve.

…I’m still too good to you, wool over a blade.

Yekase flashed Sandryon a bright grin, lifted the beer‑filled teacup toward her, stars ready to clink. To the grand bond of master and apprentice!

Use your own cup first, a line drawn in sand.

A teacup’s small; it’s harder to get drunk, a dam in a stream.

You’re afraid of drunk? A spark teasing a torch.

Not afraid. The word sat like a stone.

Give my cup back! A gull diving for bread.

Sandryon lunged over the table and snatched the cup, a cat swiping prey.

Yekase felt déjà vu. She pulled back, but her body had shrunk; she misjudged the space. The cup was taken with ease, like a coin plucked from air.

Wearing silk gloves for nothing—you do know how to posture, petals over a fist.

It’s not my idea to wear them. Yekase’s face sank like wet paper. My apprentice forced them on me, said they limit my strength, keep me from slacking on body advantage. See? As an apprentice, I’m way more qualified.

Sandryon looked amused, a cat with a string. Forced? You into that?

Absolutely not! The denial snapped like a whip.

If it’s your apprentice’s demand, as a master you could refuse. Where’s the force, unless you secretly enjoy it, a mirror catching your blush.

Calling her my apprentice is loose; we don’t really have strict ranks, ropes tied in silk.

But you have them with me? A chess move across the board.

Fine, no. The concession fell like a leaf.

For a flicker, Yekase really wondered if she liked being forced… no, absolutely not. The thought crumbled like sand.

Relax. Medieval courts played far more openly than you, masks tossed to the wind.

I said there’s none— The protest fluttered like a torn flag.

Smack!

Sandryon slapped a cylindrical object onto the table between them, a gavel hit.

It was a one‑piece injector, packed with rose‑gold liquid swirling slowly. Pretty, sunrise in glass. The needle hid in plastic, edge unseen.

Your drug.

It was the secret weapon Yekase had asked Sandryon to craft before the conference, a knife up a sleeve.

No one was watching, yet Yekase still slid the injector into the transit box, a fish returned to water. She shot Sandryon a thumbs‑up. Better timely than early—thanks.

If your dutiful apprentice learns you’re doing this, “hands and feet tied” won’t cover it. She’ll collar you and lock you at home, a leash on a wolf.

Th‑that’s a bit much… right? The doubt flickered like a candle.

A bead of cold sweat slid down Yekase’s temple. No matter how I indulge her, I won’t budge on this step.

As long as you know your measure, cloth cut to pattern.

When Sandryon sat still, she had the air of a grand magus… a grand alchemist, a statue holding a flame.

She drained her tea and looked up at the ceiling: a sky she’d conjured, time and weather synced with outside. Sometimes it rains there; you watch the storm and don’t get wet, a pocket weather god for a quiet recluse.

It’s late, shadows pooling.

Mm. I’ll head back, like closing a book.

Yekase knew that meant Sandryon wanted time on her computer. Her topics were spent; it was time to go, a lantern burning out.

…Yekase. Her voice tugged like a thread.

At the door, hand set to push, Sandryon called her back, a bell tugged once.

Yekase turned her head slightly, a bird pricking an ear.

She waited for the next line, breath held like a drawn bow.

No need to rush. After all, our time runs long, a river across centuries.