Before the next act begins, here’s a question for you.
What is an Alchemist, really?
Alchemy is a vessel for science, a riverbed that holds a current beyond human whim. Its roots run back a thousand years, yet those early hands stirred wonders without grasping the hidden gears.
Then one thing appeared, and the mist thinned. The craft stepped out of folklore and into a lab you could light with matches.
The Philosopher’s Stone.
Its strange nature lets it stand in for any alchemical reagent, like a chameleon in a cabinet—especially those rare materials on the edge of extinction. Most crucially, you can make it.
For emergencies, Lingcai had sewn one into the hidden lining at her chest, a secret ember close to the heart. Tonight, that ember would burn.
“So wasteful, so wasteful… sob, sob…” Her chest ached like a cut vein, yet her hands moved, steady as rain, over the alchemical cauldron.
She had one goal: craft a tool to help her escape. The sand in the glass was half an hour at most. If Xueyu reached the cell and smelled the lie, she’d wheel her horse and be back like thunder.
The Stone wasn’t for flair; the palace pantry was bare. She had no other way.
Heart dripping blood in her mind’s eye, Lingcai snipped open her undergarment. A slightly cloudy gem blinked in the light—plain in shape, but when it drank a beam, it spilled a burst of vivid color across the cloth like sunrise paint.
The finer the Stone, the sharper its layered spectrum. This one threw ribbons so clean it looked brushed on; even a master of Alchemy would stare, eyes wide as lanterns.
At last, the final step. Lingcai drew a deep breath, gathered the last scraps of courage, shut her eyes, and tossed the Stone into the pot. “Keep the green hills… live to fight another day… sob…”
Comfort is a blanket with holes. The knot in her chest wouldn’t loosen, but this wasn’t the hour to tug at it.
The instant the Stone kissed the brew, prismatic element light surged out, a wave that lit the room like noon and spilled under the door like a river of color.
No time to admire the afterglow. She snatched up her alchemist’s rod and fished out the result.
A rope.
Only a rope.
“Done! A liiiiving roooope!” she sang, drawing the words out like a cartoon mascot, a smile shaking like a candle flame.
She had fed her rarest treasure to the fire and refined a simple level 22 tool. Her heart felt carved with knives; words couldn’t catch the sting.
Run. Say it, do it, move now.
She jumped back into her white shirt and black pleated skirt, tested the weight in her tall boots, grabbed her pack, and bolted through the door like a startled deer.
With the underwear cut away, her upper body felt strangely bare, a chill where fabric used to be.
“Ugh… mm…”
She slipped to a shadowed corner at the palace wall. Days of watching had shown her the trick: it’s hard to climb in, but easier to slip out like water over a lip. Avoid the patrols’ eyes, and the night would carry her.
“I’m counting on you! Go! Living rope!” she whispered, flinging it toward the wall-top. The moment it touched stone, it writhed like a creature, inching upward in ripples, a snake drawn in charcoal against moonlight.
She didn’t need to shout. Call it a prayer tossed to the wind.
Kindly said, it looked like a snake. Less kindly… a maggot with ambition.
The grub—no, the living rope—brushed the iron railing. Lingcai gave the tail a sharp tug. Startled, the rope clung hard, wrapped the bar, and tied itself into a neat bow, as if afraid to fall.
She hauled twice, felt the bite of promise, then climbed hand over hand, hugging the wall like ivy.
With a final push, she reached the crown. Next step: clear the fence.
Its spikes gleamed with cold light, polished as if the guards climbed up here to shine them out of boredom.
She eased one foot over. The steel’s chill glitter made her knees tremble; she gulped a breath, heart thudding like a drum. “Shouldn’t have worn a skirt… if I slip, that’s nightmare fuel…”
Still, she set her jaw and swung the other leg across. Perched on the outer lip, she exhaled long, then wiped the fine sweat beading her brow.
“Good thing no one’s below… or they’d see everything… I’m never wearing a skirt again…”
Sitting there, she glanced down at the drop—just over ten feet, a dark well at her toes. She filled her lungs with fresh air, readying to grip the rope and slide.
“Calm down. I’m not a girl right now… I’m not a girl right now…”
She murmured, self-hypnosis like a lullaby. A sudden cold gust knifed through her; she flinched, lost her grip, and the world fell away.
“Ah—!”
Relax. This is a comedy. Raise the wall another story and she’d still bounce.
Even with pain flaring like sparks across bone and joint, she didn’t stop to rub anything. One arm clamped over her chest, the other pressed her skirt, guarding the must-not-be-seen like a dragon over treasure.
As she realized how reflexively girlish she’d become, her face drained pale. She rose, dusted herself off with small, stiff pats, and muttered, mood sinking like dusk:
“…I think I’ve already lost myself.”
