Lingcai (?–CE 757), Human, Ariex national, with roots sunk deep in the Qiulde region, like old willow roots gripping riverbank clay.

Her birth year is unknown, a fogged moon over still water.

As a child she was keen and studious, mind sharp as a honed blade and manners smooth as spring rain.

At sixteen she entered the Ariex National University of Alchemy as regional top scorer, the gates opening like dawn over tiled roofs.

She studied under Professor “Jero” (disambiguation, seven entries; click to view all), a title that rang like bronze bells across campus courtyards.

Pride swelled after enrollment like summer heat on stone streets; she slacked and poked at the forbidden art of Human Transmutation like a moth to flame.

In Year One of Senluo (755), an alchemical accident got her expelled and cast out, like a lone leaf swept from a palace gate.

In Senluo Year Three (757), near the royal palace, assassins found her, shadows pooling like ink at noon.

Mistaken for the Ariex princess in plain clothes, she was cut down in the street, like a lamp snuffed by a passing gust.

Age at death: unknown, a number lost like a pebble in a riverbed.

Unofficial tales say twenty‑three, rumor swirling like dry leaves in alley wind.

Works:

Alchemy So Simple Even a Monkey Gets It, a primer bright as chalk lines on a slate.

The Philosopher’s Stone: 100 Practical Tricks, like a pocketbook of flint and tinder.

Perfect Harmony: From First Steps to Final Rest, a path rolling like a drumbeat from gate to grave.

Click here for more:

Coincidence or Conspiracy? The Truth Behind a Genius Alchemist’s Death! The headline flashed like a lure over dark water.

Maybe centuries from now, a history wiki will write it like that, dust settling like frost on a forgotten shelf.

She yelled, voice like flint on steel: “Not a chance!”

She shouted, spark-struck and breath sharp as winter air: “I am not ending up like that!”

A glimpse of her future eulogy flickered before Lingcai’s eyes like heat-haze, and she spun and bolted, feet drumming like rain.

Qiange wouldn’t miss this chance to kill a princess, her resolve hard as ice and her silhouette slicing forward like a bird of prey.

No matter how Lingcai argued she wasn’t the princess, the blade would find her today like thunder finds a tall tree.

Qiange slid her palm along the spine, sheathed the long blade under her left arm, and pressed blood into a seal like cinnabar on silk.

“Qi Blade, Second Form... Vacuum Burst!” Her shout cracked like a whip in dry air.

Wind coiled on her blade, a whirlpool of air gulping dust, then shot forward with her vertical slash like a crescent moon loosed from a bow.

It arrowed at the fleeing Lingcai, the pressure line gleaming like a clear stream under sun.

Lingcai realized it and stumbled, left foot tripping right, then kissed the ground like a sack of rice.

The vacuum lash screamed past her skull with a sonic crack, sharp as lightning splitting bamboo.

“So—close—! I almost died!” Her hands flew to her head like sparrows startled from eaves, and she checked her neck with a shiver like cold dew.

“Dog princess! Where are you running!” Qiange charged, eyes like burning coals, no hesitation, only the blade’s hunger like a wolf’s.

She closed to striking range, breath ragged like wind in a narrow alley, ready to sever hated memory with one clean arc.

At that instant Lingcai rolled and whipped around, a small device in hand, the lens glaring like a sun shard.

“Eat my flash! Extreme Spark!” Her tactical strobe flashlight flared, white fire blooming like magnesium under night.

Qiange staggered at once, balance torn like sails in a sudden squall; she hadn’t expected resistance, not from this quarry.

Her thrust bit dirt beside Lingcai, the tip chiming and chipping like ice splintering on stone.

“You dirty coward!” Qiange dropped the blade and clutched her eyes, teeth tight as a trap, stance trembling like a reed in wind.

“You swing a sword at people daily—who’s the dirty one?” Lingcai shot back, words flicking like pebbles on a pond.

To stave off a cornered beast’s lunge, she stamped the fallen long blade, dragged it underfoot like pulling a net, then scooped it up.

She barely looked at first, but focus drew her in; her eyes stilled like a lake at dawn.

“This blade...” The word trailed like smoke.

The tachi in her hands felt familiar, its hamon a swirling wave, rare as a purple heron, faint violet glimmering under sun like dew in shade.

This wasn’t a mass-forged shop piece; it was a masterwork, edges polished like fresh snow.

That violet pattern needed advanced Alchemy quenching, heat and tincture weaving like threads in twilight.

Only two people knew that quenching, a secret like a seal under red wax.

One was Lingcai herself, the technique her own flame and ink.

The other was...

Qiange, eyes still fogged like glass in rain, lunged at Lingcai with a snarl like a stray dog.

“Give it back! Don’t touch it with your filthy hands!” Her voice bit like winter wind.

“I’ve got one question—are you from the Qiulde region?” Lingcai slid the blade away, feet light as a cat, and back-stepped out of reach like a leaf on wind.

Qiange heard it and saw bloodline threats in the shadows, veins rising like cords, fury bursting like a struck gong.

“My home’s none of your concern! One blade, one bearer! I alone chose to assassinate you—my homeland is blameless!” Her vow rang like iron.

Lingcai ignored the anger and pushed on, thoughts clicking like abacus beads.

“This blade—was it forged at a smithy in Qiulde? Was the smith a girl? Did she wear a hairpiece like rabbit ears—like this?” She raised her hands above her head, fingers bending like soft ears, and wiggled them like willow leaves.

Qiange froze for a heartbeat, then tested the waters with a voice thin as spider silk.

“You… you actually know Miss Scarlet Leaf...?” The name fell like a crimson petal.

Of course I do.

I know her like breath knows lungs.

She’s my wife! Lingcai screamed inside, heart bursting like a firework behind a fan.

Two people could work that quench: the Alchemist Lingcai who made it, and the other—her fiancée, Scarlet Leaf.

Scarlet Leaf ran a smithy back home in Qiulde, an heirloom forge glowing like a hearth through generations.

Years ago, before an alchemical accident turned Lingcai into a plush little loli, she crafted that technique for her fiancée, flame joining flame like braided incense smoke.

Within a few years, Scarlet Leaf’s smithy became a famed high-end shop across Qiulde, its signboard shining like lacquer after rain.

Lingcai’s Alchemy spread through her homeland by her fiancée’s hands, stories swelling like river flood until legend drowned reason.

They even raised a statue of Lingcai in the town square, a stone self standing like a pine in winter—still male, for added irony.

The inscription read: “In Memory of the Greatest Alchemist of the Century,” letters carved like knife marks in age-old bark.

Thanks to that statue, seventy percent of the locals thought she’d died young, rumor ossifying like coral.

Fair enough—who builds a memorial to a living soul? It’s like burning incense at noon.

Lingcai herself knew none of this; her fame at home lay hidden from her like a crescent moon behind thin cloud.

All right, we’re wandering like a drunk in a lantern alley. Back to the present, where dust still dances in sunlight.

Lingcai realized Qiange knew her fiancée and started to speak, but she swallowed the shout “Scarlet Leaf is my wife!” like a pill without water.

Who would believe that? Truth can sound like a joke told in a storm.

“Uh, well... we’re actually from the same hometown... you know...” Her words shuffled out like shy footsteps on temple stairs.

“Spare me the small talk,” Qiange said, her tone cold as river ice. “Luck failed me today. If you won’t kill me now, I’ll make you regret it.” Her promise hung like a drawn bow.

“It’s a misunderstanding! A big one!” Lingcai shook her head like a rattled drum, ponytail flicking like a horse’s tail. “Why would I kill you for fun? Give me five minutes, and we’ll clear this fog.”

Before she could finish, a shadow sidled behind Qiange, sly as a cat under a fence.

“Heave‑ho!” The whisper popped like a cork.

It was the maid from before, Qiansao, moving with a grin bright as a paper lantern. A burlap sack appeared in her hands like a conjurer’s dove, and she dropped it over Qiange’s head.

She yanked the drawstring tight around Qiange’s neck, the rope biting like a cold snake.

“Mm—mmph—mmmmm!” Qiange thrashed, arms flailing like hooked fish, but Qiansao pulled with farm‑girl strength, dragging her like a sled over packed earth.

Qiange struggled for a heartbeat more, then her limbs went limp like wet rags.

She looked breathless, still as a scarecrow at dusk.

Qiansao raised the rope’s loose end, beaming like sunrise, and presented it to Lingcai as if offering a garland.

“Your Little Highness! The street‑murder suspect is secured! Please advise!” Her voice sang like a bell over market stalls.

“You’re the one committing street murder here!” Lingcai snapped, exasperation flaring like sparks from a kicked brazier.