Rather than chasing where that busted cannon was forged, Lingcai’s worry coiled like a tight knot under a low cloud.
Scarlet Leaf would reach the royal capital tomorrow, and she faced her mirror like a stunned deer, stuck in this pint-sized loli guise.
She stared at the alchemy room, a storm-struck ruin; even the cauldron lay in jagged petals, so human transmutation was a dead fire.
What—do—I—do—now, her heart drummed, scattering question marks like blown leaves.
Embarrassed yet desperate, she pushed the problem toward Princess Korol, like sliding a hot coal across the table.
“Um… Your Highness, do you know where I can find a usable cauldron…?” her voice tiptoed like a cat.
Thud!
Kelor’s palm slammed the desk like thunder, and honestly, she’d rather plant it on Lingcai’s humming skull.
“Not blown up enough for you?! Go rebel already! I suspect you’re a Brunkia plant in the palace!” Her words hissed like steam.
She flung curses like hailstones, each one stinging; and Lingcai took them in silence, like grass bent by rain.
When Kelor finally ran out of storm, Lingcai lifted her eyes and explained, her voice small and trembling like a reed.
“Your Highness, I need to turn back to my original self first, like a tide pulling for shore.”
“If I can’t, I can’t meet Scarlet Leaf, and that gate stays shut like frozen iron.”
“If I can’t meet her, I can’t trace the cannon’s source, so the trail fades like smoke.”
“If I can’t trace it, the border soldiers may pay in blood, like leaves cut by a hard wind.”
Kelor nearly choked on that chain of logic, like swallowing a fishbone.
“You threatening me?!” Her gaze flashed like a blade.
Lingcai shook her head like a rattle drum, quick and frantic, trying to scatter the storm.
“No, no! A mere commoner in plain cloth—how could I threaten you?” Her words fluttered like sparrows.
“I’m just stating facts,” she added, voice thin as mist.
“Like hell you’re ‘just stating facts’!” Kelor spat the words like sparks, her stare bulging like a popping kettle, her finger trembling as it stabbed the air.
“You, you, you… ever since I got saddled with your genius, I’ll live ten years less, with years falling like sand!”
Her words scraped like dry bark, and Lingcai listened, meek as a lamp under wind.
Without a cauldron, Lingcai’s craft was a broken wing; she knew it, so she held her tongue.
When Kelor cooled, she brightened suddenly, like a lantern catching flame.
“I do know a place with a similar pot, but you’ll have to borrow it yourself.” She tore a rough page, ink scratching like a cricket, wrote an address, and handed it over.
“Whether you can borrow it or not depends on your own skill,” she added, relief drifting like a leaf on water.
Lingcai turned the slip over and over, eyes pecking like a sparrow at grain.
It marked a remote corner of the royal capital, a quiet crook like shade behind a wall.
“Your Highness, where is this?” she asked, voice like soft rain.
Kelor tapped the paper like a drum and explained with solemn calm.
“It’s the residence of the imperial apothecary. He hates crowds and noise, so he settled out there. I figure his pot’s the same as an alchemist’s,” her tone steady as stone.
Apothecaries are a branch of Alchemists; their paths flow toward physiology, pharmacology, and toxicology, like rivers branching through living hills.
But at the phrase “imperial apothecary,” Lingcai’s body shivered like a plucked string; she stammered with shrinking eyes.
“That… that apothecary, is he the Great Sage of Seven Colors and Luminaries…?”
Kelor couldn’t grasp why she was so rattled; her reply was airy, like flicking dust from a sleeve.
“Oh? So you know him. Even better—since he’s familiar, go blow up his place too,” she said, her tone prickling like cactus.
The words pricked like thorns, but Lingcai had no room to bicker; her mind kept circling his name like a hawk over a peak.
He was the final horizon for every Alchemist, an idol like a sun with seven hues; with one will, he pushed half a nation’s healthcare forward.
Not only a master of apothecary arts, he held deep skill in magic of every attribute, like a library of living light.
Lingcai’s mentor, Alchemy Professor Jero, came from his line; to her, the Great Sage was a grandmaster perched above the clouds.
He rarely appeared, yet rivers of rumor ran on; the school’s top alchemy prize even bears his title—the Seven Luminaries Cup.
Seeing Lingcai drift into that glow, Kelor waved a hand before her eyes like a fan cutting heat, trying to pull her spirit back.
“Wake up, hey, wake up. Why are you swooning? Is it really that serious?” Her voice rolled like pebbles in a brook.
Lingcai returned to herself, glanced at the princess, and shook her head like a willow. “You wouldn’t get it.”
Kelor’s gaze slanted like a crescent blade. “Then say something I can understand. What’s he great at?”
Alright, time for Lingcai’s bragging; she sat down with smooth ease, like a storyteller by a brazier, and began.
“Your Highness, Transcendent-class magic has three branches. Do you know which three?” Her smile curled like smoke.
Kelor flicked her hand, impatience fluttering like a moth. “Just talk. Don’t quiz me.”
By the way, the three are spatial magic, time magic, and mental magic—each one a mountain far above elemental spells.
Lingcai snapped her fingers, a spark in the hush, and spun his legends like silk.
“First, spatial magic: top mages at best blink a short distance, but the Great Sage could lay arrays that shift an entire city a thousand miles, like chess pieces sliding.”
Kelor idly picked at a fingernail like chipping lacquer and said, thin as smoke, “He’d be a killer at relocation,” her words dry as straw.
“Then time magic: he could cast Time Suspension, freezing the world; sheets of rain would fall outside, yet he’d stroll dry, untouchable as a shadow.”
“Perfect for peeping the women’s bath without leaving a trace,” Kelor hummed, voice like a thorn.
“Finally, mental magic: the moment you meet him, you’re already inside his hand; you won’t even feel the leash, and you’ll swear every step is your own.”
“He should be selling insurance,” Kelor said, drier than desert wind.
Not one kind word, even at the end; Lingcai’s head ached like a drum under sun. “Couldn’t you say something nice?” Her plea rose like steam.
Kelor opened a white fan, wafting air like ripples, and sighed long. “It’s so hot.”
Alright then, expecting ivory from a dog is a lost harvest, Lingcai thought, bitterness curling like tea leaves.
Kelor folded the fan with a click like bamboo and moved to send her off, slow as drifting cloud.
“Don’t waste my time here. Go find him. If he wants to lend you a pot, he’ll lend it. If he doesn’t, I’ve got no remedy.” Her words fell like stones.
What else can I do? Roll the dice on fate, like casting yarrow stalks.
At this point, Lingcai could only plan to meet the Great Sage of Seven Colors and Luminaries, heart pacing like a cat; may he be easy to talk to…
