The air in the alchemical chamber was not merely heavy; it was stagnant, as if the oxygen itself had been replaced by the weight of a decades of forgotten history. Mr. Benson, his grey eyes reflecting the flickering violet flames of a nearby burner, turned his gaze from the bubbling crucibles toward Veora.
"Tell me, little girl," Benson's voice rasped, a sound like dry parchment being folded. "Is this truly the end of it? Or did Freddy find these two in a gutter and decide to gamble the Crown's resources on a whim? Two at once... a rarity in these halls."
Veora, usually so quick with a sharp retort, found her tongue feeling like lead. She bowed her head slightly, a gesture of profound respect toward the elder Alchemist. "Mr. Benson, these are the only two. Chief Freddy was... explicit. He believes they possess the 'necessary qualities' for the division."
Benson let out a huff of dry laughter, his eyes finally settling on Rayn. He leaned in close, the scent of sulfur and bitter almond clinging to his coat. "Listen to me, kid. This potion ritual... it is not some parlor trick. It is a dance on the edge of a precipice. It is dangerous beyond your mortal comprehension. It might kill you. It might shatter your mind. Or, worse, it might turn you into something so grotesque that you will fear to look in a mirror for the rest of your miserable days. Are you still standing there because you're brave, or because you're too stupid to run?"
Rayn did not flinch. His expression remained a frozen lake, his red eyes—though currently dimmed by his seal—reflecting the Alchemist's intensity. A small, chillingly calm smile played on his lips.
"Sir," Rayn replied, his voice echoing with the steady rhythm of a heart that did not know fear. "If I lacked the courage to face death, I would never have crossed the threshold of this office. I have walked through fires that would melt your crucibles. I am ready for whatever 'Ichor' you intend to pour into my veins."
Benson stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching until it became uncomfortable. Then, he barked a laugh and clapped his hands together.
"Well said! Arrogance is the first step toward divinity, and you, kid, have it in spades. But before we begin the desecration of your humanity, you must understand the nature of the ritual. Sit. Listen. For if you die, at least you will die informed."
Benson gestured to the floor, where a complex array of silver lines formed a circle around a central pedestal. He picked up a flask containing a liquid that seemed to defy the laws of physics. It swirled with a life of its own, refusing to settle.
"This," Benson began, his voice dropping into a lecture tone, "is the Ichor of Ouroboros. It is named after the serpent that devours its own tail, for it represents the cycle of destruction and rebirth. It is a living reagent, highly sensitive to the temporal flow of the universe."
He held the flask up to a beam of light. "Observe. In the heat of the afternoon sun, it turns a pure, blinding White. This signifies a high affinity for the 'Luminous Paths'—powers that heal, protect, and serve the innocent. At the stroke of midnight, it deepens into a terrifying Violet, a sign that the drinker is destined for the 'Dark Paths'—powers of shadows, death, and subversion. Ninety-nine percent of those who survive this ritual do so through the Violet or the White."
Benson's eyes grew distant, haunted. "But there is a third state. Rare. Impossible. The Royal Blue. It is a color that vibrates with the frequency of the stars themselves. It is the color of the 'God-Slayer' paths. To drink the Royal Blue is to ask the universe for the power to rewrite reality. Most who try simply evaporate into mist."
He looked back at Rayn and Vespera. "The liquid I have prepared contains the seeds of all these fates. The time of the ritual, the state of your soul, and your inherent 'Law' will determine which seed sprouts."
"There are Thirteen Paths," Benson continued, pacing the room. "Thirteen ways the Ichor can rewrite your Dantian. Listen, for once the liquid touches your tongue, you will have to choose a direction in the darkness of your own mind."
The Occult Cartographer: You have seen Veora's mother. They manipulate the very fabric of space, navigating the unseen folds of the world.
The Auditor (Law of Debt): A terrifying path. They can weigh a man's soul against his words. They know truth from lie by feeling the weight of the 'conceptual debt' a liar owes to reality.
The Merchant (Law of Equivalence): They see the hidden value. Not just of gold, but of souls. They can tell you the price of a life and the true power of an artifact with a single glance.
The Gambler (Law of Probability): These souls are kissed by luck. They don't just guess; they tip the scales of chance. In the heat of battle, the 'lucky' decision becomes their only decision.
The Nameless (Law of Labels): Those who can strip away the masks of others. They see through illusions, disguises, and even the lies a man tells himself.
The Parasite (Law of Symbiosis): A path of shadows. They can merge with others, hiding in a shadow or even within a host's body. They can seize control of a nervous system for a fleeting moment, turning an enemy into a puppet.
The Actor (Law of Persona): The ultimate spies. They do not just disguise themselves; they become. They shape-shift their flesh and can even mimic the auras and minor abilities of those they impersonate.
The Echo (Law of Vibration): They hear the past. They can listen to a conversation held in a room three days ago by catching the lingering vibrations in the walls. They sense movements from miles away.
The Clockmaker (Law of Sequence): Those who dance with time. They manipulate the sequence of events, slowing a blade or accelerating a heartbeat. A joyful, yet maddening path.
The Archivist (Law of Records): The keepers of the world. Their brains are libraries. They remember every detail of history, every face, every spell, and can recall them with perfect clarity.
The Pale Curator (Death of the Physical): They deal in the morbid. They preserve bodies and, at high levels, can extract the residual powers and memories from a fresh corpse.
The Psychopomp (Death of the Spiritual): The guides. They see the lingering spirits of the dead and can command or guide them toward their final destination, be it the heavens or the hells.
The Blind One (Sensation): They lose their sight, but in exchange, their other senses explode. They can hear a heartbeat from three kilometers away. Their strength and endurance become monumental, turning their bodies into living fortresses.
Benson stopped and looked at them. "Are you ready? Once you drink, there is no turning back. You will be claimed by one of these Laws."
Rayn tilted his head, his mind analyzing the thirteen paths. Interesting. These are not just 'powers'; they are fragments of Divine Laws, distilled into alchemical form. "Sir," Rayn asked, his voice cutting through the tension. "How is this Ichor produced? What is its origin?"
Benson stopped dead. He stared at Rayn, his jaw dropping slightly. Behind them, Veora's face went pale, her eyes wide with shock.
"Kid... you are a strange one," Benson whispered. "Most people are trembling, begging for the power, or praying to gods they don't believe in. You... you want to know the 'manufacturing process'?"
Benson laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "Fine. If you must know... the Ichor is extracted from the essence of the Dead. It is the distilled 'Potential' of those who failed to ascend, harvested from the graveyards of the Great Sects and processed through seven cycles of purification."
Veora gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "It's... it's made of people?"
"It is made of failure, girl," Benson corrected. He turned back to Rayn. "But here is the catch. This is not water. It will not pass through you. It will not dissolve. This liquid is comprised of 'Alchemical Serpents.' When you drink it, they enter your bloodstream and begin a process called Reciprocal Digestion."
He leaned in, his voice a sinister whisper. "They don't sit in your stomach. They start 'eating' your human cells. One by one, they consume your mortality and replace it with alchemical copies. They mimic your structure, merging with your nerves and your soul. Eventually, the liquid 'vanishes' because it becomes you. You are no longer a man; you are a living alchemical formula."
Benson poured the white, shimmering liquid into two small crystal glasses. He began to chant, a low, guttural incantation in a language that sounded like grinding stones. The ritual marks on the floor began to glow, and the liquid in the glasses flared with a brilliance that forced Veora to look away.
"One final question, Sir," Rayn said, his hand hovering over the glass. "You say this liquid contains all powers, including the 'God' powers. How can a single draught contain so much, yet most only awaken one small spark?"
Benson smiled with genuine admiration. "Freddy was right about you. You have a seeker's mind. The liquid is a buffet, kid. Your soul is the guest. Most souls are too small, too weak; they can only 'digest' one appetizer. The rest of the liquid stays dormant, eventually being flushed out as waste once the primary power takes root. But if a soul is vast enough..."
Benson didn't finish the sentence. He simply gestured to the glasses.
Rayn looked at Vespera. She nodded, her golden eyes reflecting the white fire of the potion. Together, they lifted the glasses.
Rayn didn't hesitate. He downed the Ichor in a single gulp.
It didn't taste like liquid. It tasted like lightning and grave-dirt.
The moment the Ichor hit his throat, the "serpents" Benson described erupted. Rayn felt thousands of microscopic teeth tearing into his esophagus, his veins, his very heart.
So, you want to eat me? Rayn thought, his consciousness retreating into his inner world. You want to replace my cells?
Inside his Dantian, the King DD Core felt the intrusion. The nineteen sealed essences vibrated with a celestial fury. The Alchemical Serpents, expecting a feast of weak, human flesh, suddenly found themselves staring into the maw of a sleeping Dragon God.
Rayn's body began to convulse. His skin turned a translucent white, then a bruised violet. Beside him, Vespera was engulfed in a pillar of golden light, her draconic soul easily taming the alchemical tides.
But Rayn was different. He wasn't just taming it; he was dominating it.
His eyes snapped open. The "normal" red of his iris vanished, replaced by a pulsating, vibrant crimson that seemed to bleed light into the room. A heat began to radiate from him, so intense that the silver lines of the ritual circle began to melt.
"What... what is this?" Benson stammered, backing away. "The White... it's turning! It's not Violet... it's... it's burning!"
Rayn felt the "Serpents" of the Ichor screaming as they were absorbed not into his cells, but into his nineteen essences. The Law of the Ouroboros was being devoured by the Law of the Sovereign.
In that moment, Rayn didn't just awaken one power. He felt the entire spectrum of the thirteen paths laid bare before him. But his red eyes settled on one—a path that didn't just fit the description of the Benson mentioning and also Rayn felt a new power and it is hding behind thirteen powers and he let out a success smile and choose the 14th power.
The air in the room shattered.
"I have chosen," Rayn's voice boomed, no longer sounding human.The ritual was over, but the transformation... had only just begun.