Alchemy Hall did not smell like magic.
It smelled like iron, bitter herbs, ash, oil, and something faintly acidic that made the back of the throat prickle. The air was thick—not with mana pressure, but with consequence. Every table bore scorch marks. Every wall carried stains that had resisted cleaning spells.
This was not a classroom designed to inspire awe.
It was designed to survive mistakes.
Aurelian paused just inside the doorway, letting the space settle into his senses. His mana reacted instinctively—not flaring, not withdrawing, but aligning. This place did not demand power.
It demanded precision.
"Close the door if you intend to enter."
The voice was sharp, dry, and utterly unimpressed.
Aurelian stepped fully inside and shut the door behind him.
At the front of the hall stood the alchemy instructor—a woman in her late fifties, hair bound in a severe knot, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms webbed with old scars and burn marks. Her goggles rested on her forehead, lenses cracked and repaired more than once.
She did not look like a scholar.
She looked like someone who had survived her own education.
"I am Master Alchemist Thera Veyne," she said. "If you are here because you think alchemy is for cowards who don't like close combat, you may leave."
No one moved.
"Good," Thera said flatly. "That saves time."
She turned and struck a rune carved into the central worktable. The lights brightened—not magical illumination, but alchemical flame trapped in glass conduits.
"Let's get something straight," Thera continued. "Alchemy is not potion-making."
Several students blinked.
"It is not healing," she went on. "It is not poison. It is not bombs. It is not enhancement."
She turned slowly to face them.
"It is applied consequence."
Aurelian felt the Soul Bow resonate faintly.
Thera gestured to the tables. "Alchemy is what happens when you understand how the world reacts to pressure, time, heat, mana, and intent—and decide to use that knowledge deliberately."
She picked up a small vial of clear liquid.
"This," she said, "could be water."
She uncorked it and poured a single drop onto the stone floor.
The drop hissed.
The stone blackened and cracked outward in a spiderweb pattern.
"Or," she continued calmly, "it could be a delayed corrosive that activates only when exposed to ambient mana."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Thera's eyes hardened. "Alchemy kills more careless prodigies than any battlefield. Because arrogant people assume intelligence replaces discipline."
Her gaze swept the class—and paused, just briefly, on Aurelian.
"Some of you," she said, "already know this."
Aurelian met her eyes steadily.
She snorted. "Good. That means you're less likely to explode."
The first lesson was not practical.
It was classification.
Thera wrote four words on the board in sharp strokes.
Stabilization
Transformation
Catalysis
Weaponization
"Everything an alchemist makes," she said, "falls into one or more of these categories."
She pointed to the first.
"Stabilization includes healing draughts, antidotes, mana balancers, preservation agents. These keep systems from failing."
Then the second.
"Transformation alters state. Liquid to gas. Flesh to stone. Mana to heat. Useful. Dangerous."
The third.
"Catalysis accelerates reactions. Growth serums. Overdrive compounds. Berserker tonics."
Aurelian's jaw tightened slightly.
"And finally," Thera said, tapping the last word hard enough to crack the chalk, "weaponization."
The room went very still.
"Poisons," she said. "Bombs. Acid flasks. Mana disruptors. Anti-regeneration agents. Things polite academies pretend don't exist."
She turned back to the class.
"We do not pretend here."
Several students swallowed.
Thera folded her arms. "Alchemy exists because sometimes a sword is not enough. Sometimes mana is unreliable. Sometimes you need something that works even when everything else fails."
Aurelian thought of chains. Runes. Suppression collars.
He understood perfectly.
"For your first practical," Thera said, "you will not brew anything."
Groans.
"You will observe," she continued. "And calculate."
Assistants rolled out trays containing identical materials: mineral powders, plant extracts, distilled mana water, inert binders.
"Your task," Thera said, "is to predict outcomes."
She pointed to a setup where two substances sat side by side.
"If combined directly," she said, "this mixture will explode."
Several students stiffened.
"If layered with a stabilizing agent," she continued, "it will create a controlled combustion compound."
She turned to Aurelian suddenly.
"You. Valemont. Outcome if mana flow is reversed mid-reaction?"
Aurelian answered without pause. "The stabilizer becomes the trigger. Explosion delayed by three to five seconds, radius reduced but force intensified inward."
Thera stared at him.
Then smiled—sharp, satisfied.
"Correct," she said. "And that answer tells me you've either studied under someone competent… or survived incompetence."
Aurelian said nothing.
Thera turned back to the class. "Alchemy does not forgive ignorance," she said. "It punishes assumptions."
The final part of the class was hands-on—but limited.
Students practiced measuring, grinding, stabilizing. No mana infusion. No ignition. Just preparation.
Aurelian's movements were precise, economical. He wasted nothing. His ratios were exact—not memorized, but understood. He adjusted for humidity, ambient mana drift, even the slight vibration of the room.
Thera noticed.
She always did.
When class ended, she stopped him as others filed out.
"Valemont," she said. "You already know this craft."
Aurelian considered his answer carefully. "I know the principles," he said. "Not the limits."
Thera studied him for a long moment.
"Good," she said. "Because limits are what keep alchemists alive."
She turned away, then added over her shoulder, "Next class, we start poisons."
Aurelian inclined his head. "I'll be ready."
As he left Alchemy Hall, his mind was calm—not excited, not fearful.
Focused.
Alchemy was not a class.
It was a way to ensure that no matter how the world tried to cage him again—
He would always have a way out.