A pagan antichrist, a sorcerer, and an alien walk into a manor.
I couldn't help but think it sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. The kind you'd hear in a dimly lit bar, told by a drunkard who thought himself clever. But here I was, standing at the threshold of the Torrington manor, part of that very punchline. Funny how things change. Once, I'd have laughed at the absurdity of it all. Now, I was living it.
The manor itself was a paradox. I could only call it a statement of wealth wrapped in the guise of modesty. It wasn't the sprawling, gothic monstrosity I'd half-expected from a literal mage, but rather a refined, stately home that whispered of old money and older secrets. The home was almost as expensive I was sure as the ones in my neighbourhood. It was The kind of place you would expect from someone descending from a low-tier aristocrat or a merchant who had really been very successful, not the kind of home I expected from a mage secretly hiding his magic in plain sight among non-magical people.
The brickwork was weathered but sturdy, ivy creeping up the sides like nature's attempt to reclaim it. The windows were tall and narrow, their panes glinting faintly in the late afternoon light, as if winking at some private joke.
But it wasn't the architecture that caught my attention. It was the magic.
My eyes with the stars of knowledge in my mind, the ones that had changed me allowed me to see it all. The air around the manor shimmered faintly, like heat rising off asphalt in summer, but instead of distorting the world, it seemed to enhance it. Threads of silver light wove through the walls, the floors, the very air, forming patterns so intricate they made my head spin. It was like standing inside a living mosaic, each piece a fragment of some greater design I couldn't quite guess yet. The magic here wasn't just present; it was alive, breathing, pulsing with a rhythm that felt almost like a heartbeat.
As I stepped inside, I felt it—a sudden, almost imperceptible tug at my arm. My eyes flicked down, and there it was: an ethereal golden chain, thin as spider silk but glowing with an intensity that made it impossible to ignore. It wrapped around my wrist, delicate looking and I knew that with less than a shrug, I could break it.
It stretched across the room to where the patriarch of the Torrington family stood. Just by looking at it, I knew it was the chain resulting from the invocation of Xenia he had done earlier.
The man—Alabaster's father—shivered as the chain fastened itself around his own wrist. His face remained stoic, but his body betrayed him. His shoulders tensed, his fingers twitched, and for a brief moment, his eyes flicked to me with something that looked uncomfortably like fear.
"Welcome to my humble abode, Alex," he said, his voice smooth but strained. "I hope you find it suitable and comfortable enough."
Humble. I almost laughed. The word felt like a slap in the face. The foyer alone was a masterpiece of understated opulence. The floors were polished oak, the walls adorned with tapestries that probably cost more than most people made in a year. A chandelier hung overhead, its crystals catching the light and scattering it in a thousand directions. If this was humble, I wondered what the man considered grandiose. A godly palace? A temple? Thinking about it, it probably was the case.
I was pulled from my thoughts by Alabaster's voice, sharp and impatient. "Dad, why are you not treating Mr. Alex normally? He's kinda naive but not mean."
The patriarch's jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might snap at his son. Instead, he forced a smile and said, "Right." But his body language screamed otherwise. He stood stiffly, his shoulders squared, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked as if there was a predator in the room and the only thing he wanted to do was to put a hand to shut his preschooler so that the predator in question, me I guess would not stop playing with his food.
It was almost amusing. Here I was, as human as he was—maybe more so, given how magic in this world seemed to be passed in lineage most of the time coming from the blessings of the gods and the likes. Thinking about it, I probably was more human I think than the patriarch.
He was looking at me like I was something else entirely, Something dangerous and I honestly didn't understand why.
"I'm only human, just like you," I said, my voice calm but firm. "You don't need to treat me like a monster or anything else. More than that, you invoked Xenia, didn't you?"
The man's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. But then he nodded, a reluctant acknowledgement. "I did," he said, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely convinced.
He led us to the living room, where a long, polished table sat surrounded by high-backed chairs. "I'll quickly check on the kitchen to make sure everything's ready," he said, his voice clipped. "I'll be back in less than five minutes."
Before he left, he turned to Alabaster, and the two exchanged a look that spoke volumes. It was a silent conversation, one that only they could understand. The father's gaze was stern, almost pleading, while Alabaster's was exasperated. After a moment, the man nodded, and Alabaster rolled his eyes, a gesture so perfectly childish it almost made me smile.
When the patriarch was gone, Alabaster turned to me, his expression a mix of annoyance and apology. "Sorry for my dad being weird," he said, blowing a curl out of his face. "He seems to think you're a god or some weird type of being, even though I told him you're not."
I shrugged, a small smile playing on my lips. "Give him a little grace, Alabaster. I'm sure he's just trying to protect you. Better safe than sorry, right?"
"It's still stupid," the boy muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.
"When it comes to their children, all parents worthy of the name are ready to do the most stupid things," I said, my tone softening. "That's just how we are."
Alabaster sighed, his defiance melting into something more resigned. "I guess so."
I leaned back in my chair, studying him. "Also, I am human, but I could have lied to you. I'm sure it's easy for a god to fake being one."
The boy's expression soured, his gaze dropping to the chain I'd given him. He hadn't worn it yet—his father had insisted on keeping it safe until they could "verify its properties." I didn't blame him. If someone had handed me a magical artifact and told me it would solve all my problems, I'd have been suspicious too. In a world where gods and monsters were real, caution wasn't just wise; it was necessary.
But now, as Alabaster stared at the chain, his earlier frustration gave way to something else. Wonder. Awe. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked less like a child and more like a scholar who'd just discovered a new frontier of knowledge.
"Mr. Alex," he said, his voice trembling with excitement, "how? This… this… woah."
I couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride. Leaving a child of magic speechless was no small feat.
"It's like it's magic, but it's not," he continued, his words tumbling out in a rush. "It's completely different. The magic I know is like water, but this… this is like sand. And just by looking at it, even if I don't understand the spell matrices, I know I could do things I never thought possible before.
Before I could respond, he pointed at a nearby couch, his hand trembling with barely contained energy.
And then the couch was gone.
Not moved, not destroyed—just gone, as if it had never existed.
My eyes widened, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. What the fuck?
What in the ever-loving fuck was this bullshit?
The couch was gone. Not destroyed, not moved—gone as f it had never existed. My mind scrambled to catch up, my thoughts racing like a pack of hounds chasing a scent. I focused on the empty space where the couch had been moments ago, my eyes narrowing as every one of my perks—all those I had in my mind, all those I'd accumulated—synchronized to dissect what had just happened.
The air where the couch had been shimmered faintly to my eyes. There would probably still be an empty couch with no effect by anyone unable to see magic. There was a thin veil of mist hanging over the spot like a minor fog. It wasn't the thick, oppressive mist I'd come to associate with hiding the truth of the magical world full of gods and monsters, the one controlled by Alabaster's mom but something lighter, almost playful.
My eyes caught specks of sickly green and yellow swirling within them, like embers trying to ignite into a flame but failing to catch. They flickered weakly, as if attempting to mimic the gold and jade of my anti-divine and anti-weaponry stars of knowledge, but falling short, like a child's clumsy imitation of a masterpiece.
The spell itself was arranged like a cage—a fragile, half-formed thing that seemed to separate, or at least try to separate, the world from the place where the spell had been launched. It was a barrier, a lie woven into reality, and it was fighting against the world itself.
Understanding bloomed in my mind like a flower unfurling its petals. "You're lying to the world," I said, my voice low but steady. "By saying the couch doesn't exist, by obscuring it. But the world knows a couch did exist, that it's supposed to exist, so—"
Alabaster cut in, his voice eager, almost breathless. "So it's fighting against my spell. This means every instant I maintain the lie, the more costly it becomes. But even if it's just for a moment, I'm lying to the world. And if someone tried to touch or walk where the couch was, there'd be nothing. And something tells me it'd be even more effective on a monster."
I nodded, impressed despite myself. The kid was sharp—too sharp for someone who hadn't even hit double digits in age. In a way, what he'd done was a lesser version of the enchantments I'd placed on the chain I'd given him. If his spell was a level 3, mine was a level 100. But still, the fact that he'd managed to pull this off after less than an hour and a half with the chain was nothing short of astonishing. He had kinda reproduced in a way Shirou's magecraft.
Of course, it wasn't just raw talent. Alabaster was the son of Hekate, the goddess of magic, and a mortal mage. He had the Mist on his side, a cheat code that let him bend reality in ways most mortals couldn't even dream of. Without it, it would've taken him weeks, maybe months, to achieve the same result, and even then, it wouldn't have been as clean. A random talented mage—someone without divine blood—might've taken half a year, if not longer.
Demigods were such cheats when you thought about it. I remembered Annabeth from the books, how she'd designed cabins at Camp Half-Blood that could transform to suit their inhabitants' needs. It was bullshit, really but then again, so was most of this world.
At least one good thing had come out of this: Alabaster had given me a new spell to work with, an offshoot of my enchantment that I knew I could refine and expand upon. The possibilities were endless.
Alabaster cut the spell, and the couch reappeared as if it had never left. He turned to me, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and something else—something that made my chest tighten. "I thought my dad was wrong," he said, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "But maybe he's onto something, Mr. Alex. You understood my spell in less than thirty seconds, just by looking at it. Even if I'd explained it to my dad, it would've taken him months. It kinda reminds me of… mom."
The moment he said the word mom, the cheeriness in his eyes faded, replaced by a longing so deep it felt like a physical weight in the room. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he looked every bit the child he was—a child who just wanted his mother.
I didn't need to read his mind to know what he was feeling. It was written all over his face, in the way his small hands clenched into fists, in the way his gaze dropped to the floor. I could relate, in a way. My own mother had been human, no matter how many times it seemed like she wasn't, but the ache of missing someone you couldn't reach was universal.
Still, it wasn't the same. Alabaster's mother was a goddess, one who claimed to love all her children but had let Lamia—a monster—nearly kill him because she didn't want to "choose" between them. She loved them, but not enough to protect them from each other. It was a bitter thought, one that left a sour taste in my mouth.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Hey, kid," I said, my voice softer than I'd intended. "You and I made a bet, which means you're probably going to see a lot more of me. I'm not her, but this—" I pointed at the couch and reproduced Alabaster's spell with a thought, no effort required. "We can do it again. And much more. What do you think?"
The gloom that had settled over him lifted, replaced by a spark of excitement that lit up his entire face. I guess I did this right at least. "Yes! Yes!" he said, his voice rising with each word. "We can talk and experiment together about the illusivity yet imaginable proved liquidity of the Mist, or the Rasputin thaumaturgical phenomenon, or—"
He was cut off by the sound of footsteps. His father walked back into the room, a feast of food levitating behind him. The man took one look at his son's eager face, then at the couch, which was still missing because I'd forgotten to cut my spell. He sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation.
"I was gone for less than five minutes, Al," he said, his tone flat.
Alabaster grinned, unrepentant. "You should've seen it, Dad! Mr. Alex understood my spell in, like, seconds. And then he did it himself, just like that!" He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
His father's expression was a mix of pride and resignation, like a man who was so over the bullshit and yet used to it. "I'm sure he did," he said, setting the food down on the table. "Now, let's eat before you blow up the house with magic again."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The food had been delicious. I'll give the man that much.
Every bite had been a symphony of flavours, each dish crafted with care that spoke of years of practice and a love for the art of cooking or maybe his magic was that good because I would honestly be surprised if this was already ready before he invited me. The roasted lamb had been tender, the herbs fragrant, the wine rich and velvety on my tongue. If nothing else, I could say I'd eaten like a king tonight.
But as the meal ended and the plates were cleared, the events of the day seemed to catch up with Alabaster. His eyelids grew heavy, his small frame slumping in his chair as exhaustion overtook him. His father noticed immediately, his expression softening as he rose from his seat.
"Come on, Al," he said gently, scooping the boy into his arms. "Let's get you to bed."
Alabaster didn't protest, his head resting against his father's shoulder as he was carried upstairs. The man shot me an apologetic look, but I waved it off. I understood perfectly.
What I didn't expect was the pang of jealousy that twisted in my chest as I watched them go.
It wasn't that the man had done anything wrong. He was a father caring for his son, nothing more. But as I watched him cradle Alabaster, as I saw the way the boy relaxed in his arms, completely at ease despite the chaos of the day, I couldn't help but wonder why I couldn't be in that position. Why Thaliacouldn't be here, safe and sound, instead of out there somewhere, alone and scared?
The memory of holding her, of being the one to comfort her, flashed through my mind. It had been me once, hadn't it? Me who'd carried her when she was too tired to walk, me who'd made sure she was fed and safe. But now? Now I was here, eating a feast while she was out there, gods knew where probably fucking hungry!
What was I even doing here?!
The question gnawed at me, sharp and unrelenting. I had a spell that let me see demigods and monsters as gold and jade dots across Los Angeles. I should've been out there, searching for her, not sitting here, relaxing. I should've gone back, ordered one of my guards to scour the city, or hired someone—anyone—to help find her, to see if she was still in the city. Instead, I'd wasted time.
The Torrington patriarch might've had his son safe and sound, but my daughter was still missing.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The man could wait. Talking to him could wait another day. Right now, I needed to move.
I was halfway to the door, my hand on the handle, when his voice stopped me.
"My lord, please wait."
I turned, my patience fraying, and saw him descending the stairs in a hurry. His timing was impeccable—too impeccable. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had some kind of ward in place, something that let him spy on his own home.
"Your hospitality was a delight," I said, my tone clipped, "but I've lost enough time. I have important things to do. We'll talk another day."
He reached the bottom of the stairs, his breath slightly uneven. "My lord, I'm sure it's the case, but I need to talk to you."
The word need hit me like a slap.
Need? What did he know about need? He had his son tucked safely in his home, probably in a bed softer than anything Thalia had slept in for weeks. I had given something to his son that would hide his scent. What could he possibly need that was more urgent than finding my daughter? What else could he need?!
I turned, something bitter and sharp rising in my throat, ready to lash out. But the words died before they could leave my lips.
The man's face was a mask of desperation, his eyes hollow and pleading. It wasn't the kind of need born of greed or selfishness. It was the kind that came from the edge of a cliff, from the moment before a fall.
Seeing it quenched the rage inside me, leaving me feeling hollow and exhausted.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice tired.
He led me to the balcony, the night air cool against my skin. The city stretched out before us, a sea of lights and shadows, but neither of us paid it any mind.
"I know it's not the wisest thing to anger something like you," he began, his voice trembling slightly. "The fact you even listened to me and didn't try to hurt me was a miracle."
"What do you want?" I repeated, my tone flat.
He took a deep breath, his hands gripping the railing as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. "I need you to take care of Alabaster. He likes you and is at ease with you. He rarely does so with others."
I stared at him, my mind struggling to process the words. "What do you mean by that? I gave your son something that would allow him to evade the attention of monsters and even gods. You probably don't believe me, but ask your son. He'd be able to prove my word."
The man gave a sad, tired smile. "My lord, excuse me for doing so, but I listened to your conversation with my son, even though I was in the kitchen. I don't have any more doubts about what you said. You indeed gave my son something that would protect him, shield him from future threats and for that, I would give you my soul if you desired it. It's just… there were threats before and I'm not as strong as you."
I looked at him then, truly looked at him, peering past the surface with all the stars in the back of my mind. What I saw made my breath catch.
There was an outline around him, a shell of magic millimeters away from his skin. It was like the Necrodermis I'd crafted for myself, but this… this was different. This wasn't protection. This was a mask, one made with magic, a desperate attempt to hide something far worse.
"This isn't truly how you look, is it?" I asked, my voice low.
The Warhammer's star in my mind allowed me to peer further, to see past the illusion. And what I saw made my stomach churn.
The man was dying.
His true form was a shadow of what he presented. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and sallow. Black veins ran like cracks across his face and arms, spreading like poison through his body. He looked as if all the blood had been drained from him, leaving behind a hollow shell.
"You're dying," I said, the words heavy in the air.
The man chuckled at my words, a dry, humorless sound that seemed to scrape against the night air. It wasn't the kind of laugh that came from joy or amusement. It was the kind that came from someone who'd long since run out of tears to cry.
With a flick of his hand, he dispelled the spell that had been masking his true appearance. The illusion fell away like a curtain being drawn back, revealing the man beneath—or what was left of him. His skin was pale, almost translucent, the black veins beneath it standing out like cracks in porcelain. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, were now hollow, the light in them dimmed to a faint flicker.
"She was the only one to guess at a glance," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "Even Alabaster, with how prodigious he is, doesn't know."
He paused, his gaze drifting to the city below us, the lights flickering like distant stars. "Once, it must have been months ago—I'm not sure, time blurs when you're fighting for your life—a horde of dracaena attacked the manor. Even with my spells, even with my preparations, even with the powerful reagents I'd bought, it wasn't enough. There were three of them, and I used spells on them that had historically felled hundreds of mages. Spells powered by reserves of magic spanning months if not years, powered by magical reagents, spells that were deemed forbidden, too powerful by other mages, spells that were thought too dark. I thought it would be enough."
His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles white. "One of them, the oldest, took it all and didn't stop. Worse, she toyed with me. I would've died if it wasn't for my son. If he hadn't disobeyed me when I told him to hide behind fortified wards. He saved me, but…"
He trailed off, his voice breaking. "One thing a lot of people don't realize is how venomous and potent dracanae venom is. I would've died that night if not for her. I'd gone to sleep thinking my potions would be enough to deal with it, but they weren't. My son, who'd been having trouble sleeping, came to my room and found me not breathing. He prayed to his mother, and she gave him a spell to heal me. But something must've gone wrong because, a month later, I realized the venom wasn't gone. It was getting stronger with time. I knew then it was only a matter of time before I died. I hid it from my son with this spell, my masterpiece. I wish my masterpiece had served something other than lying to him, but the world isn't kind."
I stared at him, the weight of his words settling over me like a shroud. "His mother," I said softly, "she's the goddess of magic, right? Why doesn't she help? Did you ask her?"
He nodded, his expression bitter. "She was the one who came to me. She presented me with solutions, ones that could save me, but you have to understand, she's not human, she's a goddess and immortals see the world differently from mortals. Additionally, powerful things, powerful magic always have a price. Those spells, by using them would end with me needing, forced to give up my son for his wellbeing. Even though I knew accepting would keep us both alive, it would also leave him alone in this world full of monsters. I'd promised myself—and him—that I'd always be there for him."
Looking at him, hearing him, was like looking through a fractured mirror. I saw myself in his desperation, in his fear, in the way he clung to the promise he'd made.
"You may be with him until your life expires," I said, my voice low, "but you'd still be breaking your promise. You'd break his heart, break him completely, and…"
I thought of what Alabaster would become in the future, the boy who'd tried to destroy Olympus, uncaring of the consequences it would have on billions, on how many people would suffer even more if the Titans had won, how everything would have been worse for humanity. Someone who'd already lost so much that he no longer cared about the cost, even if it meant the suffering of humanity.
"I talked to your son, you know, while we were coming back to the school. He doesn't see himself as human. In truth, I think he hates them. It would only get worse if you, the only one he feels at ease with among those he sees as humans, the one he loves, dies after you've made him a promise. Even if I took him in, he doesn't see me as human. I fear what he'd become, what that hatred would turn him into."
The man took a deep breath, his hands trembling as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it with the tip of his finger, the flame flickering briefly before he offered one to me. I accepted it wordlessly, using adaptive material synthesis to excite the molecules at the tip and light it.
We stood there in silence for a moment, the rain beginning to fall around us. The sound of teardrops hitting the balcony was almost soothing, a gentle rhythm that contrasted sharply with the tension in the air.
I exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate into the night. "Fucking rain, am I right?"
He chuckled, though it was shaky, as if he was trying to hide how close he was to breaking. "Yeah, fucking rain."
Another inhale, another exhale. The cigarette burned down slowly, the ember glowing faintly in the darkness.
"I made the same promise to my niece, you know," I said quietly. "She's like Alabaster. I call her my niece, but I was the one who raised her. The one who tucked her into bed, who cooked for her, who was there for her first word, her first step. I was the one who stood over her when she was sick, who brought her to school in the morning and picked her up every afternoon."
He turned to look at me, his eyes searching mine. "She's your daughter, isn't she?"
I nodded, the words catching in my throat. "I don't know what she thinks of me now, not after how I fucked up, but yeah. I realize I saw her—still see her—as my daughter. I made her a promise, ironically the same one you made to yours."
He hesitated, his voice soft, as if he feared the answer. "What happened?"
"I wasn't there when she needed me," I said, the words heavy with regret. "She ran. She's out there somewhere, alone, an eight-year-old girl in a world full of monsters and god knows what else. I broke my promise, and for that, she's suffering. I promise you, you won't be able to rest in peace, even after your death, if you break your promise to your son."
He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping. "I know that. I know, godsdamnit. But I've tried everything I could, and time is against me. There are so many things I did wrong raising Alabaster because I wasn't strong enough, or clever enough. I want to see him grow up. I want to see him have a long and happy life. I want to see him making friends. There are so many things I want to make right, but the world itself—the way it's made and maintained—is wrong and there's nothing someone like me can do to change that."
I looked at him, the cigarette burning down to nothing between my fingers. With a snap, I lit the rest of it, watching it crumble to ash.
"I've never liked sad, depressive endings," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "The world is already wrong. It shouldn't be even more wrong."
The man's voice wavered, tinged with something fragile—hope, perhaps, or the last embers of belief that the world still held miracles.
"Do you mean that…?"
I closed my eyes. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I sensed them—four empty stars, hollow yet brimming with a promise unfulfilled. Four charges, four pathways untrodden, waiting for a purpose.
For so long, I had hoarded them, uncertain. Now, standing before this man, I knew the time had come to wield them. But what path? What discipline? My thoughts unfurled like an ancient scroll, possibilities inscribed upon its surface in ink that shimmered with forbidden knowledge and then, clarity struck. A singular choice. A discipline from another world, one that would help with making a weapon to kill the representation of the planets themselves, Alchemy from the nasuverse more precisely from the Note universe.
I let the charges slip from my grasp and into the abyss of understanding. The moment they were spent, the world—no, my very being—shifted.
Alchemy was not mere transmutation, not simply the vulgar trick of turning lead into gold. It was a philosophy, a dominion over the flow of all things. The Einzbern who were masters of transmutation, had shown in the TV shows and light novels that metals could be bent to will, shaped into artifacts of power but that was the shallowest ripple upon a sea without end. The true depth laid in my opinion in Atlas' doctrine—the transformation of events themselves, the rewriting of causality.
At that moment, my mind expanded, fracturing yet remaining whole, partitioned like the cells of a great cathedral window, each pane reflecting a different facet of reality. Memory Partition—an alchemist's gift—split my thoughts into fourfold processes, each independent yet synchronized. My mind was no longer a single river but a delta, countless streams racing toward a singular, inevitable conclusion.
I could feel it—Thought Acceleration surging through me, a maelstrom of cognition where before had been mere contemplation. Where once I had walked in shadows, seeking answers in the murk of uncertainty, I now strode upon a bridge of logic, each step calculated, each breath literally a measured equation.
Alchemy especially with 4 charges invested in it could only be said to be the language of gods masquerading as the practice of men.
The Western magi of the Clock Tower sought to elevate mankind beyond its frailty, sculpting flesh and spirit into something divine. The Einzbern's homunculi, perfect in form yet shackled by their design, were but echoes of this grand pursuit yet even they paled before the true progenitors—the alchemists of Atlas, who did not seek to change what was, but to alter what would be.
To them, causality was a tapestry—no, not a tapestry. A river. Not static, but ever-flowing. They did not seek to rearrange the threads, but to alter the current itself. To see the future as one saw the lines upon a scholar's palm, to bend it like a blacksmith forging steel.
At its core, alchemy is about control—control over the physical, the metaphysical, and the conceptual. It is a science of transformation, not just of elements, but of states, forms, and even ideas.
Both the Clock Tower and the Atlas Alchemy of Egypt share the foundational principle that "everything flows," even though their goals and methods diverge sharply.
Western Alchemy, influenced heavily by figures like Paracelsus von Hohenheim, focuses on the transformation of matter. It seeks to turn base metals into gold, but this is merely a metaphor for its true aim: the elevation of humanity. It is a path toward godhood, a way to refine the lowly human into something transcendent. This school of alchemy deals with the manipulation of physical substances—liquids, gases, even conceptual forms that exist beyond the material world. It encompasses phenomena like phlogiston, ether, and galvanism. In other words, I could make literal bullshit now even more easily.
I could now craft if I wanted homunculi, vessels full of magical circuits, servants to protect me, to make searching for Thalia even more easy and so many other things like a failsafe so that I could transfer my consciousness between bodies if needed. That would in last resort of course.
Atlas Alchemy, is rooted in the ancient metallurgy of Egypt, it is apparently the progenitor of all magecraft, tied to the goddess Isis herself but with Solomon being Solomon, I'm not sure that is true but whatever. Unlike Western Alchemy, Atlas Alchemy is not concerned with the transformation of matter. Its goal as mentioned before is the transformation of events. It seeks to understand and manipulate the true principles of the world, to peer into the future and alter its course.
Atlas Alchemists are known for their advanced mental capabilities, achieved through techniques like Memory Partition and Thought Acceleration. Memory Partition allows an alchemist to divide their mind into multiple independent thought processes, enabling them to solve complex problems with unparalleled efficiency. Thought Acceleration, meanwhile, enhances their cognitive speed, allowing them to process information at superhuman rates. Together, these abilities make Atlas Alchemists some of the most formidable thinkers in the Nasuverse.
Atlas did not concern itself with gold or silver, nor with mortal trifles. Their goal was grander, their reach limitless. They did not merely transmute. They shaped reality itself. They sculpted futures as one sculpted clay, bending time and possibility to their designs.
And now, so could I.
When I opened my eyes, the world felt different. Sharper. Clearer.
Alchemy was a whisper in the bones of the universe, a language that even gods failed to master. A trade of essence, a reshaping of the immutable. Four charges. Four steps beyond what I once was and with that power, I could do what even the goddess of magic had failed to accomplish perfectly.
Alabaster's father lay before me, his breathing shallow, his body betraying the slow, insidious advance of the venom that coiled in his veins like a starving snake.
What was happening to him was only proof that this world was naturally wrong, that it needed to be changed, That it was cruel. I was just sure that his torment was probably amusing to some divine being somewhere but fuck that, fuck their amusement, fuck the nature of this world because nature was not law in my eyes. Nature could, would be bent, molded, transformed.
Alchemy was the foundation of all things, the fire of creation and the scalpel of precision. It did not ask if something could be done—it simply reached into the world and made it so.
I reached out, my fingers brushing against the man's temple. Light bloomed. White and pure, a radiance that swallowed the space between us, shattering shadows, reducing the night to nothing but contrast against its overwhelming brilliance. The world blurred, time ceased to flow in the way mortals understood it, and in that moment, I was everywhere within him.
The venom, black and malignant, pulsed through his arteries like oil poisoning a river. His body was at war with itself, burning what little strength it had left just to keep standing. A slow death, one he had fought for longer than anyone should.
Alchemy was not healing. It was change. It was reinvention. I did not purge the poison. I remade it.
The venom curled upon itself, reshaped by the weight of my will. Each molecule split apart, rearranged, sculpted into something that had never existed before. Where once it devoured, now it nourished. The poison transmuted into a panacea, not merely curing but improving, reinforcing, refining every cell, every fiber, every function. Wounds that had been long since forgotten mended as if they had never been. Organs that had grown weary from the passage of time drank deep from the miracle now coursing through them.
And it happened in an instant.
Alchemy was knowledge partitioned and accelerated thought, a mind moving too fast for the world to keep up. What should have taken hours was over in the time it took to draw a breath. Two seconds, at most.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the light was gone.
Alabaster's father staggered back, eyes wide, his hands trembling as they ran over his own skin, his chest, his arms. Breathless. Disbelieving.
"How?"
I smiled, leaning against the balcony's guardrail. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice calm, steady, certain. "But I'm going to refuse to take Alabaster. Why would I, when he has a father?"
The man's lips parted, but no words came. He was too lost in the reality of what had just transpired, the realization that time had been given back to him, that fate had been rewritten.
"You have time now," I continued. "I only ask you one thing in return."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Anything."
I held his gaze and let the words come soft, yet unyielding. "Don't break your promise to him."
I pushed away from the railing and turned toward the door. The air was cool against my skin, charged with something that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
"If you want to see me," I said without looking back, "I live in Hancock Park. You can probably ask anyone there where I stay, and they'll tell you. I'll tell the bodyguards your name so they don't try to stop you if you come by."
I grasped the door handle, stepping forward—
"You may have broken your promise to your daughter," the man's voice called out behind me, "but I am sure that she still, without a doubt, sees you as her father. That she would forgive you in less than a blink."
I stopped, my fingers tightening against the cool metal. The words hung in the air.
I exhaled, slowly. "How can you be sure?"
"Because you are a good man."
A quiet laugh pushed past my lips, almost too soft to be real. A lie. It was only how it felt, tasted in my mouth. I took a breath, pushed forward, and stepped outside, letting the door close behind me.
A single drop of water splashed against the pavement, the sound cutting through the silence.
Then another.
Then another.
I tilted my head up.
Above, the moon shone in a cloudless sky.
I walked away, hands in my pockets, whispering into the night,
"Fucking rain."
I wanted Alex to be more than the protagonist that only got big guns, big powers, that even though he's human doesn't feel like it at all. Anyway, hope y'all like the chapter.
PS: I got a p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m / Eileen715 with two more chapters of at least 10000 words together. That's without talking about my other stories. Don't hesitate to visit if you want to read more or simply support or for any other reason