Chapter – 54 – Mind If I Come in?
Lucien's hand reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of her fiery red hair. The touch was almost tender, a stark contrast to the words that followed. "I want you to poison the water supply."
Celbeth's eyes widened—then she laughed, a low, husky sound that seemed to vibrate through the dimly lit room. Her crimson lips curled into a smile filled with wicked delight. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."
"There are a lot of things you'll have to do for me first." Lucien's voice was calm, measured, as though he were discussing the weather rather than mass murder. "There's a dungeon on West Mountain. It's been open for a few days now, but no one has realized it yet. This dungeon has a massive swamp at its heart, and I want you to poison the hell out of it. Also, poison the water supply of the people living nearby. This will increase the demand for antidotes and potions. People will finally have a reason to buy what we're selling. Once we've hoarded all the potions and antidotes, spread the rumor about the dungeon's existence. That's all."
Celbeth tilted her head, her emerald eyes glittering with amusement. "T...that's genius." She let out another soft laugh, shaking her head in genuine admiration. "So this is why you wanted to buy up all those potions. But don't you want to go inside that dungeon yourself? You know, for the rewards?"
Lucien waved a dismissive hand, his expression utterly bored. "It's not worth it. The level is just a second-realm dungeon—not too weak, not too strong. It'll attract plenty of realm masters. Once the demand for potions and antidotes spikes, the price will rise to at least ten times what it is now." He smiled, a cold, calculated expression that didn't reach his eyes. "And before that, we'll have to convince the Alchemist Guild to sell all the potions related to this little scheme. That'll be a drag, but for now, just focus on poisoning the water supply and the dungeon swamp."
Lucien reached into the empty space before him, his hand disappearing into a spatial rift. He pulled out a heavy leather bag, its contents clinking ominously. "Here. It's one hundred poison potions. Their level is mid-grade, so people won't die immediately. But they will die if they don't take an antidote within twelve hours."
Celbeth took the bag, weighing it in her hands. She was surprised—but only slightly. She already knew what kind of man Lucien was. He would do anything if it benefited him, anything to gain power. She knew that countless innocent people would die because of what she was about to do. But she couldn't bring herself to care. To her, this was all just entertainment, a thrilling game in a world that had grown far too dull. And in her eyes, Lucien was the most interesting person she had ever met—a man whose ambition burned bright enough to set the world ablaze.
"Well," she said, slinging the bag over her shoulder, "it seems like I should start my work now." She turned and walked toward the door, her hips swaying with deliberate grace. Without looking back, she left Lucien's room, the door clicking shut behind her.
Lucien leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "Now, to convince the Alchemist Guild master..." He tapped his fingers against the armrest, lost in thought. "I wonder what kind of person they are. It won't be easy to convince them. Well, I'll leave tomorrow's problems for tomorrow's Lucien." He stretched, yawned, and collapsed onto his bed, closing his eyes.
Across the mansion, in a room bathed in soft moonlight, Rena lay on her bed, wide awake. After meeting everyone earlier that day, she had felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. But that wasn't why she couldn't sleep. No, her mind was too consumed by a single, gnawing thought: it had been nearly twenty-four hours, and Lucien still hadn't come to see her.
She stared at the ceiling, her fingers clutching the silk sheets. Why? The question echoed in her mind like a broken record. Why hasn't he come to see me? He used to wait for me in front of the mansion every time I visited. I know there were differences between us, but this... this feels like he's deliberately ignoring me.
Her jaw tightened, frustration simmering beneath her composed exterior. Let's see how long he can play the tough act. Tomorrow, he will definitely come to meet me. And I'll make sure he apologizes for this disrespect.
With that resolve, she finally closed her eyes, willing sleep to claim her.
The West Mountains were shrouded in mist and shadow as Celbeth arrived at the designated location. She moved through the dense forest with practiced ease, her senses extended, probing the area. There it was—just as Lucien had said. A dungeon, its entrance hidden in the form of a giant rock, indistinguishable from the natural landscape.
She smirked. So that's why no one noticed it yet. It's disguised as a rock. How did Lucien figure it out, though? She shook her head, a mixture of admiration and curiosity flickering in her eyes. No matter how much I think I know about him, he's still as mysterious as ever.
She reached out and touched the giant rock. The surface rippled like water, and she was immediately pulled inside.
When she opened her eyes, she found herself standing at the edge of a vast swamp. The air was thick and humid, heavy with the scent of decay. Giant, ancient trees rose around her, their dense canopies blocking out nearly all sunlight, casting the entire dungeon into an eerie twilight. The swamp stretched endlessly before her, its murky waters reflecting nothing but darkness.
She wasted no time. Reaching into her spatial pouch, she pulled out the bag of poison potions and began tossing them into the swamp. One after another, the glass vials shattered against the water's surface, releasing their toxic contents. She threw more than half of the potions before stepping back to observe her work.
Dungeons had unique abilities, the most common being adaptability. No sane realm master would ever deliberately make a dungeon harder—except for a few lunatics, like Lucien. Because of this adaptability, the dungeon would absorb foreign substances and incorporate them into itself, turning them into weapons. Since this dungeon was mostly swamp, the poison would spread rapidly, corrupting everything it touched. Within days, the entire swamp would become a poisonous wasteland. The trees would become toxic. Even the monsters would mutate, becoming more dangerous than before.
Celbeth smiled. Lucien was right. This dungeon's difficulty just skyrocketed. Whether people die here or not, they'll need poison-resistant potions or antidotes to survive.
Her work here was done. But now came the question of getting back. She reached into her spatial pouch and pulled out a small artifact—a bell made of dark metal, intricately engraved with glowing runes. It was called the Void Echo Bell.
Lucien had given it to her, claiming it could transport her back to where she had set its anchor. She hadn't tested it yet, but she trusted him. For all his schemes and manipulations, he had never lied to her. Not once.
"Well," she murmured, turning the bell over in her hands, "let's give it a try."
She activated the artifact. A circular portal of swirling violet energy void opened in front of her, humming with otherworldly power. Celbeth's eyes widened. She had seen many artifacts in her time, but nothing quite like this. It was beautiful, mesmerizing. She stepped through without hesitation, feeling the strange sensation of reality folding around her.
When she emerged, she was standing in Lucien's bedroom.
The man himself was sprawled across his bed, fast asleep, his expression peaceful despite the chaos he had just orchestrated. Celbeth watched him for a moment, a soft, almost fond smile playing on her lips. Look at him. Sleeping so peacefully after setting a trap that will kill hundreds—maybe thousands.
She yawned, exhaustion finally catching up with her. She was too tired to think about morality or consequences. All she wanted was sleep.
Without ceremony, she climbed onto his bed, shoving him aside to make space for herself. He muttered something in his sleep but didn't wake. She curled up beside him, her red hair spilling across the pillow, and fell asleep almost instantly.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the ornate windows of the Alchemist Guild's office, its golden light painting stripes across the cluttered workspace. Mirette sat hunched over her workbench, her fingers stained with various hues of crushed herbs and minerals, the acrid scent of half-finished potions hanging heavy in the air like an unwanted guest.
Her black dress, with its stark white upper portion that left her shoulders bare and revealed a modest glimpse of her cleavage, was meant to project authority. Yet the dark circles beneath her eyes betrayed the exhaustion she fought to suppress. Her purple hair, usually vibrant and carefully maintained, had begun to lose its luster, falling in tired strands around her pale face. The black mascara she'd applied that morning had smudged slightly, creating the illusion of shadows that matched the ones haunting her gaze.
Father would be disappointed to see me like this, she thought, grinding the pestle with more force than necessary. He always said a guild leader must present herself with dignity, regardless of how the world treats us.
The mortars and vials before her told the story of her day—a desperate attempt to create a batch of low-grade healing potions for the morning rush. Mortals from the lower districts would come seeking remedies for ailments that realm masters could cure with a mere thought. And she would receive their copper coins, their gratitude tinged with barely concealed contempt.
They don't respect us, yet they need us. They don't value us, yet they seek us out.
The irony was not lost on her. In a world where cultivation reigned supreme and realm masters walked like gods among mortals, alchemists occupied a strange, liminal space. Too strong to be dismissed as ordinary, yet too weak to command genuine respect. They were the doctors of this world, the healers who mended what cultivation could not—or would not.
Mirette picked up a half-finished antidote, studying its murky consistency with a critical eye. To create such a thing required weeks of careful study, testing poisons on small creatures, cataloging symptoms, measuring infinitesimal differences in reaction. Her father had spent years perfecting such arts, and it had eventually cost him everything.
A few high realm masters could have saved him. A single visit. A touch of their power. But why would they bother? He was just an alchemist to them.
She set down the vial and pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling the familiar ache of exhaustion settling behind her eyes. The guild's main hall stood virtually empty—as it always did—with only a handful of members scattered throughout the building. Twenty alchemists in total, the remnants of what her father had once built with such hope and determination.
He had been a nationalist, her father. He had believed in the country even when the country had never truly believed in them. His dream had been simple: that his daughter would attend the Astral Academy like a proper realm master, make friends, live a normal life. The academy, in his mind, would be her salvation. The place where she would transcend the stigma attached to their profession and become something more.
But how can I enter an academy that doesn't want me? How can I fulfill a dream that was never meant for someone like me?
Her fingers traced the outline of a faded photograph on her desk—her father, younger and healthier, standing proudly before the guild's entrance with a smile that had long since faded from memory.
The first path to the Astral Academy was through combat, the proving grounds where aspiring realm masters demonstrated their strength. But Mirette had never been a fighter. The second path was through the academic written examination—the same path that Lucien's sister and Eliss Alde had taken. But such examinations were reserved for those belonging to noble families: the Aldes, the newly established Vales, and other privileged houses.
For a mortal, there was only one option: fight. Like Evelyn, Lucien's fierce retainer. Like the countless others who bled and died for the slim chance at recognition.
And Mirette had no noble family to recommend her. No powerful patrons to vouch for her worth. She was simply the daughter of a dead alchemist, leading a guild of outcasts, making potions for the desperate and the destitute.
Father, I wanted to honor your wish. I wanted to walk those halls and make you proud. But the world doesn't work the way you believed it did.
A knock at the door shattered her reverie.
"Mind if I come in?"
Author Note:
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