Chapter 58: path of an Alchemist
Mr. Fisher stood at the center of the marble-floored hall, flanked by twin streams of projected light that arched out from behind him like mirrored rivers suspended midair. One pulsed a deep, volatile red—alive with flickers and sparks, like restrained violence waiting to burst. The other glowed a calm, crystalline blue—fluid, measured, and intricate.
"Fighter, or Alchemist."
His voice echoed across the high-ceilinged chamber. Though there was no microphone clipped to his coat, the acoustics carried his words with clarity and resonance. There was gravity in his tone—steady, deliberate—like someone who had made this speech a hundred times and still found meaning in every syllable.
"Two roads. Two legacies," he said, pacing slowly between the streams of light. "One carves through flesh. The other through logic. One is blunt force, the other—precise reaction. Both will kill you if you’re stupid."
A soft chuckle followed the last line. It was a joke. The kind older instructors made to cut tension. But no one laughed. No one even smiled.
The silence lingered, and Mr. Fisher stood in it, unbothered. His smile remained—not forced, not sheepish, just... unchanging. Like a man who knew better than to expect warmth from a room like this.
After a brief pause, he moved on, laying out the rules. Each student could choose their own path—no aptitude tests, no filters. Switches mid-semester were "frowned upon," but technically allowed. Your path would shape the early structure of your training. Your modules. Your mentors. Your partners.
Then, just as smoothly, he excused himself, citing some "administrative syncing delay" before walking off through a narrow side arch. For a brief moment, his silhouette was framed in light. Then it was gone.
Almost instantly, the room stirred to life.
A low hum resonated from every seat, followed by the soft whir of mechanisms activating. The ambient lights dimmed, and from the metallic consoles embedded into each student’s desk, a translucent blue interface folded out into the air. Like petals opening. Glyphs and text danced across the surfaces—some glowing faintly, others rotating slowly as if caught in an unseen current.
Zephyr leaned forward slightly. His screen reacted at once, shifting into crisp focus. He reached toward it and hesitated. Then he curled his fingers into a fist in front of the projection.