Overwhelming Firepower

The yellow tower in Norvaegard was one of the six mage towers, and the one devoted to Alchemy. It had a long history, but it was on the decline. On the other hand, its rival, the Grey Tower, who focus on Mana stone engineering, was having great success.

The last meaningful contribution from the Yellow Tower had been over a century ago, the creation of the now-standard mana potion, a concoction that restored five percent of one’s mana. It was a modest but dependable tool, yet nothing new had followed.

In contrast, the Grey Tower had unleashed invention after invention, each one pushing society forward. Their latest success, mana lamps, had taken the capital by storm. These devices required no flame, no oil, only a low-grade mana stone to emit steady light. They burned cleaner, lasted longer than torches, and carried no risk of fire.

What began as a convenience for nobles and scholars was now trickling down into everyday life. Inns, workshops, and even the homes of modest merchants were beginning to adopt them. In the streets of the capital, it wasn’t rare to see the soft glow of a mana lamp marking a shop’s open hours or lighting a quiet alley.

Meanwhile, the Yellow Tower teetered on the edge of irrelevance. Funding was drying up. Apprentices stopped coming. Its once-busy laboratories had grown quiet. A great institution, reduced to little more than dust and memory.

And it was in this moment of uncertainty, when the tower’s future hung in the balance, that a curious request arrived from none other than the Iron Duke of the North.

The current Tower Master of the Yellow Tower, the only seven-circle mage in Norvaegard, Tower Master Thelwin Keldross, was the reason why the declining Yellow Tower still stood among the six towers. He finished reading the letter in silence.

It would seem that the eldest son of the Iron Duke had awakened his mana core and wishes to learn alchemy. The Iron Duke was willing to pay a large sum to the Yellow Tower for a good tutor for his son.

Thelwin closed the letter slowly. He wished he could go himself, but with the tower in its current state, his absence could mean disaster. Still, he couldn’t send just anyone. This tutor needed to be someone competent, reliable, and brilliant. Someone who wouldn’t embarrass the tower or worse, provoke the Iron Duke.

He needed to send someone good enough to teach and who would not make a mistake that would anger the Iron Duke. There was only one choice: he needed to send the hope of the Yellow Tower, the genius Robert Duskwell.

...

In a cluttered room filled with books, dried herbs, curious plants, and bottles of dubious origin, a young man in a bird-beaked mask hunched over a table. He was experimenting with brimstone dust.

He added a pinch of powdered root to the mixture, stirring with a steady hand until the tiny pile of brimstone dust suddenly flared up and exploded into smoke.

”Another failure.”

The young man wearing a bird beak mask sighed as he opened a window to let the smoke out.

The young man behind the mask was striking in an unconventional way. His hair was a deep, rich violet-black, the strands catching the light with subtle hints of dark amethyst. It was perpetually tousled, like he’d just run his fingers through it after hours buried in research, and he probably had.

His eyes were a vivid amber, bright and intense, gleaming like molten gold behind his thin-framed spectacles. Those eyes rarely rested on people as they were more focused on wanting to see new discoveries. This young man was the genius of the yellow tower, Robert Duskwell.

”Was that too much Brimstone dust that caused that reaction, or was it the brimstone dust itself that’s the problem. Should I try a different combination... I was sure that this much winterbloom would result in something different. Heh, how interesting.”

These monologues weren’t meant for anyone else. They were just the way his brain processed the world around him. A continuous stream of questions, theories, and half-formed excitement.

As Robert was about to begin a new experiment, someone knocked on his door and entered the room. Robert, who was muttering various ideas, was in a world of his own and did not respond to the sound of the knocking.

The person who was knocking did not wait for an answer and simply entered the room. The person who came in was a middle-aged man who, when he saw Robert muttering to himself, sighed as he approached Robert’s table. When the man was about to touch one of the objects on the table, Robert, who was muttering to himself, stopped, and with incredible speed, he grabbed the man’s hand.

”Don’t touch those.”

The man pulled his hand away from Robert and spoke.

”Robert Duskwell, the Tower Master, has summoned you.”

”The old man?”

Robert scratched his unkempt hair and sighed. If it were anyone else calling for him, he would have ignored them and continued his research, but the old man was a different matter. He was the only one who was somehow capable of understanding his train of thought.

Robert pulled off his bird-beaked mask and set it down carefully on a pile of notes, revealing a faint smudge of ash on his cheek and a faint burn on his glove. He flexed his fingers as he turned to the man.

”Fine, I’ll go and see the old man.”

Among all the people in the six towers, only Robert had the courage to call the seven circle mage Thelwin, an old man. Even though he wasn’t the one saying the words, the man who delivered the message was sweating a little bit.

...

Robert headed to the top of the tower, where the room of the tower master was located. A pair of heavy oak doors stood before him, carved with ancient alchemical symbols long out of fashion. He didn’t knock. He never did. Robert pushed the doors open and entered the chamber.

The Tower Master’s study was lined with bookshelves taller than a man, each sagging under the weight of tomes. The air smelled faintly of aged parchment and subtle incense, lavender and sage, meant to calm the mind. A massive circular window bathed the room in warm sunlight, framing the city of Norvaegard far below.

Tower Master Thelwin Keldross sat behind a wide, ornate desk, quill in hand, scrolls neatly arranged before him.

”You’ve arrived,” Thelwin said with a calm voice.

”So what is it this time, old man? I need to get back to my experiments,” Robert spoke with impatience.

”This scent, I see... Still, unable to do anything with that brimstone dust,” Thelwin teased.

”Are you some kind of dog, old man?”

”All alchemists have a good sense of smell.”

”... I don’t have time for this, I need to go back to my lab. Why did you call me, old man?”

”Well, unfortunately for you, even if we finish this conversation, you won’t be going back to your lab.”

”Huh, what do you mean, old man? You know that I don’t like these kinds of jokes.” Robert suddenly became attentive.

”Unfortunately, this time I’m serious. The eldest son of the Iron Duke has manifested his mana core and wishes to learn alchemy. I have chosen you to be his teacher.”

”Huh?... Have you finally gone senile, old man? You want me to teach someone else, and a noble brat no less. Surely someone else would make a better teacher than I.”

”I think you’ll be the best person for this job. If you don’t do well, our already low funding would disappear, and if there’s no funding, then you can’t do any of your experiments.”

The second Robert heard that he wouldn’t be able to do any more experiments, his lazy eyes became sharp.

”Tsk, fine, I’ll go and teach that noble brat the greatness of alchemy.”