Chapter 222

  Legend of the Sage Alchemist (IV)

  "As I said," he started. "According to my father, Alchemy is strict. And it's an enclosed group--so much so, in fact, that a good number of alchemists don't even take on disciples and hide their knowledge like you would a cultivation method. This Sect is an exception rather than the norm, but that is largely because the standards here aren't particularly high.

  "Think of this line as the condensed knowledge of alchemy." He drew a line across the paper--a very thin line. "When even just a Tri-Aspects Alchemist dies, the line is interrupted because some knowledge they'd discovered on their own is now lost and has to be rediscovered. The continuation barely exists, but who suffers the most because of it? This line is the sum of all existing Alchemists across the Heavens," he drew another line. "When an alchemist dies without passing their knowledge," he drew a cutting-like line across the long one towards the top of it. "Those below suffer. Repeat this over and over again, over thousands and thousands and thousands of years of existence, and the knowledge of alchemy is so scattered that even the most basic things have to be relearned, especially someplace like this.

  "But because alchemy treats itself as a Heavenly Art, there are very few that are willing to desecrate it--once they find one way to use something, they will not search for another. It's a mindset that becomes ensconced within the depths of the psyche and is passed on line by line to the younger generations."

  I get it.

  Despite how dumb I may be at the time, I do grasp the concept of lost knowledge. It's not rocket science. And even if this place is some backwater where Alchemy standards are truly rock bottom, I still can't believe, in good conscience, that people wouldn't at least try.

  Or is that me applying earthly sensibilities again where they don't belong?

  If, instead of a craft, I think of Alchemy like it's a religion, the idea of it shifts a bit. It's no longer about experimenting and figuring things out but more so dogmatically following whatever it is that they believe in.

  "It's not that they don't think of the alternate ways," he said, standing up. "But it's more that they actually have a similar mindset to you--they think, 'None of the books I read ever say to prepare this ingredient in any other way; if it could be prepared in another way, the books would have mentioned it. I don't want to waste a perfectly fine ingredient', and, so, they just never do."

  "Doesn't make me much of a genius then, no?" I chuckled.

  "... no." The silence was fairly lengthy, and his grin strange. "The only geniuses around these parts are our parents."

  "Oh, yes. No geniuses like the dead ones."

  "Indeed. Good luck with your performance," he said. "I'll let the others know to be prepared to run in case things don't go our way."

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "..." That's not a scary thought, not at all. "Good luck to you, too."

  For the next three days, Gu Zhao and I did a lot of practicing our routine. Well, there wasn't really a 'routine'; he mostly summoned Elders and asked them which of the things we did made the most sense, and they'd stare at us blankly like we were morons, and he'd then share one of the alternate ways to prepare an herb, crediting me, at which point I'd see a new set of eyes stare at me in ways I am not comfortable with.

  He'd also sent a letter ahead of time to inform the Lady or the Madame or whatever she liked being called, and the reply came in the form of a Qi storm that descended directly into the gathering hall while we were there drinking tea and while he was trying to squeeze some 'ancient alchemy knowledge' out of me because he was absolutely convinced I was some hidden alchemist god or something.

  The storm of Qi burst through the roof without actually doing any damage, landing a few feet to the right. As Gu Zhao seemed unbothered by it, I also pretended to be fine with something that was inches away from turning me into a porcupine.

  From the dust and the bleeding light emerged a woman--she was absolutely giant, six-five at the very least, donning long, black robes that seemed almost luminescent around the gold-threaded edges.

  She'd cut her hair short, which made her look a bit younger than her face did, setting her somewhere in the mid-thirties. Of course, none of that applied here; most of these old farts were centuries old, at least, so how they looked was irrelevant.

  Her expression was cold, yet within the gaze was a flame of desperation.

  "I've read your letter, Old Gu," she said, her voice rather coarse. "Your penmanship is still atrocious."

  "And you still have too high of a standard, Maiden Zhu."

  "Tsk," she clicked her tongue as she sat down, her eyes just briefly glancing over me before focusing on the old man. "Maiden? You really are becoming bolder by the hour."

  "Merely a compliment," Gu Zhao chuckled. "A reply to a letter ought to be a letter, Madame."

  "... I love my daughter more than life itself, Old Gu," she said. "But I'm tired. Tired of empty promises, of men and women swearing up and down that they will have her be better, and of seeing countless elixirs dubbed heavenly do absolutely nothing for her."

  "I can imagine," Gu Zhao calmly poured all of us a cup of tea; she seemed a bit surprised, likely because he was indicating that I, a little ol' nobody, belonged in this conversation, too. However, she still never acknowledged me. I don't blame her, honestly; to her, I'm just some random Spirit Manifestation kiddo.

  "Master Lao said, in absolute confidence, that you were lying," she said, taking a sip of tea without even sniffing it.

  "Master Lao is...?"

  "Oh, don't give me that; this isn't a council meeting, and we aren't being political." Hm. I actually like her. Or, well, like what I've seen of her. "I'm saying that Soul-Grand Alchemist is putting his reputation on the line to say that you cannot cure her. Had it not been for my pleading with him, he would have published the letter publicly to shame you into retiring. Haah, he's such a tiresome man. You are, too, but I've learned there are levels to it. Yaps endlessly about the feng shui of the room, the battering of the five elements, the principalities of Dao, and how they intersect with the nature of alchemy... part of me wishes your words to be true, not just to save my daughter, but to shut that man up for at least a few hours."

  "Though I'm merely a Heart-Rank alchemist, I have my own pride, Madame," he said, appearing quite confident. "I would not put into words a belief I wasn't certain of. I can help your daughter, and I can do so without the ginseng."

  "... how?" she asked. I mean, of course she did; no matter the history between these two, she wouldn't just tell us, 'Of course, come on in and do weird things to my daughter!'--ugh, what the hell is wrong with me?

  "Right," he said, taking a deep breath. "Allow me to introduce you to Master Lu." He pointed at me, finally involving me in the whole charade. "The man who helped me discover a method to cure your daughter."

  quite an astonishing second half of the year, and an extremely unexpected one.

  that part of us will prevail, no matter what else.

  That got a bit preachy, so let's cut this message short. Thank you, and see you tomorrow. Writing is my holiday, it turns out. Happy holidays, everyone--whichever one you celebrate, be it Christmas, Hanukkah, Takanakuy, or, as it turns out, dozens of others that occur during this time of year.