The rest of the conversation eased, his parents less sharp once Saskia jumped in, retelling what she’d picked up about profession classes. Even Tomas lost his edge after Rem pressed the book into his hands and pointed out the childish drawings, the sing-song captions — a guide written for six-year-olds, not some universal cheat sheet.
That small victory left the table lighter. They began to talk of safer things, of company names and whatever anonymous shields the Union’s system might grant. Saskia, to his surprise, leaned forward as if already planning her empire
“If there’s a way to make the system work for us, I will find it,” she said with fire in her voice. Rem envied her.
But every new path circled back to the same wall: cost. The Union never gave anything freely, and none of them knew yet what the fee would be to invert a build, to step sideways into a profession. It would be high. Rem was convinced of that. High enough that the family sat a little quieter when it was mentioned.
Which was why he rose early, while the house still lay hushed, and slipped out with his goals set. If Saskia was chasing their future, he would start in the past — the alchemists’ guild and his potions.
Sunday morning was quiet, almost reverent. A chill mist clung to the narrow lanes of Oldetown, softening the crooked rooftops. He heard the roosters first, then the steady thunk of an axe splitting wood, and, beneath it all, the faint stir of neighbors rising to their work. When he reached The Authorized Retort, its wooden shutters were still drawn tight, the sign creaking faintly in the damp air.
His stomach reminded him he’d left too eager to eat. The breeze smelled of yeast and frying oil, and he followed his nose to a cart where a merchant was lifting donuts from the pan, sugar steaming in the cold. He traded a core for a paper bag, the warmth seeping into his hands, and found a stone step to sit on. There he waited, chewing slowly, watching the mist curl and scatter as Oldetown woke around him.
An official member of the alchemist guild, validated as a crafter — he’d told people he was doing crafter things, that had always been true, but soon he could show proof of his claims, and not in a way that exposed his secret. He just had to pay for the assessment. Again, he hadn’t asked for the price before; now that might cost him.
He took a slow breath and relaxed. There was no point in worrying about what he couldn’t control. Just breathe...
He was on his feet before Vetra Kessel finished flipping the sign to open. The paper bag of half-eaten donuts went into his satchel, grease marks smearing the leather, and he pushed through the door. The bell chimed above him.
“Bright and early,” Vetra said, her gaze sharp behind the spectacles. “Wait. I recognize you. You were the one asking about the guild, if I recall.”
“That’s me.” Rem wiped sugar from his hands onto his trousers. “Rembrandt de Vries.”
“Right. And you’ve brought two samples?”
“I have.” He pulled the vials from his satchel, careful not to clink them together.
The glass caught the shop’s lamplight, violet fire shimmering across Vetra’s lenses. Her mouth tightened, then she waved him off. “Put them away. Later. First things first.” She shrugged off her apron and disappeared behind the curtain.
Rem shifted his weight, tapping his foot until she returned with a broad-shouldered man trailing behind. His curls were still damp, his shirt only half-tucked.
“This the kid?” the man grinned, teeth white as porcelain.
“Be a dear, Axios. Mind the counter while I’m out.” She was already buttoning a velvet coat, its deep green catching the light. By the time she stepped around the counter, she looked more guild official than shopkeeper.
Rem blinked, hurrying after her as she swept for the door. “Wait—you’re not going to examine them here? Where are we going?”
Her laugh was soft, dismissive. She held her head high, gait smooth, shoulders set. “I said I’d guide you, not judge your work. The guild is the only place to be tested. Your master should have taught you that. Poor preparation.” She let the sigh escape with theatrical grace.
Rem bit down on a reply. Then the notice bloomed across his vision:
Mistress Vetra Kessel would like to form a party with you. She is the party leader.
Do you accept?
“You won’t make it to the guild on your own,” she said without looking back. “The paths won’t even open.”
He accepted.
You are now in a party with Mistress Vetra Kessel. She is the party leader.
His first group.
They moved together to the arch. Vetra walked past the queue without a glance, Union guards waving her through. Rem hurried after, slipping into the shimmer at her side.
A flash. The world shifted—
—and his breath caught. Soaring towers rose in waves, tier upon tier of ancient stone and worked glass climbing toward the heavens. The mega-city lifted around him in rings, each higher than the last, until his neck ached from craning upward. Far above, the sky rippled with a strange starscape, deep colors shimmering at the crown of the horizon.
Welcome to Babylon, the first Union of Worlds city on Earth. All class skills, traits, and abilities are unlocked here. The average level in this zone is level 14. Lower-level individuals are urged to exercise caution when interacting with higher-level individuals.
Vetra paused just long enough for Rem to remember she was there.
“The first few times are overwhelming,” she said.
Rem nodded mutely and turned back to the arch itself. The marble gateway loomed, gilded glyphs glittering along its face. It soared so high it eclipsed half the city from view. Behind him, life stirred — wagons rolling, a horse snorting, merchants calling — yet the scale of the place left it feeling hollow, almost too large for its people.
“There’s nothing like this on Earth,” he managed, though his voice wavered.
Vetra only smiled, setting off at a brisk pace. Her shoes clicked on the polished stone.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“The city’s radial. Power and wealth at the center, nearest the arch. The alchemists’ guild keeps a place among the top. We’re close.”
Aware he was drawing stares, he kept his head down and followed after Vetra. Their brisk steps echoes of the stone walks. They passed a rather ornate set of towering structures before arriving at their destination, an ancient stone compound, gardens set into the sides of soaring towers capped in gleaming green tiles that reflected the stars above.
They left the smooth stone street and moved into the outer alchemists’ courtyard. The gates stood open. Ancient trees held a straight line along the central walk. Rem passed under the overarching branches as he followed Vetra into the grand hall.
“This way.” She briskly led him past the common shopping area and their many patrons, past a large common meeting area where dozens stood and talked in private cloisters, into a wing that felt more formal. It was an old place, older than possible he realized — the carved stone, the well-worn wood, the alcoves with plants, and lit glass arboretums, gilded in gold, silver, copper, and other fine metals.
“One to apply for the guild,” Vetra said at an empty counter. The clerk looked bored and only lifted her eyes when Vetra spoke.
“One moment, please.” She stepped away.
Vetra turned and measured Rem as if weighing glass on a scale. “I will sponsor your application. You will repay the fee in trade once you are authorized to sell. Deal?”
Rem hesitated. He did not know the price, and nothing here looked cheap. Low-level cores would not impress anyone in Babylon. He nodded. If people paid it, the fee must be worth it.
The clerk returned. “Follow me, your examiner is waiting.”
“This is where we part,” Vetra said, stepping back to let him pass. “I will see you back in Zwolle.”
Rem followed the clerk down a hall, his steps louder on the smooth floors.
Your party has been disbanded.
Glancing back towards Vetra for some reassurance he paused. She was gone.
“Your examiner is expecting you.”
Rem brought his attention back. The clerk had stopped in front of a wooden door. Rem looked between the clerk and the door, then after an awkward pause, pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The examiner was wooden. Not carved furniture, not artifice. A person shaped of living wood, bark smoothed to a waxy gloss, a sculpted face with deep amber eyes. A laurel of green leaves circled the crown of its head. Its bare wooden body was adorned only with a gleaming brass badge embossed with the symbol of the alchemist guild.
“This one is known as Ristel,” the androgynous figure said with a voice that raised more questions than it answered. Ristel’s lips did not move, but rather the sound just emanated from its open mouth.
“This one requests the examinee be seated comfortably opposite this one.”
Rem took the chair. “You are not from here, right?”
“This one was from there.” The long, slender fingers lifted and pointed toward the hall. “When this one leaves here and goes there, this one will be from here.”
The head tilted, the voice even. “This one requests cessation of discussion regarding temporal-spatial relationships. This one expresses dissatisfaction with this assignment. Mild disinterest noted. This one will complete the examination to minimal requirements to expedite a return to more interesting activities.”
“Okay,” Rem said slowly. Maybe he had drawn a faulty alchemical construct with opinions.
“This one requests permission to use Inspect to reduce the interview portion of the examination by three and a half minutes. Do you consent?”
“Sure,” Rem said, and could not help the small smile. Efficiency counted.
A large official folio lay open before Ristel. Lines began to write themselves across the parchment.
“Rembrandt de Vries. Level three. Sector twenty-three, Zwolle region. First year academy student.” The pen filled the blanks as the voice read them.
“This one expresses mild interest. The examinee is uncommonly low level. This one expresses mild frustration. Unusual divergences from norms are leading indicators for extended examination time. This one is resigned to a longer period of disinterest.”
Rem scratched his head. Everyone on Earth was low level. He chose not to say it.
“This one requests the required samples.”
That at least he knew. He placed both vials in the examination tray. Ristel drew the tray close, identified one, then the other, and the pen filled more fields.
“This one will now send official requests for formula access to reduce alchemical forensic time by twelve minutes.”
A prompt lit Rem’s vision:
His heart ticked faster. If he refused, they would take longer, and they would still get there. He confirmed. He was suddenly glad he had not used an umbral core in his merge.
Ristel uncorked one vial and decanted a measure into a shallow dish. Tests followed in steady sequence — glass rods, treated papers, thin slivers of metal. Rem could not read half of it. The tree-person’s movements were practiced, almost elegant, and the work concluded quickly. Or so Rem thought.
“This one expresses moderate interest. This one requires additional expertise.” Ristel left and returned with a young woman whose spectacles magnified her eyes until they seemed round as coins. On her chest was a similar brass badge.
“So this is the one,” she said, bending to the notes where a red streak marked a careless drop. Her voice tilted high with excitement. “Class two at level two. That is not supposed to work that way.” She darted out and came back with an older man in tow.
“Stop dragging me, girl,” he said, shaking free. “Let me see.” He examined the smears, then the vial, then the paper. He scratched his head. Perplexity stayed. Rem noted his badge was dark as iron.
“This one expresses astonishment at participating in unprecedented alchemical discovery,” Ristel said, tone pitched a shade higher.
“I see it,” the old man said. His gaze cut to Rem. “It is a variadic exposition,” he added, tapping a ratio where the path branched. He nodded as if that explained enough.
“Psshh, variadic exposition doesn’t—” the woman started, but the old man took her elbow and steered her, and Ristel, out into the hall. Their voices blurred beyond the door. Rem stood to edge closer, then checked himself when it opened.
A different man entered, smooth black hair greased and combed into a hard shell. “Apologies,” he said with a pleasant smile. A silver badge adorned his black suit. “A small classification matter. Nothing to be concerned with.”
The smile thinned. The voice stayed polished. “There is one point to clear.” He lifted the folio. “Your application lists Mistress Vetra Kessel as sponsor. Your Master of Record field is blank.”
The man closed the folio with careful hands. “So. Tell me.” His eyes did not smile. “Whom have we to thank for this elaborate joke?”
