Testing the Gold

In Birmingham, at the Alchemy Academy, inside a certain workshop.

"...Are you saying that not only did you finish reading this book in a single night, but you also fully grasped its essence and organized it into Secret Lore?"

Looking at the bewildered professor before him, Horn hesitated for a moment before nodding to admit it.

I, Horn, have made it this far entirely through my own talent and hard work. Flame of Destiny, let me see where your limits lie!

"Good, very good."

Unexpectedly, Olive's bewilderment lasted only for a fleeting moment. She neatly set down the newspaper in her hand, returned to her expressionless state, stood up, and beckoned to Horn.

"Then, follow me."

Before his chair had even warmed up, Horn stood up, feeling a bit dazed, and followed Olive through the door separating the workshop's interior from the outside. As they descended, the familiar damp scent in the air made Horn hallucinate that he was back in the basement of the Hound Bar.

No, do you occultists really love building basements this much?

"A basement doesn't exactly conform to the academy's building codes, but a qualified Scholar of the Ember must have a little bit of personal space. That's not hard to understand, is it?"

Walking in front, Olive seemed to guess what Horn was thinking. After explaining without looking back, she reached out, placed her hand over the lock, and opened the path.

The black door slid open silently, pulled by some unknown force. Horn's attention, which had been scattered, was pulled back; he tensed his nerves and peered inside over Olive's shoulder.

The basement was unexpectedly spacious, even larger than the area above ground. It was nothing like the basement Horn had imagined—dim with candlelight, stuffy, and filled with mysterious bottles, jars, skeletal specimens, or complex magical symbols. To say it was different would be an understatement; it was completely unlike his expectations.

If one had to describe it, it was essentially a standardized production workshop!

Orderly paths connected the entire underground workshop like veins, while the remaining space was packed to the brim with machines and workbenches of unknown purpose.

Amidst the overwhelming scent of money, Horn could barely identify a row of liquid processing stations in the corner that far exceeded the specifications of his own personal economy-grade alchemy bench. As for the rest, he didn't even dare to guess their functions, let alone imagine their price.

The equipment and models on display were ones he had never seen before, but they all shared a common feature: the "Hammer-Holding Hand" emblem branded in the most conspicuous spot. Just staring at it gave Horn a strange sense of resonance.

--Simply inhumanly wealthy.

The most eye-catching piece was the dark red furnace in the center of the workshop, roughly two meters square. Even while running at a minimum, it radiated rolling waves of heat. Horn began to mentally sketch out the spectacle of it running at full power, and the magnificent fireworks that would ensue if it exploded—enough to wipe the entire Birmingham Alchemy Academy off the map.

Holy crap, a Phlogiston Power Furnace!

Isn't the Phlogiston Alchemy sequence standard military equipment for the Avalon army? Since when were there civilian or research versions?

Unable to stop himself, Horn swallowed hard, his eyes becoming somewhat uneasy.

Oh no, do I know too much? If this leaks, will my mentor personally clean house?

The wild thought flashed and vanished. Olive, leading the way, didn't even bother to look back, simply explaining in a flat tone:

"It's an old version phased out a few years ago. I modified it; it's enough to handle a workshop... Are you interested in Master Alfred's phlogiston application project?"

"No, no, no. My knowledge is shallow; I wouldn't dare to be interested yet."

He raised both hands to show his innocence. Horn finally realized where the faint dryness he felt whenever he came for class was coming from.

As for the Alfred that Professor Olive had just mentioned, Horn preferred to use his full name.

--Alfred Bernhard Nobel.

Unlike the patent tycoon from his hometown who invented dynamite, Master Nobel was one of the few grandmaster-level alchemists to be titled "Red Sun" while still alive. He pioneered relatively stable methods of phlogiston application and actively applied them to military industry. Now nearly a hundred years old, he still fought on the front lines of scientific research, with equally astonishing contributions in optics, physiology, and even literature.

"Then come closer," Olive said. "Take this, hold it."

A dark gray cabinet was opened, revealing a flat metal plate fixed inside. Dense, etched patterns covered the back, while the front was smooth. Handles were specifically left on the left and right sides for two-handed gripping. It looked as exquisite as some kind of decorative art piece meant to guard a house.

A bronze mirror?

His hands sank as he applied a little force, and Horn gripped this unexpectedly heavy "bronze mirror," feeling the familiar coldness of metal against his palms.

It really is a bronze mirror!

"Uh, Professor, what is this?"

"Its technical name is a Simple Spiritual Operation Terminal, but it's more commonly known as a Metatron. Its main function is to help transcendents stabilize spiritual interference and train their ability to manipulate spirit—whether strengthening oneself or influencing external objects, it requires practice to apply it efficiently."

"Sifting gold from sand, picking grains from shells, extracting blood from water—all require effort."

"Since you have already organized 'Secret Lore' from the books, the next step is the practical part. Put your hands on it, focus your mind, and release your spirit."

Grasping the rough handles firmly and feeling the seamless fit, Horn watched in amazement as an orange glow seeped out from the patterns etched onto it, flickering with the rhythm of his breathing.

Once the glow flashed in a circle along the mirror's surface, the spirit within Horn, previously calm, suddenly became active. It jumped and stirred, and just as water always flows to lower ground, it felt an urge to flow into the bronze mirror in his hands.

"Don't resist. Relax. Input your spirit into it. Slowly, even slower."

Standing to the side, Olive had put on a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses at some point and prompted him slowly:

"Yes, just like that. Stabilize the flow, maintain control, keep it in a constrained state, and maintain stability."

Under her guidance, the mirror in Horn's hands, which had been reflecting the pipe-filled ceiling of the workshop, began to hum slightly, with wisps of light rising upon it.

A bright orange-red color flowed like liquid, starting from where his hands touched it and gradually staining the orderly, circuit-board-like patterns on the mirror until it covered the entire surface.

"Now, stop the interference and let go."

Following her instruction, Horn withdrew his focus from the sensation, placed the mirror flat on the table, and slowly released his grip.

Even after losing his control, the light filling the mirror did not dissipate. Instead, it slowly rotated around the center point, gradually dimming.

In the silence, the mentor and student said nothing, simply watching its surface until it could no longer sustain itself. It brightened for a fleeting moment, almost as much as it had at the start, and then completely lost its luster, returning to emptiness.

Total duration: five minutes and thirty-nine seconds.

PS: The Latin variation of Metatron can also be Metat, referring to an archangel, a guide, or a measuring instrument.