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Birmingham, Alchemy Academy, in a workshop.

"...You're saying you not only finished reading this book in one night, but completely understood its key ideas and organized them into a Secret Lore?"

Looking at the professor's confused expression, Horn hesitated, then nodded and admitted it.

I, Horn, got where I am today through nothing but my own talent and hard work. Flame of Destiny, show me where your limits lie!

"Good. Very good."

To his surprise, Olive's confusion lasted only a moment. She briskly set down the newspaper in her hand, rose with her face already returned to its usual blank expression, and beckoned Horn over.

"Then come with me."

His chair had barely had time to warm beneath him. Still somewhat dazed, Horn stood and followed Olive through the doorway separating the workshop's interior from its entrance. As they descended, the damp smell around them grew increasingly familiar, conjuring up the basement of the Hound Bar.

Seriously, were all you occult types so fond of building basements?

"A basement doesn't exactly comply with the Academy's building regulations, but every proper Scholar of Ember needs a little personal space. That's not hard to understand, is it?"

As if she could guess what Horn was thinking, Olive explained without looking back. Then she placed a hand on the lock and opened the way.

The black doors slid silently apart under some unknown pull. Horn's scattered attention snapped back into focus. Tensing up, he peered inside over Olive's head.

The basement was unexpectedly spacious, even considerably larger than the floor above. It was nothing like the sort of basement Horn had imagined: dim candlelight, stale air, jars and bottles of unclear purpose, skeletal specimens, and perhaps even intricate magical symbols. It wasn't just a little similar—it was entirely different.

If he had to describe it, it was a fully standardized production workshop!

Neat pathways ran through the underground workshop like blood vessels, while the remaining space was crammed with machines and workbenches whose purposes he couldn't identify.

Amid the overwhelming aura of money, Horn could just make out a row of liquid-processing stations in the corner, far more advanced than his own budget personal alchemy setup. He could only guess what the rest were for, and didn't even dare imagine their prices.

Machines of completely unfamiliar models and designs lined the room. They all shared one feature: the most prominent part bore the emblem of the Hammer-Holding Hand. Just looking at it stirred a strange sense of resonance in Horn.

—Simply obscenely wealthy.

The most conspicuous object was a dark red furnace in the center of the workshop, about two meters square. Even running at the bare minimum, it radiated waves of heat. Horn had already begun imagining it at full power—and the spectacular fireworks that would erase the entire Birmingham Alchemy Academy from the map if it ever exploded.

Holy crap, a Phlogiston Power Furnace!

Wasn't the Phlogiston Alchemy Sequence military equipment used by Avalon? Since when had there been a civilian or research model?

Horn couldn't help swallowing. His gaze grew uneasy.

Oh no. Did I learn too much? Would my mentor personally clean house if I let anything slip?

The wild thought flashed through his mind. Leading the way, Olive didn't even bother looking back. She simply explained in a calm voice:

"It's an old model that was phased out a few years ago. We made some modifications, and it's enough to serve a workshop... Are you interested in Master Alfred's phlogiston applications project?"

"No, no. I'm too ignorant to be interested in that just yet."

He raised both hands to prove his innocence. Horn finally understood where the dryness he sometimes noticed during lessons came from.

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

—Alfred Bernhard Nobel.

Unlike the patent magnate back home who had invented diatomaceous earth dynamite, Master Nobel was one of the few master Alchemists still alive to have been honored with the title of Red Sun. He had pioneered a relatively stable way to use phlogiston and actively applied it to military industry. Now nearing a hundred, he was still working on the front lines of research, with astonishing contributions to optics, physiology, and even literature.

"Come a little closer," Olive said. "Take this. Hold it."

She opened a dark gray cabinet to reveal a flat metal plate secured inside. Dense etched patterns covered its back, while its front was completely smooth. Handles had been left at both ends for gripping with both hands, and it looked so exquisitely crafted that it could almost have been an ornamental mirror meant to ward off evil.

A copper mirror?

The weight dragged at his arms. Applying a little force, Horn gripped the unexpectedly heavy "copper mirror," its familiar metallic chill filling his palms.

It really was a copper mirror!

"Um, Professor, what is this?"

"Its technical name is a simplified spiritual operation terminal. More commonly, it's called a Metat. Its main purpose is to help the supernatural stabilize spiritual interference and train their ability to manipulate spirit. Whether you want to strengthen yourself or affect external objects, you need practice to use it efficiently."

"Panning for gold in sand, picking grains from a shell, drawing blood from water—all require effort."

"Since you've already organized a Secret Lore from the book, the next step is putting it into practice. Place your hands on it, focus, and release your spirit."

Gripping the rough handles firmly, Horn felt them fit his hands perfectly. He watched in wonder as orange light seeped from the engraved patterns, brightening and dimming with the rhythm of his breathing.

Once the light had swept around the mirror's edge, the spirit that had been calm within Horn suddenly grew active, bouncing with anticipation. Just as water naturally flowed downhill, it seemed to want to stream into the copper mirror in his hands.

"Don't resist. Relax, and channel your spirit into it. Slowly. Slower."

Standing to one side, Olive had somehow produced a pair of tortoiseshell-framed glasses and perched them on her nose. She gave her instructions slowly:

"Yes, just like that. Keep the flow steady. Stay in control and keep it constrained. Hold it steady."

Under her guidance, the mirror in Horn's hands began to hum softly. The image of the workshop's pipe-covered ceiling reflected on its surface, now threaded with glimmers of light.

Bright orange-red light spilled outward like liquid from the points where his hands touched. It gradually spread across the orderly, circuit-board-like patterns etched on the mirror until the entire surface was covered.

"Now, stop interfering and let go."

At her instruction, Horn withdrew his mind from the sensation, laid the mirror flat on the table, and slowly loosened his fingers.

Even after he had lost control of it, the light filling the mirror did not fade. Instead, it slowly revolved around a central point, dimming as it went.

In the utter silence, neither mentor nor student spoke. They simply watched the surface until it finally gave out. It flared brightly once, nearly as bright as at the start, then lost its light completely, leaving the surface blank once more.

Total duration: five minutes and thirty-nine seconds.

P.S. The Latinized form of Metatron (Metraton) can also be rendered as Metat. It refers to an archangel, a guide, or a kind of measuring instrument.