Chapter Eighteen: Ashes

Carlos was left speechless, but with his sharp senses, he noticed that there seemed to be another hidden pitfall in Dubois' words.

That line—living under the same roof in the future.

What did that mean?

A blaring alarm went off in Carlos’s mind. This was the instinctive reaction of someone who had been burned before. He cursed inwardly, wondering what the old man was up to. After so many years alone, had his mind grown twisted? Now that he’d finally managed to find a student, was he determined to make his life hell?

Carlos eyed Dubois warily. “Teacher, isn’t it a bit inappropriate to use the word ‘living’? After all, they’re locked up in there, aren’t they?”

Dubois’s beard twitched, and he said something inexplicable. “Indeed, the occupants of those two rooms can’t leave. You’ll meet the others tonight.”

Carlos wanted to ask more, but Dubois waved him off. “Go tidy your bedroom. Come down before lunch.”

Watching Dubois’s slightly hunched, thin figure, Carlos couldn’t help but grumble inwardly. He wasn’t happy about it, but under this roof, he had no choice but to slowly move his belongings inside.

A storeroom would do; it was better than sharing a room with a beast or a witch, even if that witch girl looked rather cute.

As Carlos walked down the second-floor corridor, he kept his body as far from the witch’s room as possible, moving with extreme caution. He dreaded that the door might suddenly swing open.

Fortunately, since Dubois’s earlier visit, his worries had proved unfounded.

Carlos quickly put his things away. The wire cot in the storeroom was now piled high and soft with goose-down comforters. He lay back, weary, and sank into the gentle embrace of the bedding.

“Speaking of which, where’s the alchemy lab? Could it be that little locked room on the right by the entrance?” There was still a little time before lunch, and Carlos, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, let his thoughts wander.

Soon, he dismissed the idea. Judging by the house’s layout, that little room on the right of the first floor couldn’t be more than ten square meters—hardly enough to fit an alchemy workbench.

Carlos felt he was a bundle of contradictions, now annoyed with himself for always worrying about nothing.

Suddenly, the pocket watch in his coat began to tremble gently, interrupting his thoughts. He sat up with a start and pulled out the watch.

On the silver dial, a small golden light point was being approached by a faint black orb.

“Another demon?” Carlos tensed, leaping from the bed and glancing toward the floor-to-ceiling window, his gaze sweeping quickly over the north side of the house.

Behind the house was a dense thicket, the sunlight filtering through in dappled shadows. Other than the wind stirring the leaves and grass, nothing seemed amiss.

Could the demon-hunting watch have made a mistake?

Carlos frowned in thought, his sharp eyes scanning the woods again and again, but he found nothing.

When he looked back at the watch, the black orb had vanished without a trace, and the trembling had stopped entirely.

His suspicions grew, leaving him uneasy. He left the room, carefully shutting the door behind him, and headed downstairs.

It was better to tell Dubois about this.

Besides, it was no secret that the underground faction coveted the Stevenson family’s Winter Bloodline. His father had likely experienced similar troubles. The underground ones had a habit of devouring special human bloodlines to bolster their own darkness, a practice that could be traced back centuries.

He also suspected Dubois might possess a unique bloodline of his own.

After all, in this world, apart from those who inherited various abilities, only those with high magical affinity, like black mages, or those who honed their bodies into steam guardians, had a hope of becoming powerful. There were no other paths.

The scarcity of alchemists on the continent proved that their craft also demanded a special kind of initiation.

As for the holy knights or bishops of the Church, Carlos knew little.

In sum, this world was a strange, unfathomable place.

On the first floor, Carlos searched the living room but couldn’t find Dubois anywhere. There was a bottle of wine on the table; Carlos shook it—half gone. Had the old drunk wandered off without a word?

He headed for the sofa set around the fireplace, choosing the one closest to the door, and glanced around, finally fixing his gaze on a half-open door across the room.

He was debating whether to go look inside when the door was pulled open from within.

Dubois emerged, holding a thick stack of books, their covers made of yellowed parchment—clearly old tomes. He set the books down on the small table before the sofa without so much as a glance at Carlos, then shuffled to the opposite sofa and sat with a long sigh, staring at the books with a strange sadness in his cloudy eyes.

His raspy voice broke the silence as he pointed to the books. “Stevenson, try practicing what’s in these. If you can produce any finished item from them in half a month, you won’t have to stay here any longer.”

Carlos picked up one of the parchment-bound books and flipped through it, finding mostly awkward, unfamiliar diagrams.

“Teacher, you can just call me Carlos. What are these?”

Dubois nodded indifferently. “Some alchemical arts.”

Carlos was surprised. “Aren’t you going to teach me?”

Dubois replied, “Carlos, listen here, alchemy isn’t a childish set of pictures, and I can’t just teach you more. You have to grasp it on your own. Every alchemist is the same, for every alchemical symbol differs, and even the process for the same technique can vary. If you follow my method exactly, you’ll never succeed.”

He seemed to grow parched and, remembering the bottle of malt wine on the table, stood up shakily to fetch it, returning to the sofa with the bottle in his arms.

“Teacher, I only want to learn how to craft alloy limbs, like you did for my brother, or maybe some alchemical potions—for antidotes and such.”

Dubois didn’t answer at once. He took a long swig, then said, “You misunderstand alchemy, Carlos. I can’t teach you alchemy step by step. If I could, I wouldn’t be wasting away in this forsaken town; I’d be in the central province, surrounded by the powerful, founding an alchemy academy, becoming the renowned headmaster Gustavo of the Black Mage College.”

Carlos was floored, mulling over Dubois’s words, trying to understand. “So… the steps in alchemy can’t be repeated?”

Dubois nodded slowly. “Exactly. There’s no fixed method. Alchemy is an art, not a formula. No method can be copied; only by grasping the essence of alchemy can you succeed.”

Carlos only half understood.

The old man shifted, resting his neck against the sofa back, his gaze lost on the ceiling. “Think of it as burning paper. You light it from the same angle, use the same kind of paper, but the ashes that remain will always differ.”

Carlos’s eyes brightened as he began to grasp the idea. The old man’s words sounded philosophical, though he was still a bit confused. “So, you mean, the repetition in alchemy is like burning different sheets of paper into the same pile of ash?”

Dubois suddenly looked at Carlos, who was deep in thought, a subtle, meaningful smile flickering across his lips, gone in an instant.