Chapter Nineteen: The Prohibition of Air

The old man was being mysterious, so Carlos could only try to find the answer himself.

He picked up a parchment book titled "The Fourth Alchemy" and flipped through a few pages. Since he was browsing selectively, he deliberately skipped over the sections filled with obscure symbols and intricate diagrams, instead focusing his attention on the material structures involved in various types of alchemy.

After leafing through several different alchemical disciplines, Carlos raised an eyebrow. As expected, he discovered a rather intriguing phenomenon.

On pages three and eleven of "The Fourth Alchemy," as well as across four whole pages detailing an exceptionally complex alchemical composition, he found three different alchemical procedures. Carlos noticed they all shared one common feature.

The materials.

Yes, it was the materials. The names and categories were described in detail, but the quantities required for each ingredient during the alchemical process were nowhere to be found.

Carlos exhaled deeply.

There were only rough proportions for the materials, without any precise measurements. What was going on?

He didn’t believe that alchemists simply neglected to record such things. Quantifying materials would greatly simplify the alchemical process. Only a fool would refuse such an advantage.

Puzzled, Carlos pointed to the voodoo potion in "The Fourth Alchemy" and asked the old man for advice.

"Master, why don’t these alchemical recipes specify exact amounts for the materials? For example, in this voodoo potion, the components are rainflower grass, blacktail fish oil, and green lizard scales, but only a rough ratio of 1:2:1 is given. If such a ratio can be stated, why not record more precise proportions? Why not specify exactly how many grams of each?"

Du Bui’s goat beard quivered at the question. He set his bottle down on the table and asked, "Do you think simply quantifying the ingredients would allow for easy replication of alchemy?"

Carlos nodded in reply. "Wouldn’t it? Alchemy is a discipline of rigorous logic. If the materials are sufficiently quantified, then it should be possible to reproduce alchemical results by following a standardized formula."

Du Bui praised him, saying that equal-quantity alchemy was a bold idea. He looked up at Carlos, an odd, amused expression on his face. "Lad, if such equal-quantity alchemy were possible, how far do you think the quantification of ingredients would need to go?"

Carlos gazed at the parchment in his hands, his fingers caressing the soft, aged leather. He grinned. "I think it depends on the alchemical process. Some disciplines require very fine control over the quality of materials, so the quantification must be extremely precise. For cruder forms of alchemy, a simple ratio may be sufficient."

The old man curled his lip, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He offered no further explanation, but instead pulled out a gray-black alchemical stone from his robe and tossed it onto the table.

"Watch carefully, boy. This stone is of the crudest make and has the poorest reaction sensitivity. For the next half hour, I want you to keep your eyes on it and record how many times it reacts, even though no alchemy is being performed."

Carlos had a general idea of what an alchemical stone was. It was a substance used by alchemists to facilitate material reactions, typically serving as a catalyst.

It was like how light travels in a straight line, but when it passes through a medium—such as a thick wall—its direction will temporarily change before continuing on its path. The alchemical stone was such a crucial medium in the alchemical process.

Carlos stared in surprise at the gray-black stone on the table, which looked like a random, ugly rock picked up from the ground. So this was what an alchemical stone looked like—so dark and unsightly.

But since it was of the lowest grade and had the least sensitivity, just leaving it exposed on the table, not in a furnace or reaction vessel, what kind of change could he possibly observe?

Carlos glanced at Du Bui, then at the rock, silently grumbling to himself.

Half an hour of observation for reactions? He figured there wouldn’t be any, not even in six months, except maybe a little more dust gathering on the surface.

But in less than a moment, Carlos’s mouth fell open in astonishment, wide enough to swallow a frog.

He saw the alchemical stone flicker seven times in rapid succession. During one of those moments, a rare electrical phenomenon appeared—a thin white arc of lightning flashed swiftly across the stone’s surface, nearly striking his hand as it rested on the table.

Seven material reactions in total, all without any alchemy being performed.

In fact, not even half an hour had passed before Du Bui smugly retrieved the stone and tucked it back into his robe.

Carlos blinked, his eyes a little dazed.

"Master, are you sure this isn’t magic?"

The old man’s face darkened. He cast Carlos a look of utter disdain, as if to say, "What do you think?"

"Heh, that’s not what I meant," Carlos said hastily, "but this is incredible. What’s going on with this alchemical stone? Isn’t it supposed to be the lowest grade?"

Du Bui drained the last of his wine in a single gulp and shook the empty bottle.

"It’s the air, boy. The damned air is under a restriction. Any material involved in alchemy will encounter uncertainty during the process—even the alchemical stone itself. Merely exposing it to the air causes it to undergo these unpredictable reactions."

Enlightenment dawned on Carlos, but he was even more incredulous.

He swallowed and asked, "The air is restricted? Is it magic?"

Du Bui’s expression dimmed, his gaze turning ashen with desolation. The old man shook his head. "I don’t know. Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t. I’ve never heard of a restriction so vast it could cover the entire world."

Carlos leapt to his feet, jaw dropping in shock. "What? A magical restriction covering the whole world?"

Du Bui shot him a suspicious glare. "Why are you so excited?"

"Uh, it’s nothing."

Carlos deflated like a punctured ball and sank back onto the sofa. He had thought he’d discovered a lucrative opportunity—master a few unique and simple alchemical techniques, promote them, and reap endless wealth. Now it all seemed like a pipe dream.

He nursed his disappointment for a moment, then noticed that Du Bui, hugging the alchemical stone to his chest, seemed to have nothing more to say. Unwilling to give up, Carlos pressed on, "Master, is there really no exception to this restriction? What if you built a laboratory underground to isolate most of the air, reducing its presence to a minimum—would that make a difference?"

The old man stroked his goat beard thoughtfully.

"You’re a clever one. Actually, alchemists have been building their workshops underground for centuries. While it does help stabilize material reactions to some extent, it still can’t escape the grip of this restriction." Here the old man paused, his face lighting up with a look of longing. "But there is one exception. In that place, alchemy is almost untouched by the curse of this damned air."

"Where is that?" Carlos asked eagerly.

"The Tower of Eternity."