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Marek quickly put out the fire and stopped the water from boiling.
The light in the cauldron gradually dimmed, allowing Vesemir to see the strange scene inside.
Around the outer edge was clear water, transparent all the way to the bottom.
In the whirlpool at the center, however, floated a mass of blue liquid.
Some unknown force kept it separated cleanly from the surrounding water.
Marek took three glass vials and ladled the blue liquid into them.
Once the vials were filled, the central whirlpool dispersed.
Only clear water remained in the cauldron, as if the muddy, pungent mess had never existed.
He handed over one of the potions, his unremarkable face caught somewhere between a smile and a challenge.
Vesemir took the blue vial with unusual solemnity.
He shook it.
The liquid was clear, without the slightest impurity.
It smelled faintly of fruit.
On the tongue, it was sweet and smooth.
A gentle warmth spread through his stomach, followed by a refreshing lift of energy.
From every angle, it was the perfect version of the fortifying tonic, the sort that had existed only in imagination and never in practice.
Its effect had clearly improved, and because there were no impurities, it would not spoil easily.
Its shelf life still needed testing, but at least it would no longer have to be brewed fresh every night.
At that, Vesemir studied Marek with equal parts wonder and concern.
Just as Marek had said, this truly was Impossible Alchemy.
Then Marek fainted.
***
The next day, Marek insisted on resuming his usual routine, and training went ahead as planned.
At noon, however, he gave Vesemir a second demonstration of Impossible Alchemy, this time with food.
This time, they were in front of the great hall’s hearth.
Marek laid out firewood, set up a small pot, lit the fire, and heated water.
Into it went flour, spices, milk, sugar, and eggs.
He stirred the pot of watery batter for only a few minutes before rainbow light appeared again.
Vesemir watched an unseen force lift a stack of caramel-cream pancakes from the water, ready to serve.
Marek speared a pancake, put it in his mouth, and let out a satisfied sigh.
“So, the less familiar I am with a synthesis, the longer it takes and the more mental energy it costs.
I passed out yesterday because I wasn’t familiar with the formula yet.
Once I make it a few more times, it may not be as fast as pancakes, but the time should shorten considerably.”
“Can anyone in your world use this…
Impossible Alchemy?” Vesemir asked tentatively.
He put a piece of pancake in his mouth and found that it tasted as if it had just come off a griddle.
“Uh…
no.
This kind of alchemy requires talent.
Even in my original world, that talent was extremely rare.”
Marek paused.
“I learned from my grandmother.”
He lowered his voice, imitating her.
“‘Either you can do it or you can’t.
One try will tell.
Come on, toss the spices and eggs into the pot, stir them around like this, bubble bubble, clack clack, and when the light flashes, there you have it.
Spiced eggs.'”
He looked at Vesemir.
“Don’t look at me like that.
I swear I remember every word.”
He spread his hands.
“Anyway, from the day I synthesized my first batch of spiced eggs, she considered me an alchemist’s apprentice.
A few days later, she unilaterally announced her retirement from the kitchen and made me the new cook.”
Vesemir swallowed the last piece of pancake, the sweetness of caramel lingering in his mouth.
“I want to try,” he said.
“I want to know whether I can do it.”
He took the last vial of superior fortifying tonic from his coat and studied the liquid, still clear from top to bottom, without sediment.
“This mind-driven alchemy has great potential.
In all my centuries, I’ve never seen a fortifying tonic of this quality.”
His gaze remained on the potion.
“Deny the impurities, and the impurities vanish.
Imagine the result, and the result is born.”
He looked back at Marek.
“I have to admit, Marek, you’ve upended everything I thought I knew about alchemy.”
Marek shrugged as if it were no great matter.
“No problem.
We can try together tonight.
I also want to know whether someone from this world can learn Impossible Alchemy.”
“I can try it in private.
You, meanwhile, will begin learning traditional alchemy, even if it seems crude and inefficient by your standards.”
Marek understood at once.
“To hide Impossible Alchemy?”
“Yes.” Vesemir’s face turned serious.
“Kings and emperors would start wars to put you under their control.
Promise me, before you can protect yourself, you will not reveal this technique to anyone else.”
“I understand, Uncle Vesemir.
I’ll learn traditional alchemy.”
He paused.
“But I’m probably not as powerful as you think.
I’m only an apprentice.
If a synthesis is even a little difficult, I can’t do it.”
“I believe you won’t remain only an apprentice forever.”
As every scholar knows, Impossible Alchemy contains three stages.
The first stage is the Alchemist’s Wish: place the correct materials in the cauldron, hold a precise image of the desired result while stirring, and sustain that focus until the synthesis takes shape.
Nearly all modern alchemists remain at this level.
The second stage is an exceedingly rare gift: the Voice of Materials.
It allows an alchemist to hear what each material can become, revealing hidden effects and Void Traits.
From the second stage onward, an alchemist can wield power capable of challenging beings worshiped as gods or feared as demons.
In five hundred years of recorded history, only three second-stage alchemists have existed, including the Sage of the Flame.
As for the third stage, it exists only in the Sage of the Flame’s own accounts.
Among all known practitioners, only the grandmother who taught him alchemy ever reached it.
He named the stage I Think It Works.
The meaning is simple: if his grandmother believed something should work, then it worked.
The most famous creation of that stage is none other than the Sage of the Flame’s legendary Bottomless Herb Satchel.
According to tradition, his grandmother created it after looking at an ordinary piece of cloth and deciding that one piece could never hold enough.
If she added a few more pieces of cloth into the cauldron, it ought to hold a little more.
Thus was born the Bottomless Herb Satchel, famed in later centuries for the saying: the void may have limits, but my satchel does not.
Excerpt from The Origins of Modern Alchemy, Volume Two
Another month passed.
June arrived, and early summer sunlight filled the days.
After Marek finished drilling the Ox guard, his sword practice moved on to the Roof guard.
He also finished the history books and began cross-referencing them with maps and geography texts.
His progress in traditional alchemy was also obvious.
He had steady hands, a cautious mind, and habits shaped by the scientific method.
Traditional alchemy could be exacting, but compared with the chemistry labs he remembered, its theoretical foundation was thin.
The night Vesemir reluctantly admitted that he could not use Impossible Alchemy, he also recognized how quickly Marek’s talent was developing.
From then on, Vesemir held nothing back when teaching him the witchers’ secret formulas.
“I hope that one day, you can break the curse of the Trial of the Grasses,” Vesemir said, his voice heavy with feeling.
“That is an old witcher’s last wish.”
Judging by what he knew as an alchemist’s apprentice, Marek suspected that, barring accidents, the old man could live another hundred years without much trouble.
The months passed, and Marek proved he could endure the isolation.
After steadily practicing the four basic sword guards, he moved on to the three matching attacks: cuts, thrusts, and draw cuts.
At this stage, his main opponent was an armored wooden dummy.
Because his foundation in the guards was stable, he picked up the attacks quickly.
Then Vesemir began sparring with him.
Defense, counters, and close-range techniques required a partner and real blade contact; repetition had to drive them into muscle memory.
The master witcher more than deserved the title.
By the time Marek finally improved from being beaten in a dozen stylish ways to simply being beaten, several months had passed.
Children his age were already growing fast.
Intense exercise and the superior fortifying tonic accelerated his growth.
Marek shot up to five feet seven inches, losing the last of his childish softness and becoming a lean, solidly built youth.
Unfortunately, his looks did not improve with his height.
He was still plain.
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Want to keep going?
I hope this chapter gave you another reason to stay with the story.
There’s still plenty ahead, and things are only starting to unfold.