The sand crunched underfoot, the air shimmered with heat, and the sun relentlessly scorched every living thing that still dared to exist in this cursed corner of the world. I walked, breathing heavily, as if every grain of sand in the air was trying to crawl into my lungs and turn into glass. Luci floated slightly ahead, gliding silently through the air, as if neither the heat, the wind, nor the desert hell affected her in the slightest.
We'd been walking for several hours since we left the ruins of Xerxes and that strange military checkpoint, where they nearly handed me over to a clinic for the uniquely gifted. My body still ached after the fight with the chimera—and that overly affectionate hug from the muscular man. My clothes clung to my skin, my boots were roasting from the inside out, and even the damned book in my backpack felt hot to the touch, as if it held lava instead of knowledge.
— Hey, — I broke the silence, barely able to catch my breath. — Do we even have a plan?
— A plan? — Luci echoed, not turning around. Her voice came with a lazy smirk. — Of course we do. We keep walking… right up until you finally collapse. Then, maybe, I'll consider giving you a break. Something tasteful, like a cross in the sand and a wreath made of cacti.
I rolled my eyes — not that she could see it — and kept walking. At last, amidst the dunes and sandy ridges, we came across a crack in one of the slopes — a sliver of shade, narrow but deep. Luci slipped in first, hovering beneath the curve of the sand, and stretched with theatrical pleasure, like a cat basking in a window.
I followed her in and collapsed onto the sand with relief. The shade was cooler. Almost.
Right then, Luci disappeared — in a literal blink — and reappeared again… dressed for the beach. Straw hat with a ribbon, red-lensed sunglasses, a shimmering pareo, a lounge chair, a cocktail with a straw, and a tiny umbrella.
— What... — I exhaled.
— What? — she asked, getting comfortable. — Sun, sand, you dying of exhaustion? That's the definition of a vacation. I'm simply matching the mood.
— We're in a desert...
— Correction:*You're* in a hot, dry, ancient desert, full of secrets and stories that should've been long forgotten, — she said, leaning back in her lounger. — *I* am officially on holiday. My checklist: do absolutely nothing, mock the mortal struggler, and, of course, sip cocktails under the sun.
I said nothing. Really, what could you possibly say to a being that can manifest a full beach setup in the middle of nowhere? Though I couldn't help but wonder — are angels even capable of tanning? Or is she just doing it for the aesthetic... pure theatrics for theatrics' sake?
— Hey, — came Luci's lazy voice. — You just thought something very inappropriate, didn't you?
— Me? Are you crazy? — I snorted, trying to sound as neutral as possible (￣ω￣;)
I pulled the book from my bag—the one from the alchemist's laboratory. Its dark cover was thick, marked with fine cracks. The leather had yellowed with age. The moment I opened it, the air around us seemed to grow heavier.
The ink on the pages was a muddy brown, faded in places but surprisingly legible. In the margins—notes in an ancient, nervous handwriting. I traced one of the lines with my finger and instinctively triggered a skill:
🔳 ASSESSMENT 🔳
Object: Alchemy Book (original, era of Xerxes)
Language: Pre-Classical Symbolism
Status: Magically Unstable
Additional: Contains adaptive glyphs with a reverse-knowledge transfer mechanism.
Right at that moment, as the letters on the page began to blur, Luci—still lounging on her sunbed—snapped her fingers lazily, as if turning on a song. A glowing notification appeared in the air:
🔳 NEW SKILL ACQUIRED 🔳
"Language of Xerxes (Comprehension)" — You can now read and understand ancient texts as if they were written in your native tongue.
(P.S.
— Oh, don't thank me, mortal, — Luci drawled, snapping her fingers again for emphasis. — Consider it... preventive maintenance. So I don't have to hear you whine every time you get stumped by a three-symbol word. It's not because I care, got it? Just easier this way.
I stared at her in silence. First with gratitude, then with a creeping sense of unease. She said she couldn't interfere anymore... yet here she was. I got up, walked over, and without really knowing why, gently reached out and patted her on the head.
Luci froze. Her crimson eyes—normally glazed with lazy sarcasm—widened. Her pupils dilated to full circles like a startled cat. A vivid blush spread across her flawless porcelain skin—sharp and unmistakable. She even sucked in a breath, as if remembering she had lungs. Her shoulders hunched. Fingers twitched. Her lips parted—like she wanted to say something—but she didn't. For a second, it looked like she was debating whether to hit me... or bury herself under the sand.
She went with violence. With an exaggerated pout, she punched me square in the chest.
I went flying... not two meters—ten at least. Nobody was counting. I soared through the air, limbs flailing, face frozen in pure cartoon disbelief (ノ￣□￣)ノ. The sand exploded beneath me with a dramatic *bshhh* as I spun, bounced, and lost a shoe mid-flight before landing in a heroic sprawl of failure.
The tiny umbrella from Luci's cocktail drifted past my ear and stabbed into the sand beside me with all the dignity of a declaration of surrender.
I lay there, flattened like a cookie after a truck encounter, and exhaled:
— I'm alive... probably.
— Idiot — Luci muttered, quickly turning away and hiding her face beneath her hat. — You can't just... touch an angel. Even the patient ones.
I slowly sat up, brushing sand off everything, and quietly returned to where the book lay. I picked it up gently, resettled in the shade, and reopened it to the same page without saying a word. Conversation over. I understood now—sometimes the best thing you can do... is give her space. Especially when she's flustered. Especially when she acts like she doesn't care, and yet does more than anyone else.
I blinked. Then realized the lines of text now flowed effortlessly—as if I was reading something I'd written myself.
*Alchemy is the language of the world. To understand it, you must pay. To speak it, you must sacrifice.*
I turned the page and found a transmutation circle. The lines were terrifyingly precise—not an illustration, but a working magical blueprint. The symbols overlapped, forming an almost hypnotic pattern. At the center was a sharp triangle with interlocking circles symbolizing elements: metal, wood, stone. Each was connected by lines, as if obeying a single source, a unified point of exchange. Not a single smear or crooked edge. This wasn't art. It was a tool.
Below, written in neat, stern handwriting:
*Nothing comes from nothing. No transformation happens without loss. Even God gives nothing for free.*
I smirked crookedly. At least *someone* said it out loud.
— Oho, you made it to the philosophical section? — Luci's voice drifted out from under her hat. It was quieter now, tinged with the huskiness of lingering embarrassment that she tried to hide behind sarcasm. — Here comes the classic moral sermon from people who broke their own rules more often than they washed their hands. 'Don't resurrect the dead,' 'Don't touch souls,' 'No creating homunculi'—blah, blah. Sure. Like saints. The real joke? They're the ones who *opened* those doors in the first place—then slapped a 'Do Not Enter' sign on them. Classic.
I turned a few more pages. There were descriptions of different schools of alchemy: restorative, destructive, defensive. One line stood out, marked in red:
*Creating life is impossible. Artificial revival is the highest taboo. The price is always greater than the result. Always. Even if your goal seems noble—even if you think you're ready—Truth will demand more than you can ever pay. For every breath, every step against Its will—it watches. And when you hesitate—it takes everything. No mercy. No explanation. That is Its law.*
Below it, someone had scribbled: *A body without a soul is a doll. A soul without a body is pain. Don't repeat our mistakes.*
— So uplifting, — I muttered.
— And yet they still tried, — Luci noted. — Humans are weird like that. They fall, break, die... and crawl right back to the fire that burned them. Not because they're dumb. Because they believe this time—it'll be different.
I nodded slowly, eyes still scanning the page. The parchment crackled under my fingertips, the smell of dust and old leather blending with the citrus scent of Luci's imaginary cocktail. Somewhere far off, the wind howled, dragging a new wave of heat across the dunes.
I shivered, unintentionally.
Acting on impulse, I set the book down and knelt at the edge of the shade, where the sand was firmer. My fingers moved instinctively, carving through the hot grit—line after line, circle, internal symbols, connecting threads. I recreated one of the simplest transmutation circles I'd seen in the diagrams: metal, earth, form. The glyphs emerged slowly, uneven and off-center, but in my gut, something felt right. Like my hands remembered a rhythm my mind didn't.
When I finished, my chest beat with a mixture of excitement and dread. The sand shimmered beneath my eyes, trembling with heat... and something else.
I looked at my creation.
...An oval. Not a circle. A bloated, asymmetrical, malformed ellipse of terror, surrounded by glyphs that looked like I'd drawn them with my elbow during a seizure. One line even strayed completely off course—apparently my hand decided it was lunch break.
I pulled out the book and compared the drawings—mine and the original. The difference was like da Vinci versus a toddler mid-tantrum.
— Well... not great… — I muttered, scratching my temple.
A snort sounded behind me. I turned slowly.
Luci had removed her hat. She sat hunched forward, hand over her mouth, shoulders trembling, and her eyes sparkled with restrained laughter.
— Tell me... — she wheezed, voice hoarse, — did you seriously think *that*... was going to work? Were you summoning a demon of architectural disgrace? Or maybe forging a Philosopher's Potato?
— I'm learning! — I snapped, cheeks burning with shame.
— Learning, huh? — She slid down into her lounger, clutching her stomach. — If alchemy had an exam, it would've banned you on the first question. That thing's got scoliosis! And *what is that symbol*? Were you drawing the rune of Earth or a drunk unicorn?
I looked away. Okay… it was a little embarrassing. But only a little.
* * *
Time passed… how long, I couldn't say. Half an hour? An hour? Two? The sun arched across the sky, the sand got hotter, and I… I kept drawing. Again and again. Circles. Redoing. Erasing. Starting over. Some came out so warped even the sand looked like it was trying to shuffle away from my shame.
Luci occasionally glanced at me from under her hat. Sometimes she giggled. Sometimes she said nothing. Sometimes she snapped her fingers and conjured a light breeze around us—not out of mockery, I eventually realized, but because she *cared*. She just refused to show it plainly.
I didn't quit. Eventually—after dozens of fails, ovals, boxes, and something Luci called 'an alchemical chicken with a missing wing'—I got it right. And for the first time… she didn't laugh.
I looked at the circle. It was... proper. Precise. Nearly perfect. Even the sand seemed to settle beneath it in approval.
I exhaled. Finally.
I reopened the book and carefully reviewed the instructions. Alchemy, as it turned out, wasn't just a system of symbols—it was *structure*. The book explained that the circle alone creates nothing—it merely directs the flow of energy, shaping it to the desired meaning. Materials, elements, intent—they all had to align.
For the transmutation to work, the following were needed:
1. A perfect circle, free from distortion;
2. Three core symbols—in my case: Earth, Connection, and Transformation;
3. A focal point—where the energy would gather to form the result. Most important of all: visualize the outcome. Not just want it. Not just name it. *See* it clearly in your mind: shape, structure, details. Without that, the circle was nothing but a hollow frame. Alchemy wasn't built on belief—it was built on comprehension.
The book stated that a transmutation could be activated through natural resonance with the environment—or simply by physical contact with the circle, if all components were correct. One line was underlined:
*Alchemy does not require magic—just intent and a proper diagram. The world handles the rest. But remember: if you don't know what you're doing—don't do it. Or you may create what should never exist.*
I ran my finger across the text, trying to absorb its meaning. Everything felt too abstract… and yet the book seemed to *whisper* in my ear: "You can. Just try."
I set the book aside, double-checked the circle, and slowly placed my palms on the sand, touching the outer rim of the diagram. Inside, I felt that same pressure—as if I was about to jump into freezing water. Fear. Excitement. Dread. I closed my eyes and focused on the result I wanted: a simple stone block. Rectangular, solid, heavy. No flourishes. Just shape.
— Alright... — I muttered, and clapped my hands down onto the circle.
The reaction was instant—but not what I expected. Instead of the soft blue glow described in the book, the circle blazed with a deep ruby red. The glyphs lit up as if filled with living blood, and the air above the circle pulsed like heat off an oven.
I froze. The book had *explicitly* stated that a stable transmutation glows blue—clean, reliable. But this… this was something else. Something the book *didn't* explain.
In the center of the circle, space compressed. No swirling, no flash—just *pop*—and a block of stone materialized out of *nowhere*. It didn't grow from sand. It didn't transmute from the ground. It simply *appeared*. Like reality blinked and decided to accept it.
It was gray, slightly rough, with a crack on the side. But it was real.
— It... worked?
I shivered involuntarily.
— Luci…
— Mmm? — She was lazily flipping through a fashion magazine that didn't exist.
— Didn't the book say something about needing to give something up to gain something?
Luci froze. She gently set her cocktail aside. Slowly turned her head toward me. Her expression went blank—not amused, not tired. Just... *empty*.
Then, in her eyes—realization.
— Sh*t...
— Uh. What?
"I forgot." she whispered. And from the way she said it, I knew it was about something pretty important.
I opened my mouth to ask another question—
— Then the world changed.
Heat turned to cold in an instant. The sand vanished. Sound vanished. Light, shadow, air—gone. The world flattened like a piece of paper and simultaneously expanded into something infinitely deep.
Then it tore open.
Right in front of me, space unraveled like it had been sliced by unseen hands. A massive structure began to unfold—The Gate. Towering, pale white but somehow tinged with gray, covered in embossed symbols and carvings that defied understanding. They didn't need to be read. Just looking at them made something inside me stop.
The Gate didn't open—it *unfurled*, like the world could no longer hold it back.
From its depths, a single massive *eye* emerged. It stared at me—unmoving, emotionless, omniscient. There was no anger. No empathy. Just infinite, silent curiosity. As if I was a loose variable in a perfect equation.
I didn't even manage to breathe.
From the brilliant white void, *hands* reached out. Not human. Not fully alien. Pale as chalk, multi-jointed, snaking with intention. They didn't screech or roar. They simply reached—as if they'd always known I would be here.
They grabbed me—wrists, ankles, chest. Firmly. Gently. With a grip so absolute, the world around me flickered dark.
And then—
Something *cracked* in the air behind me. Like thunder, but in a cloudless sky. The sand erupted. The world shook.
Luci.
She was standing on the edge of the rift—and she was not the Luci I knew. No trace of laziness, no usual smirk. Her eyes burned with madness, fury, like a wild beast whose heart had just been torn out. The desert wind tore at her hair and clothes, but she didn't flinch.
Her wings... God... Her wings.
Twelve brilliant wings, piercing the sky, unfurled around her like a flash of light. Snow-white, blinding, as though ripped from the very heart of the heavens. They hummed—not physically, but internally, as if reality itself was suffocating from their presence.
— DON'T TOUCH HIM (｀Д´) !!! — Luci's voice roared, not like a scream, but like a decree. The air itself seemed to crackle.
She took a step forward, raising her hand, a pulse of light gathering in it, compressing down to a single point. That would've been enough to obliterate everything—the Gate, the desert, maybe even half this dimension. She was ready.
But…
As soon as her eyes met mine—her resolve wavered.
And then... the sky and the whole world lost their color.
A soft, cracking sound echoed in the air, like a seal being broken. Luci staggered back, as if struck by an unseen blow. The light around her contracted into narrow threads, as if someone was *rolling* her power up, into a tiny, inescapable ball. Her wings trembled, their radiance dimming—not fading, but losing their immense grandeur.
On her wrists, thin red marks—cuffs—glowed bright, and chains, fiery and red, erupted from them. Those chains lashed the very air, binding her, squeezing her in place. These were the marks of *limiters*—the laws that prevented her from interfering with absolute processes. Laws greater than even the heavens themselves.
— No… — she whispered, shaking, — NO! I… I have to… He's *my* ward! He's *mine*—
She took a step—and couldn't. Something unseen pressed her into the sand. The limiter activated.
I watched as her eyes widened. In them—absolute, desperate fear. Hatred for these Gates. And pain. Such pain, as if her very being was being torn apart—because she *couldn't save me*.
— Forgive me... — she whispered, and I wasn't sure if she was talking to me, to herself, or to the force that held her in chains.
And I was dragged deeper.