Before Marcus could fully decide, the booklets he'd brought with him inside his blazer pocket shook. Moving his cloak aside, he reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out the glowing covers.

The chair in front of him then began glowing.

Thin strands of blue energy swam from the chair's four feet up into the seat, and then finally into the backrest before swimming back down, the circulation continuing with more and more strands as the chair continued to give off a soft light.

"Whoa, that's a crazy chair," Lincoln said.

Marcus shot the boy a look and brought the booklets to his chest. Crazy was putting it rather simply. This was most certainly a signal. Probably telling him to be seated as something was about to happen.

The amount of almost mystical things they'd been seeing since entering the Shade Crypt was staggering.

Here, the creator had used mana in ways that perhaps only nobles would see on a common, day-to-day basis. Talismans were impressive enough as is. But this, this was...

He sighed, pulled the glowing booklets to his chest, turned and carefully sat on the chair.

A wave of energy then flooded through him as the booklets in his hands glowed even brighter. The room then began shaking, and Marcus squeezed his eyes shut.

Would something else pop out again that his friends would have to risk their lives to fight off? This was one of the many reasons he was doing this. He was so weak, so incapable.

The stagnant air slithered up his nose, and Marcus let out a breath. Before him, the once enormous blank wall began crumbling. Rocks fell away in a cloud of debris, like a waterfall, as a form began taking shape. The room's rumbling continued. And a moment later, a colossal statue had appeared.

Around the room, gold mana motes then began fluttering and formed a shape in front of the statue, equally tall. A man, golden robes fluttering at his feet and his golden hair falling to his waist. The man's gaze ran over the room, and then a smile split his face.

"Hello, young alchemists, or should I say alchemist, since apparently only one of you could survive the trials." The man's face fell, taken over by some form of regret. "But that is the way of mana. It takes, and it gives. We can learn only through our sacrifices. So, young alchemist."

The man's gaze then moved to Marcus, who shivered under it. It was as if he were being sized up, weighed and priced, like he was a product to be sold. "How much do you think your experience has been worth?"

The man asked this, and Marcus waited, though the golden figure tilted his head to the side and laughed.

"Speak up now. I know this giant form of mine can be imposing, but I'm quite an amiable man."

Marcus stammered. He glanced over his shoulder to find his three friends looking at him with some confusion. But he didn't know what to do. He barely knew what to say.

"Well, by your silence," the man continued, "I take it you don't feel you have mastered enough."

Marcus's gaze snapped to him, and he shook his head rapidly. That wasn't what his silence meant at all. He was just confused. That was all.

"I think I've learned quite a lot, Senior," he said. After all, he didn't know who the old man was or even if he was here. According to Hector, the old man they were talking about and met at the door originally hadn't even been a real person. That was probably true for this guy as well.

The colossal figure chuckled, stroking a wispy beard that clung to his chin for dear life.

"Well, we'll have to see, won't we?" he said.

Around Marcus, a square light beamed from the ground. It surrounded him completely, as if locking him into a confined area. The ground beneath him then shook again, and his little slice of the platform began rising into the air. His heart quickened, rampaging in his chest as he considered getting to his feet and jumping off the stage.

"Don't be hasty now, young one. This is all part of your exam. Only under pressure can alchemists show their full potential," the man said as Marcus continued rising higher and higher, passing the man's waist and rising towards his head.

Was it seriously too late to jump? Marcus peered over the edge, gulping at the sheer height. It had to be at least three times his height, and still climbing. Yes, it was far too late to jump. Not that he really wanted to. It was just a passing thought. Maybe even a hope.

"Focus up, boy," the giant old man said as the stage slowed, stopping just at his eye level. The man then let out a deep sigh and nodded. "I guess it's time for me to go. So, the equipment shall appear."

A click rang through the room, and a desk formed in front of him, filled with various equipment: mortars and pestles, vials, and ingredients stacked on small shelves.

"You will do a simple examination. It will come in three stages. Your little watch there will keep you updated on your progress. May the eternal sun guide you, my boy."

The figure then disappeared in a sparkle of light, which exploded outward. It didn't wash over Marcus like he expected in a soft gust. It was just there one moment and gone the next.

He turned his attention to the desk, to the various ingredients. Then his wrist vibrated, and he glanced at the bead in the centre of his bracelet. A screen opened a moment later, and he was happy to see it wasn't anything extreme.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

A simple Leiser's Speed potion. He'd just finished making that in the last room they'd been in, and it wouldn't be too hard.

Straightening up in his seat, Marcus glanced over his shoulder to his friends far below. They almost looked like ants from up here. If Marcus could paint, he'd love to capture an image such as this.

Jodie shouted from below, but her voice didn't quite reach him. He caught what may have sounded like 'alright,' though he couldn't be sure.

Focusing back on the desk, he nodded. There wasn't any device to measure his progress, so maybe he wasn't being timed. But the man—most likely the Leiser mentioned in these potions—said it was an exam, so it was probably best not to waste any of the seconds he had.

Reaching out, he grabbed a pestle and picked up three thistle roots, placing them in the mortar. He then ground them out into a thick paste, squelching the juice as it formed.

Slowly, he then poured the juice from the mortar out into a vial, which he tentatively racked on the small wooden holder. One ingredient down, now onto the next.

He repeated the same process for the monk's root and the dark wood. He hadn't thought potion craft would be so simple when he'd initially set out.

The others in the quest hall he'd originally been in to pick up the inheritance quest had made everything seem so difficult. But for Marcus, it almost felt natural.

Not much felt natural to him, really, aside from selling talismans—his father called him a natural prodigy at that.

Glancing down, he marvelled at his work. He'd lined up all three vials, and the last process was ready.

With a tightened brow, he reached for a thick stone that rested on a table with various deep blue diagrams etched into its surface.

An array plate, and one specifically for heating.

The potion needed to be brewed at the right temperature, or else the reaction would be way off. He found that a temperature of at least 45 to 50 degrees worked well. It activated something within all three herbs that made them blend nicely.

He reached forward and plucked the three vials up, holding them in a fist. Then, centring himself and raising his chest, he took a breath, let it out, and reached for the glass potion bottle in front of him. He placed it down on the array plate and poured in the first mixture. It sparked and then simmered down.

Then he poured in the second. A much more violent reaction came from it—violent for a potion anyway—before it simmered down with a puff of coiling purple smoke slipping through the bottle's nozzle.

Then it was time for the last ingredient. Slowly, the tube's glass met the potion bottle's rim, and he poured, dribbling the contents into the mixture below. It popped and sizzled, the contents swirling, controlled by some unknown mystical force. And then, in a flash of green light, the potion took on a yellowish hue, vibrant, almost sparkling.

He set the empty vials back onto the rack and smiled, resting a hand on his chest.

"Done," he said, glancing at his bracelet and the air just above it, where it read: 'First task complete.'

His desk then began shaking before a thick screen of white light washed over it, its contents removed and replaced with new ones.

Okay, another potion. He just had to do the same thing again.

Over the next few minutes, Marcus sat at the desk, toiling away, producing another potion he was thankfully acquainted with: Leiser's Strength potion.

A potion that would give one a notable increase in strength once drunk, though the side effects were quite annoying—tightening muscles and cramps that would have one keeling over within a few minutes of the potion's effects fading.

Lincoln had experienced as much himself when he first took a swig. Marvelling at the effects one moment and writhing on the ground the next. It had served the boy right. His actions of late had been shameful, to say the least.

While he claimed to be defending Marcus, staying at his side, in actuality, he was just avoiding battle. Marcus himself wasn't strong, but he couldn't see himself doing what Lincoln was doing—avoiding fights and letting his friends take the brunt of it.

Though it was curious that he jumped in to save Jodie at the end.

Marcus hadn't even seen the boy move. Lincoln was there one moment, yammering at his side; the next, the firewall went up, splitting the hallway, and Lincoln was charging forward, taking people down with ease.

Why wasn't he like that when fighting mana beasts? Did he have some strange trauma from when he was a child that he had yet to overcome, and that came through any time he fought a beast? It was strange.

Pouring in the last drops of the Timon Root into the strength potion mixture, the bottle's contents flared, with gentle sparks crackling above the bottle's surface, followed by the sweet scent of bread.

The potion was done.

Reaching forward, Marcus pinched the lid of the bottle and swished it around. The contents sloshed against the glass, colours shimmering with violet hues. He nodded. It was done. He couldn't say if it was perfect. It probably wasn't. He'd only started potion making recently, but it was good; it would work.

As he rested the potion onto the wooden table's surface, his wrist vibrated again, and the message read: Task 2 complete. A screen of light then washed over the table, removing the contents and replacing them with the next set. A new mission screen popped up just above his wrist a moment later: Task 3: Make Leiser's health potion.

Marcus's face dropped, his innards twisting as his heart rattled in his chest. A bead of sweat slid down his eyebrow. How could this be the next potion? He'd been lucky so far, almost too lucky. Was this some sort of weeding-out process?

The last room had been locked; no one could enter after the noble had come out. What if there had been more people in this race for the inheritance? Would that room have been the difference between someone who completed all three tasks so far successfully and someone who failed?

Then, by that logic, not only would skill determine if you got the alchemy inheritance, but dumb luck, too. That didn't sit right with Marcus. It made no sense. It didn't feel like that was how a wise sage or cultivator should do things.

Leaving it up to fate? That was preposterous.

He slumped against his chair, his head lolling back with a slight click. The emptiness of the great hall he found himself in weighed on him like a looming beast, forcing psychic pressure onto his comparatively tiny frame.

How would he do this? What could he do? But he couldn't give up. He had to do this. If he were to just fail purposefully, he'd lose the opportunity to see how far he'd come. All he could do was try.

Sitting forward, he went through the same process. He picked the plants that he knew—the corpus bulb, the most common item, thankfully—and then haphazardly applied his treatment to the next. After a few moments, he had four steady vials, one more than usual. Purple liquid rested at the bottom of the first vial, the second pink, the third green, and the last a translucent white.

There was an order to these things when making potions—temperature and a sequence. If he got that wrong, the potion's effects could vary from downright poisoning the user to a mild explosion that would be uncomfortable at best and tear someone's face off at worst. He sighed, hands trembling as he reached for the white vial.

He'd set the array plate temperature to 46 degrees. Not too low, but not too high either. He would have gone higher, but a higher temperature meant more volatility, and it was probably best when playing with such unique potions to go for something that could lead to a stable outcome.

That was if he wasn't wrong and the health potion was actually incredibly volatile to make.

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