Chapter Two: The Imperial Laboratory

Following Andrew’s lead, the fifteen youths made their way toward the heart of the island.

Purgatory Island was an irregularly shaped circular landmass, roughly eighty miles in diameter. More than two-thirds of its surface was shrouded in a vast expanse of primordial forest. These wild woods stretched from the island’s outer rim deep into its interior, like a relic from Earth’s Jurassic age hundreds of thousands of years ago. Everywhere, colossal trees soared skyward, their towering crowns merging into a canopy so dense it blotted out the sun, their massive trunks so thick that even three or five people together could not wrap their arms around one. The forest floor was a tangle of gnarled roots, twisting vines, and creeping tendrils.

These giants were the island’s dominant tree species—Mist Cedars. Mist Cedars, a water-aligned magical plant, absorbed moisture from the air and released thick curtains of mist, regulating the humidity of their surroundings. Mingling with the foul vapors that drifted above the Sea of Death, this mist formed colossal banks of white fog, wrapping the entire island in their embrace. Only at midday, when the sun blazed at its zenith, would Purgatory Island emerge from the clinging haze and reveal its fierce and menacing face.

Because of the ever-present mist, visibility was severely hampered. It was only after the youths had walked about five hundred meters into the jungle that they realized there was a castle standing amidst the woods before them.

The castle sprawled over a vast area. At its center, a high tower like a sword thrust into the sky, reigning over the surroundings with imperious disdain.

As Andrew led the youths to the castle gate, two young men of about sixteen came forward to greet them. One stepped ahead, placed his right hand over his chest, and bowed respectfully. “Lord Andrew, you have returned.”

Andrew replied coldly, “Zack, has anyone caused trouble in my absence?”

The youth named Zack quickly answered, “No one would dare defy your will, Lord Andrew.”

“Good. Caesar, explain to them what this place is and what the rules are.”

“At your command, Lord Andrew,” replied the other youth, Caesar, with deference.

Listening to Caesar’s account, Gong Hao finally understood where he had arrived.

———

To comprehend the existence of Purgatory Island, one must first learn the history of magic’s development on the Windwhisper Continent.

Ever since the accidental discovery of magical elements and the first successful resonance between a human’s power and the surrounding forces—thus creating the first human spellcaster—six millennia have passed on the Windwhisper Continent. Over these six thousand years, humanity has created more than three thousand spells, formed dozens of schools, and refined the classification and ranking of mages into a highly systematic discipline. The entire continent has become a quintessential realm of magic.

But not everyone can learn magic. Without innate talent, no amount of effort would make one an outstanding mage. Centuries of research revealed that only about one in every ten thousand people could genuinely wield magic, and only one in a hundred thousand possessed the gifts to master advanced spells. Those capable of inventing new magic were rarer still—perhaps one in a million.

Bloodline thus became the key criterion for magical aptitude. The children of mages were far more likely to inherit magical abilities than commoners. This belief took root, and the notion of noble blood became entrenched in every heart across the continent.

People believed that the world was inherently hierarchical, and that those born with the blood of mages were born noble.

Yet, humanity has never lacked rebels. There were always those who sought to break their shackles and defy convention.

A thousand years ago, a man named Georgie Lamborn, though unable to commune with the elemental forces, persisted in his pursuit of magical knowledge. Through tireless effort and study, he discovered that resonance with elemental magic was not the only way to wield its power. There were other methods by which ordinary people could harness the elements and thus gain access to magical abilities.

This discovery was sensational at the time. Many who yearned for magical power flocked to follow Lamborn’s research, which eventually blossomed into a vast and systematic discipline: the origin of alchemy.

Unlike mages, alchemists did not rely on their personal power to cast spells. Instead, they used their profound knowledge to gather rare materials and craft magical tools to achieve their aims. If mages were paragons of individual strength, alchemists were master engineers—designing and building myriad magical devices to meet society’s ever-growing demands.

If the existence of mages represented the peak of raw force in the magical world, then alchemy was the mainstream of technological progress. It carried far greater social significance, allowing ordinary people to access magic and propelling society’s rapid advancement.

Be it material or magical technology, both shared a common feature: the relentless pursuit of understanding the world and transforming that knowledge into inventions that served humanity. But as civilization advanced, it inevitably led to competition—humans and other beings vying for the earth’s resources.

A single vial of magical potion might require the destruction of at least ten magical plants and the slaying of five magical beasts. Only the useful parts were taken; the rest, deemed worthless, was discarded with reckless abandon.

During the most frenzied age of alchemy, swathes of primeval forest were felled, and magical beasts slaughtered. Save for a few territories inhabited by the most dangerous and powerful creatures, any place humans could reach and exploit was stripped bare.

They took freely, never giving back.

Huge magical automatons were manufactured for war, and puppet warriors sprang up like mushrooms after the rain. Every weapon was imbued with magic; warriors fought with scrolls and potions. Every great invention was first used for conflict—consumed in battles, invasions, resource plundering, and the annexation of land. Whenever vast deposits of mithril or adamantine were discovered, nations vied fiercely for control: mining, refining, and waging war in an endless cycle of resource consumption.

In those mad centuries of warfare, alchemy became the measure of a nation’s might. Gigantic magical war puppets proved far more reliable and expendable than proud, willful mages. But after a century of conflict, the once fertile continent was left in ruins. Resources for alchemy grew scarce, magical plants perished, and magical beasts vanished from sight. The forests disappeared, replaced by sprawling wastelands littered with the remnants of magical constructs, golems, and puppet warriors.

Humanity’s relentless destruction of the environment has never faltered—past, present, or future. In a sense, the degree of ecological devastation mirrored a civilization’s technological prowess: the greater the destruction, the higher the achievement.

But as resources dwindled and materials for alchemy became scarce, the craft lost its former glory. People realized that mages remained the continent’s irreplaceable force, while alchemists became increasingly irrelevant.

Alchemy thus declined, and many potent arts were lost to history.

Still, some nations, spurred by dreams of restored glory, refused to abandon their pursuit of alchemical resurgence...

About twenty years ago, a merchant vessel of the Kingdom of Lance strayed into the Sea of Death and inadvertently stumbled upon Purgatory Island, hidden within the mists.

There, they discovered ancient forests and a trove of rare magical beasts. The island was home to more than eight thousand species, nearly two thousand of them magical plants and creatures. Cloaked in mist year-round, the island was almost unknown to the outside world and had suffered little from human interference. Of the magical beasts living there, some three hundred species had already vanished from the Windwhisper Continent.

The caravan leader reported this remarkable find to the king, and a grand plan was set in motion.

King Strick V of Lance personally summoned the kingdom’s foremost alchemical grandmaster, Patrick Hynes, and ordered him to Purgatory Island to build an alchemical fortress. He also declared the Sea of Death under imperial protection, barring all outsiders to safeguard his people.

On Purgatory Island, Hynes, backed by the entire kingdom, crafted all manner of war automatons for Lance. These constructs, once rare due to depleted resources, gave the kingdom a vital edge and the chance to rise again.

From that day, Hynes devoted himself fully to alchemical research, supplying Lance with weaponry while also working with the kingdom’s support to rediscover lost alchemical arts.

Ten years later, Lance defeated two once-mightier neighbors and became one of the three great powers of the Northern Continent. Strick VI was crowned emperor, and the Lance Empire was born.

Twenty years on, Patrick Hynes had become the most formidable alchemical master on the continent, possessing at least thirty lost arts.

———

“So this is the Empire’s alchemical testing ground?” one youth cried out, excitement lacing his words.

To be brought to the very heart of a kingdom’s secret strength, every youth’s blood would run hot with excitement. They whispered among themselves, some already imagining that, if they could learn some profound alchemical technique, they too might rise to greatness.

But Gong Hao’s heart sank.

He was no naïve child, but a man from an age flooded with information, and his understanding of human nature ran far deeper than that of these boys. To be brought to such a critical place could only mean one thing: they would never set foot off this island again.

Was this the reason he had crossed into this world—to become a prisoner?

Moreover, an unshakable sense of dread was growing in his heart, though he could not yet put it into words.

Caesar spoke: “Grandmaster Hynes is the supreme master of the Alchemical Fortress. His will is our fate. Beneath him serve two aides: Lord Andrew, whom you have met, who manages the servants; and Lord Pierre, who oversees the apprentices.”

He pointed to the high tower behind them. “Grandmaster Hynes and Lord Pierre reside in that tower. They rarely leave. Ordinarily, you will not see either of them. All orders are issued by Lord Andrew, so you need only follow his instructions.”

“What’s the difference between an apprentice and a servant?” one youth inquired curiously.

“Apprentices assist the master with experiments, designs, and manufacture. Their status is much higher than ours, and their numbers are few—perhaps ten—chosen from the Empire’s most gifted. Servants do all manner of chores; we are the assistants’ assistants. There are about sixty servants here, each with much work to do. Zack and I are the head servants, and you will take orders from us.”

Zack stepped forward. “All right, everyone count off, left to right. Even numbers with me, odds with Caesar. We’ll take you to your assigned posts. From now on, work hard and never displease the masters. Understood?”

“Yes, understood!” the youths replied in unison.

After outlining the rules, Caesar and Zack split the new arrivals into two teams and led them into the castle.

At the castle’s heart lay a vast open area. Countless white-clad servant boys bustled about their tasks.

Their labors served a menagerie of caged, unknown creatures.

A mantis-like beast slashed its scythe-arms against the bars, shrieking at those outside. The magic barrier shimmered with white light under each blow. In another cage, a giant snail reposed like a small hill, exhaling freezing mist with each breath. A three-eyed feline leapt and howled, its thunderous cries muffled by a sound-dampening ward on the castle walls. In the neighboring cage, a dragon-shaped creature with rough scales belched fire, making even the bravest blanch.

What amazed Gong Hao was that he could find no information about these creatures in Shu Yi Gleil’s memories; most of these magical beasts must be on the brink of extinction.

All around the castle stood ironclad puppet warriors, identical to those who had accompanied the middle-aged man. The stronghold’s main defense consisted of these constructs. They were not alive, but immensely powerful and utterly loyal to their master.

After assigning the other boys, Caesar led Gong Hao to a greenhouse, where many strange and unfamiliar potted plants grew—some with moving branches and leaves as nimble as human limbs.

“Gleil, from today you’re responsible for collecting materials in Area 13,” Caesar instructed.

“How do I do that?” Gong Hao asked.

Caesar plucked a plant from a nearby pot. Its rootstock looked like a tiny child, complete with limbs and a face. The moment it was pulled from the soil, it began to wail.

“This is a Weeping Grass. Its cries are very annoying,” Caesar said, pinching its cheeks. Inside its gaping mouth was a row of sharp, venomous teeth.

“The saliva of the Weeping Grass is a superb solvent. Hold its face and collect a few drops—like this. But be careful: its bite is deadly. If it bites your finger, you’re done for. Don’t take too much at once, or the plant will wither.” He collected some saliva in a vial, then replanted the creature and covered it with earth; the wailing stopped.

Caesar then explained the characteristics and precautions for all the magical plants. Area 13 had about forty species, each with unique properties and uses. At least five were highly lethal and required extreme caution.

“I’ve told you everything about their uses, care, and harvesting. It’s not complicated, but not easy either. Remember it all?”

“Yes,” Gong Hao nodded.

“Good. Each morning, an apprentice will come for the materials you collected the day before and tell you what to prepare next. Your room is Number 13, matching your area. As long as you do your job well, the rest of your time is your own. There’s a canyon to the east and a lake to the west—both forbidden. Only apprentices and the masters may freely enter the high tower. Everywhere else is open to you, but it’s best not to leave the castle—outside, dangerous magical beasts abound. Don’t think of escape. Just do your work, understood?”

“Understood,” Gong Hao replied. After a moment’s thought, he asked, “Caesar, may I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“I remember you said the number of servants here stays around sixty, right?”

“Yes.”

“But I heard the Empire sends a new batch of servants every month.”

“That’s true.”

“Then where do the extra people go?”

Caesar replied, “Sometimes, people make mistakes. Andrew takes them away, and they never return. He says they weren’t working hard enough, so he sends them elsewhere.”

Gong Hao’s heart sank to its lowest depths.

So, every month, a batch of lazy servants is sent away, and a new batch arrives? Such a flimsy lie could only fool these naïve children.

In a low voice, Gong Hao asked, “So last month, Andrew took away fifteen people?”

“Yes, so fifteen new ones were sent this month.”

“How many does Andrew usually take each month?”

“That’s hard to say. I’ve only been here four months, and the numbers are always different. Last month, one of the head servants made a mistake and was taken away by Lord Andrew. That’s why I took his place.” With a frown, Caesar added, “You said one question, Shu Yi Gleil. You’re asking too much. Just do your job.”

“All right, Caesar. I’ll do my work well. I hope you will too.”

“What do you mean?” Caesar was puzzled.

“I mean... good luck,” Gong Hao replied softly.