Chapter Seventeen: How the Atomic Bomb Was Forged

"The world is composed of elements!" Edgewell cleared his throat and began his lecture. "The origin of all things lies in various different elements. There are, as we know, a total of 109 elements."

"Elements are not merely a concept, but tiny particles—so minute you cannot see them. We call these particles 'atoms.' Atoms are made of protons and electrons. Protons are..." I knew alchemy was a profound and wondrous discipline, but I never imagined it could reach such depths. As time passed, Edgewell’s lecture showed no sign of ending, but instead unfolded into realms so mysterious and astonishing that I was utterly amazed.

The reason I found it so 'mysterious' was that he spoke in the simplest common tongue; not a single word was unknown to me. Yet when they were woven together in this manner, I could not understand a thing:

"...Two atoms form charge conservation, leading to chemical reactions... positive and negative valences must be balanced... the discovery of catalysts is... isotopes are formed... mass spectrometry... decay... radioactive transformation... fusion and fission... critical mass... chain reactions... examples... isotope uranium-235... protons and neutrons after explosion... matter is indestructible... conservation of energy..."

I suspect I am the first person willing to listen to him speak at such length. Not that I was unwilling to interrupt—rather, I never had the chance. Whenever the greatness and intricacy of alchemy was mentioned, this scholarly madman became uncontrollable, gesticulating wildly, saliva flying, overcome with excitement. As I regretted pouring so much money and time into his endless raving, he finally ended his lecture with a question so tragic it made me want to cry:

"...Do you understand all this?"

From his words, I could only grasp two things: first, he is a lunatic. Only a lunatic would treat this vast and incomprehensible babble as universally known truth, and assume others are as mad as he, able to grasp it all in a single hearing. Second, I am an idiot—for spending a fortune to subject myself to such humiliating education...

"I... may I..." What I meant to say was, "May I withdraw from the academy?" Suddenly, the prospect of learning cookery or fishing seemed quite appealing—perhaps I had untapped potential there. At least, I could be certain I had none for alchemy.

"Good, so you understand. The gates of truth and science will forever be open to you..." By the Supreme God, my words were not yet finished when Edgewell arbitrarily assumed my love for "truth and science." As his voice died away, a violet halo rose around me. Checking my personal attributes, I saw that beside my name now appeared: "Alchemist, Level One."

At that moment, I was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions, desperate but unable to weep. Countless thoughts whirled through my mind, but the clearest and strongest was:

"He probably won’t refund my tuition..."

Having resorted to every evil method—enticement, extortion, fraud—to drag me into the ranks of alchemists, Edgewell at least did not abandon me. He rummaged through his robes and tossed several tattered sheets before me:

"I have some recipes here. You can try to complete them. When your skills improve, come find me again, and I’ll give you something more useful. Some ingredients are available for purchase from me, and you can use my equipment to experiment..."

I nervously inquired about the prices for various experimental materials, only to be stunned by his answers. Charcoal, ores, spider webs, and bat eyes—things we once sold by the bundle to general stores for mere copper coins—now cost several, sometimes a dozen silver coins each. Even "rat droppings" were priced at three silver coins, allegedly a necessary "catalyst" for certain alchemical processes.

I had believed that the near two gold coins I paid in tuition would have satisfied my teacher’s greed. Now, it seemed I had only taken the first step in a money-burning journey. With so many days ahead, I feared even a mountain of gold would not suffice for the continued investments this life skill demanded.

Those Voidwalkers were absolutely right: education is a lucrative business!

I leafed through the recipes, comparing their ingredient lists with my dwindling funds. At moments like this, you realize money is never enough. After searching all the recipes, I found I could afford the supplies for only one.

One portion of sulfur, two portions of saltpeter, three portions of charcoal—purchasing these cost me thirty silver coins, leaving me nearly destitute. Following the recipe’s instructions, I ground them into powder, mixed them, sifted out impurities, and placed the mixture in a large container atop Edgewell’s peculiar magical oven for heating.

I awaited my first alchemical result with anticipation—hoping my expensive tuition would prove worthwhile. Only then did it occur to me: so focused was I on the cost of ingredients and the thickness of my purse, I had neglected to consider what, exactly, I was attempting to create.

I pulled out the recipe again. At the top, in elegant handwriting, was this sentence:

"Gunpowder: burns rapidly and in a controlled manner under high temperature, producing violent explosions; a necessary component of firearms and ammunition..."

Wait! Did I forget something...?

High temperature? Explosion!?

On the oven...

Gunpowder!?

"Boom!" An earth-shattering blast erupted from the container before me. Dazzling red light and fierce flames surged up, instantly engulfing me in a cacophony of brightness. I felt as if something had wrapped around me—I could neither see nor hear, even my breathing was stifled.

As I floundered, unable to escape, my magical diary delivered a timely message:

"Gunpowder successfully synthesized, skill proficiency +10."

Meanwhile, a familiar surge of warmth coursed through my body from within. Thanks to this 'accidental success' in alchemy, I gained two hundred experience points, instantly advancing to level ten.

A truly laughable, yet tearful, unexpected reward.

When the smoke cleared, I found myself miraculously unscathed—or, rather, not precisely so. Like my alchemy teacher who loved to cause explosions, I was now just as scorched, hair frizzed and standing upright, a picture of disaster.

At this point, Edgewell turned, adopting his usual nonchalant tone, as if mocking me, and uttered his oft-repeated phrase:

"Don’t worry, this is just a minor accident."

I absolutely did not feel this was a 'minor' accident!

...

Risking my life, I had taken the first step to becoming an alchemist—though only the first. My funds were insufficient for a second experiment.

Luckily, I knew many alchemical materials could be gathered in the wild, meaning I need not be continually fleeced by unscrupulous teachers. Often, I could find alchemical supplies on beasts—previously, I had wondered why a mountain goat carried a lump of salve, or a wild rabbit always had a pouch of charcoal. Only after thoroughly studying my recipes did I realize these cleanly creatures likely wished to try making their own soap...

I recalled the abandoned mine on the west side of town, home to large bats. These bats all seemed to have a penchant for collecting ores, among them many useful alchemical materials. I remembered last time, when I foraged for quartz jade, I did not fully explore the cave. Perhaps now I could venture deeper.

Going alone into a dangerous underground cave was not wise; I needed a companion. Opening my magical adventure diary, I found my minotaur friend, whose alarming name—Bull Million—took up nearly a whole page. I thought for a moment, then sent him a magical message:

"Are you free? I know a cave—shall we explore it together?"

Soon, his reply arrived:

"Wait for me at the city gate. I’m on my way!"

Standing at the gate, I spotted my minotaur friend from afar. His towering figure made him stand out even in the crowded throng outside Campnavia. I had thought he came alone, but when he was less than ten paces away, I noticed he had a companion.

It was a small fellow. Perhaps this description is insufficient—let me offer a comparison: if Bull Million’s height were a longsword, this person would be as tall as a small dagger. He didn’t even reach Bull Million’s knee. Had it not been for the bright grass-green soul-marked name floating above his head, I might not have noticed him until they stood before me. Walking beside the staggeringly unbalanced Bull Million, one could not help but worry he might accidentally step on the little one’s head.

You may have guessed—the diminutive, cherubic-faced fellow was a gnome. Compared to their distant kin, the dwarves, gnomes are even smaller in stature. Most dwell in subterranean caves of highland mountains, and are generally gentle and kindly folk, possessing astonishingly dexterous hands capable of crafting intricate mechanisms beyond ordinary imagination. But if you underestimate them, thinking them weak and easily bullied, you’d be gravely mistaken.

The clever gnomes possess natural affinity for magic, quickly mastering profound spells that others must labor years to learn. Their small size and agile movements allow them to evade even your fiercest attacks with ease—a gnome rogue armed with a dagger, skilled in stealth and ambush, is one of the most troublesome opponents you’ll ever meet.

But this gnome was neither mage nor rogue. He wore a somewhat ill-fitting earth-toned outfit, a gray cloak trailing too long behind him, and a pointed soft hat nearly taller than he was. At his waist hung a short sword barely larger than a dagger.

Most conspicuous was the delicate three-stringed lute slung across his back. This instrument revealed his profession: he was a bard.

Even without considering his attire, his name alone spoke of his love for music and the arts—a romantic, artistic traveler: "B-flat Minor Nocturne."

"Hey, buddy, I thought I wouldn’t see you today." Bull Million greeted me loudly, grinning. He gestured to the gnome at his side. "This is a new friend—I just met him. We were leveling on the mountain. When you called, I brought him along."

"Hello." The bard greeted me warmly. He seemed intrigued by my name; after looking at me for a moment, he couldn’t help but comment:

"Jeffritz Kidd. That’s an unusual name—didn’t expect anyone would choose such a name."

"My name? What’s wrong with it?" His words puzzled me. In fact, though he was the first to remark thus, I suspect many share his sentiment. Among those I know—including Bull Million—few call me by name, preferring 'buddy,' 'mate,' or 'brother,' as if my name were awkward.

I find this rather baffling. In these few days, I’ve encountered all manner of strange names. The Voidwalkers’ names bear no resemblance to the formats I’m used to, yet no one finds them odd. Even Bull Million’s ghastly name only attracts brief glances, while mine, displayed above my head among these adventure-loving travelers, stands out like a sore thumb. Why is that?

"It’s nothing—probably because it sounds too much like a real person’s name, so it feels unusual." The gnome bard answered playfully, winking at Bull Million, who responded with a knowing smile. Despite their differences, their smiles were strikingly similar, carrying a subtle camaraderie I couldn’t quite grasp. I felt embarrassed.

"Just a joke, don’t mind..." Perhaps noticing my discomfort, the bard patted my backside—likely he meant to pat my shoulder, but found it too difficult—then glanced around at the crowded throng and suggested,

"...Where’s this cave? Shall we set out now..."