The underground was always at its peak past midnight, when vice and wickedness followed the blue reflection of the moon across the clouds below. Lorien hurried through the narrow streets and passageways, heading toward the small scrap store near the Low Liceas black market.

  Upon arrival, he once again noticed the absence of the red-maned scrap vendor. This time, however, his hopes regarding the man’s whereabouts were not high. Instead, he imagined Aristarchus had encountered trouble while trying to sell the transmuted gold—or at least that was what his intuition whispered.

  Even so, there was no one around who could account for what had happened. Aristarchus had always been a loner. Besides, people in the underworld rarely meddled in one another’s affairs.

  And so, Lorien stood in the middle of the crowded road, frustrated and unable to obtain the knowledge necessary to form any conclusion—or so he thought.

  Realization struck when he acknowledged the almost all-knowing and ever-present figures of the slums. They were not like the demon of shadows, yet they lurked in darkness all the same. They had eyes and ears on every corner of the district, making them the best source of information.

  It did not take long for Lorien to find a homeless man, stained with dirt and dark grease, sleeping on the cold ground. His ribs showed beneath thin skin, and his breathing was heavy despite his half-sleep.

  Lorien approached carefully, unwilling to disturb his rest. “Excuse me… do you know what happened to the owner of the store across the street? A tall man with a long red mane and one maimed foot?”

  The homeless man paid no attention.

  “I can look for food for you. Or better yet… I can share some money,” Lorien insisted, yet the man still remained unmoved.

  Just as hope faded, the man spoke without turning around.

  “Forget about it, kid. It’s better not to meddle with the Syndicate’s affairs."

  The Syndicate?

  After further insistence, the homeless man admitted that several grunts from the criminal organization had trashed the store and taken Aristarchus with them. As for the few belongings inside, they had been quickly claimed by opportunistic bystanders.

  Lorien immediately connected the Syndicate’s involvement to the contact Aristarchus had tried to approach with the transmuted gold. But even then, why abduct the scrap vendor instead of simply stealing it?

  “You were close to that man, weren’t you? You’re young blood, so I suggest you get over it however you can. These things happen all the time. There’s no workaround.”

  Despite the harshness, Lorien understood the advice was sincere.

  “Thank you…” he said, bowing slightly and leaving several alloyed coins behind.

  At the sound of metal striking stone, the homeless man turned and inspected them beneath his yellowish eyes.

  “This is quite generous… the kind of generosity that kills.”

  Yet he did not interfere further.

  With this new knowledge, Lorien realized Aristarchus was in greater danger than he had imagined. He needed to act quickly and gather as much information about the Syndicate as possible.

  However, he met only refusal when questioning others. Many rejected his offers of payment, revealing just how deeply the underworld both respected and feared the organization. Though he had known of their reputation, this was his first true entanglement with them.

  His search eventually led him to the heart of the Black Market District, a long plaza lined with countless stores. Crammed buildings surrounded the illuminated expanse, overshadowed by a deteriorating clocktower—an old landmark from the underground’s past.

  Contraband goods from other systems changed hands here, items forbidden on the surface by strict inspections. Exchanges were frantic, sometimes aggressive.

  Lorien struggled to navigate the noise and constant chatter. Still, he found part of what he sought. As the dominant force in the underworld, the Syndicate always stationed grunts to supervise black market activities, moving about at their own discretion.

  Even so, approaching them was not easy.

  Instead, Lorien used the crowds to observe from a distance for several hours.

  As early morning approached, he noticed that most of the grunts eventually converged at a single location: a basement bar a few streets away from the abandoned clocktower.

  Summoning his courage, he descended the steps—only to be shoved back by a guard.

  “Get lost, kid.”

  There was a guard at the entrance, and nearly everyone inside belonged to the Syndicate. Sneaking in was impossible.

  By then, Lorien had reached another dead end. He lingered around the black market, hoping for another opportunity.

  Eventually, patience bore fruit. Along with many other underground inhabitants, the silver-eyed boy noticed a large notice posted publicly. The Syndicate offered a reward for anyone possessing significant information about the so-called “Almoner,” a title he soon realized referred to him.

  Lorien now stood between a rock and a hard place because of the Syndicate’s involvement. He could follow the homeless man’s advice and move on as though nothing had happened…

  Or, try as much as I can to mend my mistake.

  If he intended to help Aristarchus, he would need to act quickly—both to discover his whereabouts and to set him free.

  Whatever he chose, it had to happen before the end of that day. Any delay would mean losing track of the man—or allowing something worse to occur.

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  Back at Zenith’s workshop, students gathered around the sharp tinkering sounds from Lorien’s workstation. He worked relentlessly, implementing significant improvements to his grappling-arm invention.

  “Well, I wonder what motivates you now?” Professor Zenith remarked, gently stroking his long mustache.

  The boy did not respond.

  Taking note of his silence, Zenith calmly pointed out the remaining flaws. “The combustion chamber powering those compressed air cylinders will still only function a few times.”

  Without looking up, Lorien applied a white, powdery coating to the interior of the chamber.

  “I know. I have something planned for it tho...”

  The sun continued to set as Lorien made his way toward the usual alley in the East Port District, where he had grown accustomed to performing his transmutations. This time, however, the grappling device was strapped firmly around his arm.

  He pressed the trigger. A small explosion ignited within the fuel chamber, and the mechanical hand shot upward with tremendous force. It soared several floors high, cutting through the air toward the open sky before latching onto the edge of a neighboring rooftop. The sudden propulsion startled nearby birds, sending them scattering in unison.

  Breathing heavily, Lorien pressed the trigger again. He was yanked several meters into the air, the force nearly tearing his arm from its socket. For a brief moment, he dangled helplessly, most of his body suspended far above the ground. A fall from that height would have been fatal.

  Still, the grappling device carried him upward. Using the remaining pull, he dragged himself over the edge and onto the rooftop tiles. He now stood above the city, a perspective rivaled only by the gondola shuttles that constantly traversed between the tallest buildings.

  The orange rooftops bathed in sunset light were staggering to behold—but Lorien had no time to admire them.

  Just as Zenith had warned, the fuel capacity of the chamber allowed for only a single propulsion. Lorien quickly retrieved his chemistry book and placed it upon the tiles, its pages fluttering violently in the wind.

  His finger landed on a passage describing a highly reactive substance—one that seemed to ignite almost without cause.

  He opened the combustion chamber but placed nothing inside. Instead, he closed his eyes and gripped the Nebuchadnezzar’s Vault with his left hand. He envisioned the same white powder resting within the chamber. White sparks answered his call.

  The prototype was refueled.

  The substance was magnesium, commonly found as a silver-white metal—strong yet extremely reactive. As with gold, the transmutation yielded magnesium in its pure state. In contact with oxygen, it combusted violently, producing enough force to power the mechanism repeatedly.

  As for the limit of his transmutations, Lorien had discovered that the more he used the power to change the world, the greater his capacity became. It was as if he were training a muscle.

  By now, he could perform numerous small transmutations without exhaustion. The scale at which he could wield the power had grown considerably.

  Yet unease lingered in his heart. It was the Vault’s power that had led him into this predicament, and still he depended on it. He refused to rely on transmutation alone, knowing that knowledge and preparation were necessary to avoid further recklessness.

  He turned the pages carefully, searching for properties he could exploit—ways to apply alchemy with precision and purpose.

  Two elements captured his attention almost immediately: nitrogen and fluorine. In high concentrations, nitrogen could induce hypoxia and unconsciousness. Fluorine, in its purest form, reacted with nearly every substance, making it one of nature’s most powerful corrosive agents.

  Lorien spent the remainder of dusk calculating how to control such reactions. All the while, his thoughts circled back to the Syndicate. In the end, he concluded that Aristarchus’s connection to the crushed gold—and thus to the Almoner—had drawn their attention.

  If they sought the Almoner, then he would use that desire to his advantage.

  Nightfall eventually led him back to Larissa’s inn. He retrieved the gold dust he had been accumulating and prepared one final transmutation before departing. The wooden floorboards creaked as white sparks manifested once more, bowing the quiet bedroom to their brilliance.

  He left in haste, ignoring the chatter of diners and weaving past hurried servers and drunken patrons. At the doorway, he paused, glancing at the warm brightness of the dining hall. He thought of Larissa—and how worried she would be.

  But he refused to drag anyone else into his burden. This had to be done alone.

  Though turmoil churned within him, and fear lingered beneath his resolve, Lorien answered the call to act.

  From atop a rooftop crowned by night, Laplace watched as the boy ran through the yellow-lit cobblestone streets of the East Port District, heading toward the underworld. For once, the demon’s grin was absent, his maw concealed as he observed in silence.

  The screech of oxidized metal doors revealed the interior of a dark warehouse. A man with slicked-back hair, dressed in a dark vest and red tie, stood against the light while checking the time on a golden watch. Several grunts followed behind him, one pulling a lever along the wall.

  After a series of clanking sounds, electricity surged through the building. Harsh white light flooded the interior.

  Contraband goods and metal crates lined the countless shelves. The light also exposed a man bound to an aluminum chair. Despite his sturdy build, the red-maned captive was covered in bruises and cuts.

  He breathed slowly, his face lowered into shadow.

  “My men tell me you have done a remarkable job resisting interrogation,” the man in the red tie said, dragging a chair in front of Aristarchus. “Under different circumstances, I might have offered you a place among us.”

  Aristarchus continued breathing heavily, ignoring him.

  “Our Syndicate never meddled with you because of your… condition,” the man added, glancing briefly at the prosthetic leg. “We may be criminals, but we are not monsters.”

  The captive coughed bitterly.

  “...Then how do you explain this?”

  The man remained indifferent, leaning back comfortably beneath the harsh light.

  “No transaction in the underworld escapes our notice. Unfortunately, your obvious connection to the Almoner has drawn our boss’s interest. That demands attention.”

  “I know nothing of this Almoner…” Aristarchus replied.

  “The so-called miracle maker who gifts treasure to those he meets,” the man said, leaning forward. “Personally, I do not believe such nonsense. But the consequences are real. People cannot simply become wealthy overnight. The balance of the black market would collapse. Besides, the crushed gold has already begun attracting attention from the surface. We cannot allow that.”

  Aristarchus said nothing more.

  Unamused, the man snapped his fingers. Grunts dragged in another prisoner—a homeless man reduced nearly to bone, one of those who had once received Lorien’s gift.

  “He also claims to know nothing,” the subleader said, circling like a predator.

  The man with the red tie drew a pistol and pressed it to the back of the homeless man’s head. Silence thickened.

  “I told you we are not monsters. But if no one speaks, we will have no choice but to make an example.”

  He shifted the weapon slightly and fired into the concrete floor. The deafening shot shattered the tension. The homeless man collapsed in terror.

  Aristarchus remained seated, eyes closed, quietly accepting his fate. He had no intention of revealing Lorien’s identity—even if it meant carrying the secret beyond death.

  “I can see you are preparing yourself,” the man said coldly. “Very well. I will give you one more night to reconsider.”

  The guards dragged the homeless man away, leaving Aristarchus once again in darkness.

  Outside, the man adjusted his tie and lit a cigarette. Though he maintained an air of indifference, exhaustion lingered beneath his eyes.

  A subordinate approached cautiously. “Mr. Falco, are you certain about leaving him like that?”

  “He will not talk,” Falco replied. “And we can do nothing further without the boss’s command. Instead—what of the notice? Has anyone come forward?”

  “Not yet…” the grunt answered nervously.

  Falco scoffed, exhaling smoke into the night.

  “Bring me any lead the moment it appears. I want every single one of you reporting.”