“My name is Onen and I will defeat you Syryn.”

The barely 15-year-old faced Syryn with a straight back and eyes that flashed with self-righteous fire. Did he think this was a drama where the underdog hero faced down the big bad bully? Syryn let out a harsh bark of laughter at the play that Onen was directing. He didn’t mind playing the role of bully.

“I wish you luck then,” Syryn replied, scorn hot on his tongue. Onen’s stupid earnestness annoyed Syryn. He was one of those types – a moralising loser who blindly clamoured for justice when it was a mask for his own insecurity. It made Syryn want to teach the mage a lesson he would never forget.

“Do you not see the logic in the professor’s words?” syryn asked. Everyone deserved a chance for redemption before they were humiliated. This was Syryn giving Onen a chance.

The fired-up mage clenched his fists in reply and levelled a glare that was equal parts determined and confident. “My magic is strong. With all due respect to professor Artemus, I will prove him wrong!”

At his provocative words, a current of excitement passed through the group of mages that had been rejected. Onen’s words had renewed their hopes for the tryouts.

“So annoying.” Syryn rolled his eyes. There was no helping it, Onen had chosen his poison.

Syryn waited for the mage to make the first move and he didn’t have to wait too long. Onen dragged in a deep breath and blew out a bubble the size of a melon. The bubble floated around the air without direction at first. But the moment its caster whispered, it accelerated towards Syryn and exploded violently at the spot he had just stepped away from.

“Interesting power you have there,” Syryn observed. The explosion was deadly enough to cause damage that went beyond a flesh wound but its diameter was restricted to within a few inches of the bubble.

Not waiting for Syryn to make his move, Onen blew out numerous transparent globules in succession. 5, 6, 9, Syryn counted them. Four bubbles floated around their caster while the remaining five zipped towards Syryn with intent.

In an impressive show of acrobatics, Syryn flipped in the air between two bubbles, landed and rolled under the third. The fourth and fifth exploded a hair’s breadth away from Syryn’s grinning face. To the observer, the sequence of actions had taken a bare few seconds.

“Stop jumping around!” Onen’s brows were sweating. This wasn’t going the way he had planned.

Four globules zig-zagged towards Syryn who had closed the gap between himself and Onen. Hands moving in a flash, Syryn removed his outer jacket and swung it at the bubbles. The ensuing explosions left his uniform jacket in tatters.

To prevent Onen from spitting out more, Syryn flung his jacket at the boy’s face effectively blinding him. It was now his turn to attack. All it took was a twisting leap that drove a hard kick into the boy’s gut and sent him smashing into the wall behind him.

“Just a mere mage who only recently learnt to invoke an ability and you think you’re fit to challenge an anti mage of Rowan’s calibre?” Syryn mocked the boy who was hunched over holding his stomach. His inexperience and hesitance at using his abilities gave clue to Syryn that it hadn’t been too long since the boy had unlocked his secondary ability.

“Losers.” Syryn spat with venom. “Who else wants a piece of me?”

There were no more volunteers jumping about after that display. The spectating mages had just witnessed Syryn viciously beat one of their own without the use of his magic. It was the hammer that reinforced what Artemus had just explained to them about the impact of martial ability in a fight. If they couldn’t even beat Syryn without his magic, what hope did they have against an anti mage?

“Fetch a healer,” Artemus spoke to one of the mages closest to where Onen had hit the wall. A trickle of blood dripped down his chin but the boy hadn’t given up his pride. He continued to fiercely stare at Syryn.

“I don’t like your eyes.” Syryn’s fingers twitched, a motion that Artemus didn’t miss.

“Enough.” A firm squeeze of his shoulder held Syryn down. The scent of ink from behind him filled his lungs and cooled the ember that had alighted. “I don’t want to have to regret my decision Syryn.” It was a soft warning against any foolhardy behaviour on the alchemist’s end.

“Understood,” Syryn replied. He went back in position next to Magnus who had his brows raised. Syryn had a feeling that there would be an interrogation when they got back home.

The rejected mages who had had the carpets pulled from under their feet had decided to wait and watch the 29 other mages fight it out for the final slot. Artemus had them duel for a few minutes each during which he discerned which mage to eliminate. Nearly an hour later, the final decision had been made – a young girl, their 7th fighter stood with them in front of the professor.

“Training starts tomorrow, a half-hour after classes.”

At the blatant dismissal, the other members left with veiled glances sent Syryn’s way, some curious, some unfriendly. When the Hall had mostly emptied, Syryn approached Artemus.

“Professor, I’d like to try something on you. Are you willing to experiment?” His voice was soft enough that only Artemus could hear. The professor who had been writing on his parchment stilled and lifted his dark gaze.

“Wait for me by the gate.” He replied after a beat.

Many minutes later, Magnus, Syryn, and Artemus rode the hound coach to Alka’s apartment. It was as quiet as a graveyard inside the carriage.

When the bell rang at their arrival, Alka’s soft footfalls sounded before the door was opened. The neutral expression on his face slid away and he immediately looked put off at his older brother’s appearance.

“Why are you here?”

Syryn was taken aback by the anger in Alka’s voice. Just what had happened between the brothers in one night?

“Never mind. I’m going for a walk.” Alka huffed and walked out leaving behind two mildly surprised mages. This behaviour was very unlike their closed-off friend. Artemus’ coffin face also gave nothing away so the curious mages could only swallow their questions and speculate in their hearts.

“Luci, you’re watering the plants again? Such a hard-working boy!” Syryn praised the child who had gone from smiling to wary when Alka had walked out of the house.

“I’ll watch him.” Magnus volunteered with a glance at Syryn. “You.. do your thing.”

Syryn nodded at the fire mage and turned to Lucien, “I’ll get you a sweet candied apple tonight Luci, wait for big brother.”

Syryn then led his professor to Alka’s workroom which he had steadily taken over.

“Lie down here,” he indicated to the couch in the room while going about kindling a flame that would warm up the beautiful cauldron that Rowan had so generously gifted.

“You’re Rowan’s private supplier.” It wasn’t a question. It sounded like Artemus had just deduced that fact from taking in the items on Syryn’s worktable.

“The one and only,” Syryn replied with nothing to hide.

“Take your shirt off professor.” The younger boy washed his hands thoroughly in a basin at the corner of the room. His neatly clipped nails were as clean as the skin on his palms after the wash.

Hygiene taken care of, he pulled a chair over and sat beside Artemus. The professor was shirtless and ready for Syryn’s examination.

“I need a few drops of your blood,” Syryn informed the patient who looked like a block of ice.

“You’re a healer as well?”

The slender fingers that were pressed to the professor’s skin, testing the temperature of it, stopped in their movements. “I’m very familiar with anatomy,” he simply replied. Everyone had skeletons in their closets, especially ex-demon Lords.

Thoughtful consideration slid down over curiosity and Artemus nodded. Syryn took that as permission to prick Artemus with a thin needle of ice. He injected mana into the needle so it would maintain its integrity while absorbing blood from Artemus.

“Clever.” The professor commented.

“I know.” Syryn was shameless like that.

He pulled the needle away from the professor’s flesh and observed the colouring of the blood. It was a pale red that bordered on pink. Syryn’s glance lightly flickered over to Artemus whose expression remained calm.

Taking the blood back to his worktable, Syryn thought about how much Artemus had been pushing himself. Was this the resolute willpower of a man fighting the sickness that was paralyzing his life? Or could it be the final flash of a firefly that was determined to burn out before the poison claimed it?

“Professor, take a nap. I’ll wake you up when I’m ready,” he calmly informed the man who already had his eyes closed.

Syryn pricked his own finger and allowed the bloodied ice to absorb it. The result was underwhelming. While his hands moved, the alchemist recalled the reactions that came with his experiments with this cold poison. Feeding the patient a potion infused with blood from a demon that wasn’t entirely fire attribute resulted in two clear outcomes. One of the two was certain death.

With the cauldron all warmed up now, Syryn began the first steps to the creation of a decoction that would determine the fate of Artemus.

Stars were twinkling dreamily in the night sky when Syryn was finally done with his work. “Professor,” he gently shook Artemus’ shoulder. Sleepy eyes opened and Artemus looked vulnerable, tired, and a tad bit grumpy at being woken up. It brought a small smile to Syryn’s face.

He held out a finished potion that glowed orange in the light of the lantern that illuminated the space they shared. “Drink it.”

Wordlessly, Artemus received the phial and took a fortifying breath. One glance at Syryn – who hadn’t bothered to give so much as a word of explanation but simply held out a liquid that could have been poison – and he tipped the liquid into his mouth.

Immediately, a fire burned deep inside his gut and clawed its way through his frozen veins. Artemus was burning from within and it was so much worse than being frozen alive. Was he dying? he wondered as he lost sense of himself. His very being had narrowed down to a flash of bright pain that tore at his chest.

And as the professor felt his strength give out, the young alchemist before him did not express a flicker of emotion. With cool scientific detachment, he watched Artemus collapse onto the couch.