In the Western Continent, religious sects flourished, but the Eastern Continent presented a different reality. The empire "Wiga," which had conquered the Eastern Continent, maintained a tightly controlled theocratic system.
In a nation where the emperor was revered as the divine son, how could religious factions possibly thrive?
Thus, Wiga's emperor condemned the sects' holy powers as witchcraft, persecuted their priests, and relentlessly suppressed their influence.
Deprived of divine power, the Eastern Continent developed its own independent medicinal practices—what Westerners termed "alchemy."
If only I could bring those alchemists here...
Kinemya recalled the original narrative.
By this point, dozens of Eastern alchemists were likely operating covertly in the Western Continent through scattered underground networks.
They must have been expelled from Wiga!
The current Wigan emperor, Sing Kakan, ruled as a merciless tyrant. His brutality drew criticism from officials, and the alchemists who joined their dissent faced exile.
If I can gather them all in my territory...
But this wasn’t as simple as shouting, "All alchemists illegally residing in the Western Continent, assemble here!" across every street.
I just need to secure one key figure...
Shen Tian Xinghai.
The alchemists' sole spiritual leader.
The unity among Wiga’s alchemists stemmed from Shen Tian Xinghai’s influence. When he rebelled against the emperor’s tyranny and was exiled, the entire community rose in defiance.
Driven from their homeland, the alchemists wandered until eventually migrating to the Western Continent.
To recruit him...
Kinemya’s eyes darted thoughtfully before meeting her maid Shane’s gaze.
"Miss, what do you require?"
"Shane, fetch Mikhaela for me."
Ahem.
A handsome man coughed lightly as he sat up, pushing the blanket aside. He leaned against the bed’s headboard, arm resting on the windowsill. His pallid, fragile face gazed at an autumn tree clinging to its last few leaves. A cool breeze shook the barren branches, sending leaves fluttering down like fragile sighs.
Shen Tian tracked the falling leaves with gloomy eyes.
"Once those final leaves drop, I’ll perish."
His voice wavered weakly. The sharp-featured giant knitting beside him replied without looking up.
"You won’t. Master, you’re healthy enough to outlive us all by a century."
"This body has reached its limit."
"Nonsense."
Cough— His hacking continued. Cough—
"You smoked liquid tobacco all day yesterday under the guise of ‘brewing’ it."
Ahem— "About that—"
"Drop it."
"I meant... today..."
Rowe observed Shen Tian’s theatrics impassively. Undeterred, Shen Tian coughed again, wiped imaginary tears, and groaned:
"I crave a drink."
"Predictable as ever."
Rowe coldly side-eyed the alcohol-obsessed madman before threading his needle.
A man enslaved to liquor.
That was Rowe’s assessment of this Eastern fugitive.
Who would believe this man—pretending to be a delicate, tragic beauty while possessing inhuman vitality—represented Eastern alchemy’s pinnacle? Shen Tian Xinghai had ingested every substance imaginable in his quest for the "divine liquor," accidentally transforming himself into a paragon of health. Yet he still hunted obsessively for his perfect drink.
Shen Tian propped his chin on the windowsill, muttering:
"Half a day since my last drink... Deprived longer, this body will expire."
"......"
Best not to engage. Otherwise, he’d rant about alcohol or Eastern nostalgia until sundown.
"Have you no compassion? Compassion! What rot did you Westerners inherit? Back East, we—"
Rowe maintained the stoic demeanor expected of Kshan’s "Desert Reapers," privately noting how Shen Tian’s grumbling mimicked a cranky elder.
Yet Shen Tian was merely 21. His antiquated speech resulted from being raised among alchemy’s old masters.
"Each bottle costs a day of your life. You reject every drink as ‘flavorless’—why persist?"
"Because none satisfy my palate! I’ll die unfulfilled, never tasting the gods’ nectar..."
His self-proclaimed disciple Rowe replied flatly:
"Then at least document the recipe."
"You lack talent. Return to your old trade. Why pester me with alchemy? ‘Don’t do this, don’t do that’—nag, nag, nag!"
"I’ve reformed. Didn’t you say alchemy demands delicacy? Hence the knitting."
A man knitting? Preposterous!
Shen Tian’s scathing retort died as he saw Rowe’s work—a scarf knitted with expert precision, adorned with bunny motifs.
This commoner brat...! Impressive.
Even Shen Tian, a veteran of countless struggles, couldn’t match this disciple’s obsessive dedication.
Kshan warriors endure brutal training—did they teach knitting with human skin? Shen Tian clicked his tongue.
"Abandon hope! My recipes die with me."
"Is this how you’ll end alchemy? The ancestors rage."
"Since when did you master ancestor guilt-tripping?"
"You invoke them daily. Isn’t that right, kitty?"
Meow—
Rowe stroked the responding Siamese cat. Despite his desert-warrior persona, he adored cute creatures.
Shen Tian squinted blearily.
"Your softness emboldens these pests. Housing such beasts? Unthinkable in the East!"
"Why? They’re tiny and charming. This room prefers them over a death-obsessed codger and a brutish man."
"Who’s a codger? Cough—!"
"Don’t strain yourself. Overconfidence in your constitution will make you drop like the last leaf."
"You impudent—! Cough!"
Moments prior, he’d feigned mortal agony. Shen Tian routinely weaponized his "frailty" for sympathy.
Rowe shook his head, fastening a handmade yarn necklace on the cat.
Mew—
Colorful threads peeked through fluffy fur as the cat nuzzled Rowe’s hand.
Shen Tian’s glare met the cat’s defiant stare.
This little demon!
Their silent battle intensified until—
"What’s that beside you?"
"This?"
Rowe lifted the box from the table.
"The innkeeper insisted it’s for you—delivered by someone noble-looking."
"For me? Who?"
"Fine clothes, dignified bearing—likely a highborn’s envoy."
"Highborn...?"
Shen Tian tilted the box, baffled. As an illegal immigrant scraping by, he had no ties to Western nobility.
Rowe, equally skeptical, asked:
"Did you offend someone?"
"None recall..."
Drunken antics? Impossible—Shen Tian’s metabolism neutralized alcohol instantly. Then...
While Rowe pondered, Shen Tian opened the box.
Inside lay a crested letter and a finger-sized vial of clear liquid. Bubbles fizzed when shaken.
What sorcery is this?
"What’s that?"
Rowe inquired, cradling the cat. Shen Tian unfolded the letter—
"......!"
"What’s wrong?"
Shen Tian’s hands trembled, eyes widening as he finished reading.
