Chapter 9
"I came to pay respects as my advising professor. Though inadequate, I ask for your guidance moving forward."
"Formalities can wait. The true mentorship only solidifies after your specialization is determined."
"While true, I do have a separate request to make."
Interest rippled across Professor Frost's features. It had been years since a student visited immediately upon enrollment, let alone one bold enough to make demands.
"Ian Oracle."
"Yes, Professor."
"You aren't yet an Academy student. The matriculation ceremony hasn't commenced, nor have you received His Majesty's blessing. Since the Sun King's founding of this institution, the royal benediction has become tradition. As an Academy professor, matters concerning this establishment should properly wait until tomorrow."
"Your wisdom shines through."
The emphasis on protocol was palpable, yet Ian recognized this as merely one facet of Frost's character. He continued evenly:
"Then might I address Mage Frost rather than Professor Frost for this request?"
"Now here's an intriguing specimen."
The professor rose, extending an arm toward vacant seating. "Having owed favors to Sir Lefebvre in days past, I'll indulge this audience. Sit."
"Thank you."
As they settled, Ian hardened his resolve. Failure here would corner him completely - the promise to Felix saw to that.
"Might I explain my purpose before stating the request?"
"I fail to discern the difference, but proceed as you will."
"I've maintained a longstanding interest in potioncraft. My parents being theoretical mages permitted early studies in herbology, alchemy, and infusion techniques."
"Indubitably. Both your parents were exceptional in those fields." Frost's nod carried professional acknowledgment. Ian suddenly appreciated how disastrous this meeting might have been had the professor been ignorant of his lineage.
"Through these studies, I observed critical flaws. As you've experienced firsthand, quality varies wildly by region. Unless bearing a master craftsmaster's seal, most prove unreliable."
"Mmm. Valid."
"Issues plague both raw materials and compounding methods. My particular interest lies in the absence of standardized production protocols."
The professor's inscrutable half-smile offered no cues, compelling Ian to continue:
"Potions remain essential for civilian and military applications alike, hence annual strategic stockpiling. Yet inconsistent quality causes recurrent issues - rapid spoilage under improper storage, efficacy degradation. The Knights' Order treats this with particular urgency."
Memories of his own student years surfaced for Frost as the dialogue took on lecture-like qualities.
"A student this devoted to philtrology is rare indeed. I apprehend your concerns. The proposal?"
"I wish to establish a potion enterprise within the Academy."
"Within the Academy?"
The declaration hung like alchemical vapor. As Milo had noted, potion-making straddled the line between magical practice and mundane craftsmanship - tedious work requiring more technical skill than arcane prowess save for the final mana-infused maturation.
Frost mused how previous students had pursued academic studies, but none had dared commercial ventures during his tenure.
"Standardization through royal endorsement?"
"Precisely as you intuit, Professor. While continental standardization proves untenable, limiting scope to the Sonokin Kingdom appears feasible despite anticipated resistance. When technological disparity emerges..."
Ian outlined his vision - pilot operations supplying the Knights' Order, scalable frameworks offering student apprenticeships beyond mere profit. Frost's posture shifted imperceptibly, the man now fully engaged.
"Ian Oracle." The professor's bass tone resonated with new gravity. "This proposition demands one non-negotiable precondition: revolutionary brewing methodology capable of rewriting philtrology's stagnant history. Do you possess this?"
"The concepts exist."
The unflinching reply drew Frost's first full smile. "Shall we hear them?"
"Regrettably, not in this setting. Should cooperation prove impossible, I'll withdraw from the Academy to pursue independent enterprise."
This was no bluff. Since his parents' disappearance, Ian had devoured every text and research journal in the Oracle estate. Their unfinished works became springboards for innovations blending ancestral theories with his own insights - including the embryonic potion formulae now burning in his mind.
"An Oracle heir speaking of withdrawal? Most irregular."
"My apologies. I'll mind my conduct."
"Has House Oracle encountered difficulties?" The quiet question carried unexpected sincerity.
"Our House's... challenges are common knowledge. As sole survivor, I cannot indefinitely feast on Academy hospitality."
Frost's nod held both comprehension and admiration where others might have shown pity. "Debt merits no shame - only the shame we attach to it. You seek solutions, not excuses. Commendable."
The professor steepled his fingers. "Your proposal's framework shows promise, but remains hypothetical. Demonstration is required."
He scrawled on parchment, thrusting the document forward. "By next week, produce a stamina tonic using only these listed ingredients - standard components for the Knights' basic recovery draughts. Double the efficacy."
"If permitted, I propose demonstrating the process in my dormitory under your supervision. Mere product submission proves nothing."
Frost's chuckle rumbled deep. "The Oracle bloodline manifests clearly. Very well. Next week then."
As Ian bowed in departure, Frost gestured to the flawlessly reconstructed apparatus across the laboratory - the student's unspoken credentials.
'I'll need to thank Mr. Maren later.'
While dismissing it as coincidence, Ian knew the groundskeeper's earlier advice had paved this opportunity. The potion venture seemed outlandish, yet...
'It will work. The method is sound.'
Outside, raucous shouts fractured his contemplation. Freshmen clad in Academy colors clustered near the gates, atmosphere crackling with tension.
'Has it started already?'
Caped magic track students stood encircled by armor-clad martial scholars, their taunts carving the autumn air:
"Look at these twig-armed bookworms! Our kingdom's future? Even stray dogs would laugh!"
"Quit glaring and swing, why don't you?"
"They'd piss themselves before throwing a punch!"
The martial cohort's laughter boomed, aggression outweighing any patriotic concern. Ian sighed. Milo's warnings about factional rivalries rang true - pointless yet entrenched tradition.
His gaze snagged on a figure apart - crimson-haired nobility whose gilded armor and molten-gold eyes screamed aristocratic pedigree.
'Helios himself?'
