Chapter 215: The Philosopher’s Stone
Ryan silently committed the name Serandil to memory. From what he knew, it did fit the naming habits of the Elven race, but the wariness in his heart did not lessen in the slightest.
An Elf existed in the depths of this bizarre ruin and had drawn him into this place by such means. No matter how peaceful the other party appeared, that alone was anything but normal.
“What did you do to me? And why me?” Ryan pressed on, his consciousness-body tensing slightly, even though in this place, stripped of Mana, he probably had no real means of fighting back at all.
“It was not I who chose you, young visitor.” Serandil gently shook his head, silver hair flowing with the motion. “The key chose you. You yourself came to this door carrying the key.”
The key?
Ryan immediately thought of the two crystals that had pulsed in response.
“You mean... those two stones on me?”
“Stones?” Serandil seemed faintly amused by the plainness of the word. “Those are no ordinary stones. They are fragments of the Philosopher’s Stone—or rather, unfinished embryos of it. They are the... beacons I left in the outer perimeter of this experimental station. And they are also its passes.”
The Philosopher’s Stone?
Ryan’s mind raced back over everything that had happened in battle before—the crystals that had burst from the monsters’ bodies, the one dug out of the toad...
Could all of those really have been so-called fragments of the Philosopher’s Stone?
“You have probably been wondering,” Serandil continued, “why your luck seemed unusually good. Why, in those entrances filled with danger, you happened to find the safe path every time. Why, when passing through the nest of that Illusion Weaver, it ignored you and your companions entirely.”
Ryan’s heart tightened.
Not because he had failed to notice his own good fortune. He had noticed that long ago.
What unsettled him was how this Elf knew such details.
The strange fluctuations from the Eye of Probability inside the nest. The giant spider’s unnatural slumber.
Had all of that really been because of those two crystals?
“The reason is simple.” Serandil seemed to read the doubt on Ryan’s face. He lifted one hand and lightly pointed into the air.
At once, within the pure white space, two phantom crystals appeared—one dark red, one dark green—turning slowly in midair. They were identical to the two Ryan kept close against his body.
“The Philosopher’s Stone fragments you carry are still crude things, their energy mixed and contaminated, but their core frequency remains of the same origin as this experimental station’s foundational array. They are like... a blurred pass, or a thin layer of optical camouflage. To the automatic defensive mechanisms that operate according to the base array—such as the Illusion Weaver—someone carrying those fragments is registered as a low-priority target, or even as environmental static. So long as you do not attack first or behave in a way too far outside the norm, they will simply ignore you.”
So that was it.
No wonder the Eye of Probability’s numbers had shifted in such bizarre ways. No wonder they had crossed the spider’s nest safely.
It had not been luck.
It had not been because his stealth was especially superb.
It had been those two crystals he had acquired by chance.
“That is why your arrival here, standing before me now, is both an accident and an inevitability.” Serandil’s voice pulled Ryan out of his thoughts. “By wit and a little luck, you acquired the beacons and made your way here. That proves you are no ordinary man.”
The explanation was plausible—almost perfectly so. It accounted for the strange streak of fortune Ryan had enjoyed since entering the ruins.
That made Serandil’s identity seem a little more credible.
“You said just now... ‘experimental station.’ And also ‘contamination.’” Ryan seized on the unfamiliar terms buried in the explanation. “Isn’t this supposed to be an Elven ruin? And what is the contamination inside those crystals?”
The gentle calm on Serandil’s face dimmed a little. A trace of shadow passed through his golden eyes.
“Yes. Contamination. It is the wound through which this world is slowly rotting away, the poison of all things as they decline. As for this place...” He looked around at the pure white emptiness. “It was once an outpost. A laboratory. A refuge. And a tomb. It has witnessed too much, and buried too much. As for the Philosopher’s Stone, the contamination, our Elven race, and why matters came to the point where we had to establish a station like this...”
He paused.
“That is a very long story.”
Then his eyes came back to Ryan, as though measuring him, assessing him.
“Before I begin recounting those heavy things...” Serandil’s gaze seemed to pass straight through the outline of Ryan’s consciousness-body and settle on a point near his chest, where a familiar resonance was emanating—something deeper than the two crude beacons. “I can sense that aside from those two rough beacons, you also carry another object. One with far deeper ties to my race. Something purer, but also more fragile. A creation steeped in grief and farewell.”
Ryan’s heart gave a start.
The Emerald Wind Oath.
He was talking about Syl.
As though to confirm it, Ryan felt a stir along the other end of his soul contract.
A speck of cyan light floated up from his chest and rapidly expanded, lengthening into the form of a small bird no larger than a hand, its entire body made of soft azure radiance. Syl flapped his wings of light, seeming dazed for a moment. He circled Ryan once, then settled on his shoulder, his green-blue eyes fixed warily on Serandil.
“This is...” Ryan instinctively wanted to shield him.
“The remnant soul of Azure Tempest...” Serandil said softly, unable to hide the shock and pity in his voice. “I never imagined that during the years of my slumber, one of our kin’s sacred beasts would have fallen so far—reduced to a single fragment of soul-fire, surviving only by clinging to an external vessel...”
The look he gave Ryan became more complicated.
“Young visitor, not only did you find the beacons, you also gained the recognition and companionship of one of our sacred beasts. That is not something coincidence alone can explain. Your fate may already have become entangled with this land, with those forgotten histories, in ways none of us can yet foresee.”
Syl seemed affected as well by the pure and ancient Elven aura surrounding Serandil. He tilted his head, confusion glimmering in his azure eyes, and let out a soft cry.
“An Elf? That aura feels so familiar. Ryan, the Elf in front of you should know who I am.”
Syl’s reaction further weakened Ryan’s suspicion.
The perceptions of a sacred beast—especially where its own kind was concerned—were usually far more direct, and far harder to falsify, than those of a human.
If even Syl felt something ancient and sorrowful in Serandil, and perhaps sensed that he knew Azure Tempest, then that lent considerable weight to Serandil’s claim to be an Elven Watcher.
Serandil took in Syl’s response and gave him a slight nod.
It was an old, formal gesture.
“May the lingering soul of the wind one day reclaim its wings and return to the open sky.”
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