CH271 · Rewrite
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Chapter 271: Elements

Kyle Sichi came home from the laboratory to a table already set. His wife had baked flatbread and made mushroom soup and poured him a glass of white wine, which was more than enough to make him feel that Border Town had its advantages.

The mushrooms alone cost a silver royal apiece — a price that once would have made him choke — but they were worth it. The signboard at the convenience market made all manner of promises about freshness and fragrance, and for once the signboard was right. He had bought three.

Roland is simply deep beyond measure. This was a thought Kyle returned to more often than he cared to admit. Perfumed soap. Mirrors. Mushrooms the size of a child’s palm. As long as a man had a sufficient salary, life in Border Town surpassed anything the average nobleman could assemble from his own purse.

After supper, his wife handed him a letter.

“This is?”

“A guard brought it this afternoon. He said it came from Redwater City.” She turned away to clear the table.

Kyle carried the letter to his study and cut the seal with a knife. The parchment unfolded. The first line read: Dear respected mentor.

He smiled despite himself. Chavez. He sat and read it carefully.

The situation in Redwater City had not improved. When Kyle departed, a man named Capola had taken the chief alchemist’s chair — narrow-minded in the way of men who rise by waiting for their betters to leave. Capola had claimed joint credit for Kyle’s crystal glass formula and had quietly pushed Chavez to the margins of the experiment group: not openly, but with the particular skill of small men, through scheduling and cold shoulders and the strategic assignment of meaningless tasks.

Chavez suspected it was because Capola wanted to steal the double-stone acid method but could not acknowledge the debt it would require. The other alchemists had followed the chief’s lead; several now barely spoke to Chavez. Kyle felt a sour pity reading it. He knew what those people must be thinking: that Chavez had risen by luck and by a senior’s favoritism, that he had no real gift. They were wrong. Saltpeter and green vitriol were everyday substances — so why had it been Chavez, and no one else, who discovered the double-stone acid method? That single fact ought to settle the question. Perception, memory, the willingness to form hypotheses without flinching, diligence across hundreds of experiments — all of it indispensable, and all of it present in that young man to a degree that exceeded even Kyle’s own.

At the end of the letter, Chavez had appended two alchemic formulas as a gift for his mentor. Newly discovered acids, he said, proud of them. Kyle saw at a glance what they were: salt precipitation from acid-alkali reactions, the most elementary chemistry there was. He could write fifty such recipes before breakfast.

He set the letter down and looked at Elementary Chemistry lying open on his desk.

Everything had changed the day His Highness arrived with his so-called ancient books. Without them, Kyle would still be exactly where Chavez was now — wandering in the primal dark, mistaking river clay for gold.

He turned to the final page.

The table. One hundred squares, arranged with mathematical precision, each numbered in the upper left corner — the sequence running without break to 118. The first two rows were filled. The rest were mostly blank, with only scattered symbols occupying the middle columns: twenty-six, iron; twenty-nine, copper.

Periodic Table of Elements.

Every time he looked at it, the hair rose on his arms. Reverence was not quite the right word for what the table produced in him. Neither was fear, though that was closer.

He had asked Roland about the blank squares, and Roland had answered, almost apologetically, that they had originally been filled in — he simply could not remember them.

Had the other party been anyone but His Royal Highness, Kyle would have taken the book and thrown it at his head.

Because what this table implied, if the book’s claims were correct, was that it contained every element existing in the world. Every one. If a Canon of Alchemy existed anywhere, this was its most luminous chapter. And if someone had already drawn this chart — had already known this — then what exactly had alchemists been doing all these centuries? Piling rocks in a riverbed. Children playing at treasure-gathering in silt.

A thought then surfaced, something His Highness had promised: if Kyle could recruit Chavez and also bring along the new class of apprentices, the three new laboratories would be fully staffed. Intermediate Chemistry would follow.

He took out a sheet of paper and began to write.

He had not been entirely honest with Roland at their last meeting, when Roland asked about large-scale acid production. The program existed in his mind fully formed, but the content was too complex to summarize in the middle of a meeting, and more importantly — he still did not know whether it would work. He had based the entire method on the elements and reaction principles in the book, and that was like asking a traveler to navigate by a map he had never tested against real terrain.

Compared to the alchemy tests he had run before, this hypothesis felt like the muttering of a child half-asleep. Using materials he had never touched, reactions no alchemist had ever observed, to produce something that seemed to bear no resemblance to its raw materials — justified only because they shared the same underlying elements.

And yet. The premonition would not leave him. In hundreds of permutation experiments, the book had never once been wrong. Not once.

The initial plan was made. Next step: a full set of theoretical tests in the laboratory. His Highness had said the industrial method could be scaled — that meant a laboratory version was reproducible. He would prove it before making any further claims.

Kyle finished his letter to Chavez in short order. No consolations. He had no patience for that. He simply told his student what was available and measurable and true — specific alchemic knowledge, laid out plainly. Kyle believed that any alchemist worth the name, presented with a genuine path toward understanding, would not let it pass.

He folded the letter, sealed it with wax, and set it by the door for the morning courier.

Then his eyes moved back to the periodic table.

Those blank squares. They would never be filled, not by His Highness — the memory was gone. The thought settled on Kyle like the particular weight of a grief he had not been given permission to express. His life had narrowed to a single ambition, and between him and it stood a wall of blanks.

But there had been that moment, early on, when Roland had looked at his face and said — almost as an afterthought, as though it were a trivial observation:

“Don’t put on that look. The periodic table arranges each element according to an underlying law. You can fill it in yourself.”

Kyle had stared at him. “A regular pattern? You mean those unknown elements can be deduced — the way one derives an alchemical formula?”

“That’s right. Even elements you’ve never seen, you can still describe their appearance and properties.”

“What is this law?”

Roland had smiled. “Do you want to know? It’s written in the Intermediate Chemistry.”

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