Alchemy God: the Ultimate Pill Master

The air was tense as Sandro stood in the aftermath of the battle, his body steaming slightly, remnants of the green flames still lingering around his hands. The silence didn’t last long. A dozen upperclass students, all dressed in the academy’s combat gear, stepped forward, their weapons drawn and pointed directly at him. Their faces were hard with suspicion, their eyes locked on Sandro with a mixture of shock and confusion.

The leader of the group, a tall, broad-shouldered young man with short black hair and sharp features, stepped forward. His sword gleamed in the fading light as he leveled it at Sandro.

“Who are you?! State your business!” he demanded, his voice authoritative and impatient.

Sandro turned toward the group, his face calm despite the tension. He didn’t seem fazed by the weapons pointed at him. Instead, he brushed a bit of ash off his shoulder, looking more annoyed than threatened.

“Nice of y’all to join me,” Sandro said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Would’ve loved the help during the fight, though.”

The group exchanged confused glances, unsure of how to respond. The leader’s expression hardened, his grip on his sword tightening.

“Answer me!” he barked, taking a step forward. “Who the hell are you?”

Sandro sighed, rolling his eyes. “It’s me, Sandro, you dumb fuck!”

A ripple of disbelief ran through the group, and the leader—Wallace Dragovich—stared at Sandro, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Impossible,” Wallace scoffed. “We know Sandro, and you aren’t him. You aren’t as skinny or short as him.”

At that, Sandro stopped and looked down at his own body for the first time since the fight had ended. His eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t realized it before, but he had bulked up considerably. His once wiry frame had been replaced with thick, muscular arms and a broad chest. His legs were powerful, and his entire body radiated strength he had never felt before. He flexed his fingers, watching the veins pulse under his skin.

What the hell happened to me? he thought, his mind racing. He quickly activated his stat screen, and his jaw nearly dropped.

He had grown a full foot in height—he was no longer the scrawny 5'5" boy he had been. Now, he stood at 6'5", his new height making him tower over most of the students around him. His muscles bulged, and his strength felt almost unnatural, as though his body had been reshaped by the power of the pill.

What the hell? Sandro muttered internally as he scanned his attributes. His magic stat, which had been locked at 0 for so long, now sat at a solid 10. Even more surprising was the new skill listed under his abilities: Holy Green Flames.

He felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. There was no way he could explain this. Not yet. Something told him that if anyone found out about the pill or what it had done to him, it would raise more questions than answers. So, for now, he decided to stay silent.

Before he could process the changes any further, a commanding female voice rang out from behind the group of students.

“Get out of the way! What the hell happened here?!”

The students parted, and Sandro turned to see a familiar figure approaching. Erina Dragovich—Ember, the youngest daughter of the Dragonlord—strode forward, her eyes scanning the scene with a mix of authority and concern. Her blue hair was tied back in a tight braid, and her armor gleamed in the dying light. The second her eyes landed on Sandro, she froze, her mouth falling open in shock.

“Sandro?” she whispered, disbelief coloring her voice. Her green eyes widened as she took in his new appearance.

Sandro gave her a small nod, walking up to her. He held out the dagger he had picked up during the battle, the one that bore her name. “Next time, don’t drop it,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You know how your dad gets when you lose shit.”

Erina’s eyes flicked down to the dagger in his hand, and she reached for it slowly, still too stunned to respond. Her fingers brushed against his as she took the weapon, but her gaze remained fixed on his face, her expression a mixture of disbelief and... something else.

“You... you’re really him?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t just shock—it was something deeper, a recognition of the boy she had once known but now barely recognized.

Sandro didn’t answer. Instead, he turned away and began to walk past the group of upperclass students. He had no interest in explaining himself or dealing with the awkward questions that were sure to follow. But before he could get far, Erina’s voice rang out again.

“Wait,” she said, her tone firm and authoritative. She turned to Wallace. “Take him to the Dragonlord.”

Wallace blinked, still trying to wrap his head around everything that had just happened. “What? Him? You can’t be serious, Erina—this guy can’t be Sandro! Look at him!”

Erina shot Wallace a sharp glare, her eyes narrowing. “I said, take him to the Dragonlord. Now.”

Wallace hesitated, his jaw clenched. But even he wasn’t going to argue with Erina. She was, after all, the Dragonlord’s daughter. With a frustrated sigh, he sheathed his sword and gestured for two other students to follow him.

“Fine,” Wallace muttered. “But if this guy isn’t who he says he is, it’s your head.”

Erina didn’t respond. Her eyes remained locked on Sandro as Wallace and two female upperclass students stepped forward, surrounding him.

Sandro glanced at them but didn’t protest. He knew better than to resist now. With a casual shrug, he allowed himself to be escorted, his mind still reeling from the changes in his body and the realization of just how far he had come in such a short time.

The group moved in silence, the tension palpable as they made their way through the forest and back toward the main hall. Sandro walked with newfound confidence, his steps sure and purposeful, but inside, his thoughts were racing. What was I supposed to do now? What would the Dragonlord say when he saw me like this?

He glanced down at his hands again, flexing his fingers as he recalled the green flames that had erupted from them during the fight. Magic... I can use magic now. But how? And why?

The sound of footsteps echoed through the forest as they approached the academy grounds, and Sandro’s heart began to pound in his chest.

Sandro stood before the entrance to the Main Hall, feeling the weight of countless eyes on him. The whispers of students filled the air, their curiosity palpable as they stared at him from afar. He had been given new clothes—a dark, fitted tunic and trousers that accentuated his newly muscular frame—but even now, after a bath and fresh garments, he felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny. Especially the way the female students looked at him, their eyes trailing over him like he was some kind of prize.

I could do without this, Sandro thought as he tugged at the collar of his tunic, adjusting it out of habit. He was never one for attention, and now, the gaze of nearly every student lingered on him as though he had suddenly become an object of fascination.

Still, there was no time to dwell on the discomfort. He was about to meet the Dragonlord and the elders. Whatever awaited him inside, he knew it would be more than just an apology.

Once he was freshly groomed, Sandro was escorted into the grand hall. The room was massive, its high ceilings adorned with banners bearing the sigil of the Dragonlands Royal Academy. The elders sat in a semicircle, their faces stern but weary. At the head of the room, on a raised dais, sat the Dragonlord himself—Lord Varnok Dragovich, a man whose presence commanded respect and awe. His deep-set eyes flickered with emotion as Sandro entered.

As Sandro approached the center of the hall, there was a brief, tense silence. The elders exchanged glances, clearly uneasy with the situation. Finally, the Dragonlord spoke, his voice firm but carrying a hint of regret.

“Sandro Dovah,” Lord Dragovich began, leaning forward in his seat. “We have summoned you here today to address the grave wrongs you have suffered at this academy.”

Sandro remained silent, his gaze unwavering. He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for them to continue. He had no intention of making this easy for them.

The Dragonlord stood, his posture regal and dignified. “For years, you have been mistreated, overlooked, and denied the opportunities you deserved. This is an error for which I, as the head of this academy, must take full responsibility.”

The room was deathly quiet. Sandro’s expression remained neutral, but inside, his thoughts were racing. They think they can apologize and fix this with words?

Lord Dragovich took a deep breath, his gaze never leaving Sandro’s face. “I offer you my deepest apologies. What was done to you is unforgivable, and I can only ask for your understanding. If you are willing, I would like you to stay here at the academy, not just as a student, but as a prodigy once again.”

At the word prodigy, several of the elders shifted in their seats. It was clear that the decision to regard Sandro as such had not been an easy one for them. But the Dragonlord’s authority was absolute.

Sandro’s eyes narrowed. “So, now that I’m useful again, I’m a prodigy?” His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to his words. “That’s convenient.”

One of the elders, an older man with a long gray beard, frowned. “You must understand, Sandro. The circumstances—”

“The circumstances were that you all ignored me,” Sandro interrupted, his voice rising. “For five years, I was treated like trash. And now, suddenly, I’m worth something again?”

Lord Dragovich held up a hand, silencing the elder. “You are right, Sandro. What was done to you was shameful. That is why I am taking full responsibility for your mistreatment.”

Then, to everyone’s shock, the Dragonlord bowed. It was a deep, formal bow—a gesture of humility and apology that had rarely, if ever, been seen from someone of his stature. The elders exchanged shocked looks, clearly unprepared for such a display.

Sandro stared at him, his eyes widening slightly. He hadn’t expected that.

Lord Dragovich straightened, his expression earnest. “I will do whatever it takes to make amends. If you stay with us, I will see to it that your training is restored, that you receive all the resources necessary to continue your journey as a warrior.”

Sandro remained silent, his arms still crossed as he considered the Dragonlord’s words. But something about the offer rang hollow. You can’t buy my forgiveness with an apology, he thought, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

Sensing Sandro’s hesitation, the Dragonlord pressed on. “I understand that words alone are not enough. If there is anything you desire, anything at all, it is yours.”

Sandro raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Anything?”

Lord Dragovich hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Yes. Name it, and it will be done.”

Before Sandro could respond, the Dragonlord glanced toward Erina, who had been standing near the side of the room, watching the proceedings in silence. “Even the hand of my youngest daughter in marriage, should you wish it.”

Erina’s eyes widened in shock, her face flushing with embarrassment and anger. “Father, no!” she protested, stepping forward. “I’m not—Sandro’s like a little brother to me!”

Sandro’s patience snapped. “A little brother?” He turned toward her, his eyes blazing. “I’m older than you, Erina, by 3 months. And it was me who comforted you every time you cried like a little baby. Don’t forget that.”

Erina’s face turned beet red, and she looked away, clearly flustered by the reminder. Several of the elders stifled chuckles, though they quickly straightened up when the Dragonlord glared at them.

Lord Dragovich sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Very well. The offer of marriage is off the table.”

Sandro huffed, his arms still crossed. “I’m not here for marriage proposals.”

The Dragonlord, sensing he was losing Sandro, motioned to one of the servants. “Bring forth the weapons.”

A moment later, two attendants entered the hall, carrying a large chest filled with gleaming magical weapons—swords, daggers, spears, each one enchanted with powerful runes. The chest was placed before Sandro, and the Dragonlord gestured toward it.

“These are some of the finest weapons the academy has to offer. Take any you wish. Sell them, use them—it is our gift to you.”

Sandro glanced at the weapons, unimpressed. He reached down and picked up one of the swords, examining it briefly before scoffing.

“This is shit,” he muttered, loud enough for the entire hall to hear.

The elders erupted into murmurs of outrage, their faces flushed with anger. One of them, a stout man with a thick mustache, stood up. “How dare you! These weapons were crafted by the finest—”

Before he could finish, Sandro swung the sword in a wide arc. The blade shattered into pieces, the metal fragments scattering across the floor.

The room fell into stunned silence.

Sandro tossed the broken hilt to the ground, his expression cold. “If this is the best you have to offer, then I’m not interested.”

Lord Dragovich’s face turned red with embarrassment. He glared at the elders who had selected the weapons, his jaw clenched. “Clearly, there has been... an oversight,” he muttered.

Sandro didn’t bother hiding his smirk. The display had only further cemented his position.

Finally, the Dragonlord straightened his posture and looked Sandro in the eye. “What are your terms?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

Sandro paused for a moment, considering his options. He had no interest in their apologies or their gifts. But there was something he needed—something that had been denied to him for far too long.

“My alchemy and crafting levels are far too low for my liking,” Sandro said, his voice clear. “I want to increase them before the final exams in two months. Because if I fail those exams, I’ll never leave this academy. And we both know what that would mean.”

The Dragonlord nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of Sandro’s request. “Very well. Elder Miyotashi will personally oversee your training in both alchemy and crafting.”

One of the elders, an older woman with silver hair and sharp features, stepped forward and bowed slightly. “It will be an honor to tutor you, Sandro.”

Lord Dragovich motioned to a servant, who quickly brought forth a small chest filled with gold coins. “As an additional gesture of apology, you will also receive a hefty sum of gold bits. Consider it compensation for the subpar weapons.”

Sandro glanced at the chest, nodding once. “Fine,” he said simply.

The Dragonlord sighed in relief, though the tension in the room still lingered. “Then it is settled. You will receive the training you require, and we will do whatever is necessary to make amends.”

Sandro gave a curt nod, his eyes still hard and unforgiving. “I’ll hold you to that.”

With that, the meeting was concluded, and Sandro turned on his heel, walking out of the grand hall with a newfound sense of purpose.

As the heavy doors of the grand hall closed behind Elder Miyotashi and Sandro, a thick silence settled over the room. The remaining elders turned their eyes toward the Dragonlord, who stood at the dais, his usually composed demeanor shattered. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his hands clenched the armrests of his throne, knuckles white from the tension. He was clearly struggling to make sense of what had just transpired.

One of the elders, a thin man with a narrow face and graying hair, finally spoke up, his voice trembling slightly. “My lord… with all due respect, why the sudden desperation to appease the boy? Surely, he—”

Before he could finish, the Dragonlord raised a hand, silencing the room. His eyes were dark and focused, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on everyone present. He took a deep breath before speaking, his voice low and measured.

“You have no idea what we’re dealing with,” the Dragonlord began, his gaze sweeping across the room. “Ever since the day my head wife found that boy outside the gates of the academy, I’ve felt something in him. A power… one that I couldn’t fully comprehend at the time. Even when he was still young, there was a force within him, something that always felt just out of reach.”

The elders exchanged uneasy glances. The room grew even more tense as the Dragonlord continued.

“For years, I could sense the remnants of that power within him, but it was dormant… or restrained, somehow. But today… today, that power wasn’t just a flicker. It was an explosion.”

Several of the elders shifted uncomfortably in their seats, beads of sweat forming on their brows as they realized the gravity of the Dragonlord’s words.

The Dragonlord paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked off into the distance, lost in thought. “I believe that with the proper training, Sandro could reach a level 90 before he turns 20 years old. Do you understand what that means?”

The elder seated closest to the Dragonlord, a woman with silver hair and sharp eyes, swallowed hard. “Level 90… that’s…” Her voice faltered, unable to finish the sentence.

“It’s unheard of,” another elder muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. “No one has reached level 90 in… centuries.”

The Dragonlord nodded grimly. “Exactly. Our academy hasn’t produced a talent with a potential above level 60 in hundreds of years. Sandro… could become the most powerful warrior this world has ever seen.”

The realization hit the room like a hammer. Several of the elders, who had been indifferent or even dismissive of Sandro before, were now pale, sweat running down their faces as they exchanged nervous looks. The implications were terrifying. A warrior with the potential to reach level 90 was a force beyond their control—one that could either elevate the academy to new heights or destroy everything they had built if mishandled.

It was only now, in this moment, that the full weight of the Dragonlord’s desperation to keep Sandro on their side became clear.

An elder near the back of the room cleared his throat nervously, trying to regain some composure. “But… but surely, my lord, we can train him, guide him properly. There’s no need to fear—”

The Dragonlord slammed his fist onto the armrest of his throne, the sound echoing through the hall like a thunderclap. “Fear? You think I don’t know that?!” His voice rose, filled with a rare fury that sent a chill down the spines of those present. “I fear what will happen if we don’t give him the training he needs! I fear what he will become if we let him slip through our fingers!”

The room fell into stunned silence once more.

Taking a deep breath, the Dragonlord forced himself to calm down, though the anger still simmered beneath the surface. His eyes locked onto the two elders who had been tasked with selecting the weapons for Sandro. His gaze was ice-cold.

“Speaking of which…” The Dragonlord’s voice dropped to a dangerous tone. “Those weapons you presented to him. What… were those?”

The two elders in question, both seated near the front of the hall, stiffened visibly. One of them, a man with a neatly trimmed mustache and a nervous twitch in his left eye, fidgeted in his seat. He exchanged a brief, panicked glance with his colleague before speaking.

“My lord… we… well…” His words trailed off as he struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation.

The Dragonlord’s eyes narrowed, his patience running thin. “Explain yourselves. Now.”

The second elder, a stout woman with a harsh expression, finally spoke, though her voice lacked its usual confidence. “We… we didn’t want to give Sandro any of the academy’s treasures, my lord. We thought it best not to… waste them on someone who had been dismissed as trash for so long. So… we used failed student creations.”

There was a collective gasp from the other elders as the truth came out. The Dragonlord’s face turned a dangerous shade of red.

“Failed student creations?” he repeated, his voice deadly quiet.

The mustachioed elder, now sweating profusely, nodded quickly. “Yes, my lord. We didn’t see the need to—”

The Dragonlord slammed his fist down again, this time with enough force to crack the armrest of his throne. “You gave a potential prodigy, the greatest talent this academy has seen in centuries, failed student creations?!” His voice boomed through the hall, shaking the very walls with his rage.

The two elders recoiled, fear etched into their faces as the Dragonlord’s fury bore down on them.

“There’s more, my lord,” the stout woman said quickly, trying to shift the blame. “Master Blacksmith Ducan… he’s been ill for some time now. He rarely crafts any weapons anymore. We… we thought it unnecessary to trouble you with his condition, given that he hasn’t been producing anything for the academy.”

At the mention of this, the Dragonlord’s expression darkened even further. His hands clenched into fists, veins bulging on his arms. “You didn’t think it necessary to inform me that the only master blacksmith this academy has left is too ill to perform his duties?”

The mustachioed elder stammered, “W-we thought it best not to burden you, my lord, given the—”

“Enough!” the Dragonlord roared, his voice shaking the hall once more. He pointed at the two elders, his eyes blazing with anger. “You have betrayed the trust of this academy. You will be imprisoned for your treachery and for failing to notify me of matters of such importance!”

The room fell into stunned silence as the Dragonlord’s words sank in. Two guards immediately stepped forward, seizing the two elders by the arms. The mustachioed elder tried to protest, but his words were cut short as the guards dragged him and his colleague toward the exit. The rest of the elders watched in shock, not daring to speak.

As the two traitorous elders were taken away, the Dragonlord sank back into his throne, rubbing his temples in frustration. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the mess they were in. They were without their best blacksmith, without proper weapons, and without the proper talent to replace Master Ducan.

He felt the world around him collapsing. Without Ducan, the academy was left vulnerable, and with Sandro’s future hanging in the balance, he knew they had no room for error.

“Without Master Ducan…” the Dragonlord muttered under his breath, “we have no blacksmith… and no one talented enough to take his place.”

The remaining elders sat in uneasy silence, unsure of what to do or say. They knew the gravity of the situation—they were on the brink of losing everything. And the one person who could tip the scales, Sandro Dovah, had been mistreated and dismissed by their own hands.

The Dragonlord’s gaze drifted toward the empty doors where Sandro had left, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread creeping over him.

AT THE ALCHEMY HALL

Sandro and Elder Miyotashi walked in silence through the winding halls of the academy until they reached the entrance to the Alchemy wing. The large doors loomed before them, carved with intricate designs that depicted ancient alchemical symbols and the processes of creation. Sandro could feel the shift in atmosphere as they crossed the threshold—the air inside the Alchemy wing was cooler, heavier with the scent of herbs, minerals, and mysterious ingredients that filled the room.

Elder Miyotashi led him deeper into the wing, past rows of shelves stacked with bottles, jars, and vials of various colors and shapes. Each one was meticulously labeled, the names of rare ingredients scribbled in precise handwriting. There was an aura of quiet focus here, a place of study and precision. It was a far cry from the chaotic energy of the academy’s training grounds.

As they reached the heart of the wing, where a large central table dominated the room, Sandro stopped for a moment and glanced at Elder Miyotashi. She was busy setting up the tools for their lesson, but before they could begin, he cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” Sandro said quietly.

Elder Miyotashi paused, her hands hovering over a set of alchemical tools. She looked up at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Thank me? For what?”

Sandro shifted slightly, feeling the weight of what he was about to say. “I know it was you. You were the one who left the healing potions outside my shack all those years. You didn’t have to do that… but you did.”

For a moment, there was silence. Elder Miyotashi’s expression softened, but she didn’t speak right away. When she did, her voice was calm but firm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Sandro shook his head. “You don’t have to pretend. I’m not an idiot. Those potions were the only reason I got through the worst of it. Without them, I would’ve been done for.”

Miyotashi’s eyes held his for a moment, then she sighed and lowered her gaze. “You never should have been put in that position in the first place. I only did what anyone with a conscience would do.”

Sandro felt a lump form in his throat as the conversation turned to something heavier. His voice dropped. “I’m… I’m also sorry. For what happened to your husband. If it weren’t for me—”

Elder Miyotashi cut him off, her voice sharper than before. “Stop. Don’t you dare blame yourself for that. My husband knew the risks when he went out looking for a cure. He chose that path. You were never the reason, Sandro.”

Sandro lowered his head, the guilt still gnawing at him despite her words. Elder Miyotashi, noticing his discomfort, placed a hand on his shoulder. “He did it because he believed in you, Sandro. He saw something in you that the others didn’t. And I see it too.”

The weight of her words hung in the air for a moment before she removed her hand and stepped back, her expression returning to its usual professional demeanor. “Now, enough about the past. Let’s get to work.”

Sandro nodded, grateful for the change in subject. Elder Miyotashi gestured for him to take a seat at the alchemical workbench, where various tools, ingredients, and flasks were laid out in a neat arrangement.

“Alchemy,” she began, her voice taking on a teacherly tone, “is a delicate balance of science and magic. Every elixir, every pill, has to be crafted with precision. There’s no room for error here. One wrong measurement, one miscalculated reaction, and the entire mixture could be ruined—or worse, explode in your face.”

Sandro listened intently as Elder Miyotashi started explaining the process in detail. She picked up a small glass vial filled with a bright blue liquid and held it up to the light. “Take this, for example. This is the base ingredient for a basic leveling elixir. It’s a rare extract from a plant called the Blue Aetherroot, known for its ability to enhance one’s cultivation temporarily.”

She placed the vial down and began to pull out other ingredients—powdered minerals, crushed herbs, and something that looked like ground-up gemstone dust. “Each of these components interacts with the base in specific ways. Some enhance its effects, while others stabilize it. But it’s not just about mixing things together. Timing, temperature, and even the way you stir the mixture all play a crucial role.”

Elder Miyotashi demonstrated how to carefully measure each ingredient, adding them to the cauldron in precise amounts. As she worked, she explained how each component contributed to the final result—some boosted physical strength, others enhanced mental clarity, and some were designed to amplify the user’s magical abilities for a short period.

Sandro watched closely, absorbing the information. He had read about alchemy in his textbooks before, but seeing it in action—especially from a master like Miyotashi—was something else entirely.

“Now,” she said, after carefully stirring the mixture in the cauldron, “this is a standard leveling elixir. It’s not too powerful, but it’s enough to give you a boost when you need it.” She ladled a small amount into a vial and handed it to Sandro. “Your turn.”

Sandro took a deep breath and stepped forward, his hands steady but his mind racing. He began measuring out the ingredients as Elder Miyotashi had shown him, adding them to the cauldron one by one. He could feel her eyes on him, watching his every move.

As he stirred the mixture, something inside him stirred as well. It was subtle at first, but he could feel the warmth growing in his hands. His mind focused intently on the task before him, but there was an energy building inside him—an energy he hadn’t fully understood yet.

And then, as he added the final ingredient, it happened.

Without warning, green flames erupted from his hands, enveloping the cauldron in a shimmering, emerald glow. Sandro’s heart raced, but he didn’t stop. He instinctively channeled the flames into the mixture, watching as the ingredients responded to the magical energy coursing through him.

The flames flickered and danced around the cauldron, merging with the elixir in a brilliant display of light and power. Elder Miyotashi gasped, her eyes wide with shock as she witnessed the transformation.

When the flames finally subsided, the liquid in the cauldron had changed. It glowed with a vibrant green hue, far more potent than the elixir Miyotashi had demonstrated earlier. Sandro stared at it in awe.

“I… I did it,” Sandro said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Elder Miyotashi’s shock quickly turned to concern. “Green flames…” she muttered under her breath, stepping closer to inspect the cauldron. She looked at Sandro, her expression serious. “You have to be careful with this, Sandro.”

“What do you mean?” Sandro asked, confused.

Miyotashi’s eyes darkened. “Green flames are incredibly rare. Just like blue flames, they’re a sign of a very specific type of magic—one that hasn’t been seen in a long time. If people find out you can summon them… it could attract attention. The wrong kind of attention.”

Sandro swallowed hard. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until it had happened. The power had just come naturally, as if it had always been there, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

“I won’t say anything,” Sandro promised, his voice firm.

Elder Miyotashi nodded, her expression still tense. “Good. But we need to take precautions.” She walked over to a large cauldron at the far end of the room, pulling open the heavy lid. Inside were various liquids and powders, all meticulously organized.

She selected a few ingredients and began mixing them together with swift, practiced movements. “I’m going to make you an elixir,” she explained as she worked. “It won’t get rid of your green flames, but it will mask them. When you summon them, they’ll appear as white flames—much more common, and less likely to raise suspicion.”

Sandro watched as Miyotashi worked, her hands moving with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times before. After a few minutes, she poured the completed mixture into a small vial and handed it to him.

“Drink this before you attempt any alchemy or magic,” she instructed. “It will disguise the true nature of your flames.”

Sandro nodded, taking the vial. “Thank you, Elder Miyotashi. For everything.”

She gave him a small, weary smile. “You’ve been through enough, Sandro. It’s time the academy started doing right by you.”

After the green flames subsided and Elder Miyotashi had shown Sandro how to mask his flames, she paused for a moment, her expression thoughtful. She crossed her arms and looked at him with a critical eye.

“You’ve grasped the basics of elixir creation well enough,” she said, nodding approvingly. “But there’s another, more advanced branch of alchemy that you’ll need to understand if you want to unlock your full potential. And that’s pill-making.”

Sandro raised an eyebrow. “Pills? Like the kind that heal or boost abilities?”

Miyotashi nodded. “Exactly. But let me make something clear: pills are far more potent than elixirs when it comes to leveling up or enhancing abilities. Elixirs can give you a temporary boost, but pills… pills have the potential to permanently alter your body, enhance your cultivation, or even unlock hidden abilities. They are far more powerful, but the effort required to make them is significantly greater.”

She stepped toward a shelf and pulled down a small wooden box. Inside were several small, round objects, each one neatly sealed in wax. She opened one of them and handed it to Sandro.

“This is a simple healing pill,” she explained. “It’s one of the more basic kinds of pills you can create, but even this requires a great deal of precision. The ingredients are far more temperamental than those used in elixirs, and the process… well, you’ll see.”

Sandro inspected the pill in his hand. It was smooth, round, and gave off a faint herbal scent. He could feel the energy inside it—less volatile than an elixir, but more concentrated. There was something almost alive about it.

“So, why aren’t there more Pill Masters?” Sandro asked, his curiosity piqued.

Miyotashi smiled faintly. “That’s because becoming a Pill Master isn’t easy. It requires years of study, practice, and a deep understanding of both alchemical principles and magical energy. It’s a highly specialized skill, and even among alchemists, very few have the aptitude or patience to reach even the lowest levels.”

She leaned against the workbench, crossing her arms. “Even I am only a level 2 Pill Master,” she admitted, her tone humble. “It’s enough to give me the authority to teach the art, but it’s nowhere near high enough to be considered for one of the major Pill Pavilions.”

Sandro’s eyes widened slightly. “You mean there are different levels?”

Miyotashi nodded. “Yes. The higher your level as a Pill Master, the more complex and powerful the pills you can create. For example, a level 1 Pill Master might be able to make basic healing or energy pills, while a level 2 like me can create more advanced pills, but with certain limitations.”

She paused for a moment, then added, “The highest recorded Pill Master is currently a level 4. His name is Dennis Craus—Alchemy Lord Dennis Craus. He’s the Head Elder of the Canterlot Alchemy Pavilion, one of the most prestigious alchemical institutions in the world.”

Sandro whistled, impressed. “Level 4? How powerful are his pills?”

Miyotashi chuckled. “Powerful enough to change the course of a war, if he wanted to. Dennis Craus is considered one of the greatest alchemists of our time. His pills can heal near-fatal wounds, increase cultivation by leaps and bounds, and even extend life. But such mastery comes with years of dedication, and even then, only a handful of people ever reach that level.”

Sandro absorbed the information, the weight of it settling on him. Pill-making was no joke—it required precision, patience, and a deep connection to one’s magical energy.

“Now,” Miyotashi said, turning back to the workbench, “let’s get you started on something simple. We’ll begin with basic healing pills, just like the one I showed you.”

She pulled out several ingredients from the shelves, explaining each one as she went. “For these pills, we’ll be using Moon Grass for its restorative properties, Spirit Sand to stabilize the pill’s form, and a few drops of Aether Sap to infuse it with healing energy. The key to pill-making is balance. Too much of one ingredient, and the pill might become unstable. Too little, and it will lose its potency.”

Miyotashi set a small cauldron on the workbench and handed Sandro a pestle and mortar. “First, grind the Moon Grass into a fine powder. You’ll need to make sure it’s as smooth as possible—no clumps.”

Sandro nodded and set to work, grinding the Moon Grass with careful, even movements. The scent of the herb filled the air, and he could feel its gentle energy as it was broken down into a fine, silky powder.

“Good,” Miyotashi said, watching him closely. “Now, add the Spirit Sand. Only a pinch—too much, and it’ll disrupt the pill’s form.”

Sandro carefully measured out the Spirit Sand and added it to the mix, stirring it gently with the pestle. He was beginning to see what Miyotashi meant about balance. Each ingredient had to be handled with care, each step precise.

Once the mixture was ready, Miyotashi placed a small pill furnace in front of him. It was a squat, sturdy device made of dark stone, with intricate runes carved into its surface. “This,” she said, “is a pill furnace. It’s where the real magic happens. The furnace helps combine the ingredients and solidify the pill’s form.”

She demonstrated how to activate the furnace, placing the mixture inside and adjusting the temperature with a few simple gestures. “The heat has to be just right,” she explained. “Too hot, and the ingredients will burn. Too cold, and they won’t combine properly.”

Sandro watched as she expertly adjusted the furnace, her movements fluid and confident. After a few moments, the mixture inside began to glow faintly, the ingredients slowly melding together.

“Now, you try,” she said, stepping back to let Sandro take over.

Sandro took a deep breath and stepped up to the furnace. He carefully placed his own mixture inside and adjusted the temperature as Miyotashi had shown him. At first, nothing happened. But then, slowly, the ingredients began to react, glowing softly as they fused together.

Sandro’s heart raced as he watched the process unfold. He could feel the energy inside the furnace, the magical properties of the ingredients swirling and combining into something new.

And then, it was done.

Miyotashi peered inside the furnace and smiled. “Well done,” she said, her voice filled with approval. “You’ve made your first healing pill.”

Sandro couldn’t help but smile. He had done it—his first step into the world of pill-making.

Elder Miyotashi nodded, clearly impressed. “You’ve got potential, Sandro. With more practice, I think you could go far in this craft.”

She paused, her expression softening slightly. “In fact… I’d like you to have this.”

Sandro looked up, surprised, as she walked over to a large cabinet in the corner of the room. She opened it and pulled out a pill furnace—a slightly worn, but sturdy piece of equipment. It had clearly seen years of use, but there was a certain care in the way it had been maintained.

“This was my husband’s pill furnace,” she said quietly, her eyes distant for a moment. “He used it for years. And now… I want you to have it. You’ll need it if you’re serious about learning this craft.”

Sandro stared at the furnace, speechless for a moment. “Elder Miyotashi… I… I don’t know what to say.”

She smiled softly. “Then don’t say anything. Just use it well. My husband believed in you, Sandro. And now, so do I.”

Sandro nodded, feeling a deep sense of gratitude. He took the furnace carefully, his hands running over the worn surface. This wasn’t just a tool—it was a gift of trust and belief in his potential.

“Thank you,” Sandro said, his voice quiet but sincere. “I won’t let you down.”

Miyotashi nodded. “Good. Now, let’s get to work… this is a list of all the ingredients I need you to go and harvest, once you bring them back, I’ll teach you some other cool pills,”

Sandro nodded, took the list and rushed towards the Valiant plains in the middle of the forest.