The Alchemist’s Guild was unlike anywhere else in the Oasis.

For one, it was as remote from Dorian’s camp as it got—on the other end of the Oasis, with a winding maze of streets between them. Dorian couldn’t fly; only city officials in their sweeping purplish robes were allowed to do that. He was forced to pick the streets by foot, dodging hounds-pulled carts and the rest of the dolled-up hordes as he went.

So he was already a tad irritated when he arrived half an hour later at a looming wooden gate. It was composed of two blackened trunks, between which stood two polished red-iron doors studded with golden rings. A great steel placard at the top read in curly, imperious font, Sage Mountain. Subtitled, Home of the Right Honorable Alchemist’s Guild.

Behind it was a small mountain flushed with greenery. It didn’t belong in the slightest among its dry yellow surroundings; it was as though a chunk of a differing biome—some tropical forest a few hundred miles south, maybe—had been plucked up and plopped here. Light- and dark- greens weaved to a lush canopy; Dorian saw streams of multicolored smoke rising from points up the mountain, no doubt billowing out of stirring cauldrons.

More intriguing yet, Dorian felt his Bloodline stirring as he approached. He couldn’t pinpoint a precise spot, but something in this mountain called out to him. Resonance. It was the same feeling he’d gotten at the Sinkhole. Was there an artifact within that might help bolster his blood?

Dorian licked his lips. Time to find out.

Four serious-looking guards in tight dark-green robes stood at the entrance. One of them jerked up when he saw Dorian. A shock of recognition ran through him. Then he spun around and darted through the gate.

Dorian was speechless. Oh, come on. I haven’t even done anything yet! Usually they only got this scared of him after they’d gotten to know him!

The other guards drew out thick batons, each of which crackled with qi.

Spirit weapons. How fun. The cost and the difficulty of mastery meant they hadn’t circulated to the Desert Tribes—they were an Oasis specialty. By the way these men gripped them, Dorian would wager they’d had ample practice with them.

“Halt!” yelled a guard. “Stay where you are!”

“…”

“Halt, I said!” he yelled, red in the face.

“I’ve halted,” said Dorian dryly, putting up his hands. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“The Alchemist’s guild has heard of you. We know who you are, Io Rust,” sneered another guard. I’m infamous. Joy. “Our orders were to send for a Grand Elder if you dared show your face here.”

Admittedly this isn’t quite the welcome I was expecting. Oh, well. I suppose I’ll work with what I’m given…

They stood there, looking at each other awkwardly for an uncomfortably long stretch. Then a tall, flabby man forced his way through the entrance. He was dressed in flowy leaf-green robes embossed with a silver cauldron seal. A gray beard adorned his face; not a wild, unruly tangle as some men’s were, but a flat, straight, brushed-up affair.

“Greetings, Outsider,” he said flatly. “My name is Grand Elder Tong Ouyang.”

‘Ouyang’? Isn’t that the name of…shit.

Out popped Leo Ouyang behind him, smarting red.

Dorian was speechless. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“It is you, you rotten savage!” Leo sniveled. “How dare you show your face here!”

“Greetings, artificer Leo,” he said with a paper-thin smile. “What a happy coincidence.”

“I’m no mere artificer, fool!” yelped Leo. “Maybe you should’ve learned who I was before you picked a fight with me!”

The boy was a smidge confused on who did the fight-picking, but that hardly mattered now. It seemed the multiverse was intent on playing a cosmic joke on Dorian. Dorian sighed. He supposed he’d better oblige.

“Well, why don’t you enlighten me? Who are you?”

“I am Leo Ouyang, fifth son of Duke Sen Ouyang and a pupil of Sphinx Academy!” he yelped. Dorian could see his chest puffing up with hot air in real-time as he spoke. “I hail from the mighty Ouyang Clan, the venerable founders of the Honorable Alchemist’s Guild! My father is the Guild’s Vice-President!”

Dorian sighed again. Of course he is.

“Let me guess,” said Leo, bristling. “You’re here to apply for an Alchemist’s license.”

“Indeed I am.”

“Ha! Ha!” His laugh came out one burst at a time, like the boy was hiccuping. He seemed equal parts angry and frightened. “You’ve got some nerve, coming here after brutally assaulting me!”

“‘Brutally assaulting you’?” said Dorian, quirking a brow. “My recollection is a touch different…” I recall holding back a confused, horny boy who tried his very best to whack my head off.

“I have famously sensitive skin!” cried Leo. Leo thrust an arm out of his sleeve, his eyes glistening. “I must be treated with care and tenderness, and you m-manhandled me, fiend!”

“…Oops?”

“‘Oops’? Is that all you have to say? Hmph! Very good, jolly good!” Leo’s hands bunched to fist. “You wish to apply to my Guild, do you? I’ll allow it—but I have a few small conditions.” He grinned nastily. “Would you like to hear them?”

Leo jabbed a finger at the ground.

Dorian groaned. Here we go. He knew how this went. He could see the ludicrous demands percolating in that silly little blond head. Leo would state some insane ultimatum, Dorian would naturally be forced to concede, and he’d have a good laugh at Dorian’s expense.

It seemed the multiverse’s joke on him was fast arriving at its punch-line. Who was Dorian to halt it?

Dorian rolled his eyes. “How do I know you’ll honor your end of the bargain?”

Leo looked scandalized. “I’m a noble! The word of a noble is sacred.”

“Hmm.” That was as good a guarantee as he’d get out of the boy. Whatever. At worst Dorian would say refuse, they’d shut the doors on him, and it’d be a waste of a morning. “Alright. List ‘em.”

Leo raised a finger. “Give me a formal apology!” He raised another. “Kowtow to me thrice!” He raised a third, treating Dorian to a gloating grin as he did. “Slap yourself five times in the face!” A fourth finger came up. His grin was one thin, evil line. “And kiss. My. Toes!” He smirked as he said it.

Dorian blinked. “…Wait. That’s it? Really?”

Leo frowned. “What do you mean, ‘that’s it—“

“I, Io Rust, am a heathen, a fool, a clown, an unlettered halfwit! To think I insulted a man as honorable, handsome, and stunningly forgiving as the great Leo Ouyang! Truly, this one has eyes but cannot see the depths of the Sinkhole!” He wailed.

Dopping to his knees, he kowtowed three times in three loud thumps; his forehead made dents on the sun-baked ground.

Then he wound a hand all the way back and gave himself a loud, crackling smack, right on the cheek. Then another. Then another. And another. Leo’s mouth hung open, utterly slack. He looked at Dorian as though Dorian had sprouted three heads. He was stunned. The guards were stunned. Elder Tong was stunned.

Then Leo’s face paled. Dorian saw the thoughts plain on the boy’s face—he was running through the demands one by one. He saw the precise moment the boy arrived at his last demand. He saw the look of unmitigated horror. It went, ‘Surely he wouldn’t actually—‘

Dorian lunged for Leo’s feet, grabbed him by the ankle, and planted a big fat kiss on his big toe.

“EEEEEE!” shrieked the boy, yanking out his foot. Dorian followed like a hunting dog, tackling him to the ground and grabbing at the heels. Down he went again, this time aiming for the second toe. He planted sloppy smooches all over it. He made sure not to use teeth. We must take special care of his famously sensitive skin, after all…

“EWWW! EWWWWWW!! AHH!” Leo thrashed and shoved at him, but Dorian wouldn’t let up. “STOP IT! STOP! I CONCEDE! I GIVE, I GIVE!! AHHH!!!” Dorian’s tongue was doing a wet circle around the boy’s third toe. He gave it good ol’ suck for good measure, bobbing his head as he did. He could tell the boy bathed regularly. There was even a pleasing hint of watermelon to the taste—a scented soap, maybe? Mostly it was smothered by all the sweat and skin and so forth, but it was there. Leo looked like his soul was leaving his body. “UNCLE TONG!! DO SOMETHING!!”

A blast of force sent Dorian sprawling off Leo and into the street. He made a show of licking his lips as he glanced back at Leo’s feet. The boy shrieked again and dropped to his knees, struggling to cover himself. “D-d-don’t look at me like that!” he cried.

“What?” he said, feigning disappointment. “Isn’t this what you asked for, mister Leo?”

“Y-you BEAST!” By the look in his eyes, in those thirty seconds Dorian had managed to implant traumas that would take a lifetime of therapy to root out. Hehe. Nice.

Dorian stood, put a sheepish slant on his smile, and bowed. “Well then. I hope this settles our feud for good.”

“Ah?” Leo blubbered. “B-but—“

“Onward!“ Dorian closed the distance between him and the gate in three quick strides, gave the Leo a wink, and made to step through the door.

But a hand caught the back of his robe as he tried to slip past.

It was the Elder. His stern face was a stringent mix of disgusted and unamused. His cheek still twitched uncontrollably; it seemed he hadn’t quite recovered from that display either. “My idiot nephew may have given you his—ah—his permission—but I have not, Outsider.”

Drat. After all that, you’re screwing me here? He could still taste the toe-sweat on his tongue! “What happened to ‘the word of a noble is sacred’?”

“I have not given my word, scoundrel!”

Ugh. Dorian could see where this was going. Still, Dorian shot the man his most charming smile. “Then what, pray tell, would you have me do?”

“Nothing!” spat Elder Tong. The Elder dragged him out and helped him back into the street with a not-so-friendly shove. “There is nothing you can do. This is the Honorable Guild of Alchemists. Whatever insanity compelled the Artificers to admit you has no hold here!”

Dorian could tell this Elder would prove considerably harder to crack. Already the man had slid his composure back on. He spoke every sentence like a somber decree. Like there was some scribe hiding around a corner at all times, recording every word for the history-books. “Begone at once! We will not pollute our ranks with your kind.” A corner of Tong’s lips curled. “And that—vulgar display—certainly does not help your cause!”

I did as the boy asked! Why am I the bad guy? Leo, meanwhile, was busy whimpering in a curled-up ball. Dorian tried not to show his exasperation. “Sir, the artificers let me in because they deemed me valuable. Who knows? I may be an asset to the alchemists too.” He spread his hands, smiling tightly. “I only ask for a chance to prove myself.”

He tapped his Interspatial ring. “I’ve brought along a few sample elixirs with great commercial potential. These may be of interest to you—“

“We have heard of your new-fangled elixirs,” snapped the Elder. “Our Officials brought back samples of all the elixirs that you sold at the Festival, Outsider. We have examined them for weeks. You have nothing to offer us.”

Isn’t this fellow full of unhappy surprises. “Well, I have the recipes for them. I think you’ll find that useful if you wish to mass-produce any of my elixirs.”

“We have assigned our finest Alchemists to the task of deducing their recipes. Soon we shall be in possession of all of them.”

“You’ll find my elixirs fairly inscrutable without my help, I’m afraid…”

Elder Tong’s lip was curling into a full-on sneer. “If you truly believe the highest Alchemists in the land cannot extricate a formula concocted in the muddled mind of a dust-spawned savage, you are sorely mistaken!”

Dorian cocked his head. “Really? How much progress have they made, might I ask?”

Tong’s face took on a slight crimson shade. “Insolent!”

Then he breathed in deeply, breathed out. The angry lines on his face softened. “No. This conversation is over. My time is too valuable to be wasted scolding a degenerate in the street.” He shot Dorian a stinky look. “I dearly hope we never cross paths again.”

“Wait.” Dorian tapped at his Interspatial Ring. Out came his Tournament Qualifier’s token. “One more thing. I hoped I wouldn’t need to resort to this, but if I must… I’m also a Tournament Qualifier. Doesn’t this grant me access to all the Oasis’ resources?”

Elder Tong froze. He squinted. He gnashed his teeth. A few slow seconds dragged by. Then his eyes glinted, and Dorian knew the man had spotted a loophole. He could tell the curmudgeon’s mind was set against him. Dorian had a suspicion that nothing he did or said was getting him through those gates.

“…So it does,” Elder Tong bit out. “But a Tournament Token is no license to do whatever the holder wishes. Access can still be revoked if the holder violates the Guild’s rules. I deem that you have.”

“Which rules?”

“I’m under no obligation to explain myself to the likes of you!” Elder Tong crossed his arms. These people are more shameless than even the artificers.

“Th-th-that’s right!” cried Leo. He’d recovered enough to glare at Dorian with red-rimmed eyes. “Crawl back to your filthy—oww!!”

The Elder had grabbed Leo by the ear. “And you, fool boy, must learn when to keep your blathering mouth shut!”

He dragged the cringing boy back through the gate, which promptly swung closed.

…

Did I suck all those toes for nothing?

***

Okay, maybe that was partly my fault. Part of it was his skin tone and Outsider status—nothing to be done there—but maybe going a little too far with that Leo boy yesterday didn’t help matters. And maybe he could’ve been a little less enthusiastic with the toes, too…

He didn’t blame himself too much for it. There was an unwritten rule in all of his runs—to have fun! Wasn’t the point of all of this to amuse himself, after all? If it meant a few short years tacked on at the end of things, so be it. All of his runs had a few fun-wasted years tacked on; they made little difference. Real screw-ups on the journey to Godking usually happened on the order of decades. Sometimes centuries. Most of them were from imperfectly-build foundations leading to stagnant growth, or screwing-up one of the Godly bottlenecks, or failing a Heavenly Tribulation. On occasion, pissing off the wrong Gods cost him badly too, but the higher-up he went, the more careful he got. Messing with these ants would hardly cost him a run.

If he efficiently extracted resources, sussed out the best techniques, claimed good bloodlines and treasures, and got it all done in a speedy enough manner, he’d allow himself some amusement.

Even if it meant he was now trudging back empty-handed and ticked off.

Every street he passed had a shop emblazoned with the Alchemist Guild’s logo. He strolled by a glass outdoor stand set up under a flapping overhang; every flask there was stamped with that cauldron emblem. He supposed the Guild had reason to be haughty. They had a chokehold on Alchemy across all of the Oasis, it seemed.

Dorian wasn’t too upset over the whole affair. Alchemy was a side-project—useful, but not the main focus of his attention here. He was hoping to use the Guild’s vast infrastructure to sell all his new concoctions, but if his Alchemy efforts flopped—oh, well. It wasn’t crippling. He’d still fare fine.

A few options now lay before him.

One. He could press the issue with the relevant authorities. He gathered the Tournament was a fairly big deal around here; they’d need to take him seriously. He might cause the Alchemist’s Guild some minor headaches. Perhaps they might even be forced to concede to him—though the suspected whichever city official took the case would side with the massive Guild over some unknown urchin.

Two.

If the Alchemist’s Guild wouldn’t admit him, fine. He’d set up his own shop and run that crusty fossil of a Guild into the ground.

Hmm. It seemed like a lot of work for a mere side-project. He had no intention of spending most of his day brewing for mass consumption, like he used to; nowadays, he had enough Lira to spare and not enough incentive. At most he’d brew a few specialized cauldrons for his own advancement.

Then he got an idea. An idea which halted him in his tracks.

Setting up his own shop would be a lot of effort on his end—

Unless…

Unless he could take advantage of an as-of-yet untapped workforce and outsource the bulk of the work. A workforce composed of an underclass which demanded little pay.

But Alchemy couldn’t simply be handed off to just anyone; it required a deep understanding of qi-flows. It was much like casting a Technique; it needed the presence of a human mind to guide it along, delicately and continuously. The more high-level the Elixir, the more qi, fortitude, and mental strength it required. Tasking, say, an Outskirter to brew an Elixir was preposterous.

Unless he had a device which could cast the brewing Techniques for them. Oh, wait…

Alchemical qi was based on the [Imbue] Technique; it was different from most Martial Techniques, but Dorian doubted it’d take more than a half-day to suss out the rune for it. Then it was simply a matter of tweaking each [Imbue] rune to suit different Elixir recipes. It might take him another half-day to perfect a raft of working staffs—or rather, Wizard’s Sticks—to simulate the work of a factory’s worth of trained Alchemists.

All the human worker would need to supply was qi, a few stirs, and the right ingredients put in at the right time. They’d be little more than batteries with arms. Rote, replicable maneuvers to produce Elixirs could be done by any street rat or Outskirter. The elixirs they’d make would cost ten times more when brewed by a Guild-certified Alchemist.

A plot began to brew in his mind.

It seems I have a new topic to discuss when I meet the Rat-King.