FROST-Chapter 133: Alchemy and Absence

From his perch high upon the jagged obsidian bluff, East stood unblinking, his amber gaze narrowed against the flurry of crystalline snow. His robes, lined in silver runes, fluttered violently in the bitter wind. Below, the field had become a battlefield—no, a test chamber—where magic clashed and shattered with each breath.

He saw the way the world around the apprentices warped now, subtly at first. A shimmer in the air. A vibration, low and unnerving, that didn’t belong in the natural world. The light bent oddly in patches, sound muffled in bursts. Time itself, for the briefest seconds, felt misaligned.

This was no ordinary spell.

East’s pupils dilated as he tracked the rippling dome of manipulation expanding around the young man trembling at the center—Tomoe.

There were two hundred fifty apprentices present. The youngest, the brightest, the most promising of Moonstone Academy. Of them, fifty had already separated, rushing into the fog-laden ridges to join West and Sebastian, who had engaged the other two cloaked figures. One of those enemies had unveiled himself as an elf—East could sense the pointed refinement of his aura, the rhythm of magic that only an ancient bloodline could carry. But the second...

The second figure?

East’s hand tightened around the twisted oak staff at his side.

He had glimpsed a face. Human, yes—but wrong. As though it had been pressed through something that stripped identity and replaced it with void. And like the pink-haired woman, he carried no mana thread. No pulse of power. No magical flow.

It was as if he were a walking paradox—present, yet dimensionally misplaced.

His gaze snapped back to the boy.

Tomoe.

The trembling apprentice stood with his arms extended, hands splayed wide, sleeves soaked with melting snow. His long gray hair, once tied back in a meticulous loop, had unraveled—now a tangled curtain streaked across his pallid cheeks. But his eyes... those almond eyes that usually flitted with anxiety and avoidance, now glinted with eerie stillness.

The world bent in response to him.

Spacial magic—the rarest of them all. Not even the Guardians dared use it recklessly. It was the domain of gods, theorists, and madmen.

And yet, this boy commanded it with trembling fingers.

Tomoe’s hands twisted in motion, and the air between him and the pink-haired woman convulsed, folding in on itself like crumpled glass. Reality warped—not with heat, not with force, but with absence. As if a slice of the battlefield had been cleanly cut out and removed from the world.

With a snap like tearing silk, a slit of pure nothingness tore open mid-air. A shimmering black blade—no larger than a doorway, no deeper than a breath—swallowed a chunk of the field whole, including a swelling mass of the woman’s grotesque pink slime.

The substance pulsed once, almost in protest, before a chunk of it was dragged inward, sucked through the shimmering void.

It didn’t fall.

It didn’t combust.

It simply ceased to exist. And then the tear folded shut. Neatly. Coldly. Like a page turned in an indifferent book.

Half of the bubblegum sludge was gone. Not melted. Not vanquished. Erased completely.

The woman’s head tilted, her glasses reflecting light in an eerie flat sheen. She hadn’t moved, not even to defend the magic that had so far confounded them all. But her stillness now felt... less detached. Less clinical and more watchful.

Tomoe’s knees nearly gave, but he caught himself. His breath came fast, fogging the air. Space shimmered again around his body, defensive tendrils spiraling like unseen ribbons—ready to fold in and out should any strike reach him.

All around him, the apprentices were frozen—not with fear this time, but awe. Even the most hardened of them had never witnessed a spatial fold in real time. A boy had just sliced reality—and lived.

"Holy stars..." someone breathed.

Marcel, wind-weaver, clutched his wrist and murmured, "Did he just... delete it?"

And still Tomoe stood there, barely holding on, magic howling around him like a gale made of vacuum.

East inhaled deeply.

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, East thought. But he’s doing it anyway. Instinctually. Like a child born with a sword made for kings.

The pink-haired woman’s eyes tracked the collapsed space. She didn’t speak. But a flicker passed behind her lenses—faint, sharp, analytical.

Interest.

It was the most dangerous reaction of all.

And East knew, in that moment, that this was only the beginning. Tomoe’s magic may have bought them a breath—but the woman would not let the next mistake be hers.

She had seen now what he could do and that she would adapt. Seeing that they fed Tomoe to counter her abilities, it is evident that he’s one to have the rarest magic type.

The woman smiled.

It was the first time anyone had seen it. And despite the otherworldly beauty she possessed—perfect cheekbones, skin like silk under moonlight, and eyes rimmed with feathery lashes—her smile was not a balm. It was a blade.

Slow, deliberate, and blood-chilling.

Like a porcelain doll deciding which limb to snap first.

A sharp, collective breath passed through the ranks of the apprentices. Even the most disciplined among them other than Ezekiel—the ones who had undergone personal missions and faced monsters and madness—felt a ripple of instinctual dread tighten in their spines.

"Interesting," the woman said, her voice lilting like the delicate chime of a music box... a music box left playing in a locked room long after the owner had vanished. Sweet and horrifying in equal measure.

Her eyes gleamed behind her large circular glasses, reflecting Tomoe like a gem she’d just discovered. Before anyone could move, a second voice cut through the veil of cold.

"He’s not one to have the linked magic, Astra. Don’t waste your time."

It came from the man who had stood silently behind her all this time. His hood still obscured most of his face, but his voice was unmistakable—deep, guttural, ancient. It was not merely sound; it was resonance. The very vibration of it struck the bones of those nearby, as if spoken through the earth itself.

Some of the apprentices flinched, clutching at their chests. Marcel staggered back, nearly falling to one knee. Mira steadied him with a look of alarm.

But the woman—Astra—only giggled.

"Oh, don’t be a kill joy, Cyrus," she said, voice syrupy with delight. "The King told us to enjoy ourselves." She twirled a strand of pink hair around her finger, her smile now impossibly wider. "And perhaps...I want him."

Tomoe’s breath caught in his throat. He took a step back, boots crunching through the snow—but it was too late. She was pointing at him.

Him.

"He’ll be a fine specimen in my laboratory," Astra said in a singsong whisper, cheeks flushing a rosy pink as though genuinely smitten. Her grin turned crooked, deranged. "I’ve always wanted to dissect someone with spacial instincts."

Ezekiel’s jaw clenched. His fingers sparked with restrained power. "Alchemy," he hissed, the word falling from his mouth like a curse. "This woman... she’s using Alchemical Magic. Don’t let her touch you—"

"Too late," Astra whispered, and her form blinked.

It wasn’t teleportation—not in the traditional sense. It was more like watching a fold of paper twist through the fourth dimension. Her figure shimmered like liquid mercury for a heartbeat and then she was standing directly in front of Tomoe.

So close their breath mingled. Her hand was already on his. The contact was delicate. Almost gentle.

But the moment her pale fingers touched his wrist, Tomoe screamed.

It wasn’t just pain. It was his mana that screamed.

Ribbons of translucent symbols etched themselves into the skin where she touched him—circuit-like patterns glowing blue then gold then sickening violet. The snow around their feet melted in a perfect ring, and a strange chemical scent—like burning sugar and sulfur—rose into the air.

Astra’s eyes fluttered closed, as if intoxicated. "Oh, darling," she whispered, pressing closer. "Your body sings so beautifully. I’ll savor your screams in my flasks for centuries."

"Let him go!" Jules roared, hurling a spear of coiled metal toward the woman. The weapon twisted in the air like a silver serpent, hissing through the frozen air with deadly precision.

But it never struck its mark.

Astra, without so much as a blink, caught it.

With her pinkie finger.

Delicately. Effortlessly. The spear screeched to a halt in the air like it had struck an invisible wall, her lone finger pressing its sharpened point as though testing a needle. Her amused smirk never faltered.

"I’m afraid he’s mine now," she whispered, clutching Tomoe’s wrist tighter. Symbols began etching faster into his skin, pulsing with that same unnatural violet glow.

Then the air fractured.

Before she could vanish with Tomoe into that folding alchemical void, a second presence surged into existence like a thunderclap.

East.

He appeared between them—not from the sky, not from a spell, but from the very space between heartbeats. One of his hands was already gripping Astra’s wrist—the one that held Tomoe—as if he had always been there waiting.

His amber eyes glowed like the heart of a furnace. Feral. Unforgiving.

Astra barely had time to scream.

Crack.

The sound was sickening. Her forearm bent backward at an unnatural angle as East snapped the bone with a precise twist of his hand. She shrieked in agony, her voice shrill and high like glass shattering inside the skull.

Before she could even turn her head, a new attacker charged in—Cyrus, roaring in defense of his comrade, his body surrounded by swirling blades of air.

He never reached them.

With no motion at all, no gesture, no chant, Cyrus was hurled backwards as though a mountain had slammed into him. He flew across the snowy field and crashed into the base of a cliff, the sound of bones rattling echoing afterward.

Astra thrashed in East’s grip, her free hand trying to conjure sigils mid-air, but she wasn’t fast enough. East gave her the mercy of release—by throwing her like a rag doll toward Cyrus. She slammed into him mid-rise and the two were sent tumbling down the far slope, their bodies colliding with jagged stone and snow until they vanished behind the cliff’s edge.

Tomoe fell to his knees with a gasp, collapsing into the snow as air finally surged back into his lungs. His hand—where she had touched him—was red and blistered, alchemical burns etching cruel patterns across his skin.

The apprentices stared in silence.

They had trained for months.

And yet, East still had to intervene.

The weight of shame settled across their shoulders like a heavier snowfall.

"Ahhh~" East groaned, running a hand through his disheveled white hair, his voice light, almost teasing. "Seems like I really can’t leave you kids unattended." He stretched his neck with an audible pop, as though he were the one inconvenienced.

Two figures bolted from the watching crowd—Zoya Valinor and Lana Croft, healers who had studied under Theo himself. They dropped to their knees beside Tomoe, hands glowing as they began to work.

"The burns are... spreading," Lana whispered in horror. "His mana’s... unstable—"

Zoya gritted her teeth. "We’ll stabilize him. Just keep the area clear!" freēnovelkiss.com

Tomoe barely heard them. His eyes were glazed, breath short, body trembling. But he was alive.

"B-But Grandmaster, we’re—" Elrond Brimestone began, stepping forward with guilt twisting his features.

"It’s not like I haven’t seen everything," East replied, not even looking at him. His voice had dropped calm. "There are two hundred of you here. And none of you helped them."

Silence.

Snowflakes drifted gently between them. The shame was unbearable.

"But then," East sighed, turning back toward the cliff, "that’s a good thing."

The apprentices blinked in confusion.

"At least," he added, "you didn’t attack without any plans."

He turned, smiling at them—and at Ezekiel, whose hand still burned faintly with residual lightning. "Good job, everyone. But this mission is postponed."

"B-But why?" they chorused in protest.

"We can beat them, Grandmaster!" someone shouted from the back, fists clenched, face red with frustration. Murmurs of agreement followed.

"Of course you can," East replied with an unbothered grin. "It’s just that... these people aren’t the kind you defeat without one of you getting, well..." He glanced down at Tomoe, still kneeling in the snow. "...kidnapped or worse."

His eyes drifted toward the edge of the cliff, where Astra and Cyrus were already beginning to rise.

Astra’s broken arm was healed.

She stood with eerie grace, brushing dust from her pink dress, magic humming at her fingertips once more. And now that he saw her properly—without the chaos of battle—East could tell. She was human.

But that was the problem.

Alchemy, after all, was not magic born of natural affinity. It was given. Taught. Rewritten. It was also considered as a forbidden practice, but not all could do it so the gods had forgotten it even exist.

And now East saw it with his own eyes.

Something—or someone—had twisted her essence into this abomination.

Whether it was Periwinkle, or the "King" she mentioned, East wasn’t sure yet. But what chilled him was the purpose. She and her other three companions hadn’t come for victory.

They had come to collect.

Linked Magic vessels.

Silvermist.

Levi.

Cullen.

West.

They were after all of them.

And someone had leaked that information.

East’s gaze hardened.

There were only two people close enough to the central records to betray that detail.

Professor Cedric.

Professor Bramble.

But how were they able to get their hands on the records just like that, when they were never even known to the Guardians?

"Alright, everyone!" East snapped, turning back to them. "Keep your peonies for now—we’ll continue this mission soon."

"B-But what about West and the others, Your Highness?" Marcel asked, stepping forward.

"They’ll join you shortly," East said with a smile. "For now, return to the academy. Do some sparring or whatever you like. I’ll send signals to gather the professors."

"With Professor Bramble?" one woman asked excitedly.

"And Professor Cedric?"

East blinked, then forced a smile—something that made Ezekiel sigh.

"Of course," East grinned.

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