He winced in pain, or so he wished. He knew how delicate the process he undertook was, so he must not move.

  "MMFFFHMMPHHH!" he screamed into the rag in his mouth.

  The pain was unbearable: as if he were being devoured by ants, except to a magnitude where the long-deceased neurons throughout his body came back to life to scream at him, demanding he cut away the site of pain along with all the tissue that surrounded it.

  But he could not move. His head, joints, and limbs were fastened by iron chains with such resistance that movement was impossible.

  The dark ichor seeped rapidly into his skin where he painted—its advancement into the blood stopped only by the most precise calculations he had worked out for hours.

  "It will hurt." I have never heard a greater understatement in my life, Vigo.

  Exhausted, he set the thick brush onto the silver platter to his right and painfully pulled loose the chain that held his left arm—pale in complexion except for a series of black markings and perfect circles—and shoulder.

  This weakened limb climbed to its right counterpart—it, too, held circles and a distinct mark.

  Dutifully, it pulled and clasped. Reaching down to the left side, it grabbed an identical brush and soaked it into a pot that held this volatile substance. His wet, bloodshot eyes watched the viscous liquid drip carefully, and as the last drop fell, his arm moved swiftly.

  His arm bent backward, pointing the brush toward himself—his eyes watching the operation through two opposing mirrors.

  The brush touched the skin, tilted at the slightest downward angle as it made a curved line—a reflection of the semi-circle made on the side across the groove of his back. Only the tip made contact; if the brush were ever pressed too deep, the cursed liquor would harden his blood.

  At last, the third and final circle of the sixth blessing was drawn.

  Arthur stared blankly at the ill reflection of Cedric in the mirror. His face was too numb to smile now, but he knew he had succeeded.

  Eventually, someone will find me unclothed. The dangers associated with such are now negligible.

  Petrifying Ichor.

  A terrifying concoction detailed in the fifth book of the Speculum Alchemiae series, which contains the most dangerous alchemical recipes allowed in practice by the Mage Association.

  The ichor is pitch-black in color and has a property that hardens any organic material it comes into contact with by concentrating mana and fortifying it. Letting it get into my blood would bring about some sort of disability. But the concentrated mana enables a faint mana presence identical to that of an Elemental Blessing.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Now my appearance is complete.

  He relaxed his fingers, dropping the brush, and spat out the rag.

  …

  "Is this the Necronomicon?" Arthur asked, using his two hands as a pedestal for the thick book titled Speculum Alchemiae that Vigo had just handed him.

  Vigo stopped and turned from the ten-foot-tall wall of bookshelves with tranquility in his eyes. The discipleship had begun mere minutes ago.

  "Is that what you spent so much time looking for in the Lesser Archives?"

  Arthur felt his pride—as one always remaining vigilant—chip.

  "It doesn't exist."

  "What?" Arthur demanded uncouthly, with half-suppressed impatience, nearly dropping the book.

  "Don't drop that; there's only one of its kind in existence."

  Arthur looked at his hand that held the book with three fingers, and, seemingly acknowledging his mistake, he wrapped his hands firmly around it.

  "To be accurate, the Necronomicon that holds the knowledge to resurrect the dead does not exist."

  "The real Necronomicon… is this."

  His arms spread outward, and Arthur's eyes zoomed out to view the book-wall of knowledge behind him in its entirety.

  "This, and the collections of all the members of our decentralized organization of Black Mages, make up what we call the Necronomicon."

  "To my knowledge, since our last gathering a decade ago, none have developed true resurrection."

  "Take that, and these." He stacked four additional books into Arthur's hands—all titled Speculum Alchemiae.

  "Learn quickly. The earlier you complete these, the earlier you can join me in my research."

  "It is late now, so return to your dorm. You won't be able to enjoy many days of rest after this point."

  He recalled the nights he spent following his receipt of the book—it wasn't difficult; after all, he had spent all of those nights awake, reading through each and every single one of those books.

  And in the second book, he found his favorite recipe of them all, Sivanamine: an alchemical stimulant that provides energizing effects. It has a thick and muddy-green consistency accompanied by an objectively putrid taste and an anxiety-inducing fever. Though, Arthur seemed completely unaffected by it.

  He brewed and drank from his four-liter pot every night when he studied. And in one week, he completed the 1,000-page series eleven times.

  Speculum Alchemiae

  A series of five books authored by Researcher Sivan Ruarc Vigo and approved by the Mage Association. It details hundreds of alchemical recipes, largely discovered by himself alongside previous knowledge, serving as the primary source of knowledge that all alchemists employ—each book in the cascade holding information much more dangerous than the last.

  He had not slept for days reading the collection, nor did he want to—it didn't affect his academic performance, so it was harmless to him.

  The dense metal links thudded as they struck the ground, revealing purple rings circling the areas where they once clasped.

  Arthur shook his hands up and down, assisting the circulation of blood to lessen the pain he still very much felt.

  The hardened tissue doesn't hinder movement too much, as none lies on a joint, but the pain will probably last for days.

  I'll have to make some kind of analgesic to dull it. Maybe a Sivanomorph?

  He advanced toward the book to make certain of the recipe he had already memorized, but his body failed him.

  He fell to the sweat-drenched ground with his arm outstretched, knocking down the table and the book.

  His eyes never left the book—watching as it tumbled onto his bed.

  My legs are weaker than I thought. I'll have to focus on that next in physical training.

  He slowly pushed himself up while moving toward the book, when suddenly his darkness-adjusted eyes spotted another book—two other books.

  His eyes flared upon realization.

  Cedric's books!