Mr. F examined his soul lantern from just a few centimeters away. From the perspective of the souls trapped within, it likely seemed as if a giant were peering through their only window to the outside world. Overjoyed with his recent success, he began to whistle a cheerful tune, counting each captured soul as he did so: "One, two, three... fourteen." With every number, his whistling grew more exuberant, his mood lifting with each soul he tallied.

Wait a minute, he thought suddenly. Since when do I whistle? Or rather, since when do I do such things in my free time? Mr. F was momentarily puzzled by this odd behavior but quickly dismissed the thought. It didn't really matter whether he could whistle or not, after all.

More pressing matters demanded his attention—like the spell he had cast over the estate. It was one of his own creations: the Soul Funnel. Originally designed for use on battlefields to collect the souls of the fallen, the spell had its limitations. Its effectiveness was directly tied to the amount of magical energy one could provide. As a Tier 6 mage, he could only create a funnel with a 30-meter radius. On a battlefield, 30 meters was nothing—a mere drop in the ocean. Worse still, the funnel's presence could be detected by enemies, who might then thwart his efforts.

Only when he had reached the feared rank of Tier 9 had he been able to cast a concealed funnel that could stretch across several kilometers. But by then, what was the point of collecting a large number of Tier 3 to Tier 6 souls? As a Tier 9 mage, it was far more efficient to wait for the death of a Tier 7 or 8 mage and then act from the shadows to capture their soul. Why bother with the unnecessary stress of gathering weaker souls?

Moreover, using such methods earned him many enemies. After all, who would be pleased to see their comrade or friend unable to ascend to the afterlife because someone had stolen their soul? It was no surprise that the Church had once given him the infamous nickname "Soul Thief."

Those were the good old days, Mr. F mused, reminiscing about how he had once fled from and fought against the Church.

But now, it was time to focus on more important matters than the stories of bygone eras. He turned his attention back to the soul lantern. Normally, capturing souls required a fixed amount of magical energy, depending on the strength of the soul's essence. However, this only became a concern from Tier 7 and above. Before that, most souls were of similar strength since they only cultivated their magical power. Without a body, that power was useless.

Inside the lantern, a considerable number of new souls swirled around. He had captured 13 souls that evening, three of which belonged to Tier 5 mages. This was a significant achievement for Mr. F. With these souls, he could restore his vitality for more than a week.

However, Mr. F didn't brew the potion immediately. His plan was to wait until the effects of the current potion wore off and his vitality began to wane once more. Only when he was on the brink of death again would he brew the potion, aiming to extend the intervals between each dose as much as possible.

Mr. F believed that once the effects of the first potion ended, he could survive another week on his remaining vitality. This theory, of course, would require further testing. As soon as he felt his strength begin to fade, he would brew the potion and keep it on hand until he had no other choice but to use it.

With the three souls he had captured, he estimated that he could extend his life for up to three weeks. If he succeeded in helping Albert brew a potion, that might even stretch to four weeks.

Mr. F was content with his success and decided it was time to sleep. "Tomorrow will be another challenging day," he thought to himself as he drifted off into the land of dreams, his mind filled with plans for the future.

…

The next morning, Mr. F awoke as usual. He opened the window, allowing the morning sunlight to spill into his room. The air was filled with the sweet melodies of sunbirds, their songs echoing through the tranquil morning. Mr. F found himself listening intently to their chorus, almost entranced by the serenity of the scene.

Wait a minute, since when have I become so melodramatic? he thought, placing a hand on his forehead. Had he perhaps contracted mana fever? But his body felt normal. Something was strange, something didn't quite align with his usual self. It must be age or stress, he reasoned, dismissing the odd feeling as he closed the window and headed toward the laboratory.

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When Mr. F arrived and opened the door, he found Albert already there. The young man was sitting at the table, fast asleep, snoring softly. Mr. F shook his head at the sight and retrieved a blanket from the broom closet. The blanket was meant for fire emergencies, but he didn't want Albert to catch a chill. The act of kindness felt strangely out of place, almost foreign to him, but he didn't question it further.

Mr. F took out his reagents from the spatial pouch and began preparing his workspace. Once he had his emotions under control, he started his first attempt of the day. The medicinal aroma of the brewing potion began to fill the room, slowly rousing Albert from his slumber. A small puddle of drool had formed under his chin, and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his coat, looking around sleepily.

When Albert saw Mr. F, he jumped up in shock and quickly apologized, "I'm so sorry for falling asleep, Mr. F!"

Mr. F, who was in the middle of pouring the completed potion into a vial, waved him off with a hand gesture, indicating it was alright. "Don't worry about it. Just clean up the table and put away the blanket. After that, you can join me and watch as I work on the alchemy."

"T-t-thank you!" Albert stammered, quickly tidying up. Mr. F had already transferred the potion. Since it wasn't a failure, there was no need to clean the cauldron.

Strange, Mr. F thought. It feels as if brewing this potion was child's play. It's as if my alchemical skills have somehow improved overnight.

Without hesitation, he moved on to the next potion, and then another. By the time evening approached, Mr. F had used up all his reagents and successfully brewed ten potions. The difference from the day before yesterday was like night and day.

Albert, observing his master's progress, was thrilled. After all, every student hopes for a skilled master, and Mr. F had proven himself to be just that.

Mr. F took a small, enchanted chest from the shelf. It was designed to preserve the freshness of elixirs for an extended period. He carefully placed the ten potions inside the chest and handed it to Albert.

"Here are ten potions that we brewed together over the past few days," Mr. F said. "Take them to Matilda, and once you've returned, if it's not too late, we can do some alchemy practice for you."

Albert jumped with excitement and snatched the chest from Mr. F's hands. Without further thought, he dashed out of the laboratory, heading straight for Matilda's office.

From a distance, he heard Mr. F's voice, filled with mock sternness: "Take it easy! If you drop that chest, I'll skin you alive!"

Albert knew he was joking, but he decided to slow down anyway, not wanting to risk damaging the precious potions. Upon reaching the office, he knocked on the door. Since the laboratory was connected to Matilda's office, she would have heard the knock if she was in either room.

Albert waited patiently, and after about twenty minutes, the door finally opened. Matilda, wearing an apron with her hair tied back, appeared—clearly in the middle of brewing potions herself.

She looked at Albert with mild surprise. "It's not time for our meeting yet. What brings you here so early?"

Albert, momentarily forgetting his purpose, quickly handed over the chest. "Mr. F successfully brewed eleven potions!" he said proudly.

Matilda's eyes widened in surprise. Didn't he only manage to complete one potion last time? How had he managed to produce so many potions, and in record time?

Matilda opened the chest, confirming that it was indeed filled with potions, but then she asked, "Didn't you say he made eleven potions? There are only ten in this chest."

Albert opened his mouth to speak but then closed it, deep in thought. The master did say he made ten potions today, but he also made one the day before yesterday. Did he forget to include one in the chest?

Suddenly, Albert recalled Mr. F's words: "Here are ten potions that we brewed together over the past few days." He had clearly made eleven potions but had only given ten to Matilda. Albert hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do, but then made a decision. "I must have made a mistake, Lady Matilda. I guess there were only ten after all," he said with a nervous laugh.

Matilda observed him closely before speaking, "I hope you understand that theft is punished severely here. If you're covering for him, you'll be held accountable as well."

Albert's back was already slick with sweat, but he maintained his composure and said, "Of course, Lady Matilda. I would never lie to you."

Matilda shook her head and dismissed Albert, who hurried back to Mr. F in a state of panic.

For Albert, the past few days had brought significant changes. For the first time, he had a master he genuinely liked, someone who was helping him become a Tier 1 alchemist and treating him well. His previous masters had been the complete opposite. At that moment, Albert had to decide what was more important to him—the lab or Mr. F. By choosing to protect Mr. F, even if unconsciously, he had already made his decision.

Albert arrived back at the lab and entered without knocking. Mr. F was sitting at the table, reading a book while he waited. The cauldron, along with the rest of the room, had already been cleaned.

"Oh, you're back, Albert. Did everything go well?" Mr. F asked.

Albert hesitated briefly, unsure if he should mention the missing potion, but ultimately decided to keep quiet. "Yes, Lady Matilda accepted the elixirs."

Mr. F nodded at him, though he praised Albert in his thoughts: Good boy.

This had been a test, and Albert had passed, earning Mr. F's trust.