The moment my master asked her question, an echo of a memory grazed my mind. Someone was asking me a question.

“What do you know about the Death March?”

The voice I heard in my memories didn’t belong to my master, or to Patriarch Mou. It belonged to Eman. He had taught us about this in the week leading up to this year’s Death March, although that was a coincidence because nobody knew when the Death March would strike.

“I know nothing” I replied in my memory.

“I know nothing,” I told my master. "But according to the memories I’ve gleaned, two of the Patriarch’s children didn't survive their Death March in my previous life. It was something that apparently stuck with me in the years to come, but now I can only wonder why it would happen at all.”

That was the reason why I was here. Not just to see my master, but to prevent the abusive future I had glimpsed in my memories.

The Patriarch was a horrible person, but if his children survived then maybe he would show leniency.

“Then it is my burden to teach you,” my master sighed. “Though this is the one topic even monsters hesitate to speak of.”

She moved to the pot in the back of the room and pressed her hand against the wall above it, activating the ward there. The moment she touched it, the ward glowed bright white and the air in front of it shimmered.

The ward was creating wind, and as she stirred the pot and stoked the flames underneath it, the steam created by the water inside was sucked up into the air and disappeared out the chimney.

My master opened the pantry in the corner, searching for ingredients as she spoke. “You said you know when this year’s Death March is. Is that true?”

“I don’t know the exact day,” I admitted. “But it happened after I’d been here a month.”

“Then we do not have much time to prepare,” she replied. "Simo Mou knows that as well."

"Why?" I asked. "If he doesn't know when it'll happen, how can there be a time limit?"

"The Death March occurs only once in a person's life, but always within the first year of it," my master replied. "Simo Mou's children were on a clock the moment they were born, and rarely does a child experience the entirety of their first year of life without the advent of the Death March. Living without hassle for a few months is considered lucky, and many children do not receive their names until the march has passed."

She threw something into the pot, and grabbed a nearby ladle, her opal eyes drifting off as she stirred. The flames underneath the pot grew brighter, capturing her in a deep orange glow, and I leaned forward, the table creaking as I pressed down with my elbows and tucked my hands underneath my chin. The mood had grown somber, and I knew what was to come would be important.

“The Death March is a terrible trial that all in our world must suffer, regardless of race or creed. Every year there comes a night when children fall silent. No matter how well the children are hidden or protected, it comes for them all the same. I have seen it happen many times. After the silence, children begin to scream and cry, but others are still and hushed. There is no difference between those who live and those who die, but most do not survive the night.”

The weight of what she was saying slowly fell upon me, and my expression turned grim.

“Every continent has a different name for it. The Death March. The Silence. The Naming Day,” she continued. “No one has ever been able to predict when it will occur, nor have they ever found a way to stop it.”

“Why does it happen?” I asked.

“I do not know, and no child remembers what they experienced once it has passed,” she replied. “Nobody does. It is what unifies our races. It is what haunts our dreams.”

My master fell silent, her hands gripping a ladle tightly between them as she began to stir the water in the pot.

After a minute of silence, she spoke once again, her voice softer, but just as powerful to my ears. “I do not know the number of parents who cry out each year in pain, but the cause of it is the Death March. Those that survive unlock their System, and receive a single skill for doing so.”

“A skill?” I blinked in surprise. “Do the babies get to choose it?”

“Some believe they do. Others do not,” my master shrugged, a rare gesture from her. “For most, the skill they receive appears to be completely random. Which can lead to a lot of chaos when not properly managed.”

“Of course it would if children are waking up with unknown skills,” I retorted. “Nobody would even know what they are, since you can’t ask the baby.”

“Indeed," she stared at me. "Tell me, you said that you don't remember having a skill when you first arrived in your past life?"

"I–" I shut my mouth, but a tiny grunt escaped. “Oh.”

"Yes," my master said. "It's possible that your strange ability is yet another consequence of the Death March, only activated later on in your life. And I believe that is the heart of the Alchemist’s plan for you.”

“Excuse me?” The words came out sharply, and shut my mouth quickly for fear of her taking offense, but the question had already slipped out.

We both paused, her at my tone, and me because of the unexpected mention of the Alchemist.

“The original [Mark of the Alchemist] is a unique skill, and until now the physical mark has only been found on a single individual. The world calls that man the Alchemist,” my master finally replied. “When he survived his Death March he unlocked a bloodline so powerful that it could raise households from poverty and create powerhouses. And yet, he was only a baby. So, he didn’t hide it from the world, and for that he suffered greatly.”

A strain fell upon my chest at her words. She was implying something, but I couldn’t connect the dots. “What does that have to do with me?”

“He has branded you and fifty thousand others with a replica of his mark. That is no small feat, and it is not something done randomly or for fun,” my master replied. “You told me he had a child. Did you not?”

I recalled the forest and the sea of children, and I nodded.

The Alchemist had given his speech to us, but before that he gave a personal one to his child.

“Then I would wager his child unlocked the [Mark of the Alchemist]. The true mark. But the only way to tell his child from another is to search for the mark on their body, which is why he branded you. He did this all to hide his child’s identity,” my master said.

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A new memory struck me as she spoke. It was filled with confusion and pain. I’d always wondered in my past life why the Alchemist had gathered fifty thousand of us. The surface reason, as he’d explained in the forest where I’d first seen him, was simple and emotional. He’d had a child, not an ordinary one, and he wanted to hide them.

But why erase our memories?

The answer struck me with the force of lightning.

“He’s trying to copy the Death March,” I spat out the words. My master watched me silently, but I didn’t need her confirmation. In my anger, I could imagine the plan as it was conceived. “Fifty thousand people, all with different skills and abilities and no knowledge of how they obtained them or what kind of life they’d lived before the Alchemist sent them away.” Emotion clouded my voice and my fingers curled into fists. “In that crowd, nobody would know who his child was, not even the child themselves.”

“Exactly,” my master confirmed.

“When I was in the forest with the other children I didn’t know my skills, or how I unlocked them. I didn’t even know how to use them,” I said. “But I worked it out quickly. What’s to stop them from admitting they aren’t the Alchemist’s child?”

Crack.

A loud sound broke my focus, and I saw that the ladle in my master’s hand had broken. She glanced down at the cracked wood, then tossed it back in the pot. I couldn’t see any emotions on her face, but this time it was because she was masking them on purpose.

For some reason, that frightened me more than when she’d shown her anger.

“Do you know that you are not his child?” She hissed.

The tone of her voice sent a chill through my spine, and as she turned to face me I saw that all semblance of kindness had drained away from her features, leaving only cold hard rock in their place.

I shook my head.

No. I refused to believe I was related to the Alchemist. I didn’t want to be that monster’s spawn.

And yet, I couldn’t deny the possibility existed.

“No, I can’t know.” The knot in my stomach tightened as I admitted it. “I have a skill—”

A memory of someone revealing their skills to me flashed through my mind. It was Kiela, the silver-haired Alchemist's Child. She’d had the skill [Danger Sense], but also another. It was the [Mark of the Alchemist]. The same one that lingered in my status screen. Even Jaden had admitted to having it when we'd first arrived.

“—and the others have it too. It’s called the [Mark of the Alchemist]. But it’s locked. I can’t view it or use it. He must have thought of that as well.”

“He has been thorough, no matter how disgusting his methods are. Some of you might figure out from your initial skills whether or not you are the traitor’s child, but nobody can force that information out of them. The System will not allow it,” my master replied. “Yes, he has copied the Death March perfectly. If not in spirit, then in execution.”

The Death March.

When she mentioned it, I was once again reminded why I was here. The Alchemist’s machinations were horrid, but they weren’t my immediate concern. I needed to save the Patriarch’s children.

And to do that, I needed more answers.

“Why does the Death March do this?” I asked. “What kind of being gives random powers to babbling children? And then takes away the lives of others?”

“The Death March is not a being. It is a force of nature, present since the earliest of races existed in this world. It doesn’t discriminate between human and stonekin, rich and poor, or royalty and commoner.” My master raised her cracked ladle from the pot and scowled as she sipped its contents. “Come, all this talk of death has ruined the soup. I need fresh air, and new ingredients.”

I rose from the chair, ready to object. “But what about—”

“—I will teach you how to help the children survive. However, you cannot rush knowledge, or its absorption,” my master replied. “If I am to teach you, sorrow and joy must come in moderation. Follow me now, and allow me to instill some wonder into this dreadful day. Come, it is time to show you alchemy at work.”

Alchemy at work?

I couldn’t help but be excited at her words.

Alchemy. My memories stirred at the mere mention of the profession. Despite all the suffering I’d experienced at the Alchemist’s and Patriarch Mou’s hands, there had still been one good thing to come out of my experiences. And that was alchemy.

Truthfully speaking, I first started learning alchemy as a way to avoid being beaten for not paying attention. However, I quickly found myself diving into the craft with a joy that I'd never believed possible. The ability to create potions, tonics, and eventually even pills, all of which had miraculous effects and improved the lives of those who took them was a wondrous experience.

Patriarch Mou had only wanted us to learn [Potion Creation] to save his children, but there was a reason I had continued to learn. I had fallen in love with the craft. Alchemy was something I truly enjoyed. It was more than the interest I felt toward warding, and more than the pleasant calm of gardening. Creating a potion simply felt right, and so even after I’d run away from the household, I’d still trained in the profession, asking my master to teach me all that she could.

“I’d love that,” I said.

“Then hurry up, or the door will close behind me,” my master replied.

I chuckled, and then jolted as the stone door began to close and I realized she wasn’t joking. Hurriedly rushing outside, I almost got caught between stone and crushed, but as I broke out of the cottage the cool breeze swept away my sweat, and I felt the foul emotions of our dire conversation melting away.

“Oink?”

A loud sound peeled out from my side. I turned around and found myself looking at a pig pen, and inside that pen was a familiar monster pig. It had a body as tall as a building and wide as a carriage, fifteen pink swirly tales, four muscular limbs each as big as my body, and hooves the color and strength of steel. Two beady black eyes looked down at me from above, each brimming with curiosity.

“Telula” I held my hand up in greeting once again to the monster pig. “How are you doing?”

The pig stared at me, and then opened its maw wide, revealing rows of sturdy teeth that were each as long as my pinky finger and as thick as my wrist. A loud grunt emerged from her mouth, and the most horrid breath I’d ever smelt washed over me.

“Ugh, you’ve been good, then,” I replied, covering my nostrils. Flecks of green marked her yellow teeth. “And eating raw herbs. Good to know.”

A loud squeal erupted from the pig at my words, and I realized Telula was laughing.

My master laughed alongside the pig, and then turned around, revealing an ax within her hand.

Telula stopped laughing.

I took a step back from both of them, raising my hands warily. “You’re using an ax to do alchemy?”

“No, this is just an ax,” my master replied. She reached into her tunic and brought out a transparent vial with clear liquid within it. She gave the glass a swirl and the mixture within began to emit a bright pink glow. “The alchemy comes from this potion.”

Without warning, she lowered her arm, the ax-head flashing as it dug down with a speed too quick for me to see with my eyes.

When the ax stopped its swing, a single tail fell to the ground, and a splatter of crimson coated the grass around it.

“OINK” Telula squealed.

“Oh, you’ll grow another one by midnight you big baby,” my master rolled her opal eyes. Which in her case, was literal, since the entirety of both opals rolled within their sockets. “ I know you can't feel pain, and you know we have to do it to prevent infections from spreading.”

Telula didn’t seem encouraged by my master’s words, and I gave her side a comforting pat. I could only scratch the lower reaches of her belly, but she gave me a thankful grunt.

As I comforted the monster pig, who now only had fourteen tails, my master uncorked the potion in her other hand and sprinkled a single drop of the pink liquid into the fresh wound created by her ax.

I dislodged from Telula and followed my master, watching with fascination as the skin around the wound grew back instantly, stemming all bleeding and creating a healed stump where the tail had been.

“This is how you got our dinner ingredients?” I asked incredulously.

“Your memories didn’t tell you that, lad?” She asked in return.

I stared at her. “They just told me that I liked the food.”

“Bah. Then watch and learn because this tail isn’t what we’re eating for dinner,” she said.

She grabbed the pigless tail in one hand and held the vial and her ax in the other. With a practiced motion she sprinkled the rest of her potion over the tail’s wounded end. In seconds the flesh began to bubble and boil, the stump covering over with fresh skin which then grew outward and formed a bulb. Like a tumor, it continued expanding and billowing outward in a terrifying mass of flesh and bones, and my master was forced to drop the mass on the ground once it grew too big to hold, where it continued to wriggle and writhe.

I gagged at the sight, shutting my eyes tight and barely stopping myself from emptying my breakfast onto the grass. When I dared peek, the tail had grown to almost a quarter of my size, barely reaching up to my knees. It had a bulbous growth attached to it, and four stumpy limbs were coming out of its flesh.

“Oink,” the tail said. Except it wasn’t a tail anymore.

Another pig had grown from the end of it. It had Telula’s original tail on its back, and a cute snout and tiny beady eyes on the other end.

“Amazing,” I couldn’t believe my eyes.

She had created a newborn pig from the tail of another.

“It is, isn’t it?” My master smiled. “This is alchemy.”

Then she raised her arm, and before I could react she lowered her ax and chopped off the newborn pig’s head.

“And now it’s dinner.”