The resources of the Krishorn Clan, the Iron Riders, and the Kargarians at large could not be understated, either. The ink of Halxian’s chest and back tattoos was fundamentally different from that on his arm, utilizing an advanced composition hybridized with the ink used for Iron Rider armor trackers. Many of the sect’s alchemical advancements could be chalked up to Makhus’s possession of the Philosopher’s Heart, and in this matter, Crovacus was glad that his gambit was paying for itself hundredfold. It was true that he had given over a precious relic of the Estoras family, but he retained the ownership seal on it, and no Estoras alive since Estoras himself had been able to bring out the artifact’s full potential. If it came to it that Makhus Newman used the Philosopher’s Heart for long enough to erode the ownership seal, then Crovacus would be content with it remaining in the alchemist’s possession. He was a manic innovator of a sort seen even more rarely than the archetypal reclusive savant, one possessed of great intelligence, but limited enough that he retained a connection to the struggle and ingenuity of a village’s wise-man or hedge-wizard. In Crovacus’ eyes, Makhus Newman was a better alchemist than a genius who could synthesize gold in great quantities; the burgeoning cosmetics industry which his creations were spearheading was a better goldmine than a trick that would wreck the value of a resource.
Halxian, at his young age, already had his full arm, a quarter of his back, and a quarter of his chest covered in glyphic tattoos. Even Crovacus himself only had his arm, his whole back, and half his chest done. A small part of the governor - no longer provisional as of a referendum the previous month - envied his son, but then, there was nothing stopping him from advancing his own cultivation… Even while he was swamped in paperwork too important to let a secretary deal with it. He drew in a breath and began cycling his cultivation method, feeling the blue-blazing flame ignite inside his forearm, racing outward to its surface, down his fingers, and to his pen. He meticulously clamped down on the reaction and used the flame alone to write his signature.
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When Halxian next visited Makhus in his laboratory at the sect, he found him, Victor and two of the sect’s lesser-known alchemists hovering over the strange woman from before, Lydia. She was laid out across a bed. One of the scorchlanders was also there, a man who refused to give anyone a real name and insisted that they call him Old One-arm… Because he had one arm.
He kept quiet and watched from the doorway for some time, observing as the alchemist dripped some sort of solution into Lydia’s empty eye socket and pressed in a black orb. She immediately shot up, clutching at her right temple as the eye wildly rolled around in its socket before settling down with a ragged, burning-white horizontal line as the pupil, tapering towards the ends as if it had been cut into the eye. Veins bulged out around the socket and she quickly closed the eye, with Makhus warning her that it would take a while before she could fully open it for more than short bursts.
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Makhus then handed her a small, seal-wrapped dropper bottle, instructing her to apply three drops twice every day and roll her eye around until it ran out, to help the eye settle into place. She gave a quiet thanks, and with a gesture made that giant sword of hers float over to her as she made her way out. Following her path, Halxian’s presence was inevitably detected, prompting Makhus to remark: “Just in time, I have your pills and the formulation right here. I assume your father wants it, is that right?”
Nodding, he said: “You can’t blame him, it would be shameful to risk losing improvements to our family’s cultivation method. Was that a Philosopher’s Eye you just gave Lydia?”
“No, it was… What was it called again?” Makhus turned to Victor. Him? He knew but the alchemist didn’t? Who was that redhead?
“Formless Eye, I think. It was intended to take on properties best suited to the user through a…”
He furrowed his brows in thought.
“An auto-transmutive reaction catalyzed by the implantee’s aura; it’s got a bit of dungeon core-like power inside that it burns up to retroactively make it so it has always been correctly fitted to the user. I’m not sure I understand it either. It should also cause less spiritual strain, but it doesn’t work as a casting catalyst or essentia battery. One-arm, over here. Which one?”
The redhead, seemingly giving it no further thought, smoothly transitioned to calling One-arm over to the bed. Only now that he had gestured to them did Halxian notice the three different blackstone arms laid out on one of the tables.
While this took place, Makhus seemed to realize something and gestured for Halxian to come over to a nearby cabinet, taking out and handing him a bottle with amber-coloured oil.
“How long has it been since you’ve gotten the section of your back inked? Has it fully healed yet?”
“No, not yet. It has only been three months, it will likely be another month before it is fully healed. Is this supposed to help?”
Nodding, the alchemist popped the sealed cork.
“It should accelerate skin regeneration in a way that won’t disrupt the tattoos. I made it for when I had the essentia storage glyphs on my tattoos touched up, and it was a true godsend for me. I remembered how I made it when I was refining those bonemelding painkillers for you.”
“This smells like… Snake oil.”
“That’s the base, yeah. It’s great for anything meant to heal the skin, the Honest Snake-oil Salesman is bringing me a whole extra wagon of the stuff next time the Krishorn Caravan stops by… On the condition that we give him a hefty cut of the profits from sales of anything with the oil in it as a major ingredient while he’s here.”