A World That Shouldn't Exist
Lyra gasped as she hit the ground, the solid marble beneath her feet a jarring contrast to the endless fall she had just endured. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her pulse hammering like a war drum in her ears.
This was not Verdantia.
At least, not the Verdantia she remembered.
Gone were the battle-torn streets and the ever-burning embers of war. Instead, she found herself standing in a pristine alchemical academy, where golden sunlight streamed through towering stained-glass windows. The intricate designs in the glass depicted fundamental alchemical laws—the Transmutation Circle, the Four Pillars of Crafting, the Philosopher's Knot—all glowing softly as if enchanted.
The scent of lavender polish and aged parchment filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of potion residue.
Lyra's gaze swept over the rows of students, their neatly embroidered robes untouched by the grime of war. Some scribbled notes with self-inking quills, while others adjusted the heat beneath bubbling cauldrons, the liquids inside swirling with vibrant hues. A professor at the front of the room was mid-lecture, her hands moving in precise gestures to demonstrate a transmutation principle.
And yet—
Not a single student had turned to look at her.
Not one reacted to the fully grown woman who had just materialized in the middle of their classroom.
No one—except for her.
A girl, no older than twelve, stared at Lyra in wide-eyed shock.
Lyra's breath caught in her throat.
The girl looked exactly like her.
Same auburn hair, though neatly brushed and tied with a silver ribbon. Same emerald-green eyes, though unclouded by war. She wore a crisp academy uniform, a silver insignia pinned to her collar marking her as a student of Verdantia's Grand Alchemical Academy.
She was frozen in place, trembling as if she had just seen a ghost.
"You…" the girl whispered, her voice barely audible.
Lyra barely had time to react before the girl reached out, her fingers shaking as they moved toward Lyra's scarred hands.
The moment their fingers met—
They passed through like smoke.
Lyra inhaled sharply, staggering backward.
Her body flickered. For a split second, she was transparent, her form shifting between solid reality and an ethereal echo. The chalkboard behind her rewrote itself, glowing equations twisting into something else entirely—
Something far too advanced for this classroom.
The girl gasped.
"You're the woman from my dreams," she whispered, her voice thick with awe. "The one who burns."
The words sent a violent shiver down Lyra's spine.
She didn't know how, but she was certain—
This girl was Mira Voss.
And she wasn't just looking at her past.
She was the reason Mira started dreaming of fire in the first place.
---
The Chrono-Elixir Leak
Lyra stumbled back, her mind reeling.
Something was wrong with time here.
She felt it in her bones—the way the air shimmered unnaturally, the way shadows bent at impossible angles. Every step she took left behind faint, glowing footprints that flickered like echoes of futures that shouldn't exist.
One footprint showed Callan standing atop the Syndicate's throne, his arms crossed as Verdantia burned beneath him.
Another showed the Titan's reign never ending, leaving the city nothing but a molten wasteland.
In yet another, Elaris knelt in the rain, clutching Lyra's lifeless body in her arms.
With every step, the futures shifted, dissolving into new possibilities.
Lyra's chest tightened.
She had been infused with unstable temporal energy from the Chainbreaker Elixir—the very thing that had severed the Alchemist King from the Primordial Flame.
If she didn't stabilize herself soon, she wouldn't just be lost in time.
She would be erased from it.
Her gaze darted frantically across the room. Think. Think.
Alchemy was all about balance. If she had too much energy in her, she needed to neutralize it.
Then she saw it.
A row of neatly stacked alchemy ingredients on a student's desk.
A way out.
---
Crafting Scene: The Paradox Tincture
Lyra lunged for the desk, knocking over an inkwell in her haste. The black liquid spilled across the marble, dripping in slow motion as if even gravity couldn't decide what moment it belonged to.
The students still didn't react.
They remained trapped in their own looping moments—
One girl endlessly dipping her quill into an already-empty inkwell.
A boy flipping the same page back and forth, over and over.
A professor whose hand remained mid-gesture, frozen as if time itself had fractured around her.
She didn't have time to question it.
Her hands moved on instinct, grabbing the ingredients she needed.
Ingredients:
✔ Chalk dust (for bone stability, to keep her form anchored).
✔ Alchemical ink (to write herself into this timeline).
✔ A teacher's vial of quicksilver (to slow the destabilization).
She worked fast, her fingers moving with muscle memory, grinding the chalk into fine powder. She mixed it with the ink, creating a thick, dark paste that absorbed light unnaturally, as if it wanted to rewrite reality itself.
Then came the quicksilver.
She hesitated for only a second before uncorking the bottle. The liquid inside rippled like liquid mercury, reflecting fractured moments of time.
She poured a single drop into the mixture.
The reaction was instantaneous—
The liquid hissed, shifting between impossible colors, flashing through past, present, and future. The symbols on the chalkboard behind her rearranged themselves, forming an alchemical circle that pulsed with raw energy.
The Paradox Tincture was ready.
Lyra exhaled sharply, lifting the vial to her lips.
She had no idea what it would do to her.
She drank.
The taste was bitter and electric, like biting into lightning and ink at the same time.
Her veins burned.
A violent shockwave pulsed outward from her core.
The floating quills froze midair. The spilled ink on the floor reversed back into its bottle. The blackboard stopped rewriting itself.
Lyra staggered, clutching her chest.
She was real again.
Her body had stabilized in this timeline.
But something else had happened.
Mira gasped, clutching her head as her knees buckled.
Her emerald eyes flickered, clouded for one brief second—
Then her hands began to tremble.
She looked up at Lyra, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
"They lied," she whispered. "The flame wasn't found—"
Her grip tightened on Lyra's wrist.
"It was forged in this school's basement."
And someone had erased that truth from history.