Draven's breathing grew heavy, his chest heaving violently. He stared at Allen's outstretched hand. The hand was slender and steady, but in Draven's eyes, it looked like a verdict declaring the end of an old era.
In his mind, data from countless failed experiments, precious materials reduced to ashes, and the disappointed looks of his mentor intertwined with Allen's clear and logical analysis, forming a fierce storm. He did not take the hand. Instead, he spun around and rushed to the Energy Shield of the central laboratory. Pressing both hands against it, he felt the chaotic fluctuations radiating from within. That was the creation he had poured his blood and sweat into; it was also the shackle he could not break free from.
"You're right..." Draven's voice was hoarse, as if squeezed from the depths of his throat, brimming with bitterness and agony. "In every experiment, I could feel that rejection. No matter how I adjusted the formula, the fusion between the soul and the Magic Mark was only temporary, like oil on water—scattering at the slightest touch. I thought my Alchemy skills were lacking, that the purity of my materials wasn't high enough..."
He stood with his back to Allen, his shoulders trembling slightly.
When a gambler who had staked all his dignity and future on a single high-stakes bet was told that his dice had been rigged from the factory, all he could feel was endless emptiness. But Draven was Draven, after all. He was not an ordinary apprentice who would be utterly crushed by a single blow.
A few seconds later, he took a sharp breath, and the trembling stopped. He turned around. Though his eyes were still bloodshot, the flame of paranoia had been replaced by a cold, prudent calculation.
"Your blueprint is very tempting, Allen Wesren." He no longer called Allen a "brat"—the word was no longer fit for the unfathomable freshman standing before him. "But what makes you think I'd believe your 'diagnosis' isn't just empty talk? Why should I bet my workshop, my connections, and my final capital all on you? Words are hollow without proof."
Allen calmly withdrew his hand. "We can conduct a verification."
"A verification?" A cold sneer tugged at the corner of Draven's mouth. "How? Find a member of your group to put on a show? How would I know you didn't arrange it in advance?"
"That won't be necessary." Allen's gaze swept over the busy Alchemy Puppets and apprentices downstairs. "Right here in your workshop, find an apprentice whose problem you consider the most intractable—one you absolutely cannot solve with your methods. Bring him up here, and I will diagnose him right in front of you."
The proposal reeked of absolute confidence. Draven stared at Allen, seemingly trying to find the slightest trace of hesitation on his face, but he failed. Allen's expression was as tranquil as a bottomless lake.
"Fine!" Draven seemed to have made up his mind. He walked to the top of the stairs and shouted down, "Roy! Come up here for a moment!"
A moment later, a sallow-faced, scrawny apprentice hurried up the stairs. He looked a few years older than Allen, but he was sluggish and dull-eyed, his Apprentice Robe covered in un-washable stains. Seeing Draven, a look of fear immediately surfaced on his face.
"Mr. Draven."
"Roy," Draven pointed at him and said to Allen, "is a distant relative of mine. His total Spiritual Power is above average, but his control is a total mess. He has been at the academy for two years and can't even stably construct the most basic Wizard's Hand.
"I've given him three Focus Potions, two Sobering Draughts, and even let him try a diluted version of the Spark of Inspiration. As a result, he now struggles to even concentrate during Meditation."
There was a hint of self-mockery in Draven's words. Roy was the living proof of his failed theories.
"Roy," Allen began, his gentle voice forming a stark contrast to Draven's severity. "Right now, in front of us, try to construct a Wizard's Hand."
Roy glanced timidly at Draven. After receiving an impatient nod, he took a deep breath and extended his right hand. A ball of pale blue Magic Power gathered in his palm, trembling as it attempted to take shape. The magical light flickered, struggling to form the blurry outline of a hand, but after just two seconds, the hand collapsed into a sky full of light motes, like sand blown away by the wind.
Roy's face paled even further.
"See that?" Draven sneered.
Allen ignored him and walked over to Roy's side, simply saying, "Your problem isn't a lack of Spiritual Power output, but that you are too impatient for success and have been constantly neglecting the training of your Spiritual Power precision. You push all your Spiritual Power out at once, trying to forcefully mold it into the shape you want. That's like using a flood to carve an ice sculpture; it will only wash it away.
"Now, close your eyes. Don't think about the shape of a 'hand.' Imagine your Spiritual Power is a silk thread, not a wad of cotton. From your Sea of Consciousness, pull out only the thinnest thread and let it extend from your fingertips."
Roy closed his eyes skeptically and followed Allen's instructions. Beads of sweat seeped from his forehead; the process was clearly extremely difficult for him.
"Excellent." Allen's voice was like a precise metronome. "Now, imagine a second silk thread, parallel to the first, always making sure to control your Spiritual Power output fluctuation to within ten percent. Then the third thread... Don't worry about whether they will form a hand. Your only task is to keep these 'threads' stably aligned together."
A few minutes passed. In front of Roy's fingertips, several faint yet stable threads of blue light began to appear. They were no longer frantic like before, but instead hung quietly in the air like taut piano strings.
Although this was still a far cry from a complete Wizard's Hand, an expression of shock and ecstasy blossomed on Roy's face. He could feel it—for the first time, he had truly 'controlled' his Spiritual Power.
The cold sneer on Draven's face had long since vanished, replaced by an unconcealable solemnity. With just a few words of guidance, Allen had pinpointed the root cause and provided a solution with immediate results. This wasn't merely a technique; it was insight—a terrifying ability to pierce through the surface and strike directly at the heart of the problem.
"Have him practice this method for an hour every day. In a week, he will be able to construct a stable Wizard's Hand. In half a month, he can even try to use it to lift bricks." Allen turned around and looked back at Draven. "The verification is over. Senior Draven, is my 'diagnosis' just empty talk?"
Draven fell silent. He looked at Roy, who was trembling all over from excitement, and then at Allen, who remained as calm as ever. Finally, he let out a long breath. That breath seemed to expel all his pride and stubbornness.
"How do we split the profits?" he asked hoarsely. He no longer spoke of threats or protection. He jumped straight into the business negotiation phase. He now understood that he wasn't facing a freshman in need of shelter, but an equal adversary holding core technologies.
"I will provide the diagnosis, modeling, and all the core solutions. That's intellectual property." Allen held up four fingers. "Forty percent of the profits. You will provide the workshop, potions, manpower, and sales channels for sixty percent."
"Forty percent?" Draven's eyes widened in disbelief. "The investment in my entire workshop is a number you can't even imagine. You just flap your lips, and you want to take nearly half the profits?"
"My 'flapping lips' are the source of all the profits for this business," Allen refused to yield a single inch. "Without my solutions, your workshop will only continue producing those dead-end consumables until the market phases them out. Senior Draven, the foundation of our cooperation is equal value. My value is worth forty percent."
The two locked eyes in the room, the air thick with an invisible clash. It was the final collision of two value systems.
Ultimately, Draven conceded defeat. He slumped back into his chair and said tiredly, "I need a trial period. For the first month, we will cooperate to launch three 'customized solutions.' If the results are truly as you say, and the profits can cover the basic expenses of my workshop, I will agree to your profit-sharing plan."
"Acceptable," Allen nodded. "But all client data models can only be used for research. You must not leak them."
"Deal," Draven gritted out the word.
Allen extended his hand once again. This time, Draven did not hesitate. He stood up and grasped Allen's hand.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Allen Wesren." Draven's gaze was complex. He looked at the youth before him as if looking at a monster. "I hope you won't disappoint me."
Allen's grip was steady and strong. Meeting Draven's gaze, he replied with confidence, "You won't be disappointed, Senior, because for my future path, this is only just the beginning."