The grand banquet hall buzzed with quiet conversations and elegant laughter as Raymond followed Malisa further inside. The soft hum of string instruments drifted from a raised platform near the stage, and the scent of fine cuisine lingered in the air. Then came a sudden voice, full of excitement. “Brother Raymond!” Immediately a man rushed over in a finely tailored navy-blue suit—young, well-groomed, and practically glowing with energy. It was Malisa’s cousin, the one Raymond had told what he needed to do to treat his fertility problems. “Brother Raymond, you’re amazing!” he blurted out, his eyes shining. “That prescription you gave me—it worked! I mean, it really worked!” He leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Not only did it fix the problem, but I feel stronger than I ever did before. Like… really powerful,” he added, raising his brows as if trying not to say too much in front of his female relatives. Hearing what he just said Raymond blinked on

Raymond stood quietly near the center of the hall, his presence calm, his posture straight, yet utterly unbothered by the awe swirling around Waylon’s pill. While guests gasped and praised the rarity of a second-level alchemist’s work, Raymond’s eyes drifted lazily toward the pill inside the jade box. With just one glance, that was all he needed. From the texture, the glow, and the faint medicinal scent in the air, he immediately saw through it—it was indeed made by a second-level alchemist, but the refining process lacked purity. The spiritual energy was unstable, the balance flawed. It would barely extend a life by two or three years at best, and if taken carelessly, might even cause internal disruption to someone with delicate meridians. It was flashy, but hollow, Raymond showed no admiration. No awe. Not even a raised brow. He simply stood in silence, hands behind his back. And that silence… was noticed. Waylon, still basking in the praise, caught the lack of expression fro

The light flickered across the walls, casting long shadows of Maxwell, who stood, his fingers tapping against the other as he contemplated the path before him.“A place in the Alchemy Association,” he whispered to himself, the words hanging in the air like a promise.For any alchemist worth their salt, the Association represented the pinnacle of their craft. Maxwell had heard the stories since he was a boy—alchemists who joined their ranks no longer scrounged through misty forests at dawn for rare moon blossoms or bartered with suspicious merchants for dragon scale powder. The Association provided everything: rare ingredients, ancient texts, and the collective wisdom of generations.He couldn't believe he would be getting all of this, just to say the opposite of what he said earlier.At that moment Maxwell closed his eyes, picturing himself in the grand hall of the Association, surrounded by the greatest minds of the era, sharing discoveries over goblets of spiced wine. No more lonel