The thick smoke still hung heavy in the air.
Even though the flames had dwindled to embers, and the screams had faded into silence, the sky above the ruins of Liradale still burned with a dull, aching red. It was not the sun. The sun had long since vanished behind a curtain of ash. This light, instead, emanised from all that remained – the shattered buildings, the broken dreams, the annihilated people, and their sundered fates.
In the very heart of the city, amidst the charred skeletons of towers and the fractured remnants of churches, a boy crawled out from beneath a collapsed beam. He was small, perhaps ten or twelve years old – a gaunt figure with hollow eyes and limbs streaked with soot. A tangled mess of grey hair framed a face too sharply defined for his age. His name was Felix, though he couldn't recall anyone ever speaking it gently.
His mouth tasted of rust and ash. Tattered scraps of clothing barely clung to his bony frame. One foot was bare, the other wrapped in what had once been his mother's shawl, now blackened and as broken as the world around him.
He did not cry. His tears had long since dried.
The war had descended without warning. One day, the sky had been azure, the marketplace bustling with life. The next, the heavens tore open – as if hatched from within – and monsters poured forth. Not beasts, nor mere mortals: these were sorcerers. Their cloaks writhed with runes, and fire dripped from their lips. They spoke in a language that could melt stone and tear the very air.
His family had tried to flee. They hadn't gotten far.
He remembered his father curling his body over his little sister, as if flesh and bone could shield them from magic. He remembered his mother's hand being ripped from his grasp, her fingers still clawing at the empty air. Then – a blankness. A wall of light, a roar, an inferno. An endless, searing heat.
When he awoke beneath the beam, hours or perhaps days later, he was utterly alone.
He wandered through the ruins, numbly searching for scraps of bread. He saw other survivors – but only for a moment. They wouldn't last long. Then came the soldiers, rifling through the dead, salvaging what remained of life. Felix hid inside a burnt-out temple, peering from the shadows. He knew not to trust banners or uniforms. He had seen firsthand how magic could tear people apart, and he wanted no part of it.
On the seventh day, just as he thought he would simply disintegrate from hunger and dust, the figure appeared.
He did not arrive on horseback. He walked, silent as a whisper, like a shadow on the wind, his long black coat trailing behind him like the phantom of a forgotten deity. He wore gloves and polished boots, and his hat was pulled low. Most striking of all was the mask on his face – a black mask, shaped like the "Spade" from a deck of cards, as smooth as obsidian, as cold as ice.
Felix watched him from a distance, standing atop a shattered fountain. The man tilted his head, as if sensing something, and his gaze landed precisely on Felix.
Felix froze. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to flee.
Yet, he did not move. Something held him there – curiosity? Defiance? Or perhaps, that stubborn spark of his soul had yet to be extinguished.
The man beckoned to him.
Felix, for reasons he could not fathom, walked towards him.
The Inheritance of Oieffur
The arrival of the Man in Black, Mr. Spade, unfolded like a silent yet powerful tableau within Felix’s chaotic, ruined world. He didn't speak, merely extended a hand clad in a black leather glove, palm upturned, as if in invitation. Felix hesitated; he had witnessed too much deceit and betrayal, yet the eyes behind that mask – despite being obscured by the Spade – radiated an ancient, tranquil magnetism. Finally, he reached out a trembling hand, his cold fingertips brushing against the glove’s smooth leather.
In that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. A peculiar energy surged into Felix’s body, not a violent shock, but a long, deep guidance. He felt a warm current spread from his palm through his entire being, cleansing his war-scarred soul. The Man in Black led him away from the ruins, across forgotten wilderness, until they reached a secluded valley.
Deep within the valley stood an ancient, magnificent edifice, not built by mortal hands, but seemingly grown from the very earth itself. Every stone glowed with a faint light, imbued with mysterious runes, and the air hummed with a unique fragrance – a blend of herbs, metal, and magic. This was Oieffur, the legendary alchemical sanctuary that every alchemist in the world dreamed of possessing.
The Man in Black guided Felix through a grand doorway carved with countless wondrous creatures, leading him into a vast hall. The walls of the hall were adorned with a multitude of alchemical artifacts, diverse in form, ranging from intricate trinkets to colossal mechanisms. Each object emanated a distinct aura. Felix was astonished to find that these items were not mere inert objects; they seemed to possess life, whispering untold stories.
"This is Oieffur," the Man in Black finally spoke, his voice deep and resonant, as if from a distant past, "and it is now your home."
He told Felix that he was the previous Mr. Spade. And Oieffur, he explained, was more than just a building; it was a living lineage, an inheritance that could only be claimed by those with unique experiences, chosen by Oieffur itself. Alchemy, he elucidated, was not merely the fusion of magic and material; more profoundly, it required the alchemist's personal memories and profound understanding. Each alchemical creation was the physical embodiment of the alchemist’s soul, carrying the maker's story and emotion.
Felix’s childhood had been destroyed by alchemical magic, leaving him as the sole survivor of his family. This indelible trauma, however, proved to be the very catalyst for Oieffur's selection. The Man in Black, his mentor, began to teach him the secrets of alchemy. Felix discovered that alchemy wasn't simply about synthesizing substances but about transforming intangible emotions and memories into tangible forms. Each act of creation was a journey into the depths of his own being, a reshaping of his past. He began to understand that alchemy could both destroy and create, and he chose to use it to forge objects that mirrored his inner world.
The Mirror of Desire and the Face of Truth
During his years at Oieffur, Felix transformed from a traumatized boy into a master alchemist. He inherited the title of "Mr. Spade" and, with it, the unique perspective of all previous Mr. Spades. He traveled the world, gathering rare materials, but more importantly, he immersed himself in the myriad facets of human experience, infusing those profound moments into his alchemical creations. Oieffur’s grand hall gradually filled with his works, each piece a crystallization of his understanding of the world.
However, it was a nocturnal visit that truly revolutionized Felix’s alchemical philosophy.
One night, a slender, burdened figure knocked upon Oieffur's heavy door. She was a noblewoman, dressed in somber mourning clothes, her face obscured by a thick veil, yet the sorrow and unease radiating from her were palpable. Her voice trembled as she pleaded, "Mr. Spade, I… I need the ‘Mirror of Desire’."
The Mirror of Desire was one of Felix's earlier creations, rumored to reflect the deepest longings and hidden secrets of a person's heart. Felix warned her, "Madam, this object will strip away all pretense; the truth it reveals might be more than you can bear."
The noblewoman’s body trembled even more violently, but her gaze was unusually resolute: "I only wish to know… if my husband still loved me before he died."
Felix paused for a moment, then retrieved the ancient bronze mirror from a deeper part of the exhibition hall. The mirror surface glowed with a faint, ethereal light, as if containing countless unsolved mysteries. The noblewoman took the mirror, her hands shaking as she held it up, her eyes fixed on her reflection within.
Time seemed to stand still. Felix watched from the side as the noblewoman's expression shifted from initial anguish, to confusion, then to a subtly unsettling smile. She stared into the Mirror of Desire for a long, long time, and finally, a peculiar smile touched her lips.
Felix wondered what the mirror had revealed that elicited such a complex reaction.
The noblewoman gently caressed the mirror's surface, her voice imbued with a sense of release: "It was his face." She paused, her eyes growing deep and complex. "...But it was also the faces of other men, many, many others."
In that instant, Felix’s heart skipped a beat. He understood. This noblewoman wasn't seeking confirmation of her husband's love; she was searching in the mirror for her own unspoken desires – and the truth that she had long since ceased to love only her husband. The mirror had not deceived her; it had merely reflected the rawest, unvarnished desires deep within her soul.
From that night onward, Felix’s alchemical philosophy underwent a profound transformation. He had once believed that the pinnacle of alchemy was to distill pure truth, stripping away all falsehood. But that night’s experience made him realize that truth sometimes lies hidden within the most primal desires. Nobles could feign smiles, priests could confess, politicians could lie – but the gasps and tremors between the sheets, those born of the most fundamental urges, could not be faked.
"One can lie to God, but one cannot lie about lust."
This thought struck him like lightning. He became obsessed with studying "lust," believing it to be the purest form of human truth. He no longer limited himself to crafting objects with various effects but turned his gaze towards the most secret, most primitive impulses within the human heart. He believed that through alchemy, he could objectify these "desires," thereby revealing humanity's truest nature. Each new alchemical artifact became a vessel carrying a story of desire, and Mr. Spade was the one who materialized these stories – an alchemist who saw through the world's deceptions, solely in pursuit of primitive truth.