Chapter 181: Alchemy and Blacksmithing

Chapter 181: Chapter 181: Alchemy and Blacksmithing

White-gloved Swiss containment marshals, clad in heavy protective armor and flanked by runic ward-keepers, filed onto the radial grid of the Colosseum floor. Carrying adamantine-reinforced stasis urns equipped with localized time-dilation fields, they began the painstaking process of collecting all surviving specimens from the trial.

Tian Yu’s mottled, Grade B sprout was carefully encapsulated into a blue-glowing containment cylinder, destined for the Eastern Dynasties’ joint botanical research vault. Jeremy’s safely unsealed seed core was placed in an Imperial stasis vault, alongside a handful of fragile, half-awakened relics preserved by veteran grandmasters in the Senior Division. Meanwhile, containment teams quietly cleared away the scorched earth and bio-hazardous black sludge from Gabriel Bernard’s ruined station, leaving behind an empty, silent plot.

When the senior Swiss official approached Rowan’s station, however, he was accompanied not by hazmat marshals, but by the Council’s high chancellors and an honor guard of alpine paladins.

"By international law and ancient treaty, all artifacts and botanical specimens recovered from the Atlantean vaults fall under the collective jurisdiction of the Council of Nations," the senior official announced, his voice echoing across the silent arena floor and the remaining broadcast channels.

He paused, looking down at the pristine, golden-green seedling thriving in Rowan’s enriched earth. The plant radiated a warm, uncorrupted life force that made even the surrounding air feel lighter and cleaner.

"However," the official continued, turning his gaze to Rowan with profound respect, "the Council’s chief research board has reached an unanimous verdict. To attempt to transfer this pristine specimen to standard laboratory containment would inevitably expose its fragile vascular pathways to atmospheric slag, causing immediate decay. Furthermore, under the historic Grand Champion Charter, Rowan Vance has earned exclusive cultivation rights."

The official gestured to a crystal-encased, spatial containment planter held by an assistant.

"Rowan Vance of the Sol-Aethel Empire is hereby granted full, permanent legal custody of one thriving Silphium Seedling. It is entrusted to Eden International for future cultivation, preservation, and research."

A low hum of astonished envy rippled through the VIP galleries. Foreign ministers and grandmasters gripped the railings, their eyes locked on the tiny, golden-green relic. The Council wasn’t just giving Rowan a trophy—they were handing Eden International a complete monopoly over an extinct, all-healing ancient miracle herb.

"We thank the Council for their wisdom," Rowan replied smoothly, offering a brief, courteous bow.

With practiced gentleness, Rowan used his bare fingers to scoop up the seedling along with a generous block of his enriched, primordial loam, carefully lowering the plant into the spatial planter. The moment the Silphium Seedling settled into its container, its leaves shimmered with a soft, content amber glow, perfectly stabilized by the uncorrupted soil surrounding its roots. ℯℯ𝘭.

"Unbelievable," Jeremy whispered as the Swiss delegation bowed and retreated, leaving Rowan holding the crystalline planter. "An extinct Atlantean panacea, completely in your hands. Do you have any idea what the global market value of a mature, pure-grade Silphium crop is going to be?"

"Market value is secondary, Senior Jeremy," Rowan said quietly, tipping the brim of his Enchanted Straw Hat as he sealed the planter and stored it safely inside his spatial storage. "What matters is that we now possess the world’s only living source of ancient vitality. Once we integrate this specimen into my private domain’s soil, its seeds will produce crops capable of completely purging core corruption and structural meridian damage."

Jeremy let out a low whistle, a grin spreading across his face. "Squad 07 is going to lose their minds when they find out what kind of recovery resources you’ll be feeding them."

"Speaking of Squad 07," Rowan said, his calm eyes turning toward the arena exit where the tournament crowds were slowly beginning to disperse into the Swiss afternoon. "Our business here is concluded. It’s time to return to the tactical lounge and deliver the combat analysis from the ranged and mage finals before the foreign delegations start battering down our doors for trade meetings."

"Lead the way, Grand Champion," Jeremy laughed, clapping Rowan on the shoulder as the two harvesters turned away from the radial grid, leaving behind an arena—and a world—forever changed by Eden’s touch.

***

The emerald hum of the botanical soil beds gave way to the scorching, oppressive heat of the Alchemical Championship.

As the Swiss Colosseum receded its radial dirt plots back into the subterranean vaults, massive adamantine-reinforced hearths, rune-etched spirit cauldrons, and high-pressure containment fields rose to take their place. The crisp alpine breeze vanished, replaced almost instantly by the heavy, metallic tang of sulfur, charred spirit-herbs, and intense thermal mana.

What followed was a brutal, five-hour marathon of extreme mental endurance and elemental precision.

Where combat matches were decided in milliseconds and herbology demanded delicate, passive harmony, alchemy was an unforgiving war against volatile matter. For five agonizing hours, the world’s most elite alchemists stood before roaring mana furnaces, their faces drenched in sweat and their eyes bloodshot from unrelenting focus. They distilled high-tier monster cores, extracted volatile elemental essences, and attempted to weave dozens of conflicting plant properties into unified, high-grade pills and elixirs.

The failure rate was horrifyingly steep.

By the three-hour mark, several western alchemical syndicates suffered catastrophic cauldron backfires as volatile mineral impurities ignited under high heat, forcing protective containment fields to slam shut before their stations exploded. By hour four, mental fatigue claimed dozens more, their hands wavering just enough to scorch their delicate herbal extractions into ruined, black slag.

Yet through the blinding smoke, heat haze, and echoing furnace roars, the representative from the ancient Ding Dynasty stood like an unshakeable mountain.

Utilizing a legendary nine-dragon flame array handed down through millennia of imperial lineage, the senior alchemist of the Ding Dynasty maintained absolute control over his bronze cauldron. His hands moved in blurred, rhythmic seals, keeping the internal temperatures at an exact, terrifying equilibrium despite the volatile ingredients brewing within.

At the end of the fifth hour, a thunderous, resonant chime echoed from the Ding Dynasty’s station. A pillar of crimson and gold pill-light burst through the top of the cauldron, filling the entire stadium with a rich, medicinal fragrance that momentarily cleared the thick smoke hanging over the arena.

The diagnostic arrays flashed, locking in the score and declaring the Ding Dynasty the undisputed champions of the Alchemical Division.

Up in the Imperial delegation’s private tactical suite, Rowan stood by the wide glass viewport, his optical crystal quietly finishing its recording of the five-hour trial as Jeremy handed him a cold glass of spring water.

"Five grueling hours..." Jeremy sighed, watching the exhausted Ding Dynasty team collapse into victory celebrations on the floor below. "You’ve got to hand it to their flame control. That was a masterclass in cauldron stabilization."

"Their technique was exquisite," Rowan agreed, sipping his water with a thoughtful expression. He zoomed in on the crystalline recording, displaying a microscopic breakdown of the Ding Dynasty’s winning pill. "Their grandmaster spent over three hours of that five-hour marathon doing one specific task: using intense dragon-fire to burn off the heavy elemental slag hidden inside the market-bought spirit herbs they used."

Jeremy leaned over the display, blinking as he analyzed the data. "Over sixty percent of his total mana output went strictly toward purifying contaminated raw materials before he could even begin the actual fusion step."

"Exactly," Rowan said, a calm, knowing smirk touching his lips as he tucked the optical crystal safely into his spatial storage. "They won the championship through sheer, heroic brute force against dirty ingredients. Imagine what the Ding Dynasty—or any top alchemist—could accomplish if they didn’t have to waste five hours burning off slag. If they used Eden International’s uncorrupted produce, that same pill would take thirty minutes to refine, and its potency would double."

Jeremy let out a rich laugh, shaking his head. "So even when another nation takes home a gold trophy, the takeaway for the entire world is still that they desperately need our harvest."

***

The air inside the Swiss Colosseum turned thick with the thunderous roar of blast furnaces, the deafening ringing of anvils, and the blinding glare of molten star-metal. The final and most physically punishing event of the global stage—the Blacksmithing Championship—dragged on for an agonizing, non-stop three full days.

For seventy-two continuous hours, the arena was transformed into a subterranean foundry. Day and night blurred together beneath a permanent shroud of heat haze, floating sparks, and thermal mana shockwaves. Alchemists had strained for five hours, but the blacksmiths faced an absolute trial of physical endurance, soul-force, and metallurgical precision.

As the hours dragged on, exhaustion claimed dozens of elite artisans. Heat sickness, bone-deep structural fatigue, and shattered core channels caused rival cauldrons to crack and forged blades to snap under quenching stress.

Yet, amidst the suffocating heat and relentless pounding, the smiths of the Northern States proved virtually immovable.

Hailing from frost-locked mountain holds and tempered by lifetimes of sub-zero spirit-storms, the Northern blacksmiths operated with terrifying, mechanical rhythm. Bare-chested and covered in heavy runic tattoos, they wielded massive war-hammers that struck adamantine billets with the force of falling meteors. Utilizing proprietary frost-bound blast furnaces and deep-glacial quenching fluids, they folded hyper-dense astral ores thousands of times without a single millisecond of hesitation.

When the 72nd hour finally struck and the cooling fluids settled, the final leaderboard flashed across the stadium, triggering a stunned roar from the crowds:

The Northern States had swept ranks 1 through 5 in a total, uncontested landslide.

Their forged titan-plate armor and frost-etched greatswords possessed structural density and kinetic absorption ratings that left every other sovereign faction completely outclassed.

Up in the Imperial tactical suite, Rowan tucked his optical crystal away as the crystalline recorder finished saving three full days of high-density forging data. Beside him, Jeremy stretched his stiff arms, looking down at the heat-scarred arena floor with deep respect.

"Three straight days of hammer strikes..." Jeremy muttered, shaking his head. "The Northern States built those guys out of mountain granite. Sweeping the entire top five in a global category is insane."

"Their physical conditioning and heat-dispersal runes are unmatched," Rowan agreed, adjusting the brim of his Enchanted Straw Hat. "Their smiths use frost-infused soul pathways to vent furnace backpressure directly out of their bodies, which allowed them to forge continuously while others collapsed from mana fever."

Rowan pulled up a magnified thermal breakdown from his optical crystal on the suite’s private monitor, pointing to the blade edge of the Northern champion’s winning greatsword.

"But look closely at the molecular lattice near the fuller," Rowan noted smoothly. "To bind the frost-alloy with the core metal during that 72-hour marathon, their master smiths used standard high-carbon plant ash as a binding flux. Because those standard spirit-plants contained trace mineral slag, there are microscopic stress fractures running along the internal runic veins."

Jeremy leaned in, blinking as he saw the faint, discolored lines within the metal’s internal structure. "So even the Northern masterwork weapons have internal structural flaws caused by dirty carbon flux?"

"Exactly," Rowan said, a calm, knowing smile touching his lips. "If those Northern masters used refined, slag-free organic carbon derived from Eden International’s uncorrupted wood or plant matter, those micro-fractures wouldn’t exist. Their weapons would be thirty percent lighter, infinitely more durable, and capable of conducting zero-resistance mana."

Jeremy let out a long laugh, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "Combat, ranged warfare, herbology, alchemy, and now even three days of heavy blacksmithing... Every single road on this planet keeps leading straight back to our soil."

"That is the power of a pure foundation," Rowan said softly.

Turning away from the glass viewport as the Swiss Colosseum began its final closing ceremonies, Rowan walked over to the strategy desk where the projection arrays were warming up.

With the combat, ranged, botanical, alchemical, and forging divisions officially concluded, the Global Awakener’s Tournament was finally at an end.

"Now," Rowan said, his golden-amber eyes gleaming with quiet authority as he brought up the encrypted tactical files, "It’s time to show my team exactly how the rest of the world fights, brews, and forges—and how we are going to stay five steps ahead of all of them."