The Empire must have been desperate to send as many fresh alchemists as they could to fuel the war efforts, because it had taken only two days before Ascion’s status as a newly-minted nigredo Spinner had been processed and he’d been posted to one of the many Branch Camps run by the Azenar Grand Academy of Alchemy.

He didn’t know what the conditions at the Camps were like, since alchemists and Mundane didn’t tend to mingle. For the true upper echelons of society, whose lineage traced back tens of generations to the founding days of the Empire, their pursuit of alchemy was conducted in the Grand Academy itself, located within the capital. There, they would eventually pass through the different stages, join their illustrious families in direct service to Emperor Tychius Azenar, safe and cosy within the heart of Azenar City.

For First-Generations like himself, he didn’t have that luxury. Branch Camps were a distributed network: with how First Generations were forced into service, along with other unfortunate souls from the later generations who were equally victim to the Empire’s policies, the Empire had to clamp down on any potential resentment. Each camp was run by at least one alchemist who had entered the albedo stage, along with a rotating staff of mid- and late-nigredo handlers.

Those were more than enough to shut down any attempt of internal revolt from a single Camp consisting of prima and nigredo. Even if a successful revolt was raised, any dedicated movement of its inhabitants wouldn’t spread into other Camps. It was why despite rolling out this policy since Emperor Tychius first ascended the throne more than ten years ago, there hadn’t been a single case in which an entire Camp had turned rogue.

For two days, he’d been placed in a holding cell within Synnar City, where the Second-Generation Count Gloucester had been establishing his House as one of the new up-and-rising stars. Ventus hadn’t stayed any longer than was necessary, merely detailing Ascion’s Spinner ability to the alchemist on duty at the prison before heading off to do whatever it was that the Hound of Azenar did. Chasing down more rogue alchemists in service to his precious Empire, probably.

Without mercury, or even salt and sulfur with which he now felt a mild connection to, Ascion had nothing to occupy his thoughts, even though they weren’t being interfered with by the Willsapper’s Spinning. It was strange – much like how his sense of time had been forever more shifted after he’d awakened to the Net, his body still felt different to him, as though he was walking through another man’s skin.

Unlike back then, though, this change was more akin to twisting than shifting. Everything felt off to him, for lack of a better word. And despite two days of languishing in a dark prison cell, being fed meals that were completely free of salt, or even the slightest traces of mercury or sulfur, he’d only barely gotten enough sense over his changed body and soul to at least walk without stumbling every few steps.

Eventually, though, they came for him. With his hands and legs bound by manacles, stripped of all material possession save for clothes now bearing the emblem of the Azenar Empire, he’d been carted off on a wagon toward Camp Six near the northeast reaches of the Empire.

Northeast was good. Sure, it was still close to the border that divided Azenar and the Eastern Kingdoms, and skirmishes did occasionally happen, but everyone knew that the real fighting was concentrated to the southeast.

His guards had been silent throughout the entire trip, although he did note the lone alchemist assigned as part of the guard detail reaching into his cloak every now and then in an unspoken threat. He wasn’t stupid; even if he had mercury on him, there wasn’t a chance that he’d be able to best someone else who’d already been through the Camps or the Academy curriculum. And so, he’d played the part of a docile, unassuming prisoner, reflecting on the changes that had occurred within him two days ago.

Putrefaction. Ventus had confirmed that he was now officially into the nigredo stage, even if revealing that titbit hadn’t been his intention at all. How, and more importantly, why had that somehow led to him developing new powers? What had those black threads been, and why had his attempt at Weaving been so ridiculously pathetic?

And how could he use that to his advantage, and escape from dying in the war he would undoubtedly soon be part of?

He didn’t have the answers. Hopefully, the Empire was desperate enough for fresh bodies to fuel the war that they would reveal such information even to First-Generation alchemists forced to do battle.

At least they’d been nice enough to not leave him blindfolded, and he could appreciate the view of the vast lands of Azenar before being holed up into an Academy Camp and forced to develop his talents in service of the Empire. Synnar was located just to the north of Azenar City, that in turn was almost geometrically the centre of the Azenar Empire. During the week-long wagon ride, he’d seen more of the Empire than he had rotating between the cities of Vaes, Synnar, and Onarant as he had since the time that he was picked up by Gyld’s crew almost ten years ago.

He’d never been this close to Azenar’s borders before. Off in the distance, he could see a massive crater stretching out for miles across, and despite how far away he was, there was no mistaking it anything else than what it was. He knew the legends: it continued downward impossibly far, reflecting nothing but an endless abyss. It was his first time seeing it, but those words were certainly not merely used to spice up children’s tales.

Some believed it to be a rupture in the fabric of reality, some called it a gateway to the underworld, and others merely thought of it as just a damned hole like any other. Whatever it truly was, Ascion only knew it as the Earthbreak.

Or, to be more accurate, the Earthbreak entry point, and thus completely useless to the Azenar Empire. On the other hand, its twin, the Earthbreak exit to the southeastern reaches of Azenar, was guarded by a chained series of watchtowers for the precious resources that spewed forth from it.

The entry point’s sole use was for executions, and reserved only for the most vile of criminals. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be his fate in time to come. No one ever knew what death-by-Earthbreak was like, but given the myths and fables that served as warning tales to children far too curious for their own good, he wasn’t curious enough to test it out for himself. Between dying in war or against a force of nature, he’d much rather choose the war.

If he could see the Earthbreak, though, that meant that he was nearing his destination, since it was located about as far to the northeast in Empire territory as it got.

The wagon continued on. Ten minutes and twelve seconds later, the wagon finally passed the wooden posts bearing two simple words: CAMP SIX.

One minute, five seconds later, following an exchange of words he couldn’t clearly hear outside the interior of the wagon, the door was unlocked. The alchemist’s head peeked in. Wordlessly, he unlocked the manacles that had been keeping him bound.

“Out,” the guard grunted, gesturing his thumb behind him with one hand. The other was covered with salt, sinking into his flesh, and even though Ascion couldn’t see the Net without any of the three Primordial substances, he knew that the Shaper was strengthening his body just in case Ascion tried to make a final break for it.

Yeah, they really weren’t taking any chances, even powerless as he currently was.

He stepped out. Days of being cooped up without a chance to move piled on top of his body’s present state of unfamiliarity following his undergoing of putrefaction made him feel uncharacteristically uncoordinated, something he never had to deal with in the past, thanks to the changes that mercury had granted unto his mind.

He must have been moving too slowly, because the guard grabbed hold of his shoulder, shoving him forward toward yet another alchemist. Ascion took half a second to take in his appearance. Neatly shaven black hair, wearing dull-grey robes bearing a golden emblem of the Azenar Empire. Flasks of mercury were attached to his belt, and yet more items were hidden beneath his cloak as they bulged outward. On the back of his palm was tattooed the alchemical symbol for mercury.

No guesses as to what his primary ability was, although after having been so laughably overwhelmed by Ventus, Ascion knew better than to discount whatever skill in Weaving or Shaping this alchemist may have.

“Ascion, or so I hear.” His voice was stern, and though Ascion was decent at reading people after thriving on the streets and shadowing his targets for as long as he did, he couldn’t tell what this other alchemist was thinking. “I’ve read Ventus’ report. Chronologist, was it?”

Concise, and to the point. It was probably for the best that he acted as a scared, docile new recruit for now, at least until he knew more about the Camps that he had been thrown into.

Ascion nodded slowly. “Yes.”

The alchemist arched an eyebrow, expression firm. “You will address me as Sir, or Alchemist, or Captain. Is that clear, recruit?”

Damn it. One of those types.

Still, Ascion was hardly in the position to stubbornly refuse him.

“Yes, Alchemist.”

He eyed Ascion for a moment longer, before nodding.

“Very well.” He turned to the alchemist and the Mundane guards who had escorted the wagon. “You may leave, soldiers. Follow me, recruit.”

Before the soldiers even made a move to return to the carriages they arrived in, the alchemist had already turned around, heading toward the buildings that took up the central position in Camp Six, towering over all the other structures. Impatiently, he waved for Ascion to fall in step beside him.

“My name is Polinas. Mid-albedo stage. Spinner-Shaper. I lead Camp Six. From today, you follow my orders.”

Just Polinas? No Alchemist name?

Come to think of it, at some point during Ventus’ domination of his mind, Ascion thought that he’d heard him being mentioned before.

Alchemists took massive pride in their names. Only those who were lifted to nobility were afforded an Alchemist’s name for their House. His curiosity must have shown, because Polinas continued speaking after a sideward glance that lasted a tenth of a second.

“Like you, I am a First-Generation,” he explained. “As such, I understand any apprehension you may have. Rest assured, though, that the Empire had no desire to throw you into battle before you are sufficiently prepared.”

Huh. Ascion would give a healthy amount of doubt to his extoling of the Empire’s virtues, but his first sentence caught Ascion’s attention. First Generation albedos tended to be rare, or so the rumours went. Beyond his talents as a Willsapper and devastating Weaving of ice – something Ascion still didn’t know how it was made possible – the Hound of Azenar was also well known for precisely the same reason that made Polinas so impressive, in that Ventus had achieved the albedo stage in his early twenties as a Second-Generation.

It didn’t make sense, though. Why would Polinas be out here managing a Camp this far away from the Empire’s central territories, rather than setting up a House of his own? After all, First-Generations were all granted leave of the army after five full years of service.

That was, of course, assuming that they survived that long.

“Ventus made it clear in his report that he was impressed by your skills.” Though Polinas turned to face Ascion, his steps didn’t slow in the slightest, falling with perfect cadence, each foot meeting the ground a quarter of a second apart. “In Ventus-speak, that places you at a cut above most fresh recruits.”

“You know him?” Ascion asked, surprised. Polinas paused in his step, sending him a firm glare that made him belatedly append his words. “Sir.”

“We trained in Camp Two together over ten years ago,” he said, satisfied. They continued walking once more. “Say what you will about Ventus, but he’s got a talent for finding alchemists in hiding, among other things. He’s taking it as a personal affront that you managed to go for three years as a prima without being discovered.”

Ah, yes. That, along side with the fine details of exactly how he’d managed to pull off his burglaries, had been simultaneously willingly and unwillingly divulged to Ventus courtesy of a little Willsapping. If there was any counter to a Willsapper’s abilities, Ascion swore he needed to learn it.

On Polinas’ words, though: Ascion knew that Ventus was a Second-Generation. For him to also have been sent to the Camps must have meant that he hadn’t been the firstborn heir to the House of Haran. He wouldn’t have expected that, considering that the only Haran people thought of by name was the Hound of Azenar himself.

They continued on, before Polinas paused in front of one of the smaller buildings to the side. He turned to face Ascion.

“Including you, Camp Six presently has thirty recruits, split into three groups,” Polinas said. “Training lasts for six months. Group One is now nearly completing their training. Group Two has been here for three months. Group Three, and where you will be assigned to, began two weeks ago. Even though you may have a head-start on them in the number of years you’ve practiced alchemy, Ventus reports a glaring lack of any knowledge with regard to alchemical understanding. I expect you to catch up as soon as possible. Is that clear?”

“Sure.”

Again, that earned another glare. “I say again: is that clear, recruit?”

Damn it, he really needed to get used to this.

“Yes, sir.”

“If you have any thoughts of escape, dispose of them at once. You are in service to the Empire now. Any sign of mutiny or insubordination will earn you a one-way trip through the Earthbreak.”

He pointed into the distance, where the glow of the evening sun abruptly shifted into the impenetrable darkness of the gaping hole in the ground. Ascion received his message loud and clear.

“Understood, Alchemist.”

Polinas nodded, satisfied, before leading him into the building. “Given your circumstances, tomorrow’s classes and activities will serve as a refresher to your peers for you to be brought up to speed. Combat training begins in three days. Some leeway will be given in light of your recent putrefaction, but I expect that you give your best performance. Doubly so, considering Ventus’ appraisal of you.”

Ascion saw the opportunity to follow up on the recent subject of his frustrations. “What exactly does putrefaction do?” An exact half-second later, he pre-emptively added to his words. “Sir.”

“Instructor Sara Rennaus will cover that in tomorrow’s class,” he said. “In brief: putrefaction introduces foreign elements to the prima materia, that are then further trimmed, processed, and refined. She will give you the full rundown tomorrow.”

Foreign elements was one way to put it, considering how everything about him still felt wrong. As soon as he could, he needed to get a handle on it.

Ascion glanced around as he was led through the interior of the building. Considering the rumours surrounding the Camps, he was surprised by what he was seeing. It wasn’t… well, quite as barren as he’d been expecting. A board had been set up, stray chalk-marks written on it. To another corner, there was a dartboard much like those he had seen in inns. A couple chairs had been laid out around a central table, although there wasn’t anyone presently using them.

He was led upstairs, and finally, he could hear bits of indistinct conversation. Polinas paused in front of a door, behind which chatter was apparent.

“Very well, recruit,” Polinas said. “Let’s get you acquainted with Group Three. Wait here.”

He rapped on the door once, hard, and the noise inside fell silent. He turned the knob, stepping in, and immediately Ascion heard someone shout out.

“Alchemist Polinas, Sir!”

“At ease,” he waved them aside, before beckoning for Ascion to step through. “Group Three, meet Ascion, your new recruit. Bring him up to speed as soon as possible.”

Ascion took a second to glance around at them. All seemed to be around his age, in the latter half of their teens. Eight of them, including him. Five boys, three girls; without any clear indication of what sort of alchemical power they utilised, bereft of any of the three Primordial substances as they were.

They held mixed reactions toward him. The boy who had taken the lead in calling them to attention was openly curious, but he seemed to be in the minority. Two – a boy and a girl – had broken away almost immediately after Polinas’ dismissal, and most of the others were indifferent at best. He looked at them for several half-seconds longer, committing their faces to memory –

Ah.

Well, that might be a bit of a problem.

In Group Three, standing by one of the beds was Olirian Caltrus, second-born son of House Caltrus, and connecting the dots together, Ascion deduced that his presence here was likely due to Ascion’s burglary of the Caltrus estate three months ago.