Witcher: Alchemist

The cavernous workshop beneath Battle Isle was a realm of shadows and flickering light, illuminated by the eerie glow of enchanted crystals. Their ghostly reflections danced on the rough stone walls. Lucian Faust stood at its center, his gaunt face bathed in the unnatural light of a forge.

The forge burned with a fire fueled not by coal or wood, but by raw, crackling magic. His hands moved with mechanical precision, grinding rare minerals into fine powder. Each motion was deliberate and unerring. The air was thick with the acrid scent of molten metal and crushed herbs.

A faint hum of magic resonated through the workshop. Lucian's frail body was held together by a cocktail of potions. Lifeforce coursed through his veins, sustaining his energy where his body would otherwise fail. The potions were a temporary fix, a crutch that allowed him to push forward.

Pain was temporary. Weakness was temporary. Lucian didn't care about permanence. A faint shuffle echoed from the shadows, and Kiyan emerged. His yellow eyes glinted in the dim light as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"You look like death warmed over, Faust," Kiyan said, his voice a low rumble. "How long has it been since you slept?" Lucian didn't look up, his hands continuing their work. "Sleep is a luxury I can't afford. Not when there's work to be done."

Kiyan snorted, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. "Work? You're practically a walking corpse. If you collapse, who's going to finish all this?" He gestured to the cluttered workshop, the bubbling cauldrons, and the half-finished artifacts scattered across the tables.

Lucian paused, finally lifting his gaze to meet Kiyan's. His hollow eyes were cold, unyielding. "If I collapse, it won't matter. The work will continue. It always does." Kiyan shook his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You're a madman, you know that? Most people would've given up by now. But you? You just keep pushing. What's the endgame here, Faust? What are you trying to prove?" Lucian turned back to his work, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

"I'm not trying to prove anything. The world is broken, Kiyan. Weak. Fragile. But I don't care about fixing it. I care about my studies. Magic. Alchemy. That's all that matters." Kiyan raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with skepticism.

"Magic and alchemy? That's it? You're locking yourself in a cave, brewing potions, and crafting artifacts just for the sake of it?" Lucian's hands stilled for a moment, his gaze distant. "Knowledge is power, Kiyan. The more I learn, the more I can create. The world outside can burn for all I care. For now, there is only the work."

Kiyan's smirk faded, replaced by a look of grudging respect. "Maybe. But even you can't do it alone. You're not invincible, Faust. No matter how many potions you drink." Lucian's lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile. "Invincibility is an illusion. But progress? Progress is real. And that's all that matters."

Kiyan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're impossible, you know that? Fine. Do what you want. But don't come crying to me when you burn yourself out." Lucian didn't respond, his attention already focused on the next task.

Kiyan lingered for a moment longer, then turned and disappeared into the shadows. The forge crackled, its flames dancing higher as Lucian added another handful of powdered mithril to the mix. The air grew heavier, the hum of magic louder.

He didn't notice. His mind was already elsewhere, calculating, planning, creating. The world outside could wait. For now, there was only the work. Lucian's first task was to create the tools he needed to transcend the limitations of his current workshop.

Using a combination of alchemy and magic, he began crafting the stations that would elevate his work to new heights. Each station was a step toward perfection, a means to an end that only he could see. The Alchemy Table was the first to take shape.

It was a massive slab of polished obsidian, its surface etched with intricate runes that glowed faintly as he poured liquid mana into the grooves. The table hummed with energy, a low, resonant vibration that filled the room. It was a tool of precision, capable of brewing potions of unparalleled potency.

Lucian ran a hand over its surface, feeling the thrum of power beneath his fingertips. This was no ordinary table—it was the foundation of his craft. Next came the Imbuing Station, a circular platform made of silver and gold.

It was adorned with intricate carvings of magical symbols. This station allowed Lucian to infuse mundane materials with magical properties, turning simple metals into mithril and adamantite. The process was delicate, requiring a steady hand and an unerring focus.

Lucian worked tirelessly, his movements precise and deliberate, as he brought the station to life. Each rune he carved, each drop of mana he infused, was a step closer to perfection. The Mythril Anvil was forged from the newly created mithril.

It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship that resonated with a low, melodic hum as Lucian hammered enchanted ingots into shape. Each strike of the hammer sent ripples of energy through the air, the metal singing as it took form. The anvil was more than a tool—it was a symbol of his growing mastery.

It stood as a testament to his ability to bend the world to his will, to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. Finally, the Titanium Forge, a towering structure of blackened steel and glowing embers, burned with a heat that could melt even the most resilient metals.

It was here that Lucian created his most powerful artifacts. The forge roared to life as he fed it with raw magic, the flames dancing higher and hotter with each passing moment. The heat was unbearable, the air thick with the scent of molten metal and the crackle of energy.

But Lucian didn't flinch. He stood before the forge, his gaunt face illuminated by the flames, his eyes reflecting the fire's intensity. Each station was a testament to his skill and ingenuity, a reflection of his growing mastery over both alchemy and magic.

Together, they formed the heart of his workshop, a place where the impossible became possible. But Lucian didn't pause to admire his work. There was no time for pride—only progress. The world outside could wait. For now, there was only the work.

POV: Kiyan –

Kiyan watched silently as Lucian handed him the ring and a satchel filled with potions—Ironskin, Lifeforce, Rage, Regeneration, Swiftness, and Wrath, twenty of each. The witcher's yellow eyes narrowed as he examined the items, his expression unreadable. He hefted the satchel, feeling the weight of the vials clinking together.

"You're sending me to Cintra," Kiyan said, his voice low and gravelly, more a statement than a question. Lucian didn't look up. "Yes. You'll deliver a magical artifact to Queen Calanthe and negotiate on my behalf. Use the name Avicebron. I don't want my real identity known."

Kiyan raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with skepticism. "Avicebron? Why the alias, Faust? You think a fancy name is going to throw them off your trail?" Lucian paused, his hands stilling for a moment. He turned his head slightly, his hollow eyes meeting Kiyan's.

"The Brotherhood of Sorcerers is already asking questions," he said, his voice cold and detached. "They've heard rumors of a master alchemist in Novigrad. I'd rather not draw their attention." Kiyan smirked faintly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You think a fake name will stop them? Those mages have ways of finding out what they want to know. They're not exactly known for giving up." "It will buy me time," Lucian replied, his tone unwavering. "And time is all I need. Now go. The fate of Cintra—and our plans—depends on this."

Kiyan studied him for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning Lucian's gaunt face. There was no hesitation, no doubt in the alchemist's expression. Just that same cold, unyielding determination. Finally, Kiyan shrugged, slinging the satchel over his shoulder.

"Fine. But if this blows up in your face, don't come crying to me." Lucian didn't respond. He simply turned back to his work, his hands already moving to the next task. The forge crackled behind him, its flames casting long, flickering shadows across the workshop.

Kiyan lingered for a moment longer, then turned and disappeared into the shadows, the storage ring glinting faintly on his finger.

POV: Kiyan – Cintra

The storage ring glinted faintly on his finger as Kiyan stepped out of the shadows and into the bustling streets of Cintra. The journey had been uneventful, but the kingdom itself was a stark contrast. The city was alive with a frenetic energy, though not the kind born of celebration. Soldiers marched through the streets, their armor clanking and faces set in grim determination.

Merchants hurried to pack their wares, while refugees huddled in the corners, their eyes hollow with fear and exhaustion. The air was thick with tension, a palpable sense of dread that even Kiyan, a witcher accustomed to danger, found unsettling.

He moved through the chaos with the ease of someone who had seen it all before, his Crystal Assassin armor drawing curious glances but no direct challenges. The Frost Brand sword at his side gleamed faintly in the sunlight, its icy aura a silent warning to anyone who might consider testing him.

Kiyan's yellow eyes scanned the crowd, taking in the desperation and fear that clung to the city like a shroud. Cintra was on the brink, and everyone knew it. When he arrived at the palace, the guards at the gates eyed him with suspicion.

Their hands tightened on their weapons as he approached. Kiyan stopped a few paces away, his expression calm but unyielding. "I'm here on behalf of Avicebron, a master alchemist from Novigrad," he said, his voice steady and authoritative.

"I have a gift for Queen Calanthe and a message of great importance." The guards exchanged wary glances, clearly unsure of how to proceed. After a moment, one of them stepped forward, his tone cautious. "Wait here," he said, before disappearing into the palace.

Kiyan waited, his patience unshaken. He had dealt with worse than nervous guards and bureaucratic delays. The storage ring on his finger felt heavier now, a reminder of the weight of the task ahead. Finally, the guard returned, gesturing for Kiyan to follow.

"The queen will see you," he said, though his tone made it clear that this was no ordinary audience. As Kiyan was led through the grand halls of the palace, he couldn't help but notice the tension in the air.

The tapestries depicting Cintra's storied history seemed almost mocking now, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the grim reality outside. The guards flanking him kept a careful distance, their eyes never leaving him. Kiyan smirked faintly. They were right to be cautious.

When he finally entered the throne room, Queen Calanthe was waiting, her sharp green eyes studying him with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Her council stood nearby, their expressions ranging from wary to outright hostile.

The room was grand, its high ceilings and ornate decorations a testament to Cintra's former glory, but the atmosphere was tense, the weight of impending war hanging heavy in the air. "You claim to represent a master alchemist," the queen said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

"What proof do you have?" Kiyan reached into his satchel and pulled out the two-way mirror, its surface shimmering with a faint, otherworldly glow. "This is a gift from my master," he said, placing the mirror on the table before the queen.

"He wishes to speak with you." The council murmured among themselves as the mirror's surface rippled, revealing Lucian's gaunt face. His hollow eyes and cold expression sent a shiver through the room. "Queen Calanthe," Lucian said, his voice calm and measured.

"I am Avicebron, an alchemist of some renown. I understand your kingdom is facing a grave threat. I offer my services—for a price." The queen leaned forward, her gaze sharp and calculating. "And what, exactly, are you offering?"

"Potions," Lucian replied. "Ironskin to harden your soldiers' flesh, Lifeforce to sustain them in battle, Rage to enhance their strength, Regeneration to heal their wounds, Swiftness to outmaneuver your enemies, and Wrath to strike with deadly precision. Twenty of each, to start."

The council erupted into murmurs, but Calanthe raised a hand, silencing them. "And what do you want in return?" "Thirty crowns per potion," Lucian said. "A small price to pay for the survival of your kingdom." The queen's lips curled into a faint smile.

"You drive a hard bargain, Avicebron. Very well. We'll take them all."

One month later

 the Nilfgaardian forces descended upon Cintra like a storm. The first clash, the Battle of Marnadal, was a brutal test of the kingdom's resolve. The Cintran soldiers, bolstered by Lucian's potions, fought with a ferocity that stunned their enemies. The Ironskin potions turned their flesh to steel, their bodies shrugging off blows that would have felled lesser men. Lifeforce coursed through their veins, sustaining them long after exhaustion should have claimed them.

Rage burned in their eyes, their strikes landing with deadly precision, each blow fueled by an unnatural strength. The Nilfgaardians, confident in their superior numbers and discipline, were unprepared for the sheer tenacity of the Cintran forces. The battlefield was a cacophony of clashing steel, war cries, and the sickening crunch of bone.

The Cintran soldiers, their bodies glowing faintly with the effects of Lucian's potions, pushed forward with relentless determination. The Nilfgaardian advance was halted, their forces driven back in disarray. For a moment, it seemed as though Cintra might prevail.

But the victory was short-lived. The Second Battle of Marnadal saw the tide turn. The Nilfgaardians, learning from their previous defeat, adapted their tactics. They targeted the Cintran commanders, sowing chaos among the ranks. King Eist Tuirseach, leading the charge with his customary bravery, fell in battle.

His death was a blow to the morale of the Cintran army, and despite their enhanced strength, they began to falter. The Nilfgaardians pressed their advantage, their forces overwhelming the Cintran lines. The battlefield became a slaughterhouse, the ground slick with blood and littered with the fallen.

The potions that had once given the Cintran soldiers an edge were not enough to stem the tide. The kingdom's defenses crumbled, and the Nilfgaardians advanced, their eyes set on the heart of Cintra.

As the Nilfgaardians breached the walls of Cintra, Queen Calanthe stood atop the palace. Her eyes were filled with a mixture of defiance and despair. The city burned around her, the air thick with smoke and the screams of the dying. She had no intention of surrendering. To her, captivity was a fate worse than death.

With a final act of defiance, she took her own life, choosing to fall on her own terms rather than at the hands of her enemies. Her death sent a ripple of despair through the remnants of the Cintran forces, but it also ignited a spark of resistance in those who remained.

They fought with the desperation of those who had nothing left to lose. The city burned, its streets running red with blood. The Nilfgaardians showed no mercy, slaughtering all who stood in their path. Men, women, and children fell before their blades, the once-proud kingdom reduced to ash and ruin.

Amidst the chaos, Kiyan fought his way through the carnage, his Frost Brand sword cutting through the enemy with deadly precision. The blade's icy aura froze the blood of those it struck, their bodies collapsing in frost-covered heaps. Kiyan had no love for Cintra, but he owed Lucian a debt.

He moved through the streets like a shadow, his Crystal Assassin armor blending seamlessly with the smoke and flames. His every strike was calculated, his every movement precise. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of death and ice amidst the chaos.

As he fought, his mind raced. The fall of Cintra was inevitable, but he had a mission to complete. He needed to survive, to return to Lucian and deliver the news of what had transpired. The alchemist would want to know every detail, every failure and every triumph.

And Kiyan would be there to tell him. The city burned, its once-great halls reduced to rubble. The Slaughter of Cintra would be remembered as a turning point in the war, a grim reminder of the cost of defiance. But amidst the ashes, Kiyan remained, a lone figure standing against the tide.

POV: Kiyan – Battle Isle Workshop

Kiyan leaned against the rough stone wall of the hidden laboratory, his arms crossed and his sharp yellow eyes fixed on Lucian. The alchemist was hunched over a workbench, his hands moving with mechanical precision. The air was thick with the scent of molten metal and the faint hum of magic.

"You're pushing yourself too hard, Lucian," Kiyan said, his voice low and gravelly. "You're not invincible, no matter how many potions you drink or how much armor you wear." Lucian didn't look up, his focus entirely on the intricate runes he was etching into a piece of blackened steel.

"The work doesn't stop just because I'm tired, Kiyan. The world outside is falling apart. Cintra burns, and the Brotherhood of Sorcerers is breathing down my neck. I don't have the luxury of rest." Kiyan pushed off the wall, stepping closer.

"You think locking yourself in this cave is going to save you? The Brotherhood isn't going to stop just because you're hiding. They'll find you, Lucian. And when they do, you'll need more than a few potions and a suit of armor to stop them."

Lucian paused, his hands stilling for a moment. He turned his head slightly, his hollow eyes meeting Kiyan's. "Let them come. I've prepared for this. The Brotherhood may be powerful, but they're not infallible. And neither am I. But I have something they don't—determination. The world outside can burn for all I care. For now, there is only the work."

As if on cue, the heavy door to the laboratory creaked open. A messenger stumbled in, his face pale and his breath ragged. He bowed hastily, his voice trembling with urgency. "Master Faust, a delegation from the Brotherhood of Sorcerers has arrived. They're asking about you."

The room fell silent. Kiyan's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his Frost Brand sword, his yellow eyes narrowing as he scanned the room for any sign of threat. Lucian's expression remained unchanged, his hollow eyes and gaunt face as cold and detached as ever.

"Tell them nothing," Lucian said, his voice firm and unyielding. "I'll handle this myself." The messenger nodded, his face still pale, and hurried out of the room. Kiyan glanced at Lucian, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"The Brotherhood of Sorcerers, Lucian? That's not something to take lightly." Lucian turned back to his work, his hands already moving to the next task. "They are a threat, but one I am prepared for. The world outside can burn for all I care. For now, there is only the work."

Kiyan watched him for a moment longer, then turned and left the workshop, his mind already racing with the implications of what had just transpired. The Brotherhood of Sorcerers had taken notice of Lucian's activities, and their arrival signaled the beginning of a new threat.