Chapter 12 (Slimecite)

The palace hummed with life, the grand hall resplendent with Demacian splendor.

Banners of royal blue and gold draped from vaulted ceilings, the colors catching the light of crystal chandeliers. Beneath them, nobles, generals, and merchants mingled, their laughter and conversation blending with the melodies of a string quartet.

This was no ordinary evening. It was Prince Jarvan's eighth birthday—an event meticulously designed to impress.

I lingered on the edge of the festivities, scanning the crowd with careful intent. Amid the flowing gowns and gleaming armor, one man drew my attention: Dominick Durand, the fabled engineer whose creations had redefined the boundaries of arcane technology. He stood near a towering window, his sharp profile backlit by the city's lights. To call him a potential ally was an understatement. His automatons—able to rival entire battalions—were a resource I couldn't afford to ignore.

'Durand is critical,' I thought.

But before I could approach him, another figure entered my periphery.

"Fiora!"

A sharp voice rang out over the chatter, drawing heads. Lady Laurent, clad in an elaborate emerald gown, moved through the crowd with practiced grace. By her side was her daughter, Fiora.

Fiora's attire, as expected, was a rebellion against the norm. She wore a tunic and trousers of deep navy, cinched at the waist, her boots polished but built for function. Her dark hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, accentuated her piercing eyes and the defiance that radiated from her every move. Whispers rippled through the crowd, some amused, others scandalized.

Lady Laurent sighed, her voice carrying a thin veneer of patience. "I'm happy you decided to attend, dear. But couldn't you have chosen something… more appropriate?"

"Impossible," Fiora replied, her tone flat but final. "It would only hinder my movements."

Lady Laurent's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't argue further. Instead, her gaze flicked to me, a flicker of recognition passing across her features before she moved on.

Fiora caught me watching and raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge in her expression.

I returned her look, smirking teasingly. 'The emotions from before have settled down.'

Pushing that thought aside, I made my way toward Durand, weaving through the crowd. His figure loomed larger as I approached, his sharp eyes scanning the room like a hawk assessing its surroundings. His gray beard and lined face told of years spent laboring over impossible problems, while the air of command he exuded kept even the boldest of nobles at bay.

"Master Durand," I said, bowing slightly.

He turned his attention to me, his gaze sharp and assessing. "And who are you?"

"Alexander," I replied smoothly. "A colleague of the prince—and an admirer of your work. Your constructs are as innovative as they are necessary."

His brow lifted, the faintest trace of curiosity sparking behind his stern demeanor. "You're awfully young to have an opinion on necessity."

"You've crafted monuments that capture both artistry and precision," I said, meeting his gaze steadily. "But I've studied your techniques—there's more to them than meets the eye. Your creations hold untapped potential, far beyond their beauty. Demacia will need that kind of brilliance."

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Intriguing words. What do you want, boy?"

"A chance to see your workshop," I said simply. "To learn from you—and to contribute."

Durand studied me for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he weighed my words. Finally, he gave a low chuckle. "You're bold, I'll give you that. Come by in a week. I'll show you what I'm working on."

"Thank you, Master Durand," I said, inclining my head. "I won't waste your time."

As he turned away, a sense of triumph settled over me. The pieces were beginning to fall into place. Durand wasn't just a potential ally—his knowledge where a gateway to a future my legions could stand unshaken against any threat.

As I rejoined the crowd, my eyes found Fiora and Jarvan deep in conversation. Fiora's usually rigid posture had softened—an uncommon sight—and Jarvan was gesturing with enthusiasm, his expression bright.

'So they succeeded.'

I exhaled through my nose, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "now I'll have to cope with two troublesome kids."

. . .

. . .

. . .

The air in Durand's workshop was thick with the scent of oil, metal, and age. The space felt less like a laboratory and more like a gallery of forgotten possibilities. Sculptures lined the walls, their polished surfaces gleaming under dim, flickering lights. Some were intricate, humanoid figures carved with meticulous care, while others were abstract and angular, radiating an almost mystical energy.

But none of that mattered right now.

I sat hunched over a workbench, frowning at a piece of delicate machinery that had consumed my focus for the last three hours. Tools were scattered around me—pliers, fine chisels, and a particularly finicky wrench that seemed determined to make my task harder.

This was Durand's latest test for me, a seemingly simple mechanism that required an absurd level of precision to assemble.

I tightened a bolt too hard. A snap echoed through the room as the piece fractured in my hands.

"Perfect," I muttered, dropping the broken part onto the growing pile of failed attempts beside me. My patience, like the components, was wearing thin.

Durand wasn't here. He had been called away earlier that morning, leaving me to wrestle with this puzzle alone. It was progress, in a way—him trusting me enough to leave me unsupervised.

'Or maybe he just enjoys watching me struggle,' I thought, smirking faintly to myself.

Still, I couldn't complain. Gaining access to his workshop had been a carefully calculated effort. During my first visit, I had strategically demonstrated just enough knowledge to pique his interest while admitting gaps that only he could fill. It had worked. Though I wasn't a formal apprentice, Durand now allowed me to spend time here, occasionally offering insights or tasks that hinted at his deeper work.

But his trust had limits.

'It'll take time for him to share about the golems.'

My gaze drifted to one corner of the workshop, where a peculiar artifact rested on a shelf. It was a small orb of black, gelatinous material encased in glass—what I'd come to call "Slimecite."

The black, gelatinous material within shifting almost imperceptibly. It moved with a life of its own, its surface rippling like disturbed water.

I rose and approached it, drawn by a fascination I couldn't quite rationalize.

Durand claimed it was a failed experiment. "A curiosity," he had called it when I first asked. But I knew better. Nothing in this workshop was here by accident. Durand didn't collect things for the sake of collecting.

Pressing a hand against the glass, I focused, letting my senses attune to the orb. As before, it absorbed mana—not like petricite, but in a measured, almost deliberate way. The faint hum of its pull was constant, a deep, consuming force—like the silent gravity of a black hole.

'What are you, really?'

And then, something I hadn't noticed before—a momentary stiffness in its ripples. The orb's surface quivered and, for a heartbeat, hardened, forming a jagged edge before melting back into its amorphous state.

I froze, my mind racing.

'It can solidify?' The implications were staggering. A material capable of absorbing magic and changing its physical state… the possibilities were endless.

But I knew better than to act impulsively. If I asked Durand directly, he'd never tell me. Even if I could convince him of my "innocent" curiosity, he'd guard this secret as closely as any of his other inventions.

But I wanted it.

Not now, though. Stealing from someone like Durand required patience and precision—both of which I lacked in this moment. I needed time to create a convincing replica, something that wouldn't immediately alert him to its absence. Until then, I would wait, watch, and learn.

'Everything has its time.'

. . .

. . .

For the rest of the year my days were a careful balance between training, business, and secrecy.

Sweat dripped from my brow as I clashed with Xin Zhao in the training yard. His strikes were relentless, each blow a test of my stamina and skill. My wooden sword moved with precision, deflecting his attacks in a series of fluid arcs.

Across the yard, Fiora was engaged in her own battle against Jarvan.

"No—stop flinching!" she snapped, her tone sharp but not unkind.

Jarvan grimaced, barely managing to parry her latest strike. "I'm trying!" he protested, his voice strained.

Fiora rolled her eyes, her strikes unrelenting. Within moments, Jarvan's wooden sword flew from his hands, landing in the dirt. He threw his arms up in defeat.

"Alright, alright! Let's take a break," he pleaded, his tone edging on desperation.

"Fine," Fiora relented, though her posture remained disciplined. She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow before turning her attention to our duel.

The Laurents didn't reside in the capital, which meant Fiora only joined our training on rare occasions—just a handful of days during specific times of the year.

But for now, a small audience had gathered. Jarvan and Fiora watched intently as Xin Zhao and I exchanged blows, their eyes widening with every calculated movement.

"You're fast," Xin Zhao remarked, his tone even.

"And you're holding back," I shot back, smirking.

. . .

After training, my focus shifted to my enterprises.

The military rations were gaining traction, their practicality and affordability appealing to Demacia's soldiers. My second major product, the healing gel, had already cemented itself as an essential item for many.

While neither business demanded my constant attention, ensuring their success required careful oversight.

. . .

Late at night, I retreated to the hidden chamber beneath the noble residence.

The room was small but secure, its walls reinforced with stone and petricite. Here, I poured over magical texts, honing my understanding of the powers I had copied and searching for ways to push their limits.

Kayle's celestial light offered healing, fire, light and resilience, while Morgana's dark magic mostly provided a protective layer against harm. Both were useful, but Morgana's ability potential paled compared to what I envisioned.

'So… it can actually do that?' I thought, observing as the purple energy fused seamlessly a sparkle with fire power.

. . .

And then there was the workshop.

Despite my struggles with Durand's task, the space itself never ceased to amaze me. The artifacts scattered throughout the room hinted at secrets I was desperate to uncover. Each visit deepened my curiosity—and my resolve.

My attention returned to the broken mechanism before me. With a sigh, I grabbed another component from the pile and began again.

.

.

.

Weeks passed, the monotony of my routine broken only by the occasional breakthrough or setback.

But then, the whispers began.

Rumors of a boy who could see magical energy spread through the capital like wildfire. Nobles discussed it in hushed tones, scholars debated its plausibility, and soldiers shared the tale with a mix of awe and unease.

It wasn't hard to guess what such a gift might mean in a land like Demacia.

A piece on the board had moved.

'I've waited long enough.' I thought, my jaw tightened, the calculation in my gaze betraying no mercy.

The final piece had fallen into place.