NOVEL WEB Chapter 29: Crafting The Pale Mask
The air in Edwyn's dorm workshop hung thick with the sharp tang of alchemical reagents, a chaotic symphony of bubbling potions and faintly glowing runes scrawled across his workbench.
Alchemy was no mere craft, it was a beast, a wild, intricate dance of precision, improvisation, and raw inspiration that could make or break a wizard. Whether forging Arcane Artifacts, brewing potions, stitching together chimeras, or weaving magic arrays, it demanded everything: patience, meticulousness, and that spark of reckless genius that Edwyn, with his red hair and devil-may-care smirk, had in spades. He thrived in this chaos, his cloak slung carelessly over a chair, his hands moving with the confidence of a man who'd stared down monsters and laughed.
Edwyn hung a "Do Not Disturb" sign on his door, the letters scrawled in bold ink that practically dared anyone to knock. Crafting the Pale Mask was the most complex project he'd tackled. He approached it with double his usual focus, his green eyes sharp as he surveyed his tools: vials of shimmering liquids, a pestle glowing faintly from prior enchantments, and a stack of quills that would soon meet their doom.
"Alright, let's rock this," he muttered.
The black-striped water python's head, still glistening faintly from the swamp, was his starting point.
No pre-cleaned skull for Edwyn, he was doing this the hard way.
He poured a special alchemical solution, a murky blend of starvine extract and crushed moonstone, into a wide basin. The liquid hissed faintly as he submerged the snake's head, the acrid scent stinging his nose. For twelve hours, it soaked, softening the flesh until it sloughed off like wet parchment. Edwyn repeated the process twice more, scrubbing the skull with a wire brush under candlelight until it gleamed bone-white, not a speck of flesh remaining.
"Clean as a whistle," he said, holding the skull up to the light, his smirk reflecting in its polished surface. "You're gonna make one hell of a mask."
While the skull soaked, Edwyn didn't sit idle. He grabbed a low-grade Wind Runestone, its surface pulsing with faint green light, and ground it into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle. The dust sparkled like crushed emeralds as he mixed it with carbonized ash from decade-old magic wood, sourced from a shady merchant who swore it was harvested under a blood moon. Edwyn wasn't sure he bought the story, but the wood's latent mana was the real deal. He added 500 grams of purified water, stirring the mixture with a glass rod until it formed a cloudy slurry.
After three hours of settling, he siphoned off the clear, faintly glowing liquid: the bone-softening solution.
"Smooth as silk," he said, swirling the vial. "This'll make that skull bend like clay."
Next came the risky part. Edwyn mashed sticky mushrooms, harvested from a cave in the Blackstone Mountains, into a thick, gluey paste, their earthy scent mingling with the workshop's chemical haze. He measured out toxic violet ink, a volatile concoction that shimmered like liquid amethyst but could kill with a single whiff. Mixing it with the mushroom paste was a gamble; a misstep in proportions could spark a reaction hot enough to melt steel.
Edwyn wasn't about to risk his dorm, or his neighbors' eyebrows, so he rented a testing zone in the academy's alchemy wing, a reinforced chamber lined with wards to contain explosions. "Better safe than sorry," he quipped, hauling his materials to the zone. "Last thing I need is Agnes chewing me out for blowing up half the academy."
In the testing zone, under the hum of protective runes, Edwyn measured the ink with a dropper, his hands steady despite the danger. The paste hissed as the first drops hit, releasing a faint purple vapor that made his eyes water even through his enchanted goggles.
"Whoa, easy there, you little monster," he said, stirring slowly. The mixture stabilized, forming a glossy ink perfect for etching alchemical runes. He sealed it in a warded jar, grinning. "That's the stuff."
Back in his workshop, Edwyn submerged the cleaned python skull in the bone-softening liquid. After an hour, it emerged pliable, its texture like warm clay. He molded it with practiced hands, shaping it into a sleek, menacing mask that curved to fit a human face, its eye sockets wide and eerie.
"Not bad, if I do say so myself," he said, holding it up. The mask gleamed under the candlelight, its surface pale and smooth, ready for the next step.
The real challenge was the mana conduction circuit. Most Arcane Artifacts lived or died by their spell inscriptions, but the Pale Mask's trick was its internal pathways.
Edwyn threaded black mercury, a liquid metal pulsing with arcane energy, through the skull's interior using delicate strands of mana. One wrong move, one flicker of unsteady mana, and the mask would be ruined, the mercury hardening into useless slag.
He sat cross-legged, eyes half-closed, guiding the mercury with the precision of a master swordsman. Ten minutes later, he exhaled, the circuit complete. "Piece of cake," he said, though a bead of sweat betrayed the effort.
"Now for the fun part." Edwyn opened the jar of alchemical ink, its violet glow casting shadows across his workbench. He dipped a feather quill into it, the ink reacting to his mana with a faint sizzle. The Pale Mask's spell was a First-Circle Spell: Intimidation, a psychological gut-punch that could shatter an enemy's focus or send a timid apprentice running. Edwyn etched the runes on the mask's inner surface, each stroke deliberate. The quill deformed with every rune, warped by the ink's volatile magic, so he swapped it out after each one, tossing the ruined feathers into a growing pile.
"Talk about high maintenance," he muttered, grabbing a fresh quill. "This thing's pickier than a dragon with a toothache."
Four days after he'd started, Edwyn leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow. The Pale Mask sat on his workbench, its runes glowing faintly, the skull's pale surface now etched with intricate patterns. It wasn't perfect, Joron's design diagram promised a toughness the mask lacked, likely because the python was a juvenile. It felt brittle, like it might crack if dropped.
"Gonna have to toughen you up, buddy," Edwyn said, tapping the mask. He sketched an enchantment array on a sheet of parchment, a lattice of runes to reinforce the material's strength. "One good hit, and you're not gonna be toast on my watch."
He wove the array with a silver stylus, channeling mana into the mask's surface. The runes flared briefly, then settled, the mask now sturdier but still rough around the edges. "Good enough for the exam," he said, spinning the stylus like a dagger. "Not my best work, but it'll scare the pants off some poor apprentice."
Chayle, the lanky High Apprentice with a penchant for questionable brews, leaned against the doorway of the alchemy lab, sipping from a flask that smelled suspiciously of firewhiskey. He eyed the Pale Mask in Edwyn's hand, one eyebrow raised. "Damn, you finished that thing quick," he said, clearly impressed. "Took me two weeks back in the day, and I botched it once. Had to start over after the skull turned to mush."
Edwyn grinned, leaning back in his chair with a cocky tilt. "What can I say? I'm a natural. Got lucky and nailed it first try." He tossed the mask lightly, catching it with a flourish. "No shortcuts, though, every step by hand, like a proper alchemist."
Chayle chuckled, shaking his head. "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all. Miss Agnes wasn't kidding, you're a prodigy when it comes to this stuff. Guess that makes us brothers in craft now. You hit a wall, come find me. I'm a bit of a niche weirdo, but my foundation's rock-solid."
"Appreciate it, man," Edwyn said, giving him a mock salute. "Always good to have a backup when the cauldron starts smoking." He knew the dangers of working solo, alchemy was a minefield, and even a hotshot like him could use an extra pair of eyes.
The door burst open with a bang, and Agnes stormed in, her usual flowing mage robe swapped for a sleek, form-fitting black outfit that hugged her curves like a second skin. Her phoenix eyes blazed with intensity, and Edwyn couldn't help but whistle low under his breath. "Well, damn, professor. You clean up nice."
Agnes shot him a look that could've melted steel. "Save the charm, Edwyn. You finished?"
He held up the bag containing the mask, giving it a playful shake. "Done and dusted. One Pale Mask, ready to make apprentices cry."
Agnes's gaze flicked to the bag, sensing the faint pulse of magical energy within. Her expression didn't shift, but her shoulders relaxed slightly, a silent admission that she'd bet on the right horse. "Good. Let's go see the mentor. Chayle, you're coming too."
They floated to the 99th floor of the Central Black Tower, the air growing colder and heavier with latent magic as they ascended. Joron, their mentor, sat hunched by a towering bookshelf, his gray hair disheveled, his face twisted in a scowl as he scribbled furiously in a notebook.
"Another failure," he muttered, oblivious to their arrival. "What's missing? The lab's location screwing with my luck again?"
Agnes cleared her throat. "Mentor, Edwyn has completed his assignment."
Joron's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "Who's Edwyn?"
Agnes froze, her composure cracking for a split second before she sighed and yanked Edwyn forward. "The apprentice I brought you last time, remember?"
Edwyn flashed a grin, unfazed. "No sweat, old man. I get it, genius like me's hard to keep track of."
Joron blinked, then slapped his forehead as memory clicked into place. "Right, right! Yes, you brought a student." His expression shifted to mild embarrassment as he recalled the day.
He'd been in a foul mood, his latest experiment a spectacular flop, and in his frustration, he'd handed Edwyn the wrong blueprint. The Pale Mask, not the simpler Concealment Mask, was a beast of a project, its mana conduction circuits requiring precision beyond most Initiates. Even Agnes and Chayle, his star disciples, hadn't tackled it until they were Intermediate Apprentices.
Joron's gaze flicked to the bag in Edwyn's hand, skepticism creeping in. "Probably a barely functional reject," he thought.
Arcane Artifacts came in four tiers: Perfect, Fine, Functional, and Flawed. Flawed ones could cast spells, but they drank mana like a drunkard and produced weaker effects. Still, even a Flawed Pale Mask from an Initiate would be impressive.
He stood, forcing a kindly smile to cover his earlier blunder. "No need to be nervous, boy. Hand me the mask."
Edwyn tossed the bag to Joron with a casual flick, his grin never faltering. "Nervous? Nah, I'm just here to show off. Let me know how I did, teach."
Joron caught the bag, his curiosity piqued despite himself. As he reached inside, Edwyn leaned back, arms crossed, his eyes glinting with the confidence of a man who knew he'd just pulled off something extraordinary, and was ready to revel in the chaos it would unleash.