Rise of The Abandoned Husband

Two days had passed since my arrival at the Avery estate, and tension knotted my shoulders. I paced the length of my lavish guest room, checking my phone for the hundredth time. No calls. No messages. Nothing.

"They said they'd contact me about refining the Concentric Pill today," I muttered, glancing at the window.

The morning sun cast long shadows across the manicured gardens below. I'd examined Edward Avery thoroughly, confirmed his condition, and even begun preliminary research on the pill formulation. But there was a problem—I didn't have the complete formula.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

"Mr. Knight?" A servant bowed when I opened the door. "You're requested in the eastern courtyard immediately."

I frowned. "Did Ms. Avery send you?"

"Master Edward's instructions, sir. All invited alchemists are gathering now."

All invited alchemists? My stomach dropped.

"Thank you," I said, grabbing my jacket. "I'll be right there."

I followed the servant through the winding corridors of the massive estate, my mind racing. Had I misunderstood? I thought I was the only alchemist they'd contacted.

When we reached the eastern courtyard, my suspicions were confirmed. It wasn't just a courtyard but a massive square, and it was filled with people—dozens of them, standing in small clusters, talking in hushed tones. Many wore robes marking them as pill masters from various regions.

"What the hell?" I murmured.

The Man with the Mustache appeared at my elbow, looking equally confused. "I count at least forty alchemists here. Did you know about this?"

"No," I said through gritted teeth. "This changes everything."

A hush fell over the crowd as Herman Avery, Edward's brother and the family's public face, stepped onto a raised platform at the center of the square. Tilda stood beside him, her expression unreadable.

"Distinguished guests," Herman began, his voice carrying easily across the space. "Thank you for answering our summons. As you know, my brother's condition requires a specific remedy—the Concentric Pill."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The Concentric Pill was legendary for its difficulty.

"We've gathered the finest alchemists from around the world to attempt this feat," Herman continued. "The successful creator will be rewarded handsomely—one hundred million in gold, plus access to our family's rare medicinal garden for a full year."

The whispers grew louder. That was an obscene amount of money, not to mention the value of the garden access.

"You will each be assigned a workstation in our alchemy pavilion," Herman explained. "Basic ingredients are provided, but specialized components must be sourced from our Medicine Storage."

He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd. "You have three days. May the most skilled among you succeed."

The crowd dispersed quickly, alchemists hurrying toward the alchemy pavilion. I remained rooted in place, a cold realization settling in my gut.

"You don't have the formula, do you?" the Man with the Mustache asked quietly.

"No," I admitted. "I thought they'd provide it."

I watched the alchemists rushing away, their faces alight with determination and greed. Each of them undoubtedly possessed the formula already—knowledge I desperately needed.

"What will you do?" he asked.

A dangerous thought crossed my mind. I could find one of these alchemists, isolate them, and... take the formula from them. In Proseponia Kingdom, known for its lax approach to justice, who would even notice?

The thought made me sick, yet I couldn't dismiss it. Not when Isabelle's life hung in the balance.

"I need to think," I said, turning away from the spectacle. "Meet me in my room in an hour."

Instead of following the crowd to the alchemy pavilion, I headed back toward my quarters. My mind churned with desperate plans, each more ethically questionable than the last.

I'd never stolen anything in my life. But for Isabelle... was there a line I wouldn't cross?

The sound of footsteps behind me cut into my dark thoughts. I turned to see a young alchemist hurrying past, muttering to himself and clutching a tattered notebook. He was heading toward the Medicine Storage—likely rushing to secure rare ingredients before the others depleted them.

I watched him go, the temptation gnawing at me. His notebook probably contained the formula I needed.

"Don't do it, Liam," I whispered to myself. But even as I said it, I felt my resolve weakening.

Back in my room, I sank onto the edge of the bed, head in my hands. The situation was clear—without that formula, I couldn't create the pill. Without the pill, Edward wouldn't share his knowledge of the Power of Martial Saint. Without that power, I couldn't save Isabelle.

A simple, terrible chain of logic.

The Man with the Mustache arrived precisely an hour later, as requested.

"Most of them are at the Medicine Storage," he reported. "Fighting over ingredients like vultures over a carcass."

I nodded absently, still lost in my moral dilemma.

"You're thinking of stealing the formula, aren't you?" he asked bluntly.

My head snapped up. "How did you—"

"Please." He rolled his eyes. "It's written all over your face. Besides, it's the obvious move in this situation."

"It's wrong," I said weakly.

"Is it?" He raised an eyebrow. "These people came prepared while you were kept in the dark. The Averys deliberately created this situation. Why should you play by rules they've already broken?"

I stood and walked to the window, staring out at the garden without really seeing it.

"I'm not a thief," I said quietly.

"No, you're a man trying to save the woman he loves." He shrugged. "Sometimes those roles conflict."

The weight of the decision pressed down on me. Could I cross this line? Should I?

"I need time to think," I said finally.

"Don't take too long." He headed for the door. "Those alchemists are already mixing ingredients."

Left alone with my thoughts, I stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The ethical questions chased each other in circles through my mind.

I must have dozed off, because a knock at the door startled me awake. The room was darker now; evening had fallen while I slept.

I opened the door to find Tilda Avery standing there, elegant as always in her tailored suit.

"May I come in?" she asked.

I stepped aside to let her enter, curious about this unexpected visit.

"You didn't join the others at the alchemy pavilion," she observed, taking a seat in the armchair by the window.

"No," I replied simply.

"May I ask why?"

I studied her face, trying to read her intentions. "Because this isn't what I agreed to. I came here to help your father, not compete in some... alchemical gladiator match."

A small smile played at her lips. "And yet here you are, still in our home."

"I need what your father knows," I admitted. "About the Power of Martial Saint."

She nodded slowly. "For your Isabelle."

"Yes."

Tilda crossed her legs, smoothing her skirt. "What troubles you more, Mr. Knight? The competition itself, or the fact that you lack the formula the others possess?"

My eyes narrowed. "You knew I didn't have it."

"Of course." She said it so matter-of-factly that it took me a moment to process.

"Then why invite me at all?" I demanded.

"Because Pavilion Master Valerius spoke highly of your... resourcefulness." Tilda's gaze was penetrating. "She said you would find a way, no matter the obstacles."

Anger flared in my chest. "So this was some kind of test?"

"Life is a test, Mr. Knight." She stood and walked to the window. "Every day, we face choices that reveal our true character."

"And what choice am I facing now?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Tilda turned to face me, silhouetted against the last light of day. "How far will you go to save someone you love? Where do you draw the line between right and wrong when a life hangs in the balance?"

I fell silent, the question hitting too close to my earlier thoughts.

"Why so many alchemists?" I asked finally, changing the subject. "Surely a handful of masters would have been sufficient."

A strange look crossed her face—something between amusement and calculation.

"Have you spent much time in Proseponia Kingdom, Mr. Knight?"

"No," I admitted. "This is only my second visit."

"Then you may not be familiar with our... unique approach to competition." She walked back toward me, stopping just a few feet away. "In this kingdom, the law takes a remarkably hands-off approach to disputes between professionals of the same field."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning," she said carefully, "that what happens between alchemists during a challenge is considered... a professional matter, not a legal one."

The implication dawned on me slowly, like ice spreading across a pond.

"You expect them to steal from each other," I said, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.

Tilda didn't confirm or deny this, but her slight smile told me everything.

"Most will try to find the ingredients first," she continued casually. "When they can't get what they need through proper channels, they'll look to... alternative methods."

"And the Avery family just sits back and watches this happen?" I couldn't keep the disgust from my voice.

"We observe," she corrected. "It's quite revealing, actually—how people behave when the normal constraints of society are lifted."

My thoughts raced back to my earlier temptation—the idea of stealing the formula from another alchemist. Had I been that transparent? Had they expected me to consider exactly what I'd been contemplating?

"So this is all some sick social experiment?" I demanded.

"No, Mr. Knight." Tilda's voice hardened. "This is necessity. My father is dying. We need that pill created, regardless of the methods employed. If forty alchemists stealing from one another produces one successful pill, then that's a price we're willing to pay."

We stared at each other in silence, the weight of her words hanging between us.

"And what about me?" I asked finally. "Where do I fit into this equation?"

"That," she said softly, "is entirely up to you."

She walked to the door but paused with her hand on the knob. "The Medicine Storage will be open all night. Most alchemists will be working in the pavilion until dawn." Her meaning couldn't have been clearer if she'd drawn me a map.

After she left, I sat motionless, her words echoing in my mind. It wasn't just permission to steal—it was practically an invitation.

The Man with the Mustache returned an hour later, finding me still sitting in the same spot.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Tilda Avery just gave me implicit permission to steal the formula from another alchemist," I said numbly.

He nodded, unsurprised. "The Averys have a reputation in certain circles. They're known for... unorthodox methods."

"She said the law here doesn't interfere in professional disputes."

"That's putting it mildly." He snorted. "Proseponia Kingdom is where people come when they want to operate without consequences. It's why so many alchemists agreed to come in the first place—they can use methods here that would get them executed elsewhere."

I stood abruptly, unable to contain my restless energy. "This is insane. I came here to save Isabelle, not get dragged into some twisted competition."

"And yet," he said quietly, "you're still considering it."

I couldn't deny it. The image of Isabelle, trapped and suffering, never left my mind. What was my moral high ground worth if she died while I clung to it?

"What would you do?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "I'm a tomb raider. Stealing is my profession. I'm hardly the person to give ethical advice."

I laughed despite myself—a short, bitter sound. "Fair point."

The night deepened around us as I wrestled with my decision. Eventually, the Man with the Mustache left to find food, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more.

By midnight, I'd made up my mind. I couldn't do it. Whatever the consequences, I wouldn't become a thief. I'd find another way to get the formula or create one from scratch.

I stretched out on the bed, exhausted by the moral debate I'd been having with myself. Sleep came surprisingly quickly, but my dreams were troubled—visions of Isabelle reaching for me, her face contorted in pain, while I stood frozen, unable to reach her.

I woke at dawn, drenched in sweat. The dream had been so vivid, so real. I could still hear Isabelle's voice calling my name.

With grim determination, I dressed and headed to the alchemy pavilion. I would request an audience with Edward Avery directly. Surely he would understand my position, make an exception.

The pavilion was already bustling with activity. Alchemists hunched over workstations, measuring ingredients with painstaking precision. The air was thick with the smell of herbs and minerals.

I noticed immediately that several stations were abandoned, their tools scattered as if the alchemists had left in a hurry. Others worked with obvious tension, constantly looking over their shoulders.

Tilda's prediction was coming true before my eyes. The competition had devolved exactly as the Averys had anticipated.

I spotted Herman Avery observing from a balcony above. When our eyes met, he nodded slightly, as if acknowledging my presence, then turned away.

Defeated, I returned to my room. The Man with the Mustache was waiting, a knowing look on his face.

"Still taking the moral high road?" he asked.

"I can't be what they want me to be," I said firmly.

"And what about what Isabelle needs you to be?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. I had no answer.

A soft knock at the door interrupted our conversation. When I opened it, Tilda Avery stood there again, her face impossible to read.

"May I come in?" she asked, just as she had the night before.

I stepped aside, and she entered, nodding briefly to the Man with the Mustache.

"I noticed you visited the pavilion this morning," she said. "But you didn't claim a workstation."

"No," I confirmed.

"Because you still don't have the formula," she stated.

I didn't bother denying it.

Tilda sighed, a small, controlled sound. "You know, when Mariana Valerius recommended you, she said you were different from other alchemists. She said you understood that sometimes, to heal, we must first cause pain."

"There's a difference between necessary pain and needless suffering," I countered.

"Is there?" Tilda's eyes met mine. "When my father was poisoned, the doctors had to use treatments that caused him excruciating pain. Was that needless?"

"Of course not, but—"

"The line between necessary and needless is rarely clear, Mr. Knight." She stepped closer. "Just as the line between right and wrong blurs when someone you love is suffering."

Her words struck too close to home. I turned away, unwilling to let her see the conflict on my face.

"What do you want from me?" I asked tiredly.

"The same thing you want," she replied. "For my father to be healed. For you to learn the Power of Martial Saint. For your Isabelle to be saved."

She moved to the door but paused before leaving. "We invited multiple alchemists because we anticipated this exact scenario—that they would steal from each other to get what they need. It's not pretty, but it's efficient."

I stared at her, stunned by her candor.

"You're saying you expected this? Planned for it?"

Tilda's smile was thin. "In this world, Mr. Knight, sometimes the most direct path isn't the most virtuous one."

The door closed softly behind her, leaving me staring at the empty space where she had stood.

"Well," the Man with the Mustache said into the silence. "Seems the Averys have given you permission to be exactly the kind of person you were afraid of becoming."

I sank into a chair, my mind reeling. "They're not just allowing theft—they're encouraging it."

"Welcome to Proseponia Kingdom," he replied dryly. "Where morality is flexible and results are all that matter."

I looked out the window at the sprawling estate, seeing it with new eyes. This wasn't just a home or a medical facility—it was an arena where the Averys observed their gladiators fighting for survival.

And I had a choice to make: stand on principle and lose everything, or play by their rules and save the woman I loved.

"She said my own thoughts out loud," I murmured. "About stealing the formula. How did she know?"

The Man with the Mustache shrugged. "Because it's the obvious solution. Because anyone desperate enough would consider it."

I fell silent, the weight of the decision pressing down on me. The clock was ticking—