Meanwhile, in the heart of the city at the Moonlit Night Hall…
Arthur stepped into a corridor that was excessively illuminated by white crystals hanging from the ceiling in strange shapes—almost like a chandelier. The walls were decorated with items whose meanings or depths he couldn't quite grasp—for instance, a solitary strand of hair—which, like many other objects stored there, evoked an eerie feeling in him, sending shivers down his spine at just the sight of them.
It was more than just a corridor, and he knew it—it was also a display of the power held by the Moonlit Night Hall in that small town, where only a select few had the privilege to come and go beyond the lands overrun by beasts at their whim.
"Please, sir, come in; the manager is waiting for you," said the butler as he bowed slightly—though no matter how hard Arthur tried, he could never deduce the butler's true level of cultivation.
The door swung open, releasing a strange, oppressive pressure from inside. Arthur had been here so many times over the past few years—as they were the only ones with information from the outside world—that he still hadn't grown accustomed to it. He walked toward the room where a young man—someone not to be underestimated—awaited him.
"Mr. Arthur," the young man said in a friendly tone—a stark contrast to the palpable tension in the room—"I regret to inform you that, unfortunately, we haven't received any new information regarding potential alchemists."
Arthur sat down in a chair facing the manager's desk, cleared his throat, and stated:
"I didn't come here for that."
He delivered the words while enduring the pressure without showing any sign of being affected.
"Oh, no…? Then why? Did you come here to participate in our auction? If that's the case—"
"Remember, some time ago you mentioned that you had something here, even though you don't have an alchemist," Arthur interjected.
"I said…? Ah, yes—the oven! Well… it's true, we do have one… but unfortunately it isn't very useful to us since only alchemists can operate it at full capacity."
"I want to buy it."
"You… want…?" the young man burst into laughter. "Sorry… no, really, forgive me… It wasn't meant to be personal. It's just that when I said that 'we' couldn't use it to its maximum potential, I was referring to everyone in this city—unless…"
At that moment, the atmosphere in the room shifted—the mood changed. Arthur sensed the oppressive pressure beginning to fade, but he shuddered upon seeing that thoughtful expression on the young man's face:
— Mr. Arthur, have you by any chance encountered an alchemist here…?
Arthur did not answer—he tried—but he was unable to lie in front of those piercing eyes; he felt that he would be found out if he did.
"No… that's very unlikely…" the man continued, almost to himself. "Alchemists are far too proud to allow themselves to end up in a place like this. So you're really trying everything for the sake of your wife—even this…"
After drumming his finger on the table for several moments, the manager sighed:
— It's best if you forget about that, sir. Given your family's current situation, that expense would be far beyond what you can presently bear.
"No, but I do have the money…!" Arthur exclaimed, his anxiety clear.
"…An alchemy oven is more expensive than you imagine. The most basic model can easily cost five blue crystals. If you have that kind of money, I believe it would be wiser to contact an alchemist who's willing to come here for that price rather than trying to do it yourself and failing, without any results."
"If it's only 5 blue crystals, then I—"
"Only? Are you even listening to yourself?!"
A strange silence fell. In all these years, Arthur had never seen that man become so worked up. The manager sat down again, averted his gaze, and sighed:
— "Alright… you can take the oven. It will cost one white crystal per day."
"What? But—"
"Thus, you can return it to us when you find that it isn't working," he said, warning Arthur of the imminent failure. "May I offer you some advice? Forget everything and spend some time with your wife… money will never give you that."
Arthur had already considered that idea—he had even thought that it was truly his only option—until Noah appeared. He rose, leaving a white crystal on the table, and said:
— …Thank you.
"…Ah, and Mr. Arthur… remember to make arrangements with us when you manage to produce the pills," the manager added, smiling and waving.
"…I will remember that."
The door closed soon after Arthur's departure.
Sighing, the manager turned toward the window that flooded the room with light—in that room, unlike the corridor, aside from the table and chairs, there was nothing else; he had nothing more to add there.
"I shouldn't have done this… I shouldn't have…" he murmured, gripping the armrest of his chair and closing his eyes. "It's not going to work."
His mind wandered for a long time as the sun warmed his face. Arthur, meanwhile, followed the butler to an isolated room in the basement. They descended a short, spiral staircase lit the same way as the corridors.
There were strange chains attached to a padlock securing the door, and behind it lay his last hope. When it finally opened, he was met by the strong stench of decay, the freshness of herbs, and—inside his chest—a tremendous weight all too familiar: guilt and pain—the guilt of having failed, and the pain of considering giving up.
The alchemy oven was much larger than he had imagined—twice the size of an adult man. It was dark in color, and its iron was so cold that merely touching it caused pain. Now, all that was left was to return home.