Apocalypse Forecast

Blood fever.

That’s what alchemists call such symptoms.

A chain reaction triggered by the precipitation of Hell sediment and Abyss essence in the body, after years of exposure to miracles and disasters, allowing alchemical toxins to seep into the body little by little.

When excessive miracles and disasters are present, once entering a tumultuous phase, the source substance rapidly splits, interfering with the body and producing terrifying high fever.

This is the love from the molten flames.

The afflicted alchemist would even take pride in this.

If one does not delve deeply into the path and forge the purest miracles and disasters, one cannot achieve such profound karmic fruits.

This is not an uncontainable or unalleviable symptom.

Especially for Garandor.

Only, the timing happens to be wrong, at such an awkward juncture.

Unable to undergo blood exchange or cool with a silver vault, on the surface of the Moon, Garandor can only manage to control it, quickly dissipating the body’s high heat through dialysis, then infusing potions to freeze and cool the heat physically.

After half an hour, when the old man rose from the melting seat, there was no longer any scorching aura on him.

Instead, he emanated waves of bone-chilling cold.

His eyes transformed into frozen pure white.

When the door was pushed open, the group of noisy alchemists in the lounge finally quieted down.

In the literal sense, quieted down in cold.

The chill was quite oppressive.

A restless alchemist spoke up: "Great Grandmaster, we must set off immediately; delaying further, who knows what will happen."

Garandor leaned on his staff, slowly moved forward, and simply said: "There is still someone who hasn’t arrived."

"Isn’t everyone here?"

A red-haired alchemist argued as he stood up: "How long are we going to delay? Just to wait for someone who’s late?"

Ragnar Sewardson, an alchemist from Rome’s Inheritance Workshop[Silver Monument].

This bearded middle-aged man had literally red hair, vibrant like fire, with strands of crimson flowing throughout his locks.

What drew more attention was his solitary eye.

After losing his left eye, his right eye became eerie and intimidating, with the pupil wandering randomly in the socket, cold and indifferent.

All things revealed their true form under the reflection of that single eye.

Including the Great Grandmaster Garland before him.

In his eyes, the old man appeared as a solemn skeleton bathed in lava, wearing a triple crown, holding a spiral scepter with intertwined tridents, majestic yet sinister.

That was Garland’s real form beyond the weak facade, the true Disaster Model of his own miracles and disasters.

——True Vision Eye.

This is a technology unique to the Nordic genealogy, a ritual mimicking the once-omniscient Great God Odin, rigging upside-down for seven nights in Hell, offering an eye and all vision to the Abyss to gain alien perception.

It’s also a mystic ritual in alchemy, though sacrifice doesn’t always reap rewards; success is rare.

It is also the reason he dares to question the Great Grandmaster.

He wasn’t far from that boundary...

"It’s not yet time to depart, Ragnar," Garland calmly glanced at him: "Delivering every invited alchemist to Helios is my duty."

"An executioner from the Astronomical Society? A hero of Tanbo? Ha, what has he contributed to alchemy!" Ragnar sneered: "If it’s mindless muscle you need, aren’t there plenty here already?"

"Ragnar, mind your language!"

A raspy voice emerged, like metal scraping, sharp and piercing the eardrums.

Beside the corner window, a burly man leaning on a scepter turned his head, unlike the other alchemists, garbed in a weathered leather jacket and jeans, a hunting knife at his waist.

Cold light burst from his eyes, pure murderous intent surging.

He warned, word by word: "There’s a limit to human patience."

That was Valery Ugarov, a Russian Federation metallurgy master who had become Ragnar’s foe over a decade ago.

Ragnar grinned, ready to retort, but Garandor suddenly stepped forward, his pale eyes glancing toward him, an icy meaning causing his smile to stiffen briefly.

Then, laughter filled with schadenfreude erupted from the crowd.

"——He can’t make it!"

It was Rachelle.

The alchemist holding a silver mirror scoffed, mocking: "A fool completely unaware of the dangers, seeking his own demise!"

Under the scrutiny of the Silver Mirror, a source fluctuation projection came from over a hundred kilometers away, the intense changes making everyone’s heartstrings tremble.

Who knew what kind of fierce battle would cause such aftereffects?

The young man smoking a cigar frowned slightly but remained silent.

Yet suddenly, he froze, his face changing drastically, slipping from the sofa like oiled lightning, almost turning into an afterimage, appearing instantly behind Garandor.

Everyone was instantly alert: "Iz, what are you up to!"

But before they could react, Garandor’s staff suddenly struck the ground, and in the deep voice, intricate alchemy secret rites emerged from the staff.

A brilliant glow emerged from the staff, illuminating everyone’s eyes.