Chapter 142 A Teacher’s Faith
Dorian’s hand hovered over the open notebook, his fingers stiffening just an inch above the page. The crooked numbers staring back at him weren’t just random digits, they were painfully familiar. A sharp spike of recognition hit him right in the chest, making his heart hammer against his ribs.
He opened his mouth, the question already forming on his tongue, but Veyra was faster.
Her hand shot out, snapping the cover shut with a soft, definitive thud. Sliding the notebook tightly under her arm, she straightened up, her expression smoothing over into a mask of pure, unbothered calm.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, her voice entirely steady.
Dorian blinked, forced to look up at her face instead of the paper. He took in her guarded posture, the subtle way she clutched the book to her chest, and second-guessed himself. He was sure of what he’d just seen, but the sheer confidence in her eyes made him hesitate. Without pushing harder, there was no way to know for sure.
He let his hand drop and shook his head. "No. I misread it."
Turning on his heel, he headed straight for the dressing room. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Veyra finally let out the breath she’d been holding. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to grip the desk to steady herself and shoving the notebook deep into her bag, she resolved to be much more careful moving forward.
Trying to settle her nerves, Veyra walked back to her desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. She sifted through the clutter of old notes and scratched-out formulas until her fingers brushed against a piece of yellowed, worn paper.
She pulled it out and unfolded it gently. Written across the page in her own youthful handwriting was a basic recipe for milk tea. Looking down at the faded ink, a genuine smile broke through her anxious mood as the memories came rushing back.
She had been fifteen, sitting in a small, stuffy high school classroom. Back then, she usually blended into the background, sitting in the very back row and doodling in her margins. But one teacher had actually noticed her: Professor Julian.
He was an older man with thin white hair and kind, patient eyes. The first time he walked up to her desk and asked to see her notebook, Veyra had been terrified, fully expecting a lecture for not paying attention.
Instead, the old man had just studied her sketches of chemical structures and smiled.
"You have a real gift for this," he had told her, his voice warm. "You understand compounds. You see the things most people walk right past."
From that day on, he took her under his wing. He didn’t just force her to memorize dry textbooks; he taught her how to look at the world around her. He even used simple things to teach her complex chemistry, like milk tea.
"Break it down," he would tell her, pointing to the cup on his desk. "Look at the tea leaves, the fat in the milk, the sugar. Learn how the proteins react. Once you learn how to separate elements, you’ll figure out how to put them back together."
It sounded bizarre to her at first, but she trusted him. She started writing down every mix, every temperature change, and every tiny observation. Those basic beverage recipes ended up being her real foundation. That little school desk was her very first lab.
Over the next few years, that habit of breaking things down into their core parts stayed with her. It helped her find remedies when her grandmother fell ill, and it gave her a lifeline to hold onto after she was forced to drop out of school.
When she desperately needed a quiet place to keep experimenting without getting caught, Professor Julian didn’t ask questions. He gave her the key to his damp, chilly basement and let her use his old equipment.
It was in that dim basement, using borrowed tools on stolen time, that SN1818 was born. Julian never took credit for her work, nor did he ever demand anything in return. He just believed in her when no one else did.
Veyra folded the yellowed paper back up and tucked it safely into the drawer. She made a mental promise to visit him soon. As soon as her official medical school admission letter arrived in the mail, she would walk straight into his office, hand it to him, and finally thank him properly for everything.
She was still lost in that pleasant thought when the dressing room door swung open.
Dorian stepped out, running a hand through his damp hair, his skin still warm from the hot shower. He caught the lingering smile on her face and the unusual brightness in her eyes.
"You look like you’re in a good mood," he noted, walking past her.
She gave a light shrug. "Just thinking about my old mentor."
Dorian glanced over his shoulder. "A teacher?"
"My professor," she said softly. "He taught me chemistry. He was the first person who actually believed I could do something with it."
Dorian didn’t reply. He just moved across the room and sank onto the sofa, stretching out his long frame.
Before long, the room settled into a heavy quiet. The lights were turned down low, the thick curtains blocked out the city skyline, and only a low street hum trickled in from below.
Dorian lay there staring up at the dark ceiling, completely wide awake.
No matter how hard he tried to clear his head, his thoughts kept spinning out of control. The strange string of numbers, the deep forest, the mysterious woman who had saved his life, it was all tangling together. He had been so close to getting an answer earlier. If only he hadn’t backed down.
He rolled onto his side, frustratingly aware that sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon. As he shifted, his eyes caught a tiny glass bottle sitting on the edge of the nightstand.
It was the sleep-aiding essential oil Veyra had handed him earlier.
Reaching out, he picked up the cold bottle, twisted off the cap, and brought it close. The scent hit him immediately, a fresh, clean mix of lavender, earthy valerian root, and a faint hint of something sweet he couldn’t quite name.
He took a slow, deep breath, letting the aroma fill his lungs before setting the bottle back down. Pulling the blanket up, he closed his eyes again, desperately hoping it would finally quiet his mind.