THE RUNIC ALCHEMIST

London in 1758 had a population reaching over a million and was one of the most crowded cities in the world. Damian had read about that in books, but seeing it with his own eyes was a completely different experience.

At first, he thought that wearing the same clothes as the British might make sightseeing feel more authentic. However, that would leave Evrin and Reize out, not to mention that most of his friends looked like they had walked right out of a movie with their otherworldly charm. Even if they went without Evrin and Reize, they wouldn’t get the “authentic” experience anyway—something Damian had no intention of doing in the first place.

Instead, he used a simple air shield spell, creating a platform on which they could all stand. Numerous wind runes propelled it forward at a steady pace. He had made it wide enough to navigate the streets comfortably and long enough for everyone to stand in groups or alone. Below them, the streets were mostly unpaved, muddy, and filled with waste, yet the crowd went about their business undisturbed, carrying on with their daily chores.

Whenever they passed through an area, people gathered around, cheering and shouting, “Welcome to London!” and “Can you do the healing again?” Damian didn’t answer; he simply waved at them when the noise became too much. A thick mix of coal smoke, rotting garbage, and food stalls filled the air. Vendors shouted over one another, selling fresh fish, bread, newspapers, and trinkets. Nobles and aristocrats, dressed in extravagant silks and powdered wigs, rode in carriages, which thoroughly entertained his friends—people who had always valued armor and practical clothing for everyday life.

Two things instantly captured everyone’s attention. First was the quality of the newspapers—finely printed and well-organized. The concept of spreading information through printing machines was novel to them, and they gushed about its usefulness, assuming people were educated enough to read them. Second was the literacy rate itself. When British officers and court officials accompanying them as hosts shared the numbers, his friends were surprised. The Highswords, with their vast experience, grasped the true implications and were outright shocked.

They landed a few times to browse the abundance of books, admire handcrafted accessories, and even sample some fine alcohol. Evrin, Lucian, and Grace, in particular, took a liking to the novelty books that told stories about people. In their world, novels were not yet a widespread concept. Damian had exchanged some of their gold for local currency—another thing that fascinated his group. They bought trinkets, tried random foods, and explored many places.

They visited towering landmarks such as St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London, Westminster Palace, bustling markets, and lively taverns, and, of course, they revisited the famous London Bridge. However, they rarely entered any buildings, preferring to fly around for a broader view. Wherever they went, crowds immediately formed, with people pointing and shouting in awe.

Prince and Jacob were with them too, as expected, drawing even more attention than Reize and Evrin. This allowed the latter two to enjoy the sightseeing in relative peace, just like the rest of them. Prince, however, made even weirder noises than the crowd, marveling at every little thing and bombarding Damian with questions. Eventually, Damian had to block the guy’s mana threads just to get some peace of mind.

The fun was over, though. Now it was time for work.

Damian found a good open space and used his mana cubes to construct a wooden stage, drawing confused and awed stares from the gathering crowd. His group had no idea what he was doing either, but before they had set out, he had instructed them to go along with anything he did or said. The officials accompanying them repeatedly asked what he was planning, but Damian only responded with, “Helping people.”

It was clear they wanted to stop whatever extravagant display he was about to pull—likely under orders from above, considering the chaos he had caused yesterday—but they hesitated. They didn’t want to offend someone capable of performing “magic.”

Once the crowd had swelled to several hundred, Damian raised his voice and announced,

“Good people of London! My name is Damian Sunblade. You must have already heard of me and my friends. We have come from afar to help you all. Ask what it is that you desire, and we shall do our best to guide you. However, we are nothing compared to our Lord Almighty, so curb your expectations a little.”

The reaction was immediate and overwhelming. The court officials beside him were sweating bullets. Soldiers scurried away, likely to send word of what was happening. Damian ignored them, just as he ignored his own group’s confusion. They stood behind him, looking as regal as he had instructed.

“They say you can heal people! I wasn’t there yesterday—can you heal my arm?” a man shouted, his voice rising above the din.

Damian smiled and nodded. “Yes, I can do some healing, but only for physical injuries.”

He raised one arm and swiftly cast the spell, healing the man’s bandaged hand just enough—not too much, ensuring the man didn’t strain himself. The crowd erupted into cheers once again, their excitement palpable.

From there, the requests kept coming.

One man asked for money. Damian gave him a few gold coins and some practical advice on how to use his skills, but when others asked for the same, he only provided guidance—no more handouts.

A woman wanted to be as beautiful as them. Damian chuckled and told her they underwent an insane exercise and training routine every day for years—half-truth, half-lie. For some after evolution, their charm stats did increase.

A few asked for business advice, and Damian did his best, offering solid ideas and even sharing crucial, future-defining invention concepts relevant to their fields—things they could implement and witness the results for themselves.

Others made more dangerous requests. Some outright asked him to eliminate “the enemies of the Lord.” Damian sidestepped those, spouting vague statements about grand plans and divine will.

Then, one man asked about a better way to refine iron.

Damian grinned and launched into a lengthy lecture on how coke was a superior fuel to coal. He explained in detail how heating coal in an airtight oven removed impurities like gases, tar, sulfur, and moisture, leaving behind pure carbon. This substance burned hotter, produced less smoke and waste, and eliminated the need for mass deforestation. He went on and on about its efficiency and benefits.

By the time he finished, a convoy of carriages had arrived, packed with high-ranking officials scrambling to reach him. They carried “important documents” filled with urgent messages from the government and monarchy, all inviting him for a “chat” about his “revolutionary” ideas before he spread them any further in public.

A quick meeting. Mission accomplished.

Waiting weeks for them to observe him and extend an invitation was not sitting well with his schedule.

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