The Alchemy Presentation was unlike any other trial.
It wasn't about brute force like The Hunt, nor raw control like Elemental Transformation. This was about innovation, theory, and precision.
Each student had spent months refining their research, their formulas, and their demonstrations. And now, in front of a panel of five of the most esteemed alchemists in the academy, they had to prove that their work was not only sound—but groundbreaking.
The lecture hall was filled with cauldrons, glassware, chalkboards covered in complex equations, and a distinct scent of chemicals—some pleasant, some less so.
In the center of it all stood Lyra.
Unlike the others, she was not nervous.
One by one, students took the stage.
A young man in a pristine lab coat presented a stability compound, an agent that could extend the half-life of unstable potions. It was impressive but ultimately deemed too impractical for mass production.
Another student demonstrated an alchemical adhesive that could fuse materials at the molecular level, but when tested, it failed under high temperatures—earning a hard critique from the professors.
Others showcased healing balms, elemental reagents, and volatile concoctions meant for combat. Some passed with flying colors, while others struggled under the weight of the judges' scrutiny.
Then, it was Lyra's turn.
She stepped up confidently, setting down a small, reinforced box on the table before the professors.
She cleared her throat.
"My research explores the controlled manipulation of explosive reactions—turning unstable energy bursts into a precise tool rather than just destruction."
One professor frowned. "Explosions?"
Lyra grinned. "Controlled explosions."
The panel shifted, exchanging glances.
"Proceed, but keep your demonstration contained," another warned.
Lyra nodded and began setting up. She produced three small vials filled with a shimmering red liquid, placing them in a reinforced containment field.
"Traditional alchemical explosives rely on combustion, pressure, or unstable mana-infused compounds," she explained, adjusting her goggles.
"But my formula operates differently—it controls the spread of kinetic force, creating a focused detonation with zero collateral damage beyond its intended radius."
One professor leaned forward. "A shaped explosion? That's theoretical at best."
Lyra smirked. "Not anymore."
She took a step back and activated the first vial.
A small detonation occurred, but instead of a wild explosion, the force funneled in a single direction—obliterating a small target dummy placed on the opposite end of the stage.
The surrounding area? Completely untouched.
The judges were silent.
The students in the audience whispered among themselves.
One professor adjusted his glasses. "Show us another."
Lyra smirked. She was waiting for that.
She took a second vial, placed it on the table, and adjusted the formula slightly.
"This time, instead of a directed blast, I've altered the reaction to form a delayed kinetic wave. Instead of an instant explosion, the energy is stored and then released in a controlled burst."
She activated the vial.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then, with a sudden pulse, a shockwave spread out precisely one meter from the vial—enough to knock over objects within range but leaving everything beyond untouched.
Some of the younger students gasped.
"This could be used for non-lethal crowd control," one professor murmured.
"Or demolition work without structural collapse," another noted.
Lyra folded her arms. "Exactly."
But she wasn't done yet.
"And now, for my final test—"
Before the professors could interject, she grabbed the third and final vial.
"A self-neutralizing explosion. This is the one I'm most proud of."
She placed the vial down, activated it, and stepped back.
The reaction was instantaneous—a burst of flame and energy erupted outward.
But instead of expanding chaotically, the explosion imploded in on itself, collapsing before it could spread beyond a few inches. The flames and force simply vanished—as if nothing had happened.
A stunned silence filled the room.
One of the younger professors actually stood up, mouth slightly open.
"How—?"
Lyra brushed some soot off her sleeve. "By adjusting the alchemical chain reaction mid-process, I created a collapse point that absorbs excess energy, forcing the detonation to consume itself."
The head professor leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "This is… quite the discovery."
The panel whispered among themselves for a moment before turning back to Lyra.
"Your research is highly unconventional," the lead professor finally said. "But undeniably effective."
Another professor nodded. "We are offering you a research position within the academy. You'll have access to full laboratory resources, assistants, and funding to develop this further."
Lyra hesitated.
The room waited.
Then, she shook her head.
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm declining."
A wave of murmurs spread through the hall.
The lead professor frowned. "This is an opportunity most would fight for. Why refuse?"
Lyra exhaled.
"Because I don't want to be locked in a lab. I want to apply my research, not just study it."
She glanced toward the students, her gaze lingering on Kalem, Jhaeros, and Nara.
"The academy is great, but real progress happens out there."
A tense pause.
Then, to everyone's surprise, the lead professor smiled.
"Then I look forward to seeing where your work takes you."
As Lyra stepped off the stage, several students approached her—some congratulating her, others asking if she was insane for rejecting the offer.
"Are you seriously turning down access to the best research facility in the region?"
Lyra shrugged. "Research is useless if it's stuck in a box."
Kalem, who had been watching the whole time, nodded in quiet understanding.
Not everyone pursued knowledge for the sake of status or prestige.
Some, like Lyra, wanted knowledge for the freedom to create.