Chapter 193: The Bell Tolls for the Old Era

The early morning sun pierced through the thin mist, shining on the gilded sign of the Royal Alchemy Association.

Inside the association’s building, the air was filled with a mixed scent of sulfur and lavender.

The marble floors were polished by the apprentices to a mirror-like sheen, each tile showcasing the wealth and decency of the alchemists.

In the top-floor laboratory, Seventh-Circle Alchemy Master Borot was leisurely trimming a cigar.

As a titan in the kingdom’s alchemy world, he believed in “equivalent exchange” as if it were a divine faith.

One portion of materials for one finished product, one ounce of gold for one unit of magic.

The world was a giant scale, and he was the one holding the weights.

At that moment, a journal reeking of fresh ink was delivered to his mahogany desk.

A supplementary issue of Magitech Theory.

No fancy gilt patterns, no complex magical seals.

The entire journal was pitch black, like a newly unearthed tombstone.

On the cover was a single line of glaring white characters: E = mc²

Borot didn’t even bother to look at it properly, just glanced at it out of the corner of his eye and snorted a cold laugh.

“Sensationalist trash.”

He casually picked up the journal as if lifting a dirty rat.

“That young upstart Klein who plays with space must have left his brain in another dimension.”

‘This is the domain of alchemy, the sacred temple of the conservation of matter.’

‘Energy equals mass? How dare he challenge this iron law?’

Borot tapped his cigar on the crystal ashtray and pulled out an expensive sheet of parchment.

He planned to spend ten minutes finding the flaws in this paper, and another half hour writing a scathing rebuttal.

He had even thought of a title—On the Arrogance and Ignorance of Youth: An Introductory Alchemy Lesson for Mr. Klein.

He opened the first page.

Lines of equations were neatly arranged, cold, precise, like gleaming scalpels.

Borot’s originally nonchalant expression froze.

He grabbed a quill and began to verify the calculations on a draft paper. At first, he did so with a critical arrogance. He was going to find that broken link in the logical chain and then mock the other party mercilessly.

One minute passed.

Five minutes passed.

The speed of his quill slowed down.

After ten minutes, the ruby-encrusted quill hovered in mid-air, unable to descend. A drop of ink gathered at the tip and finally fell, blooming like a black flower on the parchment.

The logic was sound.

Impeccable, irrefutable.

Borot felt a stuffiness in his chest, like cotton soaking up water. He tugged at his bow tie, trying to breathe more easily.

“Impossible… absurd,” he murmured, his voice dry.

According to this derivation, mass increases with velocity. Matter is no longer a constant, inanimate thing; it is also imprisoned energy.

That mithril paperweight on the corner of his desk, if viewed not as matter but as energy…

Borot’s neck turned stiffly as he stared at the half-fist-sized piece of mithril.

According to the formula, if the energy contained within this piece of metal were fully released, it would be enough to wipe the entire kingdom, along with the three surrounding mountain peaks, off the map.

Terror.

A shudder originating from the depths of his soul crawled up his spine to his scalp.

If this was true, then what had his whole life been?

He had spent sixty long years trying to increase the purity of gold by a mere one-tenth of a percent, calculating the gain and loss of every speck of dust in his laboratory like a miser.

He thought he was pursuing the ultimate truth.

Now, this formula coldly told him: You are a beggar. You sit on a mountain of infinite energy, yet you are pleased with yourself for a few copper coins.

‘Equivalent exchange… is a sham?’

Once this thought emerged, it could no longer be suppressed.

A mad and desperate red glint flashed in Borot’s eyes.

Borot slowly stood up, his knee knocking over the black tea on the desk. The rich tea spilled onto his expensive mage robe, but he was oblivious.

The magical elements around him began to stir restlessly.

The alchemy arrays in the laboratory flickered, and the mercury in the glass tubes boiled uneasily, making a sizzling sound. It was the precursor to a master-level mage losing control of their mental strength.

“Master?”

At the door, a young apprentice, holding a pile of materials, timidly peeked his head in. “The dragon’s blood ink you wanted…”

Borot slowly turned around.

The materials in the apprentice’s hands clattered to the floor.

At this moment, Borot’s eyeballs were covered with dense blood vessels, his pupils dilated to the extreme, like two black abysses. Two streams of dark blood trickled down from his nostrils, dripping onto the pristine white marble floor.

But he was smiling.

The corners of his mouth stretched to his ears, revealing blood-stained teeth. There was no happiness in that smile, only the madness and despair of one who had glimpsed the world’s truth.

“Wrong… child, it’s all wrong…”

Borot stretched out a trembling finger, pointing to a spot in the void.

“There is no matter.”

“There is no such thing as matter in this world…”

His voice grew louder, finally turning into a roar.

“Only light! We are all condensed light! Hahahahaha!”

The violent conflict at the cognitive level finally detonated his sea of consciousness. The edifice of his old worldview collapsed, and the turbulent mental energy formed a terrifying storm within his skull.

Pop.

A crisp, explosive sound.

Like a ripe watermelon being smashed by a heavy hammer.

The Seventh-Circle Alchemy Master’s head, under the apprentice’s horrified gaze, exploded into a cloud of red and white mist. There was no scream, only the viscous sound of brain matter splattering onto the cover of Magitech Theory.

The line of white, E = mc², was instantly dyed a glaring crimson.

The headless body twitched twice and fell backward, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

But this was only the beginning.

BOOM—!

A loud explosion came from the adjacent laboratory.

It was another Sixth-Circle Mage who had been reading the journal.

Immediately after, upstairs, downstairs.

Dull popping sounds rose one after another, like a string of firecrackers lit during the New Year.

Boom! Boom! Pop!

Each explosion represented the fall of a senior mage steeped in the old system.

The entire Alchemy Association building descended into chaos.

Screams, explosions, and the sound of shattering glass intertwined.

And amidst this hellish scene of chaos, the low-level apprentices, usually scolded as “idiots” and “blockheads,” became the sole survivors.

They held their heads, huddled in corners, shivering, still holding the unfinished journals.

“I don’t get it… I don’t get it at all!”

“What does this formula even mean? Why did Master explode after reading it?”

“Wuwuwu, I really am useless, I can’t even understand a paper that kills people…”

They cried out, yet they remained completely unharmed.

Truth is cruel.

It does not filter by good or evil, nor by wealth or poverty.

At this moment, it only filtered by intelligence and cognitive compatibility.

Those elites who could understand and derive the formula, but could not accept the collapse of the old world, were all annihilated.

Instead, it was the fools who couldn’t even grasp the basics who, because of their ignorance, were granted the right to survive.

Outside the window, the winter sun was still bright, almost dazzling.

The golden light shone on the statue in front of the Alchemy Association building, a statue symbolizing “Eternal Truth.”

At the base of the statue, a tiny crack had appeared.

The death bell for the old era had sounded.

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