The Alchemist’s Ancient Records

The palace whispered of many things — of assassination plots, forbidden love, sacred relics, and cursed bloodlines. But in the deepest, oldest corridor of the eastern wing, hidden behind crumbling scrolls and dust-covered tomes, the whisper was clearer than ever:

"She awakened the Cheonhwa."

Yi-Sun, the palace's last living alchemist from the era of Sylara, sat alone beneath the flickering lanternlight of his underground study. He had not slept in three nights. Not since the girl touched the king's flower.

Not since her magic answered.

His fingers trembled as he opened the old ledger marked with a faded blue seal — the mark of Han'Lia, the last Flower Priestess. Her sigil still glowed faintly under his fingers, resonating as though it too recognized the pulse now returning to the palace.

He didn't need more proof.

The moment he saw the girl collapse — her hands glowing, her face twisted in pain, her aura radiant and raw — he had known.

Han'Lia's daughter.

The one they believed lost.

The one who should never have survived.

Yi-Sun pulled out a scroll wrapped in pale linen. It was brittle with age, its edges darkened by fire. He unrolled it carefully, revealing elegant calligraphy and faded diagrams — illustrations of the Cheonhwa flower, blooming in phases from starlight to blood.

"She must read this," he muttered. "Before they take her. Before he suspects."

He wrapped the scroll again and reached beneath his desk for the hollow compartment only he knew of. From it, he withdrew a small, jade-handled knife and a vial of glowing ink — the old ink of oath-sealing.

He would not write her name. Not yet. Names were dangerous.

But the sigil he carved onto the scroll's ribbon — a protective glyph from the old world — would guide her, keep the message from being intercepted by enchanted eyes.

He sealed it, tied it, and placed it inside a servant's tray among healing herbs. No one would question him sending medicine to a fainted maid.

But inside the scroll, beyond the rituals and seals, were the secrets of her blood.

The truth of Cheonhwa.

And the beginning of the end.

Elara sat upright in her chamber, still trembling.

It had been two days since the incident. She was told to rest — that incense had made her collapse. But nothing about the fire in her veins, or the haunting dream that followed, felt like mere faintness.

In her dreams, she saw a woman again — the same woman who had haunted her sleep back in her old world. But now she called her by name.

"Elara… You are not lost. The flower remembers. Find the truth before it blooms in red."

She touched her wrist. It still glowed faintly beneath the skin.

A knock at the door startled her.

Min-Ah peeked in, holding a tray. "The old alchemist sent this," she whispered. "Said it's for your… recovery."

Elara took the tray and nodded. "Thank you."

Min-Ah hesitated. "Elara… be careful. My sisters are watching."

"I know."

She closed the door.

And then, heart pounding, she pulled back the cloth.

The herbs were real — lavender, crushed lotus root, dried plum blossom. But tucked beneath them, wrapped in pale linen, was a scroll.

Her fingers shook as she untied it.

A soft pulse of energy flared as the protective glyph recognized her blood.

She opened the scroll.

The first word sent chills down her spine:

"To the Daughter of Han'Lia."

The scroll began with a drawing.

A full-bloom Cheonhwa flower, petals laced with silver and crimson, hovered above an ancient tree rooted in blood and light. Beside it, notes in an elegant, ancient script:

Cheonhwa is not just a flower.

It is the vessel of soul.

Only the blood of a Priestess can awaken its full magic.

Only a daughter born of ritual flame and divine echo can reclaim it.

Elara read deeper, heart racing.

Han'Lia was the last Sylara Priestess — the chosen guardian of the Cheonhwa Tree.

When King Hwan-Jo destroyed the Temple of Blossoms, he took the flower.

It did not die — it hid.

Its spirit remained trapped in the relic — sleeping, waiting.

Until her child, her seed of fire, touched it.

Elara's hands tightened.

You are that fire.

You are the echo of her magic.

The scroll ended with a warning:

Now that it has awakened, the king will feel it.

He will dream of the fire.

He will remember what he stole.

And he will fear you.

Elara looked up.

The candle beside her flickered as if responding to the scroll's truth.

She wrapped it quickly, returning it to its hiding place under her bed. Her breath came fast and shallow.

What now?

She had no plan. No allies, except perhaps the alchemist and Min-Ah — and maybe Jae-Hwa, though even his kindness felt dangerous now.

The flower remembered her.

But so would the king.

And next time, he would not let her walk away.

In the northern tower of the palace, King Hwan-Jo stood before a black mirror.

His reflection shimmered oddly, eyes burning gold.

"She touched it," he said, voice low. "I felt it."

He turned to his raven — the same one that once flew across worlds.

"It's beginning."

The raven cawed.

"She'll come for it," he said. "She'll come for her mother."

He reached toward his neck.

The Cheonhwa blossom still glowed — but something had changed.

Its edges were crimson now.

And deep inside, a heartbeat that was not his own had begun to stir.