The Arcane Arts of "Chemistry"

Invoketus stared at the mental image that shimmered annoyingly in his head. It wasn't a tome of forbidden lore or a map to a lost city, but something far more insulting. Chemistry? Seriously? Of all the arcane, majestic powers he might have unlocked, he got saddled with the mystic equivalent of homework.

"Great," he grumbled aloud, the sound swallowed by the quiet of his chamber. He eyed the glowing text of "Chemistry: The Central Science" as if it had personally insulted his lineage. "Learning this stuff is probably gonna make me chop off my ear like that 'van Gogh' guy they mention."

He tried to focus, but the terms kept popping into his mind like intrusive imps. "Free radicals?" he sneered, the words tasting like ash. "Nothing but rebellious radicals—outsiders who refuse any guild, too wild to stick to a chant. Or maybe it's like my last breakup: too unstable to commit." He gave a short, bitter laugh.

The tome continued, oblivious to his sarcasm, presenting something called the pH scale. "And let's not forget this," he muttered, tracing the glowing symbols with a mental finger. "0 is acid so caustic it could burn a hole through bureaucracy, while 14 is so basic it makes royal gossip sound groundbreaking."

As he skimmed the "What's Ahead" list, a wave of genuine annoyance washed over him. Chemistry as the "central science"? "Central?" he scoffed, pacing his small room. "More like the center of a boring circle. They think their communication magic runs on ions, whatever those are, not Wood magic whisking wind signals between masters." The sheer audacity of it was galling.

The text offered examples of its importance, mentioning how flowers get their colors and how bodies digest food. "Discussing how flowers get their colors?" he groaned, slumping into his chair. "Must be cheap illusion magic. My stomach churns with more excitement just thinking about dinner. This is as glamorous as watching paint dry on obsidian."

He forced himself to read the core definition: the study of matter, its properties, and the changes it undergoes. He snorted. "Matter changes? Tell that to the council elders—they still can't change their minds about me, and they've had centuries."

His eyes fell upon a diagram of a simple glass beaker. It looked pathetic. "A beaker? Back home that's a cauldron with more handles and at least a little spark. And they're made of glass—are these people dumb?" The text droned on about observing the macroscopic realm of ordinary-sized objects, as if that were some grand achievement.

Then came the talk of the microscopic and the symbolic. Atoms, molecules, formulas… the concepts felt slippery, abstract. He tapped his temple. "Atoms buzzing around—I wonder if they have ears to hear how insulting all this is." The tome showed him intricate diagrams of molecular structures. "Symbols and formulas?" he grumbled. "I'd rather learn Elven runes than this wall of squiggly letters."

The sheer volume of information was an assault. He scrolled down to the element list, his jaw tightening. "A hundred elements?!" he exclaimed, the number echoing in his thoughts. The tome explained that all matter is comprised of combinations of these substances. "What kind of gibberish is this? Dumb fools can't even break it down to the five essential runes!"

The page showed molecules side by side: ethanol and ethylene glycol. He recognized the first one's effects instantly—a classic bit of liqueur magic, good for wooing the ladies. But the other, ethylene glycol, felt different, humming with a dissonant energy he recognized as dangerously unstable. "They use this volatile stuff in their machines," he muttered, reading it was used as automobile antifreeze. "Their contraptions run on exploding, toxic potions. Savages."

The tome shifted to the three states of matter. "Gas, liquid, solid?" he asked the empty chamber, his disbelief growing. "They classify the very fabric of existence and don't even give a nod to dragons? Is that even possible?" He snorted. "Gas is what you smell before a fire-drake strafes the valley. Liquid is the downpour when a storm dragon is angry. And solid is the hailstone—or the petrified fool who gets in its way. How can you talk about this stuff without mentioning the creatures who master it?"

When classifications—element, compound, or mixture—appeared, he felt a familiar sense of magical intuition kick in. He chuckled, a genuine smile for the first time. "Mixture? That's just a fancy word for 'throw it in a pot of bubbling mana and hope for the best.'"

He paused, his eyes widening at a staggering figure for the U.S. chemical industry. Eight hundred billion... His gaze locked onto the strange, serpentine symbol—'$'—that preceded the number. "That must be their shorthand for mana," he mused, a cold knot forming in his stomach. "Eight hundred billion? What sort of hyperinflation are they dealing with? Or maybe... maybe they really do have that much power." The thought was unsettling. An economy that could throw around that kind of energy on "invisible powders" was either absurdly wasteful or terrifyingly advanced.

Finally, the text outlined the roles of chemists: they make new types of matter, measure the properties of matter, and develop models to explain it. He sighed, the weight of this new, strange knowledge pressing down on him. "Chemists cook, count, and theorize. Impressive—my grandma does all three without an expensive tome."

With a dramatic flourish, he closed the mental tome, the light fading from his mind. He slumped back against the cold stone wall. Other Invokers got tomes that opened with a simple cantrip, a puff of smoke, something practical. This one? A whole chapter of definitions and not a single sample spell. "So, a Chemist Master makes, measures, and models," he mused bitterly. "Fine goals, if you're not in a holding cell. My work is a bit more practical: I stir up trouble, measure the patience of my guards, and model an escape. And I have to do it without a single new trick from this useless book."

He leaned back, exasperated, the silence of the room returning. "This better be worth it. If not, I'm officially renaming myself to 'The Invoker of Mild Confusion.'"