Afternoon, Room 207 on the second floor of the Zone 7 teaching building.

When Duke arrived, the door was closed.

He pushed the door open and found that this was a much smaller classroom than 301.

It could accommodate about forty people, with round table seating, and each round table had four chairs. On the tables were sets of potion-making equipment—alcohol lamps, mortar plates, measuring cups, droppers, and a few precise instruments he couldn’t name.

There were already more than a dozen people in the classroom.

Duke’s gaze swept over those faces, quickly recognizing a few familiar ones.

The witch from Star Tower with the high ponytail; he remembered her name was Cecilia, reputed for her potion-making talent on the Golden Continent.

Cecilia was sitting by the window, intently polishing a delicate silver dropper.

The warlock from White Cliff Academy who had a great chat with Leon at the landing field was also there.

His name was Edmond, and he seemed to have some impression of Duke. He looked up, gave a slight nod, and considered it a greeting.

There were also some unfamiliar faces, but the emblems on their magic robes revealed that there were wizards from the Mechanical Element of the Seville Empire, others from a medium-sized organization on the Scavvy Continent, and a young witch in a plain gray robe from an unidentified faction, sitting alone in a corner, engrossed in a thick tome.

To Duke’s surprise, he spotted a familiar figure in the corner.

The slender figure sat in the position closest to the wall, half of his body hidden in shadow, his pale face almost blending into the dim light. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

He sat as still as a statue, his long hands quietly folded on the table.

Morris, the genius from Doomsday Bell.

Duke’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. Morris seemed to sense something and briefly looked up. His hollow eyes met Duke’s for less than a heartbeat before he lowered them again.

He actually came too.

Duke was secretly surprised. Morris was following the path of the Undead Element, which seemed to have nothing directly to do with Magic Potion studies.

But then he thought, although the Doomsday Bell wizard organization mostly focused on Undead and Negative Energy Elements, they were also extremely skilled in healing.

Generally speaking, when wizards on the West Coast encountered some difficult condition or extremely challenging problem, seeking Doomsday Bell would often provide a solution.

This was probably because Doomsday Bell had conducted numerous related experiments in the past, which were often not very humane, granting them a wealth of experience unimaginable to others.

Of course, with prohibitions from the Wizard Council now in place, Doomsday Bell dared not act as they once did.

Morris, as a genius of Doomsday Bell, being skilled in potion-making was indeed within reason.

Duke chose a spot neither at the front nor back, neither by the window nor in the corner.

This round table was just for him, just right for observing his surroundings.

People gradually filled up.

Eventually, twenty people were seated in the classroom, neither more nor less, exactly twenty.

Compared to the nearly hundred in Aether’s class, this number was pitifully meager.

Yet, none of their faces showed any hint of fear; rather, they bore a certain confidence, or more aptly, assurance.

People who dared to gamble forty-five points for a sixty percent pass rate naturally had confidence.

The door opened again.

A thin, elderly man walked in slowly.

He appeared to be about sixty or seventy, with long gray-white hair hanging freely and wearing a washed-out gray robe, its cuffs speckled with suspicious stains.

They could be residues of some potion or ink, or perhaps both.

He carried an old leather medical bag, its surface covered in scratches and scorch marks.

He walked to the lectern, placed the bag on the desk, and looked up.

Unexpectedly, his eyes were bright, not with the depth of an endless starry sky like Aether’s, but with a sharper, more focused gleam, like a hawk fixating on its prey.

"Felix Wayne," his voice was somewhat hoarse, and his speech rapid, "This course is called ’Introduction to Magic Potion Theory and Advanced Refining.’"

He glanced at the twenty attendees, his lips forming a barely perceptible non-smile.

"Twenty people, five fewer than last time." His tone revealed neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction, "It seems this year’s youngsters are a bit more sensible."

He opened the medical bag and casually spread out a few oddly shaped instruments on the lectern.

"Being able to sit here means you can at least competently refine a Level 1 Potion. If even that foundation is lacking, you may leave now."

No one moved.

Felix nodded as if confirming something.

"Alright, I’ll get to the point then."

He straightened up, his hawk-like eyes sweeping the room.

"What is a potion?"

No one answered.

He provided his own answer.

"A potion is a temporary marriage of energy and matter."

He held up a dry Silvermoon Grass, raising it in the air.

"This is Silvermoon Grass, which contains stable Moonlight Power. It is material, but its value lies in the energy sealed within."

He picked up a faintly glowing ore.

"This is a luminous ore, which also contains energy, but its energy structure is entirely different from Silvermoon Grass."

He put the two items down.

"The alchemist’s task is to enable these energies from different sources and structures to momentarily achieve harmony, fusing into a new, stable form—and then bottle it up for those in need to consume."