How would an alchemist do battle?
The short answer was that they didn't. Chemistry had long been the field of boffins and scholars since its inception in the earliest, primordial days of mankind. Whether healers or professors or nobles, the single thread which connected all alchemists was their reluctance to participate openly in battle.
Of course, there were outliers to this rule. In the past, endless warring between Tor and the Lunar Dominion birthed fresh strategies from the minds of commanders and advisors--mostly notably of all the deployment of soldiers lectured briefly on the usefulness of handheld bombs capable of a wide variety of effects on the battlefield. From maiming shrapnel bombs to canisters of toxic gas, alchemists drafted to the war effort suddenly found themselves contributing to conquests across the mainland as well as any footsoldier.
When the brightest of minds began infusing magical particles into mundane items, the demand for servant alchemists skyrocketed, and a trend developed among such chemists--outfitting themselves with as many magical items as possible, not only to prove their expertise, but to grant them innumerable domestic and combative abilities.
As Fusala wandered out to the arena grounds, she appeared as bare as a babe apart from the oversized hat that bobbed happily as she walked, lacking even a single weapon with which to protect herself. The sight of a Homunculus--for those who could even understand that she was more than a mere monster, garnered a mixed reception from the crowd. Those who met the girl's appearance with screams were flanked by those who joyously welcomed such a strange creature into the arena's midst. So captivated were the crowd by Fusala's appearance that Witilla barely attracted a passing glance as she emerged from the opposite side of the gargantuan rotunda, looking not particularly pleased about being in view of so many people.
As the two met in the pit's centre, Witilla gave a deep bow.
"...I-I hope we can enjoy a fair fight, Miss Fusala."
"Your definition of 'fair' does not appear to coincide with my own." She replied, "No restrictions have been placed on equipment or tactics during these duels, and as such, I have brought along with me a multitude of powerful magical items to assist in my victory."
"That… sounds a little worrying…"
Witilla spotted the shadowy girl's single possession--a sphere of seven colours, barely larger than an apple, cut finely as if it were a gemstone, giving the appearance of some otherworldly artefact.
"As an alchemist, I am not trained in the art of warfare." She continued, "However, some of the magical items I have developed within the castle's laboratory were created specifically to aid in the ongoing war effort. I am interested in seeing how they fare in combat."
"I see…" Witilla blinked, "Please… don't do too much unnecessary damage…"
The trumpets roared. Officially, the round had begun, but as was often the case, both fighters traditionally used the call as a signal to return to their starting positions before beginning the duel proper. Upon Witilla's waist was a fine rapier--a weapon designed purely for duelling, not quite as lengthy or broad as a longsword. Its ornate handguard was latticed to give the impression of a flower, though from Witilla's perspective, it appeared more like the caps of basket mushrooms.
As she readied herself to fight, Fusala fiddled with the Seven-Coloured Sphere, pressing her fingers upon its surfaces in preparation for the battle.
Witilla's advance was swift--swifter than even Shilahi's, who was renowned as one of the strongest fighters in the world. The tip of her rapier glimmered in the low light of the evening sun as she thrust her arm mercilessly towards Fusala, letting loose a gasp of surprise as her blow was instantly deflected by a magical barrier.
Fusala's first defensive measure--a kind of portable barrier generator, was an item of her own design, albeit optimised and shrunk over the course of centuries for maximum efficiency. Its current iteration was barely the size of a brooch, which she clutched in one hand. In the meantime, she rapidly accessed the sphere's pocket dimension, dropping the item to the ground as she instead took hold of a mechanical device which seemed to pop out of midair.
To the average commoner, it appeared to be little else but a pyramid of black metal, small enough to fit comfortably in both hands. As Witilla prepared to break through the barrier with a second, well-aimed strike, she watched the object with interest as it began to hover in front of Fusala. It was just before taking a step towards the girl that Witilla was overcome with a strange sensation, as if her body was being lifted from the ground.
"Wha-"
A loose gesture from Fusala rolled the pyramid sideways--relatively speaking, of course, so that its former head was instead pointing towards Witilla. The girl felt helpless as her feet lifted from the ground, suspending her body in the air like a puppet. Forced by some otherworldly power, she was sent hurtling backwards, only barely able to reorient herself in time to land with her feet resting upon the arena walls, her world suddenly tipped on its side.
"W-What in the name of…"
"Oh my…" From the crowd, who remained entirely unaffected by the strange phenomenon, Dorma looked on with an intrigued expression, "Fusala is even more talented than I gave her credit for."
"What's this all about, Dorma?" Shilahi, seated next to the sorceress, questioned, "I don't think I've ever seen you do something like that."
"There's a good reason for that." She answered, "Gravitational magic is nigh unworkable. Certainly, I could reverse the gravity of a pebble or two for just a moment… but influencing the gravity of a living creature, and for so long? I can't begin to imagine such a complex use of magical particles."
"You mean to tell me she's been holding on to magical items like that this whole time?"
"More than likely, she's taking this opportunity to test some of the prototypes designed to combat Demons." Dorma guessed, "I'm keen to see how Witilla copes with this--or indeed, just what else Fusala may have up her sleeve."
The raven-haired girl was certainly perplexed by her predicament at first, but after taking a few steps on the walls, she had already started formulating a plan to approach Fusala, who remained completely unaffected by the gravity magic in the centre of the arena--which is to say, directly above her.
Kneeling down in preparation, Witilla performed a grand leap that seemed practically impossible, launching herself towards Fusala. From the perspective of the crowd, jumping from the wall and flying as straight as an arrow, the spectacle of the superhuman feat was only amplified. Aiming to pierce straight through the barrier, Witilla readied her sword arm, only to feel the forces working upon her body shift as the shadowy alchemist reoriented the strange pyramid once more.
She flew up, as if launched by some invisible force, colliding with the top of the dome intended to keep the audience safe. An unwelcome nausea pooled within Witilla's chest as she stood up only to see the endless sky spreading out below her feet.
"I can't approach…" She muttered, craning her neck to spot Fusala standing above her, "...I may need to-"
Witilla's words trailed off, for her attention was suddenly grabbed by an object flying straight towards her, or, more correctly, rising to meet her. She was only able to make out the faintest details of its appearance--a black sphere not unlike an especially small cannonball. It was only after she leaped backwards to avoid it that the object's purpose became clear, for barely a second later, it exploded into a swirling vortex of fire, sending ceramic shards careening past her face.
"A bomb…" She muttered, "Is this how she plans to attack?"
Her answer came not a moment later, and included with it were several more of the volatile containers, as much slaves to Fusala's manipulation of gravity as Witilla was. The shielded arena's ceiling became like a storm cloud, with tongues of fire dancing between a gathering smog of ash. By the time Fusala relented in her barrage, Witilla was nowhere to be seen in the chaos, and for a moment, the tournament's officials were about ready to call the match then and there.
But as a hand was raised to signal the trumpets, a peculiar sound caught the attention of all who beheld the match. The fragile song of winter--ice crackling and hail-cursed winds billowing through the open air. As all eyes ascended to the barrier above their heads, the beginnings of fragile snowflakes had begun to pepper the hideous remnants of Fusala's bombardment, until suddenly, a wicked spire of frost pierced through the veil, barely visible apart from the trail of smoke that followed in its wake.
The icicle pierced through Fusala's barrier as if it never existed in the first place, easily sinking into the ground at her feet. As the shield dissipated in response to being breached, Fusala found herself affected by her own gravitational magic, suddenly floating towards the roiling clouds of smog above her head. Thinking quickly, the girl returned the pyramid to its original orientation, allowing her to land safely on the arena floor.
Pellets of fuzzy snow fell from the amber skies atop the arena's barrier, and as the smoke began to disperse, a silhouette fell freely from the heavens, strands of ice which were nonetheless as flexible as whips extending from its fingers. Gasps could be heard from the crowd as Fusala scrambled to dodge the creature's plunging strike--grand spikes of frost large enough to obscure the audience's view extending from the ground as it landed.
"Oh dear." Shilahi frowned, "It appears I was right to have my suspicions."
"Ice magic… but on that scale…" Dorma worried, "Didn't Manyu tell us he didn't detect a Demonic aura from Witilla?"
"He'll be getting some harsh words from me later on, let me tell you." She replied, "Damn it… why did you think for a moment that he was to be trusted, Dorma?"
"We haven't seen how this will turn out just yet." The sorceress answered.
"Who else but Lilith could use ice magic on such a scale? If we don't start evacuating the arena this instant, there's no telling how many people she could kill."
"Calm yourself, Shilahi!" Dorma insisted, "React however you like when we've seen Lilith for ourselves, but until then, let's just confirm this isn't a false alarm."
"Hm." The gargantuan woman exhaled through her nose, "As you wish."
The icicles were not long to last. Shattering into harmless storms of snowflakes and sleet, Fusala was nowhere to be seen in the resultant emptiness. Only Witilla--having dismissed her magic, stood victorious. For a moment, it appeared as if the Homunculus had been somehow vaporised by the attack, but if one looked closer, they would see the pane of shadow roiling uncomfortably in the dirt.
The trumpets sounded, but Witilla's victory was not to be enjoyed for long. Just as the crowd began their cheering and chanting, the girl suddenly fell to one knee, clutching her chest in apparent pain. Up through her gullet came thick globules of blood, which collected in unseemly pools upon the honoured ground.
"...Is that girl alright?" Shilahi wondered.
"Fusala? Or do you mean Witilla?" Dorma asked.
"Well, the two of them, I suppose." She clarified, "Is Fusala dead?"
"I believe she may just be unconscious. A shapechanger can hardly maintain its form while knocked out." Dorma answered, "As for Witilla… no, I don't believe she is alright."
"I don't understand." The Hermit moaned, "She isn't Lilith?"
"Evidently not. But I gather the impression that there is more to her than meets the eye."
"Never a dull moment these days, is there?"
"It's certainly more entertaining than attending council meetings every day." Dorma joked, looking across the arena's expanse, "...Is Barion not spectating these battles?"
"No clue. Try asking His Majesty."
"What a fine idea. I believe I'll seek his counsel right away."