《The Alchemist's Descent》 Chapter 1, The Poisonous Gamble The acrid stench of burnt herbs clung to the workshop''s stale air as Fendrel hunched over his workbench. Sweat trickled down his temple, each drop threatening to contaminate the precise measurements laid out before him. Glass vials clinked against each other, their contents casting eerie shadows across the cramped space. A stack of botanical texts teetered on the edge of collapse beside his elbow. The burning sensation in his chest intensified. Fendrel''s hands trembled as he reached for the dralk weed, its purple leaves curling at the edges. Another message flashed across his vision: [PARASITE STATUS]: Agitation level high. Time until hosts body is taken over: 10min. Required substance: Xytherium Poison. "Damn thing could at least tell me how to brew this properly." Fendrel''s voice echoed off the wooden walls. He squinted at the floating recipe before him: [POISON RECIPE: Xytherium Poison] His eyes traced the spine of the nearest alchemy text. No time to review proper brewing methods. The parasite''s presence writhed inside him like a nest of angry insects. "Think, think." Fendrel grabbed his brass scales, measuring out the dralk weed with shaking hands. "Healing potions need gentle heat to preserve the properties..." He lit the burner beneath his smallest cauldron, adjusting the flame until it barely licked the copper bottom. The nightshade essence sat in a crystal vial, its dark liquid seeming to absorb what little light reached it. A spasm racked his body. Fendrel caught himself against the workbench, knocking over an empty flask. It shattered on the floor. "Fuck, that was expensive one." His jaw clenched as he uncorked the nightshade. Three precise drops fell into the warming cauldron, the liquid hissing as it hit the surface. The bone ash came last, its fine white powder coating his fingertips as he measured it out. Five grams exactly - he hoped. The mixture in the cauldron turned an unsettling shade of green. Fresh pain bloomed in his chest. Fendrel doubled over, knocking his knee against the workbench leg. The floating recipe blurred in and out of focus as the parasite''s influence grew stronger. "Please work." He stirred the mixture with a glass rod, watching the components swirl together. The color shifted to a deep purple, then back to green. "Was that supposed to happen?" Every instinct from his training screamed that this was wrong. "Why would it shift through different colors?" Fendrel watched the mixture bubble, his heart pounding. The liquid darkened from forest green to something deeper, like pond scum in the dead of night. Steam curled up from the surface in lazy spirals, carrying an odor that made his eyes water. A fresh warning blinked across his vision: [PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode is taking over the host. 5 minutes to full takeover. His hands shook as he adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron. Too much heat would ruin everything, too little would make the process take longer than he had. The dralk weed floated to the surface, its edges blackening. "Come on, come on." Fendrel stirred faster, then caught himself. Racing through the process would only waste the ingredients. He''d learned that lesson dozens of times at the academy, before they''d expelled him for his ''creative'' approach to traditional formulas. The mixture bubbled more vigorously. Fendrel reduced the heat, remembering how unstable nightshade essence became when overheated. The last thing he needed was poison smoke in his workshop. His mind drifted to last night, when this nightmare began. He''d been scavenging ingredients in the market district after dark, picking through discarded produce and herbs. Nothing unusual about that night - no strange encounters, no suspicious foods or drinks. The parasite must have found him then, but how? When? [PARASITE STATUS]: 4 minutes until full takeover. Host deterioration accelerating. Fendrel grabbed the bone ash with trembling fingers. The powder drifted down into the cauldron like snow, disappearing into the dark liquid. He stirred carefully, counting each rotation. Healing potions always changed hues at least once before they were complete - surely poisons followed similar principles? They apparently did change color entirely during the process. The mixture swirled, its surface reflecting the lamplight. Green to black to purple, then back to a deeper green. Fendrel held his breath, watching for any sign that the transformation was complete.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Fendrel''s hand trembled as he lifted a vial to eye level. The thick green liquid clung to the glass ladle, leaving oily streaks in its wake. He measured out a standard potion portion - enough to make a healing potion, or kill a man, if this concoction was indeed a poison. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Xytherium Poison brewed successfully. "Bottom''s up." The words came out as a whisper. He tipped the vial back and poured the contents down his throat. Fire spread through his chest. The poison burned worse than raw spirits, coating his tongue with an acrid taste that made him gag. His stomach heaved, threatening to expel the liquid. A notification flashed across his vision: [EFFECT]: You have been poisoned. His hands began to change color, the skin taking on a sickly green tint that spread up his forearms. Fendrel''s heart hammered against his ribs. This was it, he fucked up. The room spun as he stumbled backward, knocking over line of empty flasks. The green tinge deepened. [STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect [NEW PASSIVE SKILL]: Poison resistance 1 Fendrel blinked at the notification. He hadn''t seen a new skill appear in three years, not since... well, not since everything went to shit at the academy. [PARASITE STATUS]: Agitation level decreased. Next dose required in 12 hours The pressure in his chest eased. The constant writhing sensation that had plagued him for the last five hours subsided to a dull ache. Fendrel slumped against the workbench, drawing in deep breaths of the herb-scented air. His relief lasted only moments before reality set in. Twelve hours. He had twelve hours before he''d need another dose. Another batch of expensive ingredients, and his workshop lab was nearly empty after his string of failed attempts. A new notification caught his attention as he wiped sweat from his brow: [CRAFTING STATUS]: Xytherium Poison, residual amount: 80%. His gaze drifted to the cauldron. The remaining poison glowed faintly in the dim light, enough for four more doses. The ingredients had cost him nearly everything he had left, but maybe... Fendrel ran his fingers through his hair, considering his options. If he could find the right buyer, it might pay enough to restock his supplies, maybe even upgrade some of his equipment. He grabbed the last set of vials for healing potions from the shelf, filling them up. Fendrel pulled his hood lower and slipped through the narrow alleys of the market district. The setting sun cast long shadows between the buildings. His footsteps echoed off the cobblestones as he ducked beneath hanging laundry and around piles of discarded crates. The weight of the vials pressed against his chest, hidden beneath layers of cloth. Each step brought fresh waves of anxiety. His stomach churned. The city guard had doubled their patrols lately, their armored forms more present in the slums. As an alchemist, even a failed one, he knew the consequences all too well. Death was the only sentence for brewing poisons in the city. He reached the back of Garon''s shop, a cramped space stuffed with shelves of dubious merchandise. The familiar scent of musty books and dried herbs filled the air. Garon sat at his desk, examining a crystal through a jeweler''s lens. He looked up, his weathered face creasing into familiar lines. "You''re early this week." He set down the crystal. "And you look like shit." "I have something new." Fendrel''s voice cracked. "Not the usual stuff." "Listen, Fendrel." Garon leaned back in his chair. "I understand times are hard, but I can''t keep buying every failed experiment you bring in. Those healing potions barely work, and-" "No." Fendrel glanced at the door. "It''s... poison." The word hung in the air. Garon''s face transformed, color draining from his cheeks. He stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. "Have you lost your mind?" Garon''s whisper cut like a knife. "Bringing that here? To my shop? Do you want us both sucking off the lord of death?" "It''s stable." Fendrel pulled out one of the vials. The green liquid caught the lamplight. "Clear. I expect it to be quiet deadly and I need to move it fast." Garon''s eyes fixed on the vial, his merchant''s instincts warring with caution. "Put that away before someone sees it." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "How do you even know it works? And how did you manage to even come up with the recipe for something like this?" "Tested it myself." "You..." Garon shook his head. "I don''t want to know." He paced behind his desk. "I can''t move this. Too risky. But..." He stopped, considering. "I might know someone who''d be interested. No promises, but they handle... specialty items." "When?" "Midnight. Behind the old tannery." Garon''s expression hardened. "But, If this goes wrong, we never had this conversation." The old tannery''s stench lingered even years after its abandonment. Fendrel pressed himself against the cold stone wall, three vials of poison clutched to his chest. Moonlight filtered through the clouds, casting strange shadows across the empty courtyard. A figure emerged from the darkness, wrapped in a hooded cloak that concealed their features. Their boots scraped against the cobblestones as they approached. "You Garon''s friend?" The voice scraped like rusted metal. Fendrel''s throat went dry. "Yes." "What you got that''s worth dragging me out here?" Fendrel withdrew one of the vials, the green liquid catching what little light penetrated the alley. "Poison. Stable. Deadly." The figure stepped closer, head tilting. "Show me." With trembling hands, Fendrel held out the vial. The stranger''s gloved fingers brushed his as they took it, examining the contents with some kind of skill Fendrel imagined. "Quality work." They pocketed the vial. "How many you got?" "Three vials." "I''ll take them all. Twenty silver pieces each." Fendrel''s breath caught. Silver? He''d expected copper, if anything. Twenty silver pieces per vial was more than he''d seen in months. "Deal." The word escaped before he could think better of it. The stranger produced a pouch that clinked as they handed it over. Fendrel passed the remaining vials, trying to keep his hands steady. "Pleasure doing business." The figure melted back into the shadows, leaving Fendrel alone with his newfound wealth. He''d barely secured the pouch when familiar text flashed across his vision: [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 6 hours. Agitation level will gradually increase. The weight of the coins felt hollow in the moment. Sixty silver pieces wouldn''t last forever, and he''d need more ingredients. Much more. The poison wasn''t just a product anymore¡ªit was his lifeline. Fendrel clutched the money tighter as he turned toward his laboratory. The night air felt colder now, each step carrying him deeper into his new reality. Chapter 2: A Dangerous Proposition Morning light filtered through the grimy window of Fendrel''s workshop. He thumbed through the coins from last night''s sale, pausing at a metal tag nestled between them. The Black market courier mark¡ªscale where one side holds a feather and the other side is empty¡ªgleamed dully in the morning light. His stomach lurched. He''d heard enough about them in the slums, their reputation for moving anything that could turn a profit and this marked him as one of them now. "I could just throw it away, right?" The familiar text flashed across his vision: [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 9 hours. At least the last dose before bed bought him some time. He pocketed a handful of silver and headed out toward the lower district market. The coins clinked with each step, a sound both comforting and terrifying. The market buzzed with morning activity. Vendors hollered prices, customers haggled, and the smell of fresh bread mingled with herbs and sweat. Fendrel weaved through the crowd toward Old Man Kern''s stall. "Two stalks of fresh Dralk." Fendrel placed four copper on the wooden counter. "Fresh out." Kern scratched his beard. "Trader''s late. Try the herbalist by the temple." Fendrel cursed under his breath. The herbalist charged double, but he had no choice. He''d need the Nightshade from another vendor anyway. At the alchemist''s shop, he picked through basic supplies. Vials, stoppers, some Petaline Herbs. His hand hovered over a jar of bone ash. "Looking for something specific?" The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow. "Just restocking." Fendrel grabbed the bone ash. Strange how nobody had thought to use it as a stabilizing agent before. The crystalline structure, the way it bound with other substances¡ªit seemed obvious now. Two merchants passed behind him, their voices low but clear. "Heard about Magistrate Voss?" "Dead this morning, they say. Right at his breakfast table." "That sudden? No warning?" "None. Clean as summer rain, they''re saying." Fendrel''s hand tightened around the jar. His poison couldn''t have... no. Impossible. He''d only sold it hours ago. Besides, rumors which spread through the market were like fairytales¡ªhalf of them pure fiction. He paid for his supplies and hurried to the herbalist near the church, trying to push the conversation from his mind. The prices there made him wince, but he had little choice. Seven hours wasn''t much time to work with. As he walked back toward the slums, the merchants'' words echoed in his head. Clear as summer rain. He shook the thought away. Coincidence. Had to be. The alternative meant... No. Focus on the work ahead. Seven hours. He picked up his pace. Fendrel''s boots scuffed against the worn steps leading to his workshop. The familiar creak of loose boards beneath his feet provided little comfort today. His fingers brushed against the supplies in his satchel¡ªfresh Dralk, bone ash, and that precious jar of nightshade. He reached for his door handle, then froze. The lock showed no signs of tampering, yet something felt wrong. The air carried traces of unfamiliar scents¡ªhints of leather and exotic oils that didn''t belong in his shithole of a workspace. The door hinges groaned as he pushed inside. Afternoon light filtered through the grimy window, casting long shadows across his workbench and the scattered apparatus that filled the cramped room. His eyes darted to his cauldron, where a cloaked figure stood examining the residue along its rim. Fendrel''s throat went dry. The stranger''s presence violated his sanctuary, the one place he''d managed to keep despite everything. His precious lab, his survival¡ªall laid bare before the intruder. "Who are you?" His voice cracked. "How did you get in here?" The figure remained silent, trailing a gloved finger along the cauldron''s edge. The gesture felt deliberate, almost mocking. Sunlight caught the rich fabric of the cloak¡ªdefinitely not some common thief. Fendrel''s pulse quickened. His latest batch of poison still coated the cauldron''s interior. Even the residue told the story of what he''d been brewing. The stranger turned, hood concealing their features in shadow. "Fascinating work." The voice was cultured, precise. "Particularly the bone ash. Such an elegant solution for stabilization."Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Ice formed in Fendrel''s gut. This person hadn''t just found his workshop¡ªthey understood his formula. "The sample we acquired proved quite potent. Clean. Efficient." The stranger''s head tilted. "Yet here you are, brewing such sophisticated compounds in this..." A pause as they gestured at the straw bed and empty shelves. "...modest establishment." His knuckles clenched around the leather bag. Hours. They''d needed just hours to follow the toxin''s trail straight to him. Was it Garon, or the black market courier? "The bone ash is the real innovation." The stranger stepped closer. "No common alchemist would think to use it as a binding agent. Someone taught you well." The implications made Fendrel sweat. The stranger''s words hung heavily in the air. Fendrel''s mind raced through his options¡ªnone of them good. "Your talents are wasted here." The figure gestured at the cramped workshop. "My organization can provide you with proper facilities, rare ingredients, protection. All we ask is that you continue your excellent work, under our protection." Fendrel''s chest tightened. The stranger spoke of his poisons with such casual authority, as if discussing the weather. "I''m not interested in working with criminals." "No?" The stranger''s laugh carried no warmth. "Yet here you are, crafting tools for assassins. What did you think would happen when you sold those vials?" "This was just one time thing. Experiment gone wrong." The lie tasted bitter. "Ah, one time thing." The stranger''s voice sharpened. "Let''s be frank. You''ve specialized in poison, a deliberate choice on the class path for an alchemist. The academy wouldn''t touch this work. Which means you developed these formulas yourself, failed accident, or a masterpiece. It makes little difference to us." Sweat beaded on Fendrel''s forehead. "I want nothing to do with your organization." Fendrel tried to steady his voice. "Find someone else." The stranger''s posture shifted, subtle yet menacing. "You misunderstand. This isn''t a request. You crossed into our territory the moment you sold that first vial. The only choice now is whether you accept our protection or..." The pause stretched like a drawn blade. "Face the consequences of operating without it." "Are you threatening me?" "Merely stating facts. A lone alchemist brewing poisons in the slums? How long before the city guard kicks down your door? Or other groups decide to... appropriate your talents?" The stranger''s hood tilted. "You need us as much as we need you." Fendrel''s mouth went dry. They had him cornered¡ªa rat in his own trap. Every word revealed how much they discovered about him, how they understood his position. "Think carefully about your next response." The stranger''s voice carried edge of annoyance. "Your survival thus far has been remarkable, you managed to hide for a long time in here. It would be a shame to see such potential... wasted." Fendrel''s hand trembled against the chair. They didn''t know everything, but the stranger''s words left no room for interpretation - cooperate or die. His shoulders sagged as the weight of reality crushed down on him. "Your protection." Fendrel''s voice cracked. "What exactly does that entail?" "Full discretion. Resources. Security from both the law and... competing interests." The stranger''s boots scraped against the floor as they paced. "In exchange, you provide us with exclusive access to your creations." Fendrel''s jaw clenched. "And if I refuse?" "Then our conversation ends here. Along with several other things." The cold certainty in those words made Fendrel''s skin crawl. He glanced at his workbench, the remnants of his latest batch still coating the vessels. The parasite inside him writhed, as if sensing his distress, remaining him of the time ticking away. "I''ll supply your organization." The words tasted like ash. "But I won''t join formally. I remain independent." The stranger paused mid-step. "Independence carries risks." "It''s non-negotiable." Silence stretched between them until the stranger gave a slight nod. "Acceptable. Now, what supplies do you require?" "Money." Fendrel crossed his arms. "I''ve survived the slums long enough to know how this works. You get the product, not the process." Sweat beaded on his forehead. "Understandable." The stranger''s hood tilted. "Though I wonder if that wisdom will serve you well in the long term." Fendrel''s stomach churned. If they tried to replicate it and fail because they don''t have the parasite influencing their skills I will get killed in the process. "The arrangement stands. Money for product." "Very well." The stranger moved toward the door. "Expect contact within three days. Do try to stay alive until then." The door closed with a soft click, but the oppressive atmosphere remained. Fendrel slumped against his workbench, finger poking the satchel with coins the person left on the table. Fendrel''s hands moved through the familiar motions. Measure, grind, mix. The routine helped calm his nerves after the stranger''s visit. He crushed the fresh Dralk leaves into a paste, purple dust coating his fingers. [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 4 hours. The text flashed across his vision as he added the Nightshade essence drop by drop. The liquid hissed against the bone ash mixture, dark tendrils spreading through the solution. Steam rose from the cauldron as he stirred. The bone ash stabilized the mixture, preventing the volatile components from separating. Each attempt had ended in failure - four times now. He struggled to recall the precise temperature from that first desperate experiment. So he methodically worked through variations, adjusting the heat and sequence of ingredients with every new trial. The solution thickened, turning from murky purple to green. Fendrel held a glass vial up to the light. No sediment, no cloudiness. Finally. His hands shook as he filled the vials. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Xytherium Poison brewed successfully. Residual amount: 60%. 40%. 20%. He corked the fifth vial and arranged them in neat row. The afternoon sun caught the glass, making the clear liquid sparkle like water. [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 3 hours. The familiar burn started in his gut. Time to pay his dues to the creature that made all this possible. Fendrel reached for one of the vials with trembling fingers. A clatter outside broke through his brooding. His heart stopped. Heavy boots scraped against cobblestones. Multiple sets, moving with purpose. He crept to the window. Five city guards were approaching his door, hands resting on sword hilts. Their faces bore the grim mask of men who were dragged somewhere they never wanted to go. "Shit." Chapter 3: Escalating Dangers Fendrel''s hands shook as he darted to his bed. The loose floorboard squealed as he pried it up, shoving the coin purses into the hollow space. The footsteps grew closer. He grabbed handfuls of fresh Dralk weed, tossing them into his cauldron along with whatever ingredients lay scattered across his workbench. The mixture hissed as he lit the fire beneath. Acrid smoke filled the air. Fendrel''s eyes watered as he dumped water into the mixture, creating a noxious cloud that burned his nostrils. Five vials of poison remained. He uncorked three in rapid succession, forcing the liquid down his throat. The familiar burn spread through his chest as the messages flickered across his vision. [EFFECT]: You have been poisoned. [STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect [EFFECT]: You have been poisoned. [STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect [PASSIVE SKILL LEVEL UP]: Poison resistance 2 [EFFECT]: You have been poisoned. [EFFECT]: You have been vision impaired. You have been speech impaired. [STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect. [PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode is sleeping. Next dose required in 12 hours. The room spun. Fendrel staggered to the window, hurling the last two vials into the alley below. Glass shattered against stone as someone pounded on his door. "City Guard! Open up!" The door burst inward. Fendrel stumbled, catching himself against his workbench. "What''s all this then?" A guard captain stepped through the smoke, nose wrinkling. "Jus'' trying new formula." Fendrel''s tongue felt thick. He gestured at the smoking cauldron. "Didn''t work out so good." "You''re drunk." The captain''s eyes narrowed. "In the middle of the day?" "Failed experiment." Fendrel hiccupped. "Had to test it myself, didn''t I?" Guards rifled through his shelves and cupboards, overturning jars and boxes. One picked through the remains in his cauldron with a stick. "Nothing here but burnt weeds, sir." The captain grabbed Fendrel''s chin, studying his dilated pupils. "What exactly were you brewing?" "Health tonic." Fendrel''s vision swam. "For hangovers. Ironic, innit?" "Search everything," the captain ordered. "Someone lost their mind and started poison brewing in the fucking city. I want this place turned inside out." Fendrel slumped against the wall, fighting to keep his feet as the guards tore apart his lab. His stomach churned from the poison overdose, but a hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat. I wasn''t this drunk in a long while. The captain''s boots crunched over broken glass as he made another circuit of the cramped lab. His lip curled at the scattered herbs and stained workbench. "This place is a disgusting." "Nothing here but junk, sir." A guard kicked an empty bottle. "No proper equipment for poison making." "Look at him." Another guard jerked his thumb at Fendrel. "Can''t even stand straight. Probably burns his coins on drink anyway." The captain grabbed Fendrel''s collar, yanking him close. "Listen well, alchemist. Someone''s been brewing death in this city. If I catch even a whiff of poison coming from this hovel, you''ll swing." He shoved Fendrel back. "We''ve been too soft on you herb-mixers lately. Now some upstart thinks they can pull this shit." Fendrel''s knees wobbled as he caught himself against the wall. "Just make hangover cures. Honest work." "Honest." The captain spat. "Clear out. This waste of time is done." The guards filed out, boots thundering down the stairs. Fendrel waited until their footsteps faded before sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs. The room spun as his body fought the poison overdose. He''d survived, but only by making himself look like a worthless drunk. The guard''s sneers echoed in his mind. The notification pulsed at the edge of his vision. [PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode is sleeping. Next dose required in 11 hours, 42 minutes. Fendrel''s nails bit into his palms. He''d thought selling a few poisons would solve his money troubles. Instead he got more unwanted visitors in half a day then the last three years. He sat in the darkened lab, surrounded by the wreckage of his old life. The guard''s search had scattered his remaining ingredients across the floor. He''d have to source more, and soon.
Fendrel''s hands shook as he measured the Dralk weed. The brittle stalks crumbled between his fingers, dropping into the copper bowl. His lab had transformed into a maze of ingredients over the past couple of days - dried herbs hung from the ceiling, jars crowded every surface, the air thick with fresh herbs, he didn''t remember last time he had this much stuff.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. The notification from twelve hours ago still burned in his vision: [CLASS STATUS]: Alchemy skill leveled up. New recipes unlocked. [PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode leveled up. Required substance: Xytherium Poison, Silkslither Toxin. Next dose required in 48 hours. "Fat lot of good that does me." He crushed the Dralk into paste, movements sharp with anger. "Couldn''t level up before the damned thing got in me?" The bone ash came next, carefully spooned into the mixture. He''d spent hours grinding fresh bones last night, preparing for this batch. The nightshade essence gleamed as he counted the drops - one, two, three. The liquid mixed with the weed broth before he put the powder in. His workspace had become an obstacle course of ingredients and equipment. Glass clinked as his elbow knocked against empty vials. The familiar steps of brewing Xytherium brought little comfort now. "Greedy bastard." The mortar scraped against the bowl as he mixed faster. "One poison not enough anymore?" His eyes darted to the new recipe that had appeared yesterday morning, along with a heavy pouch of silver coins on his workbench. The money from whatever organization the guy was from was the only think stopping him from panicking. [POISON RECIPE: Silkslither Toxin] The exotic ingredients alone would have cost a fortune without the stranger''s coin. He''d spent the past day tracking down suppliers, dodging questions about his sudden interest in Silkslither cocoons from Garon. "Two different potions, poison and toxin." He poured the Xytherium mixture into a vial, separating five doses. "Double the work, double the risk. What''s next, three? Four?" [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Xytherium Poison brewed successfully. Residual amount: 80%. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Xytherium Poison brewed successfully. Residual amount: 60%. The completed Xytherium poison glowed a sickly green. One down, one to go. Fendrel wiped sweat from his brow as he measured the Silkslither cocoon fibers. The delicate strands gleamed like spun moonlight between his fingers. His hands trembled as he lowered them into the mixture. The venomlily essence swirled in its vial, a deep purple that shifted to black in the shadows. Five precious drops remained - the slum traders had charged him triple of what he expected it to cost. He uncorked it carefully, counting each drop into the brew. The mixture bubbled, then turned an angry red. Fendrel''s heart stopped. [CRAFTING FAILED]: Incorrect ratio and temperature. "No, no, no!" He yanked the cauldron from the heat, but the damage was done. Half his venomlily essence, wasted in one botched batch. The mixture congealed into a useless sludge. "That was ten silver. Fuck." Fendrel slumped against his workbench. The venomlily had been the hardest to source - even the shadiest traders rarely stocked something, with so few uses outside of the obvious. He spend whole day waiting for Garon to get him in contact with someone willing to sell it. Taking a deep breath, he straightened. Failure is just part of the process, old man used to say. The remaining ingredients were laid out with methodical precision as he started fresh. This time, the mixture turned the shade of midnight blue and Fendrel''s shoulders relaxed as he poured it into a standard healing vial. [NEW RECIPE SAVED]: Silkslither Toxin brewed successfully. Residual amount: 60%. "Two doses?" Fendrel stared at the residual amount. "All those rare ingredients for just two doses?" With thirty hours left before his next required dose, he set the vials aside. His body ached from standing over the workbench all day. Rest first, then he''d deal with drinking the disgusting stuff, it didn''t get easier with time. He opened his status window. The familiar interface appeared: [STATUS] NAME: Fendrel Solinar CLASS: Alchemist LEVEL: 4 -> 5 RACE: Human SYMBIOSIS: Xytril Nematode LEVEL: 1 -> 2 His stomach churned at the word "symbiosis." That line hadn''t existed days ago. The parasite had somehow integrated itself into his very status. The attribute list was the only thing that staying normal: [ATRIBUTES] Intelligence 6 Dexterity 7 Wisdom 1 Constitution 2 Perception 9 It was the skill list that unsettled him at first. Every basic skill he''d possessed had been specialized by the parasite towards some goal that eluded him. Is it really all for the purpose of poison brewing? Getting new skills was complicated process and not necessarily worth pushing into high levels as there was cap on the skill points per each level. With how slowly his alchemist class progressed it would take ages to advance any of the core skills. [ACTIVE SKILLS] Brewing -> [Nematode advancement] -> Potion Brewing LEVEL: 2 Distillation -> [Nematode advancement] -> Essence Distillation LEVEL: 2 Stabilization -> [Nematode advancement] -> Catalyst Stabilization LEVEL: 0 -> 1 Poison Synthesis [Xytril Nematode] LEVEL: 2 Toxin Synthesis [Xytril Nematode] LEVEL: 1 [PASSIVE SKILLS] Herb Identification LEVEL 4 Chemical Resistance LEVEL 2 Poison resistance [Xytril Nematode] LEVEL 1 -> 2 Two more skills than his class level should allow. He''d used his recent level-up for leveling Stabilization to be useful - or Catalyst Stabilization now - but the rest was pure parasite influence. However the real fuckery was his codex. He opened it again and examined the new recipes unlocked by the level-up. Among them were a basic healing potion and a hybrid recipe that combines healing and poison brewing elements¡ªsomething he¡¯s never seen before. The description didn''t mention any effects either. [CODEX] Basic Healing Potion Bitterroot Tonic Xytherium Poison Silkslither Toxin But its tonic, which means it has better potency then even the Basic Potion. He stared at the healing recipes. The academy had kicked him out before level 5, before he could choose his first potion path. But that is the thing, you are supposed to choose your codex. Yet, now, the parasite had made those choices for him and introduced far more recipes then he was supposed to get at the halfway mark to the class advancement. Fendrel pulled out his old academy textbook from one of his cupboards. The pages were worn, corners dogeared from countless late-night study sessions. He flipped to the introduction chapter, scanning the familiar text. "Any fool can mix herbs," he muttered, reciting the words. "But an alchemist understands the fundamental principles that govern reactions." The basic recipes - simple healing brews, rudimentary tonics - weren''t restricted by the system. They were common knowledge passed down through generations of herbalists, pharmacists and alchemists. His mother had taught him to brew fever reducers before he could write his name. The codex was different. It represented the crystallization of an alchemist''s knowledge and potential, unlocking at level five when they chose their specialization path. The system would then grant them access to advanced recipes aligned with their chosen school - healing, enhancement, or utility. "But I didn''t get to choose, did I?" He glared at his status window. The parasite had forced its own specialized codex on him, filling it with poison recipes he never wanted to learn. Chapter 4: Unwanted Recognition Fendrel stepped back from his workbench, taking in the rows of vials gleaming in the dim light. Ten vials of Xytherium poison and two of Silkslither toxin - more deadly substances than he''d ever seen anywhere. His throat tightened as he imagined the guard captain''s face if they returned for another inspection. The vials clinked as he arranged them, green liquid casting sickly shadows across the worn wood. Three doses for himself, but that left far too many extras. The memory of boots on cobblestones made his hands shake. "Can''t keep this much here." He picked up a vial, watching the poison swirl. "Another random guy shows up here and I''m done." His equipment needed upgrades - his copper bowl was wearing thin, and half his measuring tools had seen better days. The black market courier would pay well for the product. With proper tools, he could work faster, more efficiently. But dealing with them meant risk. Every transaction increased his chances of discovery. Fendrel''s fingers drummed against the workbench. He needed money for ingredients, especially with the parasite demanding more complex substances. The two bottles of venomlily essence alone cost nearly same as all the rest of these ingredients. And I will need more. "Seven vials." He separated them into a leather wrap. "Keep three for use, sell the rest." They already know I''m the one making it anyway. The decision settled like lead in his stomach, but he saw no alternative. The parasite would need feeding again soon, and his supplies wouldn''t last forever. Better to sell now, while he had the chance, than wait until desperation forced his hand. The last rays of sunlight painted the city walls in amber as Fendrel slipped through the winding alleys. His leather satchel bumped against his hip with each step, the vials inside wrapped in cloth to prevent clinking. The smells of rotting leather and stale water grew stronger as he approached the old tannery building. A cat darted across his path, making him jump. Fendrel pulled the hood lower over his face, cursing under his breath. The streets had emptied in the old district as dusk settled in, but that only made him more paranoid about being followed. Behind the abandoned tannery, Fendrel pulled out the metal insignia from his pouch. The metal disc caught what little light remained as he hung it on a rusty nail by the alley entrance. He stood near an old crate not daring to sit, wondering if he was wasting his time. The wait stretched on. The moon rose, casting long shadows through the narrow passage. His legs cramped from standing still, but he didn''t dare sit or leave his place. Just as he considered giving up, footsteps echoed off the walls. "Didn''t expect to see you so soon again." The cloaked figure emerged from the darkness, voice carrying a pleased tone. "I take it you made your profit last time?" The contact nodded. Fendrel took out his satchel, keeping his movements controlled despite his nerves. "More of the same?" "Yes." Fendrel retrieved the wrapped vials, passing them over. The contact weighed them in his palm before producing a coin purse that landed in Fendrel''s hands with satisfying weight. "Next time you want to contact us, go into the Maiden''s Kiss. Only go there if you want to do business and someone will approach you. We can''t keep meeting in the same place." Fendrel turned to leave, but the contact stepped into his path. "Wait. There''s more demand and people are getting curious. If you can produce larger quantities, they would be very interested." "I had the pleasure already, but I told them I work alone," Fendrel said, keeping his voice steady. "And I set my own pace." "The money could be substantial." "I appreciate the offer, but I''m not looking to expand operations or get more involved. This arrangement works for both of us - let''s keep it that way." The contact studied him for a long moment before stepping aside. Fendrel''s boots scraped against the cobblestones as he hurried through the darkened streets. The coin purse pressed against his chest where he''d tucked it inside his vest, each step making the metal clink softly. The courier''s words echoed in his mind: More demand, more money.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. His hands clenched into fists. They wanted more, how much more? First he couldn''t find any customers for his brews, and now? He makes few poisons and he gets the whole market interested? The familiar creak of his laboratory door brought little comfort. Fendrel lit a candle with trembling fingers, casting wavering shadows across his workbench. The notification pulsed at the edge of his vision, demanding attention: [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 19 hours "Shut it," he muttered, though the message remained unchanged. The parasite had transformed his quiet life of barely scraping by into this twisted dance of illegal brewing and midnight meetings. Each dose pushed him deeper into the city''s darker corners, forced him to make deals with people whose names he didn''t even know. Fendrel slumped into his worn chair, running his fingers through his hair. Word was spreading. He could feel it in the way the contact spoke. His reputation as a failed alchemist had been protection of sorts. But how long is that going to last? Fendrel dragged himself from the chair and began sorting through his supplies. The shelves looked bare despite the recent shopping spree - only a few stalks of Dralk remained, barely enough for another batch. His fingers traced the empty spots where ingredients should be. The bone ash barrel remained full at least. He''d spent hours grinding bones yesterday, but the other components worried him. The nightshade essence bottle held maybe four drops worth. The exotic components for Silkslither were completely depleted. His workbench told the same story - empty vials waited to be filled, measuring tools sat idle. The complexity of these new recipes demanded so many different ingredients. Back when he''d struggled to make basic healing brews and reagents, he''d only needed two or three components total. Fendrel lifted the loose floorboard beneath his straw bed, revealing a hollow space. The coin purse landed among the other hidden treasures with a heavy thud. Just days ago, this much money would have seemed like a fortune. Now it barely covered what he needed for the next few batches. He sank onto the straw mattress, wooden boards creaking under his weight. The life of a failed alchemist had been simple - scraping by on odd jobs, avoiding attention. This new existence of midnight deals and deadly potions felt like wearing someone else''s skin. Sleep pulled at his eyes as he stared at the cracked ceiling. He''d crossed lines he never thought he would, brewing poisons that could kill a man in minutes. The parasite''s hunger grew stronger with him. He''d have to adapt, learn to navigate this new path he''d stumbled onto. Tomorrow meant another shopping trip and more brewing. At least its interesting.
Fendrel''s laboratory had transformed into a maze of ingredients and equipment. Stacks of empty vials teetered on every surface, while dried herbs hung from the ceiling in dense clusters. The familiar scent blue cap mushrooms lingered in the air, mixing with the sharper notes of widowvine sap. He dropped his shopping basket onto the workbench, scattering a few copper coins across the worn wood. The morning market had been quieter than the usual buzz in the noon - perfect for someone who hated crowds. Even so, the cleaner streets and better-dressed commoners of the lower districts had made him conscious of his worn clothes and unwashed hair. How long was it since he last washed himself? The notification kept floating in the corner of his eye: [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 10 hours "The break is about over." Fendrel stretched, feeling the tension creep back into his shoulders. Ten hours left. He pulled an old tome from beneath a stack of papers, dust falling from its pages as he opened it to a brewing process he studied as basics in the academy, but didn''t have use for since he started on the path of alchemy: [POTION BREWING PROCESSES] Infusion Method Cold Extract Process Crystallization Process Fendrel traced his finger along the yellowed pages of the old tome. The complex diagrams of advanced distillation setups and crystallization chambers mocked him. His own worn copper pot and basic burner looked pathetic in comparison. Infusion its, at least it scales with the ingredient ratios. He decided to make five at the start. He filled the pot with half a liter of the purified water from the church, the memory of marble halls and judgmental stares made his skin crawl. The water rippled as he set it over the flame, steam rising in lazy curls. While the water heated, he crushed the bluecap mushrooms with practiced motions. The earthy scent filled his small workspace. Different from the sharp, acrid smells of his recent work. The water reached a simmer, tiny bubbles breaking the surface. He added the crushed mushrooms, watching the water turn a murky brown. The steam carried the mushroom''s essence through the room. His shoulders relaxed as he measured out the dried petaline herb. This was familiar ground - no deadly precision required, no risk of toxic fumes. Just simple brewing. The mixture darkened as he stirred in the herbs, then slowly shifted to a deep red. He strained it through a clean cloth, the liquid flowing smooth and clear into the waiting bottles. Five small vials sat before him, each containing a basic healing potion. Not particularly potent compared to what properly equipped alchemists could produce, but they''d do the job. He corked the last bottle with a satisfied nod. The church''s purified water had been worth the discomfort of obtaining it. Those pristine halls with their perfectly polished floors had set his teeth on edge. Everything too clean, too orderly, too unlike the messy reality of his life in the slums. Fendrel wrapped the healing potions in cloth, tucking them into his worn satchel. The market square bustled with activity as he made his way through the crowd, dodging past fruit vendors and textile merchants. He found an empty spot near the edge, away from the main thoroughfare where the established alchemists had their permanent stalls. He laid out a threadbare blanket and arranged his potions in neat rows. The red liquid caught the morning light, though the color appeared less vibrant than the deep crimson you would get with the cold extract. Still, I''m way cheaper then others, it should sell. Chapter 5: New Proposal A woman in a merchant''s apron paused at his stall, picking up one of the bottles. Her nose wrinkled as she examined the simple cork stopper. "These seem... different from what I usually buy." "They''re brewed fresh this morning." Fendrel straightened his posture. "I use bluecap mushrooms and petaline herbs, traditional-" But she had already moved on, strolling to the stall across the square, where clear bottles gleamed beneath an embroidered awning. The morning dragged. People hurried past, their eyes sliding over his modest display. A few stopped to look, but none stayed to buy. Across the way, a line formed at Merchant Kella''s stall, her reputation drawing customers despite charging triple his prices. A man in worker''s clothes picked up one of Fendrel''s potions, frowning at the lighter shade. "Bit weak-looking, isn''t it?" "The color varies based on brewing temperature. These are just as effective-" "Can you do a silver piece per?" The man asked Fendrel''s jaw clenched. "I''m already selling almost at brewing cost." The man shrugged and walked away. His fingers drummed against his knee as he watched another potential customer drift away. This is a waste of time, and I need another dose before the sun goes down.
Fendrel slumped onto his workbench stool, the unsold healing potions clinking as he set them down. The red liquid caught the afternoon light streaming through his grimy window - mocking him with their perfect color and complete worthlessness. He rubbed his temples, fighting back a headache. The morning''s failure burned in his gut. Without proper equipment or an established name, he''d never compete with the legitimate alchemists. Their crystal-clear bottles and fancy labels drew customers like moths to flame, while his crude cork-stoppered vials gathered dust. The parasite''s status message flickered at the edge of his vision: [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 4 hours His fingers traced the edge of his alchemy workbook. Each new brew, potion or poison added to his experience, bringing him closer to leveling his class. But that progress came with the parasite leveling alongside his alchemy class, demanding more concoctions to keep it from taking over, or killing him. "The more I do, the worse it gets," he muttered. The thought of sourcing increasingly rare ingredients made his stomach churn. Already he struggled to afford the components for basic poisons. What happened when the parasite required rare materials? Or worse, ingredients that could only be obtained through questionable means, or not at all? Fendrel''s gaze drifted to his equipment - the battered copper pot, the basic burner, the mismatched collection of measuring tools. Keeping up with the parasite''s growing demands would strain his finances past breaking point. Maybe I should stop brewing anything besides what keeps it contained, he thought. Stick to poisons, sell them quiet, I can just keep selling to those who approached me so far. When is the black hooded guy coming though? The black market seemed discrete enough, and their coin spent just as well as any other merchant''s. A sharp knock echoed through the lab, cutting through Fendrel''s thoughts. His muscles tensed. The sound came again, three precise raps against the wooden door. He glanced at his workbench. Half-finished potions lay scattered across its surface, ingredients spread out in plain view. The knocker struck again. Fendrel swept the most incriminating materials into a drawer and approached the door. "Who''s there?" No answer came. Just another knock, somehow more insistent than before. He cracked the door open, chain still latched. A hooded figure stood in the dim hallway, wrapped in a deep blue cloak that obscured their features. The stranger''s head tilted, regarding him through the gap. "Fendrel Solinar?" The voice was neutral, neither male nor female. "Who wants to know?" The figure produced a sealed envelope from within their cloak. The parchment bore an unfamiliar mark - a serpent wrapped around a chalice. "Your reputation precedes you," the courier said, extending the letter through the gap. Fendrel''s fingers trembled as he broke the seal. The message inside was written in flowing script: Your skills have not gone unnoticed. We offer resources, protection, and a permanent place among those who appreciate true talent. Tomorrow night. The Red Barrel tavern. Come alone.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. It bore the same serpent-and-chalice insignia as the seal. His mouth went dry. "This is someone new," Fendrel whispered to himself. "There are other interested parties in this city." The courier''s tone remained mild, but something in their posture shifted. "Parties who don''t appreciate rejection." "I already have... arrangements." "Then I suggest you consider rearranging them." The courier''s head tilted again, hood still concealing their features. "Some offers aren''t meant to be refused." Fendrel''s grip tightened on the letter. He''d heard stories of what happened to people caught between rival criminal organizations. None of them ended well. "I''ll consider it." "See that you do more than consider." The courier stepped back into the shadows. "Tomorrow night. Don''t disappoint them." Fendrel stared at the closed door, the courier''s footsteps fading down the allyway. The letter weighed in his hand like lead. He sank into his worn chair, running his thumb over the serpent-and-chalice seal. The wax crumbled at his touch, scattering red fragments across the floor. The lab''s familiar scents - herbs, smoke, and chemical tang - offered no comfort now. Each breath felt heavy, as if the air itself pressed down on his shoulders. He spread the letter on his workbench, studying the flowing script. The words hadn''t changed, but their implications grew darker with each reading. His fingers drummed against the wooden surface. Fendrel had little idea about the different groups running the underworld of the city. He heard enough stories about how they operated with predictable brutality. But these groups approaching him with their fancy seals and formal invitations? They represented something more far more sinister. [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 3 hours Fendrel barked out a harsh laugh. The creature inside him demanded poison while forces outside conspired to drag him deeper into the city''s shadows. He''d tried to stay invisible, brewing just enough to survive. But each sale had left a trail, each transaction forming links in a chain that now threatened to strangle him. He crumpled the letter in his fist. What choice did he have? Refuse, and make enemies of people powerful enough to track him to his door? Accept, and bind himself tighter to the criminal world he''d never meant to enter? The answer settled over him like a shroud. He smoothed out the letter, folding it carefully before tucking it into his vest pocket. Tomorrow night, he would go to the Red Barrel. He would listen to their offer. Because in this game he''d stumbled into, survival meant playing by their rules.
The Red Barrel''s wooden door creaked as Fendrel pushed it open. Stale beer and pipe smoke hung thick in the air. A handful of patrons hunched over their drinks, faces hidden in shadow. None looked up as he entered. He chose a corner table, back to the wall, keeping the door in view. His fingers traced the worn grooves in the wooden tabletop while he waited. The tavern''s few candles cast more shadows than light, leaving dark corners where anyone might lurk. A figure materialized from the gloom, sliding into the seat across from him. The stranger''s deep blue cloak matched the one worn by yesterday''s courier, but this was clearly a different person - broader shoulders, different posture. "Fendrel Solinar." The voice was male, rough like stones grinding together. "I''m Borin." "You have me at a disadvantage." "That''s the point." Borin''s hood shifted slightly. "Let''s discuss business." "Your organization-" "Doesn''t need to be named." Borin''s hand emerged from his cloak, fingers drumming on the table. "We have interests throughout the city. Interests that require... specialized services." Fendrel swallowed hard. "What kind of services?" "We need something subtle. A poison that works gradually - days, maybe weeks. Something that looks like natural illness." Borin leaned forward. "For insurance purposes, you understand. Certain individuals need proper motivation to cooperate." The implications made Fendrel sweat. This wasn''t about killing enemies - it was about control. Keeping people in line with the threat of a slow, painful death. "The payment would be substantial," Borin continued. "And our protection extends to those who prove useful." Fendrel''s stomach churned. He''d crossed lines brewing poisons, but this felt different. This wasn''t just killing - it was torture, manipulation, destroying lives piece by piece. Fendrel''s fingers traced particularly deep grove in the table. "A slow-acting poison isn''t simple. The ingredients are rare, expensive. And the brewing process requires precise control." "Money isn''t an issue." Borin placed a heavy pouch on the table. The coins clinked softly against each other. "Consider this a down payment. Triple that amount upon delivery." Is this fucker for real? Fendrel though before opening his mouth, "how am I going to walk out of here with this?" he kept his voice low. "Our people are everywhere." Borin''s hood tilted. "No one will trouble you while you work for us." Fendrel''s stomach twisted. If he buys the ingredients for another batch of toxin he would pretty much run out of coin. But slow poison meant watching people waste away, knowing he''d caused their suffering. "I''ll need some time," he said. "Getting more components without raising suspicion-" "Take what time you need. Quality matters more than speed." Borin pushed the coin pouch closer. "Do we have an agreement?" Fendrel picked up the pouch, feeling its weight. The metal felt warm against his palm, promising security, survival. These guys pay better. "Yes," he said. "We have an agreement." "Good." Borin stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "Remember - discretion is essential. We''ll contact you when we need the first batch." Back in his cramped lab, Fendrel collapsed onto his bed, his mind racing from the meeting. He pulled out his worn notebook, focusing on the parasite''s status window. The familiar text flickered before him: [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 2 hours He closed his eyes, concentrating on the presence within him. [I know you can understand. You know what I need. Show me something useful.] Minutes passed. The silence stretched until his muscles grew stiff. Just as he was about to give up, new text appeared: [WITHERBLOOM INFUSION TOXIN] Fendrel''s eyes widened. The parasite had actually responded with what he needed - a slow-acting toxin. His momentary triumph faded as he read through the ingredients again. "Shit." He ran his fingers through his hair. Shadowroot only grew in the dark forests beyond the city walls. Witherbloom mushrooms were strictly controlled by the Alchemists'' Guild. Bloodthorn... he''d no clue where to even begin looking for that. Not in his district for sure. The spiderling venom and ashroot were simple enough, but the rest meant for him to venture out of the city. Fendrel paced his small room. He could try leaving the city, but the forests were crawling with creatures that would happily tear him apart. Hiring someone else to gather the ingredients might work, but that meant trusting others with knowledge of what he was looking for. Chapter 6: Balancing Acts Fendrel pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Adventurer''s Guild. The main hall buzzed with activity - warriors comparing weapons, mages discussing spells, and scouts poring over maps. The familiar scent of leather and steel filled the air. He joined the line at the request counter, shifting from foot to foot as he waited. His fingers brushed against the coin pouch from Borin. At least he could afford a decent reward now. The clerk looked up from her ledger as he approached. "How can I help you?" "I need to submit a collection request." Fendrel kept his voice steady. "For some ingredients." She pulled out a form and slid it across the counter. "Fill out the details here. Be specific about quantities and any identifying characteristics." Fendrel''s quill scratched against the parchment as he listed the components. He paused, considering how to phrase it. Research materials needed for alchemical study Required materials: Shadowroot (7 specimens), Witherbloom Mushrooms (500g), Bloodthorn samples (200g). Additional compensation for pristine specimens. Reward: 15 silver pieces + 3 healing potions "Where is the reward collection place?" The clerk asked. Fendrel hesitated before noting down his lab location. The clerk raised an eyebrow at the slums bit in his description, but took the form anyway. She stamped the form with the guild seal and added it to a board behind her. [QUEST LOG]: Adventurer''s Guild request submitted. Type: Ingredient Collection. The interface notification blinked in his vision as he stepped away from the counter. Fendrel scanned the request one final time. The reward seemed fair, and he''d been careful with the wording. Now he just had to hope someone would take the job quickly. "Just to be clear," the clerk said. "If the reward isn''t delivered on quest completion, someone will come collect it." Fendrel stared into the woman''s cold eyes before clearing his throat. "Of course, the reward is in my lab." Fendrel trudged through the winding alleys of the slums, his boots scraping against the cracked cobblestones. The morning''s guild visit weighed on his mind as heavily as the coin purse hidden beneath his vest. Each step brought fresh worries, fresh doubts. The parasite''s constant demands had pushed him from brewing simple healing potions to deadly toxins. Now he answered to multiple criminal groups, each pull dragging him deeper into the city''s underworld. He''d started with just trying to survive - when had it twisted into this? A rat scurried across his path, disappearing into a drain. Fendrel paused, watching the creature vanish into the darkness. That''s what he''d become - a creature of shadows, scurrying between dangerous powers, hoping not to get crushed. The worst part? He still knew nothing about the parasite itself. He spent so much time meeting its demands that he had no chance to research what it actually was or how to remove it. His fingers brushed against the coin purse. The weight of Borin''s down payment should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like another chain binding him to this path. Was there even a way out anymore? The alchemist masters would never accept him now. The criminal groups wouldn''t just let him walk away. And the parasite... Fendrel squared his shoulders. He''d survived this long by adapting, by using his skills to stay ahead of both the parasite and his "employers." He might be walking a knife''s edge between survival and damnation, but he''d keep walking it. What choice did he have? Fendrel pulled out his codex, tracking the names of the potions available to him until he opted for the basic healing potion formula again. The familiar motions of setting up his equipment calmed his racing mind. "I need to cool off, better to brew something that doesn''t kill people." He arranged his alembic and burner, checking the seals on his glassware. The simple ingredients for healing potions cost a fraction of what he spent on poison components. He laid out dried Petaline herb, purified water, and Bluecap mushroom. His hands moved through the familiar process: crushing herbs, measuring portions, monitoring temperatures. The sweet scent of Petaline herbs filled the lab, replacing the usual acrid chemical smells.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. He''d brewed so many poisons lately, he''d forgotten why he become alchemist in the first place. The resulting red liquid glowed with a soft, warm light - nothing like the sickly sheen of the toxins. "I should keep some of this around just in case." He bottled the first potion, holding it up to examine its clarity. Perfect consistency, no sediment. His old training hadn''t completely abandoned him. By the fourth batch, his shoulders had relaxed. This was the kind of alchemy he''d dreamed of as an apprentice - helping people, earning an honest living. Even if he couldn''t escape the darker aspects of his work, maybe he could balance them with something worthwhile. He arranged the finished potions in his display case, their gentle glow adding warmth to the dingy lab. Tomorrow he''d take them to the market again, try to sell something openly instead of in dark alleys. Small steps toward legitimacy, even if he couldn''t fully escape the shadows. Fendrel huddled behind his rickety wooden stand, watching potential customers pass by without a second glance. He''d positioned himself in a narrow alley just off the main market street - close enough to catch foot traffic, far enough to avoid the scrutiny of established alchemists. The morning sun cast long shadows through the alley, highlighting the dust motes dancing around his collection of healing potions. Their pale red glow looked weak compared to the vibrant crimson displays in the proper shops. A woman paused at his stand, picking up one of the bottles. Her nose wrinkled. "This doesn''t look right. Healing potions are supposed to be dark red." "The color comes from using redleaf. There is no reason to use extra herbs just for the color which makes it more expensive." She set the bottle down and walked away without another word. Well, it is not exactly true, but what do they know? Fendrel slumped against the wall. Three hours and not a single sale. He''d priced the potions at half what the guild shops charged, but it didn''t matter. No one trusted potions from an alchemist working out of an alley. A group of laborers passed by, exactly the type of customers he''d hoped to attract. One glanced his way, then whispered something to his companions. They all quickened their pace. The weight of his coin purse - or lack thereof - pressed against his hip. He''d spent decent money on these ingredients, hoping to build some legitimate income. But people wanted their healing potions from proper shops with guild seals and fancy labels, not from some stranger in an alley. A bell tolled in the distance. Five hours without a sale. Fendrel stared at his unsold stock, the pale red glow seeming to mock his attempts. Fendrel packed up his stand, the unsold potions clinking in his satchel. The lower district''s narrow streets twisted between weathered buildings, their upper stories blocking most of the afternoon sun. He ducked into a side alley, away from the watchful eyes of the market guards. He wove through the winding alleys, keeping to the shadows of the overhanging buildings. Here, the streets were cleaner than the slums, and the people wore whole clothes instead of rags. Workers hurried past carrying tools, merchants'' assistants balanced boxes of goods, and craftsmen''s apprentices darted between shops on errands. These were the customers he needed - people with not enough coin to spend but not so little they would be kicked to the slums. He adjusted his worn vest, brushed dust from his sleeves, and tried to look more like a legitimate merchant than a desperate alchemist. Yeah, that would be hard sell even when I was younger. A woman sat on a doorstep, pressing a cloth against her child''s scraped knee. Fendrel approached, keeping his movements slow and non-threatening. "I have healing potions. Ten copper." The woman''s eyes widened. "That''s... that''s really affordable, what is the catch?." He handed her the bottle, its pale red contents catching what little light filtered down. "No catch." He extended his palm and she pressed three copper coins into his palm, hands trembling. "I only have-" "It''s enough." The rest of the potions went just as quick. An elderly man with gnarled hands. A teenage worker with a bandaged arm. A street sweeper with a persistent cough. Each time, Fendrel accepted whatever copper they could spare. "Haven''t had brew in weeks," the street sweeper said between coughs. "The guild shops won''t even let us through their doors." Fendrel nodded, pocketing the few coins. His purse felt lighter than ever, but the gratitude in their voices eased something tight in his chest. This was what he''d wanted when he first studied alchemy - to help those who needed it most. But as he wound his way back through the warren of alleys, reality settled back in. Gratitude wouldn''t buy ingredients. Appreciation wouldn''t keep the parasite at bay. A familiar itch crawled under his skin. Fendrel pressed his back against a wall, checking his status. [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 4 hours His nearly empty coin purse pressed against his hip. He''d need more Dralk weed soon, more Nightshade essence. The healing potions, even sold legitimately at standard price, would never cover those costs. Back in his lab, Fendrel emptied his coin purse onto the workbench. The meager pile of copper barely covered the cost of fresh Dralk weed, let alone the other components he needed. His fingers traced the status window floating in his vision. His stomach clenched. Each level meant more complex formulas, more expensive ingredients. The parasites demands would never end - they''d only escalate. Fendrel pulled out his inventory ledger, the pages worn from constant checking. Two bundles of Dralk weed remained. Three vials of Nightshade essence, half-empty. Enough bone ash for maybe few days. If he measured carefully and didn''t spill anything, he could produce two more doses of Xytherium. The Silkslither components... just enough for one batch, assuming he didn''t mess up the delicate crystallization process again. He grabbed a bottle of Xytherium from his shelf, holding it up to the light. The sickly green liquid caught the afternoon sun, casting strange shadows across his face. The black market would pay twenty silver for this single vial - enough to restock his entire inventory of basic components. His gaze drifted to the remaining healing potions. Honest work. But at three copper each and he would be at massive loss each time. One vial of poison would bring more then twenty healing potions. There is no way I can build up enough reputation quickly enough with my current funds. The ledger''s numbers stared back at him. Even if he sold every healing potion he could make, it wouldn''t generate enough profit to keep up with the parasite''s demands. The underworld contacts, their coin purses heavy with silver, offered a much simpler solution. Just a few specialized mixtures, he thought. Enough to build up some savings. Then I can shift to legitimate business, build myself up step by step. But even as the though manifested, Fendrel knew he was lying to himself. The poison trade would always pay better. And with the parasite''s influence growing stronger, he couldn''t afford to ignore such a profitable market - no matter how much he wanted to. Chapter 7: Unexpected guest Fendrel leaned against his workbench, weighing his options. More people were starting to be aware of his involvement in selling the poisons. They paid well, hadn''t tried to kill him yet, but did he really want to get more involved? They might just be his best chance at making safe profit. But how to approach them? His fingers traced the vial of Xytherium. The sickly green liquid swirled as he uncorked it and downed the contents in one swift motion. The familiar burn spread through his throat, followed by the momentary clarity as the parasite''s influence receded. He repeated the process with the Silkslither Toxin, grimacing at its metallic taste. [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 12 hours With death temporarily postponed, Fendrel set up his equipment. The last of his Dralk weed went into the mortar, followed by precious drops of Nightshade essence. Two batches of Xytherium Poison took shape under his careful measurements, ten vials sealed and wrapped in cloth to prevent sound. Fendrel shifted his attention to the Silkslither components laid out before him. The crystallized widowvine sap glinted in the fading light, its surface catching strange reflections. He measured each ingredient with practiced precision - the cocoon fibers first, then the sap, followed by the essence and spores. The mixture bubbled and hissed as he combined them, releasing wisps of purple vapor that curled around his hands. His muscles tensed at each pop and crackle, knowing a single mistake could ruin the batch. The recipe demanded exact timing, perfect measurements. When the liquid settled into its characteristic silver sheen, he poured it carefully into three bottles. [NEW RECIPE SAVED]: Silkslither Toxin brewed successfully. Residual amount: 60%. [NEW RECIPE SAVED]: Silkslither Toxin brewed successfully. Residual amount: 20%. [CLASS STATUS]: Alchemy skill leveled up. New recipes unlocked. [PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode leveled up. Required substance: Xytherium Poison, 2x Silkslither Toxin. Next dose required in 36 hours. Cold sweat broke over Fendrel''s body. [CODEX] Basic Healing Brew Basic Healing Potion Bitterroot Tonic Darksap Draught Silkslither Toxin Cindershade Toxin Xytherium Poison Fendrel''s eyes darted between the two new recipes that materialized in his codex. His mouth went dry as he read through the ingredients. Bloodoak sap? Firewyrm scale dust? His hands shook as he gripped the edges of his workbench. "This can''t be real." He slumped into his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. The mere thought of acquiring such exotic components made his head spin. A single firewyrm scale costs close to half a gold - if he could even find one. And bloodoak trees grew only in the cursed forests to the north. The panic subsided slightly as his racing thoughts started to settle. The parasite didn''t require these new poisons yet. But the implications chilled him to the bone. Each time the Xytril Nematode leveled up, the potions to keep it at bay grew more exotic, more expensive. He glanced at the silver sheen of leftover Silkslither coating the bottom of his equipment. Already the parasite needed double doses, and he barely scraped together enough components for two vials per batch. Five vials meant two separate brewing sessions, double the time, double the resources. His fingers drummed against the table as he did the math. The cost of ingredients, the time invested, the failed attempt at healing potions - none of it added up to survival.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. "Damn you, Garon." The words came out as a whisper. The merchant had been helpful when he first introduced him the black market connection. Now that path wasn''t just tempting - it was becoming his only option. He gathered the scattered vials, corking the two full bottles with practiced motions, wrapping them in soft cloth to prevent clinking. The remaining liquid continued to mock him from its flask, a reminder of his tight margins and limited supplies. The sun had set by the time he finished, leaving him to navigate the lower district''s twisted streets by lamplight. The Maiden''s Kiss squatted between two abandoned buildings, its weathered sign creaking in the evening breeze. Four symbols marked the doorframe - metal tags forced into the wood. The Black markets crossed daggers on the left, coiled serpent next to him stirred some memory but Fendrel couldn''t recall who they belonged to. The other two gave him pause - a broken crown and what looked like a stylized flame. Fendrel adjusted his cloak, feeling the weight of the vials against his chest. He''d heard rumors about neutral grounds like this, where rival organizations conducted business without bloodshed. The tavern owner probably got a cut of each deal in exchange for discretion and deniability. As for the city guards, well... their conspicuous absence around such establishments spoke volumes about who really controlled these streets. Fendrel slipped into the tavern, finding a corner table that gave him a view of the front door. The air hung thick with pipe smoke and murmured conversations. His fingers drummed against the worn wood, eyes darting between patrons. A man dropped into the chair across from him. Scars marked his weathered face, and a patch covered his left eye. His remaining eye fixed on Fendrel with predatory focus. "Got worried you weren''t coming." The man''s voice rasped like sandpaper. Fendrel pulled out the metal plate with crossed daggers. "Yeah, yeah, that is hardly needed for you. Who else would our neighborhood poison-maker be?" When Fendrel stayed silent, the man cleared his throat. "What''ve you brought?" "Same as last time. Plus something new." "Let''s see it then." Fendrel glanced around. "Here?" The scarred man''s expression hardened. "Look around. Everyone made note of you the moment you walked in. This is neutral ground - nobody''s fool enough to start trouble. Now show me." With trembling hands, Fendrel placed the vials on the table. "The blue toxin works slowly. Takes days, I imagine you can come up with an application for it." The man examined the Silkslither bottle, holding it up to the lamplight. "Thirty silver." Sweat broke over Fendrel''s back. I imagine I could get more silver for the batch if I haggled little bit no? But do I want to push this guy around when he is my only contact here? "Deal." Fendrel pocketed the coins, conflicted if he could have pushed for more but unwilling to risk his only reliable lifeline. "Wait." Fendrel reached for the man''s sleeve as he rose. "I need something else. Contact with the people you mentioned before. Not sure which of the marks outside is theirs, but you would know right?" Something calculating flickered in the man''s good eye. "Ten silver." Fendrel reached for his new coins, then paused. "I could say five and you follow with seven. How about we skip to seven?" A grin split the scarred face. "You are learning then. Done. I''ll let them know you''re looking to talk."
Fendrel clutched the coin purse as he navigated the winding streets back to his lab. Each step echoed against the cobblestones, matching the pounding of his heart. The weight of the silver felt substantial - more than he''d made in weeks of legitimate work. A shudder ran through his body, the parasite''s presence making itself known. The creature inside him stirred, sensing his unease. Less then two days until he needed another dose. The ingredients weren''t cheap, and his dwindling supplies... He passed the abandoned apothecary shop where he used to work. The windows remained dark, dust coating the glass. Before the parasite, he''d dreamed of starting his own, of building an honest business crafting healing potions. Now those dreams felt as hollow as the empty storefront. The coins clinked with each step. Hundred forty silver total - enough for ingredients to last maybe a week if he was careful. But after that? The criminal world offered steady coin, while legitimate channels barely covered costs. Fendrel''s shoulders slumped. The reality of his situation pressed down on him like a physical weight. He needed the underworld connections, needed their coin to survive. The black market could open more doors, provide steadier work. He''d crossed lines he never thought he would, and here he stood, ready to cross more. The honest path led nowhere except a slow death as the parasite consumed him. At least this way he had a chance. Fendrel straightened his back, squaring his shoulders. If dealing with criminals meant survival, then so be it. He''d make whatever arrangements necessary, forge whatever alliances it took. The time for moral questions had passed when the parasite found its way into his flesh.
A sharp knock jolted Fendrel from his work. He cursed as the interruption made him spill a drop of nightshade essence. The precious liquid sizzled against the wooden workbench, leaving another dark stain among many. He wiped his hands on a rag looking at the door before another urgent knock hit the wood. The hinges groaned as a towering figure appeared, wrapped in pristine ebony fabric. Metal buttons shimmered along the garment, and each one displayed the emblem of an family - a family Fendrel instantly recognized. Oh, fuck me. "Can I help you?" The words trembled in his throat no matter how hard he tried to maintain composure. "Master Solinar?" The man''s cultured accent contrasted sharply with the surrounding decay. "I represent the House of Blackthorn. We require your expertise in a matter of great urgency." Fendrel''s mind raced. How did a rigid fuck like him learn his name? "You must be mistaken. I''m just a-" "A skilled alchemist, according to our sources." The man stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. His nose wrinkled at the cramped space. "Lady Blackthorn''s daughter has been poisoned. She requires immediate treatment." "I don''t understand. There are dozens of qualified pharmacists in the upper district..." "Who have all failed to help. Your name was suggested by certain... sources. They spoke highly of your particular talents." Shit. How does this keep happening, do they not care about getting my name out? Fendrel scratched his neck where the parasite writhed beneath his skin. "I see. And what makes you think I can do any better then the others?" "Because you understand poisons in ways they don''t. Will you help or shall I seek assistance elsewhere?" "I assume compensation is involved?" The prospect of silver from Blackthorne, or even gold maybe, made Fendrel salivate. One payment could secure enough supplies to suppress the parasite for some time. "The house pays well for discretion and success." The man said. "I''ll need to examine the patient personally. Different poisons require different approaches." "Out of the question. The family''s reputation-" "Then the patient dies." Fendrel met the man''s gaze. "I can''t work blind." The servant''s jaw clenched. "Very well. Gather what you need. We walk." Chapter 8: More mess Fendrel grabbed his worn leather bag, filling it with various tools and reagents - mostly for show. If his suspicions proved correct, he already knew exactly what poison coursed through the noble girl''s veins. After all, he''d sold something similar just yesterday. These people seriously work fast, it has been barely a day. They waded through progressively cleaner streets. Fendrel watched over the next hour as rotting buildings gave way to wooden and then stone facades with manicured gardens. The Blackthorn estate rose before them, its black iron gates bearing the family''s thorned rose emblem. The servant led Fendrel through a narrow door at the back of the estate. Even the kitchen''s worn stone floor gleamed cleaner than his own workbench. Copper pots hung in neat rows, their surfaces polished to mirror shine. The air carried hints of fresh bread and roasted meat rather than the chemical stench he''d grown accustomed to. "Wait here." The man disappeared through an archway, leaving Fendrel to fidget among the kitchen staff. A young maid cast suspicious glances his way while kneading dough. Fendrel tugged at his stained sleeve, painfully aware of how out of place he looked. I should ask for couple of those pots as part of the payment. After what felt like an eternity, two guards in Blackthorn livery appeared. Without a word, they escorted him up a narrow servant''s staircase and through a maze of corridors. The worn stone gave way to plush carpets that muffled their footsteps. They halted before an ornate door. One guard grabbed Fendrel''s arm, fingers digging into muscle. "Try anything stupid and you''ll wish we''d just killed you." The guard''s breath reeked of garlic. "We will make sure you suffer." The second guard pushed open the door. Inside, a young woman lay still on a canopied bed, her skin ashen against silk sheets. An older woman sat beside her, sewing patterns into piece of cloth. Fendrel inched toward the bed, the older woman''s eyes tracking his every movement like a hawk stalking prey. His finger stretched out, brushing against the girl''s pale arm. The woman jerked forward with a scowl, but stopped herself. [STATUS] NAME: Unknown CLASS: Unknown RACE: Human ACTIVE EFFECTS: Silkslither Toxin poisoning - stage 1/3 His gut twisted with recognition. He had brewed it barely a day earlier. These people worked far too quickly with his concoctions. Yet he found himself at a loss for what to do next. Fendrel kept his expression neutral as he examined the girl, though his insides churned. Her breathing came shallow and irregular, it was obvious she was poisoned, but he had no idea what real examination entailed. He pressed two fingers against her wrist, counting heartbeats while his mind struggled with what to do next. The older woman''s eyes burned into him as he worked. Her fingers never stopped moving, needle flashing through the fabric with mechanical precision. The guards'' presence at the door added to the weight pressing down on him. He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, along with a thin metal implement. "I''ll need a blood sample to determine the exact nature of the poison." The woman''s lips pressed into a thin line, but she gave a curt nod. Fendrel''s hands remained steady as he pricked the girl''s finger, collecting several drops of blood in the vial. The crimson liquid swirled against the glass, holding secrets he already knew too well. "I can create an antidote," he said, corking the vial. "But I''ll need my laboratory and equipment." The needle paused mid-stitch. "If you''re attempting to deceive us, understand that there is nowhere in this city you could hide." Her voice carried the chill of a winter wind. "We will find you, and death will seem a mercy compared to what follows." Fendrel nodded, quickly packing his stuff with careful movements, aware of every eye in the room. The guards'' hands never strayed from the hilts of their weapons. He gave a slight bow, not trusting himself to speak, and backed toward the door.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The journey through the mansion''s corridors felt endless. Only when the iron gates clanged shut behind him did he allow his shoulders to slump, expelling a shaky breath into the evening air. Fendrel''s boots scraped against cobblestones as he made his way through the darkening streets. His mind went over the components needed for the antidote. He focused inward, [You know the drill little guy, give me something useful again] When no new message showed he cursed under his breath. He opened his codex instead, going over the recipes, the Bitterroot Tonic stood out. That weird combination of healing and poison. The ingredients for Xytherium poison danced through his thoughts - dralk weed, nightshade essence, bone ash. They were part of the tonic, components that formed something deadly. Then the petaline and bluecap mushrooms, whole stack of swampbriar vines and vial of blackbriar sap. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he walked. The combination nagged at him, pieces refusing to fit together. What if he substituted the silkslither cocoon fibers? The crystallized widowvine sap might interact with the healing properties... Could it really be that simple? Fendrel''s steps slowed as he approached his workshop door. A sliver of light leaked through the gap beneath - he hadn''t left any candles burning. His hand trembled as he pressed against the weathered wood, hinges creaking as the door swung inward. A cloaked figure stood at his workbench, examining the collection of bottles and vials. Broken jaw insignia on their coat caught the candlelight, coiled around their shoulder clasp. "You''ve kept me waiting." The voice carried an edge of annoyance. Different from his previous visitor - higher pitched, more cultured. "I don''t wait for others. Especially not in shithole like this." Fendrel''s shoulders tensed. He shut the door behind him, blocking any prying eyes from the street. "My apologies. I had an... urgent matter to attend to." "More urgent than a meeting you requested?" The figure turned, hood tilting. Shadows obscured their features, but disapproval radiated from their posture. "Our time is valuable, alchemist." "I didn''t realize we had arranged a meeting for today." Fendrel moved to his workbench, positioning himself between the stranger and his more dangerous creations. "Arrangements change." Their gloved fingers drummed against the wooden surface. "Your last batch proved quite effective. We are interested in more. Ideally more then just one bottle." The parasite twisted inside him, a reminder of his own deadline looming. He needed those ingredients for himself more at this point. "That''s a significant amount of materials." Fendrel kept his voice steady. "The components aren''t easy to acquire, especially in bulk." "We can provide the funds." They produced a heavy coin purse, letting it thud against the workbench. "Along with suitable compensation for your efforts." Fendrel stared at the purse, calculating the weight in silver against his dwindling supplies. His fingers itched to reach for it, but he held back. "It can be done." The parasite squirmed, reminding him of his other purpose. He cleared his throat. "Actually, I wanted to discuss something else. I''ve been developing new healing formulations. Specialized tonics with... unique properties." "Healing potions?" The hood tilted, voice dripping with skepticism. "The market''s flooded with those." "Not like these." Fendrel moved to his shelf, selecting a crystal vial filled with amber liquid. "They incorporate elements of the poisons you''re interested in. Creates resistance effects, counteracts toxins. Could be valuable to your... associates." The figure''s posture shifted, interest replacing disdain. They took the vial, holding it up to the candlelight. "Poison resistance? This is one of the ingredients for it?" "Among other effects. The formulation needs refinement, but I though it could be interesting." Fendrel watched them examine the liquid. "I could have a batch ready within-" A heavy knock echoed through the workshop. The figure''s hand shot to their belt, drawing a curved dagger in one fluid motion. They pressed Fendrel against the workbench, blade hovering near his throat. "Who knows you''re here?" they hissed. "No one!" Fendrel raised his hands. "I swear, I didn''t tell anyone!" Another knock, more insistent this time. "If you''ve betrayed us to the guard..." The blade pressed closer. "I wouldn''t! I need this arrangement as much as you do." Fendrel''s heart hammered against his ribs. "I have no idea who that could be." The figure''s grip tightened on the dagger. "For your sake, that better be true." Fendrel''s hand trembled as he reached for the door handle, the hooded figure melting into the shadows behind his workbench. He cracked the door open, revealing three travel-worn individuals. Their leather armor bore the scuffs and patches of frequent use, and the scent of forest soil clung to their boots. "Master Solinar?" The tallest of them squinted at his disheveled appearance. Sweat beaded on Fendrel''s forehead, and his collar hung askew. "We have your herbs." "Yes, yes, that''s me." Fendrel tried to block the doorway with his body. "If you''ll just hand over the-" The burly man shouldered past him into the workshop. "Not so fast. We trudged through three days of swamp for these herbs. You''re going to inspect them now." "That''s really not necessary-" But the other two had already followed him in, tracking mud across his floor. The third member, a lean man with a bow strapped to his back, whistled as he surveyed the cramped laboratory. "Nice setup you got here." He picked up a sealed vial, but Fendrel snatched it away. "Please don''t touch anything." The scarred woman dumped a wrapped bundle onto his workbench. The earthy aroma of fresh herbs filled the air as she unwrapped it. But before Fendrel could examine the contents, the archer''s gaze swept the room, then stopped. "Oh, hello there." Fendrel''s stomach dropped. In his chair sat the hooded figure, now clearly a woman with long dark hair obscured half her face. She had wrapped herself in one of his spare work robes, lounging with calculated casualness, but her posture radiated irritation. Chapter 9: Conflict of Interests "That''s, um..." Fendrel''s mind raced. "My assistant. She helps with... preparations." The three adventurers exchanged knowing looks. The archer elbowed the third member, a woman who''d remained silent until now. "Is that what they''re calling it these days?" "Bet she helps with lots of ''preparations,''" the wiry woman muttered. They shared knowing looks and snickers. Heat crawled up Fendrel''s neck as he bent over the herbs, focusing on examining each specimen with exaggerated care. His hands shook slightly as he sorted through the bundle, desperately avoiding eye contact with the "assistant" whose knife he could still feel ghosting across his throat. Fendrel fumbled through his storage cabinet, retrieving three basic healing potions. His fingers brushed past empty vials and half-finished brews until he found his coin pouch. "These should cover our arrangement." He placed the potions and a small stack of silver on the workbench. "The herbs look... acceptable." The burly man scooped up the payment, counting each coin with deliberate slowness. "Pleasure doing business." He pocketed the money and potions, then turned to the woman in the chair. "Always nice meeting new... colleagues." Fendrel rushed them toward the exit, nearly pushing the archer through the doorway. "Yes, yes, thank you for your services. Good evening." The door hadn''t fully closed before the woman sprang from the chair. She ripped off the work robe and hurled it at his face. "Your assistant?" Her voice dripped venom. "Do you have any idea what you''ve done?" "I had to say something-" "So you decided to paint me as some common whore in your pathetic excuse for an alchemist''s shop?" She advanced on him, forcing him back against his workbench. "Those types talk. Word spreads." "I didn''t mean-" She grabbed his collar, slamming him against the wall. "I can''t afford rumors. If anyone connects my face to this place, to your little poison operation..." Her fingers tightened. "My identity would be compromised. Everything I''ve built, destroyed because you couldn''t handle a simple transaction." "I''m sorry, I didn''t mean-" "Sorry doesn''t fix this." She released him with a disgusted shove. "If those adventurers breathe a word about me to the wrong people, I''ll make sure you regret it. Deeply." Fendrel rubbed his throat. "They assumed what they wanted to see. No one will believe-" "Shut up." She pressed her fingertips to her temples. "Just shut up and get to work on those poisons. And pray those idiots keep their mouths shut."
Fendrel''s fingers traced the worn edges of his notes, the pages filled with crossed-out formulas and failed experiments. His workbench, usually a mess of scattered ingredients, now displayed a methodical arrangement of components. The morning light filtered through grimy windows, casting long shadows across bottles of varying shapes and sizes. His head throbbed from lack of sleep, but the memory of countless failure notifications still burned bright in his mind. Each attempt at modifying the Bitterroot tonic had led nowhere. The dried herbs crumbled differently, the essences separated, or the whole mixture turned an alarming shade of purple before congealing into useless sludge. He flipped through his notes, past dozens of variations: "Attempt #17: Replaced Dralk with Silkslither fibers - mixture combusted" "Attempt #23: Added crystallized widowvine - promising reaction but unstable" "Attempt #31: Increased nightshade ratio - complete failure" The cabal''s down payment had funded his desperate experimentation, letting him acquire enough ingredients he''d never dared work with before. The adventurers'' herb haul provided the raw materials needed for his endless attempts. His eyes drifted to the two fresh vials of Widowvine Antioxidant Tonic on his bench - his first successful batch. After countless failures, that success notification had felt almost surreal. [NEW RECIPE DISCOVERY]: Widowvine Antioxidant Tonic [Widowvine Antioxidant Tonic] [NEW RECIPE SAVED]: Widowvine Antioxidant Tonic brewed successfully. Residual amount: 50%. [CLASS STATUS]: Alchemy skill leveled up. New recipes unlocked. [PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode leveled up. Required substance: Xytherium Poison, 2x Silkslither Toxin, Nightwraith Distillate. Next dose required in 56 hours. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Widowvine Antioxidant Tonic brewed successfully. Residual amount: 0%. Last thing he remembered was staring at the text before his head spun and he barely managed to crawl towards his straw bed before blacking out for seven hours or so. But now, fully conscious, the pressure gnawed at him again. The interface message about his parasite''s level up sent chills down his spine. Not only had the Xytril Nematode''s leveled up again, it added new requirement. Fendrel''s hands shook as he reached for the new Tonic. His fingers brushed against the smooth glass of the vial. At least he had this small victory - if it worked as intended. But his own survival hung by an increasingly complex thread. He''d have to make the Distillate somehow. "Fucking distillate, you need cold extract process for this. I don''t have equipment to do that crap here." Fendrel stared at the vials of the antidote their contents shimmering with an opalescent gleam. His creation would save a life - assuming the Blackthorns used it for its intended purpose. A few years ago, he''d dreamed of opening an apothecary, helping the sick and injured. Now here he sat, brewing poisons to stay alive while dealing with shadowy figures who wanted to use his skills for their own purposes . The Blackthorns would hopefully pay for this success. He could buy the equipment he needed to do the new brewing process. The coin would help him survive another week, maybe two. Fendrel corked the last vial of poison, his mind already racing to the next project. The purple liquid caught the candlelight, deadly and beautiful. He set it carefully in his storage cabinet, then pulled out his notebook. "If I''m making these poisons, I should have a way to stop them," he muttered, sketching out a rough formula. His Bitterroot Tonic served as a foundation for the antioxidant, but what if he could replicate the process for the other toxins and poisons he had in his codex now? He arranged his ingredients methodically - dried Petaline herbs, purified water, and crushed Bluecap mushrooms for the base healing potion. Next to them, he placed components with neutralizing properties. The interface flickered as he began mixing: [CRAFTING FAILURE]: Mixture unstable. Recipe failed. [CRAFTING FAILURE]: Incorrect ratios detected. Recipe failed. Fendrel cursed, dumping another failed attempt. But before he could start again, new text appeared: [NEW RECIPE PROPOSED (Xytril Nematode)]: Nightshade Reinforcer He blinked at the screen. "Reinforcer? You mean poison resistance builder?" His hand unconsciously touched his chest where the parasite resided. "Why would you want that?" The recipe called for common ingredients - nothing toxic or lethal. Just herbs, roots, and extracts in precise measurements. Though the quantities were substantial, he had enough surplus from recent purchases. "Well, let''s see what you''re up to," he said, measuring out the components. His hands moved with practiced precision, combining ingredients according to the interface''s instructions. The mixture turned a clear amber color, giving off a subtle floral scent. Nothing like the usual noxious fumes he worked with. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Nightshade Reinforcer brewed successfully. Residual amount: 0%. Doses 10/10 [NEW RECIPE SAVED]: Nightshade Reinforcer [UNIQUE RECIPE DISCOVERED]: Congratulation. You have discovered unique recipe for Alchemist class. Fendrel''s eyes widened. His hands gripped the workbench. A unique recipe, did I really just make unique product? Not just another common potion or poison, but something truly special. "This is pretty good right? This should be worth shit ton of money right?" The brief moment of pride shattered as new messages flashed across his vision: [CLASS STATUS]: Alchemy skill leveled up. New recipes unlocked. [PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode leveled up. Required substance: 2x Xytherium Poison, 3x Silkslither Toxin, Nightwraith Distillate, Bitterroot Tonic. Next dose required in 48 hours. [CODEX UPDATED] Fendrel''s legs gave out. He collapsed into his workbench chair, arms wrapped tight around his trembling body. His breath came in short gasps. "This fucking parasite... it''s not trying to survive, it wants me dead." Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. "How am I supposed to keep up with this demand on daily basis. How long until I can''t keep up?" The list of required substances burned in his vision. Not only did the Silkslither Toxin just triple. Nightwraith Distillate was bad enough, but now he needs to get the fricking Tonic as well? Potions are expensive enough, Tonics are completely on different level. His eyes darted to his level. Eight. The number mocked him. [STATUS] NAME: Fendrel Solinar CLASS: Alchemist LEVEL: 7 -> 8 RACE: Human SYMBIOSIS: Xytril Nematode LEVEL: 4 -> 5 "This isn''t right." He gripped the edge of his desk, steadying himself. "Nobody gains levels this fast. Not in alchemy. Not in any other non combat class." The realization chilled his body. The parasite wasn''t just feeding on the poisons - it was accelerating his class progression by giving him rare poisons and toxins to brew. Two more levels and he''d hit advancement. A milestone most alchemists spent years reaching. "Fuck." His eyes traced the recipes in his codex. Poison after poison after poison. "At this rate, my specialization is going to be something seriously fucked up. Forget about regulated classes, this is leading to straight death sentence class." Class advancement aligned with what you crafted most. The more toxins he made, the deeper down that path he''d go. Once locked in, there''d be no changing it. Fendrel scrolled up his recipe book. [CODEX] Basic Healing Brew Basic Healing Potion Intermediate Healing Potion Basic Mana recovery Potion Nightshade Reinforcer Bitterroot Tonic Widowvine Antioxidant Tonic Xytherium Poison Silkslither Toxin Witherbloom Infusion Toxin Nightwraith Distillate The size of the list surprised him, not checking the codex since yesterday made it look like huge improvement from the original list. "I have to start making more of the healing and mana recovery potions" Anything to balance out the darkness of his recent work. "Have to fix this." He pulled ingredients from his shelves with shaking hands. "Can''t let this thing turn me into some twisted poison master. Need to make something that doesn''t get me killed in the process." "I need to go shopping again." Chapter 10: Clean up Fendrel clutched the leather satchel close to his chest as he navigated the winding streets toward the noble district. His fingers traced the outline of the vials through the worn material. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows between the buildings, marking his transition from the merchant quarter to the more affluent areas of the city. The first checkpoint had been simple - a flash of copper coins and a mumbled explanation about medical deliveries got him through. But as the cobblestones grew smoother and the buildings taller, his heart rate picked up. The Blackthorn mansion loomed ahead, its dark stone walls a stark contrast to the whitewashed facades surrounding it. Two city guards in polished breastplates blocked his path before he reached the mansion gates. Their hands rested on sword hilts. "Hold it right there." The taller guard''s eyes narrowed. "State your business." "I have a delivery for the Blackthorns. Medical supplies." Fendrel kept his voice steady, though sweat trickled down his back. "Medical supplies?" The second guard stepped closer, his nose wrinkling at Fendrel''s worn clothes. "Let''s see the Blackthorn seal then." "I... the seal?" "Their mark. The one they give to authorized vendors." The guard''s hand tightened on his sword. "You do have authorization to make deliveries to the Blackthorn house, don''t you?" Fendrel''s mouth went dry. "I- there wasn''t time. The situation is urgent-" "Check his bag," the first guard ordered. Rough hands yanked the satchel away. Glass clinked as the second guard rummaged through it, pulling out vials of shifting colors. "What''s all this then?" The guard held a dark purple vial to the light. "These don''t look like any medical supplies I''ve seen." "They''re specialized treatments, I can explain-" "Save it for the captain." The first guard grabbed Fendrel''s arm. "We''ve had reports of illegal substance trafficking in this district. You''re coming with us to the garrison." "This is a mistake, I-" Pain shot through Fendrel''s shoulder as they twisted his arms behind his back. "Move it." They marched him back down the street, his precious vials still clutched in the second guard''s hand. The garrison''s stone walls pressed in around Fendrel as the guards shoved him into a cramped room. His satchel landed on the wooden table with a clatter of glass, the contents rolling across the scratched surface. "Quite the collection." The taller guard, who''d introduced himself as Sergeant Drace, held up a vial of purple liquid. "Strange medicine indeed." "Those are specialized treatments." Fendrel''s voice cracked. "For Lord Blackthorn''s condition-" Drace exchanged a look with the others, some confusion passing between them. "Lord Blackthorn''s personal physician is Master Theron." The second guard slammed his palms on the table. "Everyone knows that." "I''m his new assistant. If you''d just send word to the mansion-" Sergeant Drace laughed, a harsh sound that echoed off the stone. "An assistant? In those rags?" He gestured at Fendrel''s stained clothes. "You expect us to believe the Blackthorns hired some slum rat?" "Check the vials. They''re legitimate medical-" A backhand caught him across the face. "Enough lies." The second guard grabbed his collar. "What''s your real game? Are you perhaps the poisoner everyone is looking for? Selling illegal drugs?" "No, I-" Another blow snapped his head back. Blood trickled from his split lip. "Take him below." Sergeant Drace gathered the vials into a cloth bag. "Maybe giving him some special treatment down there will loosen his tongue." They dragged him down narrow stairs into the garrison''s basement. The musty air carried hints of old blood and fear. His legs buckled as they threw him against a wooden post. "Last chance." Drace cracked his knuckles. "Who are you working for?" "Nobody, I swear. I''m just trying to-" A fist drove into his ribs. Pain exploded through his chest. Another blow followed, then another. Through the haze, Fendrel tasted copper in his mouth.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "The truth!" The second guard grabbed his hair, yanking his head back. "What''s in these vials?" "Healing potions." Fendrel spat blood. "For treating... treating joint pain and fever." "Wrong answer." Something hard - a cudgel maybe - struck his lower back. Fendrel screamed. They couldn''t know about the poisons. That would mean execution. He had to think of something, anything... "I''m a failed apprentice!" The words tumbled out between gasps. "Trying to... to prove myself. Thought if I could show my skills... maybe get noticed by a noble house..." "By sneaking in unauthorized?" Drace sneered. "Desperate... was desperate..." Fendrel sagged against the post. "Please... just check with the mansion..." Drace paced in front of Fendrel, his boots scraping against the stone floor. "A failed apprentice needs a lab. Where''s yours?" "In the slums." Blood dripped from Fendrel''s split lip. "Near the old tannery district." "The slums?" Drace''s eyebrows rose. "Then the local guards must know you. Any of them can vouch for your... legitimate business?" Hope flickered in Fendrel''s chest. A way out. "Yes! The patrol officers, they''ve visited my shop before. They can tell you-" "Perfect." Drace''s lips curled into a smile. He turned to the second guard. "Send word to those incompetent idiots. Tell them to raid his place properly this time. Find whatever evidence we need to hang this piece of filth, unless he wants to confess now." The blood drained from Fendrel''s face as realization struck. "No, wait! Please, I''m telling the truth. I''m not-" "Shut it." The second guard''s fist connected with his stomach. "Save your breath for your confession." "You don''t understand." Fendrel doubled over, chains rattling. "I''m innocent. There''s nothing illegal there. Please, just let me-" "Nothing illegal?" Drace grabbed Fendrel''s jaw. "Then you won''t mind us having a thorough look, will you? Maybe we''ll find more of these strange ''medical supplies'' of yours." "No..." Fendrel struggled against his restraints. If they found his poison supplies, the evidence would damn him. "You can''t. You can''t just-" "I can''t what?" Drace laughed. "I can do whatever I want with criminals like you." Fendrel''s vision blurred from the next punch. It has been hours now. His chest burned with each breath, his ribs likely broken screamed in protest. Blood mixed with saliva dripped from his mouth onto the stone floor. The door above creaked open. Multiple sets of footsteps descended the stairs. Through swollen eyes, Fendrel made out several well-dressed figures entering the basement. "What is the meaning of this?" A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the basement''s heavy air. "This man was caught sneaking around with suspicious vials-" Sergeant Drace began. "This man," the man in the lead wore the Blackthorn crest on his jacket, "is working for House Blackthorn. Release him. Now." "But sir, he had no mark, no papers-" The noble''s man''s face reddened. "And did you think to send someone to confirm with the mansion before beating him half to death?" The noble''s man stepped closer, his face twisted in disgust. "Or did you assume your fists would reveal the truth faster?" The second guard fumbled with the chains. "We were just following protocol-" "Protocol?" The man''s voice rose. "Protocol is to investigate thoroughly, not immediately resort to torture. Do you have any idea what delay you''ve caused? Our master requires his services urgently." Fendrel slumped forward as the chains fell away. One of the noble''s men caught him before he hit the ground. "My lord will hear of this incompetence." The lead man snapped. "Consider yourselves fortunate if you keep your positions after this... incident." "We couldn''t have known-" Drace began. "Exactly. You couldn''t have known, yet you acted as if you did." The noble''s man helped steady Fendrel. "Come. We''ll escort you to the mansion ourselves. These... officers have delayed the delivery long enough." They guided Fendrel up the stairs, past the now-silent guards. His legs shook with each step, but the firm grip on his arms kept him moving forward. "The vials," Fendrel managed through swollen lips. "I need them..." "Return his belongings," the man in front of them ordered. "All of them." "Sir," Drace called after them, "if we had some indication he was working for-" The man spun around. "Save your excuses. You''ll need them when explaining to your superiors why you assaulted our master''s alchemist without cause." Fendrel limped between the men, his bruised ribs protesting with each step. "Thank you for getting me out of there. I thought-" "Save it." The man in the Blackthorn livery cut him off. "You''re here because Lady Elena needs treatment. Nothing more." "But-" "Listen carefully." The man''s grip tightened on Fendrel''s arm. "If you fail to cure her, or if we catch you sneaking around without proper authorization again, you''re on your own. Clear?" Fendrel nodded, swallowing hard. They led him through the mansion''s ornate halls to a bedroom where the young woman lay pale and sweating. Her condition visibly deteriorated during the few days he worked on the antidote, her skin bore purple marks, with her eyelids being completely black. He slowly touched her forearm with his fingers again. [STATUS] NAME: Elena Blackthorn CLASS: Unknown RACE: Human ACTIVE EFFECTS: Silkslither Toxin poisoning - stage 2/3 Fendrel''s hands shook as he uncorked the antidote vial. He opened Elena''s lips, carefully letting her drink the antidote. Her breathing steadied almost immediately, the purple marks beginning to fade. [STATUS EFFECT INFLUENCED] Poisoning effect on Elena Blackthorne neutralized. [NEW PASSIVE SKILL]: Detoxification Amplification Another weird skill I have never heard of. He pressed two fingers to her wrist, checking her pulse. "The antidote worked." Fendrel stepped back from the bed. "The poison''s been neutralized. She will recover within hours." The attendants rushed forward to examine Elena themselves. After several tense moments, one nodded. "Her fever''s breaking. Color''s returning." A servant pressed a heavy coin purse into Fendrel''s hands. "Your payment, as agreed. Now leave. And do not return without invitation." Fendrel limped through the darkened streets of the slums, his ribs screaming with each step. The coin purse felt heavy in his pocket, but the weight did little to ease his pain. Blood crusted on his split lip, and his left eye had swollen nearly shut. He fumbled with his key at the shop''s back entrance, hands trembling from exhaustion. The lock clicked open. As he pushed the door, the familiar scent of herbs and chemicals hit him - but something else lingered beneath. Metallic. Sharp. His foot caught on something soft just inside the doorway. He looked down. A city guard lay sprawled across his threshold, throat slashed open. Blood pooled beneath the corpse, soaking into the floorboards. Chapter 11: Fallout and Frustration Fendrel stumbled backward, his back hitting the doorframe. Two more bodies lay crumpled by his workbench. Another slumped over his ingredient shelves, knocking several jars to the floor. The fifth guard had fallen face-first into Fendrel''s distillation setup, shattering glass everywhere. Movement caught his eye. Dark figures lounged around his lab like they owned it. One sat in his chair, boots propped on the desk. Another leaned against the wall, cleaning a blade. Three more stood examining his equipment with casual interest. Fendrel spun to flee, but the door slammed shut behind him. Rough hands shoved him forward, sending him stumbling into the room. "Going somewhere?" A tall man stepped from the shadows, his voice smooth as silk. "After we waited so patiently to meet you?" He gestured at the carnage. "Sorry about the mess. These guards were quite insistent about searching your lab. We had to... discourage them." "Who-" Fendrel''s voice cracked. "We''ve been watching you, Master Solinar. Your little adventure in the noble quarter today was particularly interesting." The man''s smile didn''t reach his eyes. "You''ve caught our attention." Fendrel''s legs threatened to give out as he stared at the bodies scattered across his workshop floor. The tall man circled him like a predator sizing up prey. "Consider this a professional courtesy." The man gestured at the carnage. "These guards would have torn your shop apart, found your more... interesting creations. Can''t have that, can we?" Blood soaked into Fendrel''s shoes. He fought the urge to vomit. "We''ve been monitoring your work for some time." The man picked up a vial from the workbench, holding it to the lamplight. "Quality stuff. Would be a shame if the city guard shut you down just when you''re getting interesting." "You killed them." Fendrel''s voice came out as a whisper. "Protected your interests." The man set the vial down with careful precision. "Those guards would have executed you by morning once they found your poison stores. Instead, they''ll be written off as victims of a gang attack. Much cleaner this way." The other assassins chuckled. One wiped his blade on a guard''s uniform. "I didn''t ask for this." Fendrel''s hands shook. "I never wanted-" "And yet here we are." The man''s smile turned predatory. "Now you have a choice - appreciate our assistance and consider yourself in our debt, or..." He let the threat hang unspoken. Fendrel''s mind raced. These people had murdered five city guards without hesitation. They knew about his poisons, his illegal work. Fendrel ran a trembling hand through his hair. "I''m finished. After this..." He gestured at the bodies littering his floor. "I''ll have to abandon the lab, find somewhere else-" "Calm yourself." The tall man''s voice carried an edge of amusement. "We''re professionals. This will look like nothing more than a failed robbery attempt." He nudged one of the guards with his boot. "These fine officers heard a disturbance, investigated, and tragically lost their lives in the line of duty." "But-" "You''ll go to the garrison right now." Another assassin stepped forward, his dark clothes blending with the shadows. "Report how thieves broke into your shop. How these brave men died trying to protect your property." The tall man traced a finger along Fendrel''s workbench. "Of course, we''ll need compensation for our... cleanup services. Your current stock of poisons should suffice." Fendrel''s chest tightened. Those poisons were his lifeline against the parasite. But watching the assassins move through his lab with casual efficiency, he knew arguing would only end one way. "The garrison will investigate," Fendrel said. "You would be surprised what you might find when you go report this." The tall man''s smile widened. "And even if, then some unfortunate street thugs will turn up dead in a few days, wearing bloody clothes that match witness descriptions. The case will be closed, justice served." "No one will look deeper," another assassin added, already gathering vials into a cloth bag. "Not with five of their own dead. They''ll want it wrapped up quickly, quietly." The tall man placed a hand on Fendrel''s shoulder. "Trust in our expertise. By the morning, you''ll be nothing more than another victim of the city''s criminal element. Tragic, but ultimately unremarkable. Back in business in no time." Fendrel looked at the blood seeping between his floorboards, unable to respond, he gave a small nod before turning to leave. Fendrel limped down the dark streets toward the garrison, each step sending jolts of pain through his bruised ribs. The weight of the fabricated story pressed heavier on his mind than his injuries. His hands wouldn''t stop shaking.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Five dead guards. In my lab. And I''m supposed to just walk in there and report it? The garrison''s torchlight cast long shadows across the cobblestones. Two guards stood at attention by the entrance, their armor gleaming. Fendrel slowed his pace. What would he even say? That he''d returned to find his worthless shop ransacked? That brave officers died protecting a failed alchemist''s meager possessions? The story felt paper-thin at best. He touched his swollen lip, remembering the beating he''d received hours earlier. The same guards who''d questioned his presence in the noble quarter would now scrutinize his role in their colleagues'' deaths. They''ll see right through it. His feet stopped moving. The garrison loomed ahead, but the shadows between buildings beckoned. Safety. Escape. A patrol rounded the corner, their boots clicking against stone. Fendrel ducked into an alley, pressing himself against the cold wall. His heart hammered in his chest as they passed. This is insane. I can''t do this. He turned away from the garrison, his shoulders hunched. Each step that carried him back toward his blood-soaked lab felt like another nail in his coffin. The assassins'' "help" had only trapped him further. The night air grew thick with fog as he retreated through the warren of streets, leaving the garrison''s warm light behind. No matter which direction he turned, he found no escape from the corner he''d been backed into. Fendrel pushed open his lab door, bracing for the horror he''d left behind. The familiar scent of herbs and chemicals hit his nostrils - but something was off. The metallic tang of blood had vanished. He froze in the doorway. The floorboards gleamed, scrubbed clean of any trace of carnage. No bodies. No blood. No shattered glass. His workbench stood pristine, equipment arranged with military precision. "Impossible," he whispered, running his fingers across the wood grain where pools of blood had soaked in mere hours ago. The boards felt smooth, as if freshly oiled and polished. His feet carried him through the lab on autopilot, checking shelves and storage. With each cabinet door he opened, his jaw clenched tighter. Empty hiding spaces gaped where his poison stock had been. Silkslither Toxin, gone. Three batches of Xytherium Poison, vanished. Fendrel yanked up the loose floorboard beneath his bed, reaching for his emergency funds. His fingers found only half the coins he''d hidden there. "Bastards!" He slammed the board back into place. "They consider this the fucking service fee?!" He grabbed an empty vial and hurled it against the wall. The glass shattered with a satisfying crash. Another followed, then another, each explosion of glass punctuating his rage. Fendrel slumped against his workbench, chest heaving. His ribs screamed in protest at the outburst. The lab''s unnatural cleanliness mocked him,. "Fuck this," he muttered, dragging himself toward his bed. His muscles gave out as soon as he hit the straw mattress.
Fendrel''s eyes cracked open to the morning light filtering through his grimy window. His body ached as he rolled over, the coins from the Blackthorn job clinking in his pocket. He pulled them out, spreading them across his palm. His breath caught. Two gold coins gleamed among the silver. He counted again - one hundred and fifty silver pieces plus the gold. He''d never held this much money at once. "What the hell am I supposed to do with gold?" He turned one of the coins over, studying its pristine surface. Then it hit him - the equipment he needed for the Distillate. Real glass vessels, not the cracked second-hand ones he''d been using. With his previous savings, he had over two hundred silver to work with. Quickly changing his clothes he rushed out of the doors with new determination. The market buzzed with morning activity as Fendrel wove between stalls. He kept his head down, avoiding the guards'' patrols while he gathered supplies. Fresh Dralk weed, nightshade essence, bone ash - he stocked up on everything needed for Xytherium production. "Three silver for that much?" Fendrel haggled with an herb merchant over a bundle of dried dreamthorn berries. "It''s half-wilted." "Two silver, eight copper. Final offer." The merchant wrapped the berries in paper. Fendrel moved deeper into the lower district, where cramped shops held used equipment and questionable goods. The bell above Morrick''s Glass Works chimed as he entered. "I need solvent vials. The thick-walled kind." Fendrel set one gold coin on the counter to prevent any annoying questions. "And purifying filters." The shopkeeper''s eyes widened at the gold. "Right this way, sir." Two shops later, Fendrel had assembled the basics for a cold extraction setup - condensers, filters, collection vessels. Not pretty, but it would work. He tucked the wrapped glass carefully into his bag, conscious of every step on the uneven streets. Fendrel tucked the last of his purchases into his satchel and turned toward the Adventurer''s Guild. The worn stone building loomed ahead, its weather-beaten sign creaking in the breeze. Inside, the hall buzzed with noon activity. It should be cheaper to get some noobs gather the herbs rather then trying to buy all from the market. He found an empty table in the corner and pulled out a sheet of parchment. His hand hovered over it as he considered his wording. The guild provided request forms, but those asked too many specific questions. [QUEST LOG]: Adventurer''s Guild request submitted. Type: Ingredient Collection. ''Research Project: Studying Medicinal Properties of Rare Flora,'' he wrote at the top. Below, he listed the items: ''Seeking specimens for academic research into neutralizing toxic compounds: Compensation: 25 silver per successful collection, plus two Intermediate Healing Potions. Fendrel read over the request again. The wording felt simple enough - focused on antidotes rather than poisons. He''d seen enough similar posts from legitimate researchers. At the desk, a young woman with auburn hair took his form. Her eyes skimmed the page. "Interesting project." She stamped the bottom. "Most scholars request through the university." "Independent research." Fendrel kept his voice steady. "The university''s application process takes too long." She shrugged and pinned his request to the board. "Payment up front for posting fees." Fendrel counted out four copper pieces. Each clink against the desk made his chest tighter. More connections, more chances for questions. But he needed those ingredients - the market prices would drain his funds too quickly. The guild clerk handed him a note. "It will stay up for ten days if nobody picks it up. Adventurers usually grab the easier gathering jobs first." He nodded and turned away, trying not to hurry toward the door. Chapter 12: New business Back in his cramped laboratory, Fendrel arranged his new equipment with methodical precision. The glass tubes gleamed in the afternoon light filtering through grimy windows. He sorted the ingredients into labeled containers, measuring exact portions for multiple batches. The Xytherium came first - familiar motions of grinding bone ash and measuring Dralk weed. His hands moved steadily despite the constant tremor in his chest. Two batches, then three. The Silkslither followed, delicate work with the cocoon fibers that left his fingers sticky with crystallized sap. As evening approached, Fendrel spread out the Nightwraith ingredients. The recipe sheet trembled in his hands. He''d never attempted a distillate before, but the parasite''s demands grew stronger each day. "Concentrated duskshadow essence..." He measured carefully, double-checking each amount. The mixture bubbled an unsettling gray. Wrong. He started over. The second attempt congealed into useless sludge. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he cleaned the equipment. The third try produced only bitter smoke that made his eyes water. "Damn it all!" Fendrel slammed his palm against the workbench. His supplies dwindled with each failure. In desperate frustration, he grabbed the remaining ingredients. More essence. Extra dreamthorn berries. He doubled the spider venom, hands shaking as he added each component. The mixture swirled, darkening to blood-red. Heat rolled off the glass in waves. His breath caught as the liquid settled into a deep crimson, far more vibrant than any standard distillate. The air crackled with potent energy. Words flickered across his vision: [CRAFTING SUCCESS] Potent Nightwraith Distillate brewed successfully. Residual amount: 20%. [NEW ACTIVE SKILL]: Potency control Fendrel stared at the glowing liquid, equal parts elated and terrified. He''d succeeded? The distillate''s power radiated through the glass, far stronger than he''d intended. Fendrel watched the dose of yellow liquid into a small vial. His hands trembled as he lifted it to his lips. The distillate burned like liquid fire down his throat, spreading through his chest in waves of searing heat. The world shifted. Colors intensified, the dim laboratory blazing with newfound vibrancy. Every shadow gained depth, every surface crystalline clarity. His skin prickled with electric sensation, nerve endings singing with awareness. [EFFECT]: You have been poisoned. [EFFECT]: You have been drugged. [STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect [STATUS]: Euphoric effects increased. [EFFECT] Xytril Nematode has been drugged [PARASITE STATUS] Xytril Nematode is sleeping. Next dose required in 14 hours. "Oh shit." The words slipped from his mouth as pure bliss crashed through his body. His legs gave out and he slid down against the workbench, mind floating in a sea of pleasure. The usual gnawing ache of the parasite faded to nothing, replaced by waves of tingling warmth. He giggled, watching dust motes dance in the evening light like tiny stars. The ceiling swirled with phantom patterns, beautiful and mesmerizing. His thoughts drifted like clouds, peaceful and unconcerned. Time lost meaning. Fendrel sprawled on the floor, running his fingers over the rough wooden boards and marveling at the texture. Every sensation felt magnified - the scratch of his shirt, the cool air on his skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat. He hummed random melodies, delighting in how the vibrations echoed through his chest. Pure contentment filled him, washing away months of fear and desperation. Nothing mattered except this perfect moment of peace. His body felt weightless, floating in an ocean of pleasure. The last thing he saw before consciousness slipped away was the ceiling spinning in lazy circles, still trailing streams of phantom color. Fendrel''s eyes drifted shut as he sank into blissful darkness.
Fendrel pressed his temples, the pounding headache making every movement torture. Sunlight stabbed through the grimy windows of his lab, illuminating the mess of equipment and ingredients strewn across his workbench. His stomach churned at the sight of the remaining Nightwraith distillate.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. He shifted in his chair, wincing as pain shot through his bruised ribs. The guard''s boot had left a vivid reminder of his vulnerability. The memory of their confrontation twisted his gut - he''d been stupid to think smooth talk could solve everything. His gaze drifted to the ledger. The healing potions were loosing almost a silver per sale. On the other hand the poisons were raking in silver with almost three times the price of the ingredients. The timer in his vision blinked an urgent reminder: [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 4 hours "Damn it." Fendrel ran his fingers through his greasy hair. The black market had seemed like such an elegant solution at first. Quick coin, interested buyers, no questions asked. Now it felt like a noose tightening around his neck. He picked up an empty vial, turning it in the light. The respectable shops wouldn''t touch his goods. But the underground buyers brought their own dangers - rival gangs, corrupt guards, assassins cleaning up loose ends. His fingers traced the bruises on his face. He needed more coin, and fast. Higher volume meant more risk of discovery. Better prices meant dealing with more dangerous clients. Both options made his head throb harder. The parasite''s constant hunger left no room for moral debates. Without the poison sales, he''d be dead or worse within days. But he couldn''t keep stumbling blindly through the underworld either. He needed a better plan, a way to reduce his dependence on these shadowy dealings before they got him killed.
The Maiden''s Kiss tavern stood nearly empty in the mid-afternoon light. Fendrel slipped through the door, his boots leaving muddy tracks on the wooden floor. A few regulars hunched over their drinks, lost in personal miseries. His contact sat in the usual corner, scarred face partially hidden by a hood. The man''s eyes narrowed as Fendrel approached. "You lost your mind?" The contact''s voice stayed low. "Middle of the bloody day?" Fendrel slid into the chair across from him. "Need to discuss business." "Guards are more active now. You trying to get us both caught?" The man took a long drink from his tankard. "If you''re here to unload more poison¡ª" "Sort of." Fendrel leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Got a question first. Your buyers - any interest in diluted toxins?" The contact''s brow furrowed. "What? Last batch sold quick enough. Good coin too." He studied Fendrel''s face. "You mean more of that?" "Yes, I have those too. But..." Fendrel''s fingers drummed against the table. "I''ve discovered some...alternative recipes. Diluted versions that act more like euphoric drugs. Thought it might interest certain customers." "Drugs?" The contact''s expression shifted from confusion to intrigue. He set down his tankard. "What kind of effects we talking about?" Fendrel''s fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the wooden table. "The effects are...intense. Pure bliss for about thirty minutes, followed by unconsciousness. Colors become vivid, every sensation heightened." He kept his voice low, watching the contact''s reaction. "It needs more testing, but the potential is there." The contact leaned back, a gleam in his eyes. "Interesting. Very interesting. Got some friends in the pleasure houses who''d pay good coin for something like that." He stroked his scarred chin. "But here''s the thing - you certain it won''t kill anyone? Can''t have a bunch of dead customers in the Brothel District while in the process of getting high. Bad for business, if you catch my meaning." The question stopped Fendrel''s drumming. He hadn''t considered that angle - his own resistance to toxins made him immune to pretty much any lethal effects. His mouth went dry as he searched for an answer that wouldn''t raise suspicions. "We''d need to run some trials first," Fendrel said carefully. "Start with small doses, work up from there. Make sure it''s stable." "Don''t worry about that part." The contact''s lips curved into a thin smile. "I know just how to test it. Get me a batch ready, and I''ll handle the rest." Fendrel nodded, keeping his expression neutral despite the cold knot forming in his stomach. He didn''t want to know what "testing" meant in their world. Better to stick to his role - make the product, take the coin, ask no questions. Back in his cramped laboratory, Fendrel laid out his ingredients. The familiar scents of dried herbs and chemical reagents filled the musty air. His hands moved automatically, setting up the distillation apparatus while he watched the Nightwraith Distillate recipe floated in his vision: Nightwraith Distillate "The new skill is actually pretty good." He measured out the duskshadow essence first, reducing the normal amount by half. The dark liquid swirled in the bottom of his flask. "Let''s see how this goes." His fingers traced the measurements as he worked. Two drops of blacktooth venom instead of five. Five grams of dreamthorn berries, not fifteen. The charred boneshade root he kept at four grams - it acted more as a stabilizer than an active ingredient. The mixture bubbled over his burner, transforming from deep crimson to lighter shades as he stirred. His new Potency Control skill hummed in the back of his mind, offering subtle adjustments to his technique. Add more heat here, reduce stirring there. The knowledge felt natural, like remembering an old recipe rather than learning a new one. After an hour of careful work, the final product glowed a soft yellow in its flask. Fendrel held it up to the light, studying the color. No trace of the original poison''s murky darkness remained. His hands shook slightly as he poured a dose into a vial. The parasite writhed inside him, hungry for its usual dose of toxins. But he needed to know if this would work. [CRAFTING SUCCESS] Diluted Nightwraith Distillate brewed successfully. Residual amount: 60%. Fendrel knocked back the diluted mixture in one swift motion. The liquid burned going down, but not with the usual caustic intensity of full-strength poison. A pleasant warmth spread through his chest, followed by a tingling sensation that danced along his nerves. The system interface flickered in his vision: [EFFECT]: You have been drugged. [STATUS]: Euphoric effects increased. He waited tensely for the familiar poison notification, but it never came. His shoulders relaxed as the euphoric sensation intensified. The experiment had worked - he''d created something that could intoxicate without killing. Chapter 13: Revelations and Restocking The warm euphoria from the diluted Nightwraith wrapped around Fendrel''s senses like a soft blanket. He leaned back in his worn wooden chair, watching the dust motes dance in the late afternoon light streaming through his grimy window. Three sharp knocks broke through his pleasant haze. Fendrel stumbled to his feet, the room swaying slightly as he made his way to the door. He pulled it open to find a man in dark leather armor standing in the shadows of the alleyway. Without a word, the stranger stepped past him into the laboratory. The man''s boots made no sound as he moved through the cramped space, examining the bottles and equipment with casual interest. His presence filled the small room like smoke. "The guild requires something specific." The man''s voice was surprisingly gentle. "A poison that mimics illness. Slow-acting, with death following days or weeks later. No visible traces." Fendrel''s drugged mind struggled to focus. "How''s that different from the Silkslither Toxin? It already puts them in a coma before killing them." The assassin turned, fixing Fendrel with dark eyes. "You misunderstand. We don''t want unconsciousness. The target should remain functional, unaware they''ve been poisoned until it''s too late. Natural symptoms that won''t raise suspicion." "I..." Fendrel''s conscience pricked through the pleasant fog in his head, a brief moment of clarity piercing the haze. But the familiar writhing of the parasite inside him, a sensation he''d grown to both dread and depend on, left no room for refusal. "I''ll do it." The assassin stepped closer, his shadow falling across Fendrel''s workbench like a shroud. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, each word precise and measured. "Remember, Master Solinar. We''ve been generous with our attitude because you''re useful. But don''t mistake that generosity for weakness." His eyes hardened to obsidian chips, reflecting the dim lamplight. "Failure isn''t an option." The assassin''s footsteps faded down the alley, each step a diminishing reminder of the burden now weighing on Fendrel''s shoulders. He slumped against the rough wooden wall, his head spinning from the diluted Nightwraith that coursed through his veins. A sharp creak from the back window snapped him alert, sending adrenaline cutting through the drug''s stuppor. He spun around, almost knocking over a nearby shelf of carefully arranged reagents and distillation equipment. A middle-aged man with a sharp widow''s peak and calculating eyes pulled himself through the window frame. His expensive clothes caught on a loose nail, but he brushed it off with a practiced motion. A sly grin spread across his face as he straightened up. Fendrel ran his hands through his hair. "When did this place become a gathering ground for you people?" He gestured vaguely at the window. "Sorry, but which one are you?" The man''s chuckle filled the small room. "A broker from the Guttermaw cabal." He adjusted his silk cuffs. "I''m here to confirm our great interest in your special new healing potions." Fendrel''s mouth fell open. "I have been dealing with the fucking Guttermaw?" The broker''s eyebrow arched, but his smile didn''t waver. "No fucking, just Guttermaw." He tilted his head. "You didn''t get our sigil yet?" His manicured fingers produced a thin copper plate from an inner pocket. The metal caught the fading light as he held it up, revealing an etched broken jawbone design. He set it on Fendrel''s workbench with a soft click. "Here, your usefulness was just confirmed." "Who knew you are dealing with The Ironmire as well, that is news." The broker''s casual tone sent a chill down Fendrel''s spine. He stumbled backward, knocking into one of his shelves. Several empty vials rattled precariously. "What?" Fendrel stared at the man, his mind struggling to process the implications through the lingering effects of the Nightwraith. "Oh, you didn''t know?" The broker''s smile widened. "Well, now you do, not much difference I reckon." The man stepped closer to Fendrel''s workbench, sitting on the chair. "But let''s discuss business. The Guttermaw has a particular interest in your... specialized skills." He paused, examining a rack of bottles. "If it is true that you can produce potions that grant poison and toxin resistance skills, then we are greatly interested. The catch is, they must be safe to use. No unfortunate deaths during consumption." Fendrel''s eyes widened. "You mean-" "Yes, Master Solinar. We''re prepared to pay substantial amounts. We are talking in gold." The broker''s fingers drummed against the wooden surface. "Consider it an investment in your unique talents." The room spun around Fendrel as his mind struggled to process what just went down in his lab. Real gold. Not copper or silver, but actual gold. "I''ll need to run tests first," Fendrel said, trying to keep his voice steady. "To ensure everything works properly. Leave a deposit and-"Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. The broker''s grin stretched wider as he placed a heavy pouch next to the one already on the table. The distinct clink of metal rang through the cramped laboratory. "You are learning fast, Master Solinar." Without another word, the man slipped back through the window, leaving Fendrel alone with the bag of money and his racing thoughts.
Fendrel''s eyes snapped open, his heart racing as the parasite''s burning sensation spread through his veins. The familiar wake-up call left him drenched in sweat, body trembling as he pushed himself up from his cot. [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 2 hours. Dawn''s pale light filtered through the grimy window. His gaze fell on the copper and iron plates on his desk, their surfaces reflecting the weak rays. The mere sight of them made his insides twist. He dragged himself to his feet, steadying himself against the wall. Stumbling to his drawer he pulled out set of his daily vials, downing the contents one by one. The single set giving him the next twelve hours of survival costed an fortune at this point. "Twenty silver each Xytherium Poison and thirty per Silkslither Toxin." He paused before downing the Nightwraith Distillate and Bitterroot Tonic. "I don''t even want to know how valuable these are." [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 12 hours His eyes traced the iron plate''s surface, following the serpent''s coiled form around the chalice. The copper plate beside it bore the Guttermaw''s broken jaw - crude compared to the elegant lines of the Ironmire sigil. Street thugs and cutthroats versus professional killers. Both now far too interested in his services. He slumped into his workbench chair, head in his hands. The Ironmire Court. The name alone carried weight few dared speak of. Tales circulated in hushed whispers through taverns - wealthy merchants found dead in locked rooms, officials corrupt or hones alike vanishing without trace. Yet those same officials employed them as protection, paying fortunes for their services. One wrong move, one missed delivery, and he''d have both organizations hunting him through the slums. The thought made his newly settled stomach churn again. The events of last night felt like a fever dream, but the heavy pouches on his workbench proved otherwise. Working with one underground organization was dangerous enough, but two? He needed a backup plan. He spread his ingredients across the table, emptying the mostly empty shelves as well, cataloging what he had left. His fingers went over bundles of dried Dralk weed and Bluecap mushrooms. Basic stuff, enough to last weeks. The real problem lay with the specialized ingredients. He lifted a nearly empty vial of Nightshade essence to the light - not enough for even one batch. The Bitterroot supplies weren''t any better. "Shit." He rubbed his temples. The parasite''s familiar itch crawled under his skin, a reminder of his constant need for poison. But now he had actual funds to work with. His mind drifted to the Basic Healing Potion in his codex. The ingredients were cheap in comparison to everything else, easy to source in bulk. More importantly, legal. He could make a lot of them, flood the market with healing potions, establish himself as a legitimate alchemist. Someone had to start talking if it got into enough hands. Fendrel pulled out fresh parchment and began calculations. With the new capital, he could produce a decent batch of healing potions for the slums. Meanwhile, keeping enough resources to stock on the deadly stuff. He measured out Petaline herbs and Bluecap mushrooms, setting up multiple piles for batches ready to brew. The familiar motions of making healing potions put his nerves at ease. He needed a cover, needed to look like just another struggling alchemist trying to make honest coin. Fendrel pulled his hood lower as he slipped through the market crowds. The morning bustle provided cover, but each guard''s helmet gleam sent his heart racing. He kept to the edges, weaving between merchant stalls until he reached the herbalist quarter. Old Man Kern''s stall displayed the usual dried herbs. Fendrel picked through bundles of Petaline and Dralk weed, testing leaves between his fingers. "The usual selection?" Kern''s weathered face crinkled. "Double it." Fendrel counted out copper pieces. "And whatever Bluecap you have in stock." Three more stops yielded similar results - basic ingredients at market prices. His coin pouch grew lighter, but his satchel filled with legitimate supplies. The real challenge lay ahead. Garon''s shop sat wedged between a tanner and weaponsmith, perfect cover for less savory goods. The bell chimed as Fendrel entered. "Back door." Garon barely glanced up from his ledger. In the storage room, Garon produced a wrapped package. "Nightshade essence, fresh batch. And two vials of Venomlily." Fendrel passed over silver coins, tucking the package deep in his cloak. After his church stop for holly water and some more fresh herbs, he took to the side street leading towards Adventurer''s Guild. The massive building towered ahead, its stone facade weathered but imposing. Inside, the notice board drew his eye - dozens of parchments detailing monster hunts and escort missions. He found the ingredient request section tucked in a corner. A clerk approached, her guild tabard crisp. "Need assistance?" "Submitting a collection request." Fendrel produced his list. "Blackwillow bark ash, Shadecap eyes..." The clerk''s quill scratched against parchment as she recorded his request details. Her eyes flicked to the address section Fendrel was filling out. "Oh, you don''t need to include your laboratory location." She tapped the parchment. "Most alchemists prefer having materials delivered here to the guild. You can leave the payment with us, and once an adventurer completes the request, it''ll show up in your quest log. Much more convenient." Fendrel''s hand froze mid-stroke. The thought of random adventurers knowing where he worked and showing up at his door was bothering him. The fewer people who could connect his face to his location, the better. "The guild handles the whole process?" He kept his voice steady. "Of course. We inspect all ingredients before accepting delivery." She straightened a stack of forms. "Saves everyone time, really. Adventurers don''t have to track down individual buyers, and crafters can pick up materials at their convenience." He crossed out the half-written address. The guild''s reputation for discretion was well-known - they wouldn''t stay in business long if they leaked client information. This way, he could remain just another name in their ledgers. "I''ll bring the payment for this batch later." He counted out silver coins, keeping his movements measured despite the relief flooding through him. [QUEST LOG]: Adventurer''s Guild request submitted. Type: Ingredient Collection. Fendrel scanned the interface as she processed his payment. [ACTIVE QUESTS] Ingredient Collection 1 - In Progress (Lab delivery) Ingredient Collection 2 - In Progress (Lab delivery) Research Plants Collection 1 - Submitted (Guild delivery) Chapter 14: Double-Cross Back in his laboratory, Fendrel laid out his purchases across the workbench. The morning''s haul covered half the scarred wooden surface - bundles of dried herbs, vials of essence, and packets of powder. He pulled his ledger close, ink-stained fingers tracking down columns of numbers. The Silkslither Toxin demanded his attention first. He measured strands of cocoon fiber, holding them up to catch the light filtering through dusty windows. The crystallized widowvine sap followed, three precise drops falling into the mixture. Steam curled up as he added the venomlily essence, the deep purple shifting to black where shadows touched it. Last came the nightbloom spores, carefully measured to the gram. Six vials of midnight blue liquid lined up on his rack. Not enough to spare any for trade, but enough to keep his own supplies stable. Moving to the next recipe, he combined the components for Nightwraith distillate. The concentrated duskshadow essence went in first, followed by blacktooth spider venom. Dreamthorn berries and boneshade root completed the mixture. The result glowed a soft yellow, yielding forty units of residue. He diluted it further, creating a weaker but still useful version. His stomach growled. Fendrel grabbed a handful of dried herbs, chewing as he worked. In the back room, mushrooms bubbled in a pot over the small hearth. The smell mixed with aging cheese and stale bread on his makeshift dining shelf. The Bitterroot Tonics came next. He measured Dralk weed and nightshade essence, combining them with precise movements born of practice. Finally, he turned to the Intermediate Healing Potions - payment due for services rendered. Three grams of dried Petaline went into each batch, followed by carefully measured water. He crushed Bluecap mushrooms, adding them along with drops of glowroot essence. The powdered Moonthorn bark went in last. Two bottles of completed potion joined the others on his rack. Fendrel marked each completed item in his ledger, calculating remaining supplies. The numbers weren''t promising, but they''d hold for now. He stared absently at his bowl. The mushrooms had softened beyond recognition, but he mechanically ate another spoonful. Using the herbs and cheap vegetables for his meals become habit a while ago. The tempting aromas of roasted meats and fresh-baked bread from the market stalls drifted through his memories. Each day he passed those vendors while gathering herbs, their enticing scents a constant temptation each time. The weight of his coin purse felt heavier each time he went shopping, but that silver was always used for the same - more ingredients, always more ingredients. The vials on his workbench caught the afternoon light - Silkslither, Nightwraith, Bitterroot. Pride mixed with exhaustion as he studied the results. But that growth brought its own problems. He pulled out his codex, scanning the recipes. The idea of his impeding advancement made him wince. It was coming, far sooner then he ever imagined. "But can I even survive until then?" The distillate had nearly broken him, having to put together whole apparatus for it and days of scrounging for the components, testing different ratios, dealing with failed batches. Now Draught was sitting in his codex as something that could be required at the next level, two full levels before his class promotion should have made it available. And worse, mana recovery potion appeared alongside it. "Shit." He dropped his spoon into the bowl. Mana potions were completely out of reach. The toxic byproducts would seep into every crack of his crumbling laboratory. Mana residue would leak into the street, lighting up the area like a beacon to any passing mage. The city guard''s search would seem like a joke compared to what the Mage''s Guild would do once they detected unknown mana processing. The Draught wasn''t much better. Cold extraction and basic infusion wouldn''t cut it - he''d need reagent activation chambers or layered infusion apparatus. His gaze swept the makeshift lab with its salvaged equipment and patched glassware. Getting that kind of specialized gear would cost gold, not silver. And even if he had the money, where would he find a merchant willing to sell advanced alchemy equipment to a nameless buyer from the slums? Fendrel packed the healing potions into his worn satchel. The glass clinked as he wrapped each vial in scraps of cloth. His mind drifted to the equipment problems, but he shook his head. No point dwelling on it now. The lower district''s familiar stench hit him as he descended past the middle ring. Sewage mixed with rotting vegetables from the gutters. A pair of cats fought over scraps near an overturned barrel. He found his usual spot in the narrow alley between two crumbling tenements. The afternoon shadows kept him partially hidden while still visible enough for potential customers.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "Healing potions. Ten copper each." He kept his voice low but clear enough to carry. A woman in a patched dress paused at the alley entrance. Her eyes darted between Fendrel and the street before she approached. "Show me." She held out calloused hands. Fendrel retrieved a vial, letting her examine the clear red liquid. "Six copper is all I have." His eye twitched, but he nodded. These people are really pushing it. But this isn''t about money, its about getting the word out. Fendrel is making cheap potions. More came as the afternoon wore on. A dock worker with a bandaged arm. An elderly man who could barely walk. A mother with three children, all showing signs of fever. Each time Fendrel sold at steep loss, watching his meager profits vanish. But they needed it more than the merchants or nobles who could afford market prices. And each person who bought meant another voice spreading word of his work through the lower district. Better to build a reputation here than fight for scraps in the overcrowded marketplace. A group of young men lingered at the alley''s mouth, watching. Their hands stayed near concealed weapons. Fendrel kept his movements slow and obvious as he served customers. No point giving them reason to see him as a target. "Thanks," one of the dock workers muttered as he tucked a vial into his vest. "The market sellers want our firstborn for this." Fendrel managed a thin smile. I would be fine with brewing price. The last customer shuffled away, leaving Fendrel to pack up his remaining vials. The sun had dipped low enough to cast long shadows across the alley, but something made him pause. The hairs on his neck prickled. Three men lounged against the wall near the street corner. Their clothes marked them as dock workers, but their posture spoke of coiled violence. One cleaned his nails with a knife while watching Fendrel''s every move. Fendrel kept his movements measured as he stashed the vials into his bag. His fingers trembled slightly as he secured the satchel''s clasp. "Quite the operation you''ve got here." The voice came from behind him. Fendrel spun to face a fourth man he hadn''t noticed approach. Broad-shouldered, with a scar running from jaw to temple. "Interesting rumor spread few days ago." The man leaned against the wall, too close for comfort. "Someone attempted to squeeze certain noble house, their daughter was on the bring of death. But then..." He picked at his teeth with a splinter. "Someone saw her in the garden, completely fine." Ice spread through Fendrel''s veins. "Certain people aren''t happy about their plans getting disrupted." The man''s voice dropped lower. "Makes them wonder who''s working both sides of the street. Healing potions down here, poisons over there, then antidotes showing up in noble houses..." He shrugged. "Dangerous game." The three men by the corner hadn''t moved, but their attention remained fixed on the alley. "Just trying to make a living," Fendrel managed. "Aren''t we all?" The scarred man smiled without warmth. "Just remember - too much attention isn''t healthy in our line of work. Be careful who you sell to, this is the last favor you get." He pushed off the wall and walked away, leaving Fendrel''s heart hammering in his chest. Fendrel''s boots scraped against the cobblestones as he hurried through the winding alleys. Shadows stretched across his path, and every footstep behind made him flinch. Twice he ducked into doorways when passersby came too close. His lab appeared ahead - a cramped laboratory worksho inside a crumbling tenement. Fendrel fumbled with his key, hands shaking as he worked the lock. The door creaked open and he slipped inside, throwing the bolt behind him. The familiar smell of herbs and chemicals washed over him. His shoulders sagged as he surveyed his workspace - cluttered tables laden with equipment, shelves crammed with ingredients and completed potions. No signs of intrusion. His heart still raced from the confrontation in the alley. Fendrel crossed to a locked cabinet and retrieved a vial of diluted nightwraith distillate. The liquid glowed a soft yellow in the dim light. Just a small dose to steady his nerves... The door exploded inward with a crash. Three men burst through, sending splinters flying. Fendrel dropped the vial, which shattered at his feet. "Well, well." The largest thug kicked aside a fallen stool. "Quite the setup you got here." Another man swept his arm across a workbench, sending glass containers smashing to the floor. "Shame if something happened to it." "Wait, please-" Fendrel backed away, but the third man grabbed his collar and slammed him against the shelves. Bottles rattled overhead. "You think you''re clever?" The thug''s breath reeked of cheap spirits. "Selling poisons with one hand and antidotes with the other?" The first man picked up a healing potion, examining it in the light. "Playing at being a hero?" He hurled it against the wall where it burst in a spray of red liquid. "How noble." "I didn''t know!" Fendrel clutched at the hands gripping his shirt. "I''m just trying to survive down here. Someone asked for an antidote, I made it. That''s all!" "Doesn''t matter whether you knew or not." The thug holding him drove a fist into his stomach. Fendrel doubled over, wheezing. "Listen good." The leader crouched beside him. "You interfered with business that wasn''t yours. There''s consequences for that kind of mistake." More crashes filled the lab as they continued their destruction. Fendrel could only watch as months of work shattered on the floor, precious ingredients ruined. "Please," he gasped. "I''m nobody. Just a failed alchemist selling whatever I can to get by." "Keep telling yourself that." The thug yanked him up by his hair. His fist drove into Fendrel''s stomach again, sending him crashing into a shelf. Glass vials teetered precariously overhead as he gasped for breath. Through watering eyes, he watched one of them rifling through his supplies, pocketing valuable ingredients. "Look what we got here." The thief held up a vial of midnight-blue liquid. "This the same toxin you sold us before right? Pretty advanced stuff for a nobody." A loud knock echoed through the laboratory, followed by the creak of the damaged door. Three figures stepped inside - a woman in leather armor with twin daggers, a burly man wielding a wooden staff, and a shorter figure in a hooded cloak. "Guild delivery for-" The woman''s eyes widened as she took in the scene, her practiced gaze sweeping over the scattered vials and upturned furniture. Her daggers appeared in her hands with practiced grace, the steel catching what little light filtered through the laboratory''s grimy windows. "Looks like we interrupted something." Chapter 15: The Advancement "Walk away," the thug leader growled, his knuckles whitening around his weapon, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air. "This ain''t your business. Don''t make me do something we''ll both regret." "Actually, it is." The staff-wielder stepped forward, his weathered boots crunching on broken glass and discarded pottery. A faint blue glow emanated from the crystal at the tip of his staff, casting eerie shadows across his grim features. "Guild takes care of its own. Always has, always will." The thugs drew blades with trembling hands, steel scraping against leather sheaths, but they were outmatched from the start. The woman''s daggers flashed in deadly arcs, each strike precise and devastating, finding gaps in armor and weak points in defense with practiced efficiency. The mage''s staff crackled with arcane energy that filled the air with the scent of ozone, sparks of power dancing between his fingers. The hooded figure hung back in the shadows, muttering words in an ancient tongue that made shadows writhe and twist like living things. Two thugs fell in seconds, their blood mixing with spilled potions on the floor to create an iridescent pool of crimson and midnight blue. The leader stumbled backward, clutching a bleeding arm where one of the daggers had found its mark, before fleeing through the broken door. A trail of crimson droplets marked his path across the worn floorboards. "You alright?" The woman helped Fendrel up, her grip firm. "We heard the commotion when we arrived with your herb delivery." "Nothing broken." Fendrel winced, pressing a hand to his bruised ribs, feeling each breath send sharp daggers of pain through his chest. "Just my equipment and supplies." "Guild will want to hear about this." The staff-wielder frowned at the bodies, his expression dark as he surveyed the destruction. "Attacks against registered crafters isn''t taken lightly. Not in this district, not anywhere." Fendrel''s hands shook as he reached for one of the few intact shelves, pulling down three vials of Basic Healing Potion that had survived the chaos. The blue liquid inside caught what little light filtered through his grimy windows. "Please, take these. For helping me." He handed them to the woman. "And of course your payment for the delivery." The hooded figure stepped forward, robes swishing against broken glass. "The guild will want a report of this incident." "No!" Fendrel''s voice cracked like thin ice. He cleared his throat, trying to steady himself as cold sweat trickled down his spine. "I mean, I''ll handle the report myself. You''ve done more than enough already. Far more than I deserve." The staff-wielder''s eyes narrowed beneath his hood, sharp and calculating. "You sure about that? They don''t seem like common thugs. They are affiliated with someone who doesn''t care if they are recognized." He pointed to the marks sewed into the clothes on the corpses. "I appreciate your concern, but it''s my responsibility." Fendrel forced a smile, though his bruised ribs screamed in protest with each shallow breath. "I know the proper channels. I''ve filed reports before." "Your call." The woman tucked the potions into her belt with practiced efficiency, the pink liquid sloshing gently against glass. "But watch yourself. Next time we might not show up at the perfect moment. Luck has a way of running dry." "Is there any chance they''ll return?" The hooded figure glanced at the door, fingers drumming nervously against their weapon. "We can stay if you need protection. At least until morning." "No, no. I''ll be fine." Fendrel waved them off, fighting to keep his voice steady as his hands trembled. "They''ve made their point. I doubt they''ll be back tonight. They got what they came for." The trio exchanged meaningful glances but nodded, years of working together evident in their silent communication. The woman gave him one last searching look, her eyes lingering on his injuries, before they filed out into the darkness, leaving him alone in his ruined laboratory with nothing but the sound of crunching glass beneath his feet. Fendrel slumped against the wall, sliding down until he sat among the broken glass and spilled reagents. His mind raced as the reality of the situation crashed over him. The one in charge had escaped. He would likely report it to whatever group their are from. The guild members saved him, but it also means he just made enemies. Enemies from people he didn''t want anything to do with. The weight of his actions pressed down on him. He''d gotten involved in something far bigger than himself, and now there would be consequences. His hands wouldn''t stop shaking. Fendrel''s legs wobbled as he pushed himself up from the floor. Glass crunched under his boots as he picked through the wreckage. His stomach turned at the sight - months of work destroyed in minutes. The storage cabinet hung open, its shelves stripped bare. His precious stock of essences cut in half. The rare dreamthorn berries scattered over the floor. Even his basic ingredients hadn''t escaped the thugs'' anger.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. He shuffled to his workbench, running fingers over deep gouges in the worn wood. Potions dripped from shattered vials, their contents mixing into useless sludge on the floor. The specialized distillation apparatus he''d scrounged from three different merchants lay in pieces. His hands trembled as he swept broken glass into a pile. He pushed the thugs'' bodies in front of the main door blocking the entrance, but dark stains remained where they''d fallen. The guild members. Fendrel''s teeth ground. This wasn''t the first time they showed to his lab and caused mess, what is worse, they have seen and likely heard everything. "There is no way they will not say anything about leaving bunch of corpses in an alchemists shop." They''d report back to their guild. And then... He gripped the edge of his workbench, knuckles white. The underworld didn''t forgive. They''d come for him - maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. But they''d come. And the guild too, they will investigate eventually, look into what happened once someone slipped the information to them. Fendrel straightened, jaw clenched. He couldn''t run - the parasite made sure of that. But he couldn''t wait here like a trapped rat either.
His hands steadied as he measured the dralk weed. The familiar motions of brewing grounded him, even as his ribs ached with each movement. He''d salvaged enough ingredients from the wreckage to make what he needed. The green liquid bubbled in his remaining alembic, shifting to deep purple before settling back to its signature emerald hue. His interface flickered: [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Xytherium Poison brewed successfully. Residual amount: 20%. He bottled the poison with practiced efficiency, then began work on the Nightwraith Distillate. The concentrated duskshadow essence released wisps of shadow as he added it to the mixture. Each ingredient fell into place - the venom, the dreamthorn berries, the charred root. The liquid glowed a soft yellow as he decanted it. [CRAFTING SUCCESS] Nightwraith Distillate brewed successfully. Residual amount: 50%. Relief washed over him as he sealed the final vial. He''d have enough for his next dose, at least. Next was the Bitterroot Tonic. But as he reached for the stopper, text flashed across his vision: [CLASS STATUS]: Alchemy skill leveled up. New recipes unlocked. His breath caught. More text appeared: [PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode leveled up. Soulrot Infusion. Next dose required in 50 hours. [CLASS ADVANCEMENT ACTIVE] Objective: Craft the Advancement Potion: Soulrot Infusion to progress your class and stabilize the Xytril Nematode. Remaining time 8:00:00 Failure Consequence: Death. Failure Consequence: Advancement Canceled. The vial slipped from Fendrel''s numb fingers, shattering on the floor. Fendrel stared at the red text floating in his vision, mouth dry. The shattered vial at his feet leaked yellow liquid across the floorboards, but he couldn''t tear his eyes from the message. "That''s not possible." His voice cracked. "Level requirements exist for a reason." He pulled up his status window, checking his level. Nine, no the standard advancement threshold of level 10. The text remained, mocking his understanding of how the system worked. His hands shook as he re-read the failure consequences. Death. Not ''advancement failed'' or ''retry available'' - just death. The parasite''s influence pulsed through his veins, as if emphasizing the threat. "Show me the recipe." The words came out as a whisper. The codex materialized, displaying the Soulrot Infusion ingredients in neat rows. Each item made his heart sink lower. Marrowvine? Sablefire ash? Sure, he heard of them, read about them a bunch at the academy, other then the Venom of spider and Rotblosom nectar it was pretty standard. [Soulrot Infusion] Fendrel paced the wreckage of his workshop, glass crunching under his boots. The recipe''s brewing instructions were for once provided - complex procedures requiring equipment he didn''t possess. "Eight hours." He ran fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots. "Eight hours to find rare ingredients I''ve only read about, get new setup, and brew a potion that shouldn''t even be possible at my level." Fendrel''s hands trembled as he stuffed vials into his worn leather satchel. The broken glass and overturned shelves from couple hours ago made navigating the workshop a maze of hazards. His gaze darted to the window at each passing shadow. The thugs who''d attacked knew where to find him now - and they''d want payback for their dead companions. The metal tools clinked as he grabbed them - mortar and pestle, measuring spoons, pipettes. The newly brewed Xytherium and Nightwraith vials went into padded pouches. A cart rumbled past outside. Fendrel froze, holding his breath until the sound faded. The parasite writhed under his skin, sensing his anxiety. Eight hours left. He needed a secure location to brew the advancement potion, somewhere with proper setup and without interruptions. Not this compromised wreck of a shop. The floorboards creaked overhead - just the building settling, he told himself. But what if they''d posted watchers? What if they were already surrounding the place? His fingers fumbled with the straps of his pack. Heavy boots thumped on the front steps. Fendrel''s heart lurched. "Open up, Solinar!" A fist hammered the door. "We know you''re in there!" Multiple voices muttered outside. Metal scraped against wood - someone trying to force the lock. Fendrel snatched up his pack, abandoning the rest of his supplies. He scrambled to the back corner where a loose floorboard concealed his escape route. The nails shrieked as he pried it up, revealing the narrow passage into the adjacent building''s cellar. "Break it down!" The front door shuddered under impact. Fendrel squeezed through the gap, pulling the board back into place above him. Darkness engulfed him as boots splintered wood upstairs. He crawled forward on hands and knees, trying to move silently despite his racing pulse. The muffled shouts of his pursuers followed him through the passage. They''d find the shop empty, but they''d also find his equipment, his notes, everything he''d built over the last month. Chapter 16: Chance meeting Fendrel emerged from the cellar into a dimly lit hallway. Dust coated every surface, and broken furniture lay scattered across the floor. His boots left clear tracks in the grime as he crept toward the stairs, each step carefully placed to minimize noise. He climbed the creaking stairs, wincing at each sound. The upper floor opened into a vast empty hall, moonlight filtering through broken windows. Shadows danced across the walls as clouds passed overhead. Fendrel pressed against the wall, inching toward a window that overlooked a narrow alley. The drop wasn''t too bad - maybe fifteen feet. He lowered himself onto the ledge, glass crunching under his boots. The night air hit his face as he dropped, landing in a crouch. His knees protested, but he forced himself up and deeper into the maze of back alleys. The familiar weight of his satchel bumped against his hip with each step. Remaining time 7:30 Where could he go? Garon''s shop came to mind first - the merchant had helped him before. But the thought of Garon''s cramped storage room, filled with crates, made him shake his head. The Maiden''s Kiss tavern? There was no way they had anything to brew with, and most importantly he had no ingredients. The Adventurers guild? He almost laughed at that thought. They''d be the first to run him through at mentioning the idea of making poisons. Seven and a half hours. Seven and a half hours to find a safe place, gather rare ingredients, and brew the potion. The weight of it crushed down on him, making each step harder than the last. His chest tightened as he realized he had no options. He slumped against the alley wall, sliding down until he sat in the filth. His hands shook as he gripped his hair. After everything he''d survived, after clawing his way up from nothing and finally seeing little bit of success no matter how twisted he ends up by himself, with nobody to help him, nobody he could rely on.
Fendrel wandered through the darkened streets, his feet dragging against worn cobblestones. Each step took him deeper into the lower district without purpose or direction. Then, a flash of familiar auburn hair caught his eye through opened door of the Broken Barrel tavern. Just as one of the patrons exited through the door. That couldn''t be... he was going crazy. Blood pounding in his ears, Fendrel shoved his way into the tavern and through the crowd of departing drunks. Bodies pressed against him, curses following in his wake as he stumbled into the tavern''s smoky interior. Heads turned at his abrupt entrance, suspicious eyes tracking his movements. Fuck me. There she stood near the counter, laughing with a group of well-dressed merchants and adventurers. The Cabal''s contact, acting for all the world like any other tavern patron. Her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass as she leaned in to whisper something that made her companions roar with laughter. Fendrel''s hands trembled. Approaching her was suicide. She or the people with her would likely kill him on the spot for daring to acknowledge her in public. But he was as good as dead anyway. He crossed the room in quick strides and grabbed her arm. She whirled, anger flashing across her features before recognition and confusion dawned in her eyes. "The fuck you think you''re doing?" One of the merchants stood, wine sloshing from his cup. "Back off before you get hurt, drunk." "I need your help, or I''m as good as dead." Fendrel tightened his grip. To his shock, she shifted closer, studying his face with sharp interest. "Do you know this fool?" The adventurer asked with a hand on the hilt of his dagger. "Yes." She smiled, all teeth. "He''s a colleague. Excuse me, gentlemen. This requires my attention." Fendrel leaned close to her ear, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need a secure location. Somewhere I can work undisturbed for the next few hours." His chest heaved with each breath. "I''ll owe you whatever favor you want." She pulled him into a shadowy alcove, away from prying eyes. "The Cabal doesn''t run a charity, Solinar. You already owe us for the last time you fucked me over remember?" "The Ironmire Court is after me." Sweat beaded on his forehead. "I have to complete my advancement tonight or I''m dead. They ransacked my workshop, my equipment-"Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. "Advancement?" Her eyebrows rose, then turned calculating. "You are already advancing after only a month since being a slum nobody?" "That''s hardly relevant now." Fendrel''s fingers dug into his palms. "Look, I know it''s asking a lot. But I swear I''ll make it worth your while." She studied him, head tilted. The tavern''s dim light cast sharp shadows across her face. "The Ironmire, you say?" Her lips curved into a calculating smile. "And what exactly did you do to piss them off?" "Does it matter? I''ll owe you two favors now - one for the last time, one for tonight." She drummed her fingers against the wall, considering. The seconds stretched like hours as Fendrel fought to keep still under her scrutiny. "Fine." She pushed off from the wall. "But remember, Solinar - Cabal favors come with interest." She jerked her head toward a door behind the bar. "Follow me. And try to look less suspicious." He followed the woman through the winding streets of the lower district, his breath coming in short gasps. The cobblestones were slick from the evening rain, forcing him to watch his footing as they darted between shadows. She moved with practiced ease, never hesitating at intersections or checking street signs. The familiar silhouette of Saint Aldwin''s Church emerged through the mist. Fendrel had passed it countless times on his way to purchase holy water, but he''d never ventured inside. The weathered stone walls rose three stories high, crowned by a bell tower that disappeared into the fog. Colored light spilled through the stained glass windows, casting jeweled patterns across the wet street. His guide rapped three times on a side door. An elderly priest with a lined face opened it, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Fendrel. "Sister needs sanctuary," the woman murmured, touching her fingers to her collar in what looked like a practiced gesture. The priest''s gaze lingered on Fendrel. "This is not a haven for-" "I understand, Father." She cut him off. "Just for tonight. He won''t cause trouble." After a long moment, the priest nodded and stepped aside. They descended a narrow staircase into the church basement, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Above them, the muffled sound of evening prayers filtered through the ceiling. The woman produced a key and unlocked a heavy wooden door. Fendrel''s jaw dropped as they entered. The room was easily twice the size of his workshop, with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with ingredients. Dried herbs hung from the rafters, and bottles of every size and color lined the walls. A solid wooden workbench dominated the center, its surface scarred but clean. "How..." He trailed off, stunned by the sophisticated setup hidden beneath the church. A notification flashed in the corner of his vision: [Remaining Time: 4:45] Fendrel set his satchel on the workbench, his eyes roaming over the laboratory setup. Three different-sized cauldrons gleamed in the candlelight, their copper surfaces unmarred by use. A complex arrangement of glass tubes and filters stretched across one wall - perfect for distillation. Crystallization chambers, purification apparatus, even a set of precision measuring tools. He wandered the shelves, fingers brushing past bottles and jars. The woman leaned against the doorframe, amusement playing across her features as he pulled ingredients from their places. "Satisfied, I imagine?" "How is this possible?" Fendrel cradled a jar of preserved dreamthorn berries. "Under a church of all places?" She smiled, sharp and knowing. "Not everything is as it seems, Solinar." The irony wasn''t lost on him as he arranged his materials on the workbench. Above, the soft voices of the evening choir drifted down through the stone ceiling - hymns of peace and salvation while he prepared to brew something that could kill them all. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the walls, making the holy symbols carved into the stone seem to writhe and twist. "This isn''t a permanent sanctuary," the woman said, watching him measure dried herbs with practiced precision. "Keep quiet, don''t draw attention. I''ll return in a few hours." She pushed off from the doorframe. "We''ll see if I find a corpse or a living alchemist." The heavy door clicked shut behind her, leaving Fendrel alone with his work and the distant sound of prayer. The sudden tolling of church bells made Fendrel''s hand jerk. The vial of Blackroot Powder teetered on the edge of his fingers, threatening to spill into the bubbling mixture below. His heart stopped as he snatched it back, powder scattering across the workbench. Heavy footsteps creaked across the floorboards overhead, followed by the murmur of voices. The evening service must have ended. Fendrel wiped sweat from his brow, steadying his breathing. "Focus," he muttered, measuring out the recovered powder. The fine black granules drifted into the cauldron like ash. The liquid swirled, transforming from deep purple to a murky green that reminded him of stagnant pond water. An acrid smell burned his nostrils, making his eyes water. He adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron, preparing for the critical distillation phase. The green mixture needed to reach precisely the right temperature - too hot and it would destabilize, too cold and the reaction wouldn''t complete. The flame sputtered, dancing erratically beneath the copper base. Fendrel''s stomach dropped as bubbles began forming too rapidly along the surface. "No, no, no." He scrambled to adjust the heat, fingers fumbling with the controls. The liquid roiled dangerously, threatening to overflow. A notification flashed red in his vision: [CRAFTING FAILED]: Heat levels unstable. "Damn it!" Fendrel slammed his palm against the workbench. The flame continued to flicker wildly, mocking his attempts at control. Fendrel hunched over the workbench, his shoulders rigid with tension as he watched the fourth attempt at the advancement potion simmer. The hymns drifted through the stone walls, a peaceful counterpoint to his racing thoughts. His fingers traced the instructions in his codex for the hundredth time, searching for what he''d missed in the previous attempts. The first batch had crystallized when he''d added the dreamthorn essence too quickly. The second turned to worthless sludge from excessive heat. The third... he pushed away the memory of acrid smoke and ruined ingredients. [Remaining Time: 1:59] The notification pulsed in his vision like a wound. Fendrel''s hand shook as he stirred the mixture, counting each rotation. The liquid shifted from amber to deep purple, exactly as described. Perhaps this time- A wave of nausea doubled him over. The parasite twisted beneath his skin, sending cold shivers down his spine. His grip tightened on the stirring rod until his knuckles whitened. Chapter 17: Soulrot Infusion "Stay still," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Just a little longer." The mixture needed three more ingredients, added in precise amounts while maintaining the perfect temperature. He reached for the vial of Blackroot Powder with trembling fingers. BONG! The first toll of the church bells crashed through the room like physical force. Fendrel''s hand jerked, the vial slipping in his sweat-slick grip. His heart stopped as he lunged to catch it, powder dusting the air. "Fuck!" The curse echoed off the stone walls as the bells continued their deafening song. He clutched the vial to his chest, breathing hard as the powder settled. The bells faded, leaving Fendrel''s ears ringing. He exhaled slowly, focusing on steadying his hands. The powder had settled perfectly into the mixture, its color shifting to a deep emerald. He made a mental note - a lighter dusting worked better than his previous attempts at mixing in larger amounts. The door creaked behind him. Fendrel spun around, nearly knocking over his equipment. A woman stood in the doorway, her dark hair disheveled and clothes wrinkled. Despite her appearance, she carried herself with an unmistakable air of confidence. She paused in the doors, her eyes swept over the laboratory setup, lingering on the bubbling cauldron. A notification flashed in his vision, the glowing text hovering in his peripheral awareness: [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Soulrot Infusion brewed successfully. [CRAFTING STATUS]: Soulrot Infusion, residual amount: 0%. The woman''s lips curled into a knowing smirk as she sauntered toward him, her hips swaying with deliberate emphasis. She leaned against the workbench, close enough that Fendrel caught the heavy scent of wine on her breath mingled with something sweeter - perhaps honey. "You look nervous." Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper, her fingertips trailing along the edge of the table. "Should I suck you off to calm those nerves?" Fendrel''s hand jerked violently, the glass vial slipping from his sweat-slicked grasp. The precious mixture splashed across the stone floor with a sickening hiss, forming a steaming puddle that sent tendrils of acrid vapor curling around his boots. His face burned hot enough to rival the laboratory''s burners as she laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. "Ah, that looks like a waste." She hopped onto the table with fluid grace, hiking up her skirt to reveal pale flesh. "Do you need me to ride you to the haven now?" Fendrel''s eyes fixed on her exposed thighs, his mouth going dry as he almost saw the hair between her legs. The room suddenly felt several degrees warmer. "Doesn''t sound so bad," he managed to croak out, transfixed as the fabric inched higher. She dropped her skirt abruptly, her face transforming from seductive to sharp in an instant. "What the fuck kind of place do you think this is? Go to the brothel if you''re that desperate to get off." Her mocking laughter echoed off the stone walls as Fendrel stared at the ruined potion spreading across the floor, the liquid eating tiny pockmarks into the stone. With trembling hands and cheeks still burning, he began gathering ingredients for his sixth attempt, trying to ignore the lingering scent of the woman in the air. Fendrel''s hands shook as he gathered the scattered ingredients. The spilled potion had eaten small craters into the stone floor, but he forced himself to ignore the damage. One final attempt - that was all he had left. The parasite writhed beneath his skin as he measured out the components. His teeth ground together as pain lanced through his abdomen, but his movements remained precise. He''d done this successfully once. He could do it again. [Remaining Time: 0:19] The notification pulsed red in his vision as he added the first ingredients to the fresh cauldron. Sweat dripped from his brow, sizzling as it hit the heated surface. His hands moved with mechanical efficiency, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed. Another surge of pain doubled him over. The stirring rod clattered against the copper rim as he gripped the workbench edge. [ADVANCEMENT]: 8 minutes until host breakdown. Host deterioration accelerating. Fendrel straightened with effort, forcing air into his burning lungs. The mixture bubbled, shifting from amber to deep purple just as before. His vision blurred, but he blinked away the tears. Focus. Just focus on the next step. Fendrel''s trembling fingers uncorked the vial of Ironthorn Sap. The viscous liquid dripped into the cauldron with agonizing slowness. Each drop sent ripples across the surface, transforming the murky purple into a luminescent blue that cast strange shadows on the stone walls. The parasite thrashed inside him, its movements growing more violent. His knees buckled, but he caught himself on the workbench edge.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. [ADVANCEMENT]: 2 minutes until host breakdown. The potion''s glow pulsed like a heartbeat, growing brighter with each passing second. Fendrel held his breath as the shifted between different levels before settling into a gentle shimmer. The liquid stilled, perfectly calm despite the roiling heat beneath. A new notification appeared: [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Soulrot Infusion brewed successfully. His hands shook as he poured the mixture into a clean vial. The glass grew warm against his palm, the potion casting blue light across his scarred fingers. [CRAFTING STATUS]: Soulrot Infusion, residual amount: 0%. Fendrel pressed the vial to his lips and tilted his head back. The liquid burned like molten metal as it hit his tongue. He forced himself to swallow, fighting the urge to gag as it seared down his throat. Fire erupted in his chest. The vial slipped from his nerveless fingers, shattering on the stone floor as his legs gave out. He collapsed, his body convulsing as the potion''s effects spread through his system. [ADVANCEMENT AWAILABLE] Fendrel''s world exploded into chaos. His vision fractured into kaleidoscopic patterns, each shard burning with impossible colors. Fire coursed through his veins, turning his blood to liquid metal. He curled into a ball on the cold stone floor, his muscles spasming beyond his control. The parasite''s frenzied movements ceased, but its presence swelled within him. What had been a subtle whisper became a deafening roar, filling every corner of his consciousness. His skin crawled as if thousands of microscopic needles were threading through his flesh. Text flashed across his distorted vision: [ADVANCEMENT SUCCESSFUL] New Class Options Unlocked: Caustivar Mirebane Noxveil [ADVANCEMENT SUCCESSFUL] Xytril Nematode evolution complete Fendrel blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the floating words through the haze of pain. The class names meant nothing to him - no descriptions, no explanations of their abilities or requirements. His mind raced with questions as he struggled to understand what each option might entail. The fire in his blood began to fade, replaced by an intense pressure building beneath his skin. The parasite''s presence crystallized within him, no longer the writhing mass he''d grown accustomed to. Instead, it felt like a solid weight pressing against his organs, its power radiating through his body with newfound intensity. Fendrel pushed himself up from the cold stone floor, his limbs still trembling from the advancement ritual. The floating text remained burned into his vision, the three class options hovering like ghostly sigils in the dim laboratory light. Caustivar. Mirebane. Noxveil. He reached out, trying to interact with the interface as he''d done with other notifications, but his attempts yielded no additional information. Fendrel ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, fighting the urge to panic. The timer ticked down with mechanical precision, each second bringing him closer to a random assignment. He''d worked too hard, risked too much to leave this crucial decision to chance. But without any guidance, any hint of what these classes truly offered, how could he possibly choose? His future hung on three words, each as mysterious as the parasite that had brought him to this point. "Fuck." He pressed his palms against his temples. Any proper alchemist would have spent years studying under a master, learning the intricacies of each advancement path. They''d have dusty tomes filled with knowledge, carefully documented experiences of those who''d walked these paths before. But who would document forbidden paths? What master would guide an apprentice down a road twisted by parasitic infection? [Time Remaining Until Random Assignment: 9:45] His fingers traced the rough stone floor, finding the grooves where his failed attempts had eaten into the surface. "Normal apprentices don''t brew their advancement potions in secret church laboratories either," he muttered. The words echoed off the walls, mixing with the distant sound of crickets filtering through the high windows. The parasite shifted, sending a wave of pressure through his chest. It felt different now - more focused, more purposeful. Like it was waiting for his choice as eagerly as the system itself. Fendrel pulled himself to his feet, using the workbench for support. His legs shook, but held. The floating text followed his movement, the three options hovering at eye level like accusatory spirits. He knew the process, he had approximately ten minutes. Ten minutes to make a choice, or the system would choose for him, forcing a random selection for the rest of his existence. This would determine his main class, setting him on an irreversible path. The remaining two options would become potential subclasses, available only after his next advancement. The system''s cold efficiency offered no comfort or guidance. He couldn''t risk a random assignment, he needed at least some control over his fate. Not after everything he''d sacrificed to reach this point. But how could he choose when each option was nothing more than a name? Fendrel leaned against the cold stone wall, the floating text still burning in his vision. A soft rustle of fabric caught his attention, and he turned to see the nun who''d been standing in the shadows of the laboratory. Her dark robes seemed to absorb what little light filtered through the high windows. "You seem lost, mister. Something on your mind?" Her lips curved into a playful smile that only heightened his frustration. Fendrel''s jaw clenched. He hadn''t expected company during his advancement, but he didn''t expect to brew poisons in the church laboratory either. The nun''s presence annoyed him, neither helping nor hindering. The weight of her gaze pressed against his back as she waited for his response, her earlier playful tone at odds with the gravity of his situation. He had little choice now but to engage with her. She stood there, patient and unmoving. Time slipped away. He fixed her with a hard stare. "Mirebane, Noxveil, Caustivar." The nun''s brow furrowed, her earlier playfulness replaced by confusion. After a moment, her expression turned serious for the first time since she come. "Never heard of it." "What comes to mind?" Fendrel asked, his fingers drumming against the rough stone. She crossed her arms, the fabric of her robes rustling. "Nox, something about noxious substances? Gas perhaps? No idea about the rest." "Mire, something like swamp?" His voice caught as another wave of pressure rolled through his chest. The nun nodded, then her lips curled into a smirk. "Mirebane sounds like fun. Swamps are wet. I''m getting wet just thinking about this." Fendrel swallowed hard, his body responding to her suggestive tone. The stress of the advancement ritual had left him raw and on edge - he could use a quick fuck right about now to help clear his head. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Her breakdown, despite the teasing, had provided some clarity. "Gas or swamp, no fucking idea about Caustivar, so let''s ignore that." Chapter 18: The Choice Fendrel pushed away from the wall, pacing the length of the workbench. His footsteps echoed off the stone floor as he considered each option floating before him. The parasite shifted inside him, sending another wave of pressure through his chest. "Gas..." He shook his head. "Who the hell would buy that? Useless." The nun raised an eyebrow. "Not interested in Noxveil then?" "Look at my setup." He gestured to the workbench with its array of bottles and vials. "Everything I make needs to be contained, transported, sold. How would I even package gas? The equipment alone would bankrupt me." She nodded, her dark robes swishing as she moved closer to examine his workspace. "What about Caustivar?" "Caustic... could be something about corrosion? Or destruction? But I have no way to know." The word rolled around in his mind, tempting with its mystery. His fingers traced the edge of a nearby bottle. "Too risky. I can''t gamble my future on a complete unknown." His eyes fixed on the final option: Mirebane. It felt like the safest bet. His current recipes already utilized several swamp-based ingredients - dralk weed, swampbriar vines. The connection felt natural, almost inevitable. "Mirebane." He said the word. "At least it fits with what I already do. Swamp toxins, natural poisons..." The nun picked up an empty vial, turning it in the dim light. "Playing it safe?" "Playing it smart." Fendrel grabbed the vial from her hand, setting it back on the workbench. "I need something that works with my existing knowledge, and complements my business." Fendrel drew in a deep breath, his fingers curling against the workbench. The choice loomed before him - a crossroads that would alter the course of his life. Through the haze of uncertainty, only one path beckoned to him. "Mirebane," he whispered, the word falling from his lips with quiet finality. The interface flickered in his vision, text materializing: [CLASS ADVANCEMENT COMPLETE]: Mirebane. The confirmation hung there for a heartbeat before a surge of energy erupted through his body. His muscles seized as power coursed through his veins like liquid fire. Fendrel''s knees buckled. He crashed to the stone floor, his vision swimming with spots of darkness and flashes of sickly green light. The nun''s concerned voice seemed to come from far away as notifications blazed across his sight: [ACTIVE SKILLS] Fungal Aura LEVEL 1 Mudclaw LEVEL 1 His stomach lurched as the descriptions filtered through his consciousness. The ability to unsettle others with a mere presence, to tear flesh with toxin-laden claws - these weren''t the refined tools of an alchemist. They were the weapons of something darker, more primal. The interface wasn''t finished. His crafting log erupted with new entries, each recipe more complex than anything he''d attempted before. Five new formulations appeared, marked with the distinctive Mirebane classification. Fendrel''s fingers trembled as he opened his recipe codex. The familiar entries blurred, some fading like ink left in the sun while others transformed before his eyes. The Soulrot Infusion - the very mixture that had triggered his advancement - vanished completely, leaving only blank space where its instructions had been. New formulations appeared, their requirements etching themselves into the pages with precise detail. His breath caught as he studied the altered recipes. The basic healing potion remained, but now called for swamp moss instead of bluecap mushrooms. The Xytherium poison had evolved, demanding rare bog essence and crystallized spores. Five entirely new intermediate recipes materialized, each bearing the distinctive Mirebane classification. Bogbane Extract, Marshwater Mixture, Mirefiend''s Breath - the names alone spoke of power drawn from festering swamps and stagnant waters. He traced the altered formulas with shaking fingers. Some ingredients he recognized from his usual suppliers, others he''d only heard whispered about in black market circles. A few were completely foreign - what the hell was "crystallized bog light" or "depth crawler venom"? The recipes themselves were more complex, requiring precise timing and specific environmental conditions. Notes about moon phases and water temperatures filled the margins. This wasn''t just simple brewing anymore - this was something deeper, more primal. His old recipe for Bitterroot Tonic had transformed into "Mireroot Essence," calling for ingredients that would cost ten times as much but promising effects far beyond its original healing properties.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Pain lanced through his hands. He raised them before his face, watching in amazement as his nails darkened to an oily black, the edges becoming sharp enough to draw blood. The air around him grew thick with the scent of decay and stagnant water. The parasite gave one final, vicious twist inside him before settling into an uneasy stillness. Fendrel remained on his knees, chest heaving, as the transformation completed its work. Fendrel''s skin prickled as an unseen force radiated from his body. The air grew thick and heavy, carrying the unmistakable scent of rotting vegetation and stagnant water. His stomach churned as the aura spread through the laboratory, coating every surface with an invisible film of decay. The nun wrinkled her nose, pressing her fingers against her temples. "What''s that smell? Feels... weird." She took a step back, her playful demeanor replaced by genuine discomfort. Fendrel stared at his hands, fascinated by the transformation taking place. His nails darkened to an oily black, hardening into razor-sharp points that gleamed in the dim light. The changes felt natural, as if his body had always been meant to take this form. He reached out toward a wooden shelf, dragging his new claws across its surface. Deep grooves appeared in the wood, the edges turning gray where his nails made contact. "Not bad," he muttered, trying to suppress a shudder as he felt poison flowing through the hollow channels in his nails. His body hummed with energy, caught between exhilaration at his new abilities and fear of what they might mean. The parasite''s strength had increased dramatically, and he could feel it testing the boundaries of their symbiosis. The interface flickered to life before his eyes, its cold blue text cutting through his exhaustion. [ADVANCEMENT COMPLETE] [CLASS SUCCESSFULLY INTEGRATED] His heart skipped as he read the status update. The familiar text felt wrong, altered in ways that made his skin crawl. NAME: Fendrel Solinar CLASS: Mirebane LEVEL: 10 RACE: Human Bogwraith SYMBIOSIS: Xytril Nematode LEVEL: 5 "Bogwraith?" The word stuck in his throat. His fingers traced his face, searching for changes. His skin felt the same, but something crawled under his skin in ways he couldn''t define. [PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode leveled up. Required substance: Venomshroud Poison, Witherfang Resin. Next dose required in 10 hours. His mouth was dry. "Ten hours?" His voice cracked. The timer was twelve hours between doses now it was cut by two. His hands shook as he opened the codex. The recipes for Xytherium and Silkslither disappeared together with most of the other recipes he gathered so far. Instead two new recipe sat in their place. [CODEX] Intermediate Healing Potion Venomshroud Poison Witherfang Resin Darksap Draught Basic Mana recovery Potion Nightshade Reinforcer At least he only needed two poisons now, not the almost a dozen that had accumulated with the previous levels. But these new formulations would cost him. His teeth ground together as he considered the expenses in his head. The nun''s footsteps echoed across the stone as she approached. "You look like death warmed over." "Bogwraith," he spat the word. "Whatever the hell that means." His skin itched, a constant reminder of the changes coursing through his body. Fendrel slumped against his workbench, the calculations running through his head. Three doses every ten hours meant he needed six potions each day just to keep the parasite at bay. His fingers drummed against the worn wood as he did the math. "Witherfang needs bloodthorn resin, ashroot..." He rifled through his ingredients, taking stock. The meager supplies wouldn''t last two days. "And spiderling venom." His hands shook as he reached for his coin purse. The few silvers inside clinked pathetically. "Stockpiling means more doses at once." He traced the parasite''s level progression in his notes. "More doses means faster growth. Faster growth means..." The words caught in his throat as the implications hit him. Higher parasite levels would only demand more advanced poisons. The nun''s footsteps echoed behind him. "You''re talking to yourself again." "Can''t win." Fendrel''s fist clenched around the coin purse. "Brew constantly and exhaust myself, or stockpile and make it stronger. Either way, I can''t get a break." The nun moved with startling speed, suddenly inches from his face. "Done?" Her breath carried the sweet scent of wine, her eyes dark with unmistakable heat. "I... what?" Fendrel''s brain struggled to shift gears, still reeling from the advancement ritual and his calculations. She closed the distance between them, her robes rustling as she pressed against him. Her fingers traced along his collar, a playful smile dancing across her lips. "All that stressful muttering and pacing." Her other hand slid down his chest, leaving trails of fire through his thin shirt. "Let me help you relax." Before he could process what was happening, her nimble fingers were working at his belt. The leather slipped free with practiced ease as she pressed closer, trapping him against the workbench. His body responded before his mind could catch up. His hands found her hips, fingers bunching in the rough fabric of her robes as he pulled himself up from his chair. The material slid easily upward, revealing smooth skin beneath. The nun''s body pressed against his as Fendrel''s fingers pulled the fabric of her robes, pulling her closer. He couldn''t help but give in to the pleasure that coursed through his veins as their lips met in a hungry kiss. In a moment of madness, he spun her around, pushing her down onto the table with a fierceness that surprised even him. Without a second thought, he slid inside her, eliciting a whine of pain and pleasure from the woman. She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white as she held on to Fendrels relentless pounding. Fendrel''s hips moved in a frenzy, his desire fueled by the feeling of her warmth wrapped around him. The nun''s eyes widened as she looked over her shoulder at Fendrel, her lips parted in a silent gasp. He could feel the tension in her body as her muscles tightened around him. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them and the pounding rhythm of their bodies. Time lost all meaning as they moved together, their breaths mingling in the sweltering air of the workshop. Suddenly, the nun''s body tensed, her back arching. She clamped around him as he reached his climax, the sensation overwhelming them both. Then her eyes rolled back and with a shuddering breath, she collapsed to the ground, her limbs twitching uncontrollably. Fendrel stumbled backward in shock, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at her still form. His mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened, his thoughts a jumbled mess in the wake of his orgasm. "What happened?" Fendrel stumbled backward in shock, his heart pounding in his chest. His orgasmic stupor quickly gave way to confusion and horror. A sob escaped his lips as he stared at the nun''s lifeless body, her skin taking on a sickly green hue. Chapter 19: Missunderstanding Fendrel stared at the lifeless body on the floor, his hands shaking as he fumbled with his belt. The parasite writhed inside him, a nauseating reminder of what had just happened. The nun''s skin had taken on an unnatural green tinge, her limbs splayed at odd angles. The door creaked open. The woman who brought him to the church earlier stepped inside, her dark eyes sweeping the scene. Her gaze lingered on the dead nun before dropping to Fendrel''s disheveled state. "So, you live." She said in suspiciously annoyed tone "Did you have to kill her while fucking her?" She crossed her arms, walking around the body. "I didn''t kill her! I mean, I didn''t mean to-" The words caught in his throat as bile rose up. She cut him off with a sigh, stepping over the corpse. Her boots clicked against the stone floor as she crouched next to the dead woman, turning the nun''s head to examine her face. "It''s not like I don''t understand. She must have learned what you got for your advancement. Considering its likely something seriously twisted, I''m not shocked she ended up dead." Fendrel''s fingers fumbled with his pants, yanking them up. "I didn''t kill her!" His voice cracked. "And what do you mean by that?" The woman stood up, brushing dust from her knees. Her eyes rolled skyward. "Stop yelling. It doesn''t matter now anyway." She walked to the workbench, examining the ingredients. "I''ll clean this up. You should get out of here, go about your business. I''ll contact you when it''s time to pay back the favors you now owe." Fendrel''s hands trembled as he gathered his scattered supplies from the workbench. The glass vials clinked against each other, threatening to slip from his grasp. "My lab..." His voice cracked. "The guards and Ironmire know where I live. They''ll be watching it." The woman picked up a stray herb that had fallen to the floor, crushing it between her fingers. The bitter scent filled the air. "Not my concern. You got what you wanted - your advancement. The rest?" She waved her hand at the corpse. "That''s your mess to deal with." Fendrel''s stomach lurched. The reality of his situation crashed over him. No home. No lab. Nowhere to go. The weight of it pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe. "But where-" "Figure it out." She cut him off, her dark eyes fixing him with a cold stare. "Oh, and before you scurry off to whatever hole you find - we need those potions you promised. Twenty of them." The blood drained from Fendrel''s face. Twenty potions. He''d need a proper lab setup, ingredients, time... "Better start brewing." She turned her back on him, already focused on dealing with the body. Fendrel stumbled out of the church, his mind spinning. The cool night air did nothing to clear his thoughts. His advancement to toxin synthesis - what should have been a triumphant moment - felt hollow. The demands of his new class abilities clashed with the growing list of obligations he''d taken on. Twenty potions for the church. More poison for himself. He clutched his bag of supplies closer, his feet carrying him aimlessly through the dark streets. The weight of everything pressed down on him, stealing any joy from achieving one of the most sought-after alchemical advancements.
Fendrel''s boots scraped against the cobblestones as he made his way through the waking city. The sun crept over the eastern walls, painting the buildings in pale gold. Market stalls creaked open, owners arranging their wares while the morning dew still clung to the canvas awnings. His muscles felt wired, humming with an unfamiliar energy that kept exhaustion at bay despite the sleepless night. The advancement had changed something in him - or perhaps it was just the parasite''s influence growing stronger. The crowds thickened as he entered the merchant district, forcing him to weave between early morning shoppers. His lab was out of reach now, and with it most of his supplies. The thought of his carefully organized workspace being ransacked by whoever made their way into his lab made his chest tight. He needed ingredients - both for the cabal''s potions and to keep his own life. The upper district''s herbalist shop would have everything, but... Fendrel tugged at his worn sleeve, grimacing at the dried blood still crusted under his fingernails. He hardly looked the part of an upper district patron. Then again, what choice did he have? The smaller vendors wouldn''t stock half of what he needed, and the black market contacts would take too long to arrange meetings with. Besides, who would try anything in the busiest shop in the merchant quarter?If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. The herbalist''s shop rose before him, three stories of polished stone and gleaming windows. Fresh herbs hung in neat bundles from the eaves, their fragrance mixing with the morning air. Through the windows, Fendrel spotted shelves lined with jars and bottles, each meticulously labeled. His hand hesitated on the brass door handle. But when he pushed inside, no one even glanced his way. The shop buzzed with activity - merchants examining dried herbs, nobles'' servants collecting orders, apprentice alchemists comparing notes on ingredients. The familiar scents of dried herbs and preserved specimens wrapped around him like a comfortable blanket. Fendrel''s shoulders relaxed a fraction. Here, he was just another customer, unremarkable among the morning crowd. He could work with this. Now he just needed to gather his supplies before anyone looked too closely at his disheveled state. Fendrel approached the counter, his fingers trying desperately to make him presentable. The herbalist looked up from his ledger, eyes narrowing as he took in Fendrel''s appearance. "What can I help you with?" The old man''s voice carried an edge of suspicion. "I need bloodthorn resin, ashroot, and spiderling venom." Fendrel pulled out three silver coins, placing them on the worn wooden counter. "And some dralk weed, if you have any fresh." The herbalist''s eyes flickered to the coins, then back to Fendrel''s face. His stern expression softened as he swept the coins from the table with practiced efficiency. "Ah, a serious customer." He put his quill into the ink jar. "Third shelf on the right for the resin. Ashroot''s in the barrel by the window. I''ll fetch the venom from the back." The old man pointed to each place. As Fendrel moved between the shelves, the scent of dried herbs filled his nose. He reached for a jar of bloodthorn resin, its dark contents gleaming in the morning light. Movement caught his eye. A man in a plain brown coat stood near the dried flower display, examining a bunch of petaline herbs. His clothes were too well-made for a common merchant, the fabric too fine despite its simple cut. The man glanced up, meeting Fendrel''s gaze for a moment before quickly looking away. Fendrel''s stomach tightened. He grabbed the resin and moved toward the window, keeping the stranger in his peripheral vision. The man shifted, maintaining the same distance between them as Fendrel gathered his ingredients. Each time Fendrel looked up, he caught the stranger''s eyes darting away. Fendrel''s hands shook as he measured out the ashroot. The stranger hadn''t moved from his position by the dried flowers, still maintaining that calculated distance. Something about his stance screamed ''trained'' - the way he kept his back to the wall, how his eyes swept the room in regular patterns. The parasite writhed beneath Fendrel''s skin, a reminder of the ticking clock. He couldn''t afford to wait around wondering who''d sent this man. If someone wanted him dead, they''d find him eventually. Better to face it now, in a crowded shop, than alone in some dark alley. Fendrel clutched his purchases and approached the man, trying to keep his movements casual. "Nice morning for shopping." His voice cracked on the last word. The stranger''s eyebrows lifted slightly. "Indeed." "Look, I..." Fendrel lowered his voice, leaning closer. "Whatever you think, I didn''t mean to mess up anyone''s plans. I''m just an alchemist trying to survive." "Is that so?" The man''s expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes - interest, perhaps? "Yes, exactly." Fendrel''s words tumbled out faster. "I know things got complicated, but I''m not looking for trouble. Just need to brew my potions and keep my head down." The stranger nodded slowly, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Complicated situations often require... delicate solutions." "Right, yes." Fendrel''s chest tightened. Was this acknowledgment or a threat? "So we understand each other?" "Oh, I believe we''re beginning to." The man''s smile widened fractionally. "Perhaps you''d care to elaborate on these complications?" Fendrel glanced around the shop, then leaned closer to the stranger. "Look, your people know I can be useful. My potions - they''re high quality. Stuff that no alchemists in the city make." He pulled a small vial from his pocket, its contents shimmering with an ethereal green glow. "See?" "Interesting." The man''s eyes fixed on the vial. "And you''re suggesting...?" "I can make some of the better stuff for your people. Healing potions, poison resistance, specialty items." Fendrel''s heart hammered against his ribs. "In exchange for some... understanding about recent events." The stranger''s lips curved into a calculated smile. "Ah yes, my employer has mentioned your work. Though recent circumstances have complicated matters." Fendrel checked the ticking timer, less than eight hours until he needed another dose. His fingers trembled as he tucked the vial away. "I can''t wait days for an answer. But I can guarantee quality and quantity that would make it worth your while." Sweat beaded on his forehead. "A generous offer." The man adjusted his coat sleeve, revealing a glimpse of an ornate church seal. "I''ll certainly pass this along to the appropriate parties." Fendrel shifted his weight, clutching his purchases. "What should I do until then? The guards..." "No need to worry." The man''s confidence seemed to grow with each passing moment. "I''ll pass your proposal to my boss. For now, come with me - I know a place where you can stay." Fendrel''s stomach churned as he approached the counter. The herbalist laid out the vials of spiderling venom alongside his other gathered ingredients. "That''ll be forty silver for the lot." The old man''s weathered hands arranged the items. Fendrel''s fingers trembled as he counted out the coins. The price was steep, but he couldn''t risk haggling. Not now. "One more thing," Fendrel said. "Do you have any Frostbloom Dust?" The herbalist considered him for a moment, his eyes flickering to the stranger. "Sorry. Too rare these days. Haven''t had any in stock for months." "Damn it," Fendrel muttered, wondering about possible alternatives. Without Frostbloom, he''d need to find another source - and fast. The stranger stepped closer, his presence commanding yet subtle. "Shall we?" Fendrel stared at the man, doubt gnawing at his insides. Following a stranger seemed foolish, but what choice did he have? His lab was compromised, the assassins were still searching for him unaware of this deal, and the parasite''s clock kept ticking. "Yes, I... suppose so." "Good." The agent strode toward the door with practiced grace. "Follow me, and don''t say a word." Chapter 20: Playing Along Fendrel followed the agent through the upper district''s backstreets, his shoulders hunched against the morning chill. Even these smaller paths were well-maintained, with polished cobblestones and decorative planters filled with bright flowers. A far cry from the filthy alleys he was used to skulking through. His eyes darted between doorways and windows, scanning for threats. A group of merchants crossed their path, their fine clothes marking them as upper district regulars. Fendrel''s worn boots and stained clothing stood out like a splash of mud on silk. The agent moved with purpose, taking seemingly random turns that somehow formed a pattern. Left at the baker''s shop, right past the tailor, through a narrow passage between two townhouses. Each turn avoided the main streets while keeping them in sight of other people. Watching the agent''s confident stride, Fendrel felt his anxiety ease slightly. The man clearly knew these streets better then he could ever hope. Each time they approached an intersection, he''d pause for a moment - not long enough to draw attention, but sufficient to check for dangers. This wasn''t random wandering. This was the calculated movement of someone who worked in shadows while walking in daylight. The kind of skill that came from years of practice. "How do you know so much about me?" Fendrel asked, keeping his voice low as they passed a group of children playing with wooden swords. The agent''s pace didn''t falter. "It''s my job to know things." He guided them around another corner, his movements fluid and unhurried. "That''s why you''re still alive." The words sent a chill down Fendrel''s spine, but oddly enough, they also reassured him. This man wasn''t some common thug - he was connected, informed. Maybe even high enough to secure the protection. The cobblestones clicked beneath their boots as they rounded another corner - and Fendrel''s heart stopped. Five city guards blocked their path, their polished breastplates gleaming in the morning sun. The lead guard''s eyes locked onto Fendrel, recognition flashing across his weathered face. "That''s him - the alchemist who poisoned the garrison." The guard''s hand dropped to his sword hilt. Fendrel''s legs turned to stone. The blood drained from his face as his mind spun with half-formed escape plans. "I didn''t- what garrison? I don''t know what you''re talking about!" The other guards spread out, cutting off the alley''s exits. Their boots scraped against the cobblestones as they moved into position. But before they could close in, the agent stepped forward. His posture shifted, shoulders straightening as authority settled over him like a cloak. With fluid grace, he withdrew a silver cross from beneath his coat. "You''ve got the wrong man." His voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "This is an apprentice of the Church of Adria, under my care." The guards exchanged uncertain glances. Their leader''s jaw clenched as he studied the cross, then Fendrel''s trembling form. "This smells like bullshit." The guard captain''s fingers drummed against his sword pommel. "That man matches the description perfectly. What other alchemist is there going between slums and upper district?" "The Church''s protection is absolute," the agent replied, putting the cross down. "Unless you wish to explain to your superiors why you accosted a servant of Adria?" The guards shifted their weight, armor clinking softly. Their eyes darted between their captain and the agent''s unwavering gaze. The political implications hung heavy in the air - no guard captain wanted to risk the church''s displeasure over a simple arrest. A sharp sting pierced Fendrel''s neck. His hand shot up, fingers brushing against a small metal dart protruding from his flesh. The world tilted sideways as his knees buckled. His vision blurred, colors bleeding together like wet paint. Through his dimming vision, Fendrel recognized the telltale green tinge spreading across his skin - Xytherium poison, his own creation. The bitter irony might have made him laugh if his throat wasn''t already constricting. Now here he was, dropped by a single dart of the stuff. [EFFECT]: You have been poisoned. [STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect [PASSIVE SKILL LEVEL UP]: Poison resistance 7 "Get down!" The agent''s voice cut through the haze. Dark shapes dropped from the rooftops. Three assassins in black leather armor landed in the alley, their movements fluid and precise. One hurled a ball that shattered against the cobblestones. Purple smoke billowed out, while another threw familiar vial of Silkslither Toxin at the lead guard.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. "Shield up!" A guard shouted. A blue shimmer rippled through the air as one of the guards raised his sword. The anti-curse field pushed back against the toxin cloud, creating a safe pocket around them. More vials rained down. Green mist from Xytherium Poison mixed with the yellow of Nightwraith Distillate. The narrow walls of the alley concentrated the deadly cocktail. "By the light of Adria, strengthen our flesh!" The priest in front of him lifted his holy symbol. Golden light washed over them including the guards, their movements becoming more assured as divine protection settled over them. [STATUS] You have been blessed by high priest of a minor god. Fuck, so he is a real priest not with Ironmire Court? Who are these guys then? Fendrel''s confusion mounted with each passing moment. The assassins pressed their advantage. They darted between patches of toxic fog, their blades flashing in the filtered sunlight. One guard went down clutching his side. Through the toxic haze, an assassin sided to Fendrel. The black-clad figure moved with practiced grace, clearly expecting him to be out, ready for retrieval. But Fendrel''s body reacted before his mind could stop him. His arm shot out, fingernails elongating into razor-sharp claws dripping with venom. The assassin''s eyes widened behind his mask as Fendrel''s transformed hand sunk into his chest, tearing through leather armor and flesh alike. The assassin staggered back, dropping his blade. His body convulsed as Fendrel''s enhanced toxins flooded his system. He collapsed to the cobblestones, limbs twitching violently before going still. Fendrel stared at his hand as the claws retracted, leaving only dirt-stained fingernails behind. The guards and remaining assassins were still locked in combat around him, but their attention would turn to him soon enough. He''d just killed a man with abilities no normal human should possess. The guards would execute him once they realize what happened, and the assassins...well, they''d want to know how he''d done it. Neither option appealed to him. Fendrel felt power building in his chest, spreading outward like roots through soil. He let it flow, and a sickly mist began seeping from his pores. The fungal spores spread quickly in the confined space, adding to the chaos of the poison clouds. Guards and assassins alike began coughing, their movements becoming erratic as the spores took hold. Though weaker here than in the damp environments it preferred, the fungal aura still filled the alley with an otherworldly haze. Fendrel didn''t waste the opportunity. He pressed himself against the wall and slipped between two distracted combatants, letting the various mists conceal his escape. Neither side noticed as he disappeared down a side passage, leaving the sounds of combat behind. Fendrel''s boots splashed through puddles as he fled deeper into the maze of alleys. His lungs burned with each ragged breath, the lingering effects of his own toxins making his throat raw. The shouts behind him grew fainter, but he didn''t slow down. [PARASITE STATUS]: Agitation level low. Next dose required in 6 hours The notification flashed in his vision, a reminder of his predicament being far from over. He ducked under a low-hanging clothesline and squeezed through a gap between buildings, emerging onto a wider street. The change hit his senses like a wall. Gone were the grimy walls and refuse-filled gutters. Instead, glass lanterns cast red and purple light across the cobblestones. Sweet incense mixed with perfume filled the air. Music drifted from open windows, along with laughter and provocative calls. Fendrel stumbled to a stop, realizing he''d wandered into the Brothel District. "This wasn''t how I imagined my first time here." Crowds of well-dressed patrons meandered between the establishments, few wearing masks to hide their identities. Workers in revealing outfits lounged in doorways or leaned from balconies, calling out to potential customers. His heart still hammering, Fendrel forced himself to walk at a measured pace. The press of bodies around him provided cover, but also made him acutely aware of how exposed he was. Any of these faces could belong to another assassin. A solid wooden door caught his eye, belonging to a three-story establishment called "The Velvet Rose." Without hesitation, he pulled out his last vial of Xytherium and spilled it on the brass handle. The deep green liquid spread invisible across the metal. Fendrel slipped inside, closing the door behind him. The sudden hum felt surreal after the chaos outside. Plush carpets muffled his footsteps. The air was thick with sweet-smelling smoke and fruits. Women in silk reclined on velvet couches, some entertaining clients while others chatted amongst themselves. The whole scene felt disconnected from reality - as if he hadn''t just killed a man and fled through half the city. Fendrel''s boots sank into the plush carpet as he made his way toward the counter. Two burly men in fitted vests tracked his movement, their hands resting near concealed weapons. Their eyes narrowed at his disheveled appearance and the way sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. The perfumed air felt thick in his lungs, making each breath a struggle to keep steady. His fingers twitched, and he forced them still. Behind a polished wooden counter, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard counted coins into neat stacks. He didn''t look up as Fendrel approached. "This really isn''t place for you, friend." "I..." Fendrel cleared his throat, his mouth suddenly as dry. "My first time, so I''m a little nervous. Who do I talk to about... services?" The owner''s hands stilled, coins clicking against the polished wood. He raised his head, pale eyes scanning Fendrel from head to toe with the calculated precision of a merchant appraising questionable goods. "We only serve people on recommendation. Got one?" Movement behind caught Fendrel''s attention - the guards had closed in, their leather boots silent against the thick carpet. His pulse quickened, blood rushing in his ears, and he felt the familiar burn of toxins gathering beneath his nails. Purple and green discoloration spread across his fingertips like watercolors bleeding through parchment. He pressed his palm to his chest, letting the owner catch sight of his transformed nails. "I would really rather not do this. Priest Valton recommended me to get some rest and relax after all the work. If you know what I mean." The tension in the room shifted like a sudden change in wind. The owner''s face went slack, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple to disappear into his trimmed beard. The guards exchanged glances, taking half steps back. "Priest Valton?" The owner''s voice cracked, high and brittle as thin ice. He dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief, the expensive fabric trembling in his grip. Chapter 21: Message "Yes, from Adria church." The words felt like acid on Fendrel''s tongue, each syllable carrying the weight of his deception. The owner''s demeanor transformed in an instant. Gone was the suspicion, replaced by an almost eager compliance. "You should have said so from the start." He made a quick gesture with his hand. One of the women, draped in deep purple silk that caught the lamplight, rose from her position and glided toward them. "She will take care of you." The woman approached with practiced grace, her movements precise and controlled. Her face remained neutral, neither inviting nor cold. She beckoned Fendrel to follow with a slight tilt of her head. Fendrel found himself captivated by the sway of her hips, the way the silk draped over them like a second skin. His gaze traced the curves, feeling a stirring deep within him despite the tense situation. Her silk-clad body casting shadows on the walls. Her every movement was calculated and seductive. And it was working. Fendrel found himself more aroused than the situation he was in would suggest. The woman led Fendrel up a winding staircase, her silk dress whispering against the polished wood. The corridor above stretched into darkness, broken only by pools of amber light from ornate wall sconces. She paused at a door adorned with gold filigree - far grander than the others they''d passed. The room beyond matched the door''s opulence. Plush velvet curtains framed tall windows, and a four-poster bed dominated the space, its sheets shimmering like liquid silver in the low light. The air carried notes of jasmine and something deeper, more exotic. Fendrel''s boots sank into the thick carpet as he paced the length of the room. His fingers traced patterns in the air, following invisible formulas and measurements. The parasite writhed beneath his skin, sensing his mounting anxiety. "Please, make yourself comfortable." The woman''s voice carried the practiced warmth of someone used to putting others at ease. Her fingers found the clasps of her dress, sliding them free with practiced grace. "Stop." Fendrel''s voice came out sharper than intended. "We don''t have time for that. They''ll be here soon." Her hands stilled on the half-undone clasps. She straightened, head tilted like a bird studying something curious. "Who?" "People, who want me dead." His tongue felt heavy. "I see." Her face betrayed confusion as she fastened her clothes back. "But what do you expect me to do about it?" Fendrel ran his fingers through his sweat-damp hair, leaving it standing in odd angles. "I need you to get me out of here." She studied him for a long moment, her painted lips pressed into a thin line. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the muffled sounds of music from below and Fendrel''s uneven breathing. The woman''s expression shifted, a calculated look replacing her earlier confusion. "There might be someone who can help. Follow me." She moved to the far corner of the room, her fingers finding a hidden catch in the wooden paneling. A section of the wall swung inward with barely a whisper, revealing a narrow passage beyond. Fendrel''s heart hammered against his ribs as he followed her into the darkness. The parasite under his skin twisted, responding to his anxiety. The passage smelled of damp stone and something else - chemical, familiar. The tunnel opened into a wider area. Oil lamps cast dancing shadows across shelves lined with glass bottles and ceramic jars. Fendrel''s eyes caught items he recognized: Bluecap Mushroom, Nightshade essence, even Glowroot and other advanced ingreadients. "Is this..." Fendrel''s voice trailed off as they passed a room with a proper distillation setup. Copper coils gleamed in the low light, connected to carefully arranged glassware. "The church has many interests." She didn''t slow her pace, leading him past more storage rooms. Crates bore stamps in languages he didn''t recognize, while others carried familiar alchemical symbols. "You seem experienced with this." Fendrel ducked under a low arch. "Helping people disappear." She glanced back, lamplight catching the curve of her smile. "Let''s just say you''re not my first demanding customer. The church provides many services to those in need." The passage curved upward, the air growing fresher. They emerged into what looked like a store room, but the boxes here bore official church seals. Through a half-open door, Fendrel spotted more supplies - some bearing the distinctive markings of black market goods.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. "What kind of church operation is this?" Fendrel whispered, noting a crate labeled in cipher he recognized from his own dealings. "The kind that understands faith takes many forms." She straightened her silk dress, somehow still immaculate despite their journey. The passage opened into a small room furnished with nothing more than two wooden chairs. Dust motes danced in a shaft of light filtering through a narrow window set high in the wall. "Wait here." The woman gestured toward one of the chairs. "I''ll return shortly." Fendrel sank into the chair, its wood creaking under his weight. His fingers drummed against his thigh as minutes crawled by, each second stretching like hours. The woman slipped back into the room, her silk dress rustling against the stone floor. Her face remained unreadable as she gestured for him to follow behind her. She led Fendrel through another set of doors into a chamber that put the previous rooms to shame. Gilded columns stretched toward a vaulted ceiling painted with religious scenes. Thick carpets muffled their footsteps, and the air carried the sweet smoke of burning incense. Behind a massive desk carved from dark wood sat an older man in pristine white robes. His face bore the weathered lines of experience, but his eyes remained sharp and alert. A golden chain around his neck held the symbol of Adria. "You''ve caused quite a stir, haven''t you?" The priest''s lips curved into a half-smile. Fendrel''s throat tightened. He wiped his palms against his trousers. "I didn''t mean to bring trouble to your place of god. I''m simple alchemist. My skills were meant to-" "To avoid conflict? Help others in need?" The priest raised an eyebrow. "Yet here you are, leaving quite a trail of bodies and chaos in your wake." "I had no choice." Fendrel''s fingers twitched. The priest leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. "Let me be clear Master Solinar. The church maintains many interests throughout the city. Alchemy plays a role in our... various endeavors. Both in healing the sick and in more discrete matters." He gestured to the woman, who slipped away without a word. "This district, for instance, operates under our protection." "You control the brothels?" "We provide guidance to all of Adria''s children, regardless of their profession." The priest''s smile didn''t reach his eyes. "Perhaps we could help each other." Fendrel shifted in front of the heavy table, the priest''s words echoing in the chamber. The man''s explanation unfolded like a scroll, revealing layers of the church''s involvement in city affairs that Fendrel had never suspected. "We maintain a delicate balance," the priest said, adjusting the golden chain at his neck. "The criminal elements respect our territory, and in return, we ensure the safety of those under our care." "How do you know about me?" Fendrel''s fingers drummed against his leg. The priest''s weathered face softened. "Sister Marina observed you in the lower district. Selling healing potions to those in need of them." He leaned back. "We''ve watched you since then, trying to understand your motivations." Sweat beaded on Fendrel forehead. They seriously don''t know about what goes in my lab? He licked his lips. Or my dealings with the black market? "The poor deserve care as much as the wealthy," Fendrel said, the half-truth falling easily from his lips. "Indeed." The priest nodded. "Which is why we''d like to propose an arrangement. Your skills could benefit many under our protection. We need someone capable of producing healing potions, antidotes - remedies to counter the threats our people face." Fendrel''s mind raced. Someone else must handle the darker side of the church''s business in the brothels. I could use this, right? I could gain legitimacy through the church and have the healing potion business I wanted, along with paying customers lined up within a couple of days. "In return," the priest continued, "you''ll have access to our facilities. A safe haven until this unfortunate business with the guard dies down." He gestured to the rooms they''d passed. "Our laboratories would be at your disposal." The offer dangled before Fendrel like a perfectly crafted lure. Protection from the guards hunting him. Access to proper equipment. But the church''s reach extended deep into the city''s shadows, and Fendrel had enough secrets to bury him. "I''m honored by the offer," Fendrel said, choosing his words carefully. "But I assume this arrangement would come with certain... expectations?" The priest spread his hands. "Only that you continue your charitable work under our guidance. The church protects its own, Master Solinar. Especially those who share our commitment to helping the less fortunate." The heavy door creaked open, interrupting their conversation. A tall man in well-tailored clothes entered with measured steps, his presence filling the chamber despite his understated appearance. The priest''s expression shifted, a flicker of surprice crossing his weathered features. "Father." The man bowed his head slightly. "A messenger from the Ironmire Court is in the main hall." Fendrel''s stomach twisted. The parasite beneath his skin writhed in response to his mounting anxiety. "What does he want?" The priest asked, his earlier warmth replaced by careful neutrality. "They demand we hand over Master Solinar." The messenger''s eyes fixed on Fendrel. "They''re willing to forgive his... indiscretions regarding recent events, provided he honors the original arrangement they had agreed on." Sweat beaded on Fendrel''s forehead. Of course they''d tracked him here. His fingers curled into fists. The priest''s pale eyes studied Fendrel, measuring his reaction. "It seems you have more pressing obligations than you mentioned." Fendrel''s mind raced. The Ironmire could ensure his immediate survival, if he were to agree to deliver for them, but it wouldn''t end there. The church offered protection, resources, yet their reach into the city''s underworld suggested darker aspects to their operation. Both choices felt like nooses tightening around his neck. The priest''s calculating gaze never wavered, watching every movement that crossed Fendrel''s face. Fendrel''s throat constricted as he glanced between the two men watching him. He''d thought he could play both sides - keep the Ironmire Court satisfied with their poisons while building a legitimate healing business. Now those threads had tangled little too tight. The priest''s weathered face revealed nothing, but his pale eyes dissected every twitch of Fendrel''s expression. Looking for weakness. Looking for truth. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft echo of distant chants filtering through stone walls. I''m here at their mercy, and I don''t get a choice in this, do I? Chapter 22: Confrontation and Revelations Fendrel followed the priest down the winding stone staircase, his footsteps echoing against the cold walls. The parasite beneath his skin coiled tighter with each step, responding to the tension knotting in his gut. The main hall stretched before them, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow despite the afternoon light filtering through stained glass windows. Rows of wooden pews lined the path to the altar, where the messenger stood waiting. His tailored black coat bore the subtle emblem of the Ironmire Court - a serpent wrapped around a chalice - stitched in silver thread at the collar. The messenger''s dark eyes fixed on Fendrel, tracking his movement like a predator sizing up wounded prey. Fendrel''s fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for vials that weren''t there. "Your masters presume much." The priest''s voice carried across the empty hall, each word sharp as breaking glass. He stepped in front of Fendrel, shoulders squared. "Master Solinar has sought sanctuary within these walls. He remains under the protection of the church." A smile curved the messenger''s lips, more threat than amusement. "The church''s influence ends at its threshold, Father. Your walls cannot shelter him forever." "You mistake courtesy for weakness." The priest''s tone dropped lower, dangerous. "The Ironmire Court holds no power here. Leave, before your presence becomes an affront we cannot ignore." The messenger adjusted his cuffs, the movement deliberate and unhurried. "Consider carefully, Father. Your... charitable works rely on certain arrangements. Arrangements that could become... complicated." He turned his predatory gaze back to Fendrel. "The Court''s reach extends far beyond these sacred halls. There are consequences for refusing their generosity." Fendrel''s hands shook as he watched the two men square off. The parasite twisted beneath his skin, feeding off his growing panic. The church''s laboratory had equipment he desperately needed, ingredients that could help him fight the creature inside him. But the thought of staying locked away in the church''s underground chambers made his breath catch. "Your protection comes with chains of its own, doesn''t it, Father?" Fendrel''s voice cracked. "How long before I''m just another asset in your collection?" The priest didn''t turn around. "We offer sanctuary, not imprisonment. Unlike some, we honor our agreements." "Honor?" The messenger''s laugh echoed off the stone walls. "The Court knows about your special arrangements with the guard captain. About the shipments that disappear from the docks. Your hands aren''t as clean as you pretend." "Yet we don''t murder those who fail to meet our demands." The priest''s shoulders tensed. "How many bodies have washed up this month bearing the Court''s mark?" Fendrel''s stomach lurched. The parasite writhed faster, responding to his fear. He''d seen those bodies himself - bloated corpses with serpent brands burned into their flesh. But the church''s pristine walls felt like a cage closing in around him. Their laboratory might save him from the parasite, but at what cost? "The Court rewards loyalty generously." The messenger''s fingers brushed his silver serpent pin. "Your skills would be well-compensated, Master Solinar. No need to hide in shadows and cellars." "Until I outlive my usefulness." Fendrel''s bitter laugh triggered a coughing fit. Dark spots danced at the edges of his vision. "Enough." The priest''s voice cut through the air. "Master Solinar remains under our protection. Your threats change nothing." The heavy church doors burst open with a thunderous crack. A young acolyte stumbled through, blood streaming from his nose and split lip. His white robes were torn and stained crimson. Fendrel''s heart hammered against his ribs. "Father Marcus!" The injured priest clutched his side, gasping. "The Guild... they''re coming. Dozens of them gathering in the shadows." He spat blood onto the stone floor. "They mean to storm the compound." The senior priest''s serene mask cracked. His eyes went hard as steel. "Alert the wardens. Now." Two acolytes who had been lingering near the altar rushed into the back doors of the church. Their footsteps echoed through the vaulted ceiling. "Do you have a death wish?" Father Marcus rounded on the Ironmire messenger, voice tight with barely contained fury. The messenger straightened his already immaculate cuffs, seemingly unbothered by the chaos unfolding around him. "Ah. It seems my subordinates grew... impatient. They do tend to act rashly when negotiations stall." His lips curved in that predatory smile. "The Court extended a generous offer. You chose to refuse it."The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Father Marcus barked orders to the remaining priests, who scattered to different sections of the compound. "Seal the entrances. Get the noncombatants to the underground chambers." His weathered face had transformed from peaceful guardian to battle-hardened commander in moments. "The Court''s reputation for efficiency is well-earned." The messenger adjusted his silver serpent pin. "Though their methods lack... subtlety. Still, they get results." "You unleashed assassins on holy ground." Father Marcus''s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "The consequences-" "Will be severe, yes." The messenger cut him off with a wave. "But only for those who stand in our way. Step aside, release Solinar to our custody, and your flock need not suffer." Fendrel watched the tense exchange, his breath caught in his throat. The messenger''s words hung in the air, met with cold silence from Father Marcus. In that frozen moment, the air shifted. The messenger vanished. Fendrel''s eyes couldn''t track the movement - one instant the man stood several paces away, the next he materialized beside Father Marcus, a wicked curved dagger slicing through the air toward the priest''s throat. The blade never connected. An invisible barrier erupted around Father Marcus, catching the assassin mid-strike. The force hurled him across the chamber like a rag doll. He crashed into the stone wall with a sickening crack and slumped to the floor. "You aren''t a messenger." Father Marcus''s voice carried none of its earlier warmth. His weathered face hardened as he watched the assassin struggle to his feet. "One of the Court''s Phantoms? Well, it matters little. Seems you don''t know much about us either." The assassin barely regained his footing when Father Marcus raised his hand. A rosary dangled from his fingers, its metal catching the lamplight. Fendrel glimpsed the Winged Flame symbol before crackling energy erupted from the priest''s palm. The bolt of light struck the assassin''s shoulder, tearing his arm clean off in a spray of blood and burned flesh. Fendrel''s stomach heaved. His mind reeled, unable to process what he was seeing. The gentle priest who had offered him sanctuary now wielded combat magic like a seasoned warrior. What was a Phantom? Since when did the clergy command such power? The assassin''s face contorted with dawning horror. "Justiciar," he spat through clenched teeth, blood dripping from his remaining hand. "The intel... they fucked up..." His eyes darted toward the door, he vanished again. A shimmer of air materialized beside the entrance. A broad-shouldered figure in gleaming armor appeared, his mace already swinging in a devastating arc. The weapon caught the fleeing assassin in the chest with a crushing impact. The Phantom crumpled to the floor, still. The Warden lowered his mace, scanning the chamber for additional threats. Fendrel''s head spun as he processed the violence before him. His hands trembled, and the parasite inside him writhed, sensing his distress. The old priest in front of him had transformed into something else entirely - a Justiciar, whatever that meant. Father Marcus turned to him, his earlier warmth replaced by steel. "We will deal with them Master Solinar. You go under the church and start brewing." The command brooked no argument. Fendrel opened his mouth to speak, but Marcus cut him off. "Healing potions, mana potions, whatever you can do, do it. And make a lot." His jaw clenched. "You will owe us for this." The words ground out through his gritted teeth. A young acolyte went to Fendrel''s side, grabbed his arm, and pulled him toward a narrow doorway. They descended worn stone steps into the church''s underground chambers. The sounds of combat above became muffled, replaced by the echo of their footsteps. The acolyte led him to a small room lined with shelves of ingredients and equipment. "The alchemy lab," she said, lighting several oil lamps. "I''ll be outside if you need anything." Fendrel''s hands shook as he surveyed the workspace. The parasite twisted inside him - a reminder he couldn''t ignore. Three hours until his next dose. He''d need to work fast. He grabbed ingredients for healing potions first - dried Petaline herb, Bluecap mushrooms, purified water. But his eyes kept darting to the components he needed for his own survival: Dralk weed, Nightshade essence, bone ash. The church''s lab was well-stocked. Better than anything he''d worked with in years. He set up multiple brewing stations, positioning burners and beakers in efficient arrangements. He crushed herbs with practiced movements, measured liquids with trembling hands. The familiar motions of brewing helped steady his nerves. He started three batches of healing potions simultaneously, watching the color changes as they simmered. Between steps of brewing healing potions, Fendrel''s hands moved with practiced efficiency, gathering ingredients for his personal needs. Silkslither cocoon fibers gleamed in the lamplight as he measured them. Widowvine sap dripped from the dropper, each precious drop counted. The familiar scent of shadecap spores filled his nostrils as he ground them into fine ash. The first batch of healing potions bubbled, turning from pale green to dark red. He bottled them quickly, his movements mechanical while his mind focused on the darker concoction beside it. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Intermediate Healing Potion brewed successfully. Residual amount: 60%. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Intermediate Healing Potion brewed successfully. Residual amount: 20%. The Venomshroud Poison simmered with a sinister sheen, exactly the shade he needed. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Venomshroud Poison brewed successfully. Residual amount: 50%. The door creaked. The young acolyte stepped in, a basket of fresh herbs in her arms. Her eyes swept across the workbench, lingering on each vial. When she reached the dark green poison, her face drained of color. "What are you doing?" She stumbled backward, herbs scattering across the floor. Fendrel''s heart hammered against his ribs. "Wait. I can explain." The words tumbled out before he could think them through. "I hope so, Father will want to know." Her hand gripped the doorframe. Could he risk letting her alert the Justiciar? The image of Marcus''s combat magic flashed through his thoughts. Fendrel''s nails darkened to a sickly purple as fight-or-flight instincts warred in his mind. The acolyte''s eyes widened at his transformed nails. She spun toward the door. Fendrel''s body moved before his mind caught up. His fingers closed around the nearest vial of Venomshroud. The glass felt cold against his palm as he hurled it. The vial shattered between her shoulder blades. Green liquid soaked through her robes as she stumbled into the hallway. Her scream echoed off the stone walls. "Help! The alchemist-" Her voice broke into a pained gasp. Chapter 23: Clash in the Church Fendrel watched with detached curiosity as the acolyte collapsed. Her body hit the stone floor with a dull thud, twitching once before going still. His hands remained steady as he dragged her inside, positioning her behind the heavy wooden table he used to barricade the door. He gathered the ingredients for Witherfang Resin with methodical precision - Bloodthorn Resin, crushed ashroot, Spiderling Venom, and a precise measure of Frostbloom Dust. After drinking both completed toxins, an eerie silence fell over the church above. [PARASITE STATUS]: Agitation level decreased. Next dose required in 10 hours. The earlier rushing of footsteps had ceased at some point. Fendrel''s fingers traced the edge of a empty vial as he waited, every creak and groan of the old building making his skin crawl. The peace shattered as bells began tolling. The next moment the door rattled against the table, pushing it forward inch by inch. Fendrel threw his weight against it, but steel blades punched through the wood, nearly skewering him. "Open the door, Solinar," a cold voice commanded through the splintered wood. "Your trick with the Blackthorns was bad enough. Now look what you are doing - how many people do you want to die before you pay for your arrogance?" Fendrel grabbed a vial of toxin with trembling fingers and pressed himself flat against the wall beside the door, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat as he waited. Sweat trickled down his spine, making his shirt cling uncomfortably to his skin. The assassin burst in, wood fragments spraying across the floor. Fendrel flung the Witherfang Resin at the intruder''s face, but the man''s dagger flashed upward with impossible speed, knocking it aside. The caustic liquid splashed against the stone wall, eating through it with a violent hiss that made both men freeze. Fendrel watched in horror as tendrils of acrid smoke rose from the dissolving stone. What the hell am I drinking? Their moment of shocked stillness broke as Fendrel bolted for the exit, his survival instincts screaming, but an iron grip yanked him back by his collar like a misbehaving pup. White-hot pain exploded through his arm as a blade sank deep into muscle, drawing a strangled cry from his throat. "Stop fighting," the assassin snarled, pushing Fendrel against a wall while pulling the blade out with a wet sound that turned his stomach. Blood ran warm down his arm, soaking into his sleeve. "Or I start taking your legs off piece by piece. Your choice." Pain blazed through Fendrel''s arm, blood soaking his sleeve in a dark crimson stain. He spat at the assassin''s face, but to his chagrin the glob of saliva had no effect. The assassin''s lips curled into a snarl. "That the best you got?" He drew his blade back for another strike. Fendrel lashed out with his injured arm, transformed claws gleaming in the dim light. The assassin blocked with his forearm, but Fendrel''s blood splattered across his exposed skin. The man''s eyes widened. His throat constricted, hands letting go of Fendrel, clawing at his neck as he struggled to breathe. Terror replaced the earlier confidence as he dropped to his knees, then face-first onto the stone floor. Fendrel stumbled past the body, bursting into the hallway. He slammed straight into another man - a man in light armor with twin crosses adorning his shoulders. The church Guardian held a short sword in one hand, a small shield in the other. The soldier''s gaze drifted to the laboratory doorway. "Interesting." He stepped around Fendrel. "Didn''t think you had it in you to take out one of them." Fendrel stood frozen as the man entered the lab, surveying the space before methodically collecting the red vials on the table. The soldier paused at the acolyte''s body, then moved to examine the assassin and the acid-eaten wall. Understanding dawned on his face as he whirled back to Fendrel. But before he could raise his shield, Fendrel''s hand shot out, striking the soldier across the face. It was merely a slap, but he managed to draw blood with his dark nails. Confusion crossed the soldier''s features before he cursed, dropping to his knees. Bright light erupted from his body - some kind of divine protection. [STATUS]: Your poison resisted a cleanse. [NEW CLASS SKILL]: Toxin purification resistance 1 If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "Who would have thought you were one of them." The soldier tried to rise, muscles straining, but collapsed instead. The reality of what he''d done - killing not one but two church members - hit Fendrel like a physical blow. His feet carried him down the corridor, heart thundering in his ears as he fled into the darkness. Fendrel burst through the corridor doors into the main hall and froze. Thick smoke billowed through the chamber in rolling waves, punctuated by flashes of steel and bursts of divine magic. Dark-clad figures darted through the haze like wraiths, their blades gleaming with familiar green toxins. The sickly sweet scent of Silkslither Toxin filled his nostrils. A church guardian stumbled past, clutching his throat as purple veins spread across his face. He collapsed at Fendrel''s feet, eyes glazed and unseeing. Three assassins emerged from the smoke, moving with unnatural grace as they surrounded a lone warden. The defender''s mace crackled with holy energy, but he couldn''t track their synchronized attacks. One blade found his neck, another a joint in his armor. He dropped without a sound. Fendrels nails darkened further as fungal spores erupted from his pores, creating a damp, unsettling mist around him. The Fungal Aura provided some cover as he edged toward the main entrance, keeping to the shadows. A flash of white caught his eye. Father Marcus - no, the Justiciar - stood few paces from the main door, his rosary blazing with intense light. An assassin materialized behind him, blade aimed for his spine, but the man spun with impossible speed. His palm struck the attacker''s chest, burning through the flesh and bone. The assassin''s scream cut off as his body disintegrated. Marcus''s gaze locked onto Fendrel through the smoke. "Solinar! Here, now!" His voice carried the same authority that had commanded him to brew earlier. Fendrel''s muscles tensed at the command, years of conditioning almost forcing him forward. But the smoke swirled thick around him, offering an escape route to the side exit. His nails dug into his palms as he wrestled with the decision. A shadow detached itself from the chaos. The assassin materialized behind Marcus, blade already in motion. The priest''s white robes bloomed crimson as steel bit deep into his shoulder. Blood sprayed across the marble floor in an arc. The parasite writhed under Fendrel''s skin, sending waves of burning pain through his arms. His fingers elongated into dark, chitinous claws as desperation overwhelmed rational thought. "Fuck it all." He charged through the smoke, his mutated hand raking across the assassin''s back who was about to finish the Justiciar. The strike was clumsy, more flail than anything, but the element of surprise worked in his favor. His claws caught in the assassin''s leather armor, tearing through it and the flesh beneath. The assassin stumbled forward, trying to spin away, but it was too late. The man''s eyes widened as the toxin took hold, his muscles spasming as he crashed to the floor. [ACTIVE SKILL LEVEL UP] Mudclaw LEVEL 2 Fendrel watched as purple veins crept up Marcus''s arm where the assassin''s blade had struck. The priest''s face contorted in pain - a telltale sign of Silkslither poisoning. The same toxin Fendrel had been brewing and selling for weeks. Marcus yanked a crystal vial from his belt, uncorked it with his teeth, and downed the contents in one swift motion. The purple lines retreated slightly but didn''t vanish completely. His breathing remained labored, sweat beading on his forehead. Fendrel''s eyes widened. An antidote? Not a perfect one, but effective enough to buy time. His mind darted to the well-stocked laboratory below. With those supplies, someone had to be brewing regularly - another Alchemist or Herbalist working for the church. Marcus gripped his knee, pulling himself upright. Blood dripped from his wounded shoulder, staining the white stones crimson. "You have some explaining to do, Solinar." His voice rasped. "Where''s Felix? The guardian sent to fetch you?" Fendrel''s throat went dry. "Dead. Took down one of the assassins before the poison got him." Marcus''s face hardened, jaw clenching as he processed the news. A wet crunch echoed through the smoke-filled hall as the Warden''s mace connected with another assassin''s skull. The defender''s armor gleamed with fire winged symbols, but fatigue showed in his movements. "These poisons..." He grunted. "Too potent. I have hard time cleansing them fast enough." Fendrel''s muscles burned as he backed toward Marcus, watching assassins slip through the smoke like wraiths. Their blades dripped with familiar toxins - his toxins. Blood and bodies littered the marble floor, the church''s defenders falling one by one to poisoned steel. The assassins pressed closer, but the warden with Marcus stayed near the entrance. The realization hit him - they weren''t retreating. They were stalling. Heavy boots thundered against stone as the church doors burst open. Guards poured in behind a panting acolyte, their armor reflecting the flickering torchlight. Steel scraped against leather as they drew their weapons. Fendrel tracked the remaining assassins as they melted into the shadows instead of pushing the assault. One dropped a smoke bomb, filling their retreat with thick gray clouds. The last thing he glimpsed was the glint of daggers disappearing through broken windows. Bodies littered the marble floor. Blood mixed with spilled potions, creating strange patterns across the stone. Fallen defenders lay twisted among broken pews and shattered glass. The air reeked of smoke, blood, and chemical residue. Marcus leaned against a pillar, his face pale and slick with sweat. Purple lines still crept up his neck from the wound, but slower now. "Captain. Your timing proves... fortuitous." His words came between labored breaths. "Have your men secure the perimeter. Check for stragglers." The guard captain barked orders, sending his squad to search the grounds. He kept his sword drawn as he approached Marcus. "When the acolyte reached us... said assassins breached the church." "Indeed." Marcus gestured to the carnage. "Start treating the wounded. Brother Kain, gather the surviving healers." A guard''s shout cut through the organized chaos. "Wait - I know him!" He jabbed a finger toward Fendrel. "You''re the fucker alchemist who poisoned the whole garrison in the upper district." All eyes turned to Fendrel. The parasite squirmed under his skin, sensing danger. His clawed hand twitched behind his back. "I didn''t..." Fendrel''s throat closed up. "What are you talking about?" Marcus pushed away from the pillar, his priest''s robes stained dark with blood. The purple lines on his neck pulsed as he fixed Fendrel with an icy stare. "It seems we''ve misjudged the scope of your talents, Master Solinar. You have much to explain." Arc 2: Chapter 24: The Churchs Demand Sunlight crept through the shattered stained glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across the blood-stained marble floor. Fendrel slumped on a wooden bench, his muscles screaming from the night''s work. His hands trembled, covered in residue from countless potions and antidotes he''d brewed through the endless hours. Acrid smoke still hung in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood and the sharp bite of spilled alchemical reagents. Around him, the wounded groaned as healers applied his antidotes. Many bodies lay covered in white sheets, their outlines stark against the debris of overturned pews and broken glass. Fendrel counted twelve sheets. Twelve dead from his poisons, wielded by Ironmire''s assassins. A shadow fell across him. The Warden stood there, his armor dented and scored, dried blood crusting the joints. Without his helmet, his face was a mask of exhaustion and barely contained fury. Behind him, the senior priest''s robes were stained dark with blood, but his eyes burned with cold intensity as he met Fendrel''s gaze. A slight nod, a beckoning gesture. The Warden''s gauntleted hand clamped onto Fendrel''s shoulder, hauling him to his feet. Pain shot through his overtaxed muscles as the armored man propelled him forward. They moved past clusters of survivors. Conversations died as heads turned to watch. Whispers followed in their wake, carrying fragments that made Fendrel''s skin crawl. "...his poisons..." "...working with them all along..." The Warden''s grip tightened as they descended stone steps into the church''s lower levels. Torchlight replaced the sun''s warmth, shadows deepening with each step downward. The whispers faded, replaced by the echo of armored boots on stone and Fendrel''s own ragged breathing. Fendrel stumbled, catching himself against the damp wall. The Warden yanked him upright without a word, forcing him deeper into the church''s belly. The stone walls pressed in around Fendrel as they descended deeper into the church''s basement. His feet scraped against worn steps, the Warden''s grip never loosening. The parasite writhed beneath his skin, responding to his elevated heartbeat, but Fendrel felt an odd sense of detachment from the situation. The chamber they entered matched the rest of the underground - dark stone walls slick with condensation, lit by flickering crystals. Metal restraints hung from thick chains mounted to the walls, their purpose clear. A heavy wooden table dominated the center, flanked by several chairs. The Warden shoved him into the smallest chair, its legs scraping against stone. Two guards took position by the door, hands resting on sword hilts. Their eyes never left him. The Justiciar entered last, his robes sweeping the floor. Purple lines still marked his neck where the poison had nearly claimed him, but his movements remained steady. He settled into the chair across from Fendrel, laying his hands flat on the table''s scarred surface. "You''ve been busy, Master Solinar." The Justiciar''s voice was heavy, tired. "First the garrison, now this attack. How long have you worked with the Ironmire Court?" Fendrel''s lips twitched. The past hours spent brewing antidotes had given him time to piece things together. Those guards who''d beaten him weeks ago, they must have winded up dead after his blood got on them. It wasn''t just his blood bot most of his bodily liquids were heavily laced with toxins and poisons. No wonder the garrison wanted his head. But this calm settling over him felt strange. One good punch to his face would spray blood everywhere. A cut, a scrape - any break in his skin would allow him to get heavy dose of poison on the people sitting in front of him. Do they know? I don''t think so. "I don''t work for Ironmire." Fendrel kept his voice steady. "Never have." The Warden''s gauntlet crashed down, denting the table. "Think again! We found your poisons on their bodies!" Fendrel didn''t flinch, he was frozen in place. The impact had come close enough to feel the air move. Forget about poisoning them, they would kill me before I could escape. He slowly forced himself to turn to look at the armored man. One head-butt would be all it took for both of them to die. The thought almost made him laugh. "I don''t work for them," he said. "They were buying my stuff from the black market, same as other groups."Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! The Justiciar leaned forward, purple lines stark against his skin. "Explain." Fendrel shifted in his chair, the wood wheezing. "I sold through a middleman. Never dealt with buyers directly." He glanced at the purple lines on the Justiciar''s neck. "The black market contact had a scarred face, wore the Silent Scale. That''s all I know." "A convenient excuse." The Warden''s armor creaked as he paced. "Blame a random courier no one can find." The Justiciar raised his hand, silencing the Warden. "Seems like the guard had been looking for rogue alchemist gone crazy for weeks now. They suspected someone from the Academy, or one of the underground organization finally loosing all sense and bringing an outsider in." His lips curved. "Nobody thought to look in the slums." Fendrel kept his face blank, hands on the table. "Your skills must be remarkable." The Justiciar leaned back, studying him. "Such precise work from someone operating out of a hovel. And yet..." He gestured at Fendrel''s threadbare clothes. "It''s actually impressive, the self-restraint you exercised with the money you must have been bringing in." Fendrel''s stomach clenched. Is brewing poisons really that difficult? The only reason he didn''t spend more was because he actually had no money due to the parasites increasing demands. This also confirms they don''t know about my class advancement yet. "Where did it go wrong?" The Justiciar''s voice softened, almost friendly. "The garrison incident? Or did you get greedy and end up blowing your cover?" For a moment, Fendrel almost told him everything - the parasite, the constant brewing, the desperate need for ingredients. The words rose in his throat before he caught himself. They''d never let him live if they knew of his class. "I didn''t mean for anyone to die." The words came out rough. "They attacked me first. Everything else - I just sold what people would buy. I have to put food on the table somehow." "Intent is irrelevant." The priest''s voice cut through the air. "Your creations are tearing this city apart. Guards dead, nobles poisoned, chaos in the streets." He leaned forward. "The Blackthorn girl nearly died. She is sixteen." Fendrel''s fingers twitched. Elena Blackthorn. She was the first victim of his work that he was aware of. The Justiciar''s expression shifted, his eyes taking on a calculating gleam. "That is beside the point. We aren''t here to pass judgment on you yet." "Yet?" The word slipped out before Fendrel could stop it. The senior priest rose from his chair, his robes rustling against the stone floor. "The church offers you a choice, alchemist. Work for us, or face public execution." Fendrel''s mouth went dry. "Work for you?" "We need antidotes." The priest''s voice was steel wrapped in silk. "The Assassins'' Guild has been using your poisons. We need to have countermeasures ready if they decide to push us again, healing potions, mana restoration potions and so on. I will give you chance to use your skills for your redemption." "What choice do I have?" The Warden''s gauntlet scraped across the table. "This isn''t a request. You''ll brew what we need, or you''ll hang. Simple as that." "You''ll have access to ingredients," the priest added. "Whatever you require, within reason. But you must cease all poison production immediately." Yeah sure and die within the next eight hours. The church was offering him protection, resources - survival. But they''d watch him constantly. One mistake, one discovered vial of poison, and he''d be dead. Yet refusing meant certain death. The Justiciar studied him with those calculating eyes. "Consider carefully. The church can be generous to those who serve faithfully. Or merciless to those who betray its trust." The offer was clear. They''d shield him from the Assassins'' Guilds, the crime lords, everyone who might want him dead. They are ready to provide so much protection only for me to make them antidotes? It was almost dream come true, only if it wasn''t for the fact that they would basically own him. "How long do I have to decide?" Fendrel asked. "Now." The Warden''s voice brooked no argument. "Choose." Fendrel''s throat constricted as he weighed his options. The church''s offer wasn''t really an offer at all - it was an ultimatum wrapped in false choice. But perhaps he could salvage something from this situation. "I''ll do it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I have conditions." The Warden''s laugh echoed off the stone walls. "You''re in no position to make demands, alchemist." "I need to be able to go into the city." Fendrel straightened his spine, fighting against the tremor in his voice. "To select my own ingredients. Quality matters in alchemy - I can''t trust others to know what to look for." The priest raised an eyebrow. "You expect us to let you wander freely?" "Not freely. Send guards if you must. But I need this autonomy. I''m not going to be your slave." The Warden slammed his palm on the table. "This is absurd. He''ll run first chance-" "Agreed." The priest''s word cut through the Warden''s protest like a knife. "But understand this, Fendrel Solinar - one misstep, one hint of betrayal, and your life is forfeit. The church''s mercy extends only so far." The Warden''s face reddened. "Father-" "Two guards will accompany him at all times." The priest''s eyes never left Fendrel''s face. "Remember, alchemist - you are useful, not irreplaceable." The guards marched Fendrel through winding corridors, their boots echoing against stone floors. He recognized this path - he''d walked it before, that night with the woman in silks. They stopped before massive wooden doors that opened into a laboratory that made his old workspace look like a beggar''s hole. Copper stills lined one wall, their surfaces gleaming in the lamplight. Shelves of fresh ingredients stretched floor to ceiling. Three different workbenches stood ready, each with its own set of pristine equipment. "Your new workspace," one guard grunted. "Get comfortable." Fendrel ran his fingers along a marble countertop. All this equipment, all these resources - it would have been a dream come true once. Now it felt like gilded chains. His mind drifted to the Witherfang Resin he''d created, how it had eaten through solid stone. Something that powerful could be useful, if he planned carefully. He''d need time to gather supplies, to prepare. But he would escape - he had to. The guards took up positions by the door, their eyes boring into his back. Fendrel picked up a mortar and pestle, trying to get his mind focus on the work. Chapter 25: Stakes and Consequences Fendrel crushed another batch of bluecap mushrooms, his movements mechanical after days of repetition. The new laboratory exceeded his wildest expectations - clean equipment and ingredients he''d only dreamed of working with before. The guards changed shifts outside his door with clockwork precision. They brought his meals three times a day - real food, not the moldy bread and watery soup he''d subsisted on in the slums. This morning''s breakfast included fresh eggs and actual meat, still warm from the kitchen. He poured the finished healing potion into a crystal vial, adding it to the neat rows of completed brews. Widowvine Antioxidants glowed with a soft amber light beside the dark red of Intermediate healing potions. His private stash of Venomshroud Poison and Witherfang Resin sat hidden beneath a false bottom in one of the drawers. He managed to brew them around midnight the previous night. However, with all the intensive brewing, issues arose rather quickly. For one, he had already leveled again - mere days after his previous advancement. That included the parasite as well. The advancement unlocked an unsettling new set of recipes in his codex, sending cold shivers down his spine as he read through the exotic and deadly herbs involved. He glanced anxiously at the shelf where the Venomlily essence used to be, now just an empty space collecting dust. The widowvine sap container had nearly run dry, barely a few drops clinging to the crystal walls, and he''d used the last strands of the silkslither cocoon fibers that very morning. The churches stockpile was vanishing at an alarming rate. Who would stock up on this specific stuff anyway. I will need to go into the city. As he picked listlessly at his dinner - some kind of herb-crusted roasted fowl with seasonal vegetables that he barely tasted - his stomach churned with worry. He closed his eyes, before opening his status window. [STATUS] NAME: Fendrel Solinar CLASS: Mirebane LEVEL: 11 RACE: Human Bogwraith SYMBIOSIS: Xytril Nematode LEVEL: 6 [PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode required substance: 2x Venomshroud Poison, Witherfang Resin. Next dose required in 10 hours. [ACTIVE SKILLS] Potion Brewing LEVEL: 5 Essence Distillation LEVEL: 3 Catalyst Stabilization LEVEL: 3 Poison Synthesis [Xytril Nematode] LEVEL: 4 Resin Synthesis [Xytril Nematode] LEVEL: 2 [COMBAT SKILLS] Fungal Aura LEVEL 1 Mudclaw LEVEL 2 [PASSIVE SKILLS] Herb Identification LEVEL 6 Chemical Resistance LEVEL 2 Poison resistance [Xytril Nematode] LEVEL 7 Toxin resistance [Xytril Nematode] LEVEL 5 Resin resistance [Xytril Nematode] LEVEL 2 His situation followed a familiar pattern - escalating poison requirements with each level. The implications were clear. The new recipes in the codex would soon be necessary to contain the parasite. His current production barely met the existing demands, and the thought of additional requirements made his hands tremble as he reviewed his dwindling supplies. The shelves seemed emptier by the day, a stark reminder of his predicament. [CODEX] Fendrel scanned the new recipes that had appeared in his codex. His fingers traced the ingredient lists, calculating quantities needed. The Blackmire Venom caught his attention - its requirements matched nothing he''d seen in this lab. I will need to go shopping tomorrow, maybe drop by the old place to see what is left there.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. He went to the door to let the guards outside know of his planned schedule, but a clatter of boots in the hallway interrupted him before he could push the door open. "Did you hear about the Pale Embers showing up in the merchant district?" "Yeah. Three shops marked overnight. The Cabal won''t take that lying down." "My cousin says there''s already been fights breaking out near the docks. Found two bodies this morning." Fendrel''s stood frozen at the doors. "They say the Court''s bringing in muscle from up north. Going to be blood in the streets soon." The voices faded as the guards changed. Fendrel glanced at his dwindling supplies. Tomorrow, he thought. I''ll have to risk going into the city tomorrow, with the church guards watching me I should be fine. The morning sun cast long shadows across the church courtyard as Fendrel stepped out into the crisp air. Two guards fell in behind him, their boots clicking against the cobblestones. Their presence made his skin crawl - a constant reminder of his captivity masked as protection. The streets grew narrower as they moved away from the main thoroughfare. Fendrel''s fingers brushed against the vials in his pocket, counting them by touch. The guards'' heavy footsteps echoed off the close-set buildings. At the border of the slums, Fendrel''s pace slowed. The stench of rot and sewage filled his nostrils. Now or never. His heart pounded as he activated Fungal Aura. A pale green mist with damp smell swirled around him. To his chagrin blue light flared from the guards'' amulets, pushing back the fog. The closer guard''s hand dropped to his sword hilt. "What are you doing, alchemist?" Fendrel bolted down a side alley. His lungs burned after just a few steps, legs already trembling from the unaccustomed exercise. The guards'' footfalls grew closer with each passing second. "Stop right there!" Metal scraped against leather as swords cleared their scabbards. Fendrel''s fingers closed around the first vial of Witherfang resin. He spun, hurling it at the nearest guard. The man raised his arm instinctively. Glass shattered against steel bracer. Amber liquid splashed across his leather armor, going right through it. The guard''s scream pierced the morning air. His flesh bubbled and dissolved, sword clattering to the ground as he collapsed. Without hesitation, Fendrel grabbed the second vial and threw it at the remaining guard before turning to run again. "You bastard!" Fendrel''s legs gave out as he rounded another corner. His chest heaved, each breath burning in his lungs. Blood dripped from a cut above his eye where he''d scraped against a wall during his escape. He wiped it away with a trembling hand and forced himself up. The familiar streets of the slums stretched before him, the crooked buildings and narrow alleys a maze he''d walked countless times. His old laboratory came into view - but something was wrong. The rotting wooden door had been replaced with a solid one. New glass glinted in previously broken windows. Fendrel approached cautiously, expecting someone to burst out at any moment. His fingers brushed the door handle. It swung open without resistance. The scent of chemicals and herbs hit him as he stepped inside. Two figures lounged at his workbench, both wearing the dark leather coats favored by the Guttermaw Cabal, they mark gleamed at their sleeves. One had his boots propped on the bench while the other''s head rested on crossed arms. "Took you long enough." The one with his feet up didn''t bother opening his eyes. "Oh don''t look that surprised, after the shit you pulled in the church everyone was looking for you." Fendrel''s hand tightened on the door handle. His remaining vials pressed against his chest, hidden in an inner pocket. After some deliberation he closed the door behind him. "Right, seems you managed to lose your friends so let''s discuss the current situation." The second figure lifted his head, revealing a face marked with ritual scars - the signature of high-ranking Cabal members. The scarred man gestured to the workbench. "Have a seat, Fendrel." Fendrel''s legs still shook from the run. He slid onto the familiar stool, noting the fresh scratches in the worn wood surface. His fingers traced the new marks - someone had been busy in here. "Let''s cut through the shit." The man with his feet up swung them down. "Your little stunt at the church caught everyone''s attention. But lucky for you, we''ve smoothed things over with the Ironmire Court." Fendrel''s throat tightened. "How?" The word came out as a croak. "Does it matter?" The scarred man leaned forward. "What matters is you''re still breathing. And you''ll keep breathing as long as you hold up your end." "Which means?" "Business as usual. Keep making what you''ve been making. Fill those outstanding orders. Both for us and the Court." The man''s ritual scars twisted as he smiled. "Even that peculiar arrangement you have with the Justiciar - we''ll handle it." Fendrel''s hands clenched. He''d thought that particular deal had remained secret. The other Cabal member stood, stretching. "Speaking of arrangements." He walked to the window, tapping the new glass. "Nice improvements, right? Consider it an investment in your future success." The scarred man''s smile vanished. He grabbed Fendrel''s collar, pulling him close. "You''re valuable, Fendrel, but only as long as you''re producing. Don''t make us regret this arrangement." "The lab is secured now." The man at the window turned back. "Protected. But that protection works both ways. You''re being watched - and not just by us." He raised an eyebrow. "So maybe reconsider any more escape attempts like today''s little adventure." Fendrel nodded. The scarred man released his grip. "Good." The man straightened his leather coat. Fendrel raised his hand before they reached the door. "There''s something else." The scarred man''s shoulders tensed. "Spit it out." "My work has... evolved." Fendrel''s fingers brushed against the hidden vials. "These supplies won''t cut it anymore." The man by the window crossed his arms. "You''re telling me we wasted coin on useless ingredients?" "Not useless. Just..." Fendrel glanced at the shelves stocked with common herbs and reagents. Basic materials for what he used to make, but that wasn''t the case anymore. "Insufficient." The scarred man''s ritual marks deepened as he frowned. "Make a list then. We''ll have someone collect it." "That won''t work." Fendrel winced at their sharp looks. "I need the materials within twenty hours." "Twenty hours?" The man by the window stalked forward. "What''s the rush?" The parasite twisted again, sending waves of nausea through Fendrel''s gut. He gripped the workbench edge. "A lot has changed. I imagine you are aware of my advancement?." "What of it?" Fendrel gripped his shirt. "It''s complicated." "Of course its." The scarred man jerked his head at his companion. "We''ll send the usual contact. You better get to writing." Fendrel''s hand shook as he scratched the last ingredient onto the parchment. The list had grown longer than expected. He grabbed the vial of Venomshroud Poison from his workbench, its soft yellow glow illuminating his trembling fingers. The familiar burn spread through his throat as he downed it. A floorboard creaked outside. His stomach clenched. The parasite stirred beneath his skin, sending pinpricks of pain through his arms. His nails lengthened, darkening at the tips. The door swung open. Three figures entered, their black leather coats emblazoned with silver serpents wrapped around chalices. The leader, a woman with a half-mask covering her left eye, moved with practiced grace as she approached his workbench. "Fendrel Solinar." She stood near his workbench, examining the empty vials. "Your workspace lacks... refinement. Though I suppose that adds to your particular charm." The other two spread out, cutting off any exits he might have considered. Fendrel''s nails dug into his palms. "I wasn''t expecting visitors this late." "Clearly." The woman picked up the empty vial, turning it in the lamplight. "You''ve caused us no small inconvenience, alchemist. But we''ve decided you''re more useful alive¡ªfor now." "The Cabal already-" She cut him off with a wave. "You seem to fail to understand your situation, while pushing your luck with us. The Cabal serves its purpose. As do you." Her eye fixed on his workbench. "We''ve heard interesting rumors about your recent... improvements." Fendrel''s chest tightened. Unwilling to question how does she know. "Your little stunt with the church was impressive." She set down the vial with deliberate care. "But it will only accelerate their downfall. The church''s days in this city are numbered." "I don''t understand what-" "You don''t need to understand." She gestured to one of her companions, who produced a leather pouch. "You only need to brew. Your new formulas will prove useful in the coming weeks." The pouch landed on his workbench with a heavy clink. Gold, by the sound of it. "We''ll return in three days." She moved toward the door, her companions falling in step. "Don''t disappoint us, alchemist. The Cabal''s protection only extends so far." Chapter 26: Crossfire Fendrel slumped over his workbench, his vision blurring as he stared at the rows of bubbling concoctions. The lab reeked of burnt herbs and chemical fumes. Scattered papers covered every surface, bearing hastily scrawled ingredient lists and his current obligations. Three empty vials of Venomshroud and Witherfang Resin lay discarded beside him, their residue still coating the glass. [PARASITE STATUS]: Agitation level decreased. Next dose required in 10 hours "Its too much," he muttered, organizing the chaos before him into neat rows. Church orders on the left: healing potions and antidotes, their soft blue glow a stark contrast to the darker hues beside them. The Cabal''s Nightshade Reinforcer batches on the right, their amber color deceptively innocent. He had to wait for someone to pick his list and deliver him the ingredients necessary for the Venomshroud and Witherfang potions to be able to finish the Ironmire''s order. His hands shook as he counted the remaining doses. Not enough. Never enough. "Fuck." He knocked over an empty vial. It rolled off the bench and shattered on the floor. "Fuck!" Fendrel yanked at his hair, his fingers tangling in the greasy strands as he leaned over his workbench. "What am I even doing?" The empty vials before him reflected his gaunt face in their curved surfaces. The church''s guards - he''d killed at least one in his escape. Still, he mixed their healing potions, arranging the dark red liquids in neat rows. A foolish hope that they might negotiate rather than hunt him down. The Cabal''s order sat half-finished. Simple enough with his current stock of ingredients, though the amber liquid seemed to mock him as it caught the lamplight. But the Ironmire''s demands - his gaze swept over his uselessly plentiful herb stores. His eyes traced the lines of his codex. The familiar recipes for Xytherium and Silkslither were gone, vanished as if they''d never existed. He remembered each step, each measurement, but attempting them now proved futile. The knowledge was in his head but each time he attempted the process it failed. Fendrel swept empty vials into a crate, his movements sharp and jerky. The Ironmire''s list taunted him - widowvine sap, bloodthorn resin, and ashroot. None available. He just drank the last dose for himself, he needed the Cabal order in quickly, or go shopping by himself. He shuddered at the idea. A sharp knock rattled Fendrel''s door. His hands froze over the workbench, a vial of healing potion almost spilling. The knock came again, harder this time, followed by the distinct sound of metal on wood. Church guards. The parasite writhed beneath his skin as his heart rate spiked. Fendrel''s fingers trembled, spilling precious drops of the red liquid across his notes. The door burst open. Two armored figures filled the frame, their polished breastplates bearing the church''s symbol. Fendrel stumbled backward, knocking over a rack of empty vials. Power surged through his veins, as his fingernails turned dark purple. The first guard''s shield caught him across the face. Pain exploded through his jaw as he sprawled across the workbench. Glass crunched beneath his palms. "Keep your distance," the guard spat, shield raised. "Make a move and I''ll take your head." The second guard stepped forward, his stance more relaxed despite the sword at his hip. "Now, now. Let''s be civil." His eyes scanned the workshop. "We''re here to have a conversation about your... continued existence in our city." Blood dripped from Fendrel''s split lip. He pulled himself upright, the mudclaws receding beneath his skin. His gaze darted between the guards and the sack of healing potions he''d prepared. "I have your order ready." He pushed the sack across the workbench with shaking hands. "Full batch, as agreed." The second guard picked up one of the vials, holding it to the light. The red liquid cast strange shadows across his face. "This is surprising. But that''s not why we''re here." He set the vial down with a soft clink. "We need to discuss your other... products." "Let us be clear, alchemist." The man''s voice hardened. "Your poison-making operations end here. If we see you making more of those toxins, we will kill you regardless of what the Cabal or Black Market people say."This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Fendrel nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His hands clenched into fists beneath the workbench. The second guard''s face twisted with contempt. "I don''t know what goes through that thick skull of yours. When you decided to kill our people at the same time as the Ironmire scum?" He kicked an empty vial across the floor. "Pick a damn side." Fendrel''s back broke with sweat. His hands gripped the workbench edge until his knuckles went white. "The only reason you''re still breathing is the Justiciar''s mercy." The first guard grabbed the sack of potions and the box of reinforcers. "Consider this payment for your worthless life." "Make your choice carefully," the second guard said. His hand rested on his sword pommel, metal gleaming in the lamplight. "Next time we will have answer one way or other. Fendrel''s kept his eyes fixed on the floor as the guards pocketed the reinforcers, healing potions and antidotes, taking everything they could carry. The door slammed shut, leaving Fendrel alone in the wreckage of his workshop. Glass crunched under his boots as he slumped against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor. His jaw throbbed where the guard''s shield had struck. "You''re nothing but a tool for them, Fendrel." The words escaped in a hoarse whisper. "A pawn in their game." His hands shook as he pressed them against his temples. When was the last time he''d slept properly? Two days? Three? "Why not just end it?" His fingers traced the edge of a broken vial. How many others had died because of him? The Church, the Ironmire Court, the Black Market - they all used him, squeezed him dry until there was nothing left. Fendrel''s hand closed around the glass shard. The sharp edge bit into his palm. "No." He hurled the shard across the room. It shattered against the wall. "I didn''t survive this long to die in this hellhole." He pushed himself up, ignoring the protest of his bruised muscles. His gaze swept over the workshop - his prison, his sanctuary. He could leave, abandon everything and run. But where? The city walls were watched, and the wilderness beyond held its own dangers. His eyes landed on his workbench, the familiar array of vials and ingredients. With trembling hands, he reached for the dralk weed and nightshade essence. The familiar motions of brewing settled over him like a blanket. "One step at a time," he muttered, measuring out the ingredients. "Just keep moving forward." For now, this would have to be enough. He''d figure out an escape later, but first, he needed to think clearly. And for that, he needed to brew. Fendrel''s hands moved in practiced motions as he filtered the last antidote through a cloth. The amber liquid dripped into the waiting vial, each drop catching the light of the setting sun through his newly repaired window. The guards'' visit had left him shaken, but work helped steady his nerves. A clash of steel broke the evening quiet. Fendrel''s head snapped up, the vial nearly slipping from his fingers. More sounds of combat echoed from the alley - shouts, the scrape of metal, bodies hitting walls. He crept to the window. In the narrow street below, moonlight glinted off drawn weapons as figures in dark leathers squared off against church soldiers in their white and gold uniforms. Blood splashed across cobblestones. A church soldier fell, clutching his throat. An Ironmire fighter stumbled back with a sword in his gut. "What the fuck now." Fendrel backed away from the window. His fingers brushed the fresh scars in his workbench from the guards'' visit. The fighting drew closer. A church soldier crashed into his door, making the hinges groan. Steel rang against steel just outside. "Die, church dog!" The snarl preceded a wet gurgle. Something heavy slammed into the window. Glass exploded inward in a shower of glittering shards. A body in white and gold robes tumbled through, smashing across Fendrel''s workbench. Vials shattered. Liquids mixed and spilled. The corpse''s face was purple-black, veins standing out stark against pale skin. Fendrel recognized the effects of his Silkslither toxin. His own creation, used against the church. The dead man''s unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling. "Fuck this." Fendrel grabbed his leather satchel. He swept his new brewing set inside. The finished antidotes followed, along with handfuls of dried herbs and his most precious essences. His fingers closed around the last vial of nightshade essence as another body slammed against the wall outside. Fendrel''s hand froze on the trapdoor latch. His mind finding a moment of clarity. They''d days to search his workshop, they must know of each hiding spot. The secret exit wouldn''t be secret anymore. A crash from the front room jolted him into action. He snatched up his satchel and scrambled to the back window. The ledge crumbled under his fingers as he hauled himself up. His boots scraped against the wall, sending bits of mortar pattering into the darkness below. The drop knocked the wind from his lungs. He rolled behind a stack of crates, pressing himself against the rough wood as voices shouted overhead. Steel rang against steel. Something exploded, painting the alley walls in harsh orange light. Green mist drifted through the streets, carrying the sharp tang of alchemical compounds. Fendrel pulled his collar over his nose, recognizing the Xytherium in the air. [EFFECT]: You have been poisoned. [STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect More explosions lit up the night sky. The air grew thick with smoke and poison gas. He darted from shadow to shadow, keeping to the narrowest alleys. Every footstep seemed to echo off the close-packed buildings. The sounds of battle surrounded him - metal on metal, screams of pain, the distinctive pop and hiss of breaking potion vials. A group of fighters crashed through a doorway ahead. Fendrel pressed himself into an alcove, hardly daring to breathe as they passed. The moonlight caught the serpent-and-chalice insignia of the Ironmire Court on their leather armor. His workshop was gone. The place where he spent years scrambling for food to barely survive, abandoned in moments. The thought sent cold sweat down his spine. Without his base, without his tools, how long could he keep brewing? Something clattered in the darkness behind him. Fendrel spun, heart in his throat, but saw only shadows. The fighting seemed closer now. Every doorway could hide an assassin, every window an archer. The weight of his satchel felt like a beacon announcing his presence to everyone hunting him. He forced himself to move, staying low as he worked his way toward the lower district. The sounds of combat echoed off the buildings, making it impossible to tell which direction was safe. His own ragged breathing seemed deafening in his ears. Chapter 27: Accepting offer Fendrel''s legs burned as he descended deeper into the lower district. The narrow passages between buildings grew tighter, forcing him to turn sideways to squeeze through some gaps. Broken cobblestones threatened to twist his ankles with each step. The air grew thick with the stench of rotting garbage and stagnant water. His chest heaved. He pressed a hand against the rough stone wall, steadying himself as another surge of dizziness hit. A cat yowled somewhere in the darkness. Fendrel jumped, nearly dropping his bag. His hands shook as he pulled it close. Without his workshop, without his supplies... The thought circled in his mind like a trapped animal. He needed resources. Equipment. Raw materials. Things he couldn''t get alone anymore. The sound of steel on steel echoed off the walls ahead. Fendrel pressed himself against the damp stones, edging forward until he could peek around the corner. Two groups clashed in the small courtyard - white-robed church warriors against black-clad assassins. Blood gleamed on blade edges in the dim light. Both groups had resources. Connections. Protection. Both would value his skills. Both would own him. His legs trembled. The weight of the choice pressed down on him. Both groups would lock him in a workshop somewhere. Independence was no longer an option - not if he wanted to survive. But who can I join? Movement caught his eye. An assassin dropped from a rooftop, landing in a crouch. The figure''s made a step towards the fight then his head snapped toward Fendrel''s hiding spot. Their eyes met through the slits of the assassin''s mask. Fendrel''s heart jumped into his throat. He scrambled backward, boots slipping on the wet cobblestones. The assassin''s footsteps echoed off the walls behind him as he rounded the corner of the building. A door burst open ahead, spilling warm light onto the street. Two men in leather armor blocked the doorway, their hands on sword hilts. "You want to live, get in." Fendrel froze. The assassin''s steps grew closer. His legs moved before his mind caught up, carrying him through the doorway. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him with a final-sounding thud. The room stretched before him, empty except for a few broken crates. Five figures stood in a loose half-circle, their faces cast in shadow by wall-mounted torches. The familiar thorned rose of House Blackthorn gleamed on their leather armor. No one spoke. Fendrel''s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. Sweat trickled down his back despite the cool air. Outside, steel clashed against steel, boots pounded on stone, voices shouted commands. Minutes crawled by. One of the men pressed his ear to the door, listening intently. After what felt like hours, he gave a short nod. "Clear." The man in the center stepped forward, torch light revealing a weathered face crossed by old scars. "Fendrel Solinar. We''ve been watching you." Fendrel''s fingers tightened on his satchel strap. "Who-" "House Blackthorn extends its hand to you. On behalf of Elena Blackthorn, whom you saved. She was quite... insistent that we help you, should you ever need it." The man''s lips quirked in what might have been amusement. "And it seems you need it now." The tension in Fendrel''s shoulders eased slightly at the girls name. But suspicion crept back in, why would she want to help him? "What''s the catch?" "Just what you''d expect. We want your skills. Your alchemy." The man spread his hands. "In exchange, you get a proper workshop. Protection. Resources. Better than brewing poisons in a condemned building, wouldn''t you say?" The scarred man''s words hung in the air. Fendrel''s hand brushed against his satchel, feeling the familiar shapes of his vials through the worn leather. The offer was same as always - workshop, protection and resources. Everything he needed to survive. But the obligations attached likely meant he would have little to no freedom regardless of which side he chose. One of the guards stepped forward, torchlight catching on the polished thorned rose emblem of his armor. "Let''s make this clear. This is a one-time offer." His voice was gruff but measured. "You walk away now, we''ll inform Lord Blackthorn of your decision and that offer will never be available again." Fendrel''s throat felt dry as he weighed his options. The parasite pulsed beneath his skin, a constant reminder of his ticking time. He needed resources and stability. His life was too much of a mess now.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! "I''ll work with you," he said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. The scarred man''s expression hardened. "Not with us, you work for us. You better make sure you know the difference." One of the guards opened a trapdoor hidden beneath a moldy carpet, revealing stone steps that descended into darkness. They hurried Fendrel down, closing the heavy door behind them. The sounds of fighting above became muffled, then faded entirely. The sewers stretched before them, a maze of brick tunnels lit by occasional magical crystals embedded in the walls. Their boots splashed through shallow water as they navigated the passages. "What is happening in the street?" Fendrel asked, ducking under a low archway. "It can''t be just because of me." A guard walking beside him grunted. "Underground organizations have been at each other''s throats for months. But lately? They''ve gotten bold. Someone''s been supplying them with massive amounts of poisons. Before the city could react, multiple officials were found dead in their beds." "The Church of Adria got involved too," another guard added. "One of their wardens turned up dead few days ago. They''re retaliating now - turning the slums into a madhouse. Even the city guard''s staying clear until it burns itself out by tomorrow." Fendrel''s stomach twisted. How much do they know about me? The tunnels wound upward, gradually transitioning from crumbling brick to well-maintained stone. Fendrel''s legs burned from climbing what felt like endless stairs. The air changed too - the sewage stench gave way to clean night breeze filtering through periodic grates above. They emerged through a cleverly concealed door into an alley between two buildings. The upper district sprawled around them, all clean cobblestones and proper architecture. Fendrel blinked at the difference a few streets could make. Even at night, magical lanterns cast warm light from wrought-iron posts. The group circled back toward the border of the lower district, weaving through side streets until they reached a modest brick house wedged between what looked like craftsmen''s workshops. Nothing about it drew attention - perfect for their purposes. The scarred man produced a key and led them inside. Two rooms branched off a narrow hallway - one outfitted as a basic alchemy lab, the other a sparse bedroom. The lab held distillation equipment, storage shelves, a preparation table. All serviceable if plain. The bedroom contained just a narrow bed and simple chest. "This is yours now. Get comfortable." The leader''s gesture encompassed both rooms. "Tomorrow you will meet with the steward of the Blackthorns and arrange details of this agreement." Fendrel ran a hand over the lab table''s smooth surface. After his condemned building, even this basic setup felt luxurious. "Guards will keep watch - for your protection," one of the men said. "But you''re free to go if you change your mind before morning." Fendrel nodded, exhaustion hitting him like a physical weight. The men filed out, their boots echoing on the wooden floor. The lock clicked behind them. He barely made it to the bedroom. The mattress was thin but clean. Fendrel collapsed onto it fully clothed, his body going limp. Sleep claimed him before his next breath.
Morning came too soon. Fendrel''s muscles protested as the guards roused him from the unfamiliar bed. The same scarred man from last night waited by the door, arms crossed. "Time to earn your keep." The streets looked different in daylight. They wound through the merchant district, where shopkeepers swept their storefronts and arranged displays. The morning air carried the scent of fresh bread from nearby bakeries. Fendrel''s stomach growled - when had he last eaten? As they climbed toward the noble quarter, the buildings grew taller, their facades adorned with intricate stonework and magical wards. Gardens peeked through wrought iron gates. The Blackthorn estate dominated the end of a tree-lined avenue, its gray stone walls rising two stories high. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, their armor bearing the family''s serpent-and-chalice insignia. More stood watch from elevated positions along the walls. Fendrel counted at least eight before they reached the service entrance at the rear of the property. "Eyes down," one of his escorts muttered. "And keep your mouth shut unless spoken to." The back door opened into a kitchen area that sparked an unsettling sense of familiarity. They led him through different corridor this time and Fendrel had a moment to appreciate the polished wooden floors stretched ahead, lined with tapestries depicting pastoral scenes. Everything gleamed with wealth and power. They passed servants who averted their eyes, hurrying about morning tasks. The guard''s boots echoed against the floors, announcing their presence. Fendrel''s own footsteps felt small and insignificant in comparison. "Remember why you''re here," the scarred man said as they approached a heavy oak door. "You''re useful to them - for now. Don''t make them regret this arrangement." Fendrel nodded, his throat too dry for words. The weight of the building pressed down on him, all that stone and wealth and centuries of noble authority. The steward''s office smelled of leather and old parchment. Fendrel''s escorts positioned themselves by the door as a man rose from behind a polished desk. Silver streaked his dark hair, and his robes bore subtle embroidery that marked him as a high-ranking servant of House Blackthorn. "Fendrel Solinar, the alchemist everyone''s been whispering about." The steward''s voice carried the cultured accent of the upper districts. "Your reputation precedes you¡ªbut so do your mistakes." Fendrel''s fingers twitched at his sides. "I am Alaric, steward of House Blackthorn." He gestured to a chair. "Sit." Fendrel perched on the edge of the seat, conscious of his worn clothes against the fine upholstery. "House Blackthorn maintains a delicate balance in this city," Alaric said, settling back behind his desk. "The church grows bolder by the day, flexing their influence in the Higher District. Meanwhile, the gangs below think they can operate as they please." His lips curved in a cold smile. "We cannot allow either to continue." He pulled a ledger from a drawer. "Which brings us to you. Elena Blackthorn herself arranged this meeting, believing you saved her life." Fendrel''s breath caught. The steward''s eyes narrowed at his reaction. "Yes, we are aware of you being the source of the poisons made in the city. Imagine the surprise when everyone was looking outside. Wondering where is it being brought in from, only to find out its a little alchemist of no significance from the slums, who is responsible for deaths of dozens of officials." The room seemed to shrink. Fendrel''s mouth went dry. "You are willing to let me live knowing this?" Chapter 28: Regrouping Alaric''s fingers drummed against the polished surface of his desk. "Only two people know of this. The head of the house and me. The moment you accepted our proposal, you agreed to work for us. Which means you will produce what we need." Fendrel''s mouth opened but no sound came out. The parasite inside him writhed, responding to his spike of anxiety. He swallowed hard, fighting down both sensations. "Your silence speaks volumes." Alaric''s face hardened into sharp angles, his cultured accent taking on an edge of steel. "You''re not in a position to refuse. We can protect you, but we can as easily throw you out. Do we have an understanding?" Fendrel nodded, his neck stiff. The chair beneath him felt like a trap ready to snap shut. Sweat trickled down his back despite the cool air of the office. "You have a list of what we need in the place we prepared for you. Questions?" Alaric''s quill scratched against parchment, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "I can go as I please right?" Fendrel''s voice came out rougher than intended. Alaric didn''t look up from his writing. "Of course, but the moment you leave our property you are on your own. The guards aren''t going to intervene anymore."
Fendrel''s footsteps echoed off the cobblestones as he made his way through the winding streets. The new laboratory waited at the edge of the lower district - a mockery of freedom. His fingers traced the rough stone walls of the buildings he passed, mind racing through his options. The parasite was getting more agitated inside him, a constant reminder of his own deadline. He couldn''t maintain this pace forever - Ironmire, church, cabal and now House Blackthorn''s demands. A group of city guards passed by, their armor gleaming in the morning sun. Fendrel pressed himself against the wall, letting them pass. Their presence sparked an idea. The church''s growing influence, the gangs below, House Blackthorn''s slipping grip - all of them wanted control. All of them needed his skills. He ducked into an alley, leaning against the cool stone. If he played this right, he could set them against each other. Let them fight while he slipped through the cracks. The church''s struggle with the gangs, the nobles'' fear of the church, the gangs'' resentment of the nobles - it should be possible to exploit. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he considered the risks. One wrong move and he''d end up dead in a ditch. But staying under House Blackthorn''s thumb wasn''t an option either. Fendrel slumped against the wall, the stone cool against his back. His darting over his status window, scanning the familiar numbers and levels. Each brew increased his skill, pushed him closer to mastery, but that thought brought no comfort now. The higher his level climbed, the more the parasite grew with him. It wasn''t just about survival anymore - each improvement made the creature stronger too. His fingers clenched into fists. He''d been so focused on staying alive, he hadn''t considered what mastery might mean. A flick of his wrist brought up his quest log. His heart spiked as he read the entries. [QUESTS] Ingredient Collection 1 - Done (Failed delivery) Ingredient Collection 2 - Done (Failed delivery) Research Plants Collection 1 - Done (Guild delivered) Failed delivery. The words burned in his vision. "What does it mean? I need to go to the guild." Fendrel pushed open the heavy wooden door of his new laboratory. Morning light filtered through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. The space was bigger than his old setup, and the equipment gleamed with newness - fresh glass beakers, pristine brass scales, and rows of labeled ingredient jars lined the shelves. His head throbbed as he checked parasite status. [PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 3 hours The numbers pulsed in his vision. He rubbed his temples, fighting the urge to curl up in the corner and sleep. The previous night''s move had drained what little energy he had left. "At least they didn''t skimp on supplies," he muttered, running his fingers over the collection of ingredients. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling rafters, their sharp scents mixing with the metallic tang of mineral salts. Everything he needed for Venomshroud and Witherfang sat ready between the shelves.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The precision of it all made his skin crawl. Each ingredient was present to at least some degree. Silkslither cocoon fibers, widowvine sap, shadecap spores - they''d provided exactly what his recent formulas required. "How much do they know?" He picked up a jar of bloodthorn resin, examining the red-tinted glass. "How long have they been watching?" The question hung in the stale air. The church''s interference was obvious enough, but the Blackthorns'' knowledge of his work went deeper than simple observation. The timer in his head ticked away as he sorted through the supplies. Three hours wasn''t much time, but it would have to be enough. He couldn''t afford to waste energy wondering about the Blackthorns'' information network. Fendrel measured out the ingredients for Witherfang Resin with practiced precision. His hands moved through the familiar motions while his mind raced. The bloodthorn resin caught the light as he added it to the mixture, casting red reflections across the workspace. "No point in being careful now." He increased the heat under the cauldron, watching the mixture bubble faster than his usual careful approach. The ingredients merged together, taking on an amber hue. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Witherfang Resin brewed successfully. Residual amount: 40% Without pause, he started the next batch. The crushed ashroot filled the air with its sharp scent as he added it to the fresh mixture. His movements grew more aggressive, more desperate. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Witherfang Resin brewed successfully. Residual amount: 80% The third batch followed immediately. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked through the ingredients. The spiderling venom hissed as it hit the hot surface. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Witherfang Resin brewed successfully. Residual amount: 20% Switching to Venomshroud Poison, Fendrel grabbed the silkslither cocoon fibers. The strands gleamed like silver in his hands before disappearing into the bubbling mixture. The widowvine sap followed, then the shadecap spores and venomlily seeds. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Venomshroud Poison brewed successfully. Residual amount: 60%, 20% Two more batches of Venomshroud followed, leaving dark residue coating the cauldron''s bottom. His eyes fell on the pile of coins on the table - deposit from the previous night. Each gold piece represented a promise, a commitment he couldn''t escape. With a grunt, he switched to brewing healing potions. The afternoon sun crept across the floor as he worked, marking time''s passage. As noon faded, a message flashed across his vision: [NEW RECIPE PROPOSED (Xytril Nematode)]: Gravebloom Tincture "You think I''m completely dumb?" Fendrel snarled at the empty air. He grabbed the reinforcer brewing in front of him and cranked up the heat, watching as the mixture began to smoke. [CRAFTING FAILED]: Incorrect temperature Fendrel spread the vials across his workbench, their contents catching the afternoon light. The Reinforcer''s amber glow mocked him from its position at the end of the line. His eyes fixed on the recipe notification hanging in his vision - Gravebloom Tincture. "If this is another unique recipe then it means I''m about to level up again from this." The parasite timer still had five hours remaining since he drank the dose in the morning. "I can''t avoid it, but I should at least save myself some time before I get new insane requirements on the next level." He scanned the ingredient list, his lips moving as he counted off each component. The quantities made his head spin - forty grams of Bluecap Mushroom and the nightshade essence was insane. Ingredients: "Yeah simple enough list with crazy ratios again." The memory of the Reinforcer''s unexpected value made him wonder. If the reinforcer was valued by gold what about Tincture? "If this new concoction could fetch a similar or even higher price I should talk with people in Maiden''s Kiss", though what it did remained a mystery. The Darksap Draught recipe cluttered his codex too, another unused formula so far. At least he had the proper equipment now. The Layered Infusion apparatus sat ready, its glass chambers gleaming. All he needed were the materials. "Guild then, and after that the herbalists." He stood, gathering his coin purse. "I could try the upper district market, I have bloody gold now." The Guild hall bustled with more activity than usual. Adventurers crowded around the bulletin boards while others huddled in groups, comparing notes and gear. Fendrel drew curious glances as he waited in line, his worn clothes standing out among the well-equipped warriors and mages. The receptionist''s eyebrows shot up when he reached her desk. "Well, look who''s not dead after all." Fendrel blinked, caught off guard. "What?" "The adventuring party that completed your request found your place torn apart. With you nowhere in sight, we assumed the worst - another alchemist dead in some back alley." Heat crept up his neck. He shifted his weight, conscious of the eyes on him. "My orders?" She shook her head, copper hair catching the light. "Still here. I take it we don''t need to look into it?" "Just had a rough few days. Everything''s fine now." The smile he managed felt brittle on his face. Something flickered across her features - concern, maybe suspicion. She turned and disappeared into the back room, returning moments later with a stack of wrapped packages. "Payment?" She held out her hand expectantly. Fendrel counted out the coins and potions they''d agreed upon, then added five silver pieces. "For their trouble." "That should smooth some ruffled feathers. Macer wasn''t pleased about doing charity work." She logged the transaction in her ledger. "Need to post any new requests?" He nodded, accepting the blank form she slid across the counter. The familiar categories stared back at him as he began filling it out. His hand hesitated over the ingredients list. Essence of bonebloom flowers and shredded deathvine - both strictly controlled substances. He''d have to find those through other channels. The form trembled slightly as he wrote, his fingers still unsteady from the morning''s brewing session. Around him, the guild hall''s activity continued - boots scraping on stone floors, weapons being compared, deals being struck. All of it seemed distant, separated from him by an invisible wall of secrets and lies. Chapter 29: It keeps coming Fendrel rolled up the completed forms and handed them to the receptionist. [ACTIVE QUSTS] Research Plants Collection 1 - Submitted (Guild delivery) Research Plants Collection 1 - Submitted (Guild delivery) He turned to leave, his thoughts already drifting to his next stops, when he collided with a solid mass behind him. "Sorry." The word slipped out automatically. Rough fingers seized his collar, preventing his backward stumble. Another hand darted toward his chest pocket. Fendrel''s heart jumped. Are they fucking serious, robbing me in open like this? Purple tinted his fingernails as he raised his voice. "What the fuck are you-" "Sorry my fault." A scarred face split into a grin, the hand patting his shoulder. "Didn''t mean to startle you." "Do I know-" The man wrapped an arm around Fendrel''s shoulders, cutting him off. "Let''s not stand in the way here." He steered them away from the line of waiting adventurers. The guild hall''s typical cacophony of clanking weapons and haggling voices covered their movement. The man''s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Consider the offer carefully, it might just be what you need." He released Fendrel and melted into the crowd, leaving him standing alone near a pillar. Fendrel''s hands flew to his pockets, checking for missing items. Nothing gone - but his fingers found an unfamiliar piece of paper in his chest pocket. His pulse quickened. The guild hall suddenly felt too crowded, too many eyes that might be watching. He kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to examine the paper right there. Even with his limited street sense, he knew better than to read mysterious messages in public. Fendrel circled around the guild hall toward the Maiden''s Kiss, his fingers pressing the mysterious paper deeper into his pocket. The streets felt different now - each passerby a potential observer, every window possibly concealing watching eyes. His neck prickled with imagined surveillance. The tavern''s interior wrapped him in familiar dimness, empty save for the keeper wiping glasses behind the counter and a single patron who stuck out like a sore thumb at one of the tables. Something about the man''s awkward posture and obvious discomfort struck a chord. Fendrel recognized that same out-of-place energy he carried within himself. He settled at his usual corner table, the worn wood smooth beneath his fingers. Time crawled by as he waited, uncertain of the proper protocol. His mind wandered through possibilities until the scrape of a chair brought him back to present. A figure materialized across from him. "This has to stop, Solinar. Middle of the day visits won''t work, especially after your recent... activities." The man placed a tankard in front of Fendrel. The rich aroma hit his nose, making him realize how long it had been since his last proper drink. "Strange I''m not drinking here regularly, considering everything." The words slipped out before Fendrel could stop them. "Life is full of mysteries like that. What do you want this time - finished preparing those drugs, or more product to move?" He took a sip to cover his discomfort. "Recent days have been... challenging." A grin spread across the man''s face. "That''s putting it mildly." Fendrel''s gaze caught on The Silent Scale embroidered on the man''s sleeve. "I need ingredients. Do you handle that sort of thing?" "Ready to stop pretending you''re not one of us?" Fendrel''s lips tightened. "Should I write this down, or...?" The man gestured at the empty tavern - the awkward patron had vanished at some point. "Just tell me. Payment first." "Essence of bonebloom flowers and shredded deathvine. Blackwillow bark." The man''s expression hardened as Fendrel spoke. "Venomlily seeds and spiderling venom." Fendrel took another drink, studying the man over his tankard''s rim. "Bulk bluecap mushroom too, fresh or dried. And eye of shadecap." "You aren''t simple man, are you Master Solinar." Fendrel noticed the keeper''s stare, the courier''s face now stripped of its earlier humor. "Can you source these?"You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. "Three gold." Fendrel slid the coins across. The man pocketed them and left a silver tag bearing the scale symbol. "The Ashen Anvil for future meetings." "Never heard of such tavern." "Because it isn''t tavern, its blacksmith shop in the artisan district. Bring the tag." Fendrel waited until the man left before pulling out the folded paper from his pocket. The parchment felt cheap beneath his fingers, brittle and crumbled. Five neat lines of jagged script stretched across the page: To the accomplished master alchemist, Your skills have not gone unnoticed. While others seek to bind you, we offer opportunity without chains. The city suffers, and your talents could ease that burden. No contracts, no obligations - simply fair payment for honest work. Your independence remains yours. If this interests you, place an empty vial by your front door at midnight. - A Friend of the Afflicted He crumbled the note and pushed it back into his pocket. The words churned in his mind as he drained the last of his drink. The offer sparked something - a flicker of his old self, before everything went wrong. But that spark died quick against cold reality. He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the familiar writhing sensation. No, he couldn''t afford distractions. Between brewing for the different organizations and managing his condition, his schedule was tight as it was already. The next days blurred together in his workshop. Measure, mix, distill. The routine brought a hollow comfort. Morning light through dusty windows as he prepared Intermediate healing potions. Afternoon shadows lengthening while he distilled Nightshade reinforcer. Evening candlelight reflecting off bottles of poisons and toxins. His hands moved through the motions automatically now. Add the dralk weed, watch green shift to purple then back. Powder the bone ash fine as dust. Three drops of nightshade, no more, no less. The familiarity almost let him forget the constant presence inside him. Almost. He found himself glancing at empty vials more often than he should. The note stayed in his pocket, edges softening from repeated handling. But each time temptation rose, he pushed it down. He had enough problems without adding mysterious benefactors to the mix. The rhythm of work filled his days. Brew, bottle, deliver. Repeat. If this was normalcy, he''d take it. Better than the chaos of recent weeks. The note stayed in his pocket, untouched, unanswered.
Fendrel sat hunched over his workbench, surrounded by the soft glow of various poisons. The message mostly forgotten in the hum of passing days. Moonlight filtered through the grimy windows of his new workshop, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Fendrel''s eyes traced his codex. The pages scrolled through the ingredient lists. Five days had passed since his last level increase, but the achievement brought little joy. His stomach churned at the implications of his rapid advancement. [STATUS] NAME: Fendrel Solinar CLASS: Mirebane LEVEL: 12 RACE: Human Bogwraith SYMBIOSIS: Xytril Nematode LEVEL: 7 The rate of leveling should have slowed by now. Instead, each new recipe, each successful brew pushed him closer to the next threshold. His gaze lingered on the parasite''s level - seven. Two more until nine. The question gnawed at him like acid eating through metal: what happened then? Would the creature evolve? Transform? Get advancement? He flipped through the pages, scanning his expanded codex with growing unease. [CODEX] The Gravebloom Tincture caught his attention. The medium vial sat innocently on the side of his workbench, its contents reduced down to a single vial without any residue. His skin crawled at the sight of it. Whatever its intended purpose, drinking it wasn''t it. He put the vial into one of the shelfs, letting it rest among the other completed brews. Rows of carefully labeled vials lined the shelves - his handiwork for the Ironmire and cabals delivery. The Blackthorns picked their delivery last evening, whole crate of healing potions and half of that in Reinforcers. A sharp knock echoed through the workshop. Fendrel''s head turned to the doors, his nails changing color instinctively before sign escaped his lips. The hour was late - too late for normal business. But he''d learned that normal meant nothing to the Guttermaw or the Ironmire, they tended to show up at the most random times. The knock came again, more insistent this time. Fendrel moved to the door, his footsteps silent on the worn stone floor. He opened the door to find a woman standing in the shadows. Her dark robes seemed to drink in what little light reached the doorway. Something about her presence made his skin crawl - and after weeks of dealing with the city''s underbelly, many things stopped bothering him. "Which one are you?" The words came out tired, almost bored. He''d seen too many faces lately, delivered too many packages, made too many deals. But this woman... something about her felt different. Wrong. "I am Nyssara." Her voice carried an accent he couldn''t place. "May I enter?" Fendrel stepped aside, letting her in. The smell hit him first - subtle notes of decay beneath expensive perfume. Her movements were precise, each step placed with careful intent as she glided into his workshop. The candlelight caught her features. Dark hair framed a gaunt face, pale as moonlight. Her eyes were too large for her sunken cheeks, giving her an unsettling, owl-like appearance. She examined his workspace with those unblinking eyes, taking in the rows of bottles and equipment. "Your expertise is of interested to us, Master Solinar." Her voice flowed like cold honey. "I''ve heard whispers of your... unique talents." Fendrel crossed his arms. "Get to the point." "Very well." She traced a finger along his workbench. "What do you know about the essence of death?" "Excuse me?" "The moment between life and death - when the soul begins to separate from flesh. There''s power there, raw and untapped." Her eyes gleamed. "Through the right combination of toxins and rituals, we could capture that transition. Think of it - allowing the living to commune with those they''ve lost." Fendrel barked out a laugh. "That''s impossible. You''re talking about necromancy wrapped in fancy words." "Perhaps." She didn''t seem offended. "For now, it''s merely a theory, a dream. That''s precisely why we need someone of your expertise." The parasite squirmed inside him, and he pressed his hand against his chest. "We?" "I represent a research collective." She pulled out a leather-bound journal. "Our true focus is studying how rare toxins interact with magical energies in living hosts. The applications could revolutionize treatment of magical ailments." Chapter 30: Getting it together Nyssara placed the leather-bound journal on the table, the pages catching the soft glow of the light crystal. Fendrel leaned forward, squinting at the elaborate diagrams and formulas that filled the yellowed pages. His eyes traced over complex alchemical symbols interwoven with unfamiliar runes and sigils. The formulas twisted and branched like roots, connecting elements he''d never seen combined before. Circles of power intersected with molecular structures, and glyphs wrapped around traditional brewing methods. His heart sank as he realized he couldn''t make sense of any of it. The bitter truth hit him like a punch to the gut. He wasn''t special - just a failed alchemist who got lucky with a parasite. Everything he''d accomplished these past months, every successful brew, every precise measurement - it wasn''t his skill. It was the creature inside him, guiding his hands and sharpening his senses. He opened his mouth to decline with bitter taste in his mouth, when a flood of messages blazed across his vision: [PARASITE KNOWLEDGE INTEGRATED] The text burned itself into his mind, followed by cascade of information about his Xytril Nematode. New categories appeared - Glyph Weaved Potions, Potion Wards, Residual Energy Bottling. Crafting methods he''d never dreamed of understanding unveiled themselves: Rune Enhancement, Glyph Drawing. Type: Xytril Nematode - Rare [NEW CATEGORIES IDENTIFIED ]: [NEW CRAFTING METHODS IDENTIFIED ]: Congratulations. You have gained insight into cross class crafting methods. Congratulations. You have discovered new categories of alchemical compounds. Active skills adjustment in progress Epic class detected: Mirebane Assimilating new knowledge Irregular species detected: Human Bogwraith Integrating the class, race and parasite. Time remaining 10 days. His heart raced as he processed the messages. Cross class crafting methods. New alchemical categories. But what made his breath catch was the word "Epic" - his class was Epic. The implications staggered him. Epic meant potential almost without a ceiling, power beyond normal limitations, not something regular alchemist dared to even hope for. The knowledge that should have taken decades of study under multiple masters had just flooded itself into his brain. For the first time since the parasite had invaded his body, since he''d started brewing poisons just to survive, Fendrel felt genuine excitement course through him. His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the table, trying to contain the surge of excitement now racing through his mind. Nyssara''s lips curved into a knowing smile as she watched his reaction. "Fascinating, isn''t it? The way the formulas interconnect with the magical resonance?" Fendrel cleared his throat, fighting to keep his expression neutral. "Yeah, interesting stuff." The sudden shift from complete confusion to understanding the basic concepts left him dizzy. The glyphs and formulas that had appeared as gibberish moments ago now arranged themselves into clear patterns before his eyes. His finger traced one of the circular diagrams. "This glyph structure here - it''s meant to alter the fundamental properties of the poison, right? The outer ring acts as a containment field while the inner sigils modify the structure." He paused, frowning at the additional notations. "Though I''m not entirely clear on the practical application process." Nyssara''s smile faltered for a split second before returning twice as bright, revealing perfect white teeth. "I must admit, I had my doubts when they sent me to find you. But to grasp these concepts at a glance..." She shook her head. "You truly are a master of your craft." The praise made his lips to purse into a line. He was far from a master. But he didn''t feel like correcting her. She reached into her satchel and withdrew a worn leather tome bound with silver clasps. "These are our research notes," she said, sliding what was obviously some sort of grimoire across the table. "They should explain most of the theoretical framework and outline our current hypotheses. I think you''ll find our proposals quite..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Progressive." Fendrel''s fingers traced the worn leather binding of the grimoire. The pages crackled as he opened it, revealing intricate diagrams and dense columns of text. His newfound understanding helped decode some of the complex formulas, but others remained frustratingly opaque. The symbols twisted and interlinked in ways that defied conventional alchemy.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. He glanced up to ask Nyssara a question, but the chair across from him sat empty. The door to his lab hung slightly ajar - she''d slipped away without a sound. The silence pressed in around him. "Too good to be true," he muttered, yet his eyes kept returning to the grimoire''s pages. No one had ever offered him knowledge like this without demanding something in return. Usually it came with strings attached, favors owed, debts to be paid. But Nyssara had simply... left it. A tingling sensation drew his attention inward, to his status window. The text shifted and reorganized before his eyes: [ACTIVE SKILLS] Potion Brewing LEVEL: 4 -> Glyph Potion Brewing LEVEL: 3 Essence Distillation LEVEL: 3 -> Essence Distillation LEVEL: 5 Potion Ward Drawing LEVEL: 2 Basic Runecraft LEVEL 1 Catalyst Stabilization LEVEL: 3 -> Ward Stabilization LEVEL 1 Poison Synthesis [Xytril Nematode] LEVEL: 7 Resin Synthesis [Xytril Nematode] LEVEL: 3 Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. Skills didn''t just change like this. Some had vanished entirely, replaced by new ones he''d never heard of. Others had jumped in level far beyond his actual experience. The Nematode''s influence ran deeper than he''d realized. His hand shook as he touched the status window, watching the numbers and categories shift. Whatever was happening to him, it went far beyond normal skill progression. The parasite was changing him on a fundamental level.
The monotony of the past few days blurred together in Fendrel''s mind as he measured ingredients and bottled potions. His lab had become both sanctuary and prison - the familiar smell of herbs and chemicals his constant companions. The Blackthorns kept their word, providing materials and protection, though they didn''t pay him much gold. He transferred the latest batch of healing potions into glass vials, careful not to waste a drop. The red liquid caught the afternoon light streaming through his workshop windows. At least he''d managed to establish a routine that kept the parasite satisfied without drawing too much attention. The few poison batches he''d sold to the Black market and Ironmire had been odd transactions, the black market people provided him with what he ordered, but started asking about healing potions and tonics instead of poisons. He avoided the cabal entirely - their contact disappeared for days. And the church... better to stay far from their scrutiny. Fendrel''s boots crunched on loose cobblestones as he made his way back from the alchemy guild. The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows between the buildings. His mind wandered to the new formulas he''d need to try- "Master Solinar!" The voice cut through his thoughts. A group of young people emerged from an alley ahead, their clothes worn but clean. At their head stood a tall youth with bright eyes and an earnest expression. "I''m Elian," the youth said, stepping forward. "We sent word days ago, but when you didn''t respond..." He spread his hands. "I decided to come find you myself." Fendrel''s stomach dropped as fragments of memory surfaced - a suspiciously delivered note laid forgotten in one of his drawers. He''d completely forgotten in the chaos of recent events. "Look," Fendrel said, "there''s a reason I didn''t answer your message." He tried to step around the group, but they shifted to block his path. "Please," Elian said. "Just hear us out. The people need-" "No." Fendrel cut him off. "Whatever cause you''re fighting for, whatever grand plans you have, I want no part of it. Find someone else." The word hung in the air between them. Elian''s face fell, but his eyes hardened with determination. Elian stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The people in the lower districts are suffering. While nobles feast in their mansions, children go hungry. When they fall ill, they can''t afford the simplest remedies." Fendrel shifted his weight, glancing down the street. The youth''s words struck uncomfortably close to memories he''d rather forget. "Your potions could save lives," Elian pressed. "Not just those who can afford to pay. We''ve seen what you can do - heard about your work before..." He paused, choosing his words. "Before you started dealing with the upper districts." "You don''t understand what you''re asking." Fendrel''s fingers traced the edge of his satchel. "We''re tired of bowing and scraping to the Voss family''s every whim. Of watching the Blackthorns squeeze coin from desperate people. The upper districts treat us like we''re nothing." Elian''s companions nodded, their faces set with quiet determination. "We''re organizing, gathering support. With someone of your skill-" "Stop." Fendrel raised his hand. "Whatever you''re planning, it''s suicide. These families have guards, influence, money. They''ve crushed attempts like this before." "This time it''s different. We have people inside their households, sympathizers in the merchant''s guild-" "I said no." The words came out sharper than intended. Fendrel couldn''t risk losing his arrangement with the Blackthorns - not when they were the only thing keeping him supplied with the materials he needed. Elian''s shoulders slumped, but his eyes remained steady. "If you change your mind - if you want a chance to use your skills for something that matters, for making lives better..." He pulled a folded paper from his vest. "You know how to find us." Fendrel ignored the note, pushing past the group. But as he walked away, Elian''s words echoed in his mind. Once, he''d dreamed of using his knowledge to help people - to make medicines accessible to those who needed them most. Before the parasite, before everything went wrong. The note seemed to burn in his pocket, a reminder of paths not taken. Fendrel''s footsteps echoed through the empty lab as he entered, his mind still churning from the encounter. The grimoire caught his eye from its perch on the shelf - a dark leather-bound tome he''d barely explored since acquiring it. Something about Elian''s words had sparked a forgotten curiosity. He pulled the book down, dust cascading from its spine. The pages crackled as he opened it, revealing densely packed text and intricate diagrams. His fingers traced over the chapter heading: "Energy Flow and Toxin Interactions." The technical language swam before his eyes - discussions of essence transfer and spiritual resonance that might as well have been written in another language. But as his eyes glazed over a particular formula, the parasite stirred, suddenly alert. [EXPERIMENTAL POISON PROPOSED (Xytril Nematode)]: Eclipsebane Toxin Brewing Method: Spiritweave Infusion, Essence Tethering Ingredients set one: Ingredients set two: The recipe sprawled across two pages, accompanied by detailed brewing instructions he''d only ever heard about in theory. Spiritweave infusion. Essence tethering. The terms meant little to nothing to him, yet the parasite''s reaction suggested otherwise. The parasite writhed beneath his skin, sending waves of awareness through his consciousness. For the first time, its presence felt less like an invasion and more like... anticipation. Fendrel slammed the book shut, a cloud of dust rising around him. "Might as well see what happens." His voice echoed in the empty lab. "Time to stop letting others dictate what I can and can''t do." The words tasted different on his tongue - not quite defiance, not quite surrender. Something in between, something new. Chapter 31: The Grip Tightens Fendrel''s fingers traced the intricate diagrams in the grimoire, his eyes straining in the dim lamplight. The instructions sprawled across multiple pages, each step more complex than the last. He''d never seen brewing instructions this detailed before - or this baffling. The first attempt ended with a fizzle, ingredients turning to useless sludge. On the second try, the mixture bubbled over, spilling across his workbench. Three more failures followed, each worse than the last. His head spun as he attempted to channel energy through the glyphs he''d drawn. The symbols flared with power, then sputtered out like dying embers. Though his newly gained skills let him recreate the marks perfectly, understanding their purpose remained beyond his grasp. "This makes no sense." He slumped against the workbench, sweat beading on his forehead. Normally, an apprentice would spend months watching a master perform these techniques, learning the subtle nuances then attempting them, failing and eventually with their first true success they gain the skill. But here he was, working backwards - possessing the skills guiding his movements without the fundamental knowledge of how they worked. The glyphs flickered again as he channeled power through them. For a moment, the energy flowed perfectly, then scattered like leaves in a wind. His vision blurred. The room tilted sideways. "Fuck this, last time," he muttered, steadying himself against the table. "Then I''m done." Five attempts later, exhausted and frustrated, he stopped fighting. Letting the skills flow without trying to control or understand them. The glyphs blazed to life. Energy coursed through the symbols, steady and strong. The mixture in the flask began to swirl, colors shifting from deep purple to midnight blue and back again. A thin vapor rose from the surface, glowing with an inner light. It coiled through the air in impossible patterns, defying the natural movement of smoke. The sight made his eyes water, but he couldn''t look away. [CRAFTING SUCCESS] Eclipsebane Toxin Stage One "How..." Fendrel stared at the completed formula, baffled by his success. Fendrel stared at the swirling mixture, its colors shifting between purple and midnight blue. The success felt somehow hollow, he expected to get some reward. "What am I supposed to do with this? Stage one." He rolled the flask between his palms. "So it''s not that I get to decide the method, but I need to run this through both?" The liquid caught the lamplight, dancing with an otherworldly sheen. He brought it to his nose, inhaling carefully. No scent reached his nostrils. Following some deep-seated instinct, he tilted the flask and let a single drop fall onto his forearm. Fire erupted across his skin. The pain hit like molten metal pressed against his flesh. His arm spasmed as the burning sensation spread outward from the point of contact. Text flashed across his vision: [EFFECT] Unstable compound contamination. You have been contaminated. [STATUS]: You failed to neutralize the toxin effect "Fuck, fuck!" He scrambled for the water bucket, plunging his arm in. The cool liquid did nothing to ease the searing agony. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the cork of a healing potion, downing it in desperate gulps. [EFFECT] Healing potion contamination. You have been poisoned. [STATUS]: You failed to neutralize the poisoning effect The skin of his hand turned an angry red, blistering before his eyes. A scream tore from his throat. In blind panic, he activated the Mudclaw on his other hand, raking the poisonous talons across the wound. [EFFECT] You have been poisoned. The new pain cut through the burning, providing an unexpected moment of clarity. He lurched toward his shelves, knocking vials aside until he found the Venomshroud Poison and Witherfang Resin. Without hesitation, he uncorked both and began drinking. One poison after another passed his lips. His throat burned, his stomach revolted, but he kept drinking until the fifth bottle made a difference. New messages cascaded across his vision: [EFFECT]: You have been poisoned. [EFFECT]: You have been drugged. [STATUS]: Your essence has been partially recovered [STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect [EFFECT]: Xytril Nematode has been paralyzed.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. [STATUS]: Your skills have been paralyzed. [PARASITE STATUS] Xytril Nematode is unconscious. Recovery dose required in 20 hours. The room spun violently. Fendrel''s legs gave out beneath him, and darkness claimed his consciousness before he hit the floor. Fendrel''s eyes cracked open to a splitting headache that pulsed through his skull. The morning light stabbed at his eyes, making him wince and shield his face. His mouth tasted like death and copper. He lifted his hand, examining where the toxin had struck. The skin had returned to its normal pale color, but an angry red scar the size of his index finger marked the spot. The flesh puckered inward, creating a small depression. A new attribute window popped into view, making him squint: [NEW ATTRIBUTE UNLOCKED]: Life Essence Fendrel snorted, which made his head throb worse. Attributes meant little to alchemists once they developed their skills. You needed decent dexterity for handling ingredients, constitution to survive the fumes until building resistance, intelligence to recall formulas, and perception to monitor the brewing process. But after gaining skills and resistances, attributes became background noise - especially when you weren''t doing research. [ATTRIBUTES] Intelligence 16 Dexterity 7 Wisdom 1 Constitution 4 Perception 15 Life Essence 3 (-2) The new Life Essence stat caught his attention. "That one seems important though." His words came out slurred and thick. Everything felt slow, his thoughts swimming through molasses. A sharp knock rattled his door. Before he could respond, two Blackthorn guards strode in, their polished boots crunching over broken glass from last night''s mess. They took in the scattered vials, upturned furniture, and Fendrel sprawled on the floor. "Been drinking yourself stupid?" The taller guard''s lip curled. "On your feet, Alchemist. Head of house wants to see you. Five minutes." The second guard kicked aside an empty flask. Fendrel''s stomach lurched at the thought of standing. The room tilted dangerously as he pushed himself up, using the wall for support. Fendrel stumbled between the two guards as they marched through the Higher Districts. His head pounded with each step up the winding cobblestone path. The Blackthorn Estate loomed ahead - a masterpiece of pale stone and gleaming windows that caught the morning sun. Ornate spires pierced the clouds, while manicured gardens sprawled across the grounds in precise geometric patterns. The grandeur made his old cramped workshop feel even more pathetic. Back there, mold crept up the walls and the floor creaked with every step. Here, stone pillars flanked the entrance, and even the door handles sparkled with polished metal. His boots left muddy prints on the floor as they entered. A servant shot him a glance, but quickly went back to their task. "I don''t understand. The steward handles all my contracts." Fendrel''s voice echoed in the small kitchen area. The taller guard''s pushed him into a side corridor. "Lord and Lady Blackthorn requested your presence personally." "But why would they-" "Shut it." The second guard shoved him forward. "You''ll speak when spoken to." They led him down a servants'' corridor to a small washroom. Steam rose from a wooden tub where two maids poured steaming water. The room smelled of lavender and soap - scents that made his nose twitch. "Clean yourself up," the first guard ordered. "Cut that rats'' nest you call hair and trim that beard. Steward''s orders. Someone will fetch you for lunch when you''re presentable." The guards left him with the maids, who wrinkled their noses as they set out towels and scissors. Fendrel caught his reflection in a polished mirror and winced. Dark circles ringed his bloodshot eyes. His beard had grown wild and his hair hung in greasy tangles. The fine clothes they''d laid out would look absurd on him. Fendrel poked at his freshly trimmed hair, the shorter length foreign against his fingers. His clean-shaven face felt naked and exposed as the guards led him through the mansion''s corridors. The fine clothes they''d forced him into scratched at his skin - the fabric too stiff, too proper. The double doors to the dining hall swung open. Silverware clinked against porcelain plates as multiple heads turned to stare at him. The conversation died. Eyes traced his movements - some narrowed in judgment, others wide with curiosity. Elena Blackthorn sat among them, her dark hair framing a face that had regained its color since her brush with death. When their eyes met, she offered a small smile and dipped her chin in acknowledgment. The gesture eased some of the tension in his shoulders. At the head of the long table, a man in his fifties raised his hand toward the empty chair across from him. His silver-streaked hair and commanding presence made it clear who he was. "Welcome Master Fendrel Solinar. I trust the meal will be to your satisfaction." Fendrel attempted what he hoped was a proper bow, though he doubted it. "It''s a pleasure to meet the Head of the Blackthorn house." He shuffled to the indicated seat, hyperaware of every eye following him. "It seems our Master Alchemist could benefit from lessons in proper etiquette," drawled a man two seats down, his lip curled in disdain. "I''m Riven Blackthorn, father to the daughter you saved when others could not." The patriarch''s voice carried across the table. "For that, you have my gratitude." The woman beside him - Elena''s mother - inclined her head, echoing her daughter''s earlier gesture. "Do you have something you wish for?" Too much, Fendrel thought, eyes roaming over the spread before him. Roasted meats glistened with glazes, vegetables arranged in artistic patterns, and wines that cost more than he could imagine. But surviving this lunch would be the first one. "I would just ask your forgiveness for any protocol I fail to observe during this meal." A slight smirk tugged at Riven''s mouth. "That seems reasonable enough." Fendrel grabbed his fork and knife, diving into the succulent meat before him. Silence stretched across the dining hall, broken only by the sounds of Fendrel''s cutlery scraping against his plate. He shoveled another forkful of glazed meat into his mouth, waiting for someone to interrupt if he needed to stop and listen. But when he glanced up, he caught the women watching him with wide eyes like he was some peculiar creature, while the men''s faces twisted with unveiled contempt at his complete lack of manners. Heat crawled up his neck, but with Blackthorne patriarchs earlier permission, he was already committed to this disaster. Fendrel doubled down, attacking the perfectly arranged vegetables with renewed vigor. "Seems you approve." Riven lifted a glass of wine, the deep red liquid catching the light. "Though I must say, these are troubled times to enjoy such luxuries. There''s growing unrest in the city streets. Whispers of rebellion." He sipped from the glass. "The common folk seem to think they can challenge the established order." Fendrel choked on a piece of potato, quickly dabbing at his mouth with a silk napkin. What the fuck does that have to do with me? "You see, Master Solinar, the reason you''re here is because we''ve begun consolidating our position." Riven''s fingers drummed against his wine glass. "Starting with the alchemical market - specifically healing potions and tonics. I''m aware you''ve been selling these to make a living, but that will need to stop." Fendrel''s fork froze halfway to his mouth. "Instead, I propose an exclusive arrangement." Riven leaned forward, eyes locked on Fendrel''s face. "You''ll produce advanced and intermediate healing potions solely for House Blackthorn. In exchange, we''ll maintain your current supply of resources, provide protection, and ensure your income remains... stable. As we have been doing." Chapter 32: Collecting debts Fendrel''s fingers tightened around his fork. The offer hung in the air, wrapped in silk and thorns. His mind raced through the implications while maintaining what he hoped was a thoughtful expression. "You want exclusivity on healing potions?" The words came out measured, careful. "Precisely." Riven''s eyes narrowed. "We''ve noticed your... varied clientele. This arrangement would provide structure, legitimacy." The corners of Fendrel''s mouth twitched. They have no idea. His healing potion sales had struggled to get off the ground anyway. The few he sold in the slums were of no consequence. "Your protection would extend to my workshop?" "No. You will need to stay in the place we provided for you." A legitimate front. Regular income. Resources. Protection. The Blackthorns thought they were forcing his hand, but they were throwing him a lifeline. His other business could continue underneath, hidden behind the shield of their name. "And my current supply arrangements?" "Will remain intact, provided you meet our quality standards." Riven''s fingers traced the rim of his wine glass. "We''ve reviewed samples of your work. The consistency varies, but the potential is there." Fendrel fought to keep his expression neutral. With stable resources, and without getting visited by random faction in the middle of the night he could even make a stock of poisons. "Your offer is generous, Lord Blackthorn." Fendrel set down his fork, meeting Riven''s gaze. "I accept." "Excellent." Riven''s smile didn''t reach his eyes. "Alaric will handle the details of our arrangement. He is quite familiar with your work, after all." Fendrel pushed the vegetables around his plate, buying time to collect his thoughts. He glanced up at Riven, whose eyebrow rose at his sudden hesitation. "About that unrest you mentioned..." Fendrel cleared his throat. "They approached me few days ago." The clink of silverware stopped. The air in the room grew thick with tension. "Did they now?" Riven set down his wine glass, all pretense of casual conversation gone. "And what did you tell them?" "Nothing." Fendrel shrugged, keeping his movements measured. "I refused to even hear them out. Walked away from them." Lord Blackthorn exchanged a look with a man across the table. "You turned them away without learning what they wanted?" "I value my neck too much to get mixed up in that sort of business." Fendrel stabbed a piece of meat with more force than necessary. "Besides, I had work to do." "Master Solinar." Riven leaned forward, his voice dropping low. "Perhaps we could... revise our arrangement. These rebels, they gave you means to contact them?" Fendrel''s hand stilled. "I suppose they did." "Invite them in, accept their deal." A predatory smile spread across Riven''s face. "Listen to what they have to say. Learn who they are, what they''re planning." "You want me to spy for you?" The words came out sharper than intended. "Think of it as gathering information for your benefactors." Riven picked up his cutlery. "After all, we''ll be protecting your interests now. It''s only fair you help protect ours." "And if they discover I''m working with House Blackthorn?" "They won''t." Alaric spoke up from his position near the wall. "Your workshop will remain separate from our holdings. As far as anyone knows, you''re still an independent alchemist struggling to make ends meet." Perfect cover. Fendrel suppressed a smile. The Blackthorns were handing him everything he needed - protection, resources, and now an iron-clad excuse for any suspicious activity. "Do I get a bonus for this?" "Don''t push your luck Solinar." Riven''s eyes gleamed. "It''s only right you repay us for what we did so far." Fendrel stood at his doorstep, rolling an empty glass vial between his fingers. The late afternoon sun caught the glass, sending fractured light across the worn wood of his threshold. He placed it on its side, wondering how much are they watching him. Back inside his workshop, he latched the door and breathed in the familiar scents of herbs and chemicals. The Blackthorns'' generosity had transformed his workspace. Fresh ingredients lined the shelves, neatly labeled and sorted. No more scrounging through the market for dregs or haggling with Old Man Kern over wilted Dralk weed.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Fendrel scratched his arm and pulled out his ledger. Time to catalog everything properly. He dipped his quill in ink and began noting down his inventory: "Nightshade essence - 4 vials Dralk weed - 12 fresh stalks Bone ash - 2 kilos Purified Water - none Crushed Bluecap Mushroom, 4 kilos Essence of Glowroot, 5 bottles¡­" His hand paused over the entry for Widowvine sap. The crystallized form would work better for the Blackthorns'' order, but he''d need more raw sap for his own needs. Fendrel grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment and began drafting his request for the adventurers'' guild and the black market contact. "Priority acquisition: He added notes about preferred harvest times and preservation methods. For once he could afford fresh, whole ingredients and process them by himself now. Fendrel gritted his teeth and added another item to the list: "- Deathvine" The afternoon light faded as he worked, checking stocks and updating his brewing schedule. Three batches of healing potions for the Blackthorns'' public face. Two specialized poisons for their other enterprises. And one very particular brew for himself. Fendrel hung the ingredient requests on his door. The guild runners would collect them in the morning. He was living on the edge of the lower district now, people went to collect jobs directly here. He returned to his workbench and began laying out vials for tomorrow''s work.
Fendrel sat hunched over his workbench, the grimoire''s weathered pages spread before him in the dim workshop light. Glass containers bubbled and hissed around him, as he waited for the next batch of healing potions to finish. The half-finished potion would have to wait. He was missing ingredients. Despite searching his entire inventory twice, he found no powdered nightshade berries or duskfern charcoal. He turned back to the grimoire''s dense pages. Intricate symbols covered the margins, flowing into complex diagrams that seemed to shift and dance in the low light. The text itself was nearly incomprehensible - a mix of ancient languages and alchemical shorthand. But as his eyes traced the patterns, something clicked. The parasite stirred, and suddenly certain symbols began to make sense. Not completely, but enough to grasp their basic meaning. This one meant "binding." That curved line represented "essence." The triangular formation suggested some kind of transformation. "Fascinating," he muttered, pulling a blank sheet of parchment closer. His hand moved almost on its own, copying one of the simpler glyphs. The first attempt was clumsy, but with each repetition, the lines grew more confident. Each symbol he drew seemed to unlock another fragment of understanding. He couldn''t grasp the full complexity of what he was seeing - the deeper meaning remained frustratingly out of reach - but the basic concepts were becoming clearer. Fendrel grabbed more parchment and began systematically copying sections of text, practicing the unfamiliar characters over and over. Hours slipped by as he worked, the workshop''s ambient sounds fading into background noise. Fendrel''s quill scratched across the parchment, copying another set of glyphs. His eyes darted between the grimoire and his work, checking each curve and line. The symbols had started making more sense over the past hour, pieces clicking together like a puzzle. He paused, squinting at a particular passage. The arrangement looked familiar - similar to a healing draught, but with additional components he''d never considered combining. The glyphs around it pulsed with meaning: purification, enhancement, transformation. "Wait..." He traced the pattern with his finger. "The mana flow here connects to... yes!" The revelation hit him like a lightning bolt. The glyphs weren''t just for enhancements - they were sort of pathways for guiding magical energy through the mixture. And this formula... it was brilliant. It used acidic components to break down the healing ingredients more efficiently, while mana-directing glyphs ensured the energy flowed properly. Fendrel grabbed fresh parchment and began writing frantically: [NEW FORMULA DISCOVERED]: Emberbloom Infusion Draught. He sat back, studying the list. The ingredients weren''t particularly exotic, but their combination... He''d never seen anything like it. The Emberbloom petals'' natural healing properties would be amplified by the Shadowroot''s acidic nature, while the Mana Dust would be used to guide the energy provided by glyphs exactly where it needed to go. If changing just the ratios could create such a unique effect, what else might be possible? How many variations could be derived from the same basic ingredients? Add one new component, adjust the proportions... Experimenting with different combinations would get expensive fast. And trying to discover new formulas without a recipe? He shuddered at the thought of wasting rare components on failed attempts. "No wonder most alchemists stick to the basics," he muttered, already calculating how many coins he''d need to gather the materials for this one formula. "Research is for the rich." Fendrel stared at the status notification floating in his vision, his shoulders slumping. Two days of being locked out while the system continued its integration. The text mocked him, hanging there like a death sentence. The door behind him creaked. Fendrel''s heart jumped into his throat. He spun around too quickly, the chair tipping precariously. His hands shot out, grabbing the workbench edge to keep from toppling over. A woman in a plain brown dress slipped inside, her face obscured by a thick dark veil. She moved with the fluid grace of a predator, each step deliberate and controlled. The door clicked shut behind her. Without a word, she sat on one of the wooden chairs across from him. Her gloved fingers lifted the veil, revealing sharp features framed by long auburn hair and calculating eyes that swept across his cluttered workspace - taking in the scattered papers, ingredients, and equipment before fixing on him with unnerving intensity. "You have a talent for breaking and entering," Fendrel said, trying to inject some lightness into his voice. His attempt at humor fell flat in the heavy silence. She ignored his comment entirely. "The increased security around this place makes approaching you... inconvenient." Her voice was heavy with tired annoyance. "The Cabal grows restless with your continued failure to settle your debts." Fendrel''s mouth went dry. He wondered for a while now when she would come to collect. "While certain parties seem intent on keeping you breathing," she continued, examining her gloved fingers with casual disinterest, "the Cabal is beginning to wonder if disposing of you might restore the natural order of things." Chapter 33: Late Night Discoveries Fendrel shifted in his seat, the wooden chair creaking beneath him. "You mention your people worked out a deal with the Ironmire to keep me alive. Seems it didn''t quite work as intended." Her posture stiffened. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "You are pushing your luck, Solinar. My position has been compromised, and I have no interest in entertaining you." His fingers twitched against the workbench. Would it be better to just kill her? One touch - that''s all it would take. The mud claw skill would end her in seconds. Or any of the poisons scattered across his workspace... just a slight graze against her skin... Fendrel forced his hand to relax. The woman across from him, despite her cold demeanor, she had helped him when he needed it the most. Even now, she was warning him rather than forcing him to obey. He leaned back, deliberately moving away from the poisons on his table. "You seem to know my name and everything about me, while I know next to nothing about all of you people." He met her gaze. "What''s your name, at least? What do you do for the Cabal?" Her green eyes locked onto his, sharp and calculating. The silence stretched between them as she studied his face, weighing something in her mind. Her gloved fingers drummed once against the table''s surface - the only sign of consideration in her otherwise perfectly controlled demeanor. She sighed, placing both hands flat on the table. "You can call me Eryndra. As far as you''re concerned, I handle your interactions with the Cabal." Fendrel traced her lips with his eyes, studying her posture. Something flickered across her face - a moment of uncertainty that didn''t match her earlier confidence. The parasite inside him stirred, heightening his senses, making him more aware of the subtle shifts in her demeanor. This is first. "Why help me?" The words left his mouth before he could stop them. "You''ve gone beyond what any handler would do. The help from last time, the warning just now..." He leaned forward. "What''s in it for you?" Eryndra''s fingers twitched against the wooden surface. The mask of cold indifference cracking, revealing a brief moment of surprise at his directness. She glanced at the door, then back at him, her shoulders dropping a fraction. "Your abilities are... unique." She spoke each word with careful precision. "The Cabal values special assets, but few understand what you''re actually creating. Your failures included." Her lip curled slightly. "Most would have disposed of you after the Blackthorns mess. I saw an opportunity." "An opportunity?" "The Cabal''s hierarchy is rigid, but not unchangeable. Those who contribute value rise." Her eyes gleamed with sudden intensity. "I''ve vouched for your potential, Solinar. Every success of yours strengthens my position. Every failure..." She let the words hang. Fendrel stared at the woman. She wasn''t just protecting him - she was investing in him. Using his skills as leverage for her own advancement. "Don''t make me regret it." Her voice hardened. "If you keep failing, I will not help you indefinitely." Eryndra pulled a folded parchment from her coat and placed it on the table. The paper''s edges were crisp, marked with the Cabal''s symbol - a broken jawbone. Fendrel unfolded it, his eyes scanning the contents. The list stretched down the page in neat columns, each item marked with quantities that made his throat go dry. His fingers traced the first entry - paralytic agents in volumes beyond his current stock. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, the fabric coming away damp. The workshop''s usual comfortable dimness felt stifling. "Three hundred vials of Silkslither Toxin?" His voice cracked. "That''s... that''s more cocoon fibers than I''ve seen in my life." "Keep reading." Eryndra''s boots scraped against the floor as she got up from the chair. The list continued. Corrosive compounds, lethal poisons in quantities that would drain his supplies dry. At the bottom, a demand for healing potions and reinforcers that made his head spin.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. "The healing potions..." He looked up. "That''s enough to supply an army." "Our usual sources have become... unreliable." Fendrel slumped in his chair, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. The parchment trembled in his other hand. Each item represented days or even weeks of work, rare ingredients he''d need to source, processes that couldn''t be rushed. His current supplies wouldn''t cover a tenth of what they wanted. "I don''t know if I can make all of these." He dropped the list onto his workbench. "It''s too much. The ingredients alone..." The scope overwhelmed him. Between keeping the parasite at bay with his own brews, maintaining his cover with the blackthorns, and now this... The walls of his small workshop seemed to close in. Eryndra leaned forward, her shadow falling across the parchment. "Find a way. Eryndra''s lips curved into a thin smile as she watched Fendrel''s hands shake while holding the parchment. The dim light from the workshop''s windows cast long shadows across her face. "The Cabal finds itself in a delicate position." She traced a finger along the edge of his workbench. "Our war with the Ironmire stretches our resources thin, and the Church''s increased pressure leaves us little room to maneuver." Fendrel''s stomach churned. "And what happens if I can''t meet these demands?" "The Cabal is only as loyal as its profits." Her fingers drummed against the wooden surface. "Keep that in mind before you get any ideas." The meaning behind her words hit him like a physical blow. They didn''t care if the demands were impossible. He was just another resource to be used and discarded when it proved insufficient. To the Cabal, to the black market contact, even to Eryndra herself - he was expendable. She turned toward the door, her boots clicking against the floorboards. "Eryndra." His voice came out stronger than he expected. "Before you come next time, contact me first." She paused, her hand on the door handle. A short laugh escaped her lips. "You''re a funny man, Fendrel Solinar. Each time I meet you, you seem more bold." She glanced over her shoulder. "Keep it up and you might get a say in all of this one day." The door closed behind her with a soft click. Fendrel sat at his workbench, staring at the grimoire lying among his tools and ingredients. Its pages held secrets - formulas and techniques that could change everything. Knowledge that could give him leverage, power beyond merely staying alive. His fingers brushed against the worn leather cover. The book''s mysteries called to him, promising answers. But each hour spent decoding its cryptic passages meant falling behind on his quotas, risking everything he''d built. Fendrel''s fingers traced the intricate diagrams in the grimoire, his gaze darting between the ancient pages and the rows of vials on his workbench. The crystal light caught the glass, creating prismatic patterns on the worn wood. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I should seriously do something about these people just walking in." The thought crystallized into action. He snatched a vial of venomshroud poison from the shelf, its contents swirling with a subtle iridescence. The familiar weight settled in his palm as he moved through his workshop. His footsteps echoed against the floorboards as he worked methodically. The poison dripped from his fingers onto the window frames, leaving no visible trace. Each door handle received a careful coating, the metal drinking in the deadly substance. The second chair - the one they always chose - got special attention along its armrests. Up the stairs he went, treating the handrail with precise strokes. The empty vial clinked as he set it on a shelf. "Fuck them." The grimoire waited on his workbench, its pages still open to the complex formulae he''d been studying. He settled back into his chair, pulling the text closer.
Fendrel''s eyes burned as he traced the intricate glyphs across the grimoire''s yellowed pages. The night had slipped away, marked only by the gradual shift of shadows across his workshop floor. His fingers traced the delicate lines of an enchantment diagram, committing each curve to memory. A stack of unfilled orders sat abandoned on the corner of his workbench. The Cabal''s demands could wait. His mind felt sharper, clearer than it had in weeks. As he studied the ancient text, new connections formed. Patterns emerged from what had once been incomprehensible scrawls. The parasite''s influence seemed to unlock hidden meanings in the archaic symbols. He reached for a vial of Distilled Nightwraith Distillate he''d prepared earlier. The liquid glowed with a soft yellow luminescence, dancing between his fingers. He''d brewed it hoping to find some peace, some escape from the constant pressure. Instead of dulling his senses, the concoction had provided interesting new effect. [EFFECT]: You have been poisoned. [EFFECT]: You have been drugged. [STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect. [NEW PASSIVE SKILL]: Drug resistance 1 [STATUS]: You neutralized the Euphoric effect. [EFFECT]: Mind enhanced level 1. Time remaining 2 hours His thoughts crystallized, focusing with laser precision on the knowledge before him. The parasites presence grew stronger with each page turned. Where before it had been an unwelcome invader, now it felt more like a lens, helping him perceive deeper layers of meaning in the grimoire''s pages. Fendrel paused, his hand hovering over the page. Nyssara''s motives nagged at him. The story about magical illness research rang hollow. The complexity of these formulas, the depth of knowledge contained within - this went far beyond treating common ailments. But the doubts faded as new insights bloomed in his mind. Each revelation pulled him deeper into the grimoire''s mysteries. The parasite''s influence merged with his own curiosity, driving him forward. The secrets hidden in these pages promised power, understanding - perhaps even control over his unwanted passenger. His fingers traced another glyph, and understanding clicked into place like a key turning in a lock. He couldn''t stop now, not when he was finally beginning to grasp the true scope of what lay before him. Chapter 34: Integration Fendrel traced his finger along the glyph sequence, the charcoal lines stark against the wooden floor. A body sprawled near the window, face pressed against the floorboards. The man had dropped without a sound - the venomshroud poison on the windowsill worked faster than expected. Blood pooled beneath the would-be intruder''s nose, staining the wooden planks. However, Fendrel barely registered the corpse''s presence, too absorbed in the revelations unfolding before him. The grimoire''s pages seemed to pulse with hidden meaning. What had appeared as disparate elements now wove together into a cohesive whole. The parasitic influence provided insights into the text he could never imagine to understand by himself. "Life force stability," he muttered, comparing two diagrams side by side. "The etheric residue..." His eyes traced the interconnected paths between symbols. The integration timer pulsed at the edge of his awareness. Integrating the class, race and parasite. Time remaining 10 minutes. Whatever the integration meant to do, it was going to happen soon. Bottles from two days of experiments and countless failures cluttered his workbench, he spend most of the gold on shopping for rare ingredients instead of trying to fulfill his outstanding orders. "This is more important." He mumbled to himself for tenth time. "It has to be." The corpse''s presence nagged at him distantly, like an itch he couldn''t quite reach. He should deal with it. Instead, his attention fixed on the breakthrough crystallizing in his mind. The parasite''s insight revealed how the grimoire''s seemingly separate research paths intertwined. Life force stability - the anchoring of spiritual energy within physical forms. And etheric residue manipulation - the shaping of energy traces left by magical processes. One used toxin as the means of application, while the second one manifested through the glyphs. Fendrel''s hand shook as he picked two bottles from the table and sat in the middle of the glyph circle. The parasite''s influence let him perceive how the patterns linked, forming a foundation for something new. A method to capture and preserve spiritual energy, perhaps even bind it to physical vessels. The timer continued its steady countdown. Blood from the dead man crept across the floor in a widening pool. Fendrel held up two bottles to the dim light filtering through his grimy window. The first contained the Eclipsebane Toxin, its dark contents swirling with an inner luminescence. He''d followed the grimoire''s instructions to the letter, measuring each ingredient with precision. The second bottle, filled with the Shadowroot Draught, emanated a different kind of energy - one he''d created through his own experimentation. His eyes drifted to the complex array of glyphs he''d incorporated into the brewing process. Unlike the massive circle taking up half his floor, these smaller marks had been carefully etched onto the brewing apparatus itself. The new skills and parasite''s insight into the process had shown him how to merge the magical inscriptions with the alchemical reactions. The dead man''s blood had finally stopped spreading, congealing at the edge of the floor circle. The glyphs were meant to contain whatever energy the process would generate - though he couldn''t begin to guess what form that energy might take. His hand trembled as he uncorked the Shadowroot Draught. The last time he''d sampled an unfinished product, he''d nearly died. But this felt different. The parasite''s presence in his mind conveyed an understanding of the potion''s purpose, even if he couldn''t fully grasp the mechanisms behind it. Something about stabilizing and anchoring life force within his body. "Container for the body," he muttered, studying the dark liquid. "Vessel for etheric energy." The words made little sense to his conscious mind, but some deeper part of him - the part influenced by the parasite - recognized their significance. The Draught would prepare his body to contain whatever strange power the floor circle was designed to capture. He swirled the bottle''s contents, watching how the liquid caught the light. Fendrel stared at the Draught, his fingers white-knuckled around the bottle. The liquid inside seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Every group that had approached him wanted something, the Ironmire, the cabal, nobles and now whoever left the grimoire expected him to believe their bullshit about helping the sick. His jaw clenched. Even the parasite had its own agenda, forcing him to brew increasingly complex concoctions just to maintain the delicate balance keeping it in check. The creature''s silence now felt meaningful, like tacit approval of what he planned.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "At least you''re honest about using me." He traced the edge of the bottle with his thumb. "Not hiding behind pretty words about greater good or duty." The floor circle''s glyphs cast strange shadows in the dim light. Class advancement. Integration. Integrating the class, race and parasite. Time remaining 30 seconds. Nobody ever heard about integration of race and class, yet here it was about to happen. If there was chance to escape it all, this was it. "Fuck it." Before doubt could take hold, he pressed the bottle to his lips and drank. The liquid burned going down, coating his throat in ice. His stomach clenched as the potion hit, spreading tendrils of cold through his core. [EFFECT] Your essence has been reinforced Fendrel''s hands shook as he set down the empty bottle. But short of the notification nothing seemed to change. He reached for the Eclipsebane Toxin. Fendrel lifted the Eclipsebane Toxin to his lips. The liquid slid down his throat, sweeter than he expected. His vision blurred, colors intensifying until the dim room blazed with impossible hues. A rush of euphoria swept through him, lifting him beyond the confines of his flesh. The high crashed into him like a tidal wave. His body hummed with energy while his thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. The wooden floor beneath his feet darkened, grain lines withering as the boards aged decades in seconds. Mold sprouted and died along the walls, leaving behind nothing but ash. [STATUS] You have been drugged. [EFFECT] Etheric energy absorption in progress. The circle of glyphs pulsed, each symbol igniting with deep purple light. Terror clawed at his mind even as his body sang with power. The corpse by the window crumbled into dust. Flesh dissolved into nothing, bones following moments later until only a dark stain remained on the floorboards. [STATUS] Integration commences. [AREA EFFECT] Ambient life essence eradicated in 200 meter radius. The very air seemed to grow thin and lifeless. Energy poured into him, filling spaces he hadn''t known existed within his being. [NEW ATTRIBUTE UNLOCKED]: Etheric energy His triumph turned to horror as pain lanced through his arms. The flesh began to rot, skin sloughing off in wet chunks to reveal blackened muscle beneath. His throat constricted, choking off his attempts to scream. [STATUS] Host insufficient capacity, disintegrating the host Fendrel''s jaw worked soundlessly as he watched decay spread up his arms. Tendons separated from bone, muscle turning to slurry. The purple light from the glyphs grew brighter, searing his eyes as power continued to pour into his failing body. [STATUS] Epic class integrating: Mirebane [STATUS] Irregular species integrating: Human Bogwraith [STATUS] Rare parasite integrating: Xytril Nematode Oversaturation of etheric energy¡­ Reinforced vessel¡­ Advanced Glyph formation available¡­ [STATUS] Glyph-Melded Form Fendrel''s scream died in his throat as something twisted inside him. His bones cracked and shifted, grinding against each other like stones in a mill. Muscles tore and reformed, weaving new patterns beneath his skin. The sensation wasn''t pain - it was worse, a fundamental wrongness that defied description. Black symbols bubbled up through his dissolving flesh, each glyph burning with cold fire as it emerged. The marks spread across his arms and legs in intricate patterns, fighting back the decay that threatened to consume him. Where the glyphs touched, dead tissue knit itself back together, though the new skin held an ashen pallor. His back arched as another wave of transformation wracked his body. The parasite writhed within him, its presence expanding until he could feel it in every cell. Their boundaries blurred - host and parasite becoming something new, something other. The circle''s purple light flickered and died, leaving Fendrel gasping on the floor. His chest heaved as he drew in ragged breaths, each one tasting of grave soil and decay. [EFFECT] Necrosis Infection - Permanent [EFFECT] Runic Enhancement - Permanent Glowing text appeared in his vision, announcing his transformation in stark, clinical terms. Congratulations. You have evolved Glyph-Melded Form. You have finished your advancement. Necrotic Etherbane Engraver The parasite has fully integrated with your form. [STATUS] NAME: Fendrel Solinar CLASS: Necrotic Etherbane Engraver LEVEL: 1 RACE: Human Bogwraith FORM: Glyph-Melded INTEGRATION: Xytril Nematode LEVEL: 10 Your skills have been updated. Your codex has been updated. The parasite''s familiar presence disappeared, no longer the subtle pressure in his chest, but more of a presence in the back of his mind. Fendrel stared at his transformed arms, watching the glyphs shift and pulse beneath his grey-tinged skin, before settling in black patterns. Fendrel ran his fingers over the glyphs etched into his skin. "I''m really fucked this time." His voice came out as a rasp, dry and hollow. The laboratory looked like a tomb. Where vials of reagents and ingredients had stood, only empty glass remained. His wooden workbench had crumbled to dust, leaving behind just the metal fittings and stone base. Even the leather of his journal had dissolved, the metal clasp falling to the floor with a clank. He stumbled to the window, legs still unsteady. The street below was empty - thank whatever gods might be listening. "How in the hells am I supposed to explain this?" His grey-tinged fingers left smudges on the windowpane. The Blackthorns would want answers about the place. And someone must have noticed the purple light or energy radiating from this place. A sharp pain lanced through his chest, followed by text floating across his vision: [FORM STATUS]: Form''s required substance: Reinforced Gravebloom Tincture: Dose required in 9 hours. "Perfect. I don''t get a break with this part." He kicked at a pile of dust that had once been his chair. The notification hung in his sight like a death sentence. Without his supplies or equipment, he had no way to brew the tincture. And based on the burning sensation already building in his veins, he didn''t want to find out what would happen when that timer hit zero. Chapter 35: Kerneke Fendrel''s mind over the options for obtaining the ingredients he needed, each option worse than the last. It was either the black market or getting either blackthorns or cabal involved further. A knock at the door froze him mid-thought as the hinges squealed, before the door creaked open. Man in pristine white robes adorned with the golden sun sigil of the Church of Adria opened the doors with two guards in polished breastplates flanking him. The church envoy''s eyes widened as he took in the barren laboratory. "By the Light..." He stepped inside, boots crunching on the debris that had once been Fendrel''s workbench. "This is... most unusual." Fendrel stepped back against a wall, grateful for the shadows that might hide his altered skin. The glyphs beneath his flesh were painfully obvious despite the dark interior. "I am Brother Kaelor." The cleric''s voice carried the cultured accent of someone higher up. "We detected a surge of death energy from this location." His gaze swept the room. "Would you care to explain what transpired here?" Fendrel''s throat constricted. How did this guy get in? The Blackthorns controlled this building - their influence should have kept the church away. For a cleric to enter their territory meant something had gone terribly wrong. "How did you get in?" The words scraped out before he could stop them. Brother Kaelor''s eyebrows rose. "The door was unlocked. Given the nature of the energy we sensed, we felt immediate investigation was warranted." He gestured to the empty shelves. "Though I confess, I expected to find more... evidence of whatever ritual caused such a disturbance." The notification about the Gravebloom Tincture pulsed in Fendrel''s vision. Eight hours. He needed to get rid of these people and find ingredients before time ran out. "There was no ritual." Fendrel''s mind raced. "An experiment went wrong. Chemical reaction. Nothing more." "A chemical reaction that produced necromantic energy?" Brother Kaelor stepped closer, and Fendrel pressed harder against the wall. "That seems unlikely." "We have been looking for a rouge group of mages turned necromancers." Brother Kaelor''s fingers touched pommel of a mace on his belt. "Imagine our surprise when our blessings kicked in four blocks from here." Fendrel''s swallowed lump in his throat, mouth dry. "We rush over and what do we find?" Brother Kaelor''s boots crunched through the debris as he approached. "Our local toxin alchemist who is obviously stepping up in the world." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "We have been looking for you for a while, Master Solinar. You still owe us for the mess you caused in the church." The reasonable tone didn''t match the stone-cold look in the cleric''s eyes. Fendrel recognized that expression - a predator playing with its prey. "What was it? Mana potions and antidotes?" Brother Kaelor''s fingers drummed against his mace. "How did you get mixed up in soul magic?" "I don''t know what you''re talking about." Fendrel''s voice cracked. The glyphs pulsed beneath is skin, revealing his racing heart. Brother Kaelor hefted his mace. "You better start talking before I send you to whatever devil you made a contract with." Fendrel opened his mouth to respond when a wet choking sound came from behind them. The guard by the door clutched his throat, face turning purple as he collapsed. The second guard by the window dropped a heartbeat later, blood trickling from his nose. "What-" Brother Kaelor spun toward Fendrel. His words cut off in a gurgle as he stumbled to his knees, blood spattering the floor. "How... my blessing should have..." He retched, more blood staining his pristine robes. "How did the cleansing fail?" Text flashed across Fendrel''s vision: [STATUS]: Your poison resisted a cleanse. [CLASS SKILL LEVEL UP]: Toxin purification resistance 2 Fendrel stared at the cleric writhing on the ground. His body trembled, but something cold and hard settled in his chest. The glyphs under his skin pulsed with an eerie light, casting shadows across Brother Kaelor''s blood-stained face. "You want to live?" The ice in his voice surprised him. He stepped forward, arms shimmering with arcane script. Blood trickled from Brother Kaelor''s mouth. "What did you-"This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. "I have an antidote for that poison." Fendrel scooped up several vials from the floor, glass clinking against one another. "But I need new furniture. New brewing set and some ingredients." Brother Kaelor''s face twisted in rage despite the pain. "Are you mad? Church will not stand for this!" "So you don''t want to live." Fendrel''s hands shook, but his voice remained steady. He was dead either way if he couldn''t brew more toxins. This man''s life meant nothing if Fendrel couln''t make a deal with him. Blood bubbled between Brother Kaelor''s lips as he forced out the words: "What do you want?" "Furniture. Table, chairs, shelves, distillation set, brewing set." Fendrel ticked off each item. "Restock of ingredients." He paused, considering. "Contract with church. I''m not a necromancer and have nothing to do with them. But if you detected necromancy here, I need wards." Brother Kaelor''s skin had taken on a grey tinge. "I can''t get it fast enough to live." Fendrel tossed him a bottle. The cleric caught it with trembling hands and drank without hesitation. His face fell as another surge of pain wracked his body. The status message flashed in Fendrel''s vision: [STATUS]: Your toxin resisted a cleanse. Brother Kaelor''s laugh came out wet and gurgling. "You really are a lunatic, Solinar." Fendrel pulled another vial from his pocket, the glass cold against his palm. "That''s my insurance." He lifted the second bottle, its contents shimmering with an unsettling glow. "This is your lifeline. You can kill me after you drink it, hope your church can cleanse the toxin." His fingers traced the glowing script beneath his skin. "But remember what happened when your healers tried to save the Blackthorn girl. I was a lot worse at what I do back then." Brother Kaelor''s face drained of what little color remained. Blood dripped from his chin onto his white robes, spreading in dark circles. His eyes darted between the vial and Fendrel''s face, searching for any sign of deception. Fendrel had no idea if this cleric knew about Elena Blackthorn. He wasn''t even certain if the toxin coursing through the man''s veins was slow-acting or not. But judging by Kaelor''s expression, the cleric didn''t know either. Fendrel tossed the second bottle. It arced through the air, glass catching the dim light. Brother Kaelor snatched it with shaking hands and yanked out the cork. He hesitated for a heartbeat before pressing it to his lips. The relief that washed over Kaelor''s face as he swallowed made Fendrel''s shoulders loosen. When the cleric didn''t immediately lunge for his throat, Fendrel let out a slow breath. "You have five hours." Fendrel''s voice came out steadier than he felt. "Get it done, or the deal''s off. You can hope for the best after that." Brother Kaelor pushed himself to his feet, robes heavy with blood. He cast one last look at his fallen companions before stumbling out the door without a word. The silence that followed pressed against Fendrel''s ears. Two dead guards lay sprawled on his floor, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and pain. His hands began to shake as the reality of what he''d done crashed over him.
Fendrel knelt beside the bodies, his fingers trembling as he searched their pouches. The metallic stench of blood filled his nostrils while he worked, pocketing copper and silver coins along with a few vials of holy water. A small notebook bound in leather caught his attention - names and dates, nothing useful. Dawn painted the sky in pale shades when he slipped out of the building. The streets stretched empty before him, his footsteps echoing off cobblestones as he made his way toward the Artisan District. His vision blurred from exhaustion, mind foggy after the sleepless night. The Ashen Anvil emerged from morning mist after an hour of searching. Smoke curled from its chimney despite the early hour. Fendrel tested the door handle - it swung open without resistance. Warmth and the scent of fresh bread washed over him as he stepped inside. A man and woman sat at a rough-hewn table, soup bowls steaming before them. They froze mid-conversation, staring at him with expressions caught between shock and disbelief. The man recovered first, surging to his feet. "What in blazes are you doing in my house?" He snatched up a hammer from a nearby workbench, knuckles white around the handle. "My apologies for the intrusion. I was directed here about placing an order." The words tumbled out as Fendrel raised his hands. "You were told to just walk the fuck in??" The woman backed toward a staircase, her fingers wrapping around the handle of a long kitchen knife. Children''s voices drifted down from above, followed by the creak of floorboards. Cold sweat broke out across Fendrel''s forehead. "The door was unlocked. I didn''t know it would just open - I should have knocked." "Who sent you?" The man advanced, hammer raised. "No one. I''m Fendrel Solinar. I was told to come here when I needed to make another order." The blacksmith''s face hardened. "Never heard of you." Relief flooded through Fendrel''s body. "That makes me happier than you can imagine." "What do you want?" The man lowered the hammer but kept it gripped tight. Fendrel lowered his arms, scanning the room. "You wouldn''t happen to have paper?" Small feet thundered down the wooden stairs. Two children, a boy and girl no older than ten, peered around the corner. Their eyes went wide at the sight of Fendrel. "Is he a guest?" The girl asked, clutching her brother''s sleeve. "Not really a guest," Fendrel started, but the blacksmith cut him off. "He''s a new neighbor. Lost one." The man''s voice softened when addressing his children. Fendrel''s throat tightened. "Right. Neighbor." The blacksmith jerked his head toward a side door. "Come with me and don''t touch anything." They stepped through into an adjacent workshop. A large furnace dominated one wall, stacked with fresh wood but cold and dark. Metal implements hung from hooks, catching what little morning light filtered through the dusty windows. The air smelled of coal and iron. "Write down what you want, leave money on the table and leave before I decide to add you to my kindling." The blacksmith crossed his arms. "It''s sort of a rush order." Fendrel shifted his weight. "You really have no fucking idea where you are, do you?" Fendrel pressed his lips together, saying nothing. The blacksmith tilted his head. "Just to be clear - you do have the tag?" Fendrel''s fingers found the small metal piece in his pocket. He held it up, watching the dim light catch the engraving - an unbalanced scale with an anvil weighing down one side. "This is the biggest hub to source herbalist and alchemist ingredients in the whole city of Kerneke." The blacksmith''s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Blacksmith?" Fendrel asked. A hint of pride crept into the man''s voice. "Who else?" Chapter 36: The Clerics fate Fendrel traced the edge of the metal tag with his thumb. "Do you deal in information?" The blacksmith''s expression shifted, muscles tightening around his jaw. "Depends what kind of information." "I need to send a message to the rebels." Steel gray eyes locked onto Fendrel''s face, studying every detail. "For someone I never heard about, you seem to be aware of many things. Solinar, was it?" Fendrel inclined his head. "What kind of message?" The glyphs under Fendrel''s skin pulsed with a dull ache. "They have six hours to arrange the meeting they wanted. Blackthorns are aware of their movements." His mind spun ideas as he talked. "Not in my lab." The blacksmith''s fingers drummed against his bicep. "It''s constantly watched by way too many groups." "So where?" Fendrel paused mid-step, turning to face the man. "Well, that is up to them." Fendrel started writing the list, the parchment worn at the edges from constant handling. The ingredients for Gravebloom Tincture formed only a fraction of what he needed. His eyes traced down the columns of items: crushed moonflower petals, crystallized mana shards, purified water - components for basic healing and mana potions. The list continued with specialized equipment: mana-infused glass containers, warded copper tubing, crystalline condensers. The prices made his coin purse feel lighter just looking at them. "These too." He slid the complete list across the workbench. The blacksmith''s eyebrows rose as he read. "Mana containment equipment? That''s restricted merchandise." "How much?" "Triple the market rate, minimum. And I''ll need time to source some of these items." The man''s finger tapped against the mana distillation chamber. "This one especially." Fendrel nodded. The fact that he didn''t say it was impossible spoke volumes. Fendrel had an inkling that he is maybe one or two levels from needing the mana potions. He somehow avoided it until now, but the new form felt far more demanding. On top of it the glyphs were essentially mana conduits and his body was riddled with them now. Without proper equipment to handle volatile mana essence, he risked contaminating the entire district with raw mana. "How long?" "Three days for the basic equipment. A week for the specialized items. The ingredients can be delivered by tomorrow." The blacksmith folded the list with practiced precision. "I will take fifteen gold up front." There was something more beyond those words. Almost as if the man was testing him. Fendrel pulled out the coins without hesitation, metal clinking against wood as he set them on the table. The glyphs pulsed again, stronger this time. Five hours remained until he needed the Gravebloom Tincture. He couldn''t risk to wait on everything from one place. Without another word, he turned and walked out, leaving the warmth of the house behind. Fendrel wove through the marketplace crowds, his new skin tingling with each brush against passing strangers. The glyphs carved into his flesh pulsed with a steady rhythm, like a second heartbeat. He checked off items from his codex list as he acquired them - witherbloom powder from an herb vendor, shadecap spores from a fungus specialist, nightshade essence from a shifty-eyed merchant. The upper district proved far more accommodating and it helped that he was looking mostly for standard materials, albeit in higher quantitates. [CODEX] Gravebloom Tincture Ingredients: [FORM STATUS]: Form''s required substance: Reinforced Gravebloom Tincture: Dose required in 5 hours. The strange calm persisted as he navigated the streets. His hands remained steady, his breath even. The transformation''s influence had perhaps altered more than just his flesh. A hooded figure lingered too long at a stall he passed. Another seemed to mirror his path from across the square. Fendrel kept his pace measured, neither hurrying nor dawdling. "Fresh ash! Whitewood, blackwood, all kinds!" A vendor called out. Fendrel paused, hope rising. "Blackwillow?"Stolen story; please report. The vendor shook his head. "Sold out weeks ago. Try the temple district." Four hours remained when Fendrel stood before his workshop, arms laden with supplies but still missing the crucial ingredient. The church gates loomed in his mind. Do I really have to go there? He pushed open the door, expecting to find the mess he''d left behind. Instead, gleaming equipment lined freshly installed shelves. New workbenches stood where the old ones had been destroyed. The floor had been scrubbed clean of the transformation''s aftermath. "About time." The cleric''s voice cracked. Fendrel turned. The man paced near the back wall, collar pulled high but not quite hiding the purple veins creeping up his neck like twisted vines. His skin had taken on a grayish tinge. "You did all this?" Fendrel set his supplies on the nearest bench. The cleric''s fingers twitched against his robes. "Figured if we are going to die here, might as well make it presentable." Fendrel walked along the new shelving, fingers trailing across polished wood. Each shelf held neatly arranged equipment - mortars, pestles, measuring scales, and distillation apparatus. He stopped at a rack lined with fancy crystal vials, their contents shimmering in the workshop''s light. His eyes widened at the array of essences, far more than needed for the tincture. "I assume we need to discuss terms." Fendrel turned to face Kaelor, whose surprise flickered across his gray-tinged features. "You can''t expect me to believe you''ll simply walk away once you have your antidote." Kaelor''s fingers dug into his thighs, purple veins stark against his pale skin. "You have something else in mind?" Fendrel leaned against the workbench, considering his options. "I could send the antidote through one of your church-run brothels." A muscle twitched in Kaelor''s jaw. His composure cracked for just a moment before he regained control. Fendrel''s eyes darted to the new equipment surrounding them - easily worth a small fortune, acquired and installed within hours. He wants to live, and he needs me for that. "No." Kaelor''s voice came out rough. He settled into a chair by the workbench, though his rigid posture betrayed his discomfort. "You''ll hand it to me here. Men loyal to me wait outside, watching every exit. Neither of us leaves until I walk out alive." Sweat beaded on Kaelor''s forehead as he spoke. The poison''s effects were progressing, and they both knew it. The veins in his neck had spread further, creating a web-like pattern across his skin. Fendrel''s gaze fixed on the spreading purple veins across Kaelor''s skin. Time slipped away like sand through his fingers - both for the tincture he needed and the dying man before him. "I need to check your condition." Fendrel stepped toward the seated man. "I have no idea what I poisoned you with." Kaelor''s face twisted with murderous rage as Fendrel reached for his palm. The cleric''s skin burned hot beneath Fendrel''s touch, but he held still, likely knowing his life depended on it. [STATUS] NAME: Kaelar Baler CLASS: Adria''s Holy Cleric RACE: Human ACTIVE EFFECTS: Eclipsebane Toxin contamination - Stage: 2/3 Advanced. Partially suppressed. Fuck. The world tilted for a moment as Fendrel processed the information. His mind raced back to the chaos before his transformation - he''d only had access to one toxin then. His eyes darted to his updated codex, confirming his fears: [CODEX] The new formulas swam before his eyes, extraordinary and confusing. But none of that mattered now. The reality was that there wasn''t enough time to develop and test an antidote. Not with Eclipsebane working its way through Kaelor''s system. Kaelor''s fingers dug into the workbench, knuckles white. "Well?" "No problem, I know which it is and how to solve it." Fendrel''s mouth felt dry. "It will just take couple hours to make." He turned toward the shelves, but Kaelor''s hand shot out, fingers digging into Fendrel''s forearm. The cleric''s grip burned like ice. "I''m not dying here myself, Alchemist. I will kill you before I die." Fendrel gave a stiff nod, prying his arm free. At the crystal vial shelf, his fingers traced the bottles until he found three containing Essence of blackwillow ash. The liquid inside seemed to absorb the workshop''s light. He placed the vials in the activation chamber, adjusting the brass dials with practiced precision. Steam hissed through copper pipes as the chamber heated. Sweat trickled down Fendrel''s back - not from the heat, but from Kaelor''s unwavering stare burning into him. The first stage of the layered infusion required focus. Fendrel measured each drop, watching the liquids swirl together in precise ratios. His hands moved automatically through the motions while his mind raced through calculations. Adjusting the ratios. Kaelor''s breathing grew more labored with each passing minute. The purple veins had spread past his collar now, creeping up his jaw like twisted vines. His eyes never left Fendrel''s hands. "That''s not how it''s done." Kaelor''s voice cracked as Fendrel began the second layer. "The Church teaches-" "The Church teaches how to make healing potions and holy water," Fendrel cut in, carefully tilting the next vial. "This is something else entirely." The second hour dragged by as Fendrel worked through the final stages. His muscles ached from maintaining the precise movements required for the layered infusion. One wrong motion would ruin everything. Kaelor shifted in his chair, knuckles white where they gripped the armrests. His eyes narrowed as Fendrel began filling the final vials with the completed mixture. "Stop." Kaelor lurched forward. "You''re making too many doses." Fendrel''s hand froze mid-pour, the thick liquid settling in the second vial. The familiar notifications flashed across his vision, confirming what he already knew. [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Gravebloom Tincture brewed successfully. Residual amount: 50% [CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Gravebloom Tincture brewed successfully. Residual amount: 0% He set down the mixture, pushing both vials across the workbench toward Kaelor. "Done." Kaelor''s eyes narrowed as he studied the purple liquid. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for one of the vials, pulling the cork free. The sickly-sweet scent of decay filled the air between them. He paused, the vial halfway to his lips. "This is antidote right?" Fendrel managed a short nod, not trusting his voice. His throat felt tight as he watched the cleric''s internal struggle play across his face. "You first Alchemist." Kaelor thrust the open vial toward him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the purple veins now a stark web across his skin. "You think I''m dumb? This doesn''t smell like healing but like death. If you want to die so badly I will let you go by your own creation." Fendrel pressed his lips together, fighting back the urge to smile. He reached out slowly, almost hesitantly, taking the vial from Kaelor''s shaking hand. The glass felt cool against his fingers. He kept his eyes locked on Kaelor''s face as he lifted the vial and drank. The familiar taste of rot and grave soil coated his tongue. The notifications appeared immediately: [EFFECT] You have been poisoned. [EFFECT] Form has been reinforced. [PASSIVE SKILL ADVANCEMENT] Poison resistance + Toxin resistance -> Toxicity resistance reinforcement (Immune to Tincture grade potions) [FORM STATUS]: Form has been successfully reinforced: Next dose required in 9 hours. A wave of calm washed over Fendrel as the Tincture worked through his system. He stood perfectly still, watching as Kaelor waited for him to drop dead. Chapter 37: Interest Kaelor''s trembling fingers gripped the second vial. His eyes darted between Fendrel and the purple liquid, searching for any sign of deception. Finding none, he tilted his head back and drank. Kaelor''s throat worked as he fought to swallow, his face contorting at the putrid taste. The empty vial slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor. The effect was immediate. His eyes went wide, mouth opening in a silent scream as notifications clearly flashed across his vision. The veins in his neck bulged, now a deep violet against his pale skin. [STATUS] Your Toxin resisted a cleanse Fendrel watched the man''s desperation play over his face. He had little concept of the pain surrounding the poisoning by his concoctions, the first time he ever drank one was a long time ago, now almost distant memory. The last true agony he''d experienced was the unfinished Eclipsebane toxin. Everything since then had been painless, mostly bringing relief. Kaelor collapsed, his body wracked with spasms. The Reinforced Gravebloom Tincture worked through his system with brutal efficiency. His fingers clawed at the floorboards, leaving deep scratches in the wood as he tried to fight against the inevitable. No words came from the dying cleric''s mouth, only choked gasps and wet, gurgling sounds. The highest-grade toxin Fendrel could produce showed no mercy. A strange calm settled over Fendrel as he observed Kaelor''s final moments. For the first time since the parasite had invaded his body, since his life had spiraled into chaos, he felt in control. The power to decide another''s fate rested in his hands, and the weight of that decision brought an unexpected peace. Kaelor''s movements grew weaker, his body giving up the fight. As the last breath rattled from his lungs, unexpected notifications appeared: [STATUS] You have killed Holy Cleric of Adria [EFFECT] Adria took notice of your existence [STATUS] Adria''s mark added to your status Fendrel bit his lip, staring at the notifications floating in his vision. What does that mean? [STATUS] NAME: Fendrel Solinar CLASS: Necrotic Etherbane Engraver LEVEL: 1 RACE: Human Bogwraith FORM: Glyph-Melded GODS MARK: Adria''s Heretic INTEGRATION: Xytril Nematode LEVEL: 10 The status window expanded before him. His name was the only thing remaining the same, but everything else had transformed over time into something unrecognizable. The class title alone - Necrotic Etherbane Engraver - sounded like nonsense, a random collection of words that shouldn''t exist together. Death, Glyph weaver and a mythical monster. He ran his fingers over the glyphs embedded in his skin, tracing their unfamiliar patterns. Human Bogwraith. The term felt wrong in his mind, like oil mixing with water. He''d heard tales of bogwraiths in the swamps, creatures of decay and death that haunted the marshlands. But human? The combination shouldn''t be possible. The Glyph-Melded form designation offered no clarity. In all his years at the Royal Academy, through countless hours spent studying obscure alchemical texts, he''d never encountered anything like it. The glyphs pulsing under his skin kept sending tiny ripples of energy through his flesh. His gaze fixed on the last two entries. The mark of a god wasn''t meant for someone like him. Those marks belonged to holy warriors and devoted clerics, not failed alchemists hiding in slum laboratories. Divine marks were supposed to be blessings, rewards for faith and service. But heretic? That word had only one meaning. It means I''m fucked. Well, I have been for a while, but¡­ He started pacing the room. "Will the church notice this?" The body of Brother Kaelor lay cooling on the floor, a stark reminder of what had triggered these changes. Fendrel''s mind wandered to Nyssara, the pale woman who''d given him the grimoire that had accelerated his transformation far beyond normal alchemical advancement. His new class reminded him of her - something about the way it merged death and glyphs into something new. When is she coming to check on this? If she is, what I think she is, it should be soon, since the cleric noticed.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Fendrel stared at Kaelor''s corpse, wondering what to do with it. If the guy wasn''t lying, then there were people outside watching. His fingers traced the glyphs on his arm, their faint pulse a constant reminder of his transformation. "Shit." He kicked an empty vial across the floor. The sound echoed through the workshop. The body needed to disappear, but how? There is nowhere to stash it, burning it would take too long, and dragging it through the streets wasn''t an option. His eyes darted to the windows, checking for movement outside. Focus on what you can control. He turned to his workbench, pulling out ingredients for another batch of Gravebloom Tincture. The familiar motions steadied his nerves as he measured out the Witherbloom Mushroom Powder. Nine hours wasn''t much time, and even the new set of supplies weren''t going to last forever. The nightshade essence bottle held barely enough for two more batches. He''d used most of his blackwillow ash in the previous mixture, and finding more would mean going out into the city, possibly putting in bulk order at the adventure guild. The thought made his stomach turn. At least the healing and mana potions remained simple enough. Basic herbs, purified water, standard brewing process - things easily sourceable. The real difference came from the glyphs he now understood how to incorporate. Fendrel paused mid-grind, the mortar and pestle hanging in his hands. Could he skip the complex brewing process altogether? His eyes fell on the rack of standard potions that the cleric restocked. What if I just added the glyphs to existing potions? Fendrel stared at the mana potion formula in his codex, shaking his head. The equipment requirements alone made it impossible. Raw mana had to be contained during the brewing process, or it would leak into the surrounding area. Without proper containment vessels, the toxic residue would poison everything nearby. The workshop fell into silence as evening crept in. Shadows lengthened across the floor while Fendrel pondered his next move. The rebels were supposed to contact him, but leaving the lab meant dealing with whoever was watching the building. And he told the blacksmith to let them know not to come here directly. Someone has to show up first, right? He sat at the workbench, eyes fixed on the heavy wooden doors. The waiting gnawed at him. Or are they really leaving me alone this time? A whisper of movement caught his attention. The door cracked open, and Nyssara slipped inside. Shadows seemed to shift and dance around her form as the doors closed behind her. If he hadn''t been staring at the entrance for the past half hour, he would have missed her entirely. "Right." She froze mid-step, clearly startled by his immediate acknowledgment. "Hello Master Solinar." Her movements changed, transitioning from absolute silence to the soft brush of boots against wooden planks. A new scent reached him - decay and death poorly masked by heavy perfume. His enhanced senses picked up the distinct layers that his old self would have missed. Well she is responsible for the alternation of my advancement to this form. I suppose I should be grateful. "I''m a little at loss," she said, her too-large eyes scanning the workshop. "Have I come at a bad time?" "No." Fendrel pulled back his sleeve, revealing the network of glyphs etched into his skin. "I made some breakthroughs thanks to your research notes." Fendrel watched Nyssara''s face, enjoying the rare moment of seeing someone else caught off guard. Her owl-like eyes widened further, if that was even possible, as she studied the glyphs etched into his skin. The calm demeanor she maintained cracked, revealing genuine fascination underneath. She approached his workbench with measured steps, her gaze fixed on his exposed arm. "This is... quite impressive." "I originally come because of the energy radiating from this place. "Etheric energy," he confirmed. "And you managed to contain it?" Her eyes finally met his. "Not really, considering you and everyone capable of discerning it in the area noticed." Fendrel rolled his sleeve back down. The motion drew her attention to the scattered ingredients across his workspace. She drummed her fingers against the workbench''s edge. "Did you have time to examine the book I left with you?" Fendrel noted how carefully she avoided mentioning Kaelor''s corpse propped in the corner. The dead cleric''s presence hung between them yet nobody mentioned it. "Your research provided the basis for certain modifications in alchemical process." He gestured to his brewing apparatus. "I developed a new toxin variant based on the principles outlined in your notes. More importantly, I finally understand the glyph application process." "The application process?" Her fingers stilled their rhythmic tapping. "The integration of runic patterns into organic compounds. Your notes had outlined the glyphs and their interaction with what you called the death essence." The words spilled from Fendrel''s mouth before he could stop them. He explained the intricacies of the binding process, the way certain ingredients resonated with specific glyphs, and how the patterns created channels for etheric energy. Nyssara leaned forward, her attention unwavering as he detailed the complex interactions between components. The crystals glowed through the darkening room as he dove deeper into the theoretical framework. His hands traced invisible patterns in the air while describing the modifications he''d made to traditional brewing methods. She asked precise questions that revealed her grasp of advanced alchemy, spurring him to elaborate further. "The resonance between moonspore dust and iron vine creates an anchor point," he explained, sketching quick diagrams on spare parchment. "When properly aligned with the correct glyph sequence-" "The energy flows through established pathways rather than dispersing." Nyssara completed his thought, her long fingers tracing the pattern he''d drawn. Time slipped away as they discussed theories and techniques. The conversation flowed naturally, reminding Fendrel of late-night discussions in the academy libraries before everything went wrong. He carefully steered clear of mentioning his transformation or current predicament, focusing instead on the pure academic exchange. "Could you demonstrate?" She gestured toward his workbench. "I''d love to see the Eclipsebane process firsthand." Fendrel hesitated only briefly before nodding. He gathered his materials, arranging them in precise order while Nyssara observed from her perch on a nearby stool. The familiar motions of preparation centered him. He began with the Spiritweave Infusion, his movements fluid and practiced. The components merged under his touch as he wove the ethereal strands through the mixture. The second phase of Essence Tethering followed seamlessly. The work absorbed him completely. He forgot about the dead cleric in the corner, the watching woman, even his own transformed state. There was only the precise dance of ingredients and energy, the delicate balance of power flowing through carefully constructed channels. When the final drop fell into the collection vial, the liquid shimmered with an inner light. He stoppered it carefully before presenting it to Nyssara. She accepted the vial, examining it with obvious appreciation. "Beautiful work." She extended her arm with several folded pages. "These might interest you. Some additional patterns I''ve documented." Fendrel accepted the papers, brushing against her cold fingers despite the heat in the room, his eyes catching complex glyph arrangements annotated with detailed notes. When he glanced up on a hunch he barely managed to notice Nyssara slipping through the workshop doors like a shadow. He stood there, papers in hand, feeling oddly bereft as midnight approached. The workshop seemed emptier somehow, despite the clutter of equipment and ingredients. He looked down at the gift she''d left, trying to ignore the disappointment that tightened his chest. Chapter 38: Meetings Fendrel''s gaze drifted to the corner where Kaelor''s body had lain. Empty. The stones showed no trace of blood either. His fingers traced the edge of Nyssara''s papers as pieces clicked into place. Yeah, she definitely has something to do with the dead. He shook his head and stumbled toward the new bed. The gnawing emptiness in his chest could wait until morning. Pounding jolted him awake. Fendrel rolled from his bed, cursing as his feet hit cold stone. He yanked open the door to find familiar Blackthorn guards flanking a well-dressed man whose clothes likely cost more than Fendrel''s budget. "May I come in?" The man''s cultured accent dripped with assumed authority. "Can I say no?" The words slipped out before Fendrel could stop them, his new found confidence quickly mellowing with the shift in air. The man''s face hardened. "We are not here to play games Master Solinar." Fendrel noticed two types of people who called him Master - those who viewed him as beneath them, and those who didn''t take him seriously. This man definitely belonged to the first category. The Blackthorn official stepped inside, his polished boots clicking against stone as he surveyed the workshop. His eyebrows rose at the gleaming equipment and organized shelves - a far cry from yesterday''s shabby interior. "We have been contacted by the church regarding one of their Clerics not reporting back the previous evening. Care to elaborate?" Fendrel studied the official, calculating how much poison it would take to drop him. A scratch, maybe less with his nails. The thought surfaced for the second time since Eryndra''s visit. I still need them, they are the best source of materials I have had since this shitshow started. "Dead," Fendrel said. The guards'' hands tightened on their weapons. The official''s spine stiffened, his face hardening into still mask. "Dead? Just like that?" "The cleric arrived at my workshop yesterday." Fendrel leaned against his workbench, keeping his voice steady. "He demanded access to all my research and everything I''ve been producing for House Blackthorn." The lies wove together smoothly, each one supporting the next. "When a church official shows up in Blackthorn territory making demands, what choice did I have?" "So you killed him?" The official''s voice cracked. "No. I gave him what he asked for." Fendrel spread his hands. "I assumed he came with your blessing. But then he tried to drag me to the church for questioning." Fendrel crossed his arms. "So I poisoned him. I imagine you''re aware as to why I''m being housed by the lord Blackthorn?" "And the body?" Sweat beaded on the man''s forehead. "Solved." The man''s jaw clenched, his face cycling through rage and uncertainty. His hands shook as he adjusted his collar. Well, you are in a shop of a poison making alchemist who somehow managed to kill holy cleric of Adria. I would be shitting myself too. "Solved," the official echoed, his voice hollow. "And the church took all our product?" Fendrel''s heart hammered against his ribs, but he kept his face neutral. "Every vial." "I see." The man clenched his fists. "The Steward will want to hear this directly from you." "I imagine he is too busy of a man for a lowly alchemist such as myself to bother him with something like this." Fendrel''s voice remained steady despite the cold sweat running down his back. He watched the guards shifting their weight, their white-knuckled grips on their weapons betraying their fear. The official wasn''t any better - his perfectly pressed clothes couldn''t hide the tremor in his hands. They''re as terrified as I am. The realization steadied him. If I crack now, I''m finished. "It would be most prudent-" the official started.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "For me to start working on new batch of potions." Fendrel gestured to his workbench, where various ingredients lay scattered. "And for steward to be promptly informed. Unless you''d prefer to explain to Lord Blackthorn himself why his healing potions are delayed?" The official''s mouth opened and closed like a fish. He shot a glance at his guards, but they avoided his gaze. "I''ll... convey your situation to the Steward." The man backed toward the door. "Good day, Master Solinar." Fendrel watched them hurry away, maintaining his composed expression until the door clicked shut. Fendrel pushed himself up from the workbench, his legs still unsteady. The fungal aura spread from his skin in an invisible cloud, seeping into the air around him. The effect wasn''t that strong in the city as it might be in the marshlands, but when someone didn''t expect it, it confused people for long enough to get around. He slipped out of the laboratory and headed toward the artisan district. If any of the stuff he was told was true, he doubted anyone would manage approach his shop. The thought brought him little joy as he navigated the crowded streets. The specific materials he''d ordered couldn''t wait another day. It didn''t take long before he picked up couple man trailing while trying too hard to be casual. Young, inexperienced. There is no way I would notice assassins or church agents. Rebels. Fendrel turned down a side street between two workshops. There wasn''t anywhere to hide in this district, the whole place was fairly open and bustling in the early morning. He pressed himself against the rough stone wall and waited. The footsteps quickened. Two men rounded the corner, nearly stumbling when they found Fendrel staring at them. The shorter one had a fresh scar across his chin. The taller wore a threadbare coat that had seen better days. "You''re not as subtle as you think," Fendrel said. The scarred one recovered first. "Elian sent us. Said you might be willing to help." "Lead the way." Fendrel gestured for them to continue down the alley. They exchanged nervous glances before setting off toward the slums, Fendrel following a few paces behind. The buildings grew more dilapidated with each block they passed, until they stopped before a sagging structure that looked ready to collapse.
Stale air thick with alcohol and sweat assaulted Fendrel''s senses as he entered the building. The dim hallway echoed with creaking floorboards beneath his feet. His escorts moved with practiced familiarity through the gloom. Unfamiliar faces populated the poorly lit room, their features obscured by pipe smoke and shadows. The sharp bite of cheap spirits permeated the air, mixing with the unmistakable odor of unwashed bodies. Women in worn dresses leaned against walls while men conducted their business, leaving little doubt about the establishment''s true nature. A few patrons cast wary glances his way before returning to their drinks. The revelation clicked into place for Fendrel. All those years living in the slums, he''d walked past this building assuming it was nothing more than another den for drinking and whoring. The perfect cover for rebellion - who would suspect revolutionaries of gathering in such a disreputable establishment? His guides led him down a back hallway and descending staircase, the rotting wood protesting with each step. The basement''s musty air clung to his throat. In the larger chamber below, illuminated by cheap crystals, Elian sat at a scarred wooden table studying a map of Kerneke while others gathered around him. The man sat with two women, his clean-shaven face animated as he gestured at the rough leather map. His clothes, while not fancy, were well-maintained - a stark contrast to the building''s decay. When Elian caught sight of Fendrel, his expression shifted. The easy smile vanished, replaced by something more calculating as he took in Fendrel''s rigid posture. The basement''s dim lighting cast long shadows across Elian''s face. "Didn''t you get the message from The Ashen Anvil?" Fendrel asked. Elian''s fingers drummed against the table. "We did, but it was impossible to approach you. Even your workshop was surrounded by all sorts of groups." Fendrel hesitated, wondering how to approach this. The momentum of recent events pushed him forward. I need to keep pushing, if I stop I might never start moving again. "What do you need from me?" The question caught Elian off guard. He blinked, clearly having expected Fendrel to be the one in need of something. His composed demeanor returned quickly. "Around a month ago the city dynamic shifted rather abruptly. Old rivalries reignited and groups who laid low started to make their moves." Elian motioned for Fendrel to take a chair at the table in front of him. The wood groaned as Fendrel sat. About the time I started selling poisons, has to be coincidence right? The thought made his skin crawl. Elian leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "This gives us opportunity to take control of our own destiny." "How do I play into this?" Fendrel repeated, keeping his voice level. "We need weapons, potions, information. Things we believe you have access to." Fendrel sighed, more to himself than anything. "What do you hope to achieve? Overturn the nobility and take over the city?" "I know to most that''s just a pipe dream," Elian conceded, "but what options do we have? Keep living under their rule and die to their whims?" Fendrel stayed quiet, glancing over the two women who now stood at the side of the table. Their postures spoke of something more rather than just seduction. They aren''t just whores are they? "Are you aware the Blackthorns blocked the supply of healing potions? You work for them, you should know," Elian continued. "I don''t just work for them," Fendrel felt a rush course through his body at the idea spinning in his mind. "They told me to infiltrate your group and help root you out. I agreed." That got everyone''s attention rather abruptly. One of the women''s hands disappeared beneath her dress. The other shifted, taking step towards his direction. "Imagine if I were to be more inclined to your cause instead. Considering I have spent my time in the slums and am tired of getting pushed around." Fendrel put his arms on the table, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. "I need ingredients to keep doing what I do." The tension in the room thickened. Elian''s eyes narrowed as he studied Fendrel''s face, searching for any sign of deception. The basement''s musty air grew heavier with each passing heartbeat.