Kiel surveyed the cramped backroom, mentally cataloguing the ingredients lining the dusty shelves. Bundles of dried herbs, jars of pickled organs, vials of viscous liquids in lurid hues. To the untrained eye, it looked like the lair of a madman. But to Kiel, it was an arsenal.

Three concoctions. That's all I need. Something to disorient, to confuse. To buy me time if things go sour.

As Kiel began gathering his ingredients, his mind wandered to the various classes that dealt with herbs and potions. At the bottom rung were the [Herbalists], little more than gardeners with a knack for finding useful weeds. They could whip up some teas and tinctures, maybe even a healing salve or two. But their concoctions were rudimentary at best, the basics of botanical lore.

[Pharmacists], like what he was acting as, were a step up, able to brew more potent and complex elixirs. They understood the intricacies of distillation, extraction, the delicate art of blending reagents. A skilled [Pharmacist] could craft curatives for all manner of ailments, or poisons to cripple and kill.

But even they were limited by the physical properties of their ingredients. They could not imbue their brews with magical essence, could not weave spells into liquid form. That was the realm of [Alchemists], those rare savants who blurred the line between science and sorcery.

With that kind of power, I could brew potions like Elixirs of Strength, Tonics of Unshakable Will...

But such lofty ambitions were beyond him, for now at least. He was still bound by the base humors, still reliant on crude reagents and their natural effects. An [Alchemist] could transmute lead into gold, but a [Pharmacist] could only work with what they had.

One day, though. One day I'll [Extract] an [Alchemist]. And then...

Kiel shook off the thought, reaching for a jar of nightshade berries. Their purple-black skins glistened wetly, deadly in the right doses. But it wouldn’t do much against a Level 7 being.

"[Pharmaceutical Measurement]," he muttered. A ghostly balance scale shimmered into view, the nightshade berries arranging themselves neatly on one pan.

[Pharmaceutical Measurement]: Allows precise measuring of ingredients based on intended potion effects. Higher levels increase complexity of potions that can be analyzed. Current level: 3.

With well-practiced movements, Kiel began separating out the other components. Hellebore root, aconite leaves, a dusting of cryptwort spores. Esoteric reagents for an exotic brew.

Hellebore for vertigo, aconite for a racing heart. Cryptwort to muddle the senses. Yes, this will do nicely.

As he measured and ground the ingredients, his thoughts wandered back to his early days in Arkrest after he had got expelled from his family. Back when he'd been just another gutter rat, scrabbling for scraps.

It was pure chance that he'd met Alikan. Or maybe fate, if he believed in such things. The older boy had taken him under his wing, shown him the ropes of the city's underworld.

Together they'd run petty cons, picked pockets in the market square. Nothing serious, just enough to keep their bellies full. Alikan was always scheming, always looking for the next mark.

"Stick with me, kid," he'd say, his grin quicksilver bright. "I'll show you how to live like a king."

And for a while, Kiel had believed him. Believed that maybe, just maybe, he'd found a place to belong.

He should have known better.

It was the [Pharmacist]'s apprentice who changed everything. Alikan had tried to rob him, thinking him an easy mark. He hadn't counted on the bigger boy's vicious streak.

They'd found Alikan in an alley, his throat slit from ear to ear. His blood was still warm, his eyes fixed in a rictus of shock.

Something had snapped in Kiel then. A gulf opening up in his soul, cold and yawning. He'd gone to the apprentice that night, a bone-handled knife clutched in his fist.

He could still remember the boy's blubbering, the stink of piss as he begged for his life. Kiel had laughed, high and mad.

"[Extract]," he'd hissed, and the boy had screamed. A jagged, animal sound as Kiel ripped the knowledge from his mind.

When it was over, Kiel had sat back on his heels, panting. His hands were sticky with blood, his head buzzing with unfamiliar knowledge.

That was the night Kiel had realised that he was a monster. But that was also the night that changed his future.

The [Pharmacist] had been all too eager to take Kiel on as his new apprentice. After all, his old one had disappeared so suddenly. Tragic, really.

If only he knew.

Kiel shook off the memory, focusing on the task at hand. The first potion was already taking shape, a sickly green liquid that smoked gently.

"[Pharmaceutical Infusion]," Kiel intoned. He could feel his mana stirring, intertwining with the bubbling concoction.

[Pharmaceutical Infusion]: Imbues potion with a specific spell effect based on combination of reagents. Effect complexity increases with skill level. Current level: 4.

The brew shuddered, then turned a vivid, eye-watering chartreuse. Kiel smiled tightly. The Disorientation Draft was complete.

He decanted the liquid into a glass vial, watching it slosh sluggishly. A work of art, in its own twisted way.

[Disorientation Draft] A thrown potion that shatters on impact, releasing a noxious cloud. Causes extreme vertigo and sensory confusion in those who inhale it. Duration: 60 seconds.

Kiel set it aside, already considering his next creation. He pulled out a vial of ripplewort extract, eyeing it critically.

Yes, this will do. Add some witch-hazel for a kick...

As he worked, his thoughts drifted to Dot. The boy would be frantic with worry if he knew what Kiel was planning.

I'm sorry, little brother. But I can't let you get tangled up in this. You're too good for this shadow world of mine.

He'd come too far to let Dot become another Alikan. Another bright-eyed innocent snuffed out by the city's cruelty. Not that Alikan was by any means innocent.

"[Pharmaceutical Binding]," Kiel said, pulling his focus back to the present. The ripplewort and witch-hazel bubbled violently, their essences fusing under his will.

[Pharmaceutical Binding]: Joins the active properties of multiple reagents into a single stable compound. More reagents can be combined at higher levels. Current Level: 5.

The mixture settled, turning a vivid, angry crimson. Kiel smiled wolfishly. The Searing Solution was ready.

[Searing Solution] A splash potion that ignites on contact with air, covering target in clinging, burning liquid.

Two down, one to go. Kiel cracked his knuckles, eyeing his ingredient shelf. He needed something special for the final brew. Something to stop the [Heretic] in their tracks.

His gaze fell on a dusty vial, half-hidden behind a jar of pickled salamander tails. Essence of Stasis Vine, distilled at great expense.

Perfect. Let's see them blink around when they're rooted to the spot.

He measured out the dose with exacting care. Too much, and it change the effect of the potion. Blending it with the other reagents was delicate work, requiring all his focus.

"[Pharmaceutical Binding]," the vial trembled in his grip, its contents pulsing with a sickly grey light.

Slowly, painstakingly, the solution stabilized. It was a dull, leaden color, with an oily sheen.

Kiel exhaled sharply. The Paralytic Potion was complete.

[Paralytic Potion] A spray potion that mimics the effects of a Level 5 [Hold Person] spell. Locks target's muscles on contact. Duration: 30 second.

Three potions, each deadly in their own way. But Kiel wasn't naive enough to rely on them alone. He'd need antidotes too, in case the [Heretic] tried to turn his tricks against him.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

He pulled a tray of empty vials closer, considering his options. The Disorientation Draft could be countered with a tincture of gingerroot and blessed thistle. For the Searing Solution, a salve of aloe and snowblossom.

The Paralytic Potion was trickier. He'd need something to purge the toxins quickly, before they could take hold...

Ah. Of course. Charcoal and Snakeroot, with a pinch of Gutworm to speed the cleansing.

Kiel set to work, his hands moving in an intricate dance. This was an art. Alchemy was as much faith as science, and he was a true believer.

Soon, three antidotes sat gleaming before him. Kiel nodded in satisfaction, a weary smile playing about his lips.

Let them come. I'll be ready.

He tucked the vials away in a bandolier beneath his robes, their weight a comforting presence. With these, he could buy some time if needed.

Kiel glanced out the backroom's window, gauging the sun's position. He needed to get back to the shop floor before Dot got suspicious. The boy was too curious for his own good.

He did one last survey of the room, making sure everything was in its proper place. Clutter was a dangerous thing in a pharmacist’s lab.

Satisfied, Kiel straightened his apprentice robes and affected a servile hunch. Just another humble tradesman, eking out a living. Nothing to see here.

The bone-white mask seemed to mock him from its hiding spot. Kiel ignored it, pushing through the swinging doors. It was time to play his role.

Back on the shop floor, Dot was perched on his usual stool, nose-deep in a penny dreadful. He looked up as Kiel approached, eyes bright with curiosity.

"What were you brewing back there? Smelled like a midden heap."

Kiel forced a smile. "Just some tonics for Mistress Avandri. The old biddy's joints are acting up again."

It wasn't even a lie, really. He did have some joint tonics steeping in the back. Never hurt to keep up appearances.

Dot wrinkled his nose. "Rather her than me. I'd rather swig boar piss than choke down one of them concoctions."

"Watch that lip, or I'll make you taste-test the next batch."

Just two working stiffs, joking to pass the time. Nothing strange here, no sir.

Kiel slipped behind the counter, busying himself with straightening the jars and bottles. Dot went back to his book, humming tunelessly.

***

Kiel slipped through the narrow alley, the stench of rancid grease and waste assaulted him, but he breathed through his mouth and pressed on.

In this part of the city, even the rats walked with a swagger. Cut-purses and cutthroats lurked in every shadow, eager to prey on the unwary. But Kiel knew these streets, knew the secret signs and thieves' cant that could open doors closed to honest men.

More importantly, his contacts knew him. Or rather, they knew the anxious, awkward persona he'd crafted over the years - the humble apprentice, too naive to be a threat, too unimportant to bother with.

It was a mask he'd long since perfected, as much a disguise as the featureless white visor he donned for his clandestine work. Each stutter, each hunched shoulder and averted gaze, carefully calculated to deflect suspicion.

He hated it, hated the necessity of debasing himself, of playing the fool. But if it kept him and Dot safe, kept the inquisitors' eyes turned elsewhere... He'd dance a quadrille naked in the town square.

Kiel hunched his shoulders, ducking his head as he scurried through the narrow alley. Shadows clung to every surface, thick and cloying like old blood. He shuddered, pulling his cloak tighter around his thin frame.

"E-excuse me," he mumbled, approaching a hawker's stall heaped with bruised fruit. "I'm l-looking for B-Bast. Is he around?"

The hawker, a grizzled man with more scars than teeth, squinted at him suspiciously. "An' who's askin'?"

"K-Kane,” the false name slipped smoothly off his tongue. “I have a m-message for him."

The hawker spat to the side, his lip curling. "Bast ain't here. Heard he got pinched by the 'quisitors, day 'fore last."

Kiel's heart sank. Bast, arrested? He was one of my best informants. If the Inquisition made him talk...

He shoved the thought away. "Th-thank you anyway," he stammered, bobbing his head. He hurried away before the hawker could ask any more questions.

Strike one. Let's hope Jenni and Skerp have better news.

Jenni ran an...establishment of sorts, catering to those with coin and a taste for the exotic. Kiel had never availed himself of her services - as if I could afford it - but she owed him for a batch of suppressants he'd brewed, off the books.

He found her leaning against a wall at the edge of the Fleshpots, painted lips curved around a cheroot. She blew a stream of pungent smoke as he approached.

"Well, look what the gutter dragged in," she drawled. "Didn't think I'd see your face 'round here again, 'pprentice."

Kiel ducked his head, twisting his hands in his cloak. "H-hello, Miss Jenni. I was h-hoping you might have some information for me."

She arched one meticulously plucked brow. "Oh? And what makes you think I know anythin' worth tellin'?"

"It's about the k-kidnappings. The [Heretic] the 'quisitors are after."

Jenni took a long pull on her cheroot, exhaling slowly. "...I might've heard a thing or two. But info's got a price, sweet thing. You got anythin' to trade?"

Kiel licked his lips nervously. "I...I could brew you another batch of those p-potions. The ones that keep your girls from getting...in the family way."

She considered him through narrowed eyes. "Alright. But I want double what you gave me last time. Things're gettin' hairy, what with the blue-cloaks sniffin' around."

Kiel's heart leapt. "D-deal. Now, what've you heard?"

Jenni glanced around furtively before leaning in. "Word is, it ain't just noble brats and fat merchants what're disappearin'. Some of my girls've gone missin' too. And a couple street rats from the Beggar's Guild."

The Beggar's Guild? Why would a high-level [Heretic] bother with them?

"Anything else? Any idea what Class this heretic might be?"

She shrugged. "Hard to say. But I hear the victims're found all...shriveled like. Drained of blood and life. If it's a Class what done it, it's nothin' I've heard of before."

A chill ran down Kiel's spine. Drained of life? Could it be...

He shook himself. "Th-thank you, Miss Jenni. I'll get you those potions soon as I can."

"You do that, 'pprentice. And watch your back out there."

Kiel left her with another mumbled thanks, his mind whirling. A [Heretic] that drains life energy? I've never heard of such a thing. But if Jenni's right...

The next lead was Skerp, the half-orc ragpicker who haunted the docks. He had a nose for gossip and a loose tongue, especially when plied with Rotgut.

Kiel found him roosting atop a rubbish heap, picking his nails with a rusty dirk. His bulbous eyes lit up at the sight of Kiel.

"Oho! If it ain't Kiel the Meek! Come to hear ol' Skerp's tales o' the weird?"

Kiel forced a nervous smile. "H-hey, Skerp. I brought you something." He produced a flask from his cloak, holding it out gingerly.

Skerp snatched it with a gap-toothed grin. "Ah, Rotgut! You spoil me, boy." He took a long swig, smacking his lips.

"I was wondering," Kiel said, shifting from foot to foot, "if you'd heard anything about the, uh, disappearances? Folks getting snatched off the street?"

Skerp's grin faded. He leaned forward, his breath sour with booze. "Aye, I heard some. Grim word, too. Heard it might be some new Class what's doing it."

Kiel's pulse quickened. "What Class? What do you know?"

The half-orc shrugged. "Hard to say fer sure. But folks're whisperin' it might be...a [Ghoul]. Or even a [Sacrificer]."

Kiel's blood ran cold. A [Ghoul]? [Sacrificers] were bad enough, with their blood rituals and necromancy. But a [Ghoul] in the city? The undead-like beings were the stuff of nightmares, corpse-eaters that grew stronger with each life they claimed.

"Th-that's...that's gotta be just rumors though, right? A m-monster like that, the 'quisitors would have known earlier..."

Skerp shot him a pitying look. "Mebbe. Mebbe not. Ya know them blue-cloaks ain't exactly on the up 'n up either."

Kiel swallowed hard. "R-right. Well, thanks Skerp. You've been a big help."

The ragpicker waved him off, already lost in his flask. Kiel turned away, nausea churning in his gut.

A [Ghoul], a [Sacrificer], and now Jenni's mystery Class that drains life. None of those are good news. But as grim as those prospects were, one possibility frightened him even more.

What if it's a [Ghost]?

The ethereal assassins were spoken of only in fearful whispers. Near impossible to detect or combat, with the [Tangible] skill letting them turn incorporeal at will. If one of those was stalking Arkrest...

We'd be helpless. Even the Inquisition would be hard-pressed to handle a monster like that. Kiel felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up. Listen to me. I'm a [Skill Trainer], for Light's sake. If I'm in the city, why not a [Ghost]? We're both too rare and too deadly for any sane person's peace of mind.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He had one more person to meet. Someone who could confirm the rumours. Marek Slaine, a fence with a finger in every pie from here to the docks. If anyone had heard whispers of the heretic, it would be him. But Marek's help always came with a price, and Kiel wasn't sure he could afford it this time.

He found Marek in his usual haunt, a seedy tavern tucked between a tannery and a knacker's yard. The reek of blood and spirits hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sour stench of unwashed bodies.

Kiel picked his way through the crowd, head down, shoulders hunched. He slid onto a stool at the bar, murmuring his order to the gimlet-eyed barkeep.

"W-well met, M-Marek," he stammered as the fence settled beside him. "Fancy m-meeting you here."

Marek cocked a brow, his mouth twisting wryly. "Skip the pleasantries, lad. I know you didn't track me down for a friendly chat."

Kiel ducked his head, feigning nervousness. "I n-need information. About the k-kidnappings. The h-heretic."

"Ah, now it comes out." Marek leaned back, his eyes glinting in the light. "Dangerous questions, those. The sort that can get a man killed, if he's not careful."

"I-I'll take my chances. N-name your price."

"Brave lad. Foolish, but brave." Marek named a figure that made Kiel's eyes water. He haggled reflexively, but his heart wasn't in it. Marek had him over a barrel and they both knew it.

Finally, grudgingly, they settled on a price. Kiel counted out the coins, his hand steady despite the roaring in his ears. Worth it, if it keeps us safe.

Marek pocketed the money with a nod. "Here's what I know. The heretic's been working their way up the food chain, targeting folk with rare or valuable Skills. Minor nobles, guild masters, that sort."

"Th-they have a t-type, then? Any whispers on what C-Class they might be?"

The fence nodded his head. "With the caliber of victims they're snatching... We're talking serious power, a [Sacrificer]."

Kiel let out a sigh of relief, whilst a [Sacrificer] was dangerous, they didn’t compare to a [Ghost]. [Sacrificers] could increase their class by sacrificing those that met their arbitrary requirements. It was rumoured that they could even [Sacrifice] their own class for a higher ranked class.

He drained his mug and stood, flipping Marek a coin. "Thanks f-for the h-help. I'll be in t-touch if I n-need anything else."

The fence caught the coin, making it vanish with a twist of his wrist. "Careful, lad. Dig too deep, you might not like what you find."

Kiel hunched deeper into his robes, not looking back as he slipped out into the night. One down, two to go. His purse was lighter, but he now knew what to protect himself against.

As he hurried back home. the sun was sinking into a horizon. Dread coiled like a serpent in his belly, cold and slimy as he worried about Dot.

It'll be fine. Dot's a smart kid, he knows to lay low. He's probably elbow-deep in that adventure book, lost to the world.

But when he reached the shop, his heart stuttered to a halt. The door hung ajar, the interior shadowed and silent. No sign of Dot.

"Dot?" Kiel called, wincing as his voice cracked. "You here, buddy?"

Silence. Somehow, that terrified him more than screams.

He stepped inside, scanning the room wildly. Dot's book lay abandoned on the counter, a fine layer of dust dulling its cover.

No. No no no. Kiel's breath came short and fast. He was just here. I only left for a couple hours. He can't be...

He tore through the shop, upending shelves and rattling jars. He clambered into the loft, hoping against hope to see a small form huddled under the blankets.

Empty. Dot was gone, as if he'd never been.