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.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"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."