"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.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

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]

* Rotblossom nectar, 14 drops

* Sablefire ash, 8 grams

* Ground marrowvine, 10 grams

* Shadeleaf extract, 7 leaves

* Venom of a blacktooth spider, 2 drops

* Dried dreamthorn berries, 25 berries

* Medium Mana crystal

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.