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.

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[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."