"What do you propose?" Elian's words carried an edge of caution.

Fendrel was very aware that this moment would define how these people viewed him, and first impressions meant everything. And he resented the idea of everyone thinking they can push him around.

The basement's stale air clung to his throat as he chose his next words.

They can't know much about me. I need to do this right.

"You need potions and ways to fight your war, I need alchemical ingredients to keep my business working." The words came out smoother than he expected. And to keep myself living.

A red flash caught his attention, making his heart skip. The notification burned into his vision:

[FORM STATUS]: Form's required substance: Reinforced Gravebloom Tincture: Dose required in 2 hours.

Ice shot through his veins. The chair clattered against the floor as Fendrel jumped to his feet. His legs shook, panic climbing up his spine.

How could I be so careless? The morning dose... I got distracted with...

The sudden movement sent ripples through the room. One of the women - the one in the blue dress - sprang forward like a coiled snake. Fendrel's arms came up in a clumsy defense, his face a mask of confusion. His newfound abilities meant little to nothing in any altercation beyond people drinking the wrong vial.

The knife sliced through Fendrel's arm with a cold bite. His body flooded with adrenaline as his fingers latched onto her wrist through pure instinct. The woman twisted away with practiced grace, leaving the blade buried in his flesh. Through the chaos, he caught sight of the second woman positioning herself between him and Elian, whose face twisted with both confusion and rising anger.

"What are you doing?" Fendrel's voice came out ragged, his good hand pressed against the wound.

"What do you think you're doing?" Elian shot back.

"What?" Fendrel stared at the man, blood seeping between his fingers.

"You suddenly jumped from your chair getting ready to attack!" The woman next to Elian's voice filled the basement.

"I just got a little distracted with my status and you just jump me here?" Fendrel heaved, gripping his bleeding arm. The pain felt distant, dulled - nothing like what he'd expected from a knife wound.

Text flashed across his vision:

[EFFECT]: You have been poisoned.

[STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect

[STATUS]: You have analyzed new poison. Xytherium Poison added to the Codex.

The familiar green sheen on the blade caught his eye. His own creation, used against him. The irony almost made him laugh. Blood dripped onto the floor.

In the next moment the woman crumpled to the floor, her skin taking on an ashen hue. Fendrel's gaze fixed on his transformed hands - purple claws that had barely grazed her during their brief struggle. His stomach churned at the sight.

"That isn't my fault." The words tumbled from his mouth. "I have no idea what you think just happened, but I have no interest in fighting with you people."

"That's hard to believe." Elian's grip tightened on the shoulder of the woman in front of him, his knuckles white with tension.

"What do I have to gain from this?" Fendrel's voice cracked, the knot in his stomach growing tighter with each passing second. The countdown to his next required dose loomed in his mind like an executioner's axe.

"You just said you work with Blackthorns!" The remaining woman's voice rang with pain and disbelief, her eyes fixed on her fallen companion.

"And I also said I'm more interested in working with you." Fendrel's hand pressed harder against his bleeding arm, dark thoughts clouding his mind.

It's pointless, isn't it? There is no way in hell they're going to believe me.

The basement fell into a tense silence, broken only by the sound of blood dripping onto the wooden floor.

Fendrel's mind raced as his timer kept ticking. The faces before him shifted between fear and anger, but underneath it all he caught glimpses of something else - desperation. They were as scared as he was.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"This is a misunderstanding then?" Elian broke the silence.

"Yes." Fendrel kept his voice steady despite the throbbing in his arm.

Elian's jaw clenched and unclenched, his eyes darting between Fendrel and the fallen woman on the floor. The man struggled with the choice he had to make.

"Alright," Elian squared his shoulders. "What can you provide us with then?"

"What are you doing, Elian?" The remaining woman's voice cracked.

"Continuing our conversation." Elian's gaze remained fixed on Fendrel.

Fendrel's throat went dry. The situation balanced on a knife's edge, and he needed to tip it in his favor. I don't think so.

"Are you aware what the commotion in my workshop was about?"

The question caught Elian off guard. He raised his hands and shook his head.

"I killed the cleric of Adria." Fendrel straightened up, gripping the dagger's handle. The blade slid from his flesh with surprising ease, bringing barely a twinge of pain. Blood dripped from the green-tinted metal. This better work.

Fendrel drew himself up, ignoring the blood that trickled down his arm. "Do you really think your games will work here? You jumped me out of nowhere when you were the ones who wanted to meet."

The basement's musty air grew thicker with tension. His eyes fixed on the face of the man in front of him. The wound in his arm pulsed, but the pain felt distant.

"I will either walk out of here without anyone stopping me and we can resume this conversation once you people get your act together, or I leave this place by myself leaving dead bodies behind."

The door burst open. Four men spilled into the room, brandishing an assortment of weapons - daggers gleamed dully in the low light, and wooden axe handles creaked in white-knuckled grips. Their eyes locked onto Fendrel, bodies tensed for violence.

"Let him go," Elian said, his voice cutting through the tension. The men hesitated, weapons half-raised.

Fendrel kept his movements slow and deliberate as he backed toward the exit. No one moved to stop him. The silence pressed in around him, broken only by the soft sound of his boots on the wooden floor and the occasional drip of blood from his arm.

The brothel's main floor felt different now. Where before it had hummed with quiet morning activity, now a heavy stillness hung in the air. Eyes followed his progress through the room, but no one spoke. No one moved.

Outside, Fendrel wove through the twisting streets, his mind jumbled mess. What am I missing? Probably Ash of shadecap spores. Do I have enough nightshade essence?

He pushed through the morning crowd, his pace quick but controlled. Blood had soaked through his sleeve, but he was in too much of a rush to pay it attention. By the time he approached the herbalist shop near the high districts, his steps had slowed and his mind calmed down.

Fendrel's injured hand hung limp at his side as he approached the herbalist shop. The numbness spread past his wrist now, creeping up his forearm. He reached for the brass handle, then froze.

Didn't I brew a new batch before going to sleep?

His fingers hovered over the door. The morning bustle of the high district swirled around him - merchants calling their wares, nobles in their finery stepping carefully around mud puddles, guards watching it all with practiced disinterest.

What are you doing, Fendrel? Get a grip. You need the new ingredients regardless. Just check for the shadecaps and go home.

The shop's interior smelled of dried herbs and old wood. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with glass jars and carefully labeled boxes. The proprietor, a thin woman with graying hair pulled back in a severe bun, barely glanced up from her ledger.

Where is my home anyway?

The thought struck him with unexpected uneasy. He stood motionless in the doorway, blocking the morning light that streamed through the windows. For the first time in years, the question wouldn't leave his mind.

It isn't my workshop or the slums. Was the academy ever my home? No.

A chill ran through his body, settling into a cold pit in his stomach. The shelves of ingredients blurred before his eyes. The familiar labels became meaningless symbols.

Stop wasting time, Fendrel. You need to survive first before worrying about home.

[FORM STATUS]: Form's required substance: Reinforced Gravebloom Tincture: Dose required in 1 hour.

The status notification jolted him back to reality. His hand throbbed, a reminder of the morning's violence. The proprietor cleared her throat, finally deigning to acknowledge his presence.

"Can I help you find something specific today?"

The herbalist's shelves yielded the shadecap spores, though not the ash he needed. Fendrel grabbed the small pouch and tossed a few coins on the counter, not waiting for change as he hurried back through the streets. His workshop door clicked shut behind him, and he fumbled with the Tincture bottle, downing it in one swift motion.

[FORM STATUS]: Reinforced Gravebloom Tincture consumed. Next dose required in 9 hours.

The familiar burn settled into his bones, but the workshop felt hollow despite the gleaming equipment and well-stocked shelves. Fendrel slumped into his chair, staring at the ceiling. The quiet pressed in around him, broken only by the occasional bubble of solutions in their flasks.

Hours crawled past. The sunlight shifted across the floor in slow arcs. Twice he stood up, reached for ingredients, then let his hand drop. The formulas and recipes that usually filled his mind had retreated to some distant corner, leaving only a dull emptiness in their wake.

When the status warning flashed with three hours remaining, Fendrel finally forced himself to get up. His muscles protested the movement after sitting so long. The timer spurred him into action, his hands moving automatically to gather ingredients for the Tincture. One dose remained, but he was constantly without stock always barely managing to get the next dose.

Well, every level I gain changes everything. Not much point overstocking.

The brewing process felt mechanical, but his movements were precise. Two fresh doses of Tincture joined the lone bottle on his shelf. The sight of them lined up sparked something in his mind.

"The Cabal," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Their patience wouldn't last forever, not with unfulfilled orders piling up. His gaze swept across his supplies - herbs, essences, crystallized compounds. What had once seemed an abundance now looked pitiful against his needs.

Fendrel pulled out his ledger, noting down quantities with quick strokes. The numbers told a clear story - his crafting had evolved far beyond simple healing potions and basic toxins. Each formula required more refined ingredients, more precise measurements, more complex processes.

He set up his workstation for the Glyph healing potions, arranging components in careful patterns. The familiar motions helped clear his mind as he began the methodical process of brewing.