Fendrel pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Adventurer's Guild. The main hall buzzed with activity - warriors comparing weapons, mages discussing spells, and scouts poring over maps. The familiar scent of leather and steel filled the air.

He joined the line at the request counter, shifting from foot to foot as he waited. His fingers brushed against the coin pouch from Borin. At least he could afford a decent reward now.

The clerk looked up from her ledger as he approached. "How can I help you?"

"I need to submit a collection request." Fendrel kept his voice steady. "For some ingredients."

She pulled out a form and slid it across the counter. "Fill out the details here. Be specific about quantities and any identifying characteristics."

Fendrel's quill scratched against the parchment as he listed the components. He paused, considering how to phrase it.

Research materials needed for alchemical study

Required materials:

Shadowroot (7 specimens),

Witherbloom Mushrooms (500g),

Bloodthorn samples (200g).

Additional compensation for pristine specimens.

Reward: 15 silver pieces + 3 healing potions

"Where is the reward collection place?" The clerk asked.

Fendrel hesitated before noting down his lab location.

The clerk raised an eyebrow at the slums bit in his description, but took the form anyway. She stamped the form with the guild seal and added it to a board behind her.

[QUEST LOG]: Adventurer's Guild request submitted.

Type: Ingredient Collection.

The interface notification blinked in his vision as he stepped away from the counter. Fendrel scanned the request one final time. The reward seemed fair, and he'd been careful with the wording. Now he just had to hope someone would take the job quickly.

"Just to be clear," the clerk said. "If the reward isn't delivered on quest completion, someone will come collect it."

Fendrel stared into the woman's cold eyes before clearing his throat. "Of course, the reward is in my lab."

Fendrel trudged through the winding alleys of the slums, his boots scraping against the cracked cobblestones. The morning's guild visit weighed on his mind as heavily as the coin purse hidden beneath his vest. Each step brought fresh worries, fresh doubts.

The parasite's constant demands had pushed him from brewing simple healing potions to deadly toxins. Now he answered to multiple criminal groups, each pull dragging him deeper into the city's underworld. He'd started with just trying to survive - when had it twisted into this?

A rat scurried across his path, disappearing into a drain. Fendrel paused, watching the creature vanish into the darkness. That's what he'd become - a creature of shadows, scurrying between dangerous powers, hoping not to get crushed.

The worst part? He still knew nothing about the parasite itself. He spent so much time meeting its demands that he had no chance to research what it actually was or how to remove it.

His fingers brushed against the coin purse. The weight of Borin's down payment should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like another chain binding him to this path.

Was there even a way out anymore? The alchemist masters would never accept him now. The criminal groups wouldn't just let him walk away. And the parasite...

Fendrel squared his shoulders. He'd survived this long by adapting, by using his skills to stay ahead of both the parasite and his "employers." He might be walking a knife's edge between survival and damnation, but he'd keep walking it. What choice did he have?

Fendrel pulled out his codex, tracking the names of the potions available to him until he opted for the basic healing potion formula again. The familiar motions of setting up his equipment calmed his racing mind.

"I need to cool off, better to brew something that doesn't kill people." He arranged his alembic and burner, checking the seals on his glassware.

The simple ingredients for healing potions cost a fraction of what he spent on poison components. He laid out dried Petaline herb, purified water, and Bluecap mushroom.

His hands moved through the familiar process: crushing herbs, measuring portions, monitoring temperatures. The sweet scent of Petaline herbs filled the lab, replacing the usual acrid chemical smells.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

He'd brewed so many poisons lately, he'd forgotten why he become alchemist in the first place. The resulting red liquid glowed with a soft, warm light - nothing like the sickly sheen of the toxins.

"I should keep some of this around just in case." He bottled the first potion, holding it up to examine its clarity. Perfect consistency, no sediment. His old training hadn't completely abandoned him.

By the fourth batch, his shoulders had relaxed. This was the kind of alchemy he'd dreamed of as an apprentice - helping people, earning an honest living. Even if he couldn't escape the darker aspects of his work, maybe he could balance them with something worthwhile.

He arranged the finished potions in his display case, their gentle glow adding warmth to the dingy lab. Tomorrow he'd take them to the market again, try to sell something openly instead of in dark alleys. Small steps toward legitimacy, even if he couldn't fully escape the shadows.

Fendrel huddled behind his rickety wooden stand, watching potential customers pass by without a second glance. He'd positioned himself in a narrow alley just off the main market street - close enough to catch foot traffic, far enough to avoid the scrutiny of established alchemists.

The morning sun cast long shadows through the alley, highlighting the dust motes dancing around his collection of healing potions. Their pale red glow looked weak compared to the vibrant crimson displays in the proper shops.

A woman paused at his stand, picking up one of the bottles. Her nose wrinkled. "This doesn't look right. Healing potions are supposed to be dark red."

"The color comes from using redleaf. There is no reason to use extra herbs just for the color which makes it more expensive."

She set the bottle down and walked away without another word.

Well, it is not exactly true, but what do they know?

Fendrel slumped against the wall. Three hours and not a single sale. He'd priced the potions at half what the guild shops charged, but it didn't matter. No one trusted potions from an alchemist working out of an alley.

A group of laborers passed by, exactly the type of customers he'd hoped to attract. One glanced his way, then whispered something to his companions. They all quickened their pace.

The weight of his coin purse - or lack thereof - pressed against his hip. He'd spent decent money on these ingredients, hoping to build some legitimate income. But people wanted their healing potions from proper shops with guild seals and fancy labels, not from some stranger in an alley.

A bell tolled in the distance. Five hours without a sale. Fendrel stared at his unsold stock, the pale red glow seeming to mock his attempts.

Fendrel packed up his stand, the unsold potions clinking in his satchel. The lower district's narrow streets twisted between weathered buildings, their upper stories blocking most of the afternoon sun. He ducked into a side alley, away from the watchful eyes of the market guards.

He wove through the winding alleys, keeping to the shadows of the overhanging buildings. Here, the streets were cleaner than the slums, and the people wore whole clothes instead of rags. Workers hurried past carrying tools, merchants' assistants balanced boxes of goods, and craftsmen's apprentices darted between shops on errands.

These were the customers he needed - people with not enough coin to spend but not so little they would be kicked to the slums. He adjusted his worn vest, brushed dust from his sleeves, and tried to look more like a legitimate merchant than a desperate alchemist.

Yeah, that would be hard sell even when I was younger.

A woman sat on a doorstep, pressing a cloth against her child's scraped knee. Fendrel approached, keeping his movements slow and non-threatening.

"I have healing potions. Ten copper."

The woman's eyes widened. "That's... that's really affordable, what is the catch?."

He handed her the bottle, its pale red contents catching what little light filtered down. "No catch."

He extended his palm and she pressed three copper coins into his palm, hands trembling.

"I only have-"

"It's enough."

The rest of the potions went just as quick. An elderly man with gnarled hands. A teenage worker with a bandaged arm. A street sweeper with a persistent cough. Each time, Fendrel accepted whatever copper they could spare.

"Haven't had brew in weeks," the street sweeper said between coughs. "The guild shops won't even let us through their doors."

Fendrel nodded, pocketing the few coins. His purse felt lighter than ever, but the gratitude in their voices eased something tight in his chest. This was what he'd wanted when he first studied alchemy - to help those who needed it most.

But as he wound his way back through the warren of alleys, reality settled back in. Gratitude wouldn't buy ingredients. Appreciation wouldn't keep the parasite at bay.

A familiar itch crawled under his skin. Fendrel pressed his back against a wall, checking his status.

[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 4 hours

His nearly empty coin purse pressed against his hip. He'd need more Dralk weed soon, more Nightshade essence. The healing potions, even sold legitimately at standard price, would never cover those costs.

Back in his lab, Fendrel emptied his coin purse onto the workbench. The meager pile of copper barely covered the cost of fresh Dralk weed, let alone the other components he needed. His fingers traced the status window floating in his vision.

His stomach clenched. Each level meant more complex formulas, more expensive ingredients. The parasites demands would never end - they'd only escalate.

Fendrel pulled out his inventory ledger, the pages worn from constant checking. Two bundles of Dralk weed remained. Three vials of Nightshade essence, half-empty. Enough bone ash for maybe few days. If he measured carefully and didn't spill anything, he could produce two more doses of Xytherium. The Silkslither components... just enough for one batch, assuming he didn't mess up the delicate crystallization process again.

He grabbed a bottle of Xytherium from his shelf, holding it up to the light. The sickly green liquid caught the afternoon sun, casting strange shadows across his face. The black market would pay twenty silver for this single vial - enough to restock his entire inventory of basic components.

His gaze drifted to the remaining healing potions. Honest work. But at three copper each and he would be at massive loss each time. One vial of poison would bring more then twenty healing potions.

There is no way I can build up enough reputation quickly enough with my current funds.

The ledger's numbers stared back at him. Even if he sold every healing potion he could make, it wouldn't generate enough profit to keep up with the parasite's demands. The underworld contacts, their coin purses heavy with silver, offered a much simpler solution.

Just a few specialized mixtures, he thought. Enough to build up some savings. Then I can shift to legitimate business, build myself up step by step.

But even as the though manifested, Fendrel knew he was lying to himself. The poison trade would always pay better. And with the parasite's influence growing stronger, he couldn't afford to ignore such a profitable market - no matter how much he wanted to.