Waking up wasn't abrupt. It was clinical. Adrian opened his eyes in the gloom of the "Surly Dog" inn's garret. No jolt. No disorientation. His internal clock, recalibrated by IRIS, told him he had slept exactly six hours and twelve minutes.

  He lay motionless under the coarse wool blanket that scratched his skin, conducting a methodical inventory of his body. Just yesterday, his muscles had screamed, saturated with lactic acid after the climb and forced march. His feet had been bruised, his skin flayed by the Grey Sector brambles.

  This morning? Silence.

  He pushed the blanket aside and inspected his left forearm.

  Where a deep gash had marred his flesh twenty-four hours earlier, there was now only a pale pink line, smooth as a newborn's.

  He ran his thumb over it. No pain. The cellular regeneration hadn't been "magical." It had been accelerated. Optimized.

  "Status report," he ordered silently.

  [MORNING DIAGNOSTIC] [TISSUE INTEGRITY: 98%]

  [ENERGY RESERVE: 0.002 EDI] [METABOLISM: STABILIZED]

  Adrian frowned at the figure. 0.002 IDE. Still the same. He had eaten ether-infused meat, drunk particle-charged water, and yet his internal reservoir remained desperately empty.

  "IRIS, analyze etheric absorption rate."

  [ANALYSIS IN PROGRESS...] [RESULT: HOST ABSORPTION COEFFICIENT = 0.0007%]

  [ESTIMATED LOCAL POPULATION COMPARISON = 15-25%]

  The answer was brutal. His body wasn't built for this fuel. The inhabitants of this world had been bathed in ether since conception; their cells had adapted over generations to capture and store this energy. Adrian was a diesel engine someone was trying to run on magical gasoline.

  He absorbed. But he leaked everywhere.

  "Systemic leak. I'm bleeding energy. Or I can't retain it." he muttered, his voice cracked with disappointment.

  "The math is terminal. Either my cell membranes are too porous to contain the charge, or I lack the biological capacitor to store it. I'm not just eating; I'm a leaking reactor. If I don't find a way to stabilize the retention—a catalyst or a structural fix—I’ll be forced to hunt every hour just to stay at baseline".

  He punched the mattress. All that risk—the meat, the water, the cold... for 0.002? At this rate, it would take him a century to reach the level of a simple guard.

  [HYPOTHESIS: THE BIO-SYNAPTIC LINK CONSUMES ABSORBED ETHER FOR ITS OWN FUNCTIONS. SURPLUS AVAILABLE FOR STORAGE: NEGLIGIBLE.]

  There it was. IRIS herself was perhaps draining what he ingested. He was feeding his AI before feeding himself.

  He needed another way. Not passive absorption. Direct synthesis. A potion that would force his body to retain energy instead of letting it leak. It also had to prevent IRIS from

  He was hungry.

  A ravenous, animal hunger. He stood up, his joints moving without a single crack. He felt light.

  He donned the dead scout's grey tunic, adjusted his belt. His hand froze as he grasped the iron dagger.

  Yesterday, it was dead weight, a stolen object that burned him. Today, as he slid it against his hip, the cold metal felt like a natural extension of his arm.

  He went down to the common room. The smell of oatmeal and stale beer greeted him.

  He spent three of his precious coppers on a huge bowl and a crust of black bread. He ate quickly, without pleasure, like filling a tank. Then he went out.

  Coldvale had awakened.

  The main street was a theater of noise and movement. Merchants pushed carts with squeaking axles; blacksmiths were already hammering red-hot iron. But above all, there were "Them." The adventurers.

  Adrian halted under the inn's awning, observing the flow.

  A group passed in front of him. Three men and a woman, equipped in leather and mail. They laughed loudly, walking down the middle of the street as if they owned it.

  [RAPID SCAN] [TARGET A: GRADE 2.1] [TARGET B: GRADE 1.9]

  They exuded arrogant assurance. to this world, they were the elite. Beings touched by the grace of the System. To Adrian, they were walking batteries. Inefficient. Noisy.

  They passed a meter from him without seeing him. To them, Adrian was just part of the scenery, a grey peasant in a grey tunic. "Gradeless." He smiled inwardly. That was his strongest armor. Indifference.

  He waited for them to move off toward the North Gate before turning into the alley leading to Klara's shop. He wasn't there for glory. He was there for the market.

  The shop reeked of vinegar and exhaustion.

  Klara was behind her counter, eyes rimmed with violet circles. She clearly hadn't slept. She was shelving glass jars with a roughness that threatened to break them at any moment.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  When the bell chimed, she froze. She lifted her head, and her gaze instantly landed on Adrian's hare-skin satchel.

  "You didn't blow anything up," she croaked in a raspy voice. "That's something."

  She wiped her hands on her stained apron.

  "You spent at least an hour in there."

  She leaned on the counter, her piercing gaze trying to dissect Adrian.

  "So? What did you produce? Soup?"

  Adrian didn't answer. He liked these moments of silence. They threw the opponent off balance.

  He plunged his hand into his satchel. He felt the cold touch of the six vials. He chose one.

  He placed it gently on the counter's patinaed wood. The sound of glass was crisp, precise.

  The morning light, filtering through the dirty window, hit the liquid.

  It wasn't the usual greenish sludge. It was liquid sapphire. A deep, electric, limpid blue. No suspended particles. The liquid seemed to capture the ambient light and hold it prisoner.

  Klara took half a step back, as if the object were radioactive.

  "What is that?" she breathed.

  "Improved Revitalization," Adrian replied with studied neutrality.

  "Don't play games with me. Revitalization is green. It's the color of life. That..."

  She pointed a trembling finger at the vial.

  "That has the color of pure Arcane. Is it unstable?" she asked, intrigued.

  "On the contrary. It's purified. I removed the useless parts. Cellulose, dirt, dead fibers. Only the active principle remains."

  Klara grabbed the vial with obvious suspicion. She held it up to eye level, swirled it. The viscosity was perfect, fluid as water but with an oily visual density.

  She uncorked it.

  The smell filled the space between them. Not the heavy compost smell of classic potions. A sharp, cold, minty scent, with a hint of ether that pricked the sinuses.

  "The smell is... pungent but pleasant," she commented.

  "It's concentrated. Taste it."

  Klara hesitated. In this trade, tasting a failed experiment could mean a week of dysentery, or worse, death by magical poisoning.

  She glanced at Adrian. He wasn't sweating. He didn't avoid her gaze. He waited, arms crossed, with the patience of a stone.

  She poured a drop, just one, onto the back of her hand, and licked it.

  Adrian watched.

  [TARGET ANALYSIS: KLARA] [PUPIL DILATION: IMMEDIATE] [HEART RATE: +12 BPM]

  The reaction was physiological before it was conscious. The old woman's body reacted to the influx of purified energy. Her cheeks took on a pinkish hue. She blinked several times, as if a veil had just been lifted.

  The silence stretched for five long seconds.

  "By the Gods..." she finally murmured.

  She looked at her hand, then the vial, then Adrian. Suspicion had vanished, replaced by calculating greed.

  "It's... clean. No earthy aftertaste. The effect hits the brain immediately. You feel... awake."

  "It's a superior version," Adrian cut in. "A 'Refined' line."

  He took out the other four vials and lined them up next to the first. Five vials clashing with their intense blue.

  "I kept one for my personal tests. Here are the five available."

  Klara set the vial down. The merchant's mask fell back onto her face, but Adrian had seen the crack. She was hooked.

  "It's pretty," she admitted, crossing her arms. "But it's weird. Clients don't like weird. They want what they know."

  "Clients want what works. This potion acts twice as fast and lasts twice as long."

  "Maybe. Or maybe it'll make them sick in an hour."

  She tapped the wood of the counter.

  "I'll take the risk. I'll take them off you for thirty coppers a piece. That's the wholesale price for the standard potion."

  Adrian didn't move.

  "No."

  "No? Kid, you don't have a license. If the Guild catches you selling unsealed mixtures, they'll break your knees. You need me to move this."

  "You need this product," Adrian said, not losing his facade of calm, though his heart hammered. He didn't try to physically intimidate her—she could call the guard and have him hanged. He bet everything on the greed he had seen in her eyes.

  He leaned on the counter, slightly invading Klara's personal space.

  "I've seen your stock. You sell mud. The Bailiff buys elsewhere, doesn't he? Imports his potions from the capital?"

  Klara gritted her teeth. He had hit the mark.

  "With this," Adrian continued, pointing to the blue sapphire vials, "you get back the elite clientele. The captains. The veterans. Those who have money and don't want to die because their potion took ten minutes to kick in."

  He held up two fingers.

  "Sixty percent of profits for me. I provide the product, you provide the storefront."

  The old alchemist let out a dry, joyless laugh.

  "Sixty? You're dreaming, friend. You use my lab, my burner, my vials, my roots. And it's my roof protecting you from the Inquisition."

  She leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

  "Fifty coppers a vial. Right now for this batch. That's my final offer. It's already a fortune for a vagrant like you."

  Adrian did the math instantly. Fifty coppers. Two hundred and fifty total.

  It was, indeed, a huge sum for a beginner. Enough to live a month without working. Or to equip himself seriously.

  Above all, he couldn't push too far. He needed her. Not just for the money, but for access to future ingredients and especially her laboratory, if one could truly call it that.

  "Agreed for this batch," he said coldly.

  Klara seemed to relax, thinking she had won.

  "But for the next ones," Adrian added, "we continue. I no longer provide the roots at that price."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You provide the base ingredients: alcohol, roots, empty vials. I provide the labor and technique. We split fifty-fifty on the final sale price."

  Klara thought. She calculated her margins. Even at 50%, if this product sold at a premium, she'd make more than with her green sludge.

  "Fifty-fifty," she grunted. "And you clean the lab after every use. If I find a single stain on my benches, the deal is off."

  "Deal."

  She stooped, opened a heavy chest hidden under the counter. The sound of clinking coins was the most beautiful music Adrian had heard since his arrival.

  She placed two silver coins and a stack of fifty copper coins on the counter.

  The silver coins were heavy, stamped with the severe profile of a stranger.

  "That's two hundred and fifty. Don't go drinking it all at the tavern."

  Adrian swept up the coins. He made them disappear into his purse with a dexterity that surprised Klara.

  He turned to leave, but the apothecary's voice nailed him to the spot.

  "One last thing, Adrian."

  He turned back. Klara held one of the blue vials up to the light, her face suddenly grave.

  "This color... The blue. It is the color of raw Ether."

  "So?"

  "So, the Church doesn't like it. They say only what comes from the earth—green, brown—is given by the Goddess. Anything that shines too much... is often considered witchcraft. Or worse. Old Empire tech."

  She looked him straight in the eye.

  "If anyone asks, it's a variant of the root that grows in the shade. A natural mutation. Do you hear me?"

  "A natural mutation," Adrian repeated.

  "Never tell them how you do it. Never. Secrets are the only thing protecting us here. If the Alchemists' Guild learns you 'heat' the roots instead of praying over them, they'll send you to the pyre for heresy."

  Adrian smirked. Methodological heresy. He liked the term.

  "I'm not a talker, Klara."

  He pushed the door open and walked out.

  The fresh street air whipped his face. The sun was high now.

  He walked through the crowd, but his gait had changed. He was no longer the starving survivor of yesterday, clinging to a branch to keep from freezing to death. He felt the weight of the money against his right thigh, and the dagger against his left.

  Resource. Force.

  He had validated his hypothesis: his science was superior to their magic. He had unbalanced the local economy. He had a foothold.

  He looked north, toward the Guild's massive silhouette.

  Now that he had secured his immediate survival, he could tackle the real problem.

  He was just a Grade 0.001. A fragile anomaly. He now needed to build the engine. He needed a different type of potion.

  And for that, he had to return to the Grey Sector or elsewhere. Further. Deeper.

  Adrian melted into the crowd, a predator in camouflage—invisible, calculating, and now, funded.

  Question: In games, do you prefer playing the Crafter/Merchant who gets rich, or the Adventurer who stays broke but has cool gear? ?? vs ???