Adrian remained motionless for several minutes, his back pressed against the rough bark of a grey oak. His eyes scanned the surroundings, not with the panic of a hunted man, but with the precision of a sensor seeking an anomaly in a data stream.

  Silence had returned to the forest, but it was a different silence. Heavier.

  IRIS, Adrian interjected mentally. From now on, only report what is out of the ordinary or what I explicitly ask for. No need to comment on what I already see.

  [FILTERING PROTOCOL UPDATED]

  Adrian returned his attention to the body. The blood had stopped flowing, but warmth had not yet left the flesh. This wasn't the work of a beast. No bites, no claw marks. Just an arrow planted with surgical precision in the throat. It was murder. Clean. Efficient. The forest wasn't just dangerous because of monsters. There were far worse predators here.

  He approached the dead man. He needed equipment. So far, he had survived with a flint shard and a hare skin, but the Grey Sector had shown him his limits. If he wanted to progress in alchemy, he needed tools more sophisticated than chipped stones.

  Yet, a question nagged at him: did this world have means of tracking objects?

  "Is there a residual energy signature on this subject's items?"

  [RESULTS: NO TRACE OF ETHER ON STANDARD EQUIPMENT. THE BRONZE BADGE EMITS A UNIQUE FREQUENCY.]

  Adrian nodded. He ignored the badge, too specific an item, and focused on the rest. He took the iron dagger. It was simple, a mass-produced blade without any engraving, like thousands of others.

  He retrieved the waterskin. It was half full. He shook it. The sloshing of water was the most beautiful sound he had heard all day. He didn't drink right away—who knew if the man wasn't sick?—but clipped it to his belt along with the flint and steel. It was theft, pure and simple. But the dead don't get thirsty.

  He didn't stop at those items. His own clothes were nothing but soiled rags. The scout wore, under his leather breastplate, a sturdy, nondescript grey wool tunic. It was slightly stained at the collar, but once donned, it finally made him look like an inhabitant of this world rather than a castaway.

  He then examined the dead man's satchel. Empty. Torn.

  Nausea twisted his stomach, but he crushed it. He was barefoot, unarmed, and alone. The dead man no longer needed it. He did.

  "Sorry," he murmured in the forest's silence.

  He unbuckled the stranger's belt. His hands trembled slightly. This wasn't science; it was grave robbing. But survival didn't burden itself with morality.

  As he stood up, he paused. He was already wearing his own hare-skin satchel. Adding a dagger and a waterskin to his belt would make him suspicious. The guards at the north gate had seen him leave empty-handed. If he returned with a scout's gear, he would be the perfect target for interrogation.

  He looked at the dagger, then his hare satchel.

  He opened his beast-skin pouch and slid the dagger, waterskin, and flint and steel to the very bottom, covering them with the Sylva Roots and Glass Lilies. He used large leaves to cushion the items so they wouldn't clatter. From the outside, he was still just a peasant with a makeshift bag containing simple roots.

  He didn't head back toward the north gate.

  He began a wide detour to enter through the south gate. He didn't yet know Coldvale's customs well, but he understood a universal rule: routine is the enemy of vigilance. By changing his entry point, he minimized the chances a guard would remember his initial equipment if he happened to be searched.

  The walk was long. The sun was setting, casting elongated shadows that resembled black fingers on the ground.

  When he reached the south gate, two other guards were indeed on watch. They seemed younger, less jaded than the morning crew, but just as disinterested in a lone man covered in mud.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "Halt," one of them said without much conviction. "Where are you coming from like that?"

  "Checkin' south, gathering," Adrian replied in a weary voice, playing on directional confusion.

  He slightly opened his satchel, revealing the tops of the earthy roots.

  "That's all I found."

  The guard glanced distractedly. The smell of dirt and root decay seemed to disgust him. "Pass, peasant. And go wash yourself; you reek of the forest."

  Adrian hunched his shoulders, staring at his feet. He prayed the stolen boots weren't recognizable. That the forest smell masked the rancid scent of cold sweat running down his back. he only truly breathed once he passed the shadow of the stone arch.

  The village changed face at nightfall. Oil lanterns began to sputter, and the smell of tavern stew replaced the dust. Adrian slipped through dark alleys, avoiding main arteries. His dagger, though hidden, weighed on his hip through the bag.

  He stopped in a deserted dead-end to adjust his pack. He fastened the dagger to his own belt, under his coarse wool tunic. His hand closed over the cold iron hilt. It wasn't a feeling of power, but of technical satisfaction. He was now equipped for the next stage.

  Adrian didn't head immediately to Klara's shop. His priority was to officially close his mission. In this world, reputation—even that of a low-grade gatherer—was not to be neglected. If he disappeared with the harvest without validating his contract, he would go from harmless anomaly to thief.

  He walked up the main street toward the massive Guild building. At this hour, the common room was boiling over. He weaved between groups of adventurers, head down, clutching his hare satchel tight against him. He felt the weight of the stolen dagger against his thigh, concealed under his grey wool tunic.

  He reached the harvest mission counter. The receptionist, a different woman, younger than the previous one and seemingly counting the minutes until her shift ended, didn't even look up.

  "Name," she rattled off mechanically.

  "Adrian. I've completed the Sylva Root gathering quest."

  She stopped, one eyebrow raised. She consulted her ledger, then her eyes swept over Adrian's dusty silhouette.

  "Put that there."

  Adrian placed the three bundles of roots on the counter. She inspected them quickly, checking the bulbs' freshness. "Conforms. Forty coppers, as agreed."

  She slid a small leather purse across the wood. Adrian took the money without a word. He didn't seek praise. To the Guild, he had just proven he was a functional tool, nothing more. That was exactly what he wanted.

  Once out, he veered toward the quieter districts. The weight of the dagger and the purse of coppers in his pocket offered him maneuvering room he didn't have that morning.

  He finally reached Klara's shop.

  The window was dark, but a flickering light showed under the door. Adrian didn't knock. He took a second to smooth his wool tunic, wipe the worst of the mud off his legs, and stabilize his heart rate. He mustn't look like a man who had just seen a corpse. He had to be the business partner bringing an opportunity. His grey wool tunic, recovered from the scout, scratched his skin—still irritated by brambles—but it served its purpose.

  The bell chimed. Klara looked up, a dubious pout on her lips.

  "You again."

  Adrian ignored the jab. He stepped forward and placed a single Glass Lily on the counter. The reaction was immediate. The old alchemist dropped her quill. She didn't even examine it with a loupe; the flower's shine was enough.

  "Where did you find that?" she breathed, her hooked fingers trembling slightly.

  "Where others are afraid to go," Adrian replied coldly. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. This flower is worth a small fortune as a purity catalyst. And I have two others."

  He let a heavy silence hang, watching Klara, who seemed to see him in a new light.

  "One night in your laboratory," he resumed. "Here are my other conditions for the first two flowers. The third remains my property. So..."

  "...Unlimited access to the laboratory for the night, with use of precision glassware. Reagents: two flasks of alcohol, and any other standard component I find. In limited quantity, of course. And finally, a bit of your knowledge."

  Klara bridled at the last point.

  "Information? About what?"

  "About your recipes in general. And I want to know who, besides you, handles this kind of material in Coldvale."

  The alchemist sighed, torn between the urge to kick him out and the desire to possess those Lilies.

  "No one else knows how to properly treat these flowers here. The bailiff asks for them for his longevity potions, but the Guild no longer supplies them. If you give me two flowers, I'll provide your reagents. But the alcohol, I'll only give you one flask."

  "Two flasks, Klara. And add a granite mortar; that wooden one over there is porous, it would spoil the Lily's purity."

  She grumbled, but eventually bowed her head.

  "Are you a carpet merchant or a gatherer? Fine. But if you break a single one of my quartz glass tubes, I'll sell you for parts to the Shadow Syndicate."

  She took a key from her pocket and pointed to the back door.

  "Reagents are in the locked cabinet. I'll get the alcohol."

  "Thanks. I don't intend to blow anything up. I'm simply going to... experiment."

  He gathered the reagents she placed on the counter, grabbed his new mortar, and stepped through the laboratory door. Behind him, he heard the old woman lock the shop.

  He was finally alone. Before him, burners and stills gleamed in the oil lantern's light. Adrian set down his satchel, pulled out his iron dagger, and placed it on the workbench, right next to his third flower and ingredients.

  [LABORATORY CALIBRATION IN PROGRESS...] [AMBIENT TEMPERATURE: 19.2°C]

  "Good," Adrian murmured. "IRIS, prepare a synthesis model for the Glass Lily. We're going to study what this world calls 'magic'."

  Question: In RPGs, are you the type to loot everything (even the candles), or just the gold? ?????

  Next: Synthesis. Let’s cook. ??