The cobblestones of Coldvale rang beneath Adrian’s steps with a clarity that bordered on irritation. At Grade 0.05, the improvement was subtle to an untrained eye, but for him, it was a paradigm shift. His heightened nerve conductivity didn’t make him an athlete, but it had erased the "noise" between will and execution. Every movement was more efficient.

  Most importantly, his perception of ether had mutated. Until now, he’d only seen its flows through IRIS’s filters, like a technician staring at a radar screen. Now, ether had become atmospheric pressure.

  He felt it against his skin—a static electricity that crackled as a Grade 2 militiaman passed, or thickened near shops warded by charms. It was no longer overlaid data; it was raw, tactile sensation, one he had to learn to filter to avoid overload.

  His hunger, though, remained his only truly human anchor. A dull, insistent demand reminding him his metabolism was running at a pace his old life couldn’t have sustained.

  He pushed open the door to Klara’s shop.

  The merchant didn’t look up immediately, too busy aligning columns of figures. Adrian stood motionless, observing Klara’s etheric signature for the first time without filters. A glow akin to a minor local adventurer’s.

  —You’re early, Adrian, she finally said, setting down her quill.

  She slid a leather pouch across the counter. The jingle was crisper than usual.

  —Six silver pieces, she announced with a hint of pride.

  Adrian opened the pouch. His calculation was instant.

  [ANALYSIS: BATCH OF 12 UNITS.]

  [NET PERSONAL PROFIT: 50 COPPER PER VIAL.]

  [TOTAL: 600 COPPER. OPTIMAL YIELD.]

  —Sales exceeded even my most optimistic forecasts, she continued. Miners are snatching up the "Blues" as soon as caravans reach the North. We’re not just selling a potion—we’re selling pure endurance without the unstable mana backlash.

  She leaned on the counter, her expression turning serious.

  —But the market is hungry, Adrian. We’re producing too few vials. Demand is real, and we could easily sell fifty a week.

  Adrian rolled a silver coin over his knuckles. His new dexterity made the motion fluid, almost hypnotic.

  —I can’t multiply my hours, Klara. And I won’t entrust my distillation to just any passing apprentice.

  —I know. That’s why I thought of the Cursed.

  Adrian froze. The term resonated strangely.

  —The Cursed?

  —That’s what they’re called in the slums, she explained in a low voice. People born with a deficiency. Their bodies don’t just fail to store ether—they reject it. They can’t reach Grade 1; they can’t even touch a crystal without burns. To the Inquisition, they’re mistakes of creation. To society, they’re pariahs.

  Adrian felt a cold resonance in his own chest. Ether rejection. He was a "Grade 0," a void in the System. But these people… they were in active conflict with this world’s energy. A condition that, from a purely biological standpoint, resembled a pathological version of his own nature.

  —They’re socially invisible, Klara added. No one looks for them. No one believes they’re capable of anything. But they have hands, Adrian. And they need to eat.

  [NOTE: BIOLOGICAL ANALOGY DETECTED.]

  [THE 'CURSED' ALSO APPEAR TO HAVE CELLULAR RESISTANCE TO ETHERIC SATURATION.]

  [SUGGESTION: CASE STUDY RECOMMENDED.]

  —If they reject ether, they’re not sick, Adrian murmured to himself. They’re blank slates.

  He studied his own hands, thinking of the anchoring he’d just inflicted on himself.

  —The System can’t 'mark' them because they don’t speak its language. If I give them my own anchoring, I’m not creating mages… I’m creating extensions of my own method.

  This was a lead. An army of outcasts stabilized by his chemistry. But before he could explore further, the shop door swung open with an authority that made the display cases vibrate.

  A man entered. He wasn’t just tall; he exuded a density that even a civilian’s dulled senses would perceive. His leather armor bore a finely engraved silver insignia.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Adrian stiffened. His new etheric perception struck him violently. The man was a furnace of ochre and chrome. Stable. Massive.

  [ALERT: ETHERIC SIGNATURE DETECTED.]

  [CLASSIFICATION: GRADE 3.5]

  The man approached the counter, utterly ignoring Adrian. To an adventurer of his grade, Adrian was just a flat shadow, background noise. He placed an empty vial on the wood—a vial of "Blue."

  —I’m Tarn, lieutenant of the Grey Hammer Clan, he said in a calm voice that seemed to vibrate the very air of the shop. I hear this liquid comes from here. My squad held out for three days of forced marching in the Iron Mountains thanks to it. The purity is… unusual.

  The shop door closed with a metallic click that echoed like a hammer blow in the tense silence.

  The man hadn’t just entered—he had filled the space, crushing the usual scents of dried chamomile and melted wax beneath his invisible weight. Even the vials on the shelves seemed to have shrunk from his passage, as if the ambient ether had shuddered.

  Klara exhaled slowly, her fingers white-knuckled on the counter’s edge. Adrian noticed the way her joints whitened, the way her pulse now throbbed at the base of her neck—a jagged rhythm, betrayed by the swollen vein. She hadn’t lied, not exactly. But she had omitted. And in this world, omission in the face of a Grade 3.5 was provocation.

  —Who makes these potions?

  Tarn’s voice remained low, almost conversational, but each syllable carried the weight of calculated threat. It wasn’t a question. It was a probe, slipped beneath Klara’s defenses to test their strength. His eyes—steel gray—studied hers, then swept the room with the precision of a thermal scan.

  Adrian felt his own body tense, every muscle preparing for the inevitable: the moment that gaze landed on him.

  Klara swallowed. Too fast. Too obvious.

  —I don’t know, she replied, the words stiff with effort. I get them from a traveling caravan. It comes and goes as it pleases.

  A partial lie. True enough to be plausible, vague enough to avoid details.

  Tarn didn’t smile. He didn’t seem to smile often. But something in the way his lips tightened—just a fraction of a millimeter—betrayed his skepticism. His nostrils flared, as if his body, honed by decades of combat, could smell deception in the air.

  He turned slowly, surveying the shop not like a customer, but like a hunter assessing terrain. His gaze lingered on the dusty shelves, the misaligned jars, the too methodical disorder of vials on the counter. Then it slid to Adrian.

  And stopped.

  Not on his face. On his hands.

  Tarn said nothing. He didn’t need to. A man like him had learned to read bodies like maps.

  —A shame, he murmured at last, his voice making the glassware hum.

  He drew a business card from his pocket—a thick rectangle of paper edged with stamped silver. The metal was cold to the touch, almost alive, as if drawing its temperature directly from the ambient ether. Adrian’s fingers itched. This wasn’t just a piece of cardboard. It was a promise. And a threat.

  —This is my clan’s card, Tarn said, placing it on the counter with surgical precision. Give it to your supplier.

  He paused. Just long enough for the silence to grow oppressive.

  —If he wishes to sell in bulk, have him contact me.

  Another silence. Heavier.

  —We’re prepared to be generous in exchange for an exclusivity contract.

  Klara didn’t move. She didn’t even dare breathe. Tarn leaned forward slightly, just enough for his shadow to swallow the card, then recede as he straightened.

  —Also tell him, he added, his voice dropping an octave, that we are reliable. And that we know how to reward loyalty.

  He didn’t threaten. He didn’t need to. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended above their throats.

  Then he turned on his heel.

  The door closed behind him with a sharp snap. The air in the shop seemed to inhale, as if atmospheric pressure had just plummeted. Klara exhaled in a trembling breath, her shoulders finally slumping. Adrian didn’t move. Not yet.

  He waited.

  Five seconds. Ten.

  Long enough to ensure Tarn was far enough away not to hear. Long enough for the vibrations of his footsteps to stop trembling through the floorboards.

  Then he stepped forward.

  The card lay there on the worn wood, the silver glinting faintly in the shop’s dim light. Adrian reached out. Contact with the metal triggered an immediate reaction—not in his fingers, but behind his eyes, where IRIS projected cyan-highlighted data.

  [ANALYSIS: SILVER-COPPER ALLOY (72% Ag, 28% Cu). ETHERIC TREATMENT DETECTED (STRUCTURAL REINFORCEMENT).]

  [SUGGESTION: IF YOU ACCEPT, PREPARE AN EMERGENCY EVACUATION PROTOCOL. AND A COVER IDENTITY.]

  Adrian gripped the card between his fingers. The metal was cold.

  —I need those Cursed, Klara, he said at last, his voice so flat it was almost mechanical.

  She looked up at him, her wrinkled face marked with warning.

  —You’re playing with forces that will crush you, she murmured, her fingers tight around a jar of Sylva root. He’s not a merchant. He’s a war dog. And you’re just—

  —Nothing, Adrian finished for her, his eyes still fixed on the card. Exactly.

  He tucked the six silver coins into his pouch with a sharp clink. The profit lay before him like a poisoned promise. But this was no longer about money.

  This was about survival.

  Tarn hadn’t come for a potion.

  He’d come for the alchemist.

  And Adrian knew one thing: clans like The Grey Hammer didn’t negotiate with shadows.

  They owned them.

  Or they erased them.

  He slipped the card into his pocket, where his fingers could feel its weight with every movement. Then he turned to Klara, his gaze as cold as the metal he’d just touched.

  —I can’t stay at the artisan level anymore, he said. Not if I want to survive what’s coming. ==In the meantime, here are 20 new Blues. Raise the prices if demand is high.==

  She opened her mouth. To protest. To beg him to reconsider. But something in his eyes—that unnatural blue glow, the residual effect of his elixirs—made her fall silent.

  Adrian wasn’t afraid.

  And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

  He headed for the door, his boots silent on the worn planks. Before leaving, he paused, his hand on the handle.

  —Find me those Cursed, Klara. The ones the System rejected.