Fenrir adjusted the flame beneath the smelting dish and gently stirred the mixture inside.
Each ingredient had been carefully measured, ground, and purified beforehand, and he had memorized every step of the process by heart.
The Strength Enhancing Potion was one of the simpler recipes in theory, but execution was another matter.
Too much of one herb, or a second too long at the wrong temperature, and the whole mixture could destabilize.
He worked with the precision of a surgeon, the silence of the lab broken only by the occasional hiss of bubbling liquid.
After carefully monitoring the potion for a final few seconds, Fenrir removed it from the flame and let it settle in the cooling basin.
A few more minutes passed in tense anticipation before the system finally chimed.
[D-Ranked Strength Enhancing Potion successfully brewed.]
Fenrir frowned.
"D-ranked?"
He muttered, lifting the vial up to the light.
The potion had the right hue, but the system's assessment didn't lie.
He took a moment to consider the implications.
"…So the system isn't just a guide—it can act as a quality analysis tool too."
That was useful. Even if the system didn't always have accurate data on people like Betty Rose, it could still be trusted when it came to things like potion brewing, where logic and material composition ruled over unpredictability.
He pulled out his notes and scanned them.
Something in the mixture must've diluted the strength.
After a few moments, he realized it—his proportions were all still within safe ranges, but some ingredients were overpowering others.
It wasn't just about using the right materials; it was about balance.
He ran the process again. Then a third time. A fourth.
Each iteration came with changes: slightly more of the reinforced ginseng, a little less of the powdered corestone, and an extended smelting time on the third attempt.
After six total trials, he finally held a new vial in his hand.
[A-Ranked Strength Enhancing Potion successfully brewed.]
Fenrir allowed himself a small smile.
"Finally."
He poured a single dose and downed it immediately.
The effect was almost instantaneous.
A rush of heat flooded through his body, followed by a light-headed feeling. His knees buckled slightly under him, but he held on to the lab counter.
The system displayed a new line in the corner of his vision:
[Warning: Potion may cause dizziness.]
Fenrir scoffed.
"Yeah. I noticed."
Despite the side effect, the result was undeniable.
He felt stronger—more agile. He moved toward the mirror in the corner of the lab and studied his reflection.
His body hadn't changed in appearance, but when he clenched his fist or moved his arm, he could feel the difference. Muscles responded faster, his center of gravity more stabilized.
It was subtle, but potent.
"I'll limit myself to one bottle a week. No point overdosing and turning into a twitching pile of meat."
He said aloud.
He sealed the rest of the batch and placed the A-ranked potions in a magically reinforced container.
The D and B-ranked ones were stored separately for experimentation or perhaps for sale if he needed quick funds.
Once the brewing was done, Fenrir finally allowed himself a moment to look around the lab.
It was a mess.
Herb dust clung to the floor, glass tools sat in the sink crusted with remnants of potion, and parchment papers were scattered everywhere, ink stains bleeding into the corners.
Fenrir pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I need assistants. But I can't just hire people off the street."
He muttered.
There was no one he trusted—not with his secrets, not with his potions, and definitely not with access to his research. Humans were too easily bought, bribed, or coerced.
And he wasn't naive enough to believe otherwise.
That was when the idea struck him.
Familiars.
They were the perfect solution—summoned through contract, bound by magical oaths, incapable of betrayal.
With enough control, he could create beings that were not only loyal but also intelligent enough to assist with alchemy, cleaning, guarding, and more.
But there was a catch.
He couldn't summon familiars without access to a dungeon core, or at least a small-scale dungeon environment.
The ambient mana in the world wasn't enough to sustain familiar contracts; he'd need dungeon-grade mana to make it work.
Which meant… he would need to open a dungeon inside his lab.
Fenrir sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"It's a big risk."
A dungeon could attract monsters, draw unwanted attention, or even spiral out of control if not managed properly.
But if he could stabilize it, control the flow, and seal it with enough fail-safes, it would give him everything he needed—and more.
It was a hassle.
But it felt worth it.
And he had never been one to back down from a challenge.
Not now. Not when he was just getting started.
Fenrir leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as a thought crept into his mind—a memory from a life long gone
There had been a place he used to command, a dungeon-like space tethered not to the world, but to his very soul.
It had functioned as his personal vault, his sanctuary, and his workshop.
No one could access it but him, and it had stored everything from rare materials to cursed artifacts.
He had called it the Hollow Vault.
"If it was tied to my soul… then it should still exist."
He murmured.
The connection had faded when he died, but that didn't mean it was gone.
All he needed now was to re-establish the bond. But doing so wouldn't be easy.
He would need to perform a soul resonance ritual—one that required both power and rare ingredients.
Fenrir pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and started listing what he remembered: blood crystal, soul thread, void resin… The materials weren't impossible to get, just expensive and obscure.
"More reason to make some money fast."
He said as he pushed aside the paper.
His eyes drifted to a neatly labeled bottle on his lab shelf—the Stamina Enhancing Potion he had brewed last week.
A small smile tugged at his lips. This was a stable product, good enough to sell.
Unlike the Strength potion, which required careful moderation, the stamina potion had no major side effects.
But Strength was always appreciated and would be in massive demand, especially among fighters and long-range explorers.
He listed it on the market at five million dollars a bottle.
The effect was immediate. Within seconds, the listing went viral.
Screenshots spread through forums, speculation threads exploded, and even a few influential guild accounts reposted the sale notice.
Everyone was talking about it—the mysterious seller had done it again.
Fenrir didn't need to check his notifications to know it had sold.
By now, his alias had become synonymous with reliability and power. His potions sold on reputation alone.
As the money hit his account, Fenrir returned his attention to the ritual preparation.
The Hollow Vault was calling.
And soon, he would answer.
______
Mark Spencer's fists slammed into the reinforced training dummy with a dull thud.
The air rippled around him as he let out a breath, sweat glistening down his arms.
The leader of the Supreme Guild was not a man who enjoyed interruptions during training, so when the heavy doors to his private gym burst open, his expression was less than welcoming.
"Nina, this better be important."
He growled.
"It is. The mysterious seller—everyone's calling him 'X' now—just listed another item on the market."
His assistant said quickly, holding up her tablet.
Mark paused, then turned fully to face her.
"X?"
Mark had a feeling he knew this person, but that name rang no bell in his mind.