Mark Spencer's assistant, Nina shook her head.
"Still no confirmed identity. He hides everything through the internal guild exchange and the encrypted public market. That's why people just refer to him as 'X'—short for 'unknown.' But that's not what's important. He's listed a new potion. A Strength Enhancing Potion."
She tapped her screen.
Mark narrowed his eyes.
"How many?"
"Four bottles. I was only able to get one before the listing vanished."
Nina replied with a grimace.
His lips curled into a frustrated snarl.
"We had a monopoly on the stamina potions. That was manageable. But a strength-enhancing potion?"
He stepped closer, snatching the tablet from her hand. The system's official description blinked on the screen:
[Strength Enhancing Potion (Rank A)
Effect: Permanently increases strength stat by 2% (min +1 point).
Side Effect: May cause dizziness.]
"This… this changes everything. People are going to go insane over this. No one's ever stabilized permanent stat enhancement before, not outside of relics."
He muttered.
Nina nodded solemnly.
"Exactly. And now, every guild, every private organization, every military branch is going to want their hands on this. Especially if X continues releasing products like this."
Mark stared at the potion image for a long moment, then handed the tablet back.
"Double your surveillance. I want a bot scraping the market every second. If anything new goes up from this 'X', I want us to be the first to buy it."
"I've already got the auto-purchase system on standby. Next time, we'll get them all."
Nina said with a nod.
As they continued to strategize, the implications of this new development were felt far beyond their guild.
______
Across the city, inside a sleek, high-security office, another group of elites had taken notice.
In the headquarters of Secret Hunter Services, an underground guild known for espionage, assassinations, and black market dealings, a low murmur spread across the control room.
A woman with cold, analytical eyes sat before a massive monitor displaying the market transaction logs.
She zoomed in on the listing, analyzing every metadata tag attached to the purchase.
"So, the mysterious seller releases another game-breaking potion."
She whispered.
Her assistant, a young analyst in a dark suit, spoke up.
"We managed to get one bottle, but not more. The market vanished before we could place additional bids."
She frowned.
"These potions aren't just powerful—they're revolutionary. If someone can brew stat-enhancing potions consistently, they'll hold power over every major force in the world. We need to identify and acquire him."
"We tried tracking him through the system. It didn't work. Every transaction is encrypted. Whoever X is, they're using a double-blind system with rotating IP masks and anonymous market relays."
The assistant said cautiously.
The woman tapped her fingers against her chin.
"No one can stay hidden forever. Start a black trace. Use the advanced tracking algorithm—Project Ghostnet."
"That's illegal!"
The assistant pointed out hesitantly.
"We've done worse. Track every digital signature attached to X's transactions. Even a shadow leaves a trail."
She replied without blinking.
"Understood."
She looked back at the screen, the potion's description glowing faintly.
"Find this seller before someone else does."
She said again.
______
Fenrir remained blissfully unaware of the storm gathering around his anonymous identity.
Deep in his lab, he kept refining his potion recipes, occasionally adjusting the temperature of a brewing vat or noting down slight fluctuations in viscosity and color.
The world outside buzzed with speculation and frenzy, but inside his controlled space, everything was calm, predictable—just the way he liked it.
When evening came, Fenrir packed up, locked the reinforced lab doors, and walked back to his modest home.
The cool air hit his face as he stepped outside, but even then, he remained disconnected from the world's panic.
After dinner, he went to bed, his body sore but his mind at ease.
The next morning, school was grim.
A heavy tension lingered in the air, thick enough to suffocate.
Students whispered in corners; some looked around suspiciously, as if fearing a hidden attacker might be among them.
No one had officially said who the killer was, but the rumors had already started.
Betty Rose's name wasn't spoken out loud, but people said things like, "A senior lost it," or "She's not coming back, is she?"
Even teachers weren't immune to the strain. More than one class was canceled. A few students even got into fights—some for reasons as small as a stray glance.
Eventually, it was decided: the academy would be closed for a week, allowing time for everyone to recover and for the school's administration to get a grip on the situation.
Fenrir didn't mind the break.
He came home that evening and, after finishing a quick meal, headed straight for his lab.
He knew this week was an opportunity—a full week of uninterrupted research and production. The thought made him a little giddy.
However, the joy didn't last long. The moment he entered his lab, he was reminded of the same problem that had haunted him for days now—space.
His workstations were too cramped, and every piece of equipment had to be used one at a time.
Juggling the cultivation of moon flowers, potion brewing, and rune-carving work without assistants was a nightmare.
More than once, he'd dropped fragile vials or miscalculated temperatures simply because he had too much going on at once.
Fenrir sighed, rubbing his forehead.
"I need my dungeon."
He muttered.
It wasn't just a lab he missed—it was his space.
In his past life, the soul-bound dungeon he commanded served as a personal domain.
The energy there was stable, the mana-rich soil perfect for rare herbs, and the familiars that patrolled the space could act as assistants, guards, and servants.
Most importantly, it had no prying eyes.
He pulled up his notes and shopping list.
He had already gathered the majority of materials needed to begin the summoning ritual that would reconnect him to his dungeon space.
But there were three specific items he lacked—ones that couldn't be purchased on the market due to their rarity.
Of those three, two came from low to mid-level dungeons.
Fenrir had already located them, marked them on a map, and planned efficient routes. They would be quick trips.
But the third ingredient?
That one came from a B-class dungeon.
Fenrir looked at the dungeon report again and frowned.
He was strong, but not strong enough for a place like that. Even with potions, there was a hard limit to how long he could last in a real fight.
And stamina was still his biggest weakness.
"Too risky to go alone. Too risky not to go at all."
He said aloud.
After weighing the options, he came to a decision—he would hire a temporary party to accompany him.
It wasn't ideal; he didn't like the idea of strangers being around him, possibly seeing things he didn't want to explain. But at this point, he had no choice.
He opened a discreet posting board used by private contractors and independent adventurers—people who didn't ask too many questions as long as they got paid.
His request was short and precise:
[Seeking temporary escort team for B-class dungeon.
Mission: Gather specific flora and mana-stone shards.
Duration: 1–2 days.
Pay: 50,000 per person + bonus for rare item drops.
Note: Minimal combat if plan proceeds smoothly. Stealth and control preferred.]
He masked his identity as usual and set the post to expire in twelve hours.
As a final step, Fenrir reviewed his inventory.
He'd take a few stamina and healing potions for himself, just in case.
And maybe one of the strength-enhancing ones too—not for use, but for testing how long the effects lasted inside a dungeon.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in thought.
"Once I get that last ingredient, I can reopen the dungeon… and everything changes."
He whispered to himself.
Unaware of the elite forces already hunting for him, Fenrir was focused only on one thing—power, control, and freedom.
And this dungeon trip was the first step toward reclaiming all three.