The coded knock—three quick taps, a pause, then two more—was the only sound that could reliably pierce the bubble of concentration Elina had built around herself. She rose from the floor where she'd been resting on a pile of burlap sacks, her mind still cataloging the few remaining reagents on her shelves. She unbolted the heavy door.
Ren stood in the alleyway, looking leaner and harder than he had two days ago. His starter clothes were smudged with dirt and grime, but the fear in his eyes had been replaced by a new, hard-won confidence. He heaved a heavy sack from his shoulder, and it landed on the workbench with a satisfying thud.
"The quarry is a pit," he said, forgoing a greeting. He gratefully accepted the waterskin of Stamina Broth Elina offered, drinking like a man dying of thirst. The tension visibly flowed out of his shoulders. "Rex's group, the [Lion's Roar], are trying to claim it as their territory. They're loud and strong, but they're stupid. They burn through their energy in an hour and have to retreat."
He gestured to the sack. "I waited. Hid behind a rock outcropping. Listened to them fighting each other over salt fragments the size of a thumbnail, heard the snap of a rock-lizard's jaw taking one of them who strayed too far. Once they were all gone, too tired to stand, I had the place to myself for an hour. This stuff…" he tapped the waterskin against his leg, "it's not a secret weapon. It's the only weapon that matters out there right now."
Elina untied the sack and ran her hand through the contents. Chunks of pale rock salt, far more than she'd hoped for, and a generous supply of dried Sun-Kissed Mold. "Good work," she said, her voice betraying none of the triumphant satisfaction she felt. She refilled his waterskin and handed him two more. "Avoid the guilds. Stay invisible. You're more valuable that way."
Ren nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. He was no longer just a desperate boy. He was her supplier, a vital cog in her burgeoning machine. He disappeared back into the city's arteries, and Elina knew it was time for her to do the same. Her production line was secure. Now she needed to study the market.
Leaving the sanctuary of her workshop, she found a city transformed. The Novus Landing of launch day was a ghost, a fever dream of joy and wonder. The air now was thick with a grimy, palpable tension. The sounds were different, too. The constant, pleasant chime of "Quest Accepted!" had been replaced by the murmur of anxious conversations, the occasional sharp cry of an argument, and a pervasive, hungry silence. The city felt smaller, colder, its polished cobblestones now seeming to mock the barefoot players who had already worn through their starter boots.
Her first destination was the Grand Plaza. The statue of the forgotten king, once a climbing challenge for gleeful newcomers, was now the backdrop for a makeshift seat of power. A new guild, the Order of the Griffon, had claimed the Town Hall as their headquarters. Their leader, a man named Valerius with the square jaw and noble bearing of a storybook paladin, stood on a crate, his voice booming with practiced charisma.
"…and so we must be better than the fear that grips this world! The NPCs' supplies are finite! We are rationing bread and water. Everyone gets a share, but everyone must contribute to the public good! We will organize patrols, protect the weak, and we will find a way out of this together!"
His speech was met with a mixture of relieved applause from the huddle of frightened-looking players before him, and sullen, resentful glances from those standing at the edges of the crowd. Elina watched, a ghost in the shadows of an alley. Noble, she thought. But hopelessly naive. Valerius was trying to impose a 21st-century social contract on a dark-age reality. His altruism was a candle burning at both ends; it was only a matter of time before the wax ran out.
She moved on, her path taking her toward the market district, where a different kind of order had taken root. There were no soaring speeches here, only quiet, menacing transactions. A player with a rogue's leather armor and a cruel sneer stood sentinel by the blacksmith's forge. His guild tag was stark and simple: [The Syndicate].
"Ten silver pieces for a sword repair," the rogue, a man she would later learn was named Silas, said coolly to a desperate-looking fighter whose blade had a massive chip in it.
"Ten silver!" the fighter protested, his voice cracking. "It was one copper on launch day! That's robbery!"
Silas didn't even raise his voice. He simply shrugged, a gesture more intimidating than any threat. "The blacksmith only listens to us now. Says he needs protection. Protection costs. That's the price. Supply and demand. Pay up, or enjoy fighting with a broken sword."
They were a cartel. They hadn't claimed a building, they had claimed a function. They'd seized control of the city's essential NPC services, privatizing the very infrastructure of survival. It was brutally efficient, Elina had to admit. But she could feel the resentment simmering around them like heat off the pavement. Their power was a house of cards, built on the singular, flawed assumption that the NPCs would remain predictable, exploitable cogs in the machine.
It was near the plaza's main quest-giver that Elina saw the proof that this assumption was wrong. A line of a dozen players stood before Gregor the Stern, but he was no longer doling out tasks. He stood with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on some distant point on the horizon, ignoring the pleas of the people in front of him. His script had run its course. He had nothing left to give.
The final, definitive proof came from the baker. Elina walked down the street where she had smelled the phantom bread on her first day. The scent was real now, rich and tantalizing. But the baker, a portly man who once had a permanent, cheerful smile, now stood behind his counter with a heavy wooden cudgel resting next to his flour-dusted hands.
A young woman approached him, holding out a handful of the starter coins everyone had received. "Please, sir. Just one loaf. I have the coin."
The baker eyed the metal in her hand with disdain. "Coin is worthless," he grunted, his voice raspy and real. "Can't eat coin. Can't burn it to keep my ovens warm. Bring me firewood. A warm bakery is worth more than shiny metal."
Elina froze. A thrill, equal parts terror and pure, unadulterated exhilaration, shot through her. It was the missing piece of the puzzle. The variable no one—not the noble Valerius, not the cunning Silas—had factored into their grand equations. The NPCs weren't static. They were adapting. They were becoming people, with their own fears, needs, and a dawning sense of self-preservation.
She returned to her workshop as dusk tinted the purple sky. The data she had gathered swirled in her mind, coalescing into a clear, actionable plan. The Order was a government starving its people with kindness. The Syndicate was a predator creating a power vacuum. The masses were desperate for any edge. And the NPCs were the new, emerging market.
Everyone had a need. And Elina had a product.
She looked at the sack of salt and mold Ren had brought. It was not a collection of reagents. It was a treasure hoard.
With a methodical precision that felt more natural than breathing, she stoked the forge's fire. She filled the cauldron, her hands steady. She began to brew, not a few doses for a single supplier, but a full batch. She was done hiding. She was done observing. The first taste of her product would be an introduction. The second would be a negotiation. She wouldn't ask for coin. She would ask for leverage. For loyalty. For information.
The age of the warrior, with his sharp sword and blind courage, was over. The age of the alchemist was about to begin.