With the equivalent of over 750 copper pieces in his pocket, Adrian felt for the first time in a position to invest. But money didn't replace technology.

  He returned to "Rat's Run." Garel's sign still hung askew, a simple wooden plank engraved with an eye crossed out.

  The Bazaar of Curiosities.

  He entered. The cracked bell jangled. Garel, the wiry little man with stained fingers, looked up from his counter. He recognized the "vagabond" who had bought rancid grease from him a few days earlier.

  "Well well, the survivor," the junk dealer grunted. "Here to buy more trash or did you find a gold piece in the gutter?"

  "I'm looking for glass," Adrian replied, getting straight to the point. "And conductive metal. Not decorative. Functional."

  "IRIS, scan environment. Filter: Thermal materials and laboratory glassware."

  [SCAN IN PROGRESS...] [ITEM DENSITY: CRITICAL]

  Green outlines appeared on his retina, isolating nuggets amidst the chaos.

  Adrian ignored the rusty swords and "magical" tourist amulets. He approached a rotting wooden crate at the back of the shop.

  He pulled out a soot-blackened twisted glass tube and a strange object: a glass sphere with a long descending spout. A retort.

  "That? That's Mage Varik's lab surplus," Garel said, approaching. "He blew up his tower last week."

  "It's dirty," Adrian corrected.

  "IRIS, structural analysis."

  [OBJECT A: GLASS CONDENSER (INTACT)]

  [OBJECT B: DISTILLATION RETORT (MICRO-FISSURE ON NECK, REPAIRABLE)]

  "20 coppers for the lot," Adrian proposed.

  "That's Capital glass!" Garel exclaimed on principle. "50."

  "It's glass from a dead man who brings bad luck. And no one else will want it. 25."

  Garel sniffed disdainfully, crossing his skinny arms over his chest.

  "Do you think I was born yesterday? Bad luck washes off with salt. That glass was blown in the Citadel forges. It withstands temperatures that would melt your boots. Varik might have been a fool who blew his roof off, but he didn't skimp on quality. 40 coppers. That's my final word. If you're not happy, go buy clay bowls at the market and see how long they last on the fire."

  Adrian appreciated the comeback. The old man had bite. And he was right: the thermal resistance of borosilicate glass (or its magical equivalent) was crucial.

  He swept the shop with his gaze again. He needed a stable heat source and something to assemble his setup.

  His attention was caught by an intense red halo—thanks to his augmented vision—coming from a high shelf. Wedged between two warg skulls: a flat stone, engraved with runes, cracked down the middle.

  "Nice piece," Garel said, seeing him linger. "An authentic Hearthstone. The matrix has shifted a bit, but it still heats like hell."

  "It's mostly cracked," Adrian observed.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  "Just a scratch! With a little refractory cement, it's as good as new."

  Adrian reached out a skeptical hand.

  [THERMAL SCAN: ENERGY LEAK FOCUSED BY FISSURE. OUTPUT TEMPERATURE: ~900°C.]

  Adrian's heart sped up. The seller was trying to unload a broken radiator that no longer heated a room but burned everything it touched. Useless for heating... but exactly what he needed: a Bunsen burner. A concentrated, intense flame.

  He made a face, pulling his hand back as if burned.

  "It doesn't heat, it spits," Adrian retorted. "If I put that in a room, I'll set the inn on fire. That thing is a public hazard."

  Garel grunted, knowing full well the item was unsellable for domestic use.

  "I'll let you have it for 60 coppers. The price of the core."

  "Okay. Then let's say 90 coppers for the stone, the tripod, and the old vials. I'll use it to boil laundry water outside, where it won't burn everything down."

  Garel hesitated, pretended to calculate, then spat on the floor.

  "Make it 90."

  It was almost a silver piece. Expensive for "trash," but paltry for a functional laboratory.

  Adrian paid. He left the shop with a complete laboratory in spare parts. Garel thought he made a nice margin on old stock. Adrian knew he had just acquired a fixed-thermostat hot plate and a high-precision distillation system.

  The next step was crucial: the premises.

  The Registry Office, near town hall, smelled of dust and administrative boredom. Master Gorm, a massive bureaucrat spilling out of his armchair, barely looked up from his ledger.

  "It's for a rental," Adrian announced firmly. "I'm looking for a technical space."

  "Technical?" Gorm repeated, chewing the end of his quill. "We have market stalls. Or cheese cellars."

  "No. I'm looking for something isolated. Solid. And with water access. I want the Old Tanners' Quarter."

  Gorm stopped chewing. He looked at Adrian over his spectacles, suddenly suspicious.

  "The Tanners? That's a dead zone, kid. The Guild left five years ago. It's unsanitary. The soaking chemicals have soaked into the stone. It smells of death and ammonia."

  "The smell doesn't bother me. I work with leather and solvents," Adrian lied fluidly. "I need neighbors who won't be inconvenienced."

  Gorm seemed to weigh the pros and cons. Renting a building in that zone was unexpected for the city, but he had a responsibility.

  "I won't rent you just anything. The wooden structures are rotten. Only the old stone fulling workshops remain. Building B4, for example."

  He pulled out a yellowed cadastral map.

  "It's a bunker. Stone walls a meter thick, high windows with iron bars—to prevent hide theft back in the day. It's dark, it's damp, and the door is reinforced."

  "That's exactly what I need. Security first."

  Adrian knew his experiments, especially involving powder or volatile toxins, required containment. And the bars would keep prying eyes from seeing what he was making.

  "Rent is 3 silvers a month. That's the industrial zone rate."

  "I offer you 2. Payable in advance for two months. In exchange, I handle the cleaning, and I ask for no repairs from the city. You pocket the money, and you forget me. No inspection, no questions."

  Gorm hesitated. Four silvers at once for a ruin? Easy money for his books.

  "Agreed. But I'm noting 'rental as is.' If you poison yourself with residual fumes, that's your problem."

  "Deal."

  The sun was setting when Adrian arrived in front of his fortress.

  Building B4 was a grey, austere granite cube, sitting by the black water of the river, away from housing. The smell was indeed overpowering, an acrid mix of tannin and ancient chemicals, but to Adrian, it smelled like opportunity. It was the perfect olfactory camouflage.

  The main door was a monster of oak reinforced with rusted steel bands.

  He inserted the heavy iron key Gorm had given him. The seized mechanism resisted for a moment before yielding with a heavy, sonorous CLACK.

  He pushed the door open.

  The interior was plunged in gloom.

  "IRIS, scan mode. Topography and Security."

  [SCAN IN PROGRESS...] [WALLS: SOLID GRANITE. INTEGRITY: 90%.]

  [ACCESS: REINFORCED DOOR + BARRED WINDOWS.] [INTRUSION: NEGATIVE. SECURE LOCATION.]

  It was dirty, dusty, and the stone floor was stained with suspicious colors. But it was impenetrable.

  Adrian walked in. He saw the large stone vats embedded in the floor (perfect for acid reactions), the giant industrial chimney (perfect for gas evacuation), and the direct river water access via a grated floor hatch.

  He closed the door behind him and threw the interior bolts. The noise of the outside world died away.

  He placed his bag on a stone workbench that could have supported a collapsing roof.

  He took out the cracked Hearthstone, the retort, the tripod.

  "This will work," he said in the silence.

  Here, no one would come asking why he was distilling monster venom or why it smelled of sulfur. He had his bunker.

  He rolled up his sleeves. The cleaning would be arduous—quicklime and lots of water required—but necessary. Tonight, he slept here, on the workbench if needed. Tomorrow, industrial production began.