I woke with a flutter of excitement, the pale light of dawn just brushing the edges of the sky. Bob was still deep in slumber, his chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm, and I decided to let him rest a little longer. Quietly, I slipped outside, the cool morning air wrapping around me like a soft cloak.

  The market was already stirring, a patchwork of colors and scents weaving through the narrow streets. I wandered among the stalls, searching for something unusual—fruits that might catch the eye and rouse curiosity. My fingers brushed over three peculiar treasures: a large, plump berry called a Zail, its deep purple skin glistening for three coppers; a fruit tinged with a rosy blush, the Burely, priced at four; and a small, round banana-like fruit named Nifali, delicately sweet and worth five.

  With my basket full, I went from shop to shop, offering these strange delights. Whispers of interest soon turned into nods and murmurs of agreement. Even the traveling merchants, wrapped in their cloaks and dust, paused to consider. By midday, I had secured orders from several stores—and a few wandering traders—who were eager to share these curious fruits with their own far-flung customers.

  The total order was staggering: two thousand Zail for twenty silver, three thousand Burely for sixty silver, and a thousand Nifali for thirty silver—altogether, a sum of one gold and ten silver, all to be delivered by tomorrow at the very latest. A thrill of accomplishment surged through me as I tucked the agreements safely away.

  Returning to my shop, I noticed Bob was nowhere to be seen. A quick glance upstairs revealed an empty room; he wasn’t there either. Perhaps he had slipped out to find something to eat, I thought, offering a small smile at his habit of vanishing when hunger struck.

  I settled into my chair by the window, the quiet ticking of the clock filling the stillness. Minutes stretched lazily into hours, and before long, the sun had climbed high—it was already noon. Yet Bob was still absent. No sign of him, no footsteps on the creaking stairs. I waited patiently, though a small knot of worry began to twist in my stomach.

  I couldn’t wait any longer—if Bob wasn’t coming, I’d have to do it on my own. With a determined breath, I clasped the amulet around my neck. A sharp jolt shot through me, and I winced as I lost a bladder in the process, but there was no time to dwell on it.

  Focusing all my will, I summoned a tiny ball of flesh from a cluster of wriggling bacteria. The creature pulsed in my palm, and with a flick of my fingers, I shaped it, bending and molding until it transformed into a perfect Zail. It took scarcely three seconds—a blink in the grand scheme of things. Yet, when I did the math—an hour held thirty-six hundred seconds—it would still take five hours to complete the entire order. Far longer than I had hoped.

  Suddenly, a new problem struck me: how would I transport all these fruits? The thought nagged at me until I hurried back to the bustling market. I scanned the crowd and stalls until, at last, I found it—the perfect means of transport waiting patiently for me to claim it.

  Someone was renting out a donkey and a cart for a single silver coin—a small price for such a helpful companion. Without hesitation, I took the donkey and cart back to the shop, the creature's soft braying a comforting sound as I prepared for the long task ahead.

  At first, I set about crafting the fruits one by one, carefully shaping each with painstaking precision. But boredom crept in almost immediately, dulling my focus within a minute’s time. Frustrated, I shifted my approach. Instead of a solitary flesh ball, I summoned ten at once, working swiftly to transform them all into fruits simultaneously.

  The effect was nothing short of magical. What once threatened to take five long hours was now reduced to a mere thirty minutes, the fruits multiplying under my hands as if by enchantment.

  Fifteen minutes later, the cart was piled high and bursting at the seams. I sighed, knowing full well I’d have to make a second trip. With the donkey plodding patiently beneath me, I delivered the fruits to eager hands, then hurried back to the shop to conjure more. Again and again, I repeated the cycle—crafting, loading, delivering—until finally, the entire order was fulfilled, and the coins were safely tucked into my pouch.

  As I made my way back to the store, my thoughts churned with the day’s success. Selling fruits like this was easy money, no doubt about it—but how to grow the business? The thought of increasing the numbers drastically was daunting, the workload quickly spiraling out of control. There had to be a better way, something clever, some small change in a customer or a deal that could multiply my earnings without multiplying my toil.

  I needed something different—something far more valuable that wouldn’t require such vast numbers to make a decent profit. I sat and thought, the gears turning in my mind, over and over, until at last, the idea sparked like a sudden flame. Potions. Yes, potions! They were made from organic ingredients, just like the fruits, but far rarer, far more precious.

  And I knew exactly where to begin. With a quickening heart, I made my way to the Dragon’s Hoard Emporium, its heavy wooden door creaking as I stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of herbs, magic, and mystery.

  “Welcome to the Dragon’s Hoard. What can I do for you?” the manager asked, his eyes sharp behind thick spectacles.

  I hesitated, then asked, “What’s the cheapest potion you have?”

  He considered for a moment. “That would be our Nourishment Potion. Six gold coins.”

  “Nourishment?” I pressed. “Do you have a Satiety Potion?”

  He shook his head, a faint look of disdain crossing his features. “Sorry, we don’t stock potions of such... low quality.”

  I frowned and tried again. “Alright, what’s the second cheapest?”

  “Mana and Health Potions,” he replied promptly. “Seven gold each.”

  Curiosity getting the better of me, I inquired, “And what’s your most sought-after potion?”

  His expression changed, voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “The Elixir of Life, priced at four hundred platinum. Though, I’m afraid, we’re currently out of stock.”

  “Platinum?” I echoed, eyes wide.

  “One platinum is worth a hundred gold,” he explained patiently.

  “And what does this Elixir do to cost so much?” I asked, heart pounding.

  “It extends the life of the drinker by ten years,” he said softly, as if speaking of a legend rather than a mere potion.

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  "Alright, that makes sense," I said with a nod. "What potion do you have that’s sought after and priced under twenty gold?"

  The manager’s sharp eyes glinted. "The Medium Health Potion. It’s fifteen gold and quite popular for those on a tighter budget."

  "I’ll take one of those, then," I said, pulling out the coins.

  "Here you go," he said smoothly, sliding a small crimson vial across the counter as I handed over the money.

  I hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Quick question—do you buy potions?"

  "Yes, we do," he replied, adjusting his spectacles. "As long as the potion is of high quality and we can acquire it in sufficient quantity, we buy at twenty percent below the market price."

  A thought began to form in my mind. "How about I sell you Medium Health Potions?"

  A slow smirk crept across his face. "You mean the one you just bought?"

  "What? No!" I said quickly, feeling my cheeks flush. "I have a... a rather large reserve of Medium Health Potions, and I thought this might be a good place to sell them."

  He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "How large a reserve are we talking?"

  "It’s..." I hesitated, calculating in my head, then said, "A thousand. A thousand Medium Health Potions. Would that be enough?"

  The manager’s smirk widened into something resembling approval. "Oh, it will be enough," he said. "The market rate is fifteen gold per potion, minus twenty percent—twelve gold per potion. Twelve times a thousand... that’s twelve thousand gold, or one hundred and twenty platinum."

  I blinked. One hundred and twenty platinum. The number echoed in my head, as if it were too big to fit all at once. This was going to be very interesting indeed.

  “Alright, do you have someone who can help me transport the potions, or will I need to find my own?”

  The manager rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We do have someone who can help—with a fee of two gold.”

  Two gold! I nearly choked. That was a rip-off, but I swallowed my pride. “Fine. I’ll have him.”

  “Jredka! You’ve got a customer!” the manager called up the stairs.

  Moments later, a tall dragonborn with scaled skin and sharp eyes appeared, descending from the upper floor. “I’m here. Where’s the client?”

  “That would be this gentleman.” The manager pointed directly at me.

  I straightened up. “Hello. I’m the client.”

  Jredka gave me a nod. “Hi there. I’ll be your transport. Give me your store’s location.”

  I hesitated. “It’s a mixed-use property, near the slums. There’s a sign that says Flesh Weaver.”

  Jredka’s eyes narrowed in recognition. “I think I know the place.”

  He shifted his weight. “I’ll need some time to prepare the transport. I’ll come by in an hour or two.”

  I asked, “And when will I get the money?”

  “When your shipment arrives here, your bank account will be credited.”

  A frown crept over my face. “I don’t have a bank account.”

  Jredka smiled reassuringly. “Not to worry. The emporium doubles as a bank.” He pulled out a stack of papers. “You just need to fill out this form.”

  I took the forms from the manager’s hand and began with the simplest question: first name—Dim. That was easy enough. But the next questions quickly tangled my thoughts. What was I supposed to put for lineage or proof of residence?

  “Do I need to answer all of these?” I asked, feeling a flicker of panic.

  “No,” the manager replied with a knowing smile. “You just need to fill in your name and provide a drop of your blood as a signature.”

  Blood. That was the problem. I often modified myself—changing and shifting in ways that might affect the authenticity of any blood signature. And could someone track me using my blood? A flicker of an idea sparked: I could create a special kind of blood, just for this signature, then remove it when I no longer needed it.

  Concentrating, I summoned the unique blood in my upper right hand, a deep crimson swirling beneath the skin. I opened a tiny, precise slit in my thumb and let a single drop fall onto the spot marked “signature.”

  Once done, I reshaped the blood in my hand, letting the unusual substance dissolve back into me.

  Almost immediately, the papers shimmered and folded, transforming into a small, polished card. The manager picked it up and handed it to me. “Here you go. This is proof of your bank account. Don’t lose it—the process to get another is complicated.”

  “Thanks,” I said, tucking the card safely away. “I’ll head back to my store to prepare the potions. Goodbye.”

  “Fair travels,” he replied with a nod, as I stepped outside.

  I returned to my store, half-expecting to find Bob lounging around, but of course, there was no sign of him. Typical. With a sigh, I shook off the thought and focused on the task at hand—creating the potions. The process came naturally, almost instinctively. I began by crafting a flesh ball, then carefully transmuted its insides into a shimmering health potion. For the bottle, I shaped a sleek, translucent casing made from see-through bone. It gleamed faintly in the light, both eerie and elegant.

  Satisfied with my first creation, I quickly moved on, summoning nine more flesh balls. With practiced precision, I transformed their cores into potions and encased them in the same bone-like bottles. Over and over, I repeated the process, the rhythm almost meditative, until finally, a thousand potions stood neatly arranged in my shop.

  Now, all that was left to do was wait.

  Half an hour later, the sound of wheels creaking and hooves tapping against the cobblestones signaled the arrival of the transport. Jredka stepped in, his towering figure framed by the doorway. “I’m here for the cargo,” he announced.

  “It’s all inside,” I replied, gesturing toward the rows of potions.

  Without another word, Jredka set to work, methodically loading the potions onto his cart. His movements were efficient, and I couldn’t help but admire his no-nonsense approach. After what felt like an eternity, he straightened up, brushing his hands together. “Alright, the job’s done. You’ll receive the money once I deliver the shipment to the emporium.”

  “Great. See ya,” I said, watching as he climbed onto the cart and disappeared down the road.

  Now all I had to do was wait—and trust the system.

  Once everything was done, there was nothing left for me but to wait. The hours stretched on, the sky outside slowly darkening as twilight deepened into night. Still, no sign of Bob. A tightening knot of worry began to form in my chest. I couldn’t wait for him all night, so reluctantly, I moved to close the shop door.

  Just as the heavy wood swung shut, a sudden, harsh crash echoed from outside. “Master! I need help!” a desperate voice called out.

  I flung the door open—and what I saw made my blood run cold. It was the guard I had created for Bob, but he was a ruin of what he once was. His skin was charred black and cracked, as if he’d been cooked alive. His horns, normally proud and sharp, were ripped cruelly from his head. Three of his eyes were gone, empty sockets staring out like hollow pits. One of his mouths hung split open in a silent scream. Every one of his arms was missing—and so was his familiar.

  “Master! Bob is in danger!” he gasped, his voice trembling with urgency.

  “Alright, slow down. What happened?” I urged, trying to keep calm despite the growing dread.

  “We were just wandering through the city when, out of nowhere, five men ambushed us,” the guard gasped. “They overpowered us easily. They had weapons—one of them was a pyromancer. He did the most damage to me. I only escaped by pretending to be dead.”

  “Where’s Bob?” I asked, heart pounding.

  “He’s been captured,” the guard admitted grimly. “But don’t worry—I had my familiar track them in secret.”

  “So you know where he is, then?”

  “Yes,” he nodded fiercely. “And we need to move quickly. Those men seemed to recognize Bob. They were talking about how he survived their last blow and that they needed to finish him off properly. I don’t think they realize he’s been resurrected.”

  “We’ll get him back, don’t you worry,” I said firmly. “But first, let’s fix you up.”

  I focused my energy on the broken guard before me. Slowly, I regrew his missing eyes, his shattered horns, and his torn mouth. His damaged, charred skin peeled away under my touch, replaced by a new layer—one I carefully reinforced to be as fireproof as I could make it. As the magic coursed through me, I turned my attention to my own skin, weaving the same fireproofing into myself. We couldn’t afford to leave anything to chance.

  Next, I gave him four new arms, each tipped with claws laced with venom potent enough to take down any foe. As I worked, an idea struck me—an ability I had never tried before. Fire manipulation. It made sense, given what we were about to face. I focused all my energy on embedding the power into him, but no matter how hard I tried, it wouldn’t take. It was as if I lacked the blueprint to make it stick. The realization hit me—I would need to be exposed to someone who already wielded the ability in order to replicate it. No matter. I would simply take it from the pyromancer when we found him. And we would find him.

  I clenched my fists, the resolve hardening in my chest. “Now we are ready. Let us bring back our friend,” I said, my voice steely. There would be no peaceful resolution to this. I was certain of that. They had taken Bob—and they would pay the price.