I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my private office, watching the sun dip below the skyline of the capital. In my hand, I balanced a glass of chilled nectar that cost more than a commoner's yearly rent. My obsidian phone sat on the mahogany desk behind me, its screen dark, but my mind was a buzzing hive of spreadsheets and countdowns.
The First Calamity was coming.
In exactly one month, a monster wave of unprecedented scale would tear through the Empire's southern borders. In the original game, it was a tragedy that served as Kaelen's first "heroic" moment—where he saved a village but thousands died because the Empire lacked the resources to respond.
To Kaelen, it was a chance for glory; to me, it was a massive overhead cost I intended to turn into a profit margin.
I needed liquid capital. Not just the fifty billion credits currently sitting in my Vayne Corp accounts, but a truly obscene amount of wealth. I needed enough to buy out every mercenary guild, stockpile every mana-crystal, and fund the fortification of the entire southern sector.
I didn't just want to survive the Calamity; I wanted to own the aftermath.
To do that, I had to disrupt the most stagnant industry in the world: the potion market.
The Vayne Corp R&D Labs were located thirty floors beneath our headquarters. It wasn't the dusty, candle-lit workshop of a medieval wizard; it was a high-tech magical cathedral.
Rows of automated mana-centrifuges whirred with a low, rhythmic hum, and massive bubbling cauldrons were monitored by holographic interfaces that tracked temperature to the millidegree. It was a space where alchemy met corporate efficiency, yet as I walked through the sliding glass doors, I could smell the one thing I hated most: stagnation.
A group of scientists in white robes scurried out of my way, their heads bowed. I didn't need my [Eyes of Truth] to feel their terror; my reputation for breaking things—and people—was already a matter of public record.
In the center of the lab stood Grandmaster Elric. He was an elderly elf with skin like withered parchment and a stubbornness that had likely lasted three centuries. He was currently staring at a single, tiny vial of cloudy blue liquid like it was the Holy Grail.
"Young Master," Elric said, his voice stiff. He didn't bow. "I was told you were coming. If you are here to ask about the Star-Tear Elixir, my answer remains the same. It is impossible to mass-produce."
I walked over to the brewing station, my boots clicking sharply on the sterile white floor. "Impossible is just a word used by people who lack imagination, Elric."
"It is not a lack of imagination, sir! It is the nature of the ingredients!" Elric snapped, gesturing toward a bundle of rare Moon-Grass. "To brew a single vial capable of curing Stage 4 Mana Rot—the kind you promised Instructor Gideon—takes six months and the constant attention of three master alchemists. It is art, not a product!"
I looked at the Moon-Grass. I remembered the Eternal Sword game wiki, specifically the patch notes from the 2.0 update where players discovered a crafting exploit that the developers eventually had to nerf.
"It's not art, Elric," I said, peeling off my gloves. "It's chemistry."
I stepped up to the primary brewing station. The surrounding alchemists gasped, whispering to each other. They saw a "rich kid" with "infinite potential" but zero respect for the "sanctity" of their craft.
I picked up the Moon-Grass. The traditional method was to boil it for seventy-two hours to extract the mana-essence. It was slow, inefficient, and denatured the delicate mana-structures of the plant.
"Watch and learn," I murmured.
Instead of dropping the grass into the heated cauldron, I reached for a canister of liquid mana—pressurized to sub-zero temperatures. I plunged the grass into the freezing liquid.
"What are you doing?!" Elric shouted, stepping forward. "You'll shatter the essence! You're wasting—"
"Quiet," I commanded.
I willed my mana into the freezing canister. Using the precise control I had gained from clearing the Nightmare tutorial, I shattered the frozen grass into a fine, microscopic powder. By freezing it instantly, I preserved the mana-lattice before it could be damaged by heat.
Then, I dropped the frozen powder into a centrifuge tuned to a specific harmonic frequency.
Ten minutes passed. The lab was so silent you could hear the heartbeat of the mana-pumps.
The centrifuge slowed. Inside the collection vial sat a liquid that wasn't the traditional cloudy blue. It was a perfect, translucent, glowing gold. It radiated a purity that made the air in the lab feel lighter.
The scientists were floored. Elric reached out a trembling hand, his eyes likely seeing a purity level of 99.9%.
"Ten minutes," I said, wiping my hands on a silk cloth. "No master alchemists required. Just a centrifuge and a basic understanding of thermodynamics."
Elric sank to his knees, staring at the vial. His life's work, the "art" he had spent centuries perfecting, had just been trivialized by a man he considered a spoiled brat.
"This... this changes everything," he whispered. "The cost of production... it's practically zero."
"Exactly," I said, my voice cold and pragmatic. "I want every station in this lab converted for Star-Tear production by morning. Hire more technicians. Run the machines twenty-four hours a day."
I leaned over the counter, my red eyes pinning Elric to the spot. "We aren't just selling potions, Elric. We are selling life. There are thousands of veterans and nobles across the Empire suffering from Mana Rot, just like Gideon. They have the money. We have the cure."
"What... what will be the price point, Young Master?" a junior alchemist asked, his voice shaking.
"One million credits a bottle," I replied. "And that's the introductory price. I want a global monopoly on Mana Rot treatment by Friday. If a rival company so much as thinks about a generic version, buy them out or bury them."
I walked out of the lab and back into the rear of my mana-limousine, the luxury of the leather seats a sharp contrast to the sterile environment I'd just left.
I pulled out my obsidian phone and dialed a number I had saved after the simulation incident.
"Vayne," a gruff voice answered. It was Gideon. He sounded tired, likely feeling the "swallowing glass" sensation of his Mana Rot.
"The shipment is ready, Gideon," I said, watching the city lights blur past the window. "A perfect batch of Star-Tear Elixir. It'll have you back to Level 60 strength by the end of the week."
I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. Desperate, terrifying hope. "Thank you... Lucas. I won't forget this."
"Don't thank me yet," I interrupted, my smirk widening. "The price has gone up. Transactional loyalty is a moving target, remember?"
"What do you want?" Gideon asked, his voice wary but resigned. He knew I owned him.
"I need a favor regarding the Academy Archives," I said. "There is a 'Forbidden Grimoire' kept in the restricted vaults—the one regarding Ancient Calamity seals. I want full access. No logs. No witnesses."
There was a long silence. Gideon was the "Iron Wall," a man of rules, but the pain in his lungs was a powerful motivator.
"Fine," he grunted. "Tomorrow night. I'll clear the guards."
"Good choice, Instructor," I said, and hung up.
A familiar, crisp chime echoed in my skull.
[ System Notification: Host has disrupted the Global Potion Economy. ]
[ Market Manipulation Multiplier x2 Activated. ]
[ Reward: +1,000 Destiny Points. ]
[ Current DP: 5,100 ]
I leaned back, closing my eyes.
The Hero was out there somewhere, probably training in a forest, getting stronger through "hard work". Meanwhile, I was building an empire that would make his "destiny" look like a lemonade stand.
Money wasn't just a superpower; it was the leash I would use to lead the world to its salvation—on my terms.