Babylon was not one city. It was two different worlds stitched together by a spine of metal and magic, trying to ignore the fact that they hated each other.
Above the clouds, there were golden towers, floating islands kept aloft by anti-gravity spells, and marble mansions that gleamed under the eternal sunlight of the upper atmosphere. That was the world of light. The world of order. The world where people like Cian Aurelius sipped wine that cost more than a commoner's life.
But every iceberg has a mass beneath the surface. Dark, unseen, and suffocating.
The Lower District. Locals called it The Rust Pit.
We stood in the freight elevator—a massive iron cage designed to carry construction golems and industrial waste, not people. As the gears ground together and we began our descent, the sunlight from the Academy vanished. The blue sky was replaced by a ceiling of thick, gray smog.
The descent took twenty minutes. With every hundred meters we dropped, the air grew heavier. The sweet, perfumed mana of the Upper City faded, replaced by the stinging scent of sulfur, unwashed bodies, burning coal, and the metallic tang of industrial runoff.
Zane stood in the corner of the cage, his massive arms crossed over his chest. He was watching the graffiti-covered walls of the elevator shaft rush by. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark. He took a deep breath, inhaling the toxic air as if it were a memory he couldn't escape.
"Smells like the pens," he muttered, his voice a low, metallic rasp. "The Gladiator pens?" I asked, checking the dagger concealed in my boot. "Yeah. Blood, sweat, and fear. It smells like home."
I looked at him. The "Hound" wasn't just a nickname. This environment triggered something in him. Not fear—Zane didn't feel fear like normal people—but a primal alertness. His muscles were coiled. He was ready to kill.
"This isn't home, Zane," I said, my voice cutting through the mechanical screech of the elevator brakes. "This is our kitchen. And we are here to cook."
The cage hit the ground floor with a bone-jarring thud. The heavy iron gates rattled open. A wave of noise hit us. Shouting merchants, the clang of smithy hammers, the crying of children, and the distant wail of sirens that no one paid attention to.
We stepped out into the mud. The streets here weren't paved with marble. They were a mix of packed earth and industrial sludge. The buildings were leaning towers of scrap metal, rusted corrugated iron, and rotting wood, piled atop one another like a chaotic game of Tetris.
"Keep your hand on your sword, but don't draw it unless I say so," I whispered. "We aren't here to start a war. Yet."
Finding the right supplier in the Rust Pit was an art form. If you went to a licensed Alchemy Shop, they would ask for identification. They would log your purchase. The City Watch would know what you bought. We needed a place that didn't exist on paper.
I led Zane through the labyrinth of alleys. I knew the map of this city better than the people who lived here, thanks to the countless hours I had spent reading the "World Setting" lore books in my previous life. I knew exactly which alley led to a dead end and which one led to Grimm's Salvage.
The shop was barely a building. It was a hollowed-out carcass of a crashed airship engine, repurposed into a storefront. The sign above the door was just a goblin skull nailed to a plank.
"Wait here," I told Zane as we reached the heavy iron door. "I'm going in with you," he growled. "No. If you come in, he'll think it's a robbery. You stand guard. Look menacing. If anyone tries to enter after me, break their legs."
Zane nodded once. He turned his back to the door, crossing his arms. He looked like a statue of war.
I pushed the door open. A rusty bell chimed. The interior was suffocating. Shelves were crammed with jars of questionable fluids, dried monster parts, and piles of scrap metal. It smelled of formaldehyde and dead rats.
Behind the counter—which was made from the wing of a wyvern—stood Grimm. He was an old goblin. His skin was the color of wet ash, and one of his eyes was covered by a milky white cataract. The other eye, yellow and sharp, locked onto me immediately.
"We're closed," Grimm croaked, not looking up from the mechanical watch he was disassembling.
"The sign says open," I replied, walking to the counter. I made sure my footsteps were audible but confident.
Grimm looked up. He sneered, revealing a row of sharpened, yellow teeth. "For students? We're closed. Go buy your potions at the Academy gift shop, boy. I don't sell souvenirs."
"I'm not here for potions. I'm here for raw materials." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of silver coins. I let them drop onto the counter one by one. Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound changed the atmosphere in the room instantly. Grimm's good eye followed the coins.
"I want your trash," I said. "Specifically, the Nightshade Roots you pull out of the sewers, and the Fire Moss that grows on the industrial pipes."
Grimm paused. He put down his screwdriver. He looked at me with genuine confusion. "Nightshade? Fire Moss?" He laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. "Kid, Nightshade is poison. Pure neurotoxin. One gram stops your heart. And Fire Moss? It's a weed. We burn it to keep warm because it's cheaper than coal. Why would a fancy student want garbage?"
"Maybe I'm trying to kill the rats in my dorm," I lied smoothly. "Or maybe I'm just an idiot with money. Does it matter?"
Grimm stared at me for a long moment. He was trying to read me. But my face was a mask of bored arrogance. "Doesn't matter to me," he grunted. "Your funeral."
He hopped off his stool and rummaged through a pile of sacks in the corner. He kicked aside a dead cat and dragged two heavy, dusty burlap sacks to the counter. "Ten kilos of Nightshade. Five kilos of Fire Moss. Unwashed. Unprocessed. Deadly." He slapped the counter. "Fifty silver."
It was a rip-off. These weeds were worth maybe five silver. But I didn't haggle. Haggling implies you value the money. I needed him to think I was just a rich, dumb kid. "Done." I pushed the coins toward him. "Do you have a basic alembic? A copper pot? Some vials?"
"Take whatever is in that box," he pointed to a crate of rusty lab equipment.
I grabbed the gear and the sacks. They were heavy. "Pleasure doing business, Grimm."
As I walked to the door, the goblin called out. "Hey, kid." I stopped. "If you drink that Nightshade tea... make sure you do it far away from here. I don't like cleaning up corpses."
I smiled. "Don't worry. I'm not drinking it."
We rented a room at "The Broken Wheel," an inn that made a prison cell look luxurious. The room was small, damp, and the window was just a hole in the wall covered with oilcloth. The bed was infested, so we ignored it.
"Lock the door, Zane. And put the table against it."
Zane did as I asked easily, moving the heavy oak table with one hand. "You spent almost all our money on poison and weeds," Zane said, watching me set up my makeshift laboratory. "Are we becoming assassins?"
"Assassins kill people one by one," I said, arranging the rusty copper pot, the glass jars, and the metal strainer. "Too slow. We are going to be suppliers."
I cleared my mind. This was the moment of truth. In the game, Alchemy was simple. You clicked "Craft," and if your level was high enough, you got a potion. But this was reality. Alchemy here was a mix of magic and chemistry. And I had an advantage no one else in this world had. I knew Molecular Chemistry.
The mages of Babylon believed that Nightshade was useless because the mana inside it was bonded to a deadly neurotoxin. They tried to use magic to filter it. But magic reacts with mana, destabilizing the plant. They were doing it wrong. You don't filter the bond. You break it with heat.
"Stand back, Zane. And cover your mouth." I tore a strip of cloth from my cloak and tied it around my face. Zane did the same.
I placed the Fire Moss under the copper pot. I didn't have a burner. I didn't need one. I focused on the tiny, pathetic pool of mana in my core. [Spell: Ignite] A small spark jumped from my finger. The Fire Moss caught instantly. It didn't burn with yellow fire; it burned with a deep, sullen crimson glow. The temperature in the room skyrocketed.
"It's hot," Zane grumbled, sweat already beading on his forehead.
"Thermal Mana," I explained, my eyes locked on the pot. "Fire Moss doesn't just burn; it releases heat energy directly into the metal."
Now, the dangerous part. I took the Nightshade Roots. They were black, twisted, and looked evil. I threw them into the glowing red pot. HISSSSS!
A violent reaction. Black smoke erupted from the pot, smelling of burnt sugar and death. "Close it!" Zane yelled.
I slammed the heavy copper lid onto the pot. The pot began to shake. The pressure inside was immense. The toxin molecules were vibrating, trying to escape. I placed both hands on the scorching lid. My skin sizzled slightly, but I ignored the pain.
[Skill: Mana Manipulation (F-Rank)]
This was the hardest thing I had ever done. I had to use my mana not to fight, but to sense. I pushed my perception into the pot. I could "see" the reaction. The complex chains of the neurotoxin were breaking down under the intense heat and pressure (Thermal Denaturation). But the Mana—pure, raw, blue energy—was stable. It was separating from the organic matter.
"Hold on..." I gritted my teeth. Blood trickled from my nose. My mana pool was draining rapidly. 50%... 30%... 10%...
The pot was rattling violently now. If it exploded, the shrapnel and boiling poison would kill us both instantly. "Aren!" Zane stepped forward, ready to pull me away.
"NO! DO NOT TOUCH ME!" I screamed. I needed ten more seconds. Just ten seconds to crystallize the essence.
The shaking reached a crescendo. The metal groaned. And then... silence. The pressure stabilized. The separation was complete.
I collapsed backward, gasping for air. My hands were red and blistered. My vision swam. "Did we die?" Zane asked, peering through the smoke.
"Check the pot," I wheezed.
Zane wrapped his hand in his tunic and lifted the lid. A soft, hum filled the room. Light—pure, electric azure light—spilled out, illuminating the dirty walls, the broken window, and Zane's stunned face.
Inside the pot, resting on a bed of black ash, was a thick, glowing blue sludge. It rippled with power. It was beautiful. It was Mana Gel.
I dragged myself up. I scraped the gel into three small glass vials. It wasn't much. Maybe 30 milliliters total. But the density... "One drop of this," I whispered, capping the vial, "contains as much mana as a standard mana potion. But because it's gel, it absorbs instantly. No digestion time."
"So it's a super potion?"
"It's a bomb, Zane," I corrected, holding the glowing vial up to my eye. "It forces mana into your channels whether your body can handle it or not. It causes pain, addiction, and eventually, mana poisoning. But for a wizard who is about to die because he ran out of magic? They would pay their soul for this."
I labeled the vial in my mind: Azure Dust. "Now," I said, wiping the blood from my nose. "Let's go find some rats to test it on."
The Iron Pit was located three levels below the street, in the basement of an abandoned factory. It was a place where the unwanted came to bleed for money. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the copper scent of fresh blood. In the center, a sand pit was surrounded by a screaming crowd. Inside the pit, an Orc was beating a human fighter to a pulp.
We weren't here for the show. We walked to the VIP section—a raised platform where Rask sat. Rask was a legend in the Rust Pit. Half-human, half-dwarf, wider than he was tall, covered in tattoos that moved on their own. He controlled the betting, the drugs, and the protection rackets.
Zane cleared a path. He didn't push people; he just walked, and people bounced off him. We reached Rask's table. Two bodyguards—Level 20 Warriors with enchanted axes—stepped in front of us.
Rask didn't look up from his ledger. "If you're looking for a loan, the interest is 50%. If you're looking to fight, sign up at the desk."
"I'm looking to sell," I said.
Rask finally looked up. He saw me—a hooded figure. Then he saw Zane—a mountain of muscle. He smirked. "Sell what? That big lug? I can give you 200 gold for him. He'd make a good meat shield."
Zane growled, a low vibration that rattled the glasses on the table. "Not him," I said calmly. "Product."
I placed one vial of Azure Dust on the greasy table. The blue glow cut through the smoky haze of the club. It was hypnotic. Rask's eyes widened slightly. He was a criminal, but he knew magic. He could feel the radiation coming from that small bottle. "Liquified Mana?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. "Where did you steal this? The Academy vaults?"
"I made it."
Rask laughed. "Bullshit. You look like a student, not a Master Alchemist." He snapped his fingers. "Bring the junkie."
A moment later, his men dragged a man to the table. He was a mage. Or he used to be. Now, he was a withered husk. Skin and bones, shaking violently. He was suffering from Mana Depletion Syndrome. His core was dry. He was on the verge of death. "This is filth," Rask said, gesturing to the man. "He hasn't cast a spell in weeks because his core is cracked. If your stuff is real, it should wake him up. If it's fake... well, my axes are thirsty."
"Give it to him," I said.
One of the guards forced the vial into the junkie's mouth. The man swallowed. One second. Two seconds. The junkie's eyes snapped open. But they weren't human eyes anymore. They were glowing blue orbs.
"ARGHHH!" The junkie screamed. His back arched. The veins in his neck bulged, turning neon blue. The mana wasn't gently refilling him; it was violently forcing its way through his atrophied channels. "POWER! I NEED TO CAST! I NEED TO CAST!"
The junkie raised a trembling hand toward the ceiling. CRACK-BOOM! A bolt of lightning, thick as a tree trunk, erupted from his hand. It blasted into the factory ceiling, melting the steel beams instantly. Molten metal rained down. The crowd in the pit stopped fighting. Everyone stared. The junkie laughed maniacally, electricity crackling around his skin. Then, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, foaming at the mouth. Unconscious, but alive. And radiating mana.
Rask stared at the hole in his ceiling. A drop of molten steel landed on his table, sizzling. He looked at the unconscious mage. Then he looked at the vial. Finally, he looked at me. The mockery was gone. In its place was pure, unadulterated greed.
"That wasn't a potion," Rask whispered. "That was a weapon." He leaned forward. "How much?"
"Fifty gold per vial," I said.
"I'll give you twenty."
"Fifty," I repeated, my voice cold. "And you buy every drop I make. If you try to haggle, I walk. And I take this to the Red Hammer gang across the street. I wonder what their battle-mages would do with this kind of firepower?"
Rask flinched at the name of his rivals. He knew. Whoever controlled this supply would rule the Lower District. He reached under the table. For a second, Zane tensed, thinking he was going for a weapon. But Rask pulled out a heavy leather pouch. It clinked heavily.
He threw it to me. "One hundred and fifty gold. For the three vials." Rask stood up, his face serious. "Who are you, kid? You talk like a noble but you cook like a devil."
I tucked the heavy pouch into my cloak. It felt heavier than the sword on Zane's back. This was it. The seed money. The foundation. I pulled my hood down slightly, shadowing my face.
"Names are dangerous down here, Rask," I said, turning to leave. "But if anyone asks where the blue fire came from..." I paused for effect. "...tell them it was The Ghost."
Walking back to the elevator, the weight of the gold felt surreal. 150 Gold. To a commoner, it was a fortune. To Cian Aurelius, it was pocket change. But to me? It was ammunition.
Zane walked beside me, silent. He kept looking at his hands, then at me. "You scared me back there," he admitted finally.
"Rask?"
"No. You," Zane said. "The way you cooked that poison. The way you watched that junkie scream. You didn't blink, Aren."
I stopped. I looked at the towering, dark silhouette of the Upper City above us. Zane was right. The old Aren—the reader from Earth—would have been horrified. But I wasn't just a reader anymore. I was the Architect. And Architects don't cry over the cement they pour.
"We are at war, Zane," I said softly. "The world just doesn't know it yet. And in war, you use whatever weapon you have." I patted the pouch of gold. "Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow... we expand."