Fenrir stood in the middle of his lab, surrounded by rows of neatly arranged potion bottles—over a hundred of them, each glinting under the sterile light of the storage room.
He had brewed tirelessly through the weekend, adjusting ratios, tweaking mana input, and improving extraction efficiency with each batch.
Out of the 117 bottles he had completed, only 36 met his minimum standard of Grade B or higher. The rest were C or below.
He frowned at the C-grade ones.
"Failures. No use keeping junk."
He muttered, annoyed.
He was about to dispose of them, already holding a crate of the C-grade bottles, when a thought struck him.
These potions weren't bad. In fact, by market standards, they'd probably be considered amazing.
They just weren't good enough for him.
Fenrir smirked.
"Let's see what the world thinks of my failures."
He returned to his terminal, logged into the anonymous system account he had used to sell the EX-Grade Mystic Grass, and created a new listing:
[Failed Potion – Body Rejuvenation (C-Grade)
Batch: Experimental – Rejected due to subpar results.
Effect: Simulates 6 hours of high-quality rest in 1 hour. Accelerates fatigue recovery and supports minor healing.
Price: 500,000 credits
Reason for Discount: Maker doesn't need it.]
He chuckled at the description. It sounded arrogant—but also honest. And no one would recognize him anyway. After all, he hadn't tied his name to the account.
With a few clicks, he listed 2 bottles and went to bed. The system would handle the rest.
But across the city, Fenrir's decision would set off a storm.
Mark Spencer, leader of the Supreme's Guild, sat in his high-rise office with a cup of black tea in hand, scrolling through listings from a monitored marketplace.
His interest was piqued when he saw a familiar seller ID—the same one that had offloaded the Mystic Grass weeks ago.
Now it was selling something new.
A potion labeled "failed," yet promising effects strong enough to rival anything on the current market.
Without hesitation, Mark clicked purchase.
The potion was sold out in under a minute.
By the time others noticed the listing, it had already disappeared.
Forums lit up with complaints.
Buyers thought it was a bug. Some assumed it was clickbait, or that the seller had removed the listing after drawing attention.
At the same time, Mark's secretary, Nina, stormed into his office holding a tablet.
"Sir, about that potion you just ordered—people are saying it's fake. Or some scam to manipulate the market."
Mark didn't look up from his paperwork.
"I've already received it. Going to test it tonight."
Nina frowned.
"Seriously? A supposedly failed potion being sold for 500k? That's a joke. If it really did what the seller claimed, it'd sell for three million minimum."
Mark glanced up, calm as ever.
"We'll see."
The next morning, Mark arrived at the office early, looking ten years younger.
His skin had regained its luster, the dark circles under his eyes were gone, and his usual sluggishness was replaced by a rare spark of energy.
Nina blinked in disbelief.
"You look… awake."
"I slept for one hour and I feel better than I've felt in months."
Mark said, stretching with ease.
Nina gawked.
"Wait, so it worked? That potion wasn't fake?"
Mark's smile widened.
"It worked better than expected. The effect wasn't just restoration—it realigned my internal mana channels slightly. I feel sharper, more precise. Whoever made this isn't just talented—they're terrifyingly advanced."
He turned toward the window and added.
"Keep watch on that account. If they restock, buy everything. No matter the cost."
Nina hesitated.
"Even if it's another batch of 'failures'?"
"Especially if it's failures. Because if this is their discarded work, I can't imagine what their actual masterpieces are like."
Mark replied, eyes narrowing.
Nina swallowed, suddenly understanding the weight of what they had stumbled upon.
Back in his warehouse-lab, Fenrir yawned and stretched, oblivious to the chaos he had caused.
He checked the seller terminal and raised an eyebrow at the messages flooding in—offers, purchase requests, and even bribes to restock the potion.
He blinked in confusion.
"Did they really like it that much?"
The system pinged:
[Market Reaction: Exceptional Interest Detected
New Passive Skill Unlocked: Merchant's Instinct (Lv. 1)
Allows limited insight into market value and demand trends. Enhances negotiation and pricing accuracy.]
Fenrir chuckled.
"I sell trash, and the system calls me a merchant. Wonderful."
Still, this wasn't a bad thing. If he played this carefully, he could use the market as a testbed for his future potions. Gauge reactions. Set prices. Gather data.
For now, though, he had other priorities—new recipes to test, and stronger potions to create.
But one thing was for sure.
The world had just gotten its first taste of him.
And it was hungry for more.
Fenrir glanced at the last few bottles of C-grade potions left from his earlier batch.
He had no use for them, but the previous night's sales had given him an idea. He tapped into his anonymous seller account again and uploaded a new listing.
[Failed Potion – Body Rejuvenation (C-Grade)
Batch: Discarded due to inconsistent quality.
Effect: Rejuvenates body and mana with simulated rest equivalent to six hours.
Price: 750,000 credits]
He smirked.
"Let's see if they'll still buy it at this price."
He listed ten bottles and shut the screen, barely sparing the time to grab a piece of toast before realizing the clock had betrayed him. He was late. Again.
"Fuck!"
He muttered, throwing on his jacket and running out the door.
Fenrir, oblivious to the stir he'd caused, was sprinting through school gates, breath short and mind occupied with the chemistry class he was about to miss.
He didn't think twice about the potions.
He had no idea that, behind the scenes, a storm was brewing—and it all centered around him.
Meanwhile, across the Net, the ripples he'd caused were rapidly turning into waves.
The listing was spotted within minutes by automated trackers used by high-tier guilds, corporations, and freelance scouts alike.
After the earlier mystery sale, dozens of entities had set up alerts for anything sold by that anonymous account.
When the new potions went up—marked even higher than before—people expected them to linger.
They were wrong.
The first buyer was a well-known alchemist, eager to disprove the growing hype. Two minutes later, they posted a stunned, fragmented review on a private forum.
[I thought it was a scam. I was wrong. This is revolutionary. It shouldn't even be possible at C-grade.]
That was all it took. The rest sold out in under an hour.
The price didn't matter. What mattered was who was selling—and what they knew that no one else did.
Forums buzzed. Social channels trended.
[Who's the alchemist behind the failed potion drops?]
[Mystery Seller Returns—Raises Price, Still Sells Out Instantly.]
[Could this be a hidden master or a front for a new guild?]
Speculation ran wild. Theories piled up.
Some believed it was a forgotten genius making a comeback. Others thought it might be an artificial intelligence experimenting with human commerce.
A few even claimed it was a marketing stunt for a new pharmaceutical company.
Amid all this, Mark Spencer of the Supreme's Guild leaned back in his chair, watching the chaos unfold with a knowing smirk.
The potion he'd tested still lingered in his system—its effects subtle but unmistakable.
He murmured to himself.
"So, you're back again. But who are you, mystery alchemist?"
______
Can I please as for Power Stones?