I aimed the Viper-X at the tray of potions. The sky, sensing impending chaos, decided to join the party with a sudden, theatrical downpour. Fat raindrops began to splatter on the cobblestones, mixing with the already pungent alley smells.
CRACK-ZAP! I pressed the trigger. The blue electricity shot out, arcing precisely onto the Spy's tray of potions. It didn't just shock them. It was a chain reaction of biblical proportions.
First, a small blue vial exploded with a sound like a wet firecracker, sending a shimmering wave of GLITTER across the alley. Not just a little glitter—I'm talking industrial-strength, holographic glitter.
Then, a green vial erupted, unleashing a cloud of BUBBLES that shimmered with every color of the rainbow, floating lazily into the now-torrential rain.
A purple potion detonated, releasing a cacophony of SQUEAKING RUBBER DUCKY NOISES that echoed off the stone walls.
The entire alley was instantly transformed. It was a chaotic, glittering, bubbly, squeaking wonderland of pure absurdity. The Fire-Guy, still twitching on the ground, was now covered in iridescent glitter and surrounded by rubber ducks. The Water-Guy was trying to bat away a cloud of sparkly bubbles while his limbs spasmed.
"MY POTIONS!" the Royal Spy shrieked, covered head-to-toe in glitter, his cloak now looking like a discarded Mardi Gras costume. "MY SECRET WEAPONRY! YOU'VE TURNED IT INTO... INTO A CHILDREN'S BIRTHDAY PARTY!"
Elsa, despite being trapped in the net, couldn't help but stare, her mouth agape, her rainbow hair now gleaming under a fresh layer of glitter. "By the World Tree... he turned them into... festivities!"
The sound of the explosions, the squeaking, and the Spy's enraged screams started to draw attention. Nobles and merchants, who had previously ignored the scuffle in the alley (because, you know, commoners fighting), suddenly peered around the corner, attracted by the shimmering spectacle.
A portly Duke, cloaked in fine velvet, gasped. "Good heavens! Is that... glitter?!"
A Countess shrieked. "My gown! It's covered in... childish whimsy!"
The Spy's remaining goons, who had been holding the net, looked utterly mortified. One of them actually tried to brush the glitter off his armor, only to spread it further.
"I told you, old man," I said, my voice rising above the chaos, "I bring the 'spark' to the party. And sometimes, that spark creates a little... pizzazz."
I took a deep bow, my glitter-dusted tactical jacket gleaming under the rain. "And that, gentlemen, is what happens when you try to mess with a man who has fifty million volts and a serious appreciation for dramatic flair."
They looked at each other.
"Yeah, you better run! And tell your boss his alchemists are hacks! Go suck a—" I yelled, punctuating the sentence with a string of four-letter words that would have made a sailor in my old world blush and likely counted as a "High-Tier Curse" in this one.
The 'Potion Seller' and his sparkly, twitching goons scrambled away, leaving a trail of glitter and shame in their wake. The Spy looked back once, his face a mess of purple goo and holographic sparkles, screaming something about me being a "marked man."
"Marked with what? Fabulousness?" I shouted back, adjusting my collar.
The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving me with that familiar shaky-leg feeling. Elsa, finally free from the net thanks to a quick blast of her own wind magic, rushed over to me. Her emerald eyes were wide, darting over me like I was a ticking time bomb.
"Arthur! By the Mother of Trees, stay still!" she cried, her hands hovering inches from my chest. "Those potions... the 'Dragon's Bile' and the 'Soul-Render'... they're highly corrosive! If a drop touches your skin, you'll be a puddle before sunset!"
She pointed a trembling finger at my jacket. It was soaked. Green, purple, and neon-blue liquids were dripping off the "Phantom" leather, sizzling as they hit the ground. I looked down just in time to see a glob of the purple gunk slide off my sleeve and land on a solid granite cobblestone.
Hiss.
The stone didn't just smoke; it melted like a stick of butter on a hot engine, leaving a steaming, jagged hole in the street.
"Holy—" I jumped back, nearly tripping over a rubber duck. "I told you, those potions could kill!" Elsa shrieked, her rainbow hair turning a panicked shade of ghost-white.
I looked at my sleeve. Then at my chest. Then back at the melting rock. I waited for the searing pain. I waited for my arm to dissolve into a soup of bone and regret.
Nothing.
The liquid just beaded up on the matte black surface of the $29 China-made jacket like water on a freshly waxed car. It didn't even leave a stain. The "Reinforced Polymer-Infused" description wasn't lying—this thing was basically an indestructible middle finger to the laws of alchemy.
"Wait," I muttered, poking a dry spot on my collar. "It's... it's fine? It's not even warm."
Elsa stopped mid-chant, her jaw dropping. She leaned in, her nose inches from the fabric, watching a bead of Soul-Render acid slide harmlessly off the leather and eat another hole in the ground.
"Impossible," she whispered, her voice full of a new, terrifying level of awe. "The Royal Alchemists spend decades perfecting acids that can eat through dragon scales... and your garment treats it like morning dew? Arthur... this is not an ordinary relic isn't it? This is... it's a God-Skin Mantle. It defies the very essence of destruction!"
I stared at her. "God-Skin? Elsa, it's a 'Phantom' lightweight tactical jacket. It's mostly nylon and treated cowhide. It's for looking cool at a concert, not for fighting gods."
"It is a Divine Grade artifact of protection!" she insisted, her eyes shining with something akin to worship. "Even my elven-weave would have been ash by now!"
I rolled my eyes. "Fine, it's a 'God-Skin.' Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"Hold still," she commanded. She began a low, rhythmic chant, her hands weaving a golden light. Suddenly, a gust of purified wind swirled around me, lifting every drop of toxic sludge and glitter off the leather and whisking it into a nearby sewer drain.
In seconds, I was spotless. Not a scratch. Not a smudge. The jacket looked brand new, gleaming under the morning sun as if it hadn't just survived a chemical apocalypse.
"See?" I said, snapping my fingers. "Good as new. Now, can we go see Rufus? I've had enough 'glitter and death' for one morning, and I really want to see the look on his face when I tell him I need a wheelbarrow."
We departed the alley, leaving behind a trail of melted rocks and confused nobles. As we arrived at the Great Smithy, I straightened my "God-Skin" jacket and checked my taser.
"Try to keep it together, Elsa," I teased as we reached the massive iron doors. "If you faint in front of Rufus, he'll think I'm charging you for the 'Oxygen' I'm letting you breathe."
"Oxygen? What is that?" She asked.
I stared at Elsa for a long beat, my brain doing a slow-motion facepalm. "Oxygen," I repeated, feeling like a high school science teacher who had just been asked if the sun was a flashlight. "It's... it's the stuff in the air that keeps your blood from turning into sludge. You know. Air."
"Oww!" she gasped, her eyes widening as if I'd just revealed the secret to eternal life. "Even your wording is ancient and high-grade! You often use these olden, primordial words that I don't understand. Oxygen... it sounds so... profound. So scholarly!"
I blinked. Right. I forgot that in this world, "air" was just "the invisible stuff the wind gods blow." My casual 21st-century vocabulary was coming off like I was reciting lost scrolls from a dead civilization. I'd noticed it before—the way I spoke was being translated through the system. I could understand them perfectly, and they understood me, but apparently, my slang and technical terms sounded like "High Mage Scholar Elf" dialect to them.
"Sure, Elsa. I'm basically a walking encyclopedia. Try to keep up," I sassed, adjusting my 'God-Skin' jacket as we rounded the final corner.