Victor slammed his palm on the console. The digital map of Towerbound rippled from the impact.
“Why. Don’t. We. Have. A level 10 alchemist. Yet.”
The guild officers froze.
Nobody wanted to answer.
Finally, Jules—the poor bastard stuck managing crafting logistics—cleared his throat. “Because nobody’s passed the test yet. Literally no one in the game is level 10 yet, and even if they were, you can’t make real potions until you pass the alchemist exam. System-locked.”
Victor blinked slowly. “Then explain to me how some rando is selling great-grade potions on the Auction House like it’s a lemonade stand.”
“We don’t know,” Jules said, voice tight. “He didn’t do it through the normal chains. No guild. No trainer history. He just passed the test somehow. First one in the game.”
Victor pointed a finger at him. “Then figure it out. Or at least hire the bastard.”
Lena from Outreach piped in. “We already tried. We offered him a thousand credits a month, right after his first listings went up.”
“And?”
“He turned us down.”
Victor stared. “Did another guild poach him?”
“Nope,” Lena said, shoulders sagging. “He said he ‘preferred to stay independent.’”
Victor stared for another second, then let out a short bark of laughter.
“These solo players. They think they’re going to conquer the world with dreams and elbow grease. They don’t get it. This is the age of big guilds. That’s a fact.”
The room nodded along.
Because it was a fact.
Big guilds weren’t stupid. This wasn’t their first VR MMORPG. Even though Towerbound was a new title, some truths were eternal: you needed a guild to reach the top. To win. To profit. To dominate.
Crafting wasn’t optional. You needed alchemists. Enchanters. Smiths. Full-time roles backed by guild funding. No solo player could keep that up. Not for long. The time investment, the resources—it was too much. Eventually, everyone joined a guild. Or burned out.
The only reason this guy hadn’t yet was probably because the game had just launched.
Victor grumbled, “It’s not like we’re standing around with our thumbs up our asses going derp derp derp, wondering if we need an alchemist.”
Everyone in the room stiffened—but only because they knew exactly what he meant. The guilds had seen this kind of game before. It wasn’t their first VRMMO, and every single one of them knew: alchemists were always essential.
Healing. Buffs. Resistance brews. You couldn’t raid, you couldn’t siege, you couldn’t even grind late-game content without potions. This wasn’t some surprise twist. It was standard MMORPG 101.
And yet, here they were—watching a solo player lap them before the starter town dust had even settled.
There were a few strained chuckles.
“We knew it was important,” Jules said. “We just physically haven’t been able to pass the exam yet.”
Victor looked over. “Then offer him more. Try two thousand credits a month.”
2,000 credits a month wasn’t just pocket change—it was survival with dignity. Enough to cover rent, basic utilities, and food that didn’t come from a ration barrel. In the slums, that kind of income meant you weren’t just scraping by—you were doing well. Slowly. Quietly. But winning.
That’s why the big guilds always started strong. They didn’t log in with five copper and a wooden stick. They came in preloaded with credits, real-world investors, and a war chest that could outbid small nations. At launch, they pumped money into the economy like it was a prize pool. Bought up resources. Cornered the market. Hired crafters, scouts, testers, streamers. Took over before half the player base even learned to dodge-roll.
And it was an offer just like that—2,000 credits a month, steady pay, security—that had sealed Ren’s fate in his first life. Back then, when he was still called Renton, it sounded like salvation. He signed on the dotted line, thinking he’d made it.
But it wasn’t a job. It was a collar.
A leash tied to the Prosperous Guild.
This time?
No leash.
No collar.
And definitely no dotted line.
Lena nodded, already sending a new message.
Thirty seconds passed.
“No reply this time,” she muttered.
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Rude little bastard.”
Another officer chimed in, “What if he’s one of those nutcases who thinks they can stay independent forever?”
“Then he’ll be sorry when we build our own alchemy division,” Victor growled. “For now, just buy out all his potions.”
“They’re cheap,” someone added. “Same price as the NPCs.”
Victor nodded. “Good. He’s not trying to gouge us. That makes it easier. But track every batch. Every post. Every pattern.”
Because this wasn’t just about potions.
This was about the first real advantage anyone had in Towerbound.
And Prosperous didn’t lose.
***
One of the reasons nobody realized Lantern Light Dungeon required fire resistance… was because nobody knew it was a fire dungeon.
In Towerbound, the devs loved to name dungeons by their lore significance, not by their actual combat mechanics.
Lantern Light Dungeon sounded peaceful — even inviting.
Like a cozy cavern lit with soft, flickering lanterns, maybe haunted by sad ghost NPCs at worst.
But the real lore?
It was way darker.
The Lantern Light Dungeon had been, according to Towerbound’s background files, the remains of a collapsed underground settlement — a mining town built too close to a volatile mana fault.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
When the mana veins cracked and surged, it didn’t just destroy the mines.
It ignited the very air.
The miners and their families had been trapped inside — their lanterns burning hotter and hotter until the entire cavern turned into a seething inferno.
What little survived from those days were just echoes:
twisted spirits wandering through a red-lit maze of collapsed tunnels, flickering between physical and mana form, driven half-mad by the searing pain that had ended their lives.
Hence the name.
Lantern Light.
Not because the place was safe.
Because it was a graveyard of fire.
None of this was spelled out for players in the starter town, of course.
Unless you had bothered to read deep into the dusty old lore books, buried in obscure NPC side quests, there was no way you would guess.
Everyone just assumed it was a “light dungeon.”
Maybe some gentle ghost fights.
Maybe mana draining monsters .
Nobody was preparing for the reality — an endless sea of flames, heat damage over time, burning floors, and fire elemental mobs.
Ren, sitting there half-asleep during his hour break, didn’t remember all the details yet either.
In his previous life, Ren had gone all in on alchemy. Not the adventuring. Not the quests. Definitely not dungeon crawling. Sure, he remembered the first dungeon—vaguely. Like a blurry screenshot someone had posted five years ago in a forum thread you barely skimmed.
Ask him what potions to bring into it? He could give you a full inventory list, including backup brews, buff rotations, and what to avoid mixing unless you wanted your insides to light on fire.
But ask him about the actual layout? Traps? Boss mechanics? Yeah, no. That had never been his job.
He wasn’t the guy who charged in swinging. He was the guy sitting in the back, tweaking reagent ratios and muttering about mana stabilization while everyone else screamed about goblins and loot drops.
In his old guild, he only paid attention to dungeons when someone handed him a recipe request. “We’re doing Frostgut Caverns, Ren, we need frost resistance pots, stat.” That kind of thing.
His memory was good. His alchemy memory? Excellent. But dungeon layouts?
Not his lane. Not then. And not really now.
But once he saw the name Lantern Light Dungeon trending on the world newsfeed?
His memory was already screaming.
‘If there’s a light… it’s not cozy. It’s all about setting everything on fire.’
And he already knew what that meant:
Fire resistance potions were about to become the most valuable thing in Greenwild Cross.
Time to work.
First step: Keep sweeping the reagents for the basic potions again.
Only… the prices had jumped.
Again.
Not by a ton — about another 20% — but it was obvious now that the black market sellers were starting to corner the market.
They weren’t stupid.
Players had noticed that certain herbs, like Tendon Grass, Heartleaf, and Mistroot, were disappearing from the shelves.
Some of the smarter ones had put two and two together.
Ren still bought what he could at a reasonable rate, sticking to the herbs that hadn’t spiked up into stupid prices.
But the ones that had?
The ones that were cutting into his precious profit margins?
He left them alone.
‘Better to skip it than get trapped paying scalper prices,’ Ren thought. He wouldn’t need them anytime soon.
‘Coins are about to be needed somewhere way more important.’
Because he had seen the Lantern Light news trending.
And he knew.
The real jackpot wasn’t basic healing potions anymore.
It was going to be fire resistance potions.
And unlike the black market idiots scrambling over Tendon Grass and Mistroot, nobody had yet realized what was about to happen.
Not yet.
Ren quickly switched his search filters.
He looked for the ingredients he knew he would need for the basic Flameproof Draught, Towerbound’s first-tier fire resistance potion:
- Cindershade Petals – rare tier 1 herb that absorbed ambient heat.
- Smokereed Stalks – swamp plant known for resisting burning.
- Ashleaf – common herb, dry and crumbly, used as a stabilizer.
- Manaweed Dust – common mana-enhancing powder necessary for binding.
The first three were the critical ones.
He didn’t even hesitate.
Every.
Single.
Listing.
Bought out.
It wasn’t cheap.
Cindershade Petals were already expensive because they were rare spawn in rocky hot zones.
Smokereed wasn’t that bad, but the few bundles on the market still cost more than what a newbie could usually afford.
Ashleaf and Manaweed Dust were thankfully cheap — common junk herbs nobody thought much about.
Until now.
By the time he was finished, Ren’s fat little coin purse was completely drained.
Not a single silver left.
Not even a copper rattling in the bottom.
He leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
‘Perfect. Now all that’s left is to brew like my life depends on it.’
Because soon, it actually would.
And when the panic hit?
When the first player groups stormed into Lantern Light Dungeon and started screaming about being burned alive?
Ren was going to be the only person in the world sitting on a mountain of fire resistance potions.
And this time?
No guilds. No betrayals. No lost chances.
Just credits.
Tons and tons of credits.
The hour had passed, and now Ren’s leisurely time buying reagents through the app was officially over.
Folo had returned, handing Ren the helmet with a big, satisfied grin.
Ren’s original helmet was now being used by Peter, who had left an hour earlier for his own game shift.
“Did you have a good time?” Ren asked casually as he passed the cleaning cloth over the helmet—no way he was sticking it on without at least wiping the sweat off.
Folo practically beamed. “That was amazing.”
Ren laughed. “Good. Glad you had fun.”
He meant it. Even though Ren himself was feeling a little tired—surprisingly, even after an hour break—he had another six-hour shift to grind through before he could finally take a real nap.
No way was he wasting another minute.
Ren jammed the helmet on, flopped back onto his cot, and logged into Towerbound.
As soon as he materialized in the Alchemy Guild’s crafting room, he pulled up his inventory and immediately got to work.
First, he went through the pile of ingredients he had swept up for his upgraded basic potions—health, mana, and focus.
He got into a smooth rhythm, mixing and brewing. His movements were fast but precise, a blur of practiced gestures. Even with the price hike earlier, he had enough materials to crank out a massive batch.
Potion after potion slid into his finished stockpile—beautiful, clean instant-effect potions that solo players were going to kill for.
This time, Ren hadn’t stopped at a measly two-hour brew session.
Nope.
Six hours.
Six hours of furious, focused, potion-fueled productivity. Bottle after bottle of Instant Health. Instant Mana. Instant Focus. The entire room reeked of crushed herbs, stabilized acids, volatile essences—and a faint touch of victory.
If his first “Black Friday” sale had been big, this one was going to be monstrous. People had tasted his brews. At first, they were a luxury—hoarded, used sparingly, only popped in emergencies like health insurance with a deductible. But now?
Now the Lantern light Dungeon was days away. One of the first real tests in Towerbound, with a rumored first clear window for players around Level 8. Everyone was preparing. Everyone was bracing. And everyone wanted to be the one who got that coveted system-wide first clear alert.
Ren could feel it in the air. That shift.
This wasn’t just about survival anymore.
It was about speed. Prestige. Bragging rights.
And no one was skimping.
Every group, every wannabe guild, every half-organized raid squad now needed his potions. Because going in without them? That wasn’t strategy.
That was suicide.
‘Good,’ Ren thought, stacking another full crate of neatly labeled bottles. ‘Let them rush. Let them panic. I’ve got what they need.’
The real game wasn’t in swinging swords.
It was in selling the bandages.
He flagged down Guildmaster Harkin, who was still chuckling over the last sale.
“Got a few leftovers,” Ren said, tapping his bag. “Mind if I set up another mini-sale?”
Harkin grinned, all toothy and pleased.
“’Course not! Anything that makes the Alchemist Guild look good—and gives us a cut—is fine by me.”
He sent out a second announcement, a quick pulse through the local area:
[Announcement]:
Special Limited Potion Sale at the Alchemist Guild! Starting NOW! First come, first served!
The reaction was immediate.
Players came sprinting back toward the guild, tripping over themselves, yelling and elbowing.
Even though it had only been a couple hours since the first sale, the hunger was still there—especially among solo players and small-party adventurers who hadn’t gotten a chance the first time.
The black market scalpers?
They were livid.
Ren caught sight of a few lurking near the back, glaring daggers at him.
They had just managed to flip some of his earlier potions at double price… and now here he was, undercutting them all over again, with fresh stock.
‘Too bad,’ Ren thought, almost humming as he organized the mini-sale window.
He didn’t change the price either. Still cheap, still undercutting the scalpers without mercy.
If anything, it was even funnier this time.
Because now, players knew the potions would vanish fast—and they scrambled even harder.
A line started forming, snaking around the guild entrance.
Ren, lounging behind his little temporary stall, looked like the picture of innocence.
“Three potions max per person,” he said cheerfully as he handed over bottles. “No exceptions. No ‘my cat needs one too’ stories. Thanks for shopping!”
Coins kept pouring in, faster than he could count.
And every sale?
Another dagger in the heart of the scalpers.
They glared, muttered, complained loudly about “dirty undercutting,” but there was nothing they could do.
Ren was an official Alchemist Guild instructor now.
He was untouchable here.
It was beautiful.
By the time the mini-sale ended, he had cleared out everything he wanted to move.
And the black market boys were left grumbling, stuck holding overpriced goods nobody wanted anymore.
‘Maybe next time,’ Ren thought smugly, ‘they’ll think twice before trying to gouge people.’
He tucked away the fresh coins into his system wallet with a satisfied smirk.
Step one of his empire was going better than he could have dreamed.
And he was just getting started.
—