POV : KANUKA

  Kanuka wasn’t in a rush. The barbecue grill was finally off, his shift was over, and the air still clung to him with the scent of smoke, grease, and grilled pork. But instead of trudging straight back to the 10-man dormitory, he took a detour—one he always looked forward to.

  He was going to see his wife.

  Yes. His wife.

  Not a girlfriend, not a maybe-someday—wife. Gina. They’d been married for almost two years now. And yet, in the twisted economics of dorm life, they lived in separate places. Kanuka in the ten-man dorm with the Scrap Rats, Gina in a ten-woman dorm on the other side of the district. Technically, they could’ve applied for a shared unit. But the price? Triple the rate. One for him, one for her, and one more for the “shared privacy tax.” Neither of them could swing that, especially not with Kanuka investing every spare coin into another new project.

  “Kanuka!” Gina spotted him before he reached the entrance, waving from the plastic bench near the community vending machine. “How’s the game going?”

  Kanuka grinned and gave her a mock bow. “We’ve made over a thousand credits. In just one day.”

  Her eyes widened. “No way.”

  He nodded, still catching his breath. “Yup. It’s going well. Honestly, better than I hoped. It’s not a fluke this time.”

  Gina beamed. She always believed in him. Even when no one else did. When he’d failed selling cookware—pans, pots, ceramic mugs with slogans like ‘World’s Best Slum Chef’—she hadn’t mocked him. She’d helped him carry the boxes door to door, selling at a loss with nothing but a smile and a weary back. That was love.

  “You see? I told you,” she said, squeezing his arm. “You’re good at things when you stick with them.”

  Kanuka chuckled. “Don’t worry, darling. When this pays off, we’ll buy another helmet and maybe get some of the girls in your dorm in on it.”

  “Oh, that’d be great,” Gina said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I don’t know how many of them would do it, though. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “Not everyone’s as lucky as we are. Most people don’t have a group of ten guys dumb enough to trust each other with a shared dream.”

  “Lucky if I can keep a hairbrush from getting stolen,” she muttered.

  “I know it sucks,” he said, wrapping an arm around her. “But someday soon, it’s gonna be just me and you. Married couple dorm.”

  She laughed. “You mean the four-room building with the screaming babies and the thin-ass walls?”

  “Hey, hey, twice the bed size. That’s luxury.”

  “And zero soundproofing. Which means I get to hear three other couples argue, bang, and cry in rotation.”

  “That’s love, baby,” he said with a smirk, kissing the top of her head. “That’s slum romance.”

  She laughed again. “So when’s your next shift?”

  “After this. I just needed a reset. Hanging out with you is like… clearing a debuff.”

  “Aww,” she said, mock-blushing. “That’s the most romantic slum compliment I’ve ever heard.”

  They sat for a while longer, holding hands in the dusty courtyard beneath flickering lights. The public benches were warped, the vending machine was always half-broken, and the security cams didn’t work. But it was their little spot. Their tiny, quiet slice of something normal.

  It wasn’t perfect. But it was theirs. And for both of them, that was enough. For now.

  ***

  POV : DORMITORY

  Ren didn’t know what was going on in the dormitory. He didn’t know if anyone was off working a double shift, or making small talk with their wives, or slurping instant noodles while mourning their stolen hairbrushes.

  And honestly?

  He didn’t care.

  He was back in the game.

  Ren didn’t walk into his potion lab—he pranced. He spun on his heel, flicked open his reagent cabinet with flair, and declared to absolutely no one, “It’s a great day for alchemy!”

  He wasn’t crafting the usual instant potions either. Nope. Today was Fire Resistance Day. And Ren, self-appointed King of Bubbles and Brews, was in his element.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  “Crafting potions, la la la! Stir the flask, don’t let it blast!” he sang, twirling a ladle of molten Dewroot into a bubbling jar. He added a pinch of Ghoulwort, sniffed it dramatically, then shouted, “Perfect!” like a man presenting a gourmet dish on a cooking show.

  To him, this wasn’t work. This was happiness distilled into potion form. The scent of heated mana, the shimmer of alchemical foam, the soft clink of glass vials stacking up beside him—it was a symphony. A symphony that only Ren could hear.

  He spun around, grabbed a fresh bottle, and warbled, “If I had a million flasks, I’d fill them all with joy,” to the tune of a half-remembered pop song.

  The craziest part? He was dead serious.

  Cheese, alchemy, not getting stabbed. His top three joys in life. But this—this six-hour alchemy bender? It was number one right now. He was so content it was obnoxious. If happiness had a face, it would’ve been his—half-covered in soot, humming as he dropped reagents with glee.

  And he wasn’t just brewing. Oh no. He’d also bought every fire resistance potion in town. All 50 from the NPCs, swiped for 25 copper each—not because he needed them, but because no one else was going to get them.

  Why?

  Game logic.

  In Towerbound, if NPC potions didn’t sell, the game assumed nobody wanted them. So tomorrow, the stock wouldn’t jump to 100. It’d just refill to 50. After all, NPC potion-makers weren’t clairvoyant. They tracked sales, and if their brews didn’t move, they didn’t make more.

  Ren knew that.

  So while everyone else chuckled at “useless resist potions,” Ren hummed louder and stuffed bottles into his bag.

  “Crafting potions, stocking shelves, making flames behave themselves!” he chirped, waving a half-filled vial like a conductor’s baton.

  By the time his workstation was surrounded with neatly labeled bottles, his cheeks hurt from grinning.

  This wasn’t grinding.

  This was joy, bottled.

  Quietly, methodically, he began sweeping the auction house again—buying up every reagent he needed for fire resistance potions.

  He wasn’t stupid about it.

  Scalpers were everywhere now, watching for sudden spikes in herb purchases.

  The smarter ones had already noticed his buying patterns and were jumping onto the bandwagon, trying to corner the market.

  But Ren had planned for that.

  Instead of just buying the three reagents for fire resistance, he constantly mixed in purchases for the next potion series he was planning to brew.

  That next series required seven more reagents in total, all scattered and unrelated at first glance.

  From the outside?

  It looked like some random newbie was panic-buying ingredients without a clue what they were doing.

  Perfect.

  Let them try to stop him by hoarding reagents—they wouldn’t even know which ones mattered until it was too late.

  Besides, even if they guessed right, there was only so much they could do.

  The auction houses were dynamic.

  Reagents trickled in from newbie gatherers constantly.

  There was no clean way to lock it down.

  And every minute Ren kept crafting, every potion he brewed, he was growing stronger.

  Not in level, but in something way more important to him right now:

  Alchemy XP.

  With the hundreds of potions he had already cranked out today, his alchemy skill was steadily climbing. He was now level 2. Becoming a Level 2 Alchemist meant one thing: a bump in his base potion success rate. Technically, it was supposed to be a big deal—players celebrated it, guilds announced it, and instructors nodded approvingly like proud teachers watching a kid finally stop eating glue.

  For Ren?

  It didn’t change a damn thing.

  The moment he hit Level 2, his bonus-stacked, intelligence-boosted, insight-infused stats meant he was already capped again. Whatever percentage increase it gave? He’d already blown past it with raw talent and game-breaking efficiency.

  But still…

  Seeing that tidy little “Level 2” glow beside his Alchemy Profession gave him a tiny hit of dopamine. Not much. Just enough to make him grin and whisper, “Finally.”

  It wasn’t just about stats.

  It was a step.

  A sign that the game was starting to recognize what he already knew—that he wasn’t just some random slum kid dumping herbs into bottles. He was building something. Getting stronger. Climbing.

  And sure, it was only a little number.

  But it felt damn good.

  Each potion added a tiny sliver of experience, but mass crafting stacked fast.

  By now?

  He was almost halfway to Alchemy Level 3.

  And once he hit that?

  Success rates would go up.

  Potion quality would improve.

  And his profits would spike again.

  Ren grinned to himself as he slid another stack of herbs into his crafting bag.

  ‘Step by step. This time, I’m building an empire.’

  Ren didn’t waste a second.

  Meanwhile, outside in the market?

  The scalpers were scrambling.

  They had bet everything on locking down fire resistance reagents.

  And now—now—there was a sudden new surge in demand for totally different herbs.

  Herbs none of them had bothered to hoard.

  Prices shot up again.

  Arguments broke out in the auction houses.

  Randoms who had picked up herbs days ago were suddenly rich.

  Scalpers fought scalpers, desperately trying to patch the holes.

  And through it all, Ren just kept brewing.

  He wasn’t even rushing anymore.

  No need.

  He had already built the machine.

  Now he was just feeding it.

  DING.

  DING.

  DING.

  Potion after potion after potion.

  Each one a potential coin in the bank.

  Each one a step closer to total market domination.

  Ren leaned back in his chair, cracked his knuckles, and smiled lazily at the pile growing in his bag.

  ‘Let’s see them try to stop me now.’

  —

  The sixth hour of his shift ticked past, but Ren didn’t budge from his workstation. He should’ve been heading back to the dorm, should’ve been tagging out and letting someone else take a turn on the precious helmets.

  But he wasn’t in the mood.

  And more importantly, he didn’t need to.

  Thanks to his earlier nap, his brain was firing just fine—sharp, focused, and humming with that weird, caffeinated thrill only alchemists and gamblers understood. His hands were steady. His rhythm was locked in. And Towerbound hadn’t given him the warning.

  That was the thing about Towerbound. The devs weren’t idiots. They didn’t want players drooling on themselves or turning into brain-fried zombies after marathon sessions. The system tracked you—eye fatigue, neural strain, whatever—and if you pushed too far, a gentle, ominous notice would pop up:

  [Warning: Cognitive Load Approaching Unsafe Threshold. Please log out soon to avoid penalties.]

  Ren hadn’t gotten that message.

  Not even close.

  Which meant one thing—he could keep going. Keep brewing. Keep stockpiling his edge before the rest of the server caught up.

  He cracked his knuckles, whistled under his breath, and opened a fresh stack of reagents.

  “Alright,” he murmured to himself, grinning like a lunatic. “Let’s cook.”

  ***