The stench of rust, sulfur, and blood mingled in the hot, humid air, forming a thick, choking soup.

  Number 43 crouched in a corner of the workshop, shoulders hunched from long years of labor. His calloused hands held a small vial of bubbling ointment, trembling as if it might explode at any moment.

  He was gambling that this time, he wouldn’t fail.

  “Number 43—delivery time!” The steward's voice rang out, cold and sharp as a knife.

  He took a deep breath and handed over the vial of Pain-Relief Paste.

  Truth be told, he regretted it the moment it left his hand—like submitting rushed homework to a math teacher and waiting for the inevitable red mark.

  Moments later, the shattered remains of the vial were tossed back at his feet. The steward’s expression showed nothing but disdain.

  “Failure. Three times now.” He waved the ledger. “Regulations are clear. You’re going to the furnace.”

  Being fed to the dogs meant incineration in the workshop’s lower furnace. Some claimed the "dogs" were flame hounds that devoured souls—whether real or not didn’t matter. No one came back.

  Shackled and silent, he was pushed into a pitch-dark waiting room. Faded bloodstains marked the walls, and a single line was carved above the iron hatch:

  > “Only blood unlocks the forge’s secrets.”

  Number 43 slumped back against the cold stone wall, exhausted.

  From deep below, a low rumble echoed up like a slumbering beast, slowly stirring.

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  Then, he heard it.

  > [Beep—Life force critically low.]

  [System initializing...]

  [Binding Subject: Number 43]

  [Mode: Extreme Survival]

  [Status: Execution Countdown — 11 hours 59 minutes remaining]

  [Primary Task: Deliver one Passable-Grade alchemical product within the time limit. Completion will nullify execution. Failure results in immediate termination.]

  His eyes snapped open. His heart pounded.

  “…A system?!”

  He thought he was hallucinating.

  But a transparent interface bloomed before his eyes, clean and clinical. Familiar categories flickered into view:

  > [Alchemy Proficiency: F (0/100)]

  [Scanning inventory for usable materials...]

  [Suggested Formula: Slow-Release Pain-Relief Paste (Beginner)]

  [Projected Success Rate: 6%]

  6%?!

  He nearly swore.

  This was suicide by synthesis.

  But he had no other choice.

  He pulled out a few pathetic scraps: some withered Blue Orchid grass dregs, half a vial of rusted solvent, a cracked glass tube, and a smear of his own dried blood.

  That was it. All he had.

  The interface flickered again:

  > [Initiate Synthesis: Slow-Release Pain-Relief Paste (Beginner)?]

  [Materials: Sufficient — Low Efficacy]

  [Environmental Conditions: Hazardous]

  [Entering Guided Alchemy Mode: System will provide real-time assistance during key stages.]

  [Warning: Projected success rate remains extremely low. Optimization recommended.]

  He clenched his jaw.

  “Start.”

  A wave of warm data surged from the interface into his mind. For the first time, he could see the variables—

  Heat fluctuations, unfiltered impurities, damp grass residue, and the brittle tension in the vial’s surface.

  And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was guessing—he felt like he could control it.

  He followed the prompts: heat, stir, cool, wait—

  —

  —

  —Bang!

  The vial exploded in his hand. A wave of heat scorched his palm. The bitter stench of failure filled the air.

  No miracle.

  > [Synthesis Failed.]

  [Countdown Remaining: 10 hours 41 minute

  He cursed under his breath.

  A new prompt blinked on-screen.

  > [Environmental Note Detected: Blood may temporarily increase Blue Orchid activity. Add to next formula attempt?]

  He stared down at his bleeding palm.

  And then... he grinned.

  That manic, stubborn grin of someone with nothing left to lose.

  “Then…… let’s try again.”

  > [Acknowledged.]

  [Reinitializing synthesis sequence.]

  [Warning: Glass container structural integrity — 41%]