Once Fenrir returned home with all the ingredients secured, he immediately began preparing to brew the potion.
However, just as he was about to begin, he realized something important—he didn't have the proper tools.
Potion brewing wasn't like traditional cooking.
It wasn't just about heating, mixing, and waiting.
It required delicate extraction tools, temperature-regulated crucibles, and essence separators.
Using ordinary cookware could destroy the ingredients' latent properties and result in a potion that was either useless or outright dangerous.
Fenrir stared at the spread of rare ingredients on the counter, frowning.
He had spent hours collecting them, and now they just sat there, useless until he found the right equipment.
With a resigned sigh, he turned back to his system interface and began researching "potion brewing" online, hoping for at least a few leads.
The results were disappointing.
The net was filled with vague blog posts, urban myths about witches brewing strange concoctions, and dubious online shops selling "magic cauldrons" for a ridiculous markup.
Nothing concrete, nothing close to the precise, scientific process Fenrir remembered from his own time.
He rubbed his temples and muttered, "This world's lost all the good knowledge."
For now, he had no choice but to put the potion on hold.
His disappointment followed him the next day as he headed back to school, still unsure of how to proceed.
But as luck would have it, that morning marked the first Chemistry Lab session of the semester.
The moment he walked into the lab and saw the array of equipment—distillation setups, burners, beakers, separators—his eyes lit up.
He recognized nearly everything.
Then, the teacher began her introduction, her voice soft and delicate like a whispering breeze.
She explained the purpose of each tool in the lab, the process of isolating components, and how small changes in temperature or order of mixing could cause huge shifts in outcome.
Fenrir's gaze never left the demonstration table.
His mind whirled with connections between what she was explaining and how potion crafting worked in his time.
These were modernized, simplified versions of the tools he once used. He could adapt them. He could use them.
It felt like finding buried treasure.
All around him, students slumped on their stools, eyes drooping. One kid even had his head down, snoring softly.
The teacher's voice, though elegant, had a strange effect. People seemed almost enchanted—lulled into sleep by the tone of her words.
Only Fenrir remained fully alert.
Dain, sitting beside him, leaned over and whispered.
"Hey, how are you still awake? Her voice is like a sleeping spell."
Fenrir blinked at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"You're seriously not affected? Man, even the principal said she had a passive talent. No one listens past five minutes."
Dain raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed.
Fenrir turned his gaze back to the teacher, now even more curious.
'I just thought everyone else had low attention spans.'
When the teacher glanced up and noticed him watching her intently, her eyes widened behind her glasses.
Her expression brightened instantly.
She looked so genuinely thrilled to see someone actually paying attention that she nearly tripped over her words.
Her voice—somehow—got even softer.
Fenrir's ears strained to catch her explanation now. His earlier confidence started to waver as he squinted and leaned in.
It felt like trying to listen through a layer of cotton.
Was this what Dain meant?
Still, he didn't give up. He was determined to understand the equipment.
By the end of the class, he had made mental notes of which tools he could repurpose, which methods would work for extracting essence, and what safety measures he'd need to add for the more volatile ingredients.
He had also gained one more important piece of information—if the school had a chemistry lab this well-stocked, there was a chance he could request private lab time, or perhaps even borrow the tools after hours.
As the bell rang and the rest of the class sighed in relief to finally escape, Fenrir remained seated for a few seconds, lost in thought.
With a clear goal in mind, Fenrir wasted no time.
The moment he got home, he began searching for chemical-handling equipment that matched what he had seen in the school lab.
Specialized essence separators, heat-regulated crucibles, mana-insulated vials—things that weren't just rare, but also tightly regulated.
Unfortunately, his search results weren't promising.
Many of the high-grade items were locked behind licensing barriers.
According to the system's info panel, handling such equipment legally required a Tier-2 Alchemical License.
That would typically take months of paperwork and testing, something Fenrir didn't have the time or patience for.
But then again, he wasn't just anyone.
With a thought, Fenrir called up the system's interface and navigated to his administrative access—an artifact of the divine blood flowing in his veins and his connection to older, forgotten protocols in the System's infrastructure.
It took a few minutes of careful rerouting, a falsified record of practical expertise, and a spoofed government database access.
But soon, Fenrir held a legal and fully recognized license.
Not even a high-level inspection would detect it was generated just ten minutes ago.
"System, sometimes you're actually useful."
He muttered, watching the license ID update in real-time.
With that out of the way, the rest was simple.
He placed an order for the tools and requested immediate delivery—not to his home, but to a storage property he had uncovered during a deep dive into the financial records tied to his current identity.
Apparently, the estate he had inherited included multiple dormant properties, one of which was an old warehouse registered in the quieter, industrial outskirts of the city.
Perfect for a lab.
Or so he thought.
When Fenrir arrived at the location, a bag slung over his shoulder filled with some early tools, he immediately felt something was wrong.
The building looked more worn down than the records had suggested—graffiti stained the walls, the door was ajar, and the faint echo of voices could be heard inside.
Fenrir stepped in cautiously.
Inside, a group of rough-looking men lounged among makeshift couches, crates of smuggled goods, and empty beer bottles.
One of them, tall and wiry, with a scar across his cheek, looked up and locked eyes with Fenrir.
"Well, look what wandered in. Rich kid got lost?"
The man sneered.
Fenrir didn't respond.
He simply observed, taking in every detail.
There were five of them. Two carried short blades, one had a stun baton strapped to his hip, and the others looked like they relied more on intimidation than skill.
Amateur muscle.
The leader stood, cracking his knuckles.
"You picked the wrong place to play scientist, little boy."
Fenrir glanced at the corner where his ordered equipment had been stacked—still sealed and untouched. That was good. No need to delay.
"I'm not here to play. This building is mine. Leave.""
Fenrir said, voice calm.
That earned him a round of laughter.
"You hear that? He thinks we're just gonna walk out."
The man with the baton said, nudging his companion.
They approached him slowly, likely expecting fear or bargaining.
But Fenrir's expression didn't change. His stance didn't shift.
The moment they were within range, he activated Shadow Step.
His form flickered, and he reappeared behind the nearest thug, delivering a precise elbow to the man's spine. The thug collapsed with a grunt, unconscious before he hit the floor.