Crack!

  The clay pot shattered against the floor, scattering shards across the workshop.

  "That's the third one this week, Mira!" The blacksmith's voice boomed through the cramped space, loud enough to rattle the tools hanging on the walls.

  He was a broad-shouldered man in his sixties with a beard that looked like it had survived multiple fires. Gray streaks ran through the singed hair, and his leather apron was covered in burns and stains from years of work.

  Mira winced, dropping to her knees immediately to gather the pieces. "I'm so sorry, Master Hendrick. I don't know what happened. My hands just—"

  "Your hands just what? Decided to stop working?" Hendrick stomped over, his heavy boots making the wooden floorboards creak.

  The forge behind him glowed red-orange, casting dancing shadows across the walls lined with half-finished tools, horseshoes, and decorative metalwork.

  The smell of hot metal and coal smoke filled the air, mixing with the sharper scent of oil from the quenching barrel in the corner.

  "I'll pay for it," Mira said quickly, though her voice wavered. "Take it from my wages this month. I promise I'll be more careful."

  Hendrick's scowl softened slightly.

  He let out a long breath through his nose and crouched down beside her, his knees popping.

  "Don't bother. That pot was already cracked anyway. I was going to toss it out next week." He picked up one of the larger shards and turned it over in his calloused hands. "But you need to pay attention, girl."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "Stop apologizing." He stood up with a grunt, offering her a hand.

  She took it, and he pulled her to her feet easily. "Just focus. That's all I'm asking. Now sweep this up before someone steps on it and I have to explain to their family why they're bleeding all over my shop."

  Mira nodded quickly and grabbed the broom from the corner.

  As she swept, Hendrick returned to the forge, pulling a piece of glowing metal from the coals with long tongs.

  The rhythmic clang of his hammer against the anvil filled the workshop again, steady and familiar.

  By the time she finished cleaning, the sun had shifted higher in the sky.

  Midday light streamed through the small windows, illuminating the dust floating in the air.

  "You're done for today," Hendrick called without looking up from his work. "Go home. Get some rest. You look exhausted."

  "Are you sure? I can stay and—"

  "I said go home, Mira."

  She hesitated, then untied her work apron and hung it on the hook by the door.

  "Thank you, Master Hendrick."

  He waved her off with his free hand, still hammering.

  The walk home took twenty minutes through narrow streets lined with stone houses and wooden shops.

  The town of Verant wasn't large, maybe three thousand people on a busy market day, but it was old.

  Some of the buildings near the center had been standing for generations, their foundations dating back to when the town was just a trading post on the road between larger cities.

  Mira's house sat on the edge of the residential district, a small two-story structure with faded paint and a roof that needed repairs.

  She pushed open the front door and stepped inside, immediately greeted by the smell of something cooking.

  "Mama!" A small voice called from the kitchen.

  Mira smiled, her exhaustion lifting slightly.

  "I'm home, sweetie."

  She walked through the narrow hallway into the kitchen and found her daughter standing on a wooden stool by the stove.

  Elara was eight years old with dark hair pulled back in a messy braid and bright green eyes that always seemed to be watching everything.

  She wore a simple brown dress with patches on the knees, and her hands moved in slow, deliberate patterns in the air.

  Water floated from a bucket on the floor, forming a thin stream that poured itself into a pot on the stove.

  The liquid shimmered faintly as it moved, guided by Elara's concentration.

  "You're getting better at that," Mira said, walking over to check on the stew bubbling in the pot.

  "It's easier now," Elara said, her tongue poking out slightly as she focused. "I don't have to think about it as much."

  "Good. Just don't let it boil over."

  The water stream cut off, and Elara lowered her hands.

  She hopped down from the stool and wiped her forehead dramatically.

  Mira stirred the stew, then covered it with a lid. "Where's Malek?”

  "Probably napping.”

  "Let him sleep. He was fussy this morning."Mira replied.

  Elara made a face. "He's always fussy."

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  "He's two. You were worse at his age."

  "Was not."

  Mira just smiled and ruffled her daughter's hair.

  ---

  Malek lay in his crib, staring up at the wooden ceiling.

  Two years.

  It had been two years since he'd woken up in this tiny, useless body, and he still wasn't over how weird it was.

  The first few months had been a nightmare. He couldn't talk or walk. Couldn't even control when he pissed himself.

  And the worst part? He remembered everything.

  Every humiliating moment of being completely helpless while his brain screamed at him to just do something.

  The breastfeeding thing? Yeah. He tried not to think about that.

  Some trauma was better left buried.

  At least now he could walk—sort of.

  Toddling around like a drunk penguin wasn't exactly dignified, but it beat being carried everywhere.

  And he could say a few words, though his vocal cords still couldn't handle anything complex.

  Mostly he stuck to "Mama," "Lala" (his attempt at saying Elara), and "no," which he used liberally.

  His mother ( Mira ) was a kind person.

  She worked long hours at the blacksmith's shop and came home exhausted most days.

  She tried to hide it, but Malek could see the way her hands shook sometimes when she thought no one was looking.

  His sister—half-sister, technically—was Elara.

  Eight years old and already showing signs of magic. Basic stuff, from what he could tell.

  She could move water around, heat things up without fire, and clean dishes with a wave of her hand.

  Useful, but not impressive by this world's standards.

  Because in Aethermoor ( yeah, that's what this place was called, ) magic was everything.

  If you had strong combat magic, you were respected. Feared. Given positions of power.

  If you had utility magic like Elara? You were useful, sure, but you'd never climb higher than working-class.

  And if you had no magic at all? Good luck.

  Malek had pieced together his family's situation over the past two years through overheard conversations and careful observation.

  Elara’s father had been a hunter, killed in an accident when she was still a baby.

  Mira had spent months drowning in grief, but grief didn’t pay for food or keep a roof over their heads. Eventually, she forced herself to move on and took whatever work she could find, mostly as a maid.

  That left Malek wondering about his own father.

  There was a well-known scandal in town—a rumor tying Mira to the lord of Verant. Malek had overheard bits and pieces while accompanying her on errands. Still, the idea never fit. Mira didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d end up in a scandal at all.

  His thoughts were cut short by approaching footsteps.

  The door to his room creaked open, and Elara poked her head in.

  "You awake?" she whispered.

  Malek turned his head and blinked at her.

  "Mama's home," Elara said, stepping inside. "Come on. I made stew."

  She walked over and picked him up, propping him on her hip like she'd done it a hundred times before.

  Malek didn't fight it. There was no point.

  As Elara carried him downstairs, Malek caught sight of her hands.

  Faint traces of magic still clung to her fingertips, barely visible shimmer in the air.

  Magic.

  He'd been thinking about it more and more lately.

  This world ran on it. People's entire lives were decided by what kind of magic they were born with.

  That night, after Mira put him to bed and the house went quiet, Malek lay in the darkness and focused.

  The Custodian had mentioned something. A system. ( Which most people in this world have ) A way to check his status in this new world.

  He closed his eyes and thought the words clearly in his mind.

  Status

  A window materialized in front of Malek's eyes, glowing faintly in the darkness of his room.

  —

  Name: Malek

  Race: Human — Class: Alchemist — Level: Nil

  INT 2 | WIS 1 | STR -1 | DEX 0 | CON 0 | CHA 0

  Alchemical Masteries: None

  Learned Formulae: None

  ---

  Malek stared at the window for a long moment.

  Then he stared some more.

  "You've got to be kidding me."

  His INT was 2. Two. He'd seen toddlers figure out how to open childproof locks faster than he could probably solve basic math right now. And his WIS was even worse, a measly 1. Apparently being mentally seventeen didn't mean much when your brain was still developing in a two-year-old skull.

  STR at -1 made sense, unfortunately. He could barely lift a cup without using both hands. His arms were basically noodles.

  DEX and CON at 0 were equally depressing. He wasn't coordinated, and his body was about as durable as wet paper. One bad fall and he'd probably be bedridden for a week.

  CHA at 0 stung a little, but honestly? He was a toddler. Nobody expected charisma from someone who drooled on themselves.

  But the real kicker was his class.

  Alchemist.

  Not a warrior. Not a mage. Not even something cool like a rogue or a monk.

  Alchemist.

  Malek let out a slow breath and leaned back in his crib, staring at the ceiling.

  Okay. Okay, this wasn't necessarily bad.

  Sure, it wasn't a combat class. He wasn't going to be swinging swords or throwing fireballs anytime soon. But he'd read enough webnovels and played enough games back on Earth to know that alchemy wasn't weak. Not by a long shot.

  Alchemy was versatile. Potions could heal wounds, boost strength, cure poisons, or even grant temporary abilities. Explosives could level buildings. Transmutation could turn trash into treasure. And if you got good enough? You could create things that even the strongest warriors would kill for.

  The problem was that alchemy took time. A lot of time. It required knowledge, resources, experimentation, and patience. You couldn't just pick up a sword and start swinging. You had to study. Gather materials. Test formulas. Fail repeatedly until you figured out what worked.

  In a world where power meant everything, that kind of slow progression was a gamble.

  But Malek had something most alchemists in this world probably didn't, meta knowledge. He knew how these systems worked. He'd seen the patterns in games and stories. Alchemy always started weak, but if you invested in it, if you pushed through the early grind, it became broken.

  And he had time. He was two years old. Nobody expected him to be strong yet. He could spend the next few years learning, experimenting, and building a foundation while everyone else ignored him.

  By the time people realized what he was capable of, it would be too late.

  A small smile crept onto his face.

  "Alright," he whispered to himself. "Let's see what I can do with this."

  He focused on the status window again, willing it to show more information. The screen flickered, and a new section appeared.

  ---

  Class Description: Alchemist

  Alchemists manipulate matter through chemical processes and magical infusion. This class specializes in potion crafting, transmutation, and the creation of alchemical tools and weapons. Progression requires knowledge acquisition, resource gathering, and experimentation.

  Warning: Alchemical experimentation carries risk of injury, poisoning, and catastrophic failure. Proceed with caution.

  ---

  "Catastrophic failure. Great." That was the last thing Malek wanted to hear right now.

  Still, the description confirmed what he'd already suspected. This class wasn't about raw power. It was about preparation, knowledge, and creativity. If he played it smart, he could turn his weaknesses into strengths.

  But first, he needed to figure out how to actually do alchemy.

  He had no masteries. No learned formulas. His attributes were garbage. And he was stuck in a toddler's body with limited mobility and even more limited resources.

  He needed a plan.

  So, he made a plan after working his toddler brain to its full capacity.

  Step one: Learn everything he could about this world's alchemy. Books, if he could get his hands on them. Observations of how people used magic and materials. Anything that could give him a foundation to work from.

  Step two: Gather basic materials. Herbs, minerals, whatever he could find. Even if he couldn't use them yet, having a stockpile would save time later.

  Step three: Experiment. Carefully. Without blowing himself up or poisoning anyone.

  Step four: Survive long enough to actually get good at this.

  Malek closed the status window with a thought and rolled onto his side in the crib.

  His body was weak. His stats were terrible. His class was slow and risky.

  But he wasn't going to let that stop him.

  He'd fallen into this world by accident, been reborn into a family that barely scraped by, and been handed a class that most people would consider useless.

  Fine. He'd work with what he had. And eventually, he'd prove that even an alchemist could become something worth fearing.

  "Yaawn"

  “But let's first take a nap.”