His analytical gaze swept over the flaws: uneven stress points, inconsistent thickness, limited flexibility. Unacceptable imperfections for gear meant to save his life. He couldn’t afford to overlook a single component—tunic, greaves, gloves—each piece had to form an integrated protection system.
The problem was fundamentally mechanical. After hours of experimentation the night before, one truth had become undeniable: the crystalline structure of chitin dispersed kinetic energy with unsettling efficiency. His blacksmith’s hammer, capable of flattening an iron nail, had left only a superficial mark on the carapace. The impact had produced a faint blue spark, a dull thud, and nothing more. Traditional physics failed against this alien biomaterial.
Adrian’s eyes locked onto the crack in the Hearthstone, where a concentrated stream of ether leaked out. A solution formed in his mind, clear as a solved equation.
— If brute force fails, we use thermodynamics, he declared, grabbing a pair of forged iron tongs.
His movements were methodical, almost ritualistic, as he arranged the plates on the cast-iron grate. He aligned them precisely at the maximum heat point, where temperature fluctuations reached nearly 800°F based on his prior measurements. His pupils dilated slightly, reacting to IRIS’ calculations.
— IRIS, real-time thermal monitoring.
[SYSTEM ACTIVE: THERMAL SENSORS ENGAGED]
[380°F… 475°F… 620°F…]
The chitin began its transformation. First, a faint shimmer across the surface, then a deep crimson glow emanating from within. Acrid smoke curled upward, carrying the scent of scorched keratin mixed with metallic undertones. Adrian watched, impassive, as microscopic changes unfolded: the molecular structure expanded under thermal stress, chemical bonds nearing their breaking point.
[720°F REACHED: STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED]
With precise motion, Adrian seized the incandescent plates with his tongs. Heat radiated even through his thick gloves. He turned toward the bucket of river water he’d prepared—a carefully measured mix of melted ice and mineral salts to maximize thermal shock.
Without hesitation, he plunged the overheated carapaces into the icy liquid.
PSHHH-CRACK!
The sharp sound split the bunker’s air, reminding Adrian of the brittle snap of a breaking bone. A column of white steam erupted from the cooling bucket, thick with the scent of ozone and burnt protein. The chitin crystals, subjected to a 700°F temperature drop in under a second, contracted violently before releasing a cascade of micro-fractures across their surface.
Adrian plunged his gloved hand into the now-lukewarm water. His nimble fingers sorted through the fragments, assessing their friability with a simple press. The carapace that had once resisted hammer blows crumbled between his fingers like overblown glass, emitting a satisfying crackle of molecular Morse code. The shards reduced to a granular black powder, resembling raw graphite flakes.
— Estimated yield: 97%, he murmured, pouring the precious cargo into the rectangular stone vat.
The acidic mixture, extracted directly from the beetles’ digestive glands, bubbled faintly upon contact with the powder. Adrian observed the first hydrolysis reactions for a full ten minutes: the black powder slowly transformed into a translucent gel that absorbed light like a miniature black hole.
He then slipped on his worn wool tunic, patched leather greaves, and frayed gloves, immersing them meticulously in the bath.
The impregnation process began. With a polished ashwood pole, he stirred the mixture in concentric circles, mentally calculating the ideal viscosity. His muscles burned after forty-five minutes of constant stirring, but IRIS confirmed optimal polymer chain progression as they interwove with the textile fibers.
When he removed the gear, the transformation was spectacular.
The once-dull, porous material had become a matte-black, oily-sheened envelope—supple as rubber but promising the rigidity of an insect’s exoskeleton. As it dried, this second skin would become an organic shield capable of redistributing kinetic energy like a non-Newtonian fluid: flexible for movement, impenetrable under impact.
Adrian stretched the pieces over wooden frames, checking fiber alignment. In twelve hours, he’d possess the first composite armor ever crafted in this world—a perfect fusion of biology and materials science.
Finally, the centerpiece.
The Spider’s Gland.
Adrian handled it with extreme caution. He dripped a bead of pure venom onto a glass slide and brought it near a shard of mana crystal from Garel’s shop.
The venom recoiled. Literally. It formed a depression on the surface, fleeing the crystal.
— Fascinating… It’s hydrophobic, but not to water—magic. A kind of… Etheric Insulator.
It was the perfect weapon against a mage or elemental monster. A blade coated in this would sever the link between a creature and its power source.
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But Adrian frowned at the droplet. The edges were already browning.
— Rapid oxidation in open air.
He consulted the virtual almanac via IRIS.
Alchemical preservatives: Sulfur, Mercury, Ignis Salt.
He had none of those. Table salt wouldn’t suffice. If he coated his dagger now, the venom would degrade before he even left the bunker.
— Can’t use it as a durable offensive weapon. Not yet.
He opted for preservation. He distilled the raw venom to remove blood impurities and poured the pure, transparent toxin into a dark vial. He heated the air inside the vial before sealing it with wax. As it cooled, the air would contract, creating a partial vacuum to slow oxidation.
Neurotoxin A-1. In stasis.
Adrian slumped back against the edge of the blackened oak workbench, its wood groaning under the strain, as if protesting this forced pause in an unfinished protocol.
His once-beige shirt was now a damp shroud clinging to his skin, streaked with dark patches where sweat had leached out charcoal dust and distillation residues.
The bunker’s air, usually thick with the acrid tang of sulfur and ammonia, was now saturated with something more insidious—a vapor of volatilized venom and organic solvents that scraped his lungs with every breath. The stone chimney, designed to vent tannin fumes, wheezed under the strain, belching out grayish plumes that stagnated near the ceiling before settling into a nauseating haze. Extraction efficiency: 32% at best.
[WARNING: CO2 INTOXICATION RISK > 1200 ppm IN 18 MINUTES AT CURRENT RATE.]
Thirst wasn’t just discomfort. It was physical pain, a dry bite in his throat, as if his mucous membranes had turned to sandpaper.
He leaned forward, hands pressed against the workbench’s edge to steady their tremor, and scanned the vials lined up near the alembic. Among the failures and half-successes, one thick-glass vial, marked with a red chalk line, caught his eye. It was a botched batch of Pure Blue Extract—overconcentrated with sylva salts and carbon residues, unfit for sale, but not useless. He pinched it between two fingers, eyed the murky liquid swirling inside, then precisely measured five milliliters into his leather canteen, already filled with a liter of water filtered through activated charcoal.
This wasn’t a potion. Not in the way local mages understood them, with their incantations and shimmering crystals.
This was an optimized rehydration solution, an isotonic drink enriched with trace minerals and stabilized mana—this world’s medieval-fantasy equivalent of Gatorade for survivors in hostile zones. The sylva minerals acted as electrolytes, while the diluted etheric residues mildly stimulated cellular recovery.
Nothing magical. Just applied biochemistry.
He brought the canteen to his lips and drank in long gulps, not stopping to breathe. The liquid was tepid, almost metallic, with a lingering bitterness that reminded him of the contrast solutions they’d forced down his throat during MRIs in another life.
The effect wasn’t dramatic. No blinding light, no heat radiating through his veins like in the tales. Just a sudden clarity, as if a vaseline smear had been wiped from the inside of his skull. The trembling in his hands subsided within seconds. His vision, slightly blurred by fatigue, snapped back into surgical sharpness. The numbers scrolling across his HUD—ambient temperature, atmospheric pressure, humidity—became effortlessly legible again.
His gaze instinctively flickered toward the back shelf, where a dozen cork-stopped vials stood at attention like soldiers. The Commercial Blue Potions. The ones meant for Klara.
20% pure sylva extract, distilled water, a dash of berry syrup to mask the bitterness, and a pinch of copper sulfate for color. Potent enough to impress peasants and low-tier mercenaries, but diluted enough to avoid the Inquisition’s suspicions. Market strategy: underestimate the competition, overestimate the clientele.
Klara would sell them as panaceas, and ignorant customers would pay top coin for an upgraded placebo.
But that wasn’t where his real work lay.
No.
It was right in front of him, spread across the workbench like the disassembled parts of a war machine mid-assembly.
There, the true composite armor—his tunic and greaves of leather impregnated with chitin bio-resin, still damp in patches, glistening under the flickering oil-lamp light. Once dry, the material would be as supple as ordinary fabric under normal conditions but instantaneously rigidify under impact, absorbing and dispersing kinetic energy like a medieval bulletproof vest. Slash resistance: +100%. Flexibility: 98% retained.
[ANALYSIS: MATERIAL STABLE. NO DEGRADATION DETECTED AFTER 12 HOURS OF DRYING.]
Beside it, three vials with distinct liquids and hues:
- A sapphire blue, clear as water:
- A ruby red, pulsing dimly:
- A transparent and iridescent liquid:
- A ruby red, pulsing dimly:
He stretched his fingers, feeling the joints crack under residual fatigue, then wrapped his hands around the composite tunic. The material was still slightly tacky to the touch—a sign polymerization wasn’t complete—but the surface layer had already begun hardening. He pulled it on over his damp shirt, adjusting the leather straps that held the chitin plates in place over his shoulders and forearms. The weight was minimal—barely heavier than a thick wool tunic—but the sensation was strange, as if a second skin had grafted onto his own, ready to petrify at the first strike.
He performed a series of movements: shoulder rotations, knee bends, torso twists. Nothing caught. No unnatural stiffness. The bio-resin responded as predicted—supple where needed, rigid where desired. Prototype validation.
[SUGGESTION: REAL-WORLD TESTING RECOMMENDED. SIMULATIONS = 87% SUCCESS AGAINST A GRADE 1.5 CLAW ATTACK.]
He struck his thigh with an open palm, where the chitin greave molded to his muscle. Under his fingers, the material reacted instantly—the surface, soft a second prior, hardened like polished stone before regaining its flexibility as he released pressure. A smile—rare, almost involuntary—tugged at his lips.
— Theory validated, he murmured, more to himself than the empty bunker.
The words echoed in the thick silence, swallowed by stone walls and shelves cluttered with jars. There was no one to hear him. No one to applaud. No one to remind him that what he’d just accomplished was likely one of a kind in this world.
Because who else here would have thought to dissolve beetle carapaces in distilled gastric acid, then mix the resulting polymer with fish glue and flax fibers to create non-Newtonian armor? Who else would have dared defy this world’s implicit laws of magic by treating ether as a chemical resource rather than a divine blessing?
No one.
And that was exactly why he couldn’t just stand here, admiring his work like a satisfied craftsman.
He needed to test it.
Not on a straw dummy soaked in pig’s blood, as he’d done for the initial trials. Not on a sewer rat, nor even on one of the stray dogs lurking near the tanners.
No.
He needed something with teeth. Something that bled. Something that, if his calculations were even slightly too optimistic, would kill him without hesitation.
And he knew exactly where to find it.
His fingers tightened around his dagger’s hilt, where the metal—tempered in his own acid-venom blend—gleamed faintly under the lamplight.
A weapon. Armor. Potions.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt ready.
Not invincible.
Just… armed.