In My Workshop, Shocked

I can't believe this.

No matter how many times I blinked, the mirror wasn’t changing.

My reflection stared back at me—younger, leaner, with a sharper jaw and less disfigured face, and a pair of tired, wine-dark eyes that hadn’t belonged to me twenty-four hours ago.

My old body was gone. No scars I recognized, no blemishes I remembered. My face looked like it had been hand-carved by an overworked JRPG artist who was told to make someone handsome, enviable, but overworked.

Dark hair, a little tousled. Neatly trimmed beard, not too long, not too short. Skin just pale enough to look like I’d never gotten sunlight—which, given where I was, made sense.

I looked like a man who could sell you some sketchy potion while chuckling and dreaming of going to bed.

I raised a hand. The mirror guy raised his hand.

I sighed. “Yep. That’s me. I’m the prologue’s alchemist. Timaeus.”

Not even a cool one. Not a rogue apothecary with a tragic backstory or a battle alchemist with magic grenades and a flask cannon. No. I was the guy from the prologue who sold you antidotes, had no voice lines, and didn’t even get a death scene or a passing mention of a death scene.

“This is really happening.”

I turned slowly, taking in my surroundings for the thousandth time.

Shelves. Tables. Barred windows that hadn’t been cleaned in years. There were jars of things everywhere—powders, roots, dried eyeballs, scrap metal, mushrooms shaped like anatomical jokes. A single moth buzzed around a glowing vial in the corner like it was worshipping a god.

The floor was wood. Sort of. Mostly wood. And partly mystery grime. A trail of sticky footprints led from the front door to the back room, which I’d already declared a bio-hazard zone and blocked off with a chair.

This was my alchemy workshop.

And it was a disaster.

Half the glassware was chipped. There were burn marks on the ceiling. One of the curtains was just straight-up missing. The place smelled like someone had boiled mint tea in regret.

To be honest… I’d been here for three hours. And three hours ago, it had not been a disaster.

No, it was as clean as a workshop could be… But three full hours of poking at jars, touching reactive things I shouldn’t have touched, and freaking out while trying to figure out if this was a fever dream, a psychotic break, or the world’s slowest death hallucination had a real way of messing stuff up.

I knew now this was real.

I felt everything vividly. The pinch of my boots. The sting on almost-burned fingertips. The quiet hum of magic in the building’s pipes, the smell that accompanied a man freaking out...

This was real.

I was inside Record of a Life of Pain and Triumph.

I placed my hands on my hips, took a breath, and nodded.

“This is a pretty good deal, all things considered.”

Then I burst out laughing. Loud and full-bodied. Not the kind of laugh you let out when you’re living day-to-day in a miserable hellscape.

“Yes! I got to leave that hellhole! Everyone who survived that crummy apocalypse did! Awesome! Yes! Woohoo! Good for us! There was a point to holding on after all!”

I spun in place like I was doing a slow-mo victory pose. Dust puffed up around me like celebratory smoke. A jar rattled dangerously on a shelf, but I caught it mid-wobble and grinned even harder.

This is really happening.

I had a pulse, long-lost secrets were below the floorboards, and glass bottles with illegible alchemy labels were everywhere. Hell, yeah.

“Okay!” I clapped my hands together and marched toward the mess on the floor. “Time to get this dungeon of a shop into something usable.”

I kicked a pile of broken vials into a corner, grabbed a broom from behind the counter—which I immediately stabbed into a spiderweb the size of a dinner plate—and started sweeping with the grace and enthusiasm of a caffeinated raccoon.

“As far as new lives go,” I said to no one, “this one’s got potential. I mean, I already know this city like the back of my hand… Well, technically. And I know the magic system well enough. I know what’s coming—mostly. I just need to figure out when in the timeline I am…”

I swept a pile of old ash and crushed herbs into something vaguely resembling a dustpan and tossed it into a metal bucket that hissed when it landed.

“I swear, if I’ve landed after the big invasion, I’m gonna drink poison out of spite. But no—no, this feels too early. The shop's intact. Ish. No sounds of chaos. This body is still intact….”

I laughed again, more to keep the adrenaline pumping than anything else. My hands were covered in powder from some unlabeled vial, and I didn’t even care if it was corrosive. I’m an alchemist now—I was certain I could figure it out. Or something.

“And if I’m here…”

I paused and gripped the edge of the counter with both hands, knuckles whitening as I leaned forward and grinned like a lunatic.

“Then that means they're here too.”

Lady Elsbeth. Meredi. Ravela.

Alive. Walking. Breathing. As real as I was… Somehow. I wasn’t going to question it.

Not doomed to be crucified by angry citizens, or killed between cutscenes. Not background set dressing or a trivia entry in the codex. Real as me… maybe.

I could pursue routes with them and conquer the routes like the old gamer I was!

I stopped and stared at my counter of ingredients. “Can I do that as the alchemist? Then again, my design got a good share of the prologue budget, so maybe I’ve got a better shot than I’m estimating!”

I did a little bounce on my heels and attacked a cobweb with a rag like it owed me money.

“I should probably be more serious about this,” I said, knocking over a bottle labeled ‘Bone-Biter Resin.’

I stopped and re-examined the label.

“Oh. Holy shit. I could read that… Nice! I know how to read the language! I’m not illiterate! Huzzah! Food. Shelter. The potentially apocalyptic darkness creeping in around the city—all will be easier to deal with if I’m literate!”

I picked up a broken pair of goggles from the counter, wiped the lenses, and jammed them on my head like a man born for this.

“I’m going to romance the hell out of those unromanceables!”

I struck a pose with my broom like it was a sword, standing amidst the half-swept, half-burning wreckage of my new shop and grinning like an idiot.

The door creaked open with the sound of warped wood and a poorly maintained hinge. I flinched mid-sweep, the broom nearly flying from my hand as I scrambled to stand upright and look professional.

“Welcome! Hi! Sorry for the mess, I just—uh—had an experiment go wrong. But I sell potions! Probably! If you're here for alchemy stuff, you are in exactly the right horrible-smelling place!”

The figure that stepped inside was cloaked—dark hood pulled low, fabric thick enough to hide her build, but not the scent or fair chin. She paused just beyond the threshold, glancing around like she was taking mental notes of every stain on the floor and the way I’d absolutely failed to clean the left window.

I forced a smile. “Can I help you with anything specific? Healing potions? Antidotes? Possibly a free sample, if you don’t ask what’s in it?” I let out a chuckle. “Okay, I don’t know what’s in it either. But I’ll figure it out.”

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, still as a statue.

And then—

“You’re… more energetic than I remember,” she said softly, stifling a giggle.

My head suddenly buzzed. My hand was cradling my head before I registered it.

“Sorry… I’m feeling a little dizzy—”

She reached up and slid the hood back, and everything stopped for me.

Dark hair streaked with silver spilled out, half-tucked behind one ear. Her skin was pale, but somehow, the white ribbon around her neck still stood out. Her eyes—those storm-gray eyes—met mine with a quiet, amused calm. She wore a faint, tired smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, but reached my heart more than an image on the screen ever could.

“Lady Elsbeth,” I muttered.

Her smile—already so weak—faded a little. “Hey, Timmie.”

My breath caught in my throat.

And then everything hit me at once. Memories that weren’t mine flooded my mind. Starting from childhood in this miserable city, all the way to our teenage years.

“You’re my friend,” I whispered.

Her lips parted. Her eyes seemed to water. She nodded. “Yeah…” She nodded again and sniffled. “We’re friends.”