Lucian Faust leaned back in his chair, cracking his knuckles as he skimmed the Ultra-Detailed Fantasy CYOA! Live Out Your Dream Life! form on his screen. Some anonymous Redditor had posted it in a late-night thread, and he'd clicked on it out of boredom. But now… now he was intrigued.
The system was simple. A pool of points, spent on Essences, Abilities, and Background Perks. But the real trick? Drawbacks. Physical and situational weaknesses that refunded points, letting him build a stronger character in return.
So naturally, Lucian went full min-max mode.
The first step was obvious: power. Real, absolute power. He selected the Essence of the Archmage without hesitation, granting him mastery over all magic. Magic was the ultimate cheat code, and being the best at it? A guaranteed win.
But raw power wasn't enough. He needed control, too. The Essence of the Artificer was an easy pick—it would let him craft legendary artifacts, meaning he wouldn't just wield magic, he'd be able to bottle it, shape it, and mass-produce it.
For versatility, he grabbed the Essence of the Alchemist. Potions, transmutations, elixirs that could break the rules of reality—he wasn't about to pass that up.
But to afford it all, he had to pay the price.
Losing agility was the easiest sacrifice. He took Lame Leg without a second thought. If he could teleport or fly with magic, who cared about running?
Brittle Bones gave him even more points in exchange for taking extra damage. Fine. If he ever got hit, he'd already lost anyway.
He doubled down on weakness by adding Weakened Muscles and Mangled Arm, sacrificing strength entirely. Physical combat was for people who didn't have spells to do the fighting for them.
The last trade was Eternal Fatigue. Constant exhaustion sounded miserable, but he'd outbrew it. A few potions, an artifact or two, and he'd make sleep irrelevant.
He chose Orphan, too. No family, no attachments, no obligations. It wasn't like he had much tying him down anyway. Just another trade-off, one that gave him even more points to work with.
His plan was perfect.
Lucian let out a breath, grinning slightly as he scrolled to the bottom of the page. A single black button waited.
SUBMIT.
"Alright, game. Let's see what you got."
Lucian clicked.
The screen flashed white. A sharp, static-like hum filled his ears, vibrating through his skull. For a split second, he felt weightless—disconnected, as if his body had been unmade. Then, just as suddenly, he existed again.
Cold. Damp. Heavy.
Lucian sucked in a breath, only to be hit by the overwhelming stench of mold, sweat, and something rotten. His body ached in ways he wasn't used to—his muscles sluggish, his bones fragile, his breath coming shallow and uneven. The moment he shifted, a dull, persistent pain radiated from his right leg.
His mind was still catching up, but instinct told him something was wrong. This wasn't his chair. This wasn't his apartment.
He opened his eyes.
A wooden ceiling loomed above him, warped and cracked from years of neglect. Dim candlelight flickered against it, casting jagged shadows. The air was thick with the scent of burning tallow, damp wood, and unwashed bodies.
Lucian sat up—or tried to. The moment he moved, his right leg throbbed in protest, sending a jolt of pain through his body. He grit his teeth, pushing past it, forcing himself upright.
His clothes were rough, patched together from worn linen and wool, a far cry from the hoodie and sweatpants he'd been wearing. His hands were thin, calloused, fingers twitching slightly as if unused to movement. He looked down at himself—small frame, underfed, arms that felt too weak to properly support his weight. Not his body.
Then the realization clicked.
The CYOA. The choices. The debuffs.
Lame Leg. Weakened Muscles. Brittle Bones. Eternal Fatigue. Orphan.
This wasn't just some immersive dream. This wasn't a game screen where he could respec his choices. He had woken up inside the body of an orphan. And judging by the medieval squalor around him, he was in a world that didn't believe in things like hygiene, medicine, or mercy.
A shiver crawled up his spine.
Slowly, carefully, he swung his legs over the edge of the wooden cot he'd been lying on. The floor was cold against his bare feet. His stomach twisted in hunger, his limbs felt hollow with exhaustion, and every part of him screamed that this body was barely surviving.
Then he heard voices.
Muffled, rough, speaking in a language he only half-recognized—but he knew the name they said.
"Novigrad."
The streets of Novigrad were a chaotic mess of filth, voices, and movement. Merchants barked out their wares, beggars huddled in alleys, and guards in Redanian colors strolled through the cobbled roads, eyes scanning for trouble. The air carried the scent of roasting meat, unwashed bodies, and the distant, acrid bite of alchemical brews from the city's apothecaries.
Lucian limped through the throng, his every step slow and deliberate. The pain in his right leg was a constant, dull throb, and his muscles ached from the effort of simply walking. He was weak—so much weaker than he was used to—but he clenched his teeth and pressed forward.
His destination loomed ahead: the Vivaldi Bank, a large stone building with a polished brass sign hanging over the entrance. Dwarven architecture, sturdy and refined, a stark contrast to the squalor of the lower districts.
Inside, the bank was a picture of wealth and order. Thick wooden counters separated the tellers from the customers, and rows of iron-bound safes lined the back walls. Chandeliers bathed the interior in warm light, and the scent of parchment, ink, and coin filled the air. Well-dressed merchants and nobles conducted business in hushed voices, while dwarven clerks scribbled away behind the counters.
Lucian approached the nearest teller, a dwarven woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She barely spared him a glance before speaking.
"If you're here for an exchange, deposit, or withdrawal, state your business."
Lucian steadied himself. He couldn't afford to look weak. Not here. "I need a loan," he said, keeping his voice calm, confident. "One thousand crowns."
The dwarf finally looked at him. Her eyes flicked over his ragged clothing, his malnourished frame, his limp. Suspicion clouded her features. "One thousand crowns?" she repeated, arching a brow. "And what collateral do you offer, lad? Because you don't look like you have a single oren to your name."
Lucian met her gaze evenly. "I'm an alchemist," he said.
That made her pause.
Alchemists weren't rare, but they were valuable. The art of potion-making required skill, knowledge, and resources, and a good alchemist could make a fortune selling brews to merchants, mercenaries, and nobles.
The teller studied him for a long moment, then scoffed. "That so? And I'm the bloody Queen of Cintra. You don't look like an alchemist. You look like you crawled out of a gutter."
Lucian exhaled. He expected skepticism, but he needed to push through it. "I understand your doubts. But I can prove it. Give me the ingredients, and I'll brew a healing potion right here. If it works, you'll know I'm the real deal."
The teller frowned, glancing toward the back office. A moment later, she sighed and muttered, "Wait here."
She disappeared into the private section of the bank, and Lucian let out a slow breath. He was betting everything on this. If they rejected him outright, he had no backup plan.
Minutes passed before the teller returned, this time accompanied by a shorter, broader figure in fine clothes—a dwarf with a neatly-trimmed beard, gold rings on his fingers, and sharp, calculating eyes.
Vimme Vivaldi's POV
Vimme Vivaldi studied the boy in front of him, his sharp dwarven eyes taking in every detail.
Thin. Malnourished. Dressed in little more than rags. Limping like a man twice his age.
And yet, despite looking like a starving beggar, the lad had walked into his bank asking for a thousand crowns. With no collateral.
And claiming to be an alchemist, no less.
Vivaldi let out a low hum of amusement, adjusting the rings on his fingers. "Lad, let me tell ya somethin'," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I've had plenty o' men come in here with grand claims. Mercenaries who swear they can clear out bandit camps. Nobles who gamble away their fortunes and promise they'll 'win it back soon.' I even had a fella once who claimed he was the lost prince o' Vizima."
Lucian didn't flinch. "And did you believe any of them?"
Vivaldi chuckled. "Not a damn one."
"Then let me prove it."
The boy's voice was steady, unwavering. Vivaldi liked that. If he was bluffing, he was damn good at it.
Lucian continued, "Give me the ingredients for a simple healing potion. Just the basics—mushrooms, celandine, dwarven spirit. I'll brew it right here. If it works, you know I'm not lying. If it fails, you lose nothing but a few herbs."
A long silence stretched between them.
Vivaldi drummed his fingers against the desk. He wasn't a man who handed out coin freely, but if this boy was telling the truth… an alchemist, a real alchemist, could be very profitable.
He made his decision.
"You've got stones, lad," Vivaldi said with a grin. "Alright, I'll bite. You get your ingredients."
He gestured to one of his clerks. "Go down to the apothecary, tell 'em I need fresh mushrooms, celandine, and dwarven spirit. None of that dried shite. If the boy's lyin', I want it to be his fault, not the ingredients."
The clerk nodded and hurried off.
Vivaldi turned back to Lucian. "Now, while we wait… tell me, lad. If this works, and you get your thousand crowns, what's your plan?"
Lucian met his gaze, expression unreadable. "I set up a workshop. Start producing potions in bulk. Sell to merchants, adventurers, anyone with coin."
Vivaldi grinned. "A businessman, eh? I like that. But remember, lad, Novigrad's got rules. You make too much noise, and the wrong people notice. And those wrong people?" His smile faded slightly. "They don't like competition."
Lucian nodded. "I'll be careful."
Vivaldi watched him for another moment before leaning back in his chair. "We'll see."
Lucian Faust's POV
The ingredients were set before him.
Lucian exhaled slowly. His hands trembled—not from nerves, but from weakness. His body was frail, his muscles sluggish, his bones aching from even the smallest exertion. But his mind was sharp, and that was all he needed.
He crushed the mushrooms first, grinding them into a fine paste. The celandine was next, its leaves bruised and mixed in carefully. Finally, he took the dwarven spirit and let it heat over a small candle, the alcohol purifying the mixture as he stirred.
He worked with slow precision, careful not to rush. Alchemy wasn't just about throwing ingredients into a pot and hoping for the best—it was balance, control, refinement.
Minutes passed.
The liquid settled—a deep, shimmering crimson. The color of life.
Lucian dipped a strip of cloth into the potion, then pressed it against a small cut on his palm. The wound sealed instantly. No scarring, no irritation. Pure, flawless healing.
He looked up.
Vivaldi's clerk—who had been watching with narrowed eyes—stepped forward and dipped a finger into the potion. He rubbed it against his own hand, where a minor burn from a candle had been.
The burn vanished.
The clerk's eyes widened.
"Bloody 'ell," he murmured.
Lucian turned to Vivaldi. "Satisfied?"
The banker stared at the potion for a long moment, then let out a bark of laughter. "Hah! Lad, you're full o' surprises!" He clapped his hands together. "Alright, a deal's a deal. You get your one thousand crowns—but on one condition."
Lucian exhaled. "Which is?"
"I get one hundred bottles of this potion as interest."
A steep price. But fair.
Lucian nodded. "Agreed."
Vivaldi grinned. "Smart lad. And since I'll be makin' a tidy profit off this, I'll cover the cost of your ingredients. Call it an investment."
Lucian's brows lifted slightly. That made things easier. The potion was simple, but brewing in bulk would require proper equipment, more ingredients, and time. If Vivaldi was willing to foot the bill upfront, he wouldn't have to dip into his loan just yet.
Vivaldi handed him a pouch of crowns, its weight reassuring in Lucian's palm. He had done it. He had capital.
And now?
Now, he needed a place to work.
With the loan secured and the deal struck, Lucian followed the dwarf clerk out of the bank and into the bustling streets of Novigrad. The city was alive with noise and movement, a chaotic symphony of merchants hawking their wares, beggars pleading for coin, and guards patrolling the cobblestone roads. The air was thick with the mingling scents of roasting meat, fresh bread, and the ever-present undercurrent of sewage.
Lucian moved slowly, his limp more pronounced now that fatigue was setting in. His body ached with every step, but his mind remained sharp, focused on the task ahead. He needed supplies—tools, ingredients, and anything else that would help him establish his alchemy workshop.
The clerk led him to the market district, a sprawling maze of stalls and vendors. The market was a sensory overload: colorful fabrics hung from wooden frames, barrels of spices spilled their fragrant contents into the air, and the sharp tang of alchemical ingredients cut through the chaos.
Lucian's eyes scanned the stalls, his mind immediately cataloging the items on display. The Essence of the Alchemist granted him an innate understanding of every plant, mineral, and compound he saw.
At the first stall, he found a mortar and pestle, a set of glass beakers, and a sturdy brewing stand. He ran a hand along the brewing stand's surface, feeling the smooth iron. It was well-made, something that could endure constant use. The vendor, an elderly human with ink-stained fingers, noticed his interest.
"Good set, that one," the merchant said, watching him closely. "You an apothecary?"
"An alchemist," Lucian corrected, his voice steady.
The man squinted at him, then at his frail frame. "Don't look like one."
Lucian met his gaze without flinching. "Looks can be deceiving."
The merchant chuckled. "Aye, they can. Five crowns for the lot."
Lucian considered haggling but ultimately paid without argument. Wasting time over a few coins wouldn't help him right now. He handed over the money and moved on.
Next, he sought out additional ingredients. While Vivaldi's purchase covered the bulk of his potion-making, Lucian wanted stock of his own—rare herbs, stabilizing agents, compounds with deeper alchemical potential. If he wanted to push his skills beyond basic healing potions, he needed the right materials.
At a cramped stall overflowing with dried plants, Lucian carefully selected mandrake roots, powdered griffin bone, and a vial of etherial extract—costly, but invaluable. He also picked up a few doses of coagulant powder, a critical component in stopping blood loss.
"That'll be twenty crowns," the vendor, a beady-eyed elf, told him.
Lucian clicked his tongue. He had already spent quite a bit, and while he had enough, he needed to stretch his funds as far as possible.
"Twelve," Lucian countered.
The elf smirked. "Eighteen."
"Thirteen, and I'll come back for more business."
The merchant hesitated, then sighed. "Fine, thirteen."
Lucian passed the coins over and took his purchases, feeling a sense of satisfaction. He wasn't about to let himself be cheated, but he knew when to push and when to settle.
By the time they were done, Vivaldi's clerk was carrying two heavy sacks of supplies, grumbling about their weight. Lucian's own coin pouch felt noticeably lighter.
"Ya sure you ain't buyin' too much at once?" the dwarf muttered, adjusting the sacks on his shoulder.
Lucian smirked slightly, despite his exhaustion. "If I'm going to work, I need to do it properly."
With his tools and ingredients secured, it was finally time to see his new home.
The walk to the house was slow. Lucian's weakened body protested every step, but he forced himself forward, ignoring the dull ache in his leg and the exhaustion settling into his bones. The city's ever-present stink of sweat, sewage, and roasting meat clung to the air.
His guide, the dwarf clerk, walked ahead, only pausing occasionally to check if Lucian was still keeping up. "This is it," he finally said, stopping in front of a small house tucked between two larger buildings.
Lucian took a long moment to examine it.
It wasn't grand, but it was solid. The stone walls looked sturdy, the wooden door had an iron lock, and a small chimney jutted from the roof, promising at least some warmth in the colder months. Most importantly, it was close to the bank, meaning he wouldn't waste time and energy crossing the city for business.
The dwarf pulled a rusty key from his belt and handed it over. "Welcome home—well, as long as ya keep payin'."
Lucian took the key, gripping it tightly, before stepping forward and unlocking the door. The hinges groaned as he pushed it open, revealing the dim interior.
The air inside was stale and thick with dust, the wooden floor slightly uneven. A cot sat in the corner, its straw mattress barely holding together. A wooden table stood near the window, one leg a little wobbly. A single shelf, empty and covered in grime, lined one wall.
Most importantly, a fireplace made of old stone stood near the center, with a rusted iron pot still hanging from its hook.
Lucian stepped inside, exhaling slowly.
It wasn't much.
But it was his.
The exhaustion in his limbs was almost unbearable, but he immediately got to work.
He wiped down the table, clearing the dust. This would be his alchemy workstation. The shelf was next, where he carefully stacked his newly acquired ingredients, ensuring they were arranged by priority. The fireplace was old but functional, and he checked the flue to ensure it would vent properly before setting up his brewing stand nearby.
Every movement sent pain lancing through his body, his muscles protesting the exertion. But he refused to stop. Alchemy required order. Structure. Precision. If he didn't set up his space properly now, he'd be working at a disadvantage.
At some point, the dwarf clerk leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You work fast for someone who looks like a stiff breeze could knock 'im over."
Lucian didn't look up. "I don't have time to waste."
The dwarf snorted. "Well, least yer not soft. I'll leave ya to it. If ya need anything else, Vivaldi'll be expectin' ya to pay for it yerself."
Lucian heard the door close behind him, leaving him alone in his new home.
He wasted no time. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, setting out vials, measuring spoons, and a small mortar and pestle. He placed a bundle of dried herbs on the table—bitterthorn, nightshade root, and ember moss. He separated them quickly, weighing precise amounts before grinding them down into a fine powder.
The iron pot in the fireplace was next. He filled it with clean water from his flask, setting it over the flames. As the water began to simmer, he added the crushed ingredients one by one, watching as the liquid darkened, thickened. The scent of sharp herbs and acrid smoke filled the room.
A slow, careful stir. Timing was everything. Too long, and the mixture would lose potency. Too short, and the reaction wouldn't take.
As the liquid reached the perfect consistency, Lucian reached for a vial to transfer the potion.
Lucian exhaled slowly, his grip firm as he poured the shimmering red liquid into the first vial. The thick, translucent potion glowed faintly in the dim candlelight, its hue a perfect match for the lesser healing elixirs he had made countless times before. He set the vial down beside the others, careful not to spill a single drop. One down. Ninety-nine to go.
His space—small, crude, and dust-choked—was set up. His tools were in place. His ingredients were organized. He had just begun, but the process was familiar, mechanical. Muscle memory took over as he reached for the next handful of glowing mushrooms, crushing them into fine paste before mixing them with purified water and gel.
The scent of bitter herbs and alchemical fumes thickened the air, burning his tired eyes, but he didn't slow down. His body ached, exhaustion creeping into his limbs like a slow poison, but he refused to stop. The night was still young, and if he wanted to survive in this city, he needed these potions.
A hundred vials. A hundred lesser healing potions.
Outside, the city hummed with distant voices and the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. The world moved on, uncaring. But in this quiet, dust-laden space, surrounded by the scent of his craft, Lucian allowed himself a single moment of stillness.
Then, without hesitation, he reached for the next set of ingredients.
As Lucian worked, his mind drifted to the future. The healing potions were just the beginning. He had bigger plans—potions that could grant abilities far beyond simple healing. Potions that could make him indispensable.
He envisioned a Dangersense Potion, allowing the drinker to detect hidden threats. A Gills Potion, enabling underwater breathing. A Flipper Potion, granting unparalleled swimming speed. An Ironskin Potion, making the drinker nearly invulnerable. And perhaps most intriguing, a Love Potion, capable of bending wills and forging alliances.
These weren't just tools for survival. They were tools for power. And in a city like Novigrad, power was everything.
Lucian's lips curled into a faint, apathetic smile. He didn't care about the world or its people. He didn't care about the pain in his body or the exhaustion gnawing at his mind. All that mattered was the work. The craft. The endless pursuit of perfection.
And if the world didn't like it? Well, they could burn.