CHAPTER 90: CH 90: MAKE A SWORD FOR ME- PART 3

The world came to a pause as the sky pulsed faintly with light, a global notification echoing in the minds of everyone connected to the system.

[World Quest Update: Echoes of the Tower]

[Fragment Status: 3/4 Fragments Discovered

Tower Manifestation: Imminent]

The system’s voice echoed like distant thunder, and across continents, people stopped what they were doing to stare at their interfaces in awe—and fear.

Fenrir stood alone in his forge, covered in soot and sweat, his expression unreadable as the notification faded. He exhaled slowly, his fingers curling into fists.

"Three out of four... It’s close."

He murmured.

The Tower—whatever it was—was nearly here. He had been chasing its shadow for weeks now, and though the goal felt within reach, he couldn’t shake the feeling coiling in his gut.

Anticipation? Yes.

But also... inadequacy.

Despite everything, despite reaching higher levels and fighting off elite dungeon bosses, something told him he still wasn’t strong enough.

So, he made a decision.

He stopped taking requests. He stopped brewing regular potions.

He disappeared from the public eye. The only thing that mattered now was training. The tower was coming, and if he wasn’t ready, it would consume him.

Fenrir threw himself into dungeon after dungeon. Forest biomes, volcanic caverns, arctic fortresses—he pushed through them all.

With Nedrax sometimes accompanying him and other times staying behind to "watch the hamsters," Fenrir fought monsters until his body refused to move.

His movements became faster, his skill executions cleaner, and his power finally began to feel... enough.

But his relentless grind had consequences.

The online world began to burn with speculation.

Forums, video channels, and social media threads all echoed the same question:

[Where is Mr. X?]

"Anyone seen a new potion drop from Mr. X?"

"His shop’s been quiet for days. Did someone kill him off?"

"Maybe one of the big guilds got jealous and took him out."

"No way. He’s probably cooking up something insane again."

"Nah, he’s dead. I called it first."

It reached a point where hashtags like #FindMrX and #DeadOrAliveMrX began trending worldwide.

Conspiracy videos popped up, analyzing his last posted potion batch, voice frequencies in his rare messages, and even theorizing that "Mr. X" was not a person but an AI project gone rogue.

Fenrir, who had remained blissfully offline, finally decided to take a peek.

And what he saw made him pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Seriously?"

Pages and pages of comments, edits, wild guesses, even fake interviews. It was chaos.

With a sigh, he logged into his old account and sent out a simple, short message.

[I’m alive. Working. Stop panicking.]

That was it. No flashy announcement. No video. Just ten words.

But it was enough to spark another firestorm online.

"It’s fake! That’s not him!"

"No, that is Mr. X. That dry tone? That’s him."

"Whoever this is better prove it. Drop a potion, coward."

Fenrir chuckled but didn’t respond. He had no time to entertain the masses. The Tower was coming.

After a week of nonstop dungeon crawling and refining his skills, Fenrir finally reached the threshold. The system notification rang through his mind:

[Congratulations. You have reached S-Class.]

He didn’t feel elated. If anything, he felt grounded.

"It’s about time."

He muttered.

With that final push behind him, he turned his attention back to something he had put off for too long—the Miracle Potion.

The ingredients had been gathered, the magical furnace was tuned to the right frequency, and the timing had to be perfect.

He took out each rare herb, crystalized core, and drop of mana essence, laying them out precisely on his forge’s marble table.

"No mistakes."

He whispered to himself.

The process began—slow and delicate. The potion’s composition was fragile, and even the slightest imbalance could cause it to explode or turn volatile.

He used his highest-level alchemy skill, [Potion Master], and monitored the color, temperature, and mana flow with obsessive focus.

Minutes turned into hours. A faint, iridescent glow emerged from the cauldron.

The system pinged:

[Potion Created: [Miracle Potion - Unique Class]

Effect: Instantly doubles all base stats. Duration: Permanent. Cooldown: None.

Warning: Consumption effect irreversible.]

Fenrir stared at the finished product, the golden liquid swirling inside a reinforced crystal vial.

He held it up to the light, the reflections casting long shadows along the walls of his forge. This potion alone would catapult him to a whole new level of strength.

It could easily be the difference between life and death inside the Tower.

And yet, he didn’t drink it.

"Not yet. I need to see how I measure up... before and after."

He said aloud.

With careful hands, he placed the vial inside a reinforced case and locked it within a dimensional storage cube only he could access.

He didn’t need shortcuts. He needed a benchmark.

Once the Tower revealed itself, he’d take the potion—inside. There, it would matter more. There, he would see how far he’d truly come.

For now, all he could do was wait for the final piece to fall into place.

"Soon."

Fenrir murmured, looking out of his workshop’s window at the sky, where faint golden particles shimmered in the air—signs that the world was changing once more.

______

A week passed.

At first, Fenrir had been patient. Eager, even.

After all, the first three parts of the Echoes of the Tower quest had been completed in rapid succession.

The momentum had been promising, the signs clear. The Tower should have appeared by now.

But it didn’t.

And slowly, his anticipation turned into frustration.

He scoured dungeon reports, tried deciphering system notifications, even checked obscure forums for patterns—nothing.

The world had collectively hit a wall. No one knew where to look for the final fragment, and no new clue had surfaced since the third was found.

Meanwhile, his inbox was in flames.

Every time he opened the interface, dozens of new messages popped up from unknown senders.

"Mr. X, please brew me a custom mana potion!"

"I’ll pay triple—just tell me you’re alive!"

"Are you selling Miracle Potions? Just name your price!"

He tried to ignore them. Truly, he did. But the non-stop pinging grated on his nerves like nails on metal.

Every five seconds—ping. Then two more. Then ten. It became impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Even setting filters barely helped. The name "Mr. X" was now a magnet for chaos.

And he wasn’t the only one suffering.

Fredric, miles away in Legion’s sleek corporate headquarters, rubbed his temples as he stared at the unread message counter climbing by the second.

His private inbox was being overrun too, filled with direct requests for potions, collaborations, and access to "Mr. X." Some were polite, others outright threatening.

Finally, after several failed attempts at damage control, Fredric snapped.

An official statement from Legion was posted on all major networks and forums:

[NOTICE FROM LEGION:

Anyone attempting to contact Mr. X directly through private messages, or harassing affiliated members for access, will be permanently blacklisted from any and all business dealings with Legion. We do not tolerate interference with our internal operations.]

The message spread fast. Within hours, the pings slowed.

Fenrir, reading the notice with a faint smirk, finally felt the silence return. Peace—at last.