The musty air of the janitorial closet hung thick with the scent of disinfectant and forgotten dreams. It wasn't exactly the ideal laboratory, but for Ethan, it was currently the only sanctuary he had. He stared at the crude diagram floating in his augmented reality interface, overlaid on a dust-covered shelf. It was the formula for the 'Lesser Wound Mend,' the reward for his rather pathetic 'Clean the Alchemy Lab' quest.

The quest itself had been absurdly simple. He'd wiped down some benches, mopped the floor (again), and vacuumed up a particularly stubborn dust bunny colony. But the reward… the reward was intoxicating. The diagram, the AR pop-up providing real-time ingredient analysis, the sheer, undeniable fact that he could *understand* it… it was all a revelation.

Ethan’s fingers, calloused from years of scrubbing and polishing, traced the glowing lines of the formula. He still couldn't quite wrap his head around it. One moment he was Ethan Blackwood, the invisible janitor, the next he was… well, he didn't know *what* he was, but he was something more. Something that could decipher alchemical equations.

He rummaged through a box of forgotten supplies he'd salvaged from the Academy's trash heaps. Blackwood Academy, for all its prestige, was surprisingly wasteful. He located a chipped mortar and pestle, a few dusty vials, and a small, tarnished copper pot. Not exactly state-of-the-art equipment, but it would have to do.

The ingredients, thankfully, were relatively common, at least for an Academy of Arcane Arts. He managed to find dried chamomile flowers tucked away in a forgotten corner of the botany lab (another cleaning quest reward, he now realized, retrospectively labeling), a small bottle of purified water from the advanced filtration system (also from a cleaning quest), and a surprisingly fresh sprig of mint, which he’d pilfered from the Headmaster's meticulously manicured herb garden (no quest, just pure audacity).

The AR interface walked him through the process, each step illuminated with clear instructions and warnings. “Grind the chamomile to a fine powder. Observe the optimal particle size for maximum efficacy.” The words appeared in his vision, accompanied by a helpful close-up of perfectly ground chamomile.

Ethan followed the instructions meticulously, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. What if he messed it up? What if the formula was flawed? What if the whole AR interface was just a hallucination brought on by years of breathing cleaning chemicals?

He ignored the doubts. He had to try.

He combined the chamomile powder with the purified water in the copper pot, carefully stirring it with a glass rod he'd found discarded in the physics lab. The AR interface indicated the optimal stirring speed and direction. He felt like a puppet, controlled by an invisible hand, but it was a surprisingly pleasant feeling.

Next came the mint. He crushed the sprig between his fingers, releasing its fragrant oils, and added it to the mixture. The AR interface pulsed with a soft green light, indicating that he was on the right track.

The final step involved a heating process. The interface displayed a precise temperature and duration. He cautiously placed the pot on a portable hotplate he'd “borrowed” from the abandoned student lounge (another "cleaning" quest, of course, rewarding him with fully functional electronics).

As the mixture simmered, the closet filled with a soothing aroma of chamomile and mint. The AR interface displayed a progress bar, counting down the seconds. Ethan watched with bated breath, his anxiety building.

Finally, the progress bar reached 100%. The interface flashed a message: “Lesser Wound Mend - Complete. Extraction recommended.”

Using a pair of tongs he'd found in the kitchen (no quest, just good old-fashioned resourcefulness), Ethan carefully removed the pot from the hotplate. He poured the liquid through a makeshift filter – a piece of cheesecloth he'd repurposed from the laundry room – into a small, clean vial.

The result was a pale green liquid that shimmered slightly in the dim light of the closet. It looked… well, it looked like it might actually work.

Ethan carefully corked the vial and labeled it with a piece of masking tape and a borrowed pen. "Lesser Wound Mend," he wrote, his handwriting surprisingly neat considering his trembling hands.

He held the vial up to the light, examining it critically. It was real. He had created it. He, Ethan Blackwood, janitor extraordinaire, had brewed a healing potion.

A surge of euphoria washed over him, so intense that he almost stumbled. He had to test it. But on whom? He certainly wasn't going to inflict a wound on himself just to see if his potion worked.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a faint knock echoed from the closet door.

“Hello?” a hesitant voice called out. “Is anyone in there?”

Ethan’s heart leaped into his throat. He quickly shoved the vial into his pocket and plastered on his best "invisible janitor" expression.

He opened the door to reveal a young woman with fiery red hair and a nervous expression. She was wearing the standard Blackwood Academy uniform, albeit slightly singed and disheveled. He recognized her vaguely as Penelope, a junior student known for her explosive mishaps in Alchemy class.

“Oh, um, hi, Ethan,” Penelope stammered, her eyes darting around the closet. “I, uh, I was looking for some cleaning supplies. Professor Eldrune spilled some… some rather volatile ingredients in the lab, and I offered to clean it up.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow, skeptical. Penelope and cleaning were not exactly synonymous.

He was about to politely point her towards the mop bucket when he noticed the angry red burn that ran across the back of her hand. It looked painful.

The AR interface flickered to life, highlighting the burn and displaying a diagnostic message: "Thermal Burn. Second Degree. Lesser Wound Mend recommended."

Ethan hesitated. He could pretend he hadn't seen anything. He could direct her to the infirmary. He could avoid any involvement whatsoever. That was what Ethan Blackwood, the invisible janitor, would normally do.

But something had changed.

“Actually,” he said, surprising even himself, “I might have something that could help.”

Penelope’s eyes widened. “You… you do?”

Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out the vial of Lesser Wound Mend. He uncorked it, and the aroma of chamomile and mint filled the air.

“I just… I just made this,” he said, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. “It’s a healing potion. I’m not sure how effective it is, but…”

He trailed off, unsure of what to say. He felt ridiculous, offering a homemade potion to a student who probably had access to the most advanced healing magic in the Academy.

Penelope, however, seemed genuinely interested. She carefully examined the vial, her expression shifting from skepticism to curiosity.

“What’s in it?” she asked.

Ethan explained the ingredients and the process he’d followed, feeling increasingly self-conscious as he spoke. He left out the part about the augmented reality interface, of course. That would just invite questions he couldn’t answer.

Penelope listened intently, her brow furrowed in concentration. When he finished, she looked at him with a newfound respect.

“Chamomile and mint,” she murmured. “Interesting. It’s… it’s a very old recipe. I’ve read about it in some archaic texts, but I never thought anyone actually used it anymore.”

She took a tentative sniff of the potion. “It smells… calming. And the color is right. Okay, I’m willing to try it.”

Ethan felt a surge of relief mixed with apprehension. He carefully poured a small amount of the potion onto Penelope’s burned hand.

The moment the liquid touched her skin, a visible shimmer rippled across the burn. Penelope gasped softly.

“It… it feels cool,” she said, her eyes widening. “And… it’s not hurting as much.”

The AR interface provided real-time feedback. "Inflammation decreasing. Tissue regeneration commencing."

Ethan watched, mesmerized, as the redness around the burn began to fade. Within moments, the angry wound looked significantly less severe.

Penelope flexed her hand, testing its mobility. “Wow,” she said, her voice filled with awe. “It’s… it’s actually working. It’s really working!”

She looked at Ethan with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief. “Where did you learn to do this?”

Ethan swallowed hard. He couldn’t tell her the truth. He couldn’t explain the AR interface or the cleaning quests or the sudden surge of alchemical knowledge.

“I… I just read a lot,” he mumbled, hoping he sounded vaguely convincing. “I’ve always been interested in alchemy.”

Penelope clearly didn’t believe him, but she didn’t press the issue. “Well, whatever you did, thank you,” she said, offering him a genuine smile. “You just saved me from a very embarrassing trip to the infirmary. And probably a lecture from Professor Eldrune.”

She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You know, I’m actually having a lot of trouble with my potion-making assignment. I can’t seem to get the ingredients to react properly. Maybe… maybe you could help me? I could pay you, of course.”

Ethan’s mind raced. Tutoring Penelope in alchemy? It was an insane idea. He was a janitor, not a professor. He barely understood the basics himself.

But the AR interface was already responding. A new quest popped up in his vision: "Tutor Penelope in Basic Potion Brewing. Reward: Academic Approval. New Alchemic Ability Unlocked."

He looked at Penelope, her eyes filled with hope. He looked at the shimmering green vial in his hand, proof that he was capable of more than he ever imagined. He looked at the quest, the promise of new abilities, the chance to finally escape the suffocating invisibility of his existence.

He took a deep breath.

“Okay,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ll help you.”

And with that single word, Ethan Blackwood, the accidental alchemist, took another step towards rewriting his destiny. He just hoped he wouldn’t regret it.