+12 Agony Infusion rests in a slender vial of obsidian glass, the copper cap crowned with thorn sigils that glint in the light. The surface is cool to the touch, granular as if ground from night itself, and a thread of ruby resin seals the seam. Inside, a flickering violet core pulses, a tiny nebula that never settles. Tilt the bottle and the liquid glows along the beveled edges like a map of a storm you’re not sure you’re brave enough to chart. Whispers say the infusion was forged in the furnaces where the Mists learned to bite, a relic of pact-wearers who walked the line between endurance and ruin; the +12 mark signals its pinnacle. Its aura hums with patient, almost malevolent gratitude, as if it knows it will be pressed into a life-or-death moment and come through. In gameplay, the infusion is not mere ornament. It is a key, a way to train armor for deeper, unforgiving fractal corridors. Slotted into an ascended piece, it raises the agony threshold, letting you survive the onslaughts that challenge your stamina. Players speak of it as a talisman that buys a team mercy—a window to stagger pulls, to reset without a loss, to reach a fractal boss while others hold the line. Its use is never solitary; it belongs to a story you tell with your squad, the way you plan as a map unfolds its dangerous secrets. You feel it in your hands when the wind shifts, a reminder that every fight leaves a mark. Market life: caravans roll into the markets, and Saddlebag Exchange keeps its ledger open at dawn and midnight, counting demand for these rare fusions. People haggle, trading stories and silks for a chance at a bottle like this. On good days the price hovers in gold range; scarcity and risk stitch value together; on bad days, a rumor about a misfired infusion can send it skittering downward. Buyers arrive with careful trades, a list of names and parry tricks, while sellers balance risk against the memory of a run gone wrong in the Mists. The +12 Agony Infusion threads its way through the economy as much as through a party’s lineup; it is both commodity and compass, pointing toward deeper stories. That is the story the artifact carries—why it matters beyond the stats. When allies stand before a crimson corridor, the infusion whispers of a pact kept, nights spent studying diagrams and breathing through pain, a shared goal to reach further. It is more than a tool; it is a measured breath between triumphs and losses, a slug of courage pressed into gear, and a stubborn reminder that every step deeper costs something, every victory is earned with a chorus of companions. And in the fractal halls, a bottle of +12 Agony Infusion glints like a stubborn star guiding a crew through the dark. Its weight, in the end, is measured not in gold but in the stories carried forward by those who survived.