+16 Agony Infusion

+16 Agony Infusion sits on the market cloth like a shard of night: a squat glass capsule sealed with a lid of brushed iron, the surface etched with sigils that flicker from inky violet to pale ember as the light shifts. The core within twists, a living mote that seems to breathe through its own haze, and the rune-work around it crawls along the metal like shy fireflies trapped in a cage of glass. It feels heavier than it should, as if it carries a memory and a debt in equal measure, a relic forged in the shadowed heart of some long-forgotten order. When you cradle it, the air grows somehow denser, a whisper of the world’s old pain sliding up your sleeve and into your palm, promising power to those who listen. Lore threads tighten around the infusion the moment you hold it close. Some whisper that it was forged by artisans who bargained with old spirits, the kind of agreement whispered in halls where the lights never quite reach the corners. The infusion is said to drain a fragment of agony from its bearer, then feed that burden into the armor it blesses, turning hardship into resilience. Others insist it is a relic of siege-wages and night-work, poured into alloy and fae-silk to stabilize a shield against the world’s sharper edges. Whether myth or fact, the "+16" marks a line drawn in blood and patience: not a common upgrade, but a peak reached by those who chase a build’s arc as eagerly as a thief chases a vault’s echo. In practical terms, it is a tool for those who walk fragile, ambitious lines with their gear. Slotted into an appropriate piece of equipment, it does more than add numbers; it braids the user’s vitality into the fabric of the item itself, granting a higher threshold for agony and letting the wearer push into deeper fractals and more demanding encounters. It is the kind of infusion a veteran keeps close to their heart, not because it is flashy, but because it changes the rhythm of every fight: the moment when pain lurches forward and you answer with steadier breath, a shield that feels less like refuge and more like a quiet blade—always present, always there when you need it most. Market whispers carry the glow of such artifacts far beyond the stall’s shade. If you listen to the chatter around Saddlebag Exchange, you hear the same refrain: these infusions drift in price with the mood of the market and the appetite of builders who chase late-in-the-night breakthroughs. Traders trade tales as they trade metal, and someone will haggle over gold or rare components until morning. A line forms around the tent; eyes flick from the infusion to the faces of the smiths who speak in measured tone about risk, rarity, and the patient work of infusion crafting. The price, like the item, is a story—evolving, earned, and always contested. So you pocket the weight of the moment as you slide the +16 Agony Infusion into its slot, feeling the room hush for a heartbeat, as if the world itself leans closer to hear what you will do next. It is not merely a upgrade; it is a narrative hinge, a tool that binds grit to gear and fate to a build, a reminder that some power is earned only when pain and patience walk hand in hand.