Swim-Speed Infusion +10 rests in the palm like a teardrop of seawater pressed into pale glass—a slender vial, just over an inch in length, its body a cool aquamarine that shifts to emerald at the edge of the light. The surface is brushed with a honeyed sheen, as if a thin film of waves had been trapped inside. A tiny compass rose is etched along the side, surrounded by minute runes that glow faintly when the coral-bright light hits them. The cork is wrapped in brass wire, and when you flick the vial, a soft current curls within the liquid, breathing a promise of speed. Some say the vial carries a whisper of the sea's memory, a fragment of a swimmer's instinct saved for a moment of need. In the stories told around campfires and market stalls, these infusions are said to be born from Tidecallers who learned to siphon the sea's own tempo into a bottle. They were traded for feats in waterlogged cities and used by explorers who faced maelstroms and long, tiring crossings. The +10 tag marks a stout boost, a reliable push when you dive into shallows that become rivers, and a guarantee that a line of kelp and a rushing current can be outrun by a careful stroke. When slotted, it doesn't just quicken your pace; it changes the rhythm of your swim, making you glide through water as if the world had slowed around you. When the sun drops and the river widens, the infusion keeps time with your strokes, a metronome that nobody can hear but everyone can feel. In practice, it shines most during underwater map exploration, where shipping lanes and sunken ships hide behind silt and shadow. It can be slotted into armor upgrade slots, and the buff travels with you even when you switch weapons, allowing a swift, confident dash of speed as you swim past kelp forests and encrusted gun mounts. It becomes a part of the explorer's toolkit, a quiet ally in long voyages. And pricing tails the same wind. I paused at Saddlebag Exchange, where a handful of vials sat in a row behind a glass counter, each one pulsing with that pale liquid. The merchants spoke in low, careful tones about scarcity and demand—the sort of barter where a tale of a near-drowning expedition could tilt the price by a coin or two. A few sellers offered the +10 infusion for a price that was modest by explorer standards, a few silver at most, far less than the cost of a week of ship fare. As I watched, a pair of adventurers traded tales and coins, the deal sealed with a grin and a nod. In those stalls, the infusion was more than a buff; it was a symbol—a promise that the next crossing, the next sunken ruin, might be walked as if the water itself remembered your name. Its glow lingers in memory long after the water closes again today.