Potion Shop

Potion Shop is an idle game drawn as a leaning timber-framed apothecary out of a storybook. A huge cauldron bubbles centre-stage under a crooked copper hood, coloured smoke climbing into the chimney, while the walls behind it are shelves crammed with glowing bottles in every jewel colour. Tap the pot to stir: sparkles come off the surface, a cork pops, and a fresh bottle flies up to the shelf. A bell rings over the door, a hooded customer shuffles in, drops a coin on the counter and leaves with your work under one arm.

Ten recipes fill the book, from a Healing Draught that tastes of beetroot and regret to a Philosopher's Solution nobody can quite explain. Each one brews at its own pace and sells for its own price, and every tenth, twenty-fifth and fiftieth bottle doubles what that recipe brings in. Five ingredient gardens feed them — a damp log of redcaps, a window box of moonflowers, a basin of very smug newts, a split geode and a rack of shed dragon scales — and four apprentices take a turn at the ladle for you: a nervous goblin, a bookish owl, a ghost who used to own the shop, and a clay golem with one word on its forehead. Spend on a bigger pot, more shelf space and a better sign over the door, and write pages into the spellbook that multiply the lot.

The shop runs itself while the tab is closed, for up to eight hours, and a card tells you what the night trade brought in. Things go wrong on their own schedule: the pot boils over and you have five seconds to catch the splash, the dragon asleep on the counter sneezes fire and everything brews three times as fast, a cursed customer needs exactly the right bottle, a crate of rare ingredients lands on the mat, and the raven makes off with a coin. When a village has given you all it has, pack the crates and move: the shop starts again somewhere new — a pine forest, a salt harbour, a mountain pass, and finally the moon — and every moonstone you carry with you lifts every coin you earn afterwards.