The university laboratory late at night possessed its own, special magic. Ventilation systems and refrigeration units hummed quietly, the air smelled of ozone, alcohol, and something sterile. Peter Parker, despite the late hour, didn't look tired, but on the contrary—full of energy. In his element.
"Done," he said, with the pride of a scientist demonstrating the fruits of his labor. He carefully handed me a small bottle made of dark glass. The liquid inside looked perfectly clear. "Fifty milliliters. 99.98% purity, checked on the chromatograph."
I gingerly accepted the vessel, feeling its pleasant coolness. Fifty milliliters. Ten portions of Stimulant. Ten injections of super-strength. Inside, everything was jubilant.
"How much do I owe you?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Um, well..." Peter hesitated, guiltily scratching the back of his head. "With the reagents, it came to about 300 dollars. I'll have to order new ones for the lab. I think I got a bit carried away with the volume, wanted to achieve maximum purity by fractional distillation, and for that, I needed a reserve... I probably should have made less, it's kind of expensive..."
"No, no, not at all," I hurried to reassure him, seeing the genuine embarrassment on his face. It was even touching. "It's not expensive, it's perfect. Money isn't a problem at all. Here, take this. This is for the reagents and for your time spent."
I handed him five fresh hundred-dollar bills. Peter's eyes widened.
"Five hundred? That's... too much for twenty minutes on a synthesizer! I can't take it..."
I saw his simple, slightly worn clothes, scuffed sneakers. I knew he needed the money. But you couldn't just shove it at him—his pride wouldn't allow it. I had to approach from another side, turn it not into a handout, but into a logical and fair reward.
"Peter," I changed the subject, throwing him off. "Where do you live?"
"Uh... in Queens, why?" Aha, as I thought, this version has an Aunt, and, hopefully, a living Uncle Ben.
"Alone or with family?"
"With my uncle and aunt," there was already bewilderment in his voice.
"I see. You're studying at a prestigious university, living in one of the most expensive cities in the world, in a pricey neighborhood, working part-time for Connors... Tell me honestly, does that pay well?" I asked the last question softly, without pressure.
A flash of understanding crossed his eyes. He looked at his hands, then at the bills in my palm. He realized I wasn't trying to humiliate him, but just stating a fact. Him, a genius who was forced to count every cent. He didn't object further and, carefully taking the money, tucked it into his jeans pocket.
An awkward silence fell. To break it, Peter returned to the only topic that connected us.
"So why stimulate Chlorella metabolism anyway?" his scientific curiosity overcame his embarrassment. "Using an active substance based on testosterone... that's a very non-trivial approach to working with plant cells. I didn't even find similar research."
Damn. He's too smart. A simple excuse won't cut it here.
"Let's just say it's my weird hobby," I chuckled, trying to look like an eccentric enthusiast. "A long-term project on investigating hormonal analogs for triggering lipid synthesis cascade reactions. Most likely a failure, but the idea got stuck in my head. Don't worry your head about it."
I saw that I hadn't fully convinced him, but he at least pretended to accept the answer. It was time to wrap things up.
"Anyway, I'll be going. Thanks again, huge help. Listen, would you mind if I occasionally write to you with weird scientific questions? As a more experienced colleague in the trade."
That phrase hit the mark exactly. Peter's eyes lit up with a fanatical glow.
"Of course, I wouldn't mind!" he replied with a sincere smile. "Write anytime. Won't keep you. Bye."
We shook hands, and I left the laboratory feeling like a second-rate spy who had just recruited a most valuable asset.
In the taxi carrying me through the night city, I allowed myself to relax. Ten portions of stimulant. If the System values them the same as the Intellect Potion, that's 200 OP for the first one, plus 9 more at a lower value. Total—a mountain of points. I haven't spun the gacha since that time I got the Extremis and the crate of ore. The next two "spins" cost 300 and 350 OP. After creating the stimulants, I'll likely have enough for both, and if not, I'll finish the remainder quickly. What will I get? Another impossible blueprint? Or maybe another cheaty item, incredibly useful right now?
"We're here," the taxi driver's voice pulled me out of dreams about items of rarity above "common."
After paying, I got out of the car and entered my garage—my fortress, my workshop. The precious bottle of testosterone took pride of place on a special stand. I just stood there for a few minutes, playing the upcoming process through in my head, tuning into the work. Today had worn me out, but right now, before the final push, I felt an incredible surge of strength.
"Phew..." I exhaled, brushing aside all extra thoughts. "Alright. Let's get started."
The process was like a surgeon's dance. No rush, every movement calculated. First step—activation. Into a glass flask on a magnetic stirrer, I measured exactly 5 milliliters of synthetic testosterone. The liquid splashed lazily, reflecting the lamp's light. Then I dropped a small square of titanium mesh into it. Turning on the heating and stirring, I set the temperature to 80 degrees Celsius. The quiet hum of the stirrer became the only sound in the garage. After a few minutes, under the influence of heat and the titanium catalyst which ruthlessly "tore" stable molecular bonds, the clear liquid began to cloud, turning into an active, unstable nitrogen suspension.
I cooled the finished base in an ice bath and then sent it to the centrifuge. At high speeds, it separated unreacted residues and microscopic impurities. Into the purified, almost weightless suspension, I introduced several milliliters of colloidal palladium solution. If the knowledge imprinted in my brain was to be believed, the microscopic palladium ions immediately began to "envelop" the unstable molecules as if putting them in individual cages. They prevented them from breaking down prematurely and, more importantly, ensured their safe removal from the body after use.
The final touch: a few milligrams of BSA powder for better absorption and dilution with a mixture of distilled water and isopropyl alcohol to the right concentration. Done. The drug was ready. I carefully transferred the finished dose into an automatic injector, looking like a futuristic syringe pen.
[Muscle Stimulant potion created. Difficulty: Normal. Received +200 OP!]
Yes! 200 points, just like for the first dose of Intellect Potion. Но this time I didn't have to risk my life for a Ghost Orchid. Just pure science, chemistry, and a bit of Arcanum techno-magic I don't yet understand.
I spent the next hour and a half in a state of flow, repeating the procedure nine more times. It was meditative, almost hypnotic work.
[Muscle Stimulant potion created. Difficulty: Normal. Received +150 OP!]
[Muscle Stimulant potion created. Difficulty: Normal. Received +100 OP!]
[Muscle Stimulant potion created. Difficulty: Normal. Received +50 OP!]
[... Received +40 OP!]
...
[... Received +10 OP!]
When the last injector was filled, I leaned back in the chair. Total: 620 OP. I was some thirty OP short for the second gacha spin for 350 points. I could have finished them quickly, but excitement had already taken hold. If something worthwhile drops on the first try, the second might not be needed. Decided. Spin first, think later.
I closed my eyes, concentrated, and gave the mental command: "Forge the Universe!". 300 OP were deducted from my balance, and a system notification flashed before my inner eye. I greedily devoured the text.
[Information package received (Common) – Master Clockmaker (Arcanum of Steam Mechanisms and Magical Mysteries). Unlock cost: 200 OP]
Years of working with mechanisms and complex blueprints have sharpened your attention to the smallest details. Your vision remains sharp even in the dim light of a workshop, allowing you to distinguish the thinnest elements of constructions. Your mind is capable of instantly memorizing and analyzing complex diagrams, making the assembly of any devices fast and accurate. The monocle, once necessary for work, now serves only as a stylish addition to your mastery.
Master Clockmaker? The God of Randomness clearly possessed a twisted sense of humor, shoving something from the "Arcanum" at me again. But... I re-read the description again. This wasn't an abstract blueprint anymore. This was a passive skill. And not just a skill, but a real Grail for any Creator. Instant memorization of diagrams, precision, attention to detail... This means I no longer have to spend precious Intellect Potions on assembling complex devices like the UV projector. It would be enough to look at the diagram once. For 200 OP, this wasn't a purchase, it was highway robbery. I'll take it!
Without hesitation, I poured the points into the unlock. And immediately realized that the pain of receiving the Protective Field Generator blueprint was child's play. They weren't just uploading data into me. They were shoving an entire life in. Decades of someone else's experience given to working with tiny gears and springs. I felt phantom calluses on my fingers, felt the ghostly weight of a monocle on my eye, breathed in the non-existent smell of brass and clock oil. The whole essence, all the obsession and pedantry of an old master poured into me over several agonizing minutes.
When the pain receded, I opened my eyes. And I was horrified.
I looked at my garage laboratory with a new, unclouded gaze. And what I saw was disgusting. It wasn't creative mess. It was chaos. Tools were lying in the wrong places. Chemical stains were visible on the tabletop, which could affect the purity of future reactions. Equipment wires were tangled in a ball, presenting a fire hazard. Insufficient ventilation, improper lighting, ineffective organization of space... Dozens, hundreds of small and large problems that my brain could no longer ignore screamed of incompetence.
The gaze of a Master Clockmaker, accustomed to micron precision and perfect order, assessed this place as a disaster. And that same gaze couldn't help but notice that it was deep in the night. I had to decide what to do next. Stay here in this hotbed of anti-hygiene and inefficiency? Or escape to some anonymous motel to let the newly acquired instincts settle? But I knew the answer. The Master inside me wouldn't tolerate sleep knowing his workshop was in such a deplorable state.
***
In the windowless room, darkness reigned, thick and velvety like century-old dust in a crypt. The air was still and cold, permeated with the thin aroma of expensive tobacco and something subtly metallic, something an experienced medic would immediately call blood. The only light source was a single desk lamp, highlighting a perfectly ironed three-piece suit and the predatory profile of a black-haired man from the darkness.
"What do you mean 'disappeared'?" the voice that broke the silence was calm, but from this icy restraint emanated more threat than from any shout. "They had one task. One. Follow the boy. Find out his new lair. And report. Explain to me how they managed to fail such a primitive task."
On the carpet, in the pool of light at the master's feet, stood his subordinate on one knee. His pale, thin face glistened with agitation, and his whole body was shaken by a fine tremor.
"L-Lord Lykus..." he began, stuttering. "We checked the last known location. A dead end at an abandoned building in Hell's Kitchen. The boy's car turned there, and our car followed. There are clear tread marks on the terrain... but..."
Lykus Haskell slowly raised his hand, and the subordinate went silent, afraid to breathe. A perfectly polished fingernail began to drum a quiet, nervous rhythm on the ebony tabletop.
"'But'?" he hissed.
"But there's no one there!" the subordinate blurted out. "The car... it's as if it vanished! We scoured the whole area. No one approached that building or left it after them. Neither the boy's Honda nor our Land Cruiser. Absolute emptiness. They simply disappeared. Trace-lessly."
The drumming of the nail on the wood became more frequent. It was their night, their time. His hounds should have already dragged in the arrogant little thief who had encroached on the Clan's property. Depending on the boy's answers, his fate would have been decided—a quick death or long, agonizing hours of entertainment for Lykus. But instead, his people had disappeared. Experienced, strong vampires sent to tail a simple human. Not a mutant, not a mage, not a mercenary in tactical armor. A simple mortal student. The insult was unheard of.
"His own car. Did it appear on cameras during the day?"
"No, my Lord. Our network specialist didn't record its movements."
The rhythm on the table broke off. Lykus clasped his fingers. He liked the situation less and less. Such a trace-less disappearance—that's the work of a professional. Was this boy not who he seemed? Unlikely. Most likely, he stole the Ghost Orchid at someone's bidding as well. But who is this puppet master?
Rival clans? The bastards from Mistiel? That's their style—acting through others, weaving intrigues from behind. Those perfumed snakes were always greedy for rare alchemical ingredients. But there was a truce between their clans. Shaky, hanging by a thread, but it still held for now.
The Kriegers? Those thick-headed berserkers? They wouldn't have the brains to pull off something so clean. They would just knock down his mansion wall, slaughter the guards, and try to take what they need, leaving a mountain of corpses and destruction behind. No, that's not their signature.
The Trix? Those cannibalistic freaks, despised even in the vampire community, were cut out to the root. Fucking Blade himself went through their New York lair with fire and silver. That bastard wouldn't miss a single creature; his scent for vampires is better than any hunting dog's. Could a few individuals have survived and gone to ground? Taken control of a mortal, lured his people into a trap, and drained them to the last drop? There was a probability, but it seemed tiny.
Who else? The Jamlyns? Red-skinned hermits who hadn't poked their heads out of their underground burrows for centuries? Or the weaklings from Anchoriel who over-drank animal blood again, "attained Zen," and decided they needed an Orchid for another failed Potion of Supreme Wisdom? No, their methods are bribery and trade, not such tricks.
Something didn't add up... What if the puppet master isn't a vampire? Special services? Agreements are still in force; his people wouldn't be touched without a valid reason and subsequent notification. Another self-proclaimed superhero in tights? Possible. A follower of Blade? Also an option. But definitely not Blade himself. The Daywalker wouldn't bother with such trifles. His style is bursting in with a shotgun at the ready, not arranging quiet disappearances.
"The answer is in the boy..." Lykus finally said, and his voice became cold and steady again. He looked at his subordinate with a gaze that made the other's blood turn to ice. "And we will get it. This is no longer a small theft. This is a blood insult dealt to the Haskell Clan. Find the boy. At any cost."
He paused, thinking.
"Capture him alive. But if he turns out to be a truly slippery bastard... dead will do too. We can always resurrect him as a new slave of the Clan. The dead are much more talkative."