A university lab late at night had its own special magic.
The ventilation systems and refrigerators hummed quietly, the air smelled of ozone, alcohol, and something sterile.
Peter Parker, despite the late hour, didn’t look tired — on the contrary, he was full of energy.
In his element.
“Done,” he said, with the pride of a scientist displaying the fruits of his labor.
He carefully handed me a small dark-glass vial.
The liquid inside looked perfectly clear.
“Fifty milliliters.
99.98% purity, I checked it on the chromatograph.”
I carefully accepted the vessel, feeling its pleasant coolness.
Fifty milliliters.
Ten doses of the Stimulant.
Ten injections of superhuman strength.
Inside, everything was jubilant.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Umm, well…” Peter hesitated, sheepishly scratching the back of his head.
“The reagents 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 — I wanted to achieve maximum purity through fractional distillation, and that required a surplus stock…
Probably should have made less, it’s a bit expensive…”
“No, no, not at all,” I hastened to reassure him, seeing genuine embarrassment on his face.
It was almost touching.
“That’s not expensive, it’s perfect.
Money is absolutely no problem.
Here, take this.
For the reagents and your time.”
I held out five crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Peter’s eyes widened.
“Five hundred?
That’s…
way too much for twenty minutes on a synthesizer!
I can’t take…”
I saw his simple, slightly worn clothes, his scuffed sneakers.
I knew he needed the money.
But I couldn’t just shove it at him — his pride wouldn’t allow it.
I had to come at it from another angle, turning it not into a handout, but into a logical and fair reward.
“Peter,” I said, changing the subject to throw him off balance.
“Where do you live?”
“Uh…
Queens, why?” Got it, just as I thought — this version with his aunt, and hopefully a living Uncle Ben.
“Alone or with family?”
“With my aunt and uncle,” skepticism already creeping into his voice.
“Right.
You study at a prestigious university, live in one of the most expensive cities in the world, in a pricey neighborhood, work part-time for Connors…
Tell me honestly, does that pay well?” I asked the last question gently, without pressure.
Understanding flickered in his eyes.
He looked at his hands, then at the bills in my palm.
He understood that I wasn’t trying to humiliate him, just stating a fact.
A genius forced to count every cent.
He didn’t object anymore, 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 exactly do you need to stimulate chlorella’s metabolism?” his scientific curiosity overcoming his embarrassment.
“Using an active substance based on testosterone…
that’s a very nontrivial approach to working with plant cells.
I couldn’t even find any similar studies.”
Damn.
He was too smart.
I couldn’t brush him off with a simple excuse.
“Let’s just say, it’s a strange hobby of mine,” I grinned, trying to look like an eccentric enthusiast.
“A long-term project researching hormonal analogs for triggering cascade reactions in lipid synthesis.
Probably a failure, but the idea got stuck in my head.
Don’t worry your head about it.”
I could see I hadn’t fully convinced him, but he at least pretended to accept the answer.
Time to wrap this up.
I carefully examined the vial in my hands, then nodded to Parker.
“This is exactly what I needed.
You saved my project, man.”
“Glad I could help,” he smiled, though a hint of curiosity still lingered in his eyes.
“If you need anything else — just let me know.”
“Will do.
Thanks again.”
I slipped out of the lab, the precious vial secure in my inventory.
Fifty milliliters of near-perfect testosterone.
Combined with the other components sitting in my garage, that meant ten doses of the Muscle Stimulant.
Ten chances to turn the tables when the vampires came crawling back.
And they would come back.
Of that, I had no doubt.
“Well, I’ll be going.
Thanks again, really.
Listen, would you mind if I sometimes write to you with weird science questions?
As a more experienced colleague in the craft.”
That phrase hit the mark.
Peter’s eyes lit up with fanatical gleam.
“Of course, it’s no trouble!” he answered with a sincere smile.
“Write anytime.
I won’t keep you.
See you.”
We shook hands, and I left the lab, feeling like a second-rate spy who’d just recruited a priceless asset.
In the taxi carrying me through the night city, I allowed myself to relax.
Ten doses of stimulant.
If the System values them the same as the Intellect Potion, that’s 200 CP for the first, plus nine more at smaller amounts.
Total — a mountain of points.
I hadn’t spun the gacha since that time I got Extremis and a crate of ore.
The next two spins cost 300 and 350 CP.
After making the stimulants, I’d probably have enough for both, and if not, I’d farm the rest quickly.
What would I get?
Another impossible blueprint?
“We’re here,” the taxi driver’s voice snapped me out of my daydreams about items above ‘Common’ rarity.
Paying up, I got out of the car and entered my garage — my fortress, my workshop.
The precious vial of testosterone took its place of honor on a special stand.
I just stood there for a few minutes, replaying the upcoming process in my head, getting into the groove.
The day had worn me out, but right now, before the final push, I felt an incredible surge of energy.
“Phew…” I exhaled, pushing aside all extraneous thoughts.
“Alright.
Time to start.”
The process was like a surgeon’s dance.
No rushing, every movement measured.
First — activation.
I measured exactly 5 milliliters of synthetic testosterone into a glass flask on a magnetic stirrer.
The liquid lazily sloshed, reflecting the lamp light.
Then I lowered a small square of titanium mesh into it.
Turning on the heat 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 nitrogenous suspension.
I cooled the finished base in an ice bath, then sent it to the centrifuge.
At high speed, it separated unreacted residue and microscopic impurities.
Into the purified, almost weightless suspension, I added a few milliliters of colloidal palladium solution.
According to the knowledge implanted in my brain, microscopic palladium ions immediately began to ‘envelop’ the unstable molecules, like putting them in individual cages.
They kept them from breaking down prematurely and, more importantly, ensured their safe elimination from the body after use.
Final touch: a couple of milligrams of BSA powder for better absorption, and dilution with a mixture of distilled water and isopropyl alcohol to the required concentration.
Done.
The preparation was ready.
I carefully poured the finished dose into an auto-injector that looked like a futuristic pen syringe.
[Created Potion: Muscle Stimulant.
Difficulty: Normal.
+200 CP gained!]
Yes!
200 points, just like for the first dose of Intellect Potion.
But 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 that I still didn’t quite understand.
I spent the next hour and a half in a flow state, repeating the procedure nine more times.
It was meditative, almost hypnotic work.
[Created Potion: Muscle Stimulant.
Difficulty: Normal.
+150 CP gained!]
[Created Potion: Muscle Stimulant.
Difficulty: Normal.
+100 CP gained!]
[Created Potion: Muscle Stimulant.
Difficulty: Normal.
+50 CP gained!]
[…
+40 CP gained!]
…
[…
+10 CP gained!]
When the last injector was filled, I leaned back in my chair.
The result: 620 CP.
I was short about thirty points for the second gacha spin at 350.
I could have farmed them quickly, but my gambling spirit had already kicked in.
If something good dropped on the first try, I might not even need the second.
Decision made.
Spin first, think later.
I closed my eyes, concentrated, and gave a mental command: “Forge the Universe!” 300 CP were deducted from my balance, and a system notification flashed before my inner eye.
I eagerly devoured the text.
[Received Information Package (Common) – Master Clockmaker (Arcanum of Steamworks and Magick Obscura).
Unlock Cost: 200 CP]
“Years of working with mechanisms and complex blueprints have honed your attention to the smallest details.
Your vision remains sharp even in the dim light of a workshop, allowing you to discern the finest elements of structures.
Your mind can instantly memorize and analyze complex schematics, making assembly of any device fast and precise.
The monocle, once necessary for work, now serves only as a stylish accent to your mastery.”
Master Clockmaker?
The Random God clearly had a twisted sense of humor, handing me something from the ‘Arcanum’ again.
But…
I read the description once more.
This wasn’t an abstract blueprint anymore.
This was a passive skill.
And not just any skill, but a veritable Holy Grail for any Crafter.
Instant memorization of schematics, precision, attention to detail…
This meant I wouldn’t have to waste precious Intellect Potions on assembling complex devices like the UV projector anymore.
Just one look at the blueprint would be enough.
At 200 CP, this wasn’t a purchase; it was daylight robbery.
Sold!
Without hesitation, I poured the points into unlocking it.
And immediately realized that the pain of getting the Shield Generator blueprint was child’s play.
Data wasn’t just being loaded into me.
An entire life was being crammed in.
Decades of someone else’s experience, devoted to working with tiny gears and springs.
I felt phantom calluses on my fingers, sensed the ghostly weight of a monocle on my eye, inhaled a non-existent smell of brass and clock oil.
The whole essence, the obsession and pedantry of an old master poured into me over a few agonizing minutes.
When the pain subsided, I opened my eyes.
And was horrified.
I looked at my garage lab with a new, unclouded gaze.
And what I saw was disgusting.
It wasn’t creative clutter.
It was chaos.
Tools were lying in the wrong places.
Chemical stains on the table could have affected the purity of future reactions.
Equipment wires were tangled in a knot, posing a fire hazard.
Poor ventilation, wrong lighting, inefficient space organization…
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, evaluated this place as a disaster.
And that same gaze couldn’t help but notice that it was deep into the night.
I needed to decide what to do next.
Stay here, in this breeding ground of unsanitary conditions and inefficiency?
Or flee to some anonymous motel to let my newly acquired instincts settle down?
The Master inside me wouldn’t tolerate sleep, knowing his workshop was in such a deplorable state.
* * *
The windowless room was shrouded in darkness, thick and velvety, like centuries-old dust in a crypt.
The air was still and cold, saturated with the subtle aroma of expensive tobacco and something elusively metallic — something an experienced medic would immediately identify as blood.
The only source of light was a lone desk lamp, pulling from the darkness an impeccably pressed three-piece suit and the predatory profile of a black-haired man.
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” The voice that broke the silence was calm, but that icy restraint exuded more threat than any scream.
“They had one job.
One.
Follow the brat.
Find his new lair.
And report.
Explain to me how they managed to fail such a primitive task.”
On the carpet, in a pool of light at his master’s feet, a subordinate knelt on one knee.
His pale, gaunt face glistened with anxiety, and his entire body trembled finely.
“L-Lord Likkus…” he began, stammering.
“We checked the last known location.
A dead end by an abandoned building in Hell’s Kitchen.
The kid’s car turned in there, and ours followed.
There are clear tire tracks on the ground…
but…”
Likkus Haskiel slowly raised his hand, and the subordinate fell silent, afraid to breathe.
A perfectly polished fingernail began tapping a quiet, nervous rhythm on the ebony tabletop.
“‘But’?” he hissed.
“But there’s no one there!” the subordinate blurted out.
“The car…
it just vanished!
We combed the entire area.
No one drove up to that building or left it after them.
Not the brat’s Honda, not our Land Cruiser.
Absolute emptiness.
They just disappeared.
Without a trace.”
The tapping of the nail on the wood quickened.
It was their night, their time.
His hounds should have already dragged in the insolent thief who dared to encroach 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 Likkus.
But instead, his men had vanished.
Experienced, strong vampires sent to tail a simple human.
Not a mutant, not a mage, not a mercenary in tactical armor.
An ordinary mortal student.
The insult was unprecedented.
“His own car.
Did it appear on any cameras during the day?”
“No, my Lord.
Our network specialist didn’t register its movements.”
The rhythm on the table stopped.
Likkus laced his fingers together.
He liked the situation less and less.
Such a trace-less disappearance was the work of a professional.
Had this brat turned out to be someone other than he seemed?
Unlikely.
More likely, he had stolen the Ghost Orchid on someone’s orders.
But who was the puppeteer?
Enemy clans?
The bastards from Mistiel?
That was their style — using other people’s hands, weaving intrigues from behind the scenes.
Those perfumed snakes were always greedy for rare alchemical ingredients.
But there was a truce between their clans.
Fragile, hanging by a thread, but still in effect.
The Krigers?
Those thick-headed berserkers?
They wouldn’t have the brains to pull off something this clean.
They would have just smashed down the wall of his mansion, killed the guards, and tried to take what they wanted, leaving a mountain of corpses and destruction behind.
No, not their style.
Trix?
Those cannibal creatures, despised even in vampire society, were exterminated root and branch.
Personally, that fucking Blade went through their New York lair with fire and silver.
That bastard wouldn’t have missed a single creature — his vampire sense is better than any hunting dog.
Could a few individuals have survived and gone to ground?
Taken control of a mortal, lured his men into a trap, and drained them dry?
The probability existed, but it seemed negligible.
Who else?
The Jamlins?
Red-skinned hermits who hadn’t poked their heads out of their underground holes in centuries?
Or the weaklings from Anhoriel, who’d gotten drunk on animal blood again, ‘found Zen,’ and decided they needed the Orchid for another failed Potion of Higher Wisdom?
No, their methods were bribery and trade, not tricks like this.
Something didn’t add up…
What if the puppeteer wasn’t a vampire?
Intelligence services?
The agreements were still in force; his men wouldn’t be touched without a good 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 petty matters.
His style was to burst in with a shotgun, not arrange quiet disappearances.
“The answer is in the brat…” Likkus finally said, his voice cold and flat again.
He looked at his underling with a gaze that made the blood freeze in his veins.
“And we will get it.
This is no longer a petty theft.
This is a blood insult against Clan Haskiel.
Find the boy.
At any cost.”
He paused, thinking.
“Capture alive.
But if he turns out to be a truly slippery bastard…
dead will do, too.
We can always resurrect him as a new Clan slave.
The dead are far more talkative.”