Eight hours.
With travel time — seven.
Seven hours until the meeting that would determine whether I died a horrible death or got a chance at life.
I needed to use this time as productively as possible.
And I knew how.
Back in the garage, I surveyed the order I’d created with my own hands.
Every tool was in its place, every surface was clean.
But instead of satisfaction, I felt emptiness.
And it was instantly filled by a desire — sharp, all-consuming, almost painful.
This wasn’t just a whim.
It was the call of my Spark of the Creator, amplified many times over by the skill and decades of someone else’s experience.
The call of a Master Watchmaker demanding that I create something perfect immediately.
It demanded I make a watch.
Not just any watch.
A quality, mechanical wristwatch.
Something that would make 98% of the mass-produced junk sold in stores look like pathetic trinkets.
My newly acquired knowledge helpfully informed me that creating a masterpiece from absolute zero was impossible right now.
Smelting special steel for springs, growing synthetic sapphires for crystals and rubies for jewels, working with machine tools…
I had neither the equipment nor months of time.
I’d have to take a shortcut.
My skill allowed me to work with superhuman speed and precision, which meant I could take a high-quality Swiss ébauche as a base and transform it into something completely different.
I would skip the craftsmanship stage and go straight to pure art.
Calling a taxi, I was already compiling a shopping list in my head.
My inner cheapskate, used to counting every dollar, protested with a croak when the approximate total formed in my mind.
But I ruthlessly crushed it.
The Spark of the Creator brooks no base obstacles like money.
I was heading to the Diamond District again, but this time not as a customer of pawnshops and smelting workshops, but as a specialist going for specific tools and components.
Arriving at the spot, I looked at the displays no longer as an amateur.
My trained eye instantly filtered out the junk, latching onto quality.
In a small, dusty shop crammed with parts and tools, I found what I was looking for.
My choice fell on an ETA 6497.
I could almost feel its potential — a large, reliable manual-wind movement gave me the perfect canvas for decorative finishing.
Five hundred dollars moved from my pocket to the register.
Next — the “body.” A high-quality 316L stainless steel case, perfectly polished, 42mm in diameter.
Two sapphire crystals so the movement — my future creation — would be visible from all sides.
A blank dial of pure silver and a set of blued steel hands.
A strap…
The Master inside me demanded I make that too, but the pragmatist understood it would take too much time.
It was a painful compromise, but I chose the best available, handcrafted option, made of thick natural leather.
Another 800 dollars.
And finally, tools.
My base setup was good for electronics and rough work, but horology required something else.
I took the best: a set of Bergeon screwdrivers, anti-magnetic tweezers, a set of needle files, polishing compounds, exotic gentian sharpening stones for final polishing, a rotary tool with attachments, and of course, a timing machine.
The 3,500-dollar total made me wince for a second.
Total: 4,800 dollars.
More than a quarter of my cash.
For that kind of money, you could buy a decent Swiss watch.
But the Master Watchmaker inside me snorted contemptuously.
Wear something made by someone else’s hands?
What an insult!
Even the parts I’d bought felt like a concession, a temporary measure.
A true master creates every part himself, from the first screw to the last.
But alas, I couldn’t afford the luxury of spending months on it.
Back in the garage, I felt like a surgeon before a critical operation.
The table was cleared.
Everything unnecessary was put away.
Almost reverently, I laid out the new, gleaming tools and components on the clean surface.
In the outside world, a meeting with a vampire hunter and possibly death awaited me.
But here, in this garage, for the next few hours, only I, metal, and the quiet, steady march of time that I was about to harness and encase in a steel case would exist.
I began the magic.
There was no other word for it.
Yesterday I could only dream of something like this.
Today I was going to do it.
I immersed myself in the work completely.
The outside world ceased to exist.
There were no vampires, no Blade, no mortal danger.
There was only me, the gleaming tools, and the microscopic universe of gears and springs being born under my fingers.
First — finishing.
This wasn’t just a step; it was a sacrament, transforming a standard, albeit high-quality, movement into a work of art.
I completely disassembled the ETA 6497.
Every part, every screw was polished to a mirror shine that reflected the light of my lamp.
Then came the anglage.
Bent over a part with a file in hand, I entered a state of flow.
My movements were inhumanly precise.
I was creating and polishing perfect bevels on all the movement’s bridges by hand.
Work that would take an ordinary master days and weeks of painstaking labor took me just over an hour.
Decorating became a creative outburst.
Using the rotary tool, I applied a perlage pattern, and decorated the bridges with classic Geneva waves.
Finally, the dial.
On the silver blank, I engraved minimalist markers and my own logo, the idea for which came instantly, as if it had always been a part of me — a stylized blacksmith’s hammer.
The symbol of my essence as a Creator and the gift of the Celestial Forge.
Assembly was the culmination.
Sterilizing my workspace, I began the sacred act.
The wheel train, the pallet fork, the balance wheel — everything fell into place with absolute precision.
Microscopic amounts of different oils went exactly into the jewelled bearings.
Not a single mistake.
Not a single speck of dust.
I placed the assembled movement on the timing machine.
The device beeped, displaying a diagram on the screen.
I began regulation, achieving phenomenal accuracy — zero seconds deviation per day in all six positions.
This was the level of the world’s best chronometers.
Finishing the adjustment, I installed the dial and hands, placed the beating heart of the watch into the case, screwed the caseback on tight, and attached the strap.
“Beautiful…” I whispered, lifting my handiwork to the light.
The matte gleam of the steel, the deep blue of the blued hands against the silver dial, the perfect waves on the bridges visible through the sapphire crystal.
They were on par with a Patek Philippe or a Rolex.
For me — they surpassed them, because a piece of my soul was in them.
And the System, it seemed, agreed with me.
[Created a Small Clockwork Mechanism.
Complexity: Normal.
+200 CP!]
Two hundred CP!
For five hours of clean, engrossing, almost meditative work.
And most importantly — this was the first major reward for a creation made of my own free will, not from a System blueprint.
I wasn’t just an executor, I was a Creator.
Carefully, as if it were a priceless treasure, I put the watch on my wrist.
It fit perfectly.
Seeing I still had time before the meeting, buoyed by success, I decided to try my luck.
Opening the system window, I spent 350 CP on “Forging the Universe.”
[Received Information Package (Common) – Ritualist-Optimizer (Azeroth).
Unlock cost: 100 CP]
Your mastery in magical rituals allows you to halve resource costs for Enchanting and Inscription spells while maintaining their effectiveness.
For example, a ritual requiring the blood of ten virgins can be performed with the blood of five.
Scientific processes, such as robot creation, cannot be optimized.
I read the description several times.
Azeroth?
A skill from World of Warcraft?
But even so, the disappointment was almost physical.
A skill that was absolutely useless to me right now.
I knew no magic, no ritualism, and certainly no enchanting.
The cost of 100 CP only emphasized its narrow focus.
Alas, no cheat bonuses today.
And farming 400 or more CP for the next spins was getting harder and harder.
Oh well.
Time to go.
Clearing some space in the garage, I pulled my “Honda” out of the inventory and parked it inside.
I had a potential idea concerning my car, but I didn’t want to reveal the inventory just yet.
Calling a taxi, I headed to the Lily and Milly cafe.
The place was hideous.
Gaudy pink walls, a vanilla scent, stuffed toys on the shelves.
It didn’t fit the image of a grim vampire slayer at all.
Then again, judging by our short conversation, Blade was a fan of breaking stereotypes.
I ordered two signature burgers, a couple of milkshakes, and waited, admiring the play of light on the facets of my watch.
“Sweet watch.
Where’d you buy it?”
The low, brutal voice came from right next to my ear, making me jump.
I hadn’t even heard him approach.
“Don’t freak out, kid,” he continued, smoothly lowering himself onto the chair across from me.
“I’m one of the good black boys.
You ordered the burger, I hope?”
Black turtleneck, dark jeans, sunglasses even though dusk was already falling outside.
It was him.
How he’d figured out I was me remained a mystery.
I took a breath, and feeling the pleasant weight of the watch on my wrist, felt a surge of confidence.
“I assembled it myself.
Right before the meeting,” I replied with a slight smile.
“Burgers are on the way.”
He grunted, tilting his head slightly.
Through the dark lenses of his glasses, I could feel his studying, piercing gaze.
The conversation was just beginning, and I hoped that if he could sense lies, I’d at least become a bit more interesting in his eyes than just a nameless kid with problems who’d become a vampire target.
“Yourself, huh.
Good.
Hard to find handy pros these days, everyone’s switched to pushing buttons.
You take commissions?”
His question was casual, but I sensed a trap.
Was this a test?
“Maybe,” I met his invisible-beyond-the-glasses gaze calmly.
“But you understand, to fulfill any commission, I first need to stay alive.”
“Pfft, don’t worry.
You think I flew halfway across the world for nothing?” He waved a hand.
“I periodically have to do sanitation work on particularly cocky bastards and save someone’s skin in the process.
Not for free, of course.
So come on, fill me in.
But this time, no bullshit.
None at all.”
I nodded.
The moment of truth.
“No bullshit, then,” I muttered, reaching into my jacket pocket.
For a second, I felt Blade’s muscles tense, his body coiling like a compressed spring.
He was ready to attack.
I slowly pulled out my hand, in which I’d materialized a vial from my inventory in advance.
“This is an Intellect Potion.
Basically, a mind potion.
Boosts the brain to superspeed for a couple of hours.
That’s how I figured out it was vampires chasing me, not just bandits.
And it helped me find you.
Digital footprints can be wiped, but you can’t clean absolutely everything: old web archives, dusty forums…
That’s how I stumbled on the Order of the British Empire, awarded to one Eric Brooks in 2003.”
“Alright, got it, I’m not stupid,” Blade cut me off.
At that moment, the waitress brought our burgers.
With bright pink buns.
I stared at this culinary atrocity involuntarily.
“Don’t look at it like that,” Blade grumbled, grabbing his portion.
“They’re the best in town.
So, I take it the Ghost Orchid is the main ingredient?”
“Yes,” I nodded, taking a cautious bite of the burger.
He was right, it wasn’t bad.
“It’s not the only thing I can make.
But it’s the one that caused me the most trouble.”
“To be fair, those watches of yours could cause trouble too,” he said with a full mouth.
“I know.
But they’re my first.
You know, like the first dollar you earn that you frame and hang on the wall?
I just couldn’t not wear them to this meeting.
They’re…
a business card.”
Blade stopped chewing and looked at me.
“You’re kidding me?
Your first assembled watch, and it’s already this quality?
A potion from the Ghost Orchid…
and something else you’re wisely keeping quiet about for now.
Kid, you’re a walking goldmine of talents.
And the creepiest part is, you’re not lying.
I can smell it.”
“You said no lies, I’m trying.”
“Well, that right there was clearly a lie, but then again, the tactic of keeping things to yourself has its place!” Eric chuckled.
“Alright, I’ve got the picture.
I can even give you a tip off the record: the vampires of the Anhoriel clan would buy your potion recipe for the price of a private jet.
They’ve been struggling for centuries to create their own ‘Higher Wisdom Potion,’ and your recipe is probably what they’re looking for.
They’re one of the few decent undead.
Just saying.”
“That’s…
a very interesting thought.
Thanks.
Could it be them?”
“Were you listening?” Blade looked at me like I was an idiot.
“I said ‘decent.’ The Anhoriel are hermits, they drink animal blood and preach a philosophy of non-violence.
Vampire Buddhists, hah.
I’m the best specialist on these creatures in the world, believe me.”
“Then who?”
“Obviously, the clan whose territory you swiped the flower from.
Where was it?”
“Bowling Green Park.”
“The Financial District.
Got it.
A district like that, in clan wars, can only be taken by top-tier players.
Clans with three or more purebloods.
There are four of those in New York: Mistiel, the Krigers, Haskiel, and Moksha.”
He took a sip of his milkshake, letting me digest the information.
“We can rule out the second and the last right away.”
“Why?”
“Because the Krigers are thick-headed berserkers.
They would have torn you to pieces right in the middle of the street, then wiped the witnesses’ memories.
And Moksha…
they’re seers.
If they wanted you gone, you wouldn’t have made it this far — you would have tripped and fallen on some rebar.
They have their own methods.”
I wisely kept to myself the fact that the seers’ abilities might not work on me.
“That leaves Mistiel and Haskiel.
Sly tech-wizards versus old-school aristocrats.
The first actively use modern weapons and gadgets, preferring a rifle with thermal scope to fangs.
The second are corporations, hedge funds, high-society connections.
They prefer to stay in the shadows, act through proxies.
Relatively reasonable, but,” he paused, “only with equals, or those stronger than them.”
“So what do we do?”
“Well, that’s your question.
I can see you’re not as simple as you pretend to be.
You couldn’t have come here without a single thought in your head.
Your suggestions?”
He was testing me again.
I took a deep breath.
“I have a Honda in my garage.
The one I used to escape the chase.
It’s compromised,” I watched his reaction carefully.
“If I drive it around the Financial District…
we could try to lure them out with bait.”
A wide, predatory smile touched Blade’s lips.
“I’m starting to like you, kid.
Let’s not drag this out.
Let’s go to your place.”
“We haven’t discussed payment yet.”
“Whatever, we’ll figure it out on the way.
Money doesn’t really interest me.
But potions…
if your stuff works the way you say it does…”
I cut him off.
“Here.”
I handed him the vial.
Then, reaching into my pocket again, I materialized an injector with a different liquid.
“And this too.
Muscle Stimulant.
Boosts all physical stats to superhuman levels for 15-20 minutes.
No side effects.
I don’t know how it’ll work on someone like you, but it shouldn’t make things worse.
Consider it a down payment.
And an investment in our…
business relationship.”
Blade silently took both vials.
He examined them carefully, turning them over in his hands.
His smile grew even wider.
“Hm.
I’m liking my decision to fly here more and more.”
As for me…
I could only hope my decision had been the right one.