By 8 PM, after a thorough scouring of forums, I had mapped out my night route, which included 5 locations, and I also, hopefully, solved the crystal charging problem, but that wasn’t a task for today or even tonight anyway.
What was the task for tonight was the search for the Ghost Orchid, and presumably this whole venture could take anywhere from a couple of hours to the entire night, if I was unlucky and the Orchid turned out to be at the last stop on the route.
Or if I was VERY unlucky and didn’t find it at all…
So I needed to sleep for at least a couple of hours and then head out around 11 PM for nighttime foraging.
Waking up to my alarm at 11 and eating a hearty meal, I packed my backpack with various useful odds and ends, although… “various useful odds and ends” was an understatement, of course.
The backpack was prepared with almost military meticulousness, as much as was possible for someone who, just yesterday, considered checking the battery level on a power bank the pinnacle of excursion preparation.
Today, it contained: an LED flashlight with several spare batteries, a multitool, a small but very sharp knife, a coil of strong nylon rope, gloves with rubberized palms, a compact first aid kit, and even a couple of energy bars and a bottle of water.
Naturally, I had to spend money on all of it again…
Every item in this backpack was not just an object, but a little insurance policy against the unknown.
The flashlight — not just to see, but to drive away the primal fear of darkness that nests in the soul of any person, and my mental age doesn’t help.
The multitool — a pocket set of tools capable of solving a hundred minor problems, from cutting wire to opening a can of food, just in case the night dragged on or a problem arose that the inventory couldn’t solve.
The knife, cold and weighty in the hand, my symbol of the last line, that final measure you don’t want to think about but need to be ready for.
I am not a warrior or a survivalist, but this night requires me to become something more than just a college art student.
I didn’t know what exactly I’d have to face, but the urban exploration forums had taught me one thing: better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.
The system hasn’t given me combat skills or items yet, which means my main weapons are foresight and the inventory, which, thankfully, can hold far more than this modest backpack.
I mentally double-checked the list.
Everything seemed to be in place.
The most important thing — the phone with downloaded maps and location descriptions — was in an inner pocket of my hoodie.
A feeling of slight nervousness mixed with anticipation.
This wasn’t just a night walk; this was, formally, my first real expedition for an ingredient that couldn’t be bought for any amount of money.
And too much depended on its success.
Not wanting to waste any more of the precious time, I quickly headed towards the subway, trying to avoid alleys and suspiciously dark places.
Hell’s Kitchen at night is not the best place for a lone wanderer; fortunately, I was lucky, and reaching the nearest line, I got on a train car heading Eastbound towards the New York Public Library.
The entire trip by subway took only 10 minutes.
If I had risked walking, first, I most likely wouldn’t have made it, and second, it would have taken me about forty minutes, since the way to 5th Avenue from my place isn’t the closest.
But here I am, standing before the grand, majestic building of one of the largest libraries in the world.
It’s just that the building itself doesn’t interest me; what interests me are its archives, hidden in the basement section of the library!
According to the descriptions of people who have been there (legally and not so legally), in this library’s closed archives, you feel different — as if you’ve touched the information field of the Earth and are energetically absorbing all the knowledge accumulated by humanity over millennia.
And that would be fine if it were a single mention, but different forums, different people, even documentaries have been made on this topic.
If there is some kind of information anomaly here, then the Orchid could theoretically grow inside.
After walking around the building and making sure that the guards were inside, that outside it seemed clean, and that there were no cameras near the service entrance to the basement, I approached a massive iron door — which felt several times older than me — and touched the large carved lock, placing it into my inventory.
Then, with a creak, I opened the door and entered the basement, which was a stone corridor leading inward.
Taking out a flashlight from my backpack and turning it on, I moved forward, bypassing the rooms closest to the “sources of information field pollution.” No, I was interested in the darkest, the most distant, the most forgotten corners of this abode of knowledge.
With each step down the stone stairs, the temperature noticeably dropped.
The air became denser, as if I were submerging into a thick body of water.
The walls, made of roughly hewn blocks, seemed to seep cold and hold the echo of steps of those who walked here decades, maybe centuries ago.
This was a kind of time travel, a descent into another world that existed parallel to the noisy and bright New York above.
Here, downstairs, time flowed differently, slowing to a lazy whisper, and the only reminder of modernity was the bright, cold beam of my LED flashlight, pulling ancient masonry and cobwebs from the darkness in the corners.
After several turns and descending another ten meters down, before me appeared the most ancient archive of the library: 1670–1920, read a bronze plaque next to another massive door, which was locked with an ordinary door lock, just like at the entrance to the dungeon.
Having placed it in my inventory and opening this door with an even louder creak than the previous one, I couldn’t help but sneeze.
Such a concentrated charge of dust, mustiness, and age hit my nostrils that not sneezing was beyond my strength.
The air here was different.
Heavy, stale, saturated with the smell of old paper, glue, and something else — elusively sweetish, like fading flowers.
The silence pressed on my ears, broken only by the creak of my own steps and the hollow echo of a sneeze.
The flashlight beam snatched from the darkness endless rows of shelves stretching upward, losing themselves in the gloom.
The spines of books, darkened by time, seemed like rows of tombstones, and the names of authors inscribed on them — like epitaphs.
I felt uneasy.
It felt like I was not in an archive, but in a crypt where not people were buried, but their thoughts, dreams, and knowledge.
It seemed that if I turned away, the books would start whispering among themselves, discussing the uninvited guest.
I even sharply turned around a couple of times, directing the flashlight beam into the darkness behind me, but saw only dancing shadows and pillars of dust stirred up by my movement.
An information anomaly…
I didn’t feel it as a tide of knowledge, but as a weight.
Millions of pages, millions of stories, fates, discoveries, and delusions — all of this pressed down, creating an almost tangible field of mental noise.
I shuddered, pulling my hoodie tighter.
I needed to find what I came for as quickly as possible and get out of here.
This place was too…
alive for a dead archive.
Though I wouldn’t be surprised if this was all just a self-suggestion effect; this place was just too…
oppressive.
Illuminating with my flashlight the wooden, some already damp, shelves with books — of which there were very many, and the room itself was quite large — I began to look for the flowers of the Ghost Orchid.
It looks, according to the information package loaded into my memory, like an ordinary orchid, only white and slightly glowing in the dark.
In short, I wouldn’t miss it if I saw it.
Alas, after walking around the entire not-small archive about three times, looking into every dark corner, under every shelf, into every crack in the stone walls, I found nothing at all.
Failure.
A slight disappointment pricked somewhere inside, but I immediately suppressed it.
And what did I expect?
That a magic flower would grow in the most visible place with a sign reading “Take me”?
That would have been too easy.
Analyze, think.
This is in any case not a failure, but a calibration.
And as sad as it may be, this is exactly why I chose five places, not one.
There’s no point in wasting time here any longer.
We continue the search!
Having left first the archive, then the dungeon of the library itself — naturally returning the locks to their place; thank you, inventory, for adapting to my wishes — I moved to the next location.
The abandoned subway branch under the Brooklyn Bridge – City Hall station.
According to rumors and urban legends, during the construction of this branch, seven builders mysteriously disappeared.
Some desperate enthusiasts visited this place, including on video, and noted that, in general, unlike most underground subway lines, here it was easier and freer to breathe.
Naturally, there was a mass of explanations for this, but for me, first and foremost, the aura of mystery, enigma, and “magic” was important!
Having reached the desired station and making sure there were no curious people here — and even if there were, they were clearly not interested in me — I moved towards the unused technical tunnels, bypassing several types of barriers along the way and again descending lower and lower.
To bypass obstacles, I used the good old tactic of abusing the inventory.
After about half an hour of walking down, I found myself on the legendary unfinished subway line, greedily illuminating with my flashlight everything my gaze could reach and even more.
I slowly walked along the rusty, slime-covered rails.
Water monotonously dripped from the ceiling, and every slap of a drop into a puddle resonated in the echoing silence with a multiple echo, creating the illusion of someone’s steps behind me.
I tried not to think about it.
The bright flashlight beam snatched from the darkness graffiti of long-gone artists, piles of trash, and something resembling a huge nest woven from rags and wire.
I walked around it in a wide arc.
The atmosphere here was completely different from the library.
There was the weight of knowledge; here, the weight of oblivion.
The smell of mold, damp concrete, and ozone mixed with a barely perceptible stench of decay, making me want to breathe every other breath.
Every sound, even the quietest, seemed out of place and loud here.
I felt like a stranger, intruding into a long-abandoned kingdom where its own, unknown laws applied.
The silence was not peaceful; it was tense, ringing, like a taut string ready to snap from any careless movement.
I walked, trying to step as quietly as possible, as if afraid to wake something that was slumbering in these tunnels.
Suddenly, far ahead in the tunnel, a screech of metal sounded.
I froze, instantly turning off the flashlight and pressing myself against the damp wall.
My heart started pounding in my throat.
The screech repeated, closer, and someone’s heavy, wheezing breathing added to it.
It was not like an animal.
I held my breath, trying to turn to stone.
Who could it be?
A homeless person?
A worker?
Or one of those whom urban legends call “mole people”?
It seemed like an eternity passed.
The breathing and screech moved away until they faded completely.
I waited another five minutes before daring to turn the flashlight back on.
My hands were slightly trembling.
It was a sobering reminder: I am not in a computer game where locations are empty until the player arrives.
This is a real, living world, and its dark corners can hide very real dangers that don’t need superpowers.
It was already one in the morning, and I could spend no more than an hour on this branch.
Fortunately, it turned out not to be very large, but alas, even periodically turning off the flashlight to remain in absolute darkness and thus find faintly glowing flowers, I still did not find them.
Luckily, there were no more unexpected frightening encounters…
Moving on!
Having surfaced, naturally returning all the locks and barriers to their places, I walked on foot to the South, towards Bowling Green, the financial district, which was empty at night, making the walk through it feel especially atmospheric.
But I was not interested in the district, but the park in that district — the oldest park in New York and the place where, according to rumors, the native Americans of the Lenape tribe held their ceremonies and rituals.
The transition was striking.
From a claustrophobic, oppressive dungeon, I emerged into the spaciousness of the concrete jungle.
The skyscrapers of the Financial District, dark and silent at this hour, resembled giant sleeping titans.
There was no bustle of Hell’s Kitchen, not even rare passersby.
Only me, the hollow echo of my steps, and the wind blowing between the glass-and-concrete giants.
This emptiness was eerie in its own way, but after what I experienced in the tunnel, it felt like a breath of fresh air.
I walked, my head tilted back, looking at the distant stars, barely breaking through the city’s light pollution, feeling like a grain of sand in this vast, frozen world.
As for the Lenape and their potentially sacred place, I found out about all this thanks to the same forums, digging in the mythology branch of the indigenous peoples of America and their habitats.
Why this place was considered sacred by the Lenape and what that even means, I have no idea, but since this is a fairly convenient transition point between the second and fourth place, I decided to stop by along the way.
So, the park!
Not the largest — I would even say quite small.
Especially considering that it is lit by lampposts, which makes searching for faintly glowing plants a bit difficult.
Okay, there are only a few dozen trees here.
I’ll just go around each one and move on.
After about seven or eight trees studied length and breadth, I approached an old Elm — the largest and, I suspect, oldest tree in the park.
Around it, the grass level was an order of magnitude higher, and in general, it was somehow unnaturally quiet and peaceful.
My heart stopped, because for the previous two places I didn’t feel anything like this.
Could it be?
The city noise seemed to have receded, replaced by almost complete silence, as if the tree was creating a dome of calm around itself.
And then I saw them.
It looked like a scattering of liquid moonlight frozen on the dark bark.
The flowers were not just white — they emitted a soft, pearlescent glow, barely noticeable, but absolutely unearthly.
Each petal seemed carved from mother-of-pearl, and in the very heart of the flower, a tiny point of brighter light pulsed, like a beating heart.
They didn’t grow, but rather manifested themselves from the very structure of reality, as if the thin edge between worlds in this place had thinned so much that it allowed a particle of magic to seep through.
I reached out my hand, but stopped a centimeter from the nearest flower.
A barely perceptible warmth emanated from them and something else…
a vibration, like a quiet, harmonious melody that could be felt more with the skin than heard.
It was incredible.
In a world of concrete, steel, and exhaust fumes, I found something pure, magical — a living proof that magic is real.
And this treasure would now become part of my first real creation.
At that moment, all the difficulties experienced during the night — tension, fear, disappointment — evaporated without a trace.
Only a pure, unclouded delight of a discoverer remained.
I looked at the flowers, and it seemed to me that I was seeing not just a plant, but an answer to all my unspoken questions.
The answer was simple: this world is much more complex and wonderful than I could have imagined.
And I, thanks to the system, have a chance not just to observe its wonders, but to interact with them, study them, use them.
This was not just obtaining a rare ingredient; it was a confirmation of the rightness of the chosen path.
The Path of Intellect.
After all, only reason could have led me here, through analysis and planning, not brute force.
“Yes!” I exclaimed, clenching my fists with joy.
Having looked around and made sure that if there were people, they weren’t in the park, I carefully touched the entire inflorescence, placing it in my inventory.
Nothing remained on the bark.
To be safe, I walked around the entire tree in a circle and examined the next few trees.
Then I decided it was better not to be greedy and took off into the sunset — or rather, home.
Mission accomplished successfully!
Besides finding what I set out for, I was also immensely glad that I didn’t have to visit the basement of a half-destroyed building that served as a meeting place for cultists dabbling in sacrifices in the 20th century.
And the last place on the list was the ruins of the smallpox hospital on Roosevelt Island — one of the most creepy and favorite places for “paranormal hunter” bloggers.
No, I’m not afraid to visit this place; it’s just that getting there is a whole quest in itself, and it’s not a fact that I would have made it in time within this night.
But fortunately, I have already completed my quest.
Hell’s Kitchen after two in the morning, like practically the entire city, became empty.
Even the most hardcore thugs want to sleep, so I got to my apartment without any extra adventures, and throwing off my clothes, I crashed into bed.
Tomorrow will be an important day, a very important day, so I need to be in a state of pure mind and adequate perception of reality — if that is even possible with a system in my head, hah.
In any case, having quickly fallen asleep, I also quickly woke up at 10 in the morning.
I wasn’t sleepy at all; energy was bursting from my body, which desired only one thing — to create!
Doesn’t matter what — a Potato Cannon, a leather wallet, an Intellect Potion, or a story — the main thing is to occupy my mind and hands with something.
The body is young, bursting with hormones and enthusiasm, so after breakfast, I began planning the upcoming day.
In fact, the most difficult ingredient to obtain, I successfully got into my grabbing hands.
I already bought the crystal, but since I want to make several portions of the Potion — and fortunately there are enough flowers — I’ll have to buy more.
Colloidal silver, isopropyl alcohol, a set of borosilicate glass flasks, and even a used centrifuge for separating the pure Phantasmine extract are also in stock.
The main quest on today’s agenda is charging the quartz crystals.
For this, I will have to assemble what is commonly called a Marx Generator, and that’s quite a task.
I’ll have to spend the whole day on eBay looking for the lots I need.
Oh, and I need to buy a soldering iron too…
And the money from the credit card is disappearing much faster than I calculated.
Unpleasant…
I opened the bank app on my phone and winced.
The numbers on the screen were melting like snow in April.
Every purchase, every little thing for my future projects was taking a noticeable bite out of my credit limit.
It’s sobering.
One thing is to possess an almost divine system capable of granting blueprints of incredible devices, and quite another is to exist in a world where buying a banal capacitor or resistor requires very real, paper money.
The contrast between my potential and my current financial situation is depressing.
I can’t sit on a credit card forever.
I urgently need to think about how to monetize my new knowledge, otherwise my path will end before it begins, due to a banal call from a collection agency.