Chapter 17
A university lab late at night had its own special magic.
The ventilation system and refrigerators hummed quietly, and the air smelled of ozone, alcohol, and something sterile.
Peter Parker, despite the late hour, looked anything but tired.
He was in his element, and it showed.
"Done," he said, with the pride of a scientist presenting the fruits of his labor.
He carefully handed me a small dark-glass vial.
The liquid inside was perfectly transparent.
"Fifty milliliters. 99.98% purity, verified on the chromatograph."
I took the vial carefully, feeling the pleasant coolness of it.
Fifty milliliters.
Ten doses of the Muscle Stimulator.
Ten injections of superhuman strength.
Something inside me soared.
"How much do I owe you?" I asked, keeping my voice even.
"Um, well..." Peter hesitated, scratching the back of his head.
"The reagents came out to about three hundred dollars. I'll have to reorder for the lab. I think I got a little carried away with the volume — I wanted maximum purity through fractional distillation, and that required a bigger stock... I probably should have made less. It gets expensive."
"No, no, what are you talking about," I said quickly, seeing genuine embarrassment on his face.
It was almost endearing.
"It's not expensive — it's perfect. Money is not a problem. Here, take it. This covers the reagents and your time."
I handed him five crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Peter's eyes went wide.
"Five hundred? That's... way too much for twenty minutes on the synthesizer. I can't take this."
I noticed his simple, slightly worn clothes, his scuffed sneakers.
He needed the money.
But just handing it to him wouldn't work — his pride wouldn't allow it.
I had to come at it from a different angle, make it feel like a fair and logical reward rather than a handout.
"Peter," I said, shifting gears to throw him off balance.
"Where do you live?"
"Uh... Queens. Why?"
Ah, as I'd suspected — this version came with the aunt.
Hopefully Uncle Ben was still alive, too.
"Alone or with family?"
"With my aunt and uncle."
His voice carried a note of bewilderment now.
"Right. You're studying at a prestigious university, living in one of the most expensive cities in the world, in a neighborhood that's far from cheap, and working part-time for Connors. Tell me honestly — does he pay you well for it?"
I kept the question gentle, no pressure behind it.
Understanding flickered in his eyes.
He looked at his hands, then at the bills in my palm.
He got it — I wasn't trying to humiliate him.
I was simply stating a fact.
He was a genius who had to count every penny.
He didn't object again.
He took the money carefully and tucked it into his jeans pocket.
An awkward silence settled between us.
To break it, Peter drifted back to the only topic that connected us.
"So why stimulate the metabolism of chlorella?"
His scientific curiosity had pushed past the embarrassment.
"Using an active substance derived from testosterone — that's a genuinely non-trivial approach to plant cells. I couldn't even find comparable studies."
Damn.
He was too smart.
A simple excuse wasn't going to cut it here.
"Let's just say it's a strange hobby of mine," I chuckled, trying to look like an eccentric enthusiast.
"A long-term project studying hormonal analogues for triggering cascade reactions in lipid synthesis. Most likely a dead end, but the idea burrowed into my head and won't let go. Don't bother yourself with it."
I could tell I hadn't fully convinced him, but he at least pretended to accept the answer.
Time to wrap things up.
"Anyway, I'll get out of your hair. Thanks again, seriously. Would you mind if I reached out every now and then with strange scientific questions? As a more experienced colleague."
That landed perfectly.
Peter's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm.
"Of course, anytime!" he replied with a sincere smile.
"Write whenever you want. Take care."
We shook hands and I left the lab, feeling like a cut-rate spy who'd just recruited a valuable asset.
In the taxi cutting through the night city, I let myself relax.
Ten doses of the Stimulator.
If the System valued them the same as the Potion of Intellect, that was 200 OP for the first one, plus nine more smaller rewards behind it.
A mountain of points, in total.
I hadn't touched the Gacha since the run that gave me Extremis and a box of ore.
The next two spins cost 300 and 350 OP.
After producing the stimulators, I probably had enough for both — and if I came up short, I'd close the gap fast.
What would I get?
Another impossible blueprint?
Maybe another absurdly useful cheat item for exactly right now?
"We've arrived," the taxi driver's voice pulled me back from fantasies about rare drops.
I paid, climbed out, and walked into my garage — my fortress, my workshop.
The precious testosterone vial went onto a special stand, taking pride of place.
I stood there for several minutes, just running through the upcoming process in my head, getting into the right headspace.
The day had worn me down, but right now, on the edge of the final push, I felt an incredible surge of energy.
"Phew..." I exhaled, clearing my head.
"Alright. Let's get to work."
The process moved like a surgeon's dance.
No rushing, every motion precise.
First — activation.
In a glass flask on a magnetic stirrer, I measured exactly 5 milliliters of synthetic testosterone.
The liquid swirled lazily, catching the lamplight.
I lowered a small square of titanium mesh into it, switched on the heating and stirring, and set the temperature to 80 degrees Celsius.
The quiet hum of the stirrer became the only sound in the garage.
Within minutes, under the combined influence of heat and the titanium catalyst ruthlessly breaking stable molecular bonds, the transparent liquid began to cloud, transforming into an active, unstable nitrogenous suspension.
I cooled the base in an ice bath, then sent it to the centrifuge.
At high speed, it stripped away unreacted residues and microscopic impurities.
Into the purified, almost weightless suspension, I introduced several milliliters of a colloidal palladium solution.
If the knowledge etched into my brain was accurate, the microscopic palladium ions would immediately begin to "envelop" the unstable molecules — placing each one in its own protective cell, preventing premature breakdown and, crucially, ensuring safe elimination from the body after use.
The final touch: a couple of milligrams of BSA powder for better absorption, then dilution with a mixture of distilled water and isopropyl alcohol to the target concentration.
Done.
The preparation was ready.
I carefully transferred the finished dose into an automatic injector — something like a futuristic syringe pen.
[Created Potion "Muscle Stimulator." Difficulty: Normal. Received +200 OP!]
Yes.
200 OP, same as the first dose of the Potion of Intellect.
But this time I didn't have to risk my life hunting a Ghost Orchid.
Just pure science, chemistry, and a sliver of Arcanum tech-magic I didn't yet fully understand.
The next hour and a half passed in a state of flow as I repeated the procedure nine more times.
It was meditative work, almost hypnotic.
[Created Potion "Muscle Stimulator." Difficulty: Normal. Received +150 OP!]
[Created Potion "Muscle Stimulator." Difficulty: Normal. Received +100 OP!]
[Created Potion "Muscle Stimulator." Difficulty: Normal. Received +50 OP!]
[... Received +40 OP!]
...
[... Received +10 OP!]
When the last injector was filled, I leaned back in my chair.
Total: 620 OP.
I was just 30 short of a second Gacha spin at 350 OP.
I could close that gap quickly, but the gambling itch had already taken hold.
If something worthwhile dropped on the first try, the second spin might not even be necessary.
Decision made.
Spin now, think later.
I closed my eyes, focused, and sent the mental command: "Forge the Universe!"
300 OP was deducted from my balance, and a system notification blazed across my mind's eye.
I read it hungrily.
[Received Information Package (Common) — Master Clockmaker (Arcanum of Steam Mechanisms and Magical Mysteries). Unlock Cost: 200 OP]
Description: Years working with mechanisms and intricate blueprints have sharpened your eye to the smallest detail. Your vision stays sharp even in the dim light of a workshop, letting you pick out the finest elements of any structure. Your mind can instantly memorize and analyze complex schematics, making the assembly of any device fast and precise. The monocle, once a necessary tool of the trade, now serves only as a stylish nod to your mastery.
Master Clockmaker.
The God of Random clearly had a twisted sense of humor, slipping me something from the Arcanum again.
But I read the description twice more.
This wasn't just an abstract blueprint.
It was a passive skill — and not just any passive skill.
It was a genuine Holy Grail for any Creator.
Instant memorization of schematics, precision, attention to detail.
That meant I'd no longer need to burn precious Potions of Intellect just to assemble complex devices like the UV projector.
One look at a blueprint would be enough.
For 200 OP, this wasn't a purchase.
It was daylight robbery.
I was taking it.
Without hesitation, I poured the points into unlocking it.
And immediately understood that the pain of receiving the Protective Field Generator blueprint had been child's play.
This wasn't just data being loaded in.
I was being stuffed with an entire life.
Decades of someone else's experience, every hour of it devoted to tiny gears and delicate springs.
I felt phantom calluses forming on my fingers, felt the ghostly weight of a monocle settling over one eye, inhaled the nonexistent smell of brass and clock oil.
The whole essence of the old master — his obsession, his pedantry, his singular devotion — poured into me over a few agonizing minutes.
When the pain faded, I opened my eyes.
And felt a cold wave of horror.
I was looking at my garage laboratory with a new, unclouded vision — and what I saw was appalling.
Not creative chaos.
Just chaos.
Tools were lying out of place.
Chemical stains marked the table where they could contaminate future reactions.
Equipment cables were tangled in a hazardous knot.
Insufficient ventilation, poor lighting, inefficient use of space.
Dozens, hundreds of small and large flaws that my brain could no longer ignore were screaming at me from every surface.
The gaze of the Master Clockmaker, trained to micron-level accuracy and absolute order, had assessed this place as a disaster.
And this same gaze could not fail to notice that it was late at night.
A choice had to be made.
Stay here, in this breeding ground of unsanitary conditions and inefficiency?
Or escape to some anonymous motel and let the newly acquired instincts settle?
But I already knew the answer.
The master inside me would not allow sleep while his workshop stood in such a deplorable state.
Darkness filled the windowless room — thick and velvety, like centuries-old dust in a crypt.
The air was still and cold, laced with a faint scent of expensive tobacco and something elusively metallic, the kind a seasoned medic would identify as blood without a second thought.
The only source of light was a single desk lamp, carving out of the darkness a perfectly 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 carried more threat in it than any scream could.
"They had one task. One. Watch the kid. Find his new hideout. Report back. Tell me how they managed to fail something so primitive."
On the carpet, in the pool of lamplight at his master's feet, a subordinate knelt on one knee.
His pale, gaunt face was slick with agitation, and his whole body trembled faintly.
"L-Lord Likkus..." he began, stammering.
"We checked the last known location. A dead end beside an abandoned building in Hell's Kitchen. The boy's car turned in there, and ours followed. There are clear tire tracks in the area... but..."
Likkus raised one hand slowly, and the subordinate went silent, afraid to breathe.
A perfectly polished fingernail began tapping a quiet, measured rhythm against the black wood of the desktop.
"But?" he hissed.
"But there's no one there!" the subordinate blurted.
"The car — it just vanished. We searched the entire area. No one drove toward or away from that building after them. Not the kid's Honda, not our Land Cruiser. Completely empty. They simply disappeared. Without a trace."
The tapping against the wood grew faster.
This was their night, their time.
His hounds should have already dragged in the insolent thief who had dared to trespass on Clan property.
Depending on the boy's answers, his fate would have been decided — a quick death, or long, leisurely hours of entertainment for Likkus.
Instead, his own people had vanished.
Experienced, powerful Vampires, sent to tail a simple human.
Not a mutant, not a mage, not a mercenary in tactical gear.
Just an ordinary mortal student.
The insult was beyond measure.
"His car — did it show up on cameras during the day?"
"No, my Lord. Our network specialist found no trace of its movements."
The tapping stopped.
Likkus pressed his fingers together.
He liked this less and less.
A disappearance this clean was the work of a professional.
Could it be that the boy wasn't who he appeared to be?
Unlikely.
More probable that he had stolen the Ghost Orchid at someone else's direction.
But who was pulling the strings?
Rival clans?
The bastards from Mistiel?
This had their fingerprints all over it — acting through proxies, spinning intrigues from the shadows.
Those perfumed snakes had always been fond of rare alchemical ingredients.
But there was a truce between their clans.
Shaky, hanging by a thread, but still in effect.
The Kriegers?
Those thick-skulled berserkers?
They lacked the finesse for something this clean.
They would have smashed through his mansion wall, slaughtered the guards, and tried to take what they wanted — leaving a mountain of corpses and wreckage in their wake.
Not their style at all.
The Trix?
Those cannibalistic creatures, despised even within the Vampire community, had been wiped out root and stem.
Blade himself had scoured their New York lair with fire and silver.
That bastard never missed a single one — his instinct for Vampires was sharper than any hunting dog's.
Could a handful have survived, gone deep underground, taken control of a mortal, lured his people into a trap, and drained them dry?
Possible, but barely.
Who else?
The Jamlins — the red-skinned hermits who hadn't surfaced from their underground burrows in centuries?
Or the weaklings from Anhoriel, who had once again overdosed on animal blood, "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 puppet master wasn't a Vampire at all?
Intelligence agencies?
The agreements were still holding; his people wouldn't be touched without solid reason and prior notification.
Another self-proclaimed superhero in tights?
Maybe.
A follower of Blade?
Also possible.
But not Blade himself.
The Daywalker wouldn't bother with something this small.
His style was to kick the door down with a shotgun, not to orchestrate quiet vanishing acts.
"The answer is in the boy..." Likkus said at last, his voice dropping back to that cold, level register.
He looked at his henchman with a gaze that could freeze blood.
"And we will get it. This is no longer a petty theft. This is a blood feud against the Haskiel Clan. Find the boy. At any cost."
He paused, thinking.
"Take him alive. But if he turns out to be a genuinely slippery bastard... dead will do just as well. We can always resurrect him as a new Clan slave. The dead are far more talkative."
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