By 8 p.m., after thoroughly scouring forums, I had mapped out my night route covering 5 locations and, I hoped, solved the crystal charging problem — though that was not for today or even tonight. But what was for tonight was searching for the Ghost Orchid, and presumably the whole endeavor could take from a couple of hours to the entire night if I was unlucky and the orchid was at the last location. Or VERY unlucky and I did not find it at all… So I needed to sleep at least a couple of hours and head out on my nocturnal gathering around 11.
Waking to the alarm at 11 and eating heartily, I packed a backpack with various useful odds and ends — though "various useful odds and ends" was an understatement. The backpack was prepared with almost military meticulousness, as much as possible for someone who yesterday considered checking a power bank's charge the pinnacle of expedition preparation. Today it held: 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 with a bottle of water. Naturally, all this cost money again…
Every item in the backpack was not just an object but a small insurance policy against the unknown. The flashlight — not just to see but to banish the primal fear of darkness that nests in every human soul, and even my mental age was no help. The multitool — a pocket set of tools capable of solving a hundred small problems, from cutting wire to opening a can if the night dragged on or a problem arose that inventory could not solve. The knife, cold and weighty in hand, my symbol of the last resort, the extreme measure I did not want to think about but had to be ready for. I was no warrior or survivalist, but this night demanded I become more than just an art college student.
I did not know exactly what I would face, but urban exploration forums had taught me one thing: better to have and not need than to need and not have. The system had not yet given me combat skills or items, so my main weapons were foresight and inventory, which fortunately could hold far more than this modest backpack. I mentally checked the list again. Everything seemed in place. Most importantly — the phone with loaded maps and location descriptions — was in my hoodie's inner pocket. A slight thrill mixed with anticipation. This was not just a night walk; it was formally my first real expedition for an ingredient that could not be bought for any money. And its success meant too much.
Without delaying — time was short — I briskly headed to the subway, avoiding alleys and suspiciously dark places. Hell's Kitchen at night was no place for loners, but I was lucky; reaching the nearest line, I boarded a train heading east toward the New York Public Library.
The subway took only 10 minutes; walking would have meant almost certainly not arriving and taking about forty minutes, as Fifth Avenue was not close. But there I stood before the massive, majestic building of one of the world's largest libraries — though the building itself did not interest me; I was after its archives hidden in the basement!
According to people who had been there (legally and otherwise), in the library's closed archives you felt different, as if touching Earth's info-field and energetically absorbing all knowledge accumulated by humanity over millennia. Even if it was just one mention, different forums, different people, even documentaries had been filmed on the subject. If there was some informational anomaly here, the orchid could theoretically grow inside.
Circling the building and ensuring the guards inside and no one outside — no cameras visible near the service entrance to the basement — I approached a massive iron door that felt several times older than me, touched the large carved lock, and placed it in inventory. Then, with a creak, I opened the door and entered a stone corridor leading inside. Taking the flashlight from my backpack and turning it on, I moved forward, bypassing rooms closest to "info-field pollution sources." No, I was after the darkest, most remote, most forgotten corners of this abode of knowledge.
With each step down the stone stairs, the temperature dropped noticeably. The air grew denser, as if I were descending into water. The walls of roughly hewn blocks seemed to ooze cold and echo the footsteps of those who had walked here decades, perhaps centuries ago. It was a kind of time travel, a descent into another world existing parallel to the noisy, bright New York above. Down here, time flowed differently, slowing to a lazy whisper, and the only reminder of modernity was the bright, cold beam of my LED flashlight tearing ancient masonry and cobwebs from the darkness.
After several turns and descending another ten meters, I faced the library's most ancient archive: 1670-1920, read a bronze plaque beside another massive door locked with a regular door lock, as at the dungeon entrance. Placing it in inventory and opening this door with an even louder creak, I could not help but sneeze. Such a concentrated dose of dust, mustiness, and age hit my nostrils that sneezing was beyond my control.
The air here was different. Heavy, stuffy, saturated with the smell of old paper, glue, and something else — subtly sweet, like fading flowers. Silence pressed on the ears, broken only by the creak of my own steps and the hollow echo of my sneeze. The flashlight beam revealed endless rows of shelves rising into the darkness. Book spines darkened by time looked like rows of tombstones, and the authors' names inscribed on them — epitaphs. I felt uneasy. It seemed I was not in an archive but a crypt where not people but their thoughts, dreams, and knowledge were buried. It felt like if I turned away, the books would start whispering among themselves, discussing the uninvited guest. I even spun around a couple of times, aiming the flashlight beam into the darkness behind me, but saw only dancing shadows and dust clouds raised by my movement.
Informational anomaly… I felt it not as an influx of knowledge but as weight. Millions of pages, millions of stories, fates, discoveries, and delusions — all pressing, creating an almost tangible field of mental noise. I shivered, pulling my hoodie tighter. I needed to find what I came for quickly and get out. This place was too… alive for a dead archive. Though I would not be surprised if it was just self-suggestion; the place was too oppressive.
Illuminating the wooden, some already damp, shelves with countless books — the room was quite large — I began searching for Ghost Orchid flowers. According to the info package loaded into memory, they looked like regular orchids but white and faintly glowing in the dark — I would not miss them if I saw them.
Alas, after circling the sizable archive about three times, peering into every dark corner, under every shelf, into every crack in the stone walls, I found nothing.
Failure. The very first location — empty. Mild disappointment stung inside, but I suppressed it immediately. What had I expected? That a magical flower would grow in plain sight with a "Take me" sign? It would have been too easy. Analyze, think. This was not a failure but calibration. And that was why I had chosen 5 locations, not 1; no point wasting more time here — onward with the search!
Leaving the archive first and then the underground library, naturally returning the locks — thank you, inventory, for adapting to my desire — I headed to the next location. An abandoned subway branch under the Brooklyn Bridge – City Hall station. According to rumors and urban legends, seven workers mysteriously disappeared during its construction; some daring enthusiasts had visited, even filming, noting that unlike most subway tunnels, it was easier and freer to breathe here. Naturally, explanations abounded, but for me, the aura of mystery, enigma, and "magic" was paramount!
Reaching the needed station and ensuring no curious people around — even if there were, they clearly had other concerns — I headed toward unused service tunnels, bypassing several types of barriers and descending lower and lower. For obstacles, I used the good old inventory abuse tactic.
After about half an hour of descent, I reached the legendary unfinished subway branch, greedily shining the flashlight everywhere my eyes could reach and more.
I walked slowly along rusty, slime-covered rails. Water dripped monotonously from the ceiling, each drop hitting a puddle with a hollow echo, creating the illusion of footsteps behind me. I tried not to think about it. The bright flashlight beam revealed graffiti from long-gone artists, piles of trash, and something resembling a huge nest woven from rags and wire. I skirted it widely.
The atmosphere here was entirely 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 faint whiff of rot, making me want to breathe sparingly. Every sound, even the quietest, seemed out of place and loud. I felt like an intruder in a long-abandoned realm governed by its own, unknown laws. The silence was not soothing; it was tense, ringing, like a drawn string ready to snap at any careless movement. I walked, trying to step as quietly as possible, as if afraid to wake something sleeping in these tunnels.
Suddenly, far ahead in the tunnel, metal scraped. I froze, instantly turning off the flashlight and pressing against the damp wall. My heart pounded in my throat. The scrape repeated, closer, accompanied by heavy, rasping breathing. It did not sound animal. I held my breath, trying to become stone. Who could it be? A homeless person? A worker? Or one of those urban legends called "mole people"? An eternity seemed to pass. The breathing and scraping moved away until they faded completely. I waited another five minutes before daring to turn the flashlight back on. My hands trembled slightly. It was a sobering reminder: I was not in a video game where locations were empty until the player arrived. This was a real, living world, and its dark corners could hide very real dangers that needed no superpowers.
It was already one in the morning, and I could spend no more than an hour on this branch — it was not very large — but alas, even periodically turning off the flashlight to stand in absolute darkness and search for faintly glowing flowers that way, I found none. At least there were no more unexpected frightening encounters…
Onward!
Emerging to the surface, naturally returning all locks and barriers, I walked south toward Bowling Green, the financial district, which at night was empty, making walking through it especially atmospheric. But I was not interested in the district itself but a park within it — New York's oldest park and a place where, according to rumors, the Lenape Native American tribe held rituals.
The transition was stark. From the claustrophobic, oppressive underground, I emerged into the open space of stone jungles. The financial district's skyscrapers, dark and silent at this hour, resembled giant sleeping titans. There was none of Hell's Kitchen's bustle, not even rare passersby. Just me, the hollow echo of my steps, and the wind wandering between glass and concrete behemoths. This emptiness was eerie in its own way, but after the tunnel, it felt like a breath of fresh air. I walked with my head up, gazing at distant stars barely piercing the city's light pollution, feeling like a speck in this vast, frozen world.
As for the Lenape and their potentially sacred site, I learned it all from the same forums, digging through threads on Native American mythology and their habitats. Why this place was considered sacred by the Lenape and what that even meant, I had no idea, but as it was a convenient waypoint between locations 2 and 4, I decided to stop by. So, the park! Not the largest — I would even say quite small. The question was what exactly to look for here? Especially since it was lit by street lamps, slightly complicating the search for faintly glowing plants. Fine, only a few dozen trees — I would check each and move on.
After examining about seven or eight trees thoroughly, I approached an old elm — the largest and, I suspected, oldest tree in the park. The grass around it was noticeably taller, and overall it was unnaturally quiet and calm. My heart stopped — after the previous two locations, I had not felt anything like this. Could it be?
The city noise seemed to recede, replaced by almost complete silence, as if the tree created a dome of calm around itself. And then I saw them. It was like a scattering of liquid moonlight frozen on dark bark. The flowers were not just white — they emitted a soft, pearlescent glow, barely noticeable but utterly unearthly. Each petal seemed carved from mother-of-pearl, and at the flower's heart pulsed a tiny point of brighter light, like a beating heart. They did not grow but rather manifested from reality's very structure, as if the boundary between worlds had thinned so much here that a particle of magic had seeped through. I reached out but stopped a centimeter from the nearest flower. They radiated faint warmth and something else… a vibration like a quiet, harmonious melody felt more through the skin than heard. It was incredible. In a world of concrete, steel, and exhaust fumes, I had found something pure, magical, living proof that magic was real. And this treasure would now become part of my first true creation.
At that moment, all the hardships endured that night — tension, fear, disappointment — evaporated without trace. Only pure, unclouded delight of discovery remained. I looked at the flowers and felt I was seeing not just a plant but the answer to all my unspoken questions. The answer was simple: this world was far more complex and wondrous than I could have imagined. And thanks to the system, I had a chance not just to observe its wonders but to interact with them, study them, use them. This was not just acquiring a rare ingredient; it was confirmation of the chosen path. The path of Intellect. For only reason had led me here through analysis and planning, not brute force.
"Yes!" I exclaimed, clenching my fists in joy.
Glancing around and ensuring no one was in the park if anywhere, I carefully touched the entire inflorescence, placing it in inventory. Nothing remained on the bark; just in case, I circled the tree and checked several others, then decided not to be greedy and headed home — or rather, into the sunset, or more accurately, home. Mission accomplished successfully!
Besides finding what I set out for, I was immensely glad I did not have to visit the basement of a half-ruined building that in the 20th century served as a gathering place for a cult indulging in sacrifices. And the last location on the list was the ruins of the smallpox hospital on Roosevelt Island — one of the creepiest places beloved by paranormal-hunting bloggers. No, I was not afraid to visit; getting there was a whole quest, and I might not have made it in one night, but fortunately, I had already completed my quest.
Hell's Kitchen after two in the morning, like almost the entire city, grew empty. Even the most hardened thugs wanted sleep, so I reached my apartment without further adventures, shed my clothes, and collapsed into bed. Tomorrow would be an important day — very important — so I needed a clear mind and adequate perception of reality, if that was even possible with a system in my head, haha. In any case, I fell asleep quickly and woke just as quickly at 10 a.m.
There was no trace of sleep; energy surged from my body, craving one thing — to create! No matter what — a Potato Cannon, a leather wallet, the Intellect Potion, or a story — as long as my mind and hands were occupied. My body was young, brimming with hormones and enthusiasm, so after breakfast, I began planning the day ahead.
In fact, the hardest ingredient to obtain I had successfully acquired. I had bought the crystal, but since I wanted to make several doses of the potion — there were enough flowers — I would need to buy more. I had colloidal silver, isopropyl alcohol, a set of borosilicate glass flasks, and even a used centrifuge for separating pure Fantasmium extract. The main quest for the day — charging the quartz crystals. For that, I would assemble what the people called a Marx Generator — quite a task; I would spend the whole day on eBay searching for the needed lots. And buy a soldering iron… And money was draining from the credit card much faster than planned. Unpleasant…
I opened the banking app on my phone and winced. The numbers on the screen were melting like April snow. Every purchase, every trifle for future projects chipped away a noticeable chunk from the credit limit. It was sobering. One thing was possessing an almost divine system capable of granting blueprints for incredible devices, quite another existing in a world where buying a simple capacitor or resistor required very real paper money. The contrast between my potential and current financial situation was depressing. I could not sit on the credit card forever; I urgently needed to think about monetizing my new knowledge, or my path would end before it began with a simple call from a collection agency.