By 8 PM, having dug significantly through forums, I composed my night route, which included 5 locations, and I also want to believe I solved the crystal charging problem, but that is not a matter for today or even tonight in any case. But what is a matter is the search for the Ghost Orchid, and supposedly this entire undertaking could take from a couple of hours to the entire night if I'm unlucky and the Orchid turns out to be at the last spot on the route. Or if I'm VERY UNLUCKY and don't find it at all... So I need to sleep at least a couple of hours and I can set out on the night gathering at around 11.
Waking up by the alarm at 11 and eating a hearty meal, I packed a backpack with various useful small items, although... "various useful small items" is me putting it modestly. The backpack was prepared with almost military meticulousness, as much as is possible for someone who only yesterday considered the peak of preparation for a foray to be checking the charge on a power bank. 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 with a bottle of water. Naturally, money had to be spent once again...
Each item in this backpack was not just an object, but a small insurance policy against the unknown. The flashlight—not just to see, but to chase away the primal fear of the dark that nests in the soul of any human, and even my mental age is no help. The multitool—a pocket set of tools capable of solving a hundred minor problems, from nipping wire to opening a tin can, in case the night dragged on or a problem arose that the inventory couldn't solve. The knife, cold and heavy in my hand, my symbol of the final line, that very extreme measure one doesn't want to think about but must be ready for. I am not a warrior or a survivalist, but this night demands I become someone more than just a college art student.
I didn't know exactly what I would have to face, but forums dedicated to urban exploration had taught me one thing: better to have and not need than to need and not have. The system hasn't given me combat skills and items yet, which means my main weapon is foresight and the inventory, which, fortunately, can hold much more than this modest backpack. I mentally rechecked the list once more. Everything seemed to be in place. Most importantly—the phone with loaded maps and location descriptions—lay in the inner pocket of my hoodie. A sense of slight jitters mixed with anticipation. This isn't just a night walk; it is formally my first real foray for an ingredient that money can't buy. And too much depends on its success.
Not wasting time, of which there isn't much anyway, I headed to the subway at a quick pace, trying to avoid alleys and suspiciously dark places. Hell's Kitchen at night is not the best place for loners; fortunately, I was lucky and reaching the nearest line, I boarded a train going East toward the New York Public Library.
By subway, the whole trip took only 10 minutes; if I had risked going on foot, firstly I likely wouldn't have made it, and secondly, it would have taken about forty minutes, as the path to 5th Avenue from my place is not the shortest. But here I am, standing before the large-scale, majestic building of one of the largest libraries in the world, though the building itself doesn't interest me; I'm interested in its archives, hidden in the basement of the library!
According to descriptions from people who have been there (legally and otherwise), in the closed archives of this library you feel different, as if you've touched the information field of the Earth and are energetically soaking up all the knowledge accumulated by humanity over millennia. And it would be fine if it were a single mention, but different forums, different people, even documentaries have been made on the subject. If there is some kind of information anomaly here, then the Orchid could in theory grow inside.
Going around the building and making sure the guards were inside and the outside seemed clear, and since no cameras were visible near the service entrance to the basement premises, I approached the massive iron door, which felt several times older than me, and touching the large carved lock, I placed it in the inventory. After which, opening the door with a creak, I went into the basement premises, which were a stone corridor going inward. Taking the flashlight from the backpack and turning it on, I moved forward, passing rooms located closest to the "information field pollution sources"—no, I'm interested in the darkest, farthest, most forgotten corners of this abode of knowledge.
With every step down the stone stairs, the temperature dropped noticeably. The air became denser, as if I were descending into the thickness of water. The walls, built of roughly hewn blocks, seemed to seep cold and store the echo of the steps of those who walked here decades, maybe centuries ago. This is a kind of time travel, a descent into another world that existed parallel to the noisy and bright New York above. Here, below, time flows differently, slowing down to a lazy whisper, and the only reminder of modernity is the bright, cold beam of my LED flashlight, carving out ancient masonry and spiderwebs in the corners from the darkness.
A few turns later and having descended another ten meters down, the library's most ancient archive appeared before me: 1670-1920, stated a bronze plaque next to another massive door, which was locked with an ordinary door lock, just like at the entrance to the dungeon. Placing it in the inventory and opening this door with an even greater 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 power.
The air here was different. Heavy, stale, saturated with the smell of old paper, glue, and something else, elusive-sweet, like fading flowers. The silence pressed on my ears, broken only by the creak of my own steps and the echoing thump of the sneeze. The flashlight beam carved endless rows of shelves from the darkness, going up and getting lost in the gloom. The book spines, darkened with time, seemed like rows of tombstones, and the names of authors inscribed on them—like epitaphs. I felt uncomfortable. There was a feeling that I was not in an archive, but in a crypt where not people, but their thoughts, dreams, and knowledge were buried. It seemed as if as soon as 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 my back, but I saw only dancing shadows and pillars of dust kicked up by my movement.
Information anomaly... I felt it not as a surge of knowledge, but as a weight. Millions of pages, millions of stories, fates, discoveries, and delusions—all this pressed down, creating an almost palpable field of mental noise. I shivered, wrapping the hoodie tighter. I needed to quickly find what I came for and get out of here. This place was too... alive for a dead archive. Although I wouldn't be surprised if this was all just an effect of self-suggestion, this place was just too... oppressive.
Illuminating with the flashlight the wooden, some already damp, shelves of books—of which there were very many, and the room itself was quite large—I set about looking for the Ghost Orchid flowers. It looks, if you believe the information packet loaded into memory, like an ordinary Orchid, only white and glowing slightly in the dark; in general, I won't miss it if I notice it.
Alas, after going around the entire sizable archive about 3 times, looking into every dark corner, under every shelf, into every crack in the stone walls, I found nothing.
A failure. The very first location—and empty. A slight disappointment pricked somewhere inside, but I immediately suppressed it. And what did I expect? That a magical flower would grow in the most visible place with a "Take me" sign? It would have been too simple. Analyze, think. This is not a failure anyway, but a calibration. And as sad as it was, that's exactly why I chose 5 places and not 1; no point in losing more time here, let's continue the search!
Leaving first the archive and then the library dungeon itself, naturally returning the locks to their places thanks to the inventory that adapted to my whim, I moved to the next location. An abandoned branch of the Metropolitan under the Brooklyn Bridge – City Hall station. According to rumors and urban legends, during the construction of this branch, 7 workers mysteriously disappeared; some daring enthusiasts have visited this place, including on video, and noted that in general, unlike most underground subway branches, it's easier and freer to breathe here. Naturally, plenty of explanations were found for this, but for me, the aura of mystery, enigma, and "magic" was primarily important!
Reaching the desired station and making sure there were no curious people here, or even if there were, they clearly had no time for me, I moved toward 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 inventory abuse.
After about half an hour of traveling down, I found myself on the legendary unfinished subway branch, beginning to greedily illuminate everything my gaze reached and more with the flashlight.
I walked slowly along the rusty, slime-covered rails. Water dripped monotonically from the ceiling, and each slap of a drop against a puddle echoed many times in the cavernous silence, creating the illusion of someone's steps behind me. I tried not to think about it. The bright flashlight beam carved out graffiti of long-vanished artists from the darkness, piles of trash, and something looking like a huge nest woven from rags and wire. I bypassed 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, wet concrete, and ozone mixed with a faint stench of decay, making me want to breathe every other time. Every sound, even the quietest, seemed misplaced and loud here. I felt like a stranger intruding into a long-abandoned kingdom where its own unknown laws operated. The silence was not peaceful; it was tense, ringing like a stretched string ready to snap at any moment from any careless movement. I walked, trying to step as quietly as possible, as if afraid to wake something that slumbered in these tunnels.
Suddenly, far ahead in the tunnel, there was a screech of metal. I froze, instantly turning off the flashlight and pressing into the damp wall. My heart pounded somewhere in my throat. The screeching repeated, closer, and someone's heavy, wheezing breath was added to it. It didn't sound like an animal. I held my breath, trying to turn into stone. Who could it be? A homeless person? A worker? Or one of those whom urban legends call "moles"? An eternity seemed to pass. The breathing and screeching receded until they fell silent altogether. I waited another five minutes before I dared to turn the flashlight back on. My hands were shaking slightly. This was a sobering reminder: I'm 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 quite real dangers for which super-powers are not needed.
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 stay in absolute darkness and find weakly glowing flowers that way, I didn't find them. Fortunately, there were no more unexpected scary encounters...
Moving on!
Getting to the surface, naturally returning all locks and barriers to their places, I set out on foot to the South, toward Bowling Green, the financial district, which was empty at night, making the walk through it feel especially atmospheric. Но I wasn't interested in the district, but in the park in that district, the oldest park in New York and a place where rumors say the Native Americans of the Lenape tribe held their ceremonies and rituals.
The transition was striking. From a claustrophobic, oppressive underground, I stepped out into the expanse of the stone jungle. The skyscrapers of the Financial District, dark and silent at this hour, looked like giant sleeping titans. There was no hustle and bustle of Hell's Kitchen here, not even the rare passerby. Only me, the echoing thump of my steps, and the wind blowing between the masses of glass and concrete. This emptiness was eerie in its own way, but after what I'd experienced in the tunnel, it felt like a breath of fresh air. I walked with my head up, looking at the distant stars barely breaking through the city's light pollution, feeling like a grain of sand in this huge, frozen world.
As for the Lenape and their potentially sacred place, I learned all this thanks to the same forums, digging in the mythology branch of the Native American tribes and their habitats. Why this place was considered sacred by the Lenape and what that actually means, I have no idea, but since it was a rather convenient transition point between the 2nd and 4th locations, I decided to stop by on the way. So, the park! Not the largest—I would even say quite small—the question is, what exactly am I looking for here? Especially considering that it is lit by lampposts, making the search for weakly glowing plants a bit difficult. Well, there are only a few dozen trees here; I'll just go around each one and move on.
After about 7 or 8 trees studied inside and out, I approached an old Elm, the largest and, I suspect, oldest tree in the park. Around it, the grass level was noticeably higher, and in general, it was somehow unnaturally quiet and peaceful. My heart skipped a beat because in the two previous places, I hadn't felt anything like this; could it be?
The city noise seemed to recede, replaced by almost total silence, as if the tree created 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 weren't just white—they emitted a soft, pearly glow, barely noticeable but absolutely unearthly. Each petal seemed carved from mother-of-pearl, and at the very heart of the flower pulsed a tiny point of brighter light, like a beating heart. They didn't grow, but rather manifested from the very structure of reality, as if the thin boundary between worlds in this place had thinned enough to let a piece of magic seep through. I reached out but stopped an inch 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 with the skin rather 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.
In that moment, all the hardships experienced during the night—tension, fear, disappointment—evaporated without a trace. Only the 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 unasked questions. The answer was simple: this world is much more complex and amazing than I could have imagined. And I, thanks to the system, have a chance not just to watch its wonders, but to interact with them, study them, use them. This was not just the acquisition of a rare ingredient; it was a confirmation of the correctness of the chosen path. The path of Intellect. For only the mind could have led me here, through analysis and planning, rather than brute force.
"Yes!" I exclaimed, clenching my fists in joy.
Looking around and making sure that people, if any, were not in the park, I carefully touched the entire inflorescence, putting it into the inventory. Nothing remained on the bark; just in case, I went around the whole tree and studied the next few trees, decided that it was better not to be greedy, and vanished into the sunset—or rather, home. Mission successfully completed!
Besides finding what I set out for, I was also immensely glad that I didn't have to visit the basement of one half-ruined building that in the 20th century served as a meeting place for cultists dabbling in sacrifices. And the last place on the list was the ruins of the Smallpox Hospital on Roosevelt Island. One of the creepiest places and a favorite among "paranormal hunters" bloggers. No, I'm not afraid to visit this place, it's just that getting there is a whole quest, and it's not a fact that I would have made it within this night, but fortunately, I already completed my quest.
Hell's Kitchen after two in the morning, like almost the entire city, became empty. Even the most notorious thugs want to sleep, so I reached my apartment without further adventure and, throwing off my clothes, collapsed into sleep. Tomorrow will be an important day, a very important one, so it is necessary to be in a state of clear mind and adequate perception of reality—if that's even possible with a system in your head, hah. In any case, having fallen asleep quickly, I also woke up quickly at 10 AM.
I wasn't sleepy at all; energy just poured from my body, which desired one thing—to create! No matter what—a Potato Cannon, a leather wallet, an Intellect Potion, or history—the main thing was to occupy my mind and hands. The body is young, bursting with hormones and enthusiasm, so after breakfast, I set about planning the upcoming day.
In fact, the most difficult ingredient to obtain I successfully got into my grasping hands. I bought the crystal, but since I want to make several doses of the Potion—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 pure Phantasmine extract are also on hand. The main quest on the agenda is charging the quartz crystals. For this, I'll 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 searching for the lots I need. Oh, and buy a soldering iron... And the money from the credit card is running out 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 trifle for my future projects bit a significant chunk out of the credit limit. This is sobering. It's one thing to possess an almost divine system capable of granting blueprints for incredible devices, and quite another to exist in a world where buying a mundane capacitor or resistor requires quite real, paper money. The contrast between my potential and current financial situation is depressing. I can't live off the credit card forever; I need to think urgently about how to monetize my new knowledge, otherwise my path will end before it has begun because of a mundane call from a collection agency.