Eight hours. Counting travel—seven. Seven hours until a meeting that will determine if I die a painful death or get a chance at life. This time needs to be spent with maximum benefit. And I know how.
Returning to the garage, I looked at the order established by my hands. Every tool lay in its place, every surface was clean. But instead of satisfaction, I felt emptiness. And immediately it was filled by a desire—sharp, all-consuming, almost painful. It wasn't just a whim. It was the call of my Creator Spark, multiplied many times by the skill and decades of someone else's experience. The call of a Master Clockmaker who demanded to create something perfect immediately. He demanded to create a watch.
Not just a watch. High-quality, wrist, mechanical. Something that would make 98% of the consumer junk sold in stores look like pathetic crafts.
The newly acquired knowledge helpfully suggested that creating a masterpiece from absolute zero is currently impossible. Smelting special steel for springs, growing synthetic sapphires for crystals and rubies for jewels, working with machines... I didn't have the equipment or months of time. I'd have to use a workaround. My skill allowed me to work with non-human speed and precision, meaning I could take a high-quality Swiss movement blank (ébauche) as a base and turn it into something completely different. I'll skip the craft stage and go straight to pure art.
Calling a taxi, I was already compiling a shopping list in my head. My inner cheapskate, accustomed to counting every dollar, croaked in protest when the approximate amount took shape in my mind. But I ruthlessly crushed it. The Creator Spark does not tolerate lowly obstacles like money. I was going to the Diamond District again, but this time not as a client of pawnshops and melting workshops, but as a specialist going for specific tools and components.
Arriving at the place, I no longer looked at the windows as an amateur. My practiced gaze instantly sifted out the junk, latching onto quality. In a small, dusty shop packed with parts and tools, I found what I was looking for. My choice fell on an ETA 6497. I seemed to feel its potential—a large, reliable manual-wind movement gave me the ideal "canvas" for decorative finishing. 500 dollars moved from my pocket into the cash register.
Next—the "body." A high-quality 316L stainless steel case, perfectly polished, 42 mm in diameter. Two sapphire crystals so the movement—my future creation—was visible from all sides. A dial blank made of pure silver and a set of blued steel hands. The strap... The Master inside me demanded to create it too, but the pragmatist realized it would take too much time. It was a painful compromise, but I chose the best of the available handmade options, made of thick natural leather. Another 800 dollars.
And, finally, tools. My base was good for electronics and crude crafts, but watchmaking required something else. I took the best: a set of Bergeon screwdrivers, anti-magnetic tweezers, a set of needle files, polishing pastes, exotic gentian wood sticks for final polishing, a power tool with attachments, and, of course, a timegrapher. The bill for 3500 dollars made me wince for a second.
Total: 4800 dollars. More than a quarter of my cash. For that money, one could buy a decent Swiss watch. But the Master Clockmaker inside me snorted disdainfully. Wear something created by someone else's hands? What an insult! Even the parts I bought were perceived by him as 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.
Returning to the garage, I felt like a surgeon before a major operation. The table was cleared. Everything extra removed. I laid out the new, sparkling tools and components on the clean surface almost with reverence. In the outside world, a meeting with a vampire hunter and possibly death awaited me. But here, in this garage, in the next few hours only I, the metal, and the quiet, steady passage of time I was going to harness and enclose in a steel case would exist.
I set about the magic. There was no other way to call it. Just yesterday I could only dream of such a thing. Today I was going to do it.
I immersed myself in the work head-first. The outside world ceased to exist. There were no vampires, no Blade, no mortal danger. There was only I, the sparkling tools, and a microscopic universe of gears and springs being born under my fingers.
First step—finishing. This wasn't just a stage; it was a mystery turning a standard, though high-quality, movement into a work of art. I completely disassembled the ETA 6497. Every part, every screw was polished to a mirror shine reflecting the light of my lamp. Then came the turn for anglage. Leaning over a part with a needle file in hand, I entered a state of flow. My movements were non-humanly precise. I manually created and polished perfect bevels on all the movement's bridges. Work that takes an ordinary master days and weeks of painstaking labor took me little more than an hour.
Decorating became a creative outburst. Using the power 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 was born instantly as if it had always been part of me—a stylized blacksmith's hammer. The symbol of my Creator essence and the gift of the Heavenly Forge.
Assembly was the climax. After sterilizing the workplace, I proceeded to the sacred rite. The gear train, anchor fork, balance wheel—everything took its place with absolute precision. Microscopic doses of different oils fell exactly into the slots. Not a single mistake. Not a single speck of dust.
I placed the assembled movement on the timegrapher. The device beeped, displaying a diagram on the screen. I proceeded to the tuning, achieving phenomenal accuracy—a deviation of 0 seconds per day in all six positions. This was the level of the world's best chronometers. After finishing the tuning, I installed the dial and hands, placed the beating heart of the watch into the case, hermetically screwed down the back cover, and attached the strap.
"Beautiful..." I whispered, lifting the masterpiece created by my own hands to the light.
The matte luster of the steel, the deep blue of the blued hands on the silver dial, the perfect waves on the bridges visible through the sapphire crystal. They were not inferior to a Patek Philippe or a Rolex. For me—they surpassed them because they contained a part of my soul. In that moment, I experienced such a surge of pride as I had never felt in my life. And the system seemed to agree with me.
[Small Clock Mechanism created. Difficulty: Normal. Received +200 OP!]
200 points! For five hours of non-dusty, exciting, and almost meditative work. And what's most important—this was the first major reward for a creation born of my own will, not of the System's 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 my hand perfectly. Making sure there was still time before the meeting, I, emboldened by success, decided to try my luck. Opening the system window, I spent 350 OP on "Forge the Universe."
[Information package received (Common) – Optimizer-Ritualist (Azeroth). Unlock cost: 100 OP]
Your mastery in magical rituals allows you to halve resource costs for Enchantment and Inscription spells while maintaining their effectiveness. For example, a ritual requiring the blood of ten virgins, you perform with the blood of five. Scientific processes, such as creating robots, are not subject to optimization.
I re-read the description several times. Azeroth? Is this a skill from World of Warcraft? But even so, the disappointment was almost physical. A skill that is absolutely useless to me now. I didn't know magic, ritualism, or even enchantment. The price of 100 OP only emphasized its narrow focus. Alas, no cheaty perks today. And farming 400 or more OP for the next spins is becoming increasingly difficult.
Alright, time. Clearing space in the garage, I pulled my "Honda" out of the inventory and placed it inside. I have a potential idea related to my car, but I don't want to reveal the inventory yet. Calling a taxi, I went to the "Lily & Milly" cafe.
The place was nightmare-ish. Garishly pink walls, vanilla scent, plush toys on the shelves. It didn't fit at all with the image of a dark vampire gutter. However, judging by our short conversation, Blade is quite a fan of breaking molds. I ordered two signature burgers, a couple of milkshakes, and waited, admiring the play of light on the facets of my watch.
"Sick watch. Where'd you buy it?"
A low, brutal voice sounded right over my ear, making me jump in my seat. I didn't even hear him approach.
"Oh, don't sweat it, rookie," he continued, smoothly sinking into the chair opposite me. "I'm one of the right kind of niggas. Burger ordered, I hope?"
Black tight-fitting turtleneck, dark jeans, sunglasses even though twilight was already gathering outside. It was him. How he realized I was me remained a mystery.
I caught my breath and, feeling the pleasant weight of the watch on my wrist, felt a surge of confidence.
"Assembled it myself. Literally before the meeting," I replied with a light smile. "The burgers are on the way."
He snorted, tilting his head slightly to the side. Through the dark lenses of the glasses, I felt his studying, piercing gaze. The conversation was just beginning, and I hope that if he can sense lies, then in his eyes I've at least become a bit more interesting than just a nameless problem kid who became a target for vampires.
"Yourself, huh. That's good. Hard-working pros are damn hard to find now; everyone's moved on to button-pressing."
His question was casual, but I felt a trick in it. Is this a test?
"Possibly," I calmly met his gaze, invisible behind the glasses. "But you understand that to fulfill any order, I need to stay alive first."
"Pff, don't sweat it. You think I flew halfway across the world for nothing?" he waved his hand. "Occasionally I have to carry out a sanitary cleaning of particularly arrogant bastards and save someone's hide in the process. Not for free, of course. So come on, brief me. Only this time without any bullshit. None at all."
I nodded. The moment of truth.
"Without bullshit it is then..." I muttered, sticking my hand into my jacket pocket. For a second, I felt Blade's muscles tense; his body became a coiled spring. He was ready for an attack. I slowly pulled out my hand, in which a bottle had materialized from my inventory beforehand. "This is an Intellect Potion. Roughly speaking, a Mind potion. It accelerates the brain to super-speeds for a couple of hours. Thanks to it, I found out that it was vampires chasing me, not just thugs. And it helped me find you. A digital trail can be wiped, but it's impossible to scrub everything absolutely: old web archives, dusty forums... That's how I stumbled upon an Order of the British Empire granted to a certain Eric Brook in 2003."
"Alright, I get it, not an idiot," Blade stopped me. At that moment, the waitress brought our burgers. With bright pink buns. I involuntarily stared at this culinary misunderstanding. "Don't look like that," Blade grunted, grabbing his portion. "They're the best in town. So I take it the Ghost Orchid is the main component?"
"Yes," I nodded, carefully biting into the burger. It was actually not bad. "It's not the only thing I can create. But this specifically brought me the most trouble."
"To be fair, your watch can bring trouble too," he said with a full mouth. "Especially if you walk with it in the wrong neighborhoods."
"I know. But these are my first. You know, like the first dollar earned that you frame on the wall? I just couldn't not wear them to this meeting. This is... a business card."
Blade stopped chewing and looked at me.
"Are you kidding? First assembled watch—and of this quality? Potion from a Ghost Orchid... and something else you're wisely keeping quiet about for now. You, kid, are a walking storehouse of talents. And the craziest thing is that you're not lying. I can feel it."
"You said without lying, I'm trying."
"And here you clearly lied, though the tactic of withholding has its place!" Eric chuckled. "Alright, the layout is more or less clear. I can even drop some info in secret: the vampires from the Anchoriel clan would buy your Potion recipe for the price of a private jet. They've been fighting for centuries to create their 'Potion of Supreme Wisdom,' and your recipe is likely what they're looking for. Those are some of the few decent bloodsuckers. Just so you know."
"That's... a very interesting thought. Thanks. Could it be them?"
"What were you listening with?" Blade looked at me as if I were an idiot. "I said 'decent'. The Anchoriel are hermits, drink animal blood and preach a philosophy of non-violence. Vampire Buddhists, hah. I'm the best specialist on these freaks in the world, believe me."
"Then who?"
"Obviously, the clan that is the 'overseer' of the territory where you swiped the flower. Where was that?"
"Bowling Green park."
"Financial District. I see. A neighborhood like that in clan wars can only be held by top-tier players. Clans with three or more purebloods in their ranks. There are four such in New York: Mistiel, the Kriegers, Haskell, and Moksha."
He took a sip of the milkshake, letting me digest the information.
"The second and last ones we can cross off immediately."
"Why?"
"Because the Kriegers are thick-headed berserkers. They would have torn you to pieces right in the middle of the street and then wiped the witnesses' memories. And Moksha... they're seers. If they wanted to remove you, you wouldn't have lived to this moment—you'd have tripped and fallen onto a piece of rebar. They have their own methods."
The fact that the abilities of prophets might not work on me, I wisely kept to myself.
"That leaves Mistiel and Haskell. Smart-ass tech-users versus old-school aristocrats. The former actively use modern weapons and gadgets, preferring a rifle with a thermal sight over fangs. The latter are corporations, hedge funds, connections in high society. Prefer not to stand out, acting through proxies. Relatively decent, but," he paused, "only with equals or with those who are stronger."
"So what do we do?"
"Now that's your question. I see you're not as simple as you want to appear. You couldn't have dragged yourself 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 the garage. The one I used to escape the chase. It's compromised," I carefully watched his reaction. "If I drive around the Financial District in it... we can try to lure them out with live bait."
A wide, predatory smile touched Blade's lips.
"I like you, kid. Let's not pull a cat by the fang. Let's head to your place."
"We haven't discussed payment."
"Whatever, we'll discuss as we go. Money doesn't really concern me. But potions... if your Potion works like you say..."
I didn't let him finish.
"Here."
I handed him a bottle. And then, sticking my hand in my pocket again, materialized an injector there with another liquid.
"And this too. Muscle Stimulant. Accel-erates all physical indicators to superhuman for 15-20 minutes. No side effects. Don't know how it will work on someone like you, but it shouldn't be worse. Consider it a deposit. And an investment in our... business relations."
Blade silently took both bottles. He examined them carefully, turning them in his hands. His smile became even wider.
"Hm. I like my decision to fly here more and more."
And as for me... I can only hope my decision turned out to be correct.