[... Received +10 OP!]
When the last injector was filled, I leaned back in my chair. The result: 620 OP. I was short just 30 OP for a second Gacha spin for 350 OP. I could quickly get them, but the gambling spirit had already taken over. If something worthwhile drops on the first try, the second one might not be needed. Decision made. Spin first, think later.
I closed my eyes, focused, and gave the mental command: "Forge the Universe!" 300 OP were deducted from my balance, and a system notification flashed before my inner eye. I eagerly devoured the text.
[Received Information Package (Common) - Master Clockmaker (Arcanum of Steam Mechanisms and Magical Mysteries). Unlock cost: 200 OP]
Description: Years of working with mechanisms and complex blueprints have honed your attention to the smallest details. Your vision remains sharp even in the dim light of the workshop, allowing you to distinguish the finest elements of structures. Your mind is capable of instantly memorizing and analyzing complex diagrams, making the assembly of any device quick and accurate. The monocle, once necessary for work, now serves only as a stylish addition 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 reread the description again. This wasn't just an abstract blueprint. It was a passive skill. And not just a skill, but a veritable Holy Grail for any Creator. Instant memorization of diagrams, precision, attention to detail... This means that I no longer have to waste precious Potions of Intellect on assembling complex devices like the UV projector. It will be enough to just glance at the blueprint once. For 200 OP, this wasn't a purchase; it was daylight robbery. I'll take it!
Without hesitation, I poured the points into unlocking it. And immediately realized that the pain from receiving the blueprint for the Protective Field Generator was child's play. I wasn't just being loaded with data. I was being crammed with an entire life. Decades of someone else's experience, dedicated to working with tiny gears and springs. I felt phantom calluses on my fingers, felt the ghostly weight of a monocle on my eye, inhaled the nonexistent smell of brass and clock oil. The whole essence, the whole obsession and pedantry of the old master poured into me in a few agonizing minutes.
When the pain subsided, I opened my eyes. And was horrified.
I looked at my garage laboratory with a new, unclouded vision. And what I saw was disgusting. It wasn't creative chaos. It was chaos. Tools were lying around out of place. Chemical stains were visible on the table, which could affect the purity of future reactions. Equipment wires were tangled in a ball, posing a fire hazard. Insufficient ventilation, improper lighting, inefficient organization of space... Dozens, hundreds of minor and major problems that my brain could no longer ignore screamed of incompetence.
The gaze of the Master Clockmaker, accustomed to micron accuracy and perfect order, assessed this place as a disaster. And this same gaze could not fail to notice that it was late at night. I needed to decide what to do next. Stay here, in this breeding ground of unsanitary conditions and inefficiency? Or run away to some anonymous motel to let the newly acquired instincts calm down? But I knew the answer. The master inside me would not tolerate sleep, knowing that his workshop was in such a deplorable state.
Darkness reigned in the windowless room, thick and velvety like age-old dust in a crypt. The air was still and cold, imbued with a subtle aroma of expensive tobacco and something elusively metallic, something that an experienced medic would immediately identify as blood. The only source of light was a single desk lamp, snatching from 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 this icy restraint carried more threat than any scream. "They had one task. One. To watch the snot-nosed kid. Find out his new lair. And report back. Explain to me how they managed to fail such a primitive assignment."
On the carpet, in a patch of light at the feet of his master, stood his subordinate on one knee. His pale, gaunt face shone with agitation, and his whole body was shaking slightly.
"L-Lord Likkus..." he began, stammering. "We checked the last known location. A dead end by an abandoned building in Hell's Kitchen. The boy's car turned there, and ours followed. There are clear signs of tire tracks in the area... but..."
Likkus Haskiel slowly raised his hand, and the subordinate fell silent, afraid to breathe. A perfectly polished fingernail began to tap out a quiet, nervous rhythm on the black wood tabletop.
"But?" he hissed.
"But there's no one there!" the subordinate blurted out. "The car... it's like it vanished! We scoured the entire area. No one drove up to or away from this building after them. Not the snot-nosed Honda, nor our Land Cruiser. Absolutely deserted. They simply vanished. Without a trace."
The tapping of a fingernail on wood became more frequent. It was their night, their time. His hounds should have already dragged in the impudent thief who dared to trespass on the Clan's property. Depending on the boy's answers, his fate would be decided—a quick death or long, agonizing hours of entertainment for Likkus. But instead, his people had disappeared. Experienced, powerful vampires, sent to tail a simple human. Not a mutant, not a mage, not a mercenary in tactical armor. Just an ordinary mortal student. The insult was unheard of.
"His own car. Did it appear on the cameras during the day?"
"No, my Lord. Our network specialist did not record its movements."
The rhythm on the table stopped. Likkus clasped his fingers together. He liked the situation less and less. Such a traceless disappearance—this was the work of a professional. Could it be that this kid was not who he seemed? Unlikely. More likely, he stole the Ghost Orchid at someone else's behest. But who was this puppet master?
Rival clans? The bastards from Mistiel? It's their style—acting through others, weaving intrigues from behind the scenes. Those perfumed snakes have always been fond of rare alchemical ingredients. But there was a truce between their clans. A shaky one, hanging by a thread, but it was still in effect.
The Kriegers? Those thick-headed berserkers? They wouldn't have the brains to pull off something so clean. They would have just smashed down the wall of his mansion, slaughtered the guards, and tried to take what they needed, leaving behind a mountain of corpses and destruction. No, that's not their style.
The Trix? Those cannibalistic creatures, despised even in the vampire community, were wiped out root and stem. Fucking Blade himself scoured their New York lair with fire and silver. That bastard wouldn't have missed a single creature; his sense for vampires is better than any hunting dog's. Could a few individuals have survived and gone into hiding? Taken control of a mortal, lured his people into a trap, and drained them dry? There was a possibility, but it seemed negligible.
Who else? The Jamlins? The red-skinned hermits who hadn't poked their heads out of their underground burrows for 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 are bribery and trade, not tricks like this.
Something didn't add up... What if the puppet master isn't a vampire? Intelligence agencies? The agreements are still in place; his people wouldn't be touched without a good reason and subsequent notification. Another self-proclaimed superhero in tights? Maybe. A follower of Blade? Also an option. But definitely not Blade himself. The Daywalker wouldn't bother with something so petty. His style is to burst in with a shotgun, not to orchestrate quiet disappearances.
"The answer is in the kid..." Likkus finally said, and his voice became cold and even again. He looked at his henchman with a gaze that froze the blood in his veins. "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, pondering.
"Capture him alive. But if he turns out to be a really slippery bastard... dead will also do. We can always resurrect him as a new slave of the Clan. The dead are much more talkative."