The effect of the first emotions—and let me be honest, they were extremely positive emotions—faded away, leaving behind cool calculation and nagging curiosity. Without hesitation, I mentally wished to enter, to dive inside this "system." Surprisingly, the transition was completely mundane, without special effects or fanfare. As if I'd been using this interface my whole life, and it was as natural an extension of my thoughts as a hand is an extension of the body. But what I saw... well, let's just say it puzzled me.
In the very center of the semi-transparent interface, floating weightlessly, was a hammer—or rather, its sketch. Not some ordinary carpentry or metalworking hammer, but a real blacksmith's hammer. A massive head of unknown metal, covered with intricate runic patterns that glowed with a soft, otherworldly light. The handle, wrapped in something resembling reptile skin, was decorated with complex ornaments that seemed to constantly change shape. It looked more like a priceless museum piece or the weapon of some Asgardian god than a working tool. My old, trusty mechanic's hammer with its ash handle, perfectly fitted to my palm over years of work, would look like a pathetic beggar compared to it. And yet, in that moment I realized I wouldn't trade my reliable tool for any divine weapon. My hammer was real, but this one... this was just a pretty picture for now.
Below the hammer was an inscription in strict but elegant font: "Forge Reality! Cost: 100 CP." I mentally focused on it, and immediately a small, even tiny information packet flowed into my consciousness.
[Each Forging attempt grants access to technologies from an infinite number of Multiverse variations.]
And that's... it? So I spend 100 CP, click on the virtual hammer and get a "technology"? Too many unknowns. How exactly will I receive it? As a real material prototype that'll drop on my head? Or as an information packet implanted directly into my brain about how to create this technology? Or maybe just a stack of blueprints that I'd still have to mess with for years without the necessary resources and equipment? And what kind of technologies are these? Kree bioengineering? The magic of this world, which supposedly exists according to clearly defined laws—is that technology or not? The word "technology" itself could be interpreted so broadly that it made my head spin. Well, hopefully I'll figure it out over time. For now, there were more questions than answers.
Above the hammer were three tabs. The first—"Forge Reality"—was currently active. The second read: "Technologies." Anticipating who knows what, I switched to it only to let out a disappointed sigh. Empty. Completely. They didn't even spare some crappy test technology as an example. Ugh, cheapskates.
The third tab—"Inventory." Now this was interesting. If it worked like in classic LitRPGs, this wouldn't just be helpful, it'd be a real cheat in the real world. Holding my breath from slight excitement, I switched to the inventory. Before me spread a field of cells, 5 by 5—twenty-five slots total. Not much, but it'd do for a start. I looked at the old laptop on the desk. Touching it and mentally imagining it moving to one of the cells, I focused on this desire. Before my eyes, real, pure MAGIC happened. The laptop didn't disappear in a flash of light, it just... dissolved, like a mirage, leaving only a dusty rectangle on the desk surface.
"Now... now I believe," I muttered, staring in shock at the empty space, then at the laptop icon hanging forlornly in the first inventory slot.
I mentally "clicked" on the icon, and a brief description appeared:
[Zuun Electronics laptop. Rarity: Common. Condition: 73/100.]
Wow, the inventory also acts as some kind of simplified reference guide. Convenient. With another effort of will, I wished to return the laptop to its place. A moment later it materialized on the desk with a quiet, barely audible click. Incredible! It's one thing to see system glitches in front of your eyes, and completely another when something happens that breaks all the laws of physics! This changed absolutely everything. The possibilities that such a pocket warehouse opened were truly limitless: from simply carrying heavy stuff to... well, anything!
I'd figured out the three main tabs. One last visible element remained—in the upper right corner of the interface, a plate glowed: "0 CP." Local currency needed for "rolls." The main thing left to understand: how do I earn it?
[CP (Craft Points)—currency needed for Forging Reality and unlocking technologies. Earned by manifesting the user's Creator Spark in the process of creating something.]
"Uh-huh... Makes no damn sense, but very interesting," as they say. Okay, I'm being dishonest. Generally speaking, it's clear: I need to create something with my own hands. The question is, what exactly fits into this vague concept of "something"? Would, for example... My gaze caught on an old wooden chair in the corner, one of whose legs was noticeably sagging. Old habit took over. I went over, flipped it. Just as I thought, a screw had come loose. I didn't have tools handy, but the edge of a coin I found in my pocket worked fine as an improvised screwdriver. A couple minutes, and the leg stood perfectly. The familiar feeling of satisfaction from a job well done... and silence. I waited for a system notification, a pop-up message, some kind of sign. But none came. Hmm. Apparently repair doesn't count as "creation." The system wants something new, created from scratch. That's an important and rather unpleasant clarification.
My gaze wandered around the room looking for inspiration and landed on a student notebook lying on the corner of the desk. Drawing or... origami?
Taking the notebook and finding a ballpoint pen in the desk drawer, I first tried to draw something. I wasn't an artist in any sense of the word, just like John wasn't. After several crooked sketches that got no response from the system, I irritably tore out a sheet. Paper. What can you create from paper? The answer came by itself even before I'd finished choosing. Origami. I began folding the classic everyone knows—a crane. Something a bit more complex than a primitive paper airplane, but not some mind-bending legendary dragon that maybe two people in the world could assemble. After a couple minutes of unhurried, careful work, the paper crane was ready. It stood crookedly on the table, pleasing my eye, but my eye was even more pleased by the system notification that popped up!
[Created simple art item: Origami. Complexity: Minimal. Received +1 CP!]
"Gimme that loot!" I couldn't resist the legendary gamer phrase. First point in the piggy bank of my future greatness! Just ninety-nine more cranes like this to make, and I could spin the wheel... I mean, swing the hammer! Main thing was having enough sheets in the notebook.
Motivated by the first success, I forgot about exploring the internet and making future plans. The goal was simple and clear—earn the first hundred CP. The whole world narrowed down to my hands methodically folding paper and brief flashes of system notifications.
[Received +1 CP!]
[Received +1 CP!]
...
[Received +1 CP!]
[Warning! CP earning limit in the area of simple Origami creation has been exhausted!]
The last message hit like a punch to the gut, instantly cooling my enthusiasm. I only managed to get a measly 10 CP from cranes. Ten! And I'd already set myself up for meditative grinding, like in that fairy tale about a thousand cranes to grant a wish... Ugh, no simple paths for me. At least the "simple" origami note hinted pretty clearly. So if I made something more serious, there was a chance I could start farming CP again.
I had to get on the internet after all, though for completely different reasons than I'd originally planned. After spending half an hour browsing sites and video tutorials, I sadly concluded: my skills definitely weren't enough to create a theoretical Elephant, much less a Dragon, whose diagrams required hundreds of steps. And not just steps, but steps backed up by scary words like "bird base" with additional creases, "reverse folds," "rabbit ear," "wet folding"... This was already some kind of advanced mathematics, not crafting.
But I found a way out after all. Elegant and, as it seemed to me, perfectly suited for farming—modular origami. The most obvious option—kusudama, a paper ball. That same "Electra" kusudama, according to the guides, required 30 identical modules. The complexity of each module was barely higher than a crane, but their combination should give the needed result.
I tore another sheet from the notebook and got to work. And immediately ran into a problem. My fingers, used to rough work, to heavy tool handles, seemed like clumsy sausages. I cursed when I once again couldn't make a neat, sharp crease. Me, a person who could assemble a furniture panel with his eyes closed or turn a perfect table leg, couldn't handle a damn piece of paper! Absurd!
Somehow, after ruining a couple sheets and spending tons of nerves, I finally got the hang of it. By my calculations, creating one kusudama would take about half an hour. But there was another snag—the sheets in the notebook were running out fast. I'd have to go to the store. Rummaging through the pockets of my shorts and desk drawers, I scraped together a couple crumpled dollars and a handful of change. Not much. The nearest 24-hour shop greeted me with the smell of cheap coffee and disinfectant. Under the indifferent gaze of an Indian cashier, I chose the simplest pack of office paper. Walking back through the deserted night streets lit by sparse streetlights, I felt like a complete idiot, because the potential risks of going out on the night street in this rough neighborhood absolutely weren't worth it. I hadn't risked going out to throw away trash, but I risked it to buy paper—it'd be funny if this came back to bite me (kidding)...
Hell's Kitchen at night was a completely different place than during the day. It shed its mask of an ordinary poor neighborhood and showed its true face. From a dark alley came the crash of an overturned garbage can and angry cat hissing. On the corner, under the flickering neon of a "Joe's Pizza" sign, stood a group of guys in baggy clothes. They weren't doing anything illegal, just smoking and talking quietly, but they radiated an aura of lurking threat. I picked up my pace, trying not to make eye contact. In this world, one wrong look could be enough to get a knife between the ribs.
The air was thick and humid, smelling of rotting garbage, cheap food from 24-hour joints, and exhaust fumes. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed again—the constant soundtrack of this city, and this neighborhood in particular. I suddenly realized my vulnerability acutely. In my old body I wasn't Hercules, but I could hold my own. Ten years of physical labor had done their work. Now I was in the body of a scrawny student who, judging by memories, had last fought in middle school, and unsuccessfully at that. Any of those guys on the corner could break me in half. And no Devil of Hell's Kitchen, who I'd remembered earlier, would come to help. Matt Murdock might be a hero to some extent, but he's not all-seeing or all-powerful. He deals with gangs and killers, not saving every idiot who decides to take a walk through the night neighborhood. This walk sobered me up better than any cold shower. I didn't just need a "technology" from the system. I needed strength. Or at least something that would help me protect this fragile new life.
Returning to the apartment, I threw myself into work with new fervor. Forty minutes of concentration, teeth grinding, and quiet cursing, and the first kusudama was ready. It turned out a bit lopsided, but quite recognizable.
[Created art item: Origami. Complexity: Medium. Received +3 CP!]
Excellent! Medium complexity registered, and the three-point reward was a nice bonus. Even though in those same 40 minutes I could have made more cranes if not for the limit, the main thing was different—CP farming had gotten unstuck.
Looking at the clock on the laptop—two in the morning—I realized what I'd be doing for the next few hours. The thought of college flashed and died. Thursday, school day... However much I considered this college a useless waste of time, it could be a source of information. Mary Jane studies there, and maybe Harry Osborn drops by to see her. These aren't just extras, but key, albeit secondary figures. So visiting college was worth it. But right now—grinding!
The next hours flew by in a haze. My hands mechanically folded modules, connected them into finished balls. To keep from going crazy from the monotony, I turned on a news channel on the laptop. I got so used to it that one kusudama took no more than twenty minutes. I'd assembled the first ten by five-thirty in the morning. But the eleventh ball greeted me with another unpleasant surprise.
[Created art item: Origami. Complexity: Medium. Received +1 CP!]
[Warning! CP earning limit in the area of medium complexity Origami creation partially exhausted! The next 9 items will award +1 CP each.]
So now I have 10 + (10 * 3) + 1 = 41 CP. And I can squeeze out another 9 points from these paper balls. Total—50. Exactly halfway there. Not too bad. Plus, I can fold modules during college classes too. So there was no point torturing myself here and now, especially since I was starting to get irresistibly sleepy. John's memory reminded me that tomorrow there were three classes starting at 10:15. Half an hour walk to college. So I had three to four hours for sleep.
Collapsing on the couch, before going to Morpheus's realm for the second time in these crazy twenty-four hours, I thought. My life hadn't just turned upside down, it had done a somersault through its ears. The Marvel world, a strange, not-too-generous system, a new body... Remembering my old, measured life, I felt a pang of longing. There I created things you could touch, that served people, though probably me first and foremost. A solid table, a reliable roof. Tangible, real results. And here? I'm creating fragile paper crafts for ephemeral points to get an unknown "technology." There's some cruel irony in this. As if I'd traded real craftsmanship for a video game with a questionable prize.
What if this version of Marvel is one of the darkest? What if Galactus is already flying toward Earth? Or God forbid, this is the zombie apocalypse universe? I'd rather be in Warhammer than Marvel-Zombies... While I pondered cosmic horrors, from below on the street came the sound of a broken bottle and a drunken shout. The thin walls didn't protect from noise. I felt a cold draft from a crack in the window frame. A gust of cold air sobered me up a bit and my thoughts returned to understanding the events that had happened to me, particularly regarding the creation process.
My fingers still remembered the feeling of paper, the monotonous, precise movements. I'd made hundreds of identical modules in one night. And with each new fold, a dull irritation grew in me, turning into quiet rage. This was wrong. Creation, in my understanding, had always been a meaningful process. You take shapeless material—wood, metal, clay—and put your work into it, your skill, a piece of your soul, to create something useful. Something that will serve. A chair you can sit on. A plate you can put food on. A tool you can work with. This was a dialogue with the material. But what I was doing now was profanation. Soulless, mechanical work for virtual points.
These paper balls, kusudamas, were empty inside and out. They served no function except aesthetic, and even that was questionable. They were fragile and meaningless. And the system rewarded me for creating this garbage. I felt like a monkey in a lab pressing a lever to get a banana. Is this really my "Creator Spark"? Folding paper according to someone else's scheme? The thought was insulting. No, I definitely had to accumulate these damn hundred points as soon as possible and get the first technology. To start creating something real. Something that would have weight, strength, and meaning. Something I could proudly call my work.
But even so, before worrying about great creations and equally great dangers in the form of World Devourers, I needed to survive tomorrow in this cardboard box in the most dangerous part of the city. And that thought here and now was far more sobering than any Galactus.
I'm praying to all the gods, who here, unlike in my world, aren't just empty words, that this version turns out to be... well, at least not the one where everyone's doomed to annihilation. With these encouraging thoughts I fell asleep, anticipating a new day.