The next morning greeted me not just with good spirits but with a genuine mental explosion, a tsunami of pure energy. Waking felt like an electric shock — not painful, but invigorating, instantly evaporating the remnants of sleep and yesterday's fatigue. I leapt out of bed with such fierce, primal vigor, such pure, unclouded motivation and an itching in my fingertips to create, that I likely had never experienced in my entire previous life. That was what the damned system could do to an ordinary person — shatter his apathy and turn him into an obsessed workaholic. Terrifying! But damnably, intoxicatingly pleasant.
Refusing to resist this powerful inner impulse that demanded immediate creation, I operated like a well-oiled machine. A quick, almost icy shower to fully rev the blood. A hastily eaten breakfast of yesterday's pizza, swallowed without much attention to taste because my thoughts were already far ahead. And there I stood over the table, transformed into an operating theater. On its surface lay neatly arranged PVC pipes, a knife, sheets of sandpaper, a tube of acrid-smelling glue, and a simple piezo lighter. The laptop screen cast a bluish glow on my face, displaying a primitive internet tutorial. I set to work.
A potato cannon, potatometer, or, as I solemnly dubbed it for myself, the Potato Cannon-3000. A simple design that, in the wet dreams of Belarusian politicians, was a weapon of mass destruction capable of annihilating all life. In harsh reality, it was just a cunning assembly of glued PVC pipes and flammable gas. From the main pipe — the barrel of our weapon — a potato tuber, serving as the projectile, flew out under the pressure of expanding gases. Depending on the design, sealing, and fuel used, the potato's flight range varied from tens to hundreds of meters. My design would be laughably simple, so I realistically expected a solid fifty meters, no more.
First, I tackled the pipes. My movements were precise, measured, as if I had done this all my life. The combustion chamber — from a wide, 80-millimeter pipe, a section about forty centimeters long with a screw-on cap on top for "loading" fuel. The barrel — from a narrower, 50-millimeter pipe, about a meter long for better projectile acceleration. I carefully sanded the cuts to perfect smoothness so nothing interfered with gluing. On one end of the combustion chamber, I glued a solid cap, inhaling the acrid, chemical smell of glue that tickled my nostrils unpleasantly. On the other end, I fitted a reducer from 80 to 50 mm. Then, with the same meticulous care, I glued the long barrel pipe to the reducer. The main frame of the legendary Potato Cannon was ready, and it looked surprisingly menacing.
Next stage — the ignition system, the heart of my creation. I drilled two tiny holes in the combustion chamber cap for 4-mm screws. Then screwed the screws in at a slight angle so their metal tips inside the chamber were only 2-3 millimeters apart — improvised but effective electrodes. To the protruding external screws, I carefully attached wires from a disassembled piezo lighter, securing its plastic body to the combustion chamber with several layers of tape. I pressed the button. Click! A bright, angry bluish spark crackled between the screw tips with a dry snap. Excellent — almost ready!
Final touches before the triumphant test: a final check of all joints for airtightness and, of course, finding suitable ammunition. For the latter, I had to run to the nearest grocery store. And there it was — in less than an hour from the start of work, the legend was complete! With pleasant effort, I forced a large, dense potato tuber into the barrel, feeling the pipe edges shave a thin layer of peel for perfect obturation. Unscrewing the combustion chamber cap, I sprayed in a generous dose of propane-butane from a lighter refill canister. Then I approached the window, threw it wide open, letting the cool morning city air in, and aimed the Potato Cannon's barrel upward, targeting a flat rooftop of a neighboring building. My heart beat a little faster in anticipation. I pressed the lighter.
A short but surprisingly juicy, ear-pleasing bang! The potato projectile whistled invisibly away, successfully leaving Earth's orbit — or at least the orbit of my fifth-floor apartment. At that moment, a system notification flashed before my eyes in soft blue light.
[Created simple weapon design "Potato Cannon." Complexity: Minimal. Received +50 OP!]
I immediately leaned out the window, trying to track the tuber's flight, but it quickly became a dark speck and vanished against the morning sky. The sharp, chemical smell of burned gas hit my nose, mixed with a faint, almost sweet aroma of baked starch. The cannon's body was noticeably warm in my hands, and the recoil, though weak, pleasantly pushed my shoulder, confirming the shot had occurred. It was… real creation. Not a paper figurine, not a drawing, not a line of code. A functional, albeit primitive, device. In a sense, even a weapon. I ran my finger over the smooth PVC plastic, feeling the barely noticeable seams at the joints, glued by my own hands. The feeling of deep, pure satisfaction was almost intoxicating. I had not just followed an internet recipe. I had taken disparate pieces of matter — pipes, a lighter, glue — and with my will, knowledge, and hands transformed them into something whole, with purpose and function. It was a small, almost childish miracle, but it was mine.
At that moment, I understood that the Celestial Forge was not just a system mechanic for dispensing points. It was the essence of creation raised to the absolute, a catalyst of the will to build. And if a potato cannon gave me such childlike, genuine delight, what would I feel when I assembled something truly complex? A protective field generator? Power armor? A predatory grin spread across my lips. I had only just begun, and an entire universe of possibilities awaited me.
As for the +50 OP, as expected, the system generously rewarded complex and somewhat functional creations! Another important fact: the design received a named prefix — the first time, if I was not mistaken, the system had given something a proper name. Usually, it was limited to generic, faceless terms like "figurine," "dishware," "origami." It felt like recognition.
So now I had 65 OP. Simple arithmetic suggested that if I made just two more Potato Cannons, which cost neither significant money nor time nor effort, I could spin "Forging the Universe" again in a couple of hours. And no, I was not a gambling addict — absolutely not! It was cold, rational calculation. Simply the most efficient way to obtain a new technology package at the moment.
The only problem was that, in my shortsightedness, I had bought materials for crafting just one Potato Cannon. So I would have to go to the hardware store again and stock up on PVC pipes and piezo lighters. Fine, I would get some fresh air and stretch my legs. Hmm, I should probably start some physical activity too — my build resembled a scrawny pole. Or maybe not? What if I pulled something like "super-soldier serum recipe for home use and dummies" from the system roulette, or better yet — the finished serum in a neat ampoule. Fine, I would stay a scrawny weakling for now; fitness later, priorities set.
It was Friday, September 11, 2015, and the weather outside was surprisingly warm and pleasant. So, throwing on a simple gray hoodie, jeans, and old sneakers, I left my modest abode, already thinking about what I would do after farming OP on Potato Cannons.
Walking down the street, I could not help but notice how much my perception of the world had changed. Literally a day ago, I saw only gray buildings, a faceless crowd, and potential threats in every dark alley. Now my gaze hungrily latched onto details like an engineer's. I looked at construction scaffolding and mentally considered how to improve the design by adding buttresses for greater stability. I saw an old, humming air conditioner on a wall and mentally disassembled it into components, wondering if there was a useful fan or copper radiator inside for future projects. A street lamp ceased to be just a light source — I thought about its wiring, lamp type, whether its sturdy aluminum housing could be repurposed. The world had become a giant warehouse of materials and unrealized projects. The Celestial Forge had infected me with the virus of creation, and now I saw everything through the lens of: "What can I make from this?" It was like professional deformation amplified a thousandfold. But for now, better not to get too carried away — I already had plenty to do.
At the very least, I should not neglect leatherworking; I had spent money on the kit and needed to get some return, and the Intellect Potion was definitely worth creating. If I got OP for it — and I was absolutely certain I would — the reward would likely be in the hundreds. It all depended on what I got from the second spin and how much brainpower I had to digest and implement it.
Lost in thought, I barely noticed I had almost reached the hardware store. There, buying everything needed for crafting five potato cannons — I could not carry more, and revealing the inventory's existence for such a trifle was too costly — I headed back to my modest abode. Along the way, at one point, I noticed an overly bright commotion among passersby. People stopped, craned their necks, pointed. I looked up too. And saw her. On a thin, almost invisible web thread, slicing through the space between buildings, flew a black-and-white figure. Spider-Woman. Hated by one mustachioed journalist and mostly well-received by New Yorkers.
She was close. Swooping between buildings in a wide, elegant arc, for one brief, frozen moment our gazes almost met. I caught details of her suit: a strict black-and-white design hugging her figure, a hood adding mystery to the silhouette, large white mask lenses concealing her face but somehow expressive. She moved with inhuman, fluid grace, like a drop of mercury, yet radiated power like a bowstring drawn to its limit. Webs shot from her web-shooters with a quiet but distinct "thwip," and she soared above the street, defying gravity. Then she vanished around a corner, leaving behind stunned passersby with dropped jaws and me standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a ridiculous bag of PVC pipes. And suddenly all my pride in the created Potato Cannon seemed so pitiful, so naive and childish.
Up there in the sky was real power, real technology or mutation — it did not matter. Something that placed its bearer on an entirely different level of existence. And I… had built a cannon that shoots potatoes. Icy, sticky sweat broke out. One thing was reading comics and watching movies, quite another seeing it in person, in three dimensions, with real sound and the wind from her flight. The threats in this world were not abstract. They were as real, fast, and deadly as this. And my main goal — not to die — suddenly ceased to be just an OVER-point on the list. It became an obsessive, physically throbbing necessity in my temples. I needed more. Far, immeasurably more than just shooting potatoes.
And regarding the spider family… If there was no Spider-Man here, neither Peter nor Miles, then the first — the brilliant but insecure guy — could cause terrible trouble trying to follow the heroic path of his brave girlfriend (if he and Gwen were even friends). And the second… He might become the successor to the Prowler, his uncle, but that was a relatively harmless threat compared to Peter-Lizard, Peter-Goblin, or Venom… In short, the universe was unlikely to let such a tasty morsel slip away in the form of a vulnerable genius; the question was only what path it had in store for him here. And should I get involved at all?
Fine… Obviously, I should not get involved; I had already realized and accepted that. But some threats… They might come to my home themselves, and that was not a figure of speech. Sooner or later, I would have to intervene in various events because I had no idea which of the infinite Marvel universe variations I had landed in, and there was a non-zero chance of global apocalypse for humanity. And I wanted to live — that was the OVER-step of all my steps in this world!
Without reaching any concrete conclusion, merely reinforcing my resolve to continue as I was — quietly, peacefully staying home, staying under the radar, and building my power — I finally reached my apartment. On the way, I stopped at the supermarket to buy more potatoes, now not just food but strategic ammunition.
[Created simple weapon design "Potato Cannon." Complexity: Minimal. Received +40 OP!]
[Created simple weapon design "Potato Cannon." Complexity: Minimal. Received +30 OP!]
[Created simple weapon design "Potato Cannon." Complexity: Minimal. Received +20 OP!]
Whoa, system, cool it — slashing OP so hard for each successful Potato Cannon! I understood it was protection against mindless grinding. I suspected that starting with the next one, I would get 10 OP or less. And here I was, naive fool, thinking I would make a dozen Potato Cannons and get 500 OP total — yeah, only in my wet fantasies… In any case, I now had 155 OP, and comfortably settling on the couch with fingers crossed for luck, I mentally pressed the shining "Forge the Universe! 150 OP" button.
[Received information package (common) – Disassembly Risk (Mouse Hunt). (Unlocking the information package costs 100 OP)]
When creating a trap, one must consider how often the hunter moves between regions and the great variety of mice capable of completely destroying the trap. Since designing an unbreakable trap would likely make it cumbersome, an alternative approach is to design it to break properly. This philosophy, applied to your crafting endeavors, allows you to create items designed to safely disassemble into parts under any circumstances — of course, you will have to reassemble the item after breakage, but the risk of it completely shattering under the fire of a dragon mouse is eliminated.
You can create items that, when destroyed, fall apart into pieces without losing their components. Traps, weapons, or tools are easily disassembled and reassembled anywhere, making them resistant to attacks from powerful enemies.
I reread the description several times slowly, and my brain began feverishly calculating options. This was not just a "repair skill." It was an entire engineering philosophy. "Break properly." It meant I could pre-build controlled weak points into any design that would act as fuses under critical load, preventing the entire device from disintegrating into atoms. I imagined crafting some kind of power gauntlet. An enemy strikes it with inhuman force. A normal gauntlet would either hold or crack and shatter into useless fragments. Mine, designed with Disassembly Risk, would simply fall apart into several large, intact modules: power source, field projector, handle. Components intact. I just needed to escape, spend a minute reassembling, and I was back in the fight. This changed everything! Durability and repairability became not passive characteristics but active, dynamic protection.
And what if applied not to defense but to offense? Could I create a projectile that, upon hitting the target, "properly disassembles," releasing internal components like shrapnel or a chemical reagent with maximum damaging effect? Or a trap that, after triggering, does not destroy itself but simply "unfolds," ready for quick reinstallation? Thoughts swarmed in my head like an enraged hive. This seemingly simple "common" information package was a true treasure for an engineer. It gave not a new recipe but a new way of thinking.
At first impression, at least in the future, this skill would be very useful — for example, if I built a complex device that quickly became obsolete, I could easily disassemble it into useful components for a new project! I would not spend 100 OP to unlock this skill right now; my current plan was unlocking the Muscle Stimulant after creating the Intellect Potion. Damn, that meant going shopping again to buy everything needed for it… And waiting for a thunderstorm to "excite" the quartz crystal lattice with lightning. Though, if I thought about it, I could probably do without a thunderstorm… The paradox was that to think properly, I needed the Intellect Potion. I would have to scour the internet for an alternative way to charge the crystal.
Shaking off the sudden obsession, I refocused. Time to create my first truly impressive thing! By making the Intellect Potion, I would directly prove I could create non-trivial items capable of changing outcomes. It would give me extra confidence and a bunch of OP — definitely not to be dismissed! So, while it was still daytime, I would buy the crystal.