A choice limited to a single option felt like a tight collar around the neck of my ambitions. I had to cut into the living flesh. The Protective Field Generator and the Gravitational Gyroscope — I discarded them immediately. Those projects looked and sounded like titans to my current self; their assembly would require, at minimum, a proper workshop, and at maximum an entire industrial complex and, likely, no small amount of expensive resources. Those were goals for the future, for the version of me that does not yet exist. The Stun Grenade, though temptingly practical, seemed too… mundane. It was a consumable, a tactical tool that, in the worst case, could be bought or replaced with something similar. No, I needed something fundamental.
Thus, on my mental table remained three cards — I hoped they were aces: Poison, Muscles, and Intellect. The Muscle Stimulant beckoned, tempting with the promise of strength without side effects. In a world where a super-strong brute could lurk around every corner, physical power was a weighty argument. But the longer I studied the recipe lists, the clearer it became: brute force was merely a tool. And I wanted to become the one who creates those tools.
And so — Intellect.
It was the foundation of foundations, the bedrock upon which anything could be built. It was the base that would allow me not merely to blindly follow the blueprints granted by the Forge, but to understand them on an intuitive, profound level. Perhaps even to modify and improve them. Moreover, in this universe, intellect was not just an advantage; it was a genuine weapon of strategic importance. Reed Richards, whose brain stretched as easily as his body, altering the very fabric of reality. Tony Stark, who built a heart for himself and armor for the world from scrap metal in a cave. Otto Octavius, Victor von Doom, Hank Pym, and even the perpetually cash-strapped Peter Parker. Countless figures in this world had risen to the heights or plunged into the depths of madness solely through the power of their extraordinary minds. If this damned potion allowed me even temporarily, even by a pitiful few units, to overclock my own processor… It would open horizons of possibility that I, in the current dullness of my mind, probably could not even imagine.
And there was another reason, far more personal, sharp as a splinter under the fingernail, which I tried not to think about. In my previous life, I was no genius. I was not an idiot either — just… ordinary. One of billions of cogs in a gigantic machine. I studied diligently, gnawed into my work, tried to jump out of my skin to achieve something significant, but there was always someone smarter, faster, more talented. I watched as ideas that wandered vaguely in my head were embodied by others into brilliant, successful projects. I felt opportunities I had not thought of slip away to those who could calculate everything several moves ahead.
It was not exactly offensive — more exhausting. A constant, draining race in which you already knew your place somewhere in the middle of the pack. That was why, at some point, I dropped everything and moved practically to the countryside — and, to be fair, I did not regret it. Here, in a world where the stakes were immeasurably higher, where on one scale lay the genius of Tony Stark and on the other the madness of the Green Goblin, being "ordinary" was a death sentence. The Muscle Stimulant would give me strength, the ability to run or fight back. But it would not teach me to see the trap before stepping into it. It would not let me create something that could level the odds against gods and monsters. And intellect… It was not just a weapon. It was my personal rebellion against past mediocrity. A chance not merely to survive, but finally to become what I had always wanted deep down but could not — the architect of my own fate, not its extra.
I walked to the window. Below, faceless figures of people flowed along the sidewalk. In my previous life, I was one of them. A man living by rules created by others. I bought tools made in someone else's factories, built from materials produced by someone else's technologies, followed laws written not by me. My creative impulse was confined within the rigid frames of the physical world, legislation, and my own limited knowledge. The Muscle Stimulant would make me merely a strong, resilient part in someone else's mechanism. But the Intellect Potion… it would give me a chance to become the mechanic myself. Not just to follow instructions, but to write my own. To stop being a user and become a developer. That thought was more intoxicating than any whiskey. The opportunity not simply to adapt to this mad world, but to understand its fundamental principles and, perhaps, even bend them a little to my will. It was the highest form of craftsmanship I could never have dreamed of. And that finally sealed my choice. Strength is a tool. Intellect is the hand that holds all tools.
True, one problem remained, which my mind had already dissected dozens of times — the possible ingredients. What if I could not obtain them due to rarity or sky-high price? What if they did not exist in this world at all? The second I mentally dismissed, trusting the system's adaptability. It should adjust the recipe, select analogs. But the first… Well, in any case, it was a long-term investment. If I could not make the potion in the coming days or months, I would later. I was not planning to stand still. My plans included at least assembling the Potato Cannon, and at most… I did not even know — the Death Star, ha?
I refocused on the internal interface. It did not resemble a computer screen; rather, it was a translucent mental blueprint hovering directly in my mind. Text and icons glowed with a soft, ghostly blue light, and navigation occurred not by eye movement but by pure intent. I "thought" about selecting the Intellect Potion, and the corresponding line in the list highlighted. Next to the "Confirm" button burned the number "-50 OP," and in the center of the expanded window slowly rotated a three-dimensional model of a small vial with iridescent liquid. I froze for a moment. Fifty points… earned through honest, painstaking labor. My first serious investment in something truly tangible, even if only in the future. The thought that it might prove empty sent a chill down my spine. What if the recipe was impossible? What if I had just burned my OP for nothing? I forcibly banished those thoughts. He who does not risk spends the rest of his days cowering in a cardboard box in Hell's Kitchen, flinching at every shadow. Gathering my resolve, I formed the mental command, pouring all my determination into it. "Confirm."
The blue inscription flared, the number "50" shattered into myriad glowing particles and vanished, and my balance updated to a dismal "15 OP." And immediately after came the pain.
It was nothing like a normal headache. It felt as though two white-hot nails had been driven into my temples and then twisted. The pain was sharp but fleeting, like a lightning strike. It passed in an instant, leaving behind a deafening silence in my head and… knowledge. I knew the recipe for this damned potion perfectly — down to the last molecule, the tiniest nuance! It was not like reading a book or watching a video. The knowledge did not "appear" in my head; it "became" part of me, as if it had always been there. Like a suddenly resurfaced memory from deep, forgotten childhood.
I did not merely know the list of ingredients — I felt them. I could imagine the velvety, almost ghostly surface of the Ghost Orchid flower by touch, taste the sharp, sterile scent of isopropyl alcohol on my tongue, almost hear the quiet, harmonious hum of a charging quartz crystal. The synthesis process unfolded in my mind not as a dry schematic but as a vivid, three-dimensional film played in a fraction of a second. I saw the Fantasmium molecules, the orchid's active substance, aligning into complex chains, bonding with silver ions. I watched the quartz crystal lattice vibrate under an electric discharge, emitting a catalytic pulse that triggered the reaction. It was terrifying and exhilarating at once. The system had not merely given me instructions. It had implanted the experience of a nonexistent alchemist into me. And that raised serious questions: what else could it upload? The memories of an ace pilot? The expertise of a neurosurgeon? The knowledge of an entire vanished civilization? The potential of the Celestial Forge was far deeper and more dangerous than I had suspected.
In addition to the recipe and processing methods, I received information about the ingredients themselves. And that was the most important part! Without that knowledge, without understanding where and how to find the same Ghost Orchid, the recipe would have been a useless line of text. But I knew!
Overall, the recipe was not impossibly complex but required precision and rather specific conditions. Four main components in total:
Active agent: Pollen of the Ghost Orchid.
Extractant: 99.9%+ pure isopropyl alcohol.
Conductor: Colloidal silver at approximately 20 PPM.
Catalyst: Attenuated quartz crystal.
Then came the intricate ritual. The quartz crystal had to be placed in a Faraday cage and charged with a lightning discharge. Then — extraction. In complete darkness, mix the Ghost Orchid pollen and isopropyl alcohol to obtain the Fantasmium extract — the key substance in the entire potion. And the final stage — synthesis. The finished extract and colloidal silver are placed in a flask, to which the "charged" crystal is brought. Its field triggers the chain reaction.
The yield would be approximately 20-30 milliliters of transparent liquid — one dose of the Intellect Potion, with an effect lasting a couple of hours. What was the effect? Oh, that was the most interesting part. All thanks to Fantasmium — an extremely unstable but powerful alkaloid that acts as a universal neural conductor. It would not make me smarter in the long term but would force my brain to operate at peak, transcendent efficiency. It would accelerate synaptic connections to the speed of light, improve access to even the deepest memory sectors, and multiply analytical and pattern-recognition abilities many times over. The temporary nature of the effect was due to the catalyst rapidly breaking down into harmless components, returning the neural network to its normal state.
"This is fucking NZT-48…" I muttered thoughtfully, pondering where to get the main ingredient. "At least the effect is very similar. Interesting. The main problem will be the finicky Ghost Orchids…"
Why finicky? Because they were essentially endemic to places with residual "energy of creation" or where the boundaries of reality had thinned. They became material and visible only at night. By day, they were merely a clot of energy. That was why extraction had to be done in complete darkness — the orchid could not tolerate ultraviolet light. What kinds of places? I had a rough idea. In the Marvel world, and specifically in New York, there should be plenty. Abandoned sanctuaries, sites of recent battles by powerful mages… Even Greenwich Village, where the future Doctor Strange's Sanctum Sanctorum was supposedly located. In theory, any place with a high magical background would do. So, the orchid issue was solvable. What about the rest?
Isopropyl alcohol of that purity was a full-fledged laboratory reagent, but a quick internet search reassured me: it could be ordered from an industrial chemical supplier. Colloidal silver could be bought or made myself, though the latter required a mini-laboratory, so buying was easier. A quartz crystal of the required size and purity was no problem either — geological shops were at my service. It seemed there were no serious, insurmountable obstacles. I breathed a sigh of relief. The system had managed to adapt the recipe to this world and even to my current capabilities. That was encouraging.
Opening the system interface again and glancing at the orphaned 15 OP, I noticed I had not yet switched the technology tab to the "gacha" tab. My surprise was immense when, instead of the expected emptiness, I saw a familiar blueprint on the technology tab!
Blueprint (simple) – Project (Arcanum of Steamworks and Magick Obscura) (Unlocking the technology costs 100 OP)
"So technologies aren't one-time use!" I exclaimed heartily. At that moment, a huge weight lifted from my soul. It was too good to be true.
And to hell with the fact that the cost of unlocking the next recipe from the same project had doubled. The Muscle Stimulant, healing potions, the protective field generator, and a bunch of other interesting options — they would BE! I desperately wanted to burst into villainous laughter, but I restrained myself. Not yet.
This news instantly upended my entire strategy. I had thought each choice was final, that I was walking a narrow, single path, cutting off all others. But it was not a path. It was a central square from which dozens of roads branched, and over time I could travel each one. Technologies were no longer solitary solutions; they had become pieces of a construction set. I could plan combinations, create synergies, and constantly grow stronger.
So, what were my next steps?
First: Accumulate 150 OP and spin the gacha a second time. If this blueprint with a bunch of useful recipes was considered "simple," I was both terrified and wildly curious to imagine what lay behind higher rarity levels. Iron Man armor? Rick's portal gun? An atomic 3D printer? The possibilities were endless. Technologies were my key to everything.
Second: Create the Intellect Potion. Ideally, several doses. Use them in critical situations, when designing complex devices or solving non-trivial problems.
Third: Unlock the Muscle Stimulant recipe. Or, if something more… "tasty" dropped from the second spin, adjust the plan accordingly.
Fourth: Earning money and settling life. Drop out of college, which now seemed a waste of time; move to better housing — ideally a private house with a garage for a laboratory; buy a car and handle other everyday issues.
Fifth… Not dying. Though that was not a separate step but an OVER-step, a constant on which everything else depended. Avoid drawing the attention of intelligence agencies, stay low, do not play hero, do not rush in headfirst. Avoid everything that 99.9% of isekai protagonists in books love to ignore. But they have plot armor, and I? Could the system be considered such? In this world, there must be seers, prophets, and other super-entities for whom my anomalous growth potential should shine like a beacon in the night. Yet no one had annihilated me. Consequently, either I was destined to play a key role in the future, or I was so insignificant they did not notice me, or — and I liked this option best — my system made me a blind spot for them. Enough speculation; clearly not my level. Onward to building the Potato Cannon-3000!
I yawned heartily and finally checked the clock. One in the morning. Considering I had slept less than five hours last time, torturing my body further would be foolish. Fine, the Potato Cannon could wait until tomorrow. But what could not wait was experimenting with the inventory. It would not take long but would give me understanding of my almost sole material "super" ability.
First experiment, the most obvious: containers. I had no boxes handy, so I pulled out a desk drawer, tossed in some odds and ends — a pen, an eraser, a couple of paperclips, an old key — touched it and mentally sent it to inventory. Success. It occupied one slot regardless of contents. Excellent.
But what about the contents themselves? Was the drawer a "container" preserving the relative positions of items, or did they all collapse into a single pile in subspace? I returned the drawer to reality, carefully arranged the pen, eraser, and several coins inside, memorizing their exact positions. Sent it to inventory again and immediately retrieved it. Everything was in place, down to the millimeter. The inventory preserved not only the container object but its entire internal structure. That opened colossal possibilities for transporting complex and fragile devices in the future. No shaking, no impacts.
Next — liquids. Pouring water into a glass, I tried to place only the water in inventory by running my finger over its surface. Nothing. The system apparently required clearly defined object boundaries. Then I placed the entire glass with water in inventory. Success. When I retrieved it, not a drop had spilled. Moreover, there was no condensation on the glass walls despite the warm room. That suggested complete stasis not only of time but of thermodynamic processes.
Next logical test — time. Starting a stopwatch on my smartphone, I sent it to inventory. Waited what felt like thirty seconds and retrieved the phone. The stopwatch showed the exact same time as when it vanished, down to hundredths of a second. Time inside inventory was frozen. Noted.
Then an experiment with living creatures. Scanning the room, I spotted a small spider in the ceiling corner. Carefully placing my finger beneath it and touching the arachnid, I wished to place it in inventory, but the system responded with an instant, clear mental block.
[Living creatures cannot be placed in Inventory!]
Fine, not that I cared. Checking weight and dimensions. The heaviest items in my studio were a half-empty refrigerator and a two-meter wardrobe. Both went into inventory and returned without issue. Maximum weight and dimensions remained undetermined but appeared quite large.
Final experiments — with physical laws. Heating a frying pan on the stove until it hissed, I sent it to inventory. Then crumpling a sheet of paper into a ball, tossing it, and while it was in mid-air, sending it to inventory too. When I retrieved the ball, it simply appeared in my hand without preserving its falling momentum. I repeated the experiment with a heavier wooden block — same result. Momentum was not preserved. But heat was. Retrieving the pan after ten minutes, I felt the heat radiating from it as if I had just taken it off the stove. Stasis truly extended to thermodynamics.
Lying down to sleep, I mentally reviewed the results one last time. The lack of momentum preservation was a minor disappointment. The idea of "firing" objects from inventory had been tempting. But it was also a blessing. It meant I could not accidentally cause a catastrophe by retrieving a heavy object in motion.
In summary, the system was not only powerful but, in its own way, safe. It gave incredible capabilities but set clear limits. "No living creatures." "Momentum not preserved." These were not bugs but features. Rules that forced me to seek more elegant solutions than brute force. The system did not want me to become a god hurling asteroids from my pocket. It wanted me to remain a craftsman. A clever, cunning,, inventive craftsman who used the laws of his world and his power to achieve his goals. And that approach resonated with me. It was quite… honest.
Before finally drifting off, I smiled. Tomorrow I would build a potato cannon. It would be a ridiculous, almost childish project. But in this new world, it was more than that for me. It was my first true act of creating something more complex than wooden figurines.