Fifty points.
Just fifty measly CP separated me from the next stage of development.
I could, of course, take the path of least resistance.
The garage was stuffed with materials, and I could easily cobble together another useless but system-recognized “makeshift masterpiece.” But something inside — my very spirit as a Creator, having tasted the sticky fear of a real pursuit — rebelled against that idea.
Creating garbage for points while supernatural predators were on your trail?
No, that’s the path not of a survivor, but of a future corpse.
I needed a weapon.
Something that would give me a real advantage if they came back.
And they would come back.
The vampires’ weaknesses in this world, based on early analysis, were classic, which freed my hands.
Thoughts feverishly spun in my head.
Garlic aerosol bomb?
Too situational and non-lethal.
Automatic crossbow with aspen bolts?
Effective, but required accuracy I didn’t have yet.
Silver bullets?
Those required a firearm, which meant extra trouble with the law — getting a pistol license in New York was a pain…
Then a vivid image surfaced from an old movie about a brutal half-breed black hunter.
Ultraviolet.
Powerful, concentrated UV light turning vampires to ash.
That was it!
Elegant, technological, and most importantly — it hit their main vulnerability squarely.
Done.
For a task like this, I didn’t begrudge one of the three remaining Intellect Potions.
The world narrowed, cutting away everything extraneous.
For the next hour, I wasn’t just a man — I was a superintelligent search algorithm, sifting through terabytes of data on engineering forums, physics research papers, and electronic component catalogs.
Connections that an ordinary brain would have taken weeks to build formed in fractions of a second in my head.
And then, on the laptop screen, a blueprint began to take shape.
Not from the System — my own.
I mentally called it the Ultraviolet Projector “Daylight” , but in my soul a more honest and crude name stuck: Vampire Ass-Pain.
All that remained was the small matter of bringing the idea to life in metal and plastic.
“Radiation source.” The heart of the device had to be several high-power 20-watt UVC LED chips each.
True industrial monsters, typically used in water sterilization units.
I found a supplier online and, without haggling, dropped three hundred dollars on the best samples.
You don’t skimp on survival.
Power.
Ordinary batteries would choke immediately.
These LEDs needed not just voltage, but monstrous current output.
The solution came from the world of RC models: several lithium-polymer batteries for racing drones and models, soldered into a single unit capable of delivering the required current.
Another minus one-fifty bucks.
“Cooling system.” That was the real engineering challenge.
Up to 70% of the energy from a high-power LED converts not into light, but into pure, searing hell.
Without active cooling, my expensive chips would burn out in three seconds.
A simple heatsink wouldn’t cut it.
But the Intoxicated brain had already found the solution — elegant and ruthlessly efficient.
I created a combined system: directly onto the copper substrate of the LED array, I mounted a thermoelectric cooler — a Peltier element.
One side, in contact with the array, became icy cold; the other side became red-hot, drawing the heat away.
On that hot side, I mounted a massive copper heatsink from some server equipment, and on top of that, a powerful, high-RPM fan.
When powered on, the whole assembly emitted a low, predatory hum.
For the optics, I had to splurge on a fused quartz lens — ordinary glass simply wouldn’t pass the hard UVC spectrum.
I packed all this internals into the gutted casing of a powerful industrial work light.
Assembled on the workbench in my garage, the device scared even me.
It looked like a weapon from a sci-fi action movie — bulky, utilitarian, lethal to one specific race of intelligent beings.
Adding a control board with a massive power button and a mode switch (steady beam and disorienting strobe), I stepped back a pace, admiring my creation.
I’d done it without blueprints or prompts from the System.
I’d analyzed the problem myself, found a solution, and brought it to life.
I was growing as a Creator.
And the System, fortunately, seemed to agree.
[Simple engineering construct “UV Projector” created.
Complexity: Minimal.
+50 CP gained!]
The sting of “Minimal” complexity was familiar.
To the System, which considered the Extremis formula an “ordinary” recipe, my contraptions were nothing more than child’s play.
Sandcastles in the sandbox while the adults built nuclear reactors.
But now wasn’t the time for reflection.
The projector went into my inventory — my first real trump card against the creatures of the night.
And I, with a balance of 250 CP, could finally get to the most important item on today’s agenda.
Time to spend points.
The System window obediently appeared before my eyes.
The “Technologies” tab, the “Arcanum” section — a path that had become almost familiar.
Eight disciplines stared back at me, promising power for a certain price.
Which first — Muscle Stimulant or Protective Field Generator?
Probably, for contrast, it was worth starting with the presumably most complex one.
Moving to the “Electricity” discipline, I selected the desired blueprint and mentally confirmed the expenditure.
100 CP…
I poured the points into the recipe.
And immediately regretted it.
If the Intellect Potion was a stream of crystal-clear knowledge, this was an information tsunami of broken glass and molten metal.
A hurricane of data crashed into my brain — alien concepts, fractal geometries, laws of physics that hadn’t even been discovered here yet.
The headache wasn’t just strong — it was crushing.
“Fuck…” I wheezed into the empty garage as the world stopped spinning and my vision cleared.
The primary analysis of the technology, now forever imprinted in my memory, evoked not delight, but quiet horror.
“Protective Field Generator.” Arcanum Classification: “Artifact / Spatial Manipulation Device”.
A compact box the size of a cigarette case, capable of projecting a unidirectional force barrier a meter in diameter.
The shield stopped most kinetic threats, from pistol bullets to shrapnel.
It sounded like the perfect survival tool.
But the component list…
The System had adapted the recipe to the reality of the Marvel world, and that adaptation made me want to howl.
The device consisted of three modules, each a personal technological hell.
“1.
Power Module.” The power source — a compact strontium radioisotope thermoelectric generator (RTG).
A nuclear battery, like those in interplanetary probes or ultra-expensive pacemakers.
You couldn’t just buy one at the store.
And that was just the beginning.
The energy storage — a battery of solid-state graphene supercapacitors.
Creating them required equipment for working with nanomaterials in vacuum conditions.
Not something you could assemble in a garage, and buying ready-made ones…
I didn’t even know if they existed on the open market.
“2.
Field Emitter.” The focusing crystal — a synthetic sapphire single crystal with uniformly distributed nanoparticles of goddamn Vibranium.
I glanced at the crate of ore.
I had this metal.
But I didn’t have a high-temperature furnace for growing crystals or equipment for nano-dispersion spraying of the planet’s hardest metal.
That was the difference between owning a block of marble and being able to sculpt a David.
The projection grating — a lattice of tungsten microfilaments — seemed like child’s play by comparison.
Yeah, that was a full-on R&D institute level, but those could at least theoretically be ordered somewhere, unlike a nuclear battery.
“3.
Control Module.” And here the System finished me off.
The frequency stabilizer required creating a resonant tuning fork from the magical metal Uru.
I mentally pictured my half-kilogram ingot.
I didn’t know how to even scratch it, let alone shape it with precision accuracy.
The only “simple” element was the control chip — a custom microprocessor.
Obviously, a technological replacement for some magical artifact from the original recipe.
But against the backdrop of everything else, that was cold comfort.
And the cherry on top: assembly.
The requirements included a vacuum chamber for conductor deposition, laser calibration with micron precision, and an ISO Class 3 clean room.
Without a full-fledged, high-tech laboratory worth millions of dollars, this blueprint was just a pretty, useless picture.
This was that case where the System gave me the blueprint for a starship, forgetting to mention that building it required a planetary factory.
By the time I developed to the level where I could afford it, the need for such a primitive shield would likely be obsolete.
The Celestial Forge gacha was unpredictable.
What would it toss me next time?
A skill for intuitive component substitution?
Access to the Kamar-Taj library?
A ready-made tactical armor from another universe?
No.
The Protective Field Generator went into the furthest drawer of my mental desk.
Minus 100 CP invested in knowledge I wouldn’t be able to use for a very long time.
Annoying, but it was a valuable lesson.
150 CP remained.
Crossing my fingers, I poured them into Muscle Stimulant.
A new wave of information, a fresh bout of headache — but this time…
it was different.
Structured.
Resembling a complex but solvable problem.
I exhaled with such relief that my head spun.
Unlike the Generator, this I could make.
Theoretically, by gathering everything I needed, I could brew several doses today, recouping the spent points in spades.
“Muscle Stimulant.” Arcanum Classification: “Alchemical Preparation / Temporary Bio-Enhancer”.
A single-use injector that explosively boosts muscle strength, speed, and endurance to peak human values — and in some places, beyond.
It doesn’t rewrite your DNA like a super-soldier serum; it acts on the cellular level.
The active substance — clusters of unstable ozone — binds to ATP in muscles, giving them a “nitrogen ignition” forcing them to release energy 10-15 times more intensely.
It was a doping with no crash afterward.
The palladium stabilizer in the composition works as an ideal heatsink, dissipating stress and removing breakdown products, preventing cell burnout.
The effect lasts 15-20 minutes — an ideal window for a fight or escape.
Yes, the formulation was nontrivial, but after the monstrous Generator, it seemed like a child’s instruction manual from a “Young Chemist” set.
Time to stock up.
I mentally made a list while browsing the internet:
“Base (Active substance):” Synthetic testosterone.
The main problem.
Strictly prescription-only at pharmacies, and not even at every one.
I’d have to find workarounds.
I left this item for last.
Stabilizer: Colloidal Palladium solution.
I had the ore, but why complicate things?
Ready-made lab solution could be bought at a chemical supply store.
A 100 ml vial would cost about $200.
Easy.
“Binding agent:” Purified Bovine Serum Albumin (BSA).
Also no problem.
Commercial labs sell it as a powder.
Another $200 for a jar that would last an army.
Catalyst: Titanium mesh.
Fine, 100 mesh.
A small 15×15 cm sheet, enough for dozens of doses, cost only $100 from an online store for industrial filters.
Solvent: Isopropyl alcohol.
Already had it in stock.
The plan was taking shape.
Most of the components were within reach.
But what to do about the base?
The recipe allowed substituting testosterone with its precursor, diethylamine — but the drug’s effectiveness would noticeably drop.
No, I needed the original.
Maximum power.
Alright.
First, what could be bought legally and quickly.
As for the testosterone…
I’d figure something out.
This city was full of geniuses who might need “reagents for a scientific project.”
I returned to the garage as dusk was beginning to fall over Brooklyn.
On the workbench, arranged in neat rows, sat the fruits of my day’s labor: vials of colloidal palladium, a container of snow-white albumin powder, spools of titanium mesh.
For this pile of reagents, I’d had to shell out nearly a thousand dollars, part of which went to “expedite” overly slow lab technicians.
Now I had a stock of components for dozens of doses of stimulant.
But all of this was meaningless without the main ingredient.
The clock read only six in the evening, but it felt like an eternity had passed.
Thursday had been so eventful it could have filled a month.
And now, standing before the last, hardest obstacle, I felt fatigue and a headache rolling in.
Goddamn synthetic testosterone. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Ideally, I needed to get it as soon as possible.
But how?
Legally buy it — impossible.
Steal it from a pharmacy or warehouse?
With my inventory, that would be easy — teleport the needed crate right off the shelf.
But that would be equivalent to hanging a neon sign on my back that said, “Hey, all-powerful organizations, notice me!” I’d already attracted vampires, and I really didn’t want to deal with problems from some pharmaceutical megacorporation on top of that.
There was one more option: synthesize it myself.
But that required equipment an order of magnitude better than my modest garage lab.
A gas chromatograph, a high-pressure reactor, a centrifuge capable of separating isomers…
I didn’t have that.
But…
At that “but,” my fingers froze, stopping their drumming on the table.
An idea was born in my head.
Slippery, risky, morally questionable — but devilishly tempting.
“Screw it, what have I got to lose?” I muttered to myself, finding the number in my phone that I’d gotten just a few hours ago.
Contact: Spider-Man.
I rewrote the first message several times, trying to find the perfect balance between friendliness and flattery, so I wouldn’t come across as a creepy stalker.
“Pete, hey!
It’s John Thompson, we crossed paths at college today.
Listen, I’ve hit a scientific dead end, and Mary Jane was saying today that you’re the smartest guy in the world.
Somehow I get the feeling she wasn’t exaggerating.”
After sending it, I felt a pang of guilt.
I was about to use this guy — his kindness and genius — for my own purposes.
But I immediately crushed that feeling.
My survival was on the line.
This wasn’t personal — it was necessity.
Four minutes of waiting felt like an eternity.
Finally, the screen lit up.
“Hey.
C’mon, she’s exaggerating.
How can I help?”
He’d taken the bait.
Modest, responsive — the perfect target.
I quickly typed out a pre-planned cover story.
“I’m kind of into, let’s say, DIY bio-hacking.
Trying to make a chlorella cell culture do interesting things.
I can send you a pic of my mini-lab so you don’t think I’m a psycho :)”
Without waiting for a reply, I sent a photo.
I’d deliberately chosen an angle that caught a microscope, a couple of flasks with harmless green slime (regular water with food coloring), a lab centrifuge, and several jars of reagents.
It looked like a passionate biology student’s project — not an underground production facility for superhuman doping.
“Wow.
Serious setup for a home project.”
Perfect, he was impressed.
Now — the core of the problem, wrapped in science-sounding packaging.
“Thanks.
But I’ve hit a wall.
I need one reagent to stimulate metabolism, but I can’t buy it in pure form anywhere.
Without it, the cells just don’t respond to the catalyst.
It’s a steroid base, very similar to testosterone, but I need maximum isomeric purity, otherwise the whole culture dies.”
“So, the problem is contamination in commercial samples?”
Bingo!
He’d led himself right to the thought I needed.
He was already solving my problem in his head.
“Exactly!
I’ve already ruined three samples, wasted a ton of money.
And then I thought…
you probably work in a well-equipped lab.
You have access to equipment I can only dream about.
Maybe you could help an enthusiast?
Synthesize a couple of milliliters of pure product.
All expenses on me, of course.
I’ll pay for the reagents and your time.”
The last sentence was key.
It turned a dubious request into a partially business proposition.
I held my breath.
If he refused, I’d have to go back to the robbery idea.
“Hmm…
Theoretically, it’s possible.
Nothing too complicated.
I’m actually going to be at the university lab late tonight after class.
Can you come by the main NYU building?”
“You’re a lifesaver, seriously, a total lifesaver!
I’ll be there as soon as you give the word!”
I leaned back in my chair and let out a noisy exhale.
It worked.
The hook was swallowed.
The base problem — effectively solved.
The plan was building itself: get the testosterone, create several stimulants, recoup the spent CP, and spin that damn gacha.
And then…
then I’d have to figure out what to do with the fanged problems currently gathering dust in my inventory in that black Cruiser.
I wondered what state they were in.
Conceptual stasis?
Or just dead?
Well, as long as I was weak, I shouldn’t even think about it.
I’d check as soon as I had something more serious than a UV projector in my hands.
Ideally, when I solved the vampire problem at the root, not just mitigated it with stimulants and other homemade gear.
The next couple of hours I spent trying to distract myself by watching garage-engineering tutorial videos on YouTube, but my thoughts kept returning to the upcoming meeting.
Finally, my phone pinged with a message from Peter.
“I’m here, lab 304.”
Time to go.
I called a taxi.
My Honda, which I’d used to escape the pursuit, stayed in the inventory.
No extra threads, no coincidences.
Paranoia was a survivor’s best friend.