Five hundred and fifty dollars.
The amount imprinted on the receipt burned in my mind like a hot brand.
I stood in the middle of my shoddy studio, surrounded by several dense plastic bags that emitted a mixed aroma of fresh wood, chemical glue, and treated leather.
This smell, the smell of potential, was the only thing keeping me from a panic attack.
Five hundred and fifty dollars, blown on upcoming experiments.
An enormous, insurmountable sum for John Thompson, and for me, in my current situation.
I sincerely, almost childishly, hoped that this gamble would pay off a hundredfold.
Because, looking at this purchased stash, I clearly understood: if nothing came of it, if the “technology” I got from the first roll turned out to be useless junk instead of the Holy Grail or at least a golden-egg-laying goose, then I would have to work off these expenses.
For a long time.
Painfully.
Selling hot dogs on a street corner or washing dishes in some rundown joint.
I could only rely on this to yield dividends.
And quickly.
However, if I soberly weighed all the risks…
what was I actually losing?
A credit card debt that could be restructured or just ignored by skipping to another state?
My reputation and college education, which I couldn’t care less about?
All of that was dust compared to what I’d already lost and what I could gain.
In a worst-case scenario, I always had a trump card in my arsenal — the cheat inventory.
The temptation was great.
To imagine how easily I could solve all my financial problems: first, under cover of night, place a secured door into the inventory, then walk inside some hypothetical jewelry store, “breathe” a couple of trays of diamonds into the inventory, and calmly walk out.
But I pushed those thoughts away.
I genuinely didn’t want to set foot on that slippery slope.
Not because of some abstract moral code, but for purely practical reasons.
In this world, crawling with telepaths, mages, genius detectives, street-level vigilantes with super-sensitive hearing, and all-seeing government organizations, it was far too easy to attract unwanted attention.
The attention of those whose very presence in your life was better left excluded.
So for now, I’d try to be an honest guy.
An ordinary working man…
with a magic pocket and a credit card.
Now, the main question — where to begin?
There really were many options.
I carefully laid out all the purchased goods on the single table, and the sight, this craftsman’s still life, calmed my nerves a bit.
First, and most obvious, my, in a way, native element — woodworking.
I lovingly ran my fingers over the handles of the new set of chisels and gouges.
Next to them lay sheets of sandpaper of various grits, a small but sharp handsaw, a can of varnish, and, of course, several blocks of linden and pine.
The plan was simple: test different variations.
Start with a simple decorative figurine, then move on to something more functional, like a box or at least a spoon.
I needed to understand if, for the system, there was a correlation between things created for art’s sake and utilitarian objects.
What did it value more: beauty or utility?
Second, mechanics and engineering.
Since I mentioned the potato cannon, I had to follow through.
Was I a man or not?
The Spudgun was happening, and that was non-negotiable!
There were literally hundreds of variations of this engineering masterpiece on the internet, from the simplest to almost semi-professional.
I settled on a basic, time-tested design.
For it, I’d bought several PVC pipes of different diameters, caustic plastic glue, a piezo igniter from an old lighter, fittings, and a can of propane-butane mix.
I was damn curious how the system would rate this contraption.
Would it be considered a “weapon”?
And how many CP would it give?
I was almost sure the count would be in the tens.
After all, a Spudgun, even in the world of the Avengers, was still a Spudgun!
Third, leatherworking.
Initially, I wanted to get clay, but I quickly realized that for proper ceramic work, you need a muffle kiln for firing, and all I had was a two-burner mini-stove.
So I decided to put clay on hold and grabbed a starter kit for leatherwork: a few thin pieces of vegetable-tanned leather, a sharp awl, a set of hole punches, a spool of waxed thread, and special needles.
A utility knife and a metal ruler were universal tools.
The plan — following online guides, make myself a simple cardholder wallet.
Something practical and durable.
Before starting work, I allowed myself a small ritual left over from my past life.
I brewed myself some strong black coffee in John’s old Turkish coffee pot, which I’d scrubbed until it shone.
The aroma filled the tiny studio, momentarily overpowering the smell of cheap wallpaper and poverty.
Sitting at the table cluttered with tools and materials, I looked at this abundance and felt an almost forgotten anticipation.
This wasn’t just the start of work.
This was a statement.
In my old world, every new project began like this — with a cup of coffee and quiet planning.
It was the time when I mentally played through every stage, from the first cut to the final polish.
Now, in this alien body and alien apartment, this simple ritual became a bridge, connecting my past self with my present self.
It reminded me that, despite all this Marvel trappings, at my core, I remained the same.
I was a person who takes the chaos of materials and turns it into the order of things.
And it didn’t matter what I was creating — a stool, a spudgun, or perhaps, one day, something capable of saving the world.
The process remained sacred.
Taking another look at my improvised workbench and running through the next steps in my head, I decided not to overthink it and start in order.
With wood.
With what was familiar and close to me.
If this helped me earn the remaining 50 CP, I’d be incredibly happy.
Everything else would go toward farming for the next roll.
“So, what should I carve so the system clearly interprets it as a wooden figurine?
And at what exact stage will it register the work as complete?” I asked myself the obvious question out loud, picking up a small block of linden, about the size of my fist.
The moment my fingers touched the warm, smooth wood, I felt…
relief.
Deep, almost physical.
The light, sweetish smell of linden, its pliable, uniform structure — it was all painfully familiar, native.
It was a piece of my old world, a tangible anchor in this ocean of madness.
Not paper cranes or college lectures.
Real work.
I picked up a chisel, and its wooden handle fit into my palm like it was made for it.
For a moment, I closed my eyes, and a vivid flash of an image surfaced in my memory: I’m sitting on the freshly planed porch of my house, the summer sun warming my back.
Next to me, squatting, is the neighbor’s six-year-old boy, Lyoshka, watching with silent admiration as a simple wooden horse emerges from under my hands, from a linden block just like this one.
I remember handing it to him, and how his face lit up with pure, genuine joy.
A simple moment from a life I no longer had.
The pain from that thought was sharp, like the blade of the chisel in my hand.
I froze for a second, looking at the wooden block.
This wouldn’t be just a figurine.
It was a ghost from the past, a materialized memory.
And I suddenly wondered: what if the system reads not only the complexity and materials?
What if it also reads the emotional input?
The intention?
After all, that little horse for Lyoshka wasn’t just a craft.
It had a bit of warmth put into it, a desire to please a child, a piece of the soul.
And what was I putting into it now?
Cold calculation.
A thirst for CP.
I was a craftsman in a deal with the devil, and my work was just currency.
I wondered if the system would notice the difference.
If I carved this figurine with the same warmth as that little horse, would I get more points?
Or was it all just variables in a formula for a soulless mechanism?
I chuckled.
Trying to fool or appease a universal artifact was foolish.
But I’d still try to put into the smooth curves of the figurine not only skill but also that very feeling of quiet joy from creation.
Just for myself.
Alright, enough sentiment!
There was a task.
Wooden figurines.
Though I’d never considered myself a sculptor, over the years of working with wood, I’d gotten pretty good.
I was especially good at making hares for some reason.
A simple, recognizable shape.
Deciding not to reinvent the wheel, I set to painstaking work, turning on a news channel on my laptop as background noise.
Wood shavings fell onto the table in neat, fragrant curls, the chisel sang its quiet, soothing song, and I almost forgot where I was and why I was doing all this.
I was just working.
And it was wonderful.
.”..meanwhile, representatives of Damage Control report that cleanup efforts following the recent incident in the Bronx will be completed by Friday.
The mayor’s office once again urges citizens not to approach the cordoned-off blocks…”
I snorted, not looking up from my work.
“Incident.” What a nice, sterile word for another brawl between some Hulk and Abomination that had smashed a couple of city blocks into rubble.
.”..and now we move on to the top science news.
It has become known that the brilliant scientist, Doctor Otto Octavius, will hold a closed presentation for investors in a month, on October 14th.
It is assumed that he will unveil the prototype of his neural interface manipulators, which, according to rumors, could be a real breakthrough in a whole range of fields, from surgery to construction!”
At that moment, my hand slipped, and the chisel cut off a too-large chip from the ear of the future hare.
Damn.
Octavius.
Another genius about to take a wrong turn.
The calendar in my head clicked.
So, events were only just starting to unfold.
I carefully corrected the shape, slightly changing the position of the hare’s head to hide the flaw.
Amid heavy thoughts about how the world was slowly but surely sliding downhill, I finished the work.
The final touch with sandpaper, and there it was — a smooth, pleasant-to-touch wooden animal.
It took about half an hour in total.
Setting it on the table, I held my breath and received a system notification:
[Simple wooden figurine created.
Complexity: Minimal.
+5 CP received!]
Yes!
For half an hour of undemanding, almost meditative work, I’d gotten five times more CP than for a single paper crane!
The system valued real craftsmanship, even in such a simple form.
This wasn’t just satisfying; it gave me hope.
I was starting to understand the rules of this game.
Picking up another block, I started carving another hare, trying to make it an exact copy of the first.
But this time, I mentally broadcast to the system: “The work isn’t finished until I varnish it.” The system was silent.
Even when the second figurine was completely finished and sanded, there was no notification.
But as soon as I applied a thin layer of varnish with a brush and set the hare to dry on a sheet of paper, the result immediately came.
[Simple lacquered wooden figurine created.
Complexity: Minimal.
+6 CP received!]
+1 free CP!
Just for spending an extra minute on the finishing coat!
My theory was confirmed.
The more multi-component and finished the work, even if the extra steps were insignificant, the higher the final reward.
By that logic, for the Spudgun, which involved assembly, gluing, and mechanism installation, I’d get…
a lot.
A whole lot.
I couldn’t wait to get started on it, but…
discipline first.
I needed to finish the remaining 39 CP and finally close the gestalt on the first roll.
The next three hours turned into a small assembly line for producing lacquered wooden hares.
I could have stopped once I’d made the required number, but something inside made me continue, trying to find the limit.
The tenth hare…
the eleventh…
[Simple lacquered wooden figurine created.
Complexity: Minimal.
+3 CP received!]
[Warning!
The CP gain limit for creating wooden figurines of minimal complexity has been partially exhausted!
The next 9 figurines will grant +3 CP each.]
They’d even stopped adding for the varnish.
Annoying.
But my account showed a handsome 112 CP.
That was more than enough.
Deciding not to beat around the bush, I opened the system interface, found the “Forging of Creation” tab, took a deep breath, and mentally pressed the image of the hammer.
No flashy special effects, light shows, or epileptic gacha animations.
My system was thoroughly pragmatic.
Just a text notification:
[Blueprint (Simple) received — Project (Arcanum of Steamworks and Magick Obscura).
(Technology unlock costs 50 CP)]
This small folder contains any one schematic of your choice from those you can find in the Arcanum.
You can choose standard technologies, such as the Lightweight Axe and Elephant Gun, as well as prototype inventions not included in the technological disciplines’ curriculum, for example, the Miracle Cure, Charged Armor, or the Tranquilizer Gun.
Okay…
So, what now?
I switched to the “Technologies” tab and saw a new, gray, inactive line with the project’s name.
Locked!
What the hell?!
I had to pay again?!
I’d already paid a hundred points for the roll!
I’d earned those goddamn CP through honest, hard work, carving those fucking hares, just to…
just to earn the right to pay again?!
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” I blurted out loud.
Going back to the “Forging of Creation” tab, I noted with unpleasant shock that the price for the next activation had gone up.
“Forge Creation!
Cost: 150 CP.”
150 for the next one, meaning 200 for the one after, 250, and so on…
Unpleasant.
Very unpleasant.
A hot, useless rage rose from the depths of my soul.
I wanted to throw something at the wall, smash those stupid hares to splinters.
But I held back.
Deep breath.
Exhale.
Anger is a bad advisor.
I had to think.
The system wasn’t a slot machine.
It didn’t spit out random junk.
On the very first try, it gave me not one specific blueprint, but a whole catalog.
A folder with projects.
A choice.
It gave me a choice, but I had to pay for it.
That…
was logical in its own way.
Even if it was damn annoying.
But the devil, as always, was in the details.
“Arcanum of Steamworks and Magick Obscura.” The word MAGICK was setting off alarms in my practical mind.
What if the blueprint I chose had components I physically couldn’t get?
What if the “Miracle Cure” required powdered griffon horn or a phoenix tear?
And “Charged Armor” needed vibranium, which was impossible to get outside of Wakanda?
What if the alloy for the “Lightweight Axe” required uru metal from the forges of Nidavellir?
What was I supposed to do in that case?
What choice did I have?
Just keep farming.
This “Arcanum” was either a long-term investment in a vague future, or it could pleasantly surprise me once I unlocked it.
I looked at the remaining wooden blocks.
I was done with hares.
Time to make something functional.
I’d also test how the system rated utility.
I’d hit those 50 CP to unlock it today no matter what.
Taking a new block and sawing off the needed piece with the handsaw, I started on good old carving, this time making a simple wooden spoon.
Twenty minutes of work — and here was the result.
[Simple wooden utensil created.
Complexity: Minimal.
+5 CP received!]
Same as for the hare.
I didn’t risk varnishing the spoon, but I was satisfied with the result.
Making the spoon was easier and faster.
The next few hours I spent in monotonous carving, pushing the CP counter to the required mark.
The room was filling up with shavings, the table was covered in a layer of varnish and wood dust, and in the corner now stood a whole army of wooden hares and a mountain of spoons.
The smell of wood was thick and pleasant.
I looked at my hands.
John’s hands.
They were covered in small cuts and splinters, the first calluses appearing on the fingers.
They were no longer feeling like someone else’s.
They were becoming my working hands, a tool.
I felt a pleasant tiredness in my muscles, the kind that comes after a long, productive day.
I’d done more today than John Thompson had probably done in the entire last year of his life.
I wasn’t just surviving.
I was acting.
I was setting goals and achieving them.
And even if these goals were still small — saving up points, unlocking a blueprint — they existed.
They set a vector for movement in this insane world.
I didn’t know yet what awaited me in this “Arcanum,” but for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel fear of the future, but a burning, eager curiosity.
[Simple wooden utensil created.
Complexity: Minimal.
+3 CP received!]
[Warning!
The CP gain limit for creating wooden utensils of minimal complexity has been partially exhausted!
The next 9 creations will grant +3 CP each.]
Finally, my account had 65 CP.
50 of which would now go toward the first unlock.
I was finally going to get something truly practical from the system.
Or rather, the blueprint for that something…
[Do you really wish to unlock the Blueprint (Simple) — Project (Arcanum of Steamworks and Magick Obscura) for 50 CP?]
Mentally giving a firm agreement, I held my breath, waiting to see something I didn’t know what.
Just like in a fairy tale.
Although, with a stretch, my current life could be called a fairy tale…