The choice, limited to just one option, felt like a tight collar around the neck of my ambitions. I had to cut to the quick. The Protective Field Generator and the Gravity Gyroscope—I discarded them immediately. These projects looked and sounded like titans to my current self, the assembly of which would require, at a minimum, a workshop and, at most, an entire industrial complex, and likely expensive resources. These were goals for the future, for the me that doesn't yet exist. The Stun Grenade, though temptingly practical, seemed too mundane. It was a consumable, a tactical tool that, in a pinch, could be bought or replaced with something similar. No, I needed something fundamental.
So, three cards remained on my mental table, hopefully trump cards: Poison, Muscle, and Intelligence. The Muscle Stimulator beckoned, tempting me with the promise of power without the side effects. In a world where a super-strong brute could lurk around every corner, physical prowess is a compelling argument. But the more I pored over the recipe lists, the more clearly I realized: brute force is just a tool. And I wanted to be the one who creates these tools.
And therefore—Intelligence.
This is the foundation upon which anything can be built. This is the foundation that will allow me not just to blindly follow the blueprints given to me by the Forge, but to understand them on an intuitive, deep level. Perhaps even to modify and improve them. Moreover, in this universe, intelligence is not just an advantage; it is a truly strategic weapon. Reed Richards, whose brain stretched as easily as his body, reshaping the very fabric of reality. Tony Stark, who crafted a heart for himself and armor for the entire world in a cave out of scrap metal. Otto Octavius, Victor von Doom, Hank Pym, even the perpetually strapped Peter Parker. Countless individuals in this world have risen to the heights or plunged into the depths of madness solely by the power of their extraordinary minds. If this damn potion allows me to at least temporarily—even by a couple of measly units—overclock my own processor, it will open up such horizons of possibilities for me that I now, due to the grayness of my consciousness, probably do not even suspect.
And yet… there was another reason, far more personal, sharp as a splinter under a fingernail, which I tried not to think about. In my past life as Alexander Cole, I was no genius. I wasn't an idiot either, no—just ordinary. One of billions of cogs in a giant machine. I studied diligently, dug into my work, tried to jump out of my pants to achieve something significant, but there was always someone smarter, faster, more talented. I saw how the ideas that wandered as hazy images in my head were transformed by others into brilliant, successful projects. I felt how opportunities I hadn't thought of floated away to those who could calculate everything several moves ahead.
It wasn't exactly offensive—more like tiring. A constant, grueling race, where you already know your place somewhere in the middle of the stream. That's why, at some point, I gave it all up, practically moving to the countryside, which, to be fair, I didn't regret. Here, in a world where the stakes are immeasurably higher, where the genius of Tony Stark hangs on one side of the scale and the madness of the Green Goblin on the other, being "ordinary" is a death sentence. The Muscle Stimulator would have given me strength, the ability to escape or fight back. But it wouldn't have taught me to see a trap before I walked into it. It wouldn't have allowed me to create something that would level the playing field with gods and monsters. And intelligence… it's not just a weapon. It's my personal rebellion against the mediocrity of the past. A chance not just to survive, but to finally become what, deep down, I always wanted but couldn't: the architect of my own destiny, not its extra.
I walked to the window. Below, faceless figures streamed along the sidewalk. In a past life, I was one of them. A man living by rules created by others. I bought tools made in other people's factories, built from materials produced using other people's technologies, followed laws not written by me. My creative impulse was confined within the rigid confines of the physical world, the law, and my own limited knowledge. The Muscle Stimulator would make me simply a strong, resilient cog in someone else's machine. And the Intelligence Potion would give me the chance to become a mechanic myself. Not just follow instructions, but write my own. Stop being a user and become a developer. This thought was more intoxicating than any whiskey. The opportunity not just to adapt to this crazy world, but to understand its fundamental principles and, perhaps, even slightly modify them to suit my own needs—this was the highest form of craftsmanship, the likes of which I could never have dreamed. And that finally confirmed my choice. Strength is the tool. Intelligence is the hand that holds all the tools.
True, one problem remained—one my mind had already dissected dozens of times—the possible ingredients. What if I couldn't get them because they were too rare or too expensive? What if they didn't even exist in this world? I mentally dismissed the latter, trusting in the system's adaptability. It should adjust the recipe, find alternatives. But the first… well, in any case, this is a long-term investment. If I can't create this potion in the next few days or months, I might be able to later. I'm not going to stand still. My plans include at least assembling a Bulbathrower and, at most… I don't even know, a Death Star, huh?
I focused again on the internal interface. It didn't resemble a computer screen, but rather a translucent mental blueprint, hanging directly in my mind. The text and icons glowed with a soft, ghostly blue, and navigation was accomplished not by eye movement but by pure intent. I "thought" about selecting the Potion of Intellect, and the corresponding line in the list illuminated. Next to the Confirm button, the number –50 OP glowed, and in the center of the expanded window, a 3D model of a small flask of iridescent liquid slowly rotated. I froze for a moment. Fifty points—earned through honest, painstaking work. My first serious investment in something tangible, albeit in the future. The thought that it might be empty sent a chill down my spine. What if the recipe couldn't be completed? What if I'd simply wasted my OP? I forcefully pushed those thoughts away. Those who don't take risks spend the rest of their days in a cardboard box in Hell's Kitchen, shying away from every shadow. Mustering up my courage, I formed a mental command, pouring all my resolve into it: "Confirm."