The next morning greeted me not just with a good mood, but with a veritable mental explosion, a tsunami of pure energy. Waking up was akin to an electric shock, not painful, but invigorating, instantly evaporating the remnants of sleep and yesterday's fatigue. I leaped out of bed with such a fierce, primal surge of energy, with such pure, unadulterated motivation and a tingling desire to create in my fingertips, the likes of which I'd probably never experienced in my entire life. That's what this damned system can do to an ordinary person—break their apathy and turn them into an obsessive workaholic. Scary! But also damnably, intoxicatingly pleasant.
Unable to resist this powerful inner impulse to create immediately, I acted like a well-oiled machine. A quick, almost icy shower to finally get the blood pumping. A hastily made breakfast of yesterday's pizza, swallowed without much regard for taste, because my thoughts were already far away. And now I'm standing over a table that's been transformed into an operating room. PVC pipes, a knife, sheets of sandpaper, a tube of pungent-smelling glue, and a simple piezo lighter are neatly laid out on its surface. The laptop screen casts a bluish light on my face; a simple online manual is open on it. I began to create.
A potato cannon, a potato launcher, or, as I solemnly dubbed it, the Bulbamet-3000. A simple design that, in the wet dreams of Belarusian politicians, is a weapon of mass destruction, capable of annihilating all life. In harsh reality, it's simply a cunning set of PVC pipes held together by a flammable gas. A potato tuber, acting as a projectile, is ejected from the main pipe—the barrel of our weapon—under the pressure of expanding gases. Depending on the design, the tightness, and the propellant used, the potato's range varies from several dozen to several hundred meters. My design will be ridiculously simple, so I'm realistically counting on a reliable range of fifty meters, no more.
The first thing I did was work on the pipes. My movements were precise and measured, as if I'd been doing this my whole life. The combustion chamber was made of a wide, 80-millimeter pipe, a section about forty centimeters long, with a screw-off block on top for "loading" the fuel. The barrel was made of a narrower, 50-millimeter pipe, about a meter long for better acceleration. I carefully sanded the cuts, achieving a perfectly smooth finish so that nothing would interfere with the gluing. I glued a plug to one end of the combustion chamber, inhaling the acrid, chemical smell of the glue, which unpleasantly tickled my nostrils. I attached an 80-to-50 mm adapter to the other end. Then, with the same meticulous care, I glued the long pipe-barrel to the adapter. The main frame of the legendary Bulbamet is complete, and it looks surprisingly menacing.
The next step was the ignition system, the heart of my creation. I drilled two tiny holes in the combustion chamber plug for 4 mm screws. Then I screwed the screws in at a slight angle, so that their metal ends were just 2–3 millimeters apart inside the chamber—improvised but effective electrodes. I carefully connected the wires from the disassembled piezo ignition system to the exposed screws, and securely fastened its plastic housing to the combustion chamber with several layers of tape. My finger pressed the button. Click! A bright, angry, bluish spark shot between the screw ends with a dry, crackling sound. Excellent, almost ready!
The final touches before the triumphant test: a final leak check of all connections and, of course, finding suitable ammunition. I had to run to the nearest grocery store for the latter. And there it was, less than an hour after I started working, the legend was ready! With satisfying force, I squeezed a large, dense potato into the barrel, feeling the edges of the tube cut off a thin layer of skin, ensuring a perfect seal. Unscrewing the cap on the combustion chamber, I injected a generous dose of propane-butane from a lighter refill. Then I went to the window, threw it wide open, letting in the cool morning air of the city, and pointed the barrel of the Bulbamet upward, aiming for the potato to land somewhere on the flat roof of a nearby building. My heart beat a little faster in anticipation. I pressed the lighter.
A short, but surprisingly rich and satisfying pop! The potato projectile, with an invisible whistle, successfully left Earth's orbit, or at least the orbit of my fifth-floor apartment. At that very moment, a system notification flashed before my eyes, glowing a soft blue.
[Created a simple weapon design, the "Potato Cannon." Difficulty: Low. Received +50 OP!]
I immediately leaned out the window, trying to follow the tuber's flight, but it quickly turned into a dark dot and disappeared from view against the morning sky. The sharp, chemical smell of burnt gas assaulted my nose, mixed with the subtle, almost sweet aroma of baked starch. The gun's body felt noticeably warm in my hands, and the recoil, though weak, pushed pleasantly into my shoulder, confirming the fact of the shot. This was... a true creation. Not a paper cutout, not a drawing, not a line of code. A functional, albeit primitive, device. In a sense, even a weapon. I ran my finger along the smooth PVC plastic, feeling the barely noticeable seams at the joints, glued together by my own hands. The feeling of deep, pure satisfaction was almost intoxicating. I hadn't simply followed a recipe from the internet. I took disparate pieces of material—pipes, a lighter, glue—and with the power of my will, my knowledge, and my hands, I transformed them into something coherent, with purpose and function. It was a small, almost childish miracle, but it was mine.
At that moment, I realized that Celestial Forge wasn't just a point-awarding system. It was the very essence of creativity, elevated to the absolute, a catalyst for creative will. And if I'd experienced such childish, genuine delight over a potato slinger, what would I feel when I assembled something truly complex? A protective field generator? Power armor? A wide, predatory grin spread across my lips. I'd only just begun, and a whole universe of possibilities lay ahead.
Regarding the +50 OP received, as expected, the system generously rewards complex and more-or-less functional creations! Another important fact is that the design now has a name prefix. If I'm not mistaken, this is the first time the system has given something a name. Usually, everything was limited to general, impersonal terms like "figurine," "tableware," or "origami." This felt like recognition.
So, right now I have 65 OP. Simple arithmetic told me that if I crafted just two more Bulbamets, which don't require significant money, time, or effort, I'd be able to spin "Forge the Universe" again in just a couple of hours. And no, I'm not a gambling addict, I'm dead set on it! This is a cold, rational calculation. It's simply the most efficient way to get a new tech pack right now.
The only problem is that, in my shortsightedness, I only bought the materials needed to craft one Bulbamet. Which means I'll have to go back to the hardware store and stock up on PVC pipes and piezo lighters. Oh well, I'll go for a walk, clear my head, and stretch my legs. Yeah, I should probably get some exercise in, too; I look like a skinny log. Or should I? Maybe I'll pull out something like a "homemade super soldier serum recipe for dummies" from the system roulette, or even better, the serum itself, in a neat ampoule. Okay, I'll be a skinny weakling for now; we'll figure out the physical stuff later; my priorities are set.
It's Friday, September 11th, 2015, and the weather outside is surprisingly warm and pleasant. So, throwing on a simple gray hoodie, jeans, and some old sneakers, I leave my humble abode, already thinking about what I'll do after farming OR on the Bulbathrowers.
As I walked down the street, I couldn't help but notice how much my perception of the world had changed. Just the day before, I'd seen only gray buildings, faceless crowds, and a potential threat in every dark alley. Now, my gaze clung to details with the greed of an engineer. I'd look at scaffolding and mentally calculate how I could improve its design, adding buttresses for greater stability. I'd see an old, humming air conditioner hanging on the wall and mentally disassemble it into its components, wondering if there might be a useful fan or copper heat sink inside for future projects. A streetlamp was no longer just a source of light—I'd wonder about its wiring, the type of bulb, whether anything useful could be made from its sturdy aluminum frame. The world had become a vast warehouse of materials and unrealized projects. The Celestial Forge had infected me with the virus of creation, and now I saw everything through the prism of the question: "What can I make from this?" It was like professional deformation magnified a thousandfold. But for now, it's best not to get too carried away; I have plenty to do.