Fifty points. A measly 50 OP separated me from the next stage of development. I could, of course, take the path of least resistance. The garage was crammed with materials, and I could easily whip up another useless but system-recognized "artisanal masterpiece." But something inside, my very spirit as a Creator, having tasted the sticky fear of a real hunt, rebelled against the idea. Create garbage for points when supernatural predators are on your trail? No, that's the path not of a survivor, but a future corpse.
I needed a weapon. Something that would give me a real advantage if they came back. And they would be back. The weaknesses of Vampires in this world, judging by initial analysis, were classic, and that untied my hands. Thoughts swirled feverishly in my head. Garlic aerosol bomb? Too situational and non-lethal. Automatic crossbow with aspen bolts? Effective, but required an accuracy I didn't yet possess. Silver bullets? They required firearms, which meant extra trouble with the law; getting a pistol license in New York is a real pain.
And then, a vivid image from an old movie about a brutal, half-breed black hunter flashed in my memory. Ultraviolet. Powerful, concentrated ultraviolet light, turning Vampires to ash. That's it! Elegant, technological, and, most importantly, it hits their main vulnerability right on target. Decided.
For such a task, I didn't begrudge one of the three remaining Potions of Intellect. The world narrowed, cutting off everything extraneous. For the next hour, I wasn't just a man but a super-intelligent search algorithm, sifting through terabytes of data on engineering forums, in scientific articles on physics, and in electronic component catalogs. Connections that an ordinary brain would make in weeks formed in my head in fractions of a second. And now, a blueprint began to emerge on the laptop screen. Not from the System, but my own. I mentally called it the UV Projector "Daylight", but a more honest and crude name took root in my soul: "Vampire Ass-Kicker."
It was just a matter of putting the idea into metal and plastic.
The Radiation Source: At the heart of the device had to be several high-power UVC LED chips, 20 watts each. Real industrial monsters, usually used in water sterilization systems. I found a supplier online and, without haggling, handed over three hundred dollars for the best samples. You don't save 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 radio-controlled models: several lithium-polymer batteries for racing models and drones, soldered into a single block capable of delivering the necessary current. Another hundred and fifty bucks down.
Cooling System: Now that was a real engineering challenge. Up to 70% of the energy of such a powerful LED is converted not into light, but into pure, scorching hell. Without active cooling, my expensive chips would burn out in three seconds. A simple radiator wouldn't do the trick. But the brain under the potion had already found a solution—elegant and ruthlessly effective. I created a combined system: I installed a thermoelectric cooler—a Peltier element—directly on the copper substrate of the LED matrix. One side of it, in contact with the matrix, became icy, and the other—red-hot, drawing heat away. I put a massive copper radiator, for some server equipment, on this hot side, and a powerful, high-speed cooler on it. When turned on, the whole structure emitted a low, predatory hum.
For optics, I had to splurge on a fused quartz lens—ordinary glass simply wouldn't transmit the harsh UVC spectrum. I packed all this stuff into the gutted housing of a powerful construction floodlight. Assembled on the workbench in my garage, this device scared even me. It looked like a weapon from a science fiction action movie—bulky, utilitarian, deadly to one particular race of intelligent beings. Adding a control board with a massive power button and a mode switch (continuous beam and disorienting strobe), I stepped back, admiring the creation.
I did it without blueprints or System prompts. I analyzed the problem myself, found a solution, and implemented it. I was growing as a Creator. And the System, fortunately, seemed to think the same.
[Simple Engineered Construction "UV Projector" Created. Difficulty: Minimal. Received +50 OP!]
The sting of resentment from the "minimal" difficulty was familiar. For the System, which considered the Extremis formula a "normal" recipe, my crafts were nothing more than child's play. Sandcastles in the sandbox, while adults build nuclear reactors.
But now was not the time for reflection. The projector went into the Inventory—my first real trump card against the creatures of the night. And I, with a balance of 250 OP, could finally get to the most important item on the agenda. Time to spend points.
The system window obediently popped up before my eyes. The "Technologies" tab, the "Arcanum" section—a path that had become almost familiar. Eight disciplines looked at me, promising power for a certain price. What first, Muscle Stimulator or Protective Field Generator? Perhaps, for contrast, it's worth starting with what is supposedly the most difficult.
Moving to the "Electricity" discipline, I selected the desired blueprint and mentally confirmed the expenditure. 100 OP... I poured the points into the recipe.
And immediately regretted it.
If the Potion of Intellect was a stream of crystal-clear knowledge, this was an information tsunami made of broken glass and hot metal. A hurricane of data, alien concepts, fractal geometries, and laws of physics that had not even been discovered here yet stormed into my brain. The headache wasn't just strong; it was crushing.
"Fuck..." I croaked into the emptiness of the garage when the world stopped spinning and my eyes cleared. An initial 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 one meter in diameter. The shield stopped most kinetic threats, from pistol bullets to shrapnel. It sounded like the perfect survival tool. But the list of components... The System had adapted the recipe to the realities of the Marvel world, and that adaptation made me want to howl.
The device consisted of three modules, and each one was a personal technological hell.
Power Module: Power source—a compact strontium radioisotope thermoelectric generator (RTG). A nuclear battery, like in interplanetary probes or ultra-expensive pacemakers. You can't just buy one in a store. It's a restricted area, and to access it, I'd need at least a fake identity at the level of a "leading nuclear physicist on a secret project." And that's just the beginning. Energy storage—a battery of solid-state graphene supercapacitors. Their creation required equipment for working with nanomaterials under vacuum conditions. You can't assemble that in a garage, and buying them ready-made... I didn't even know if they existed in open access.
Field Emitter: Focusing crystal—a synthetic sapphire single crystal with evenly distributed nanoparticles of freaking Vibranium. I glanced at the box of ore. I had this metal. But I didn't have a high-temperature furnace for growing crystals or equipment for nanodispersive spraying of the strongest metal on the planet. It was the difference between owning a block of marble and being able to sculpt David. The projection grid, a network of tungsten microfilaments, seemed like child's play in comparison. Yes, it's a level for an entire research institute, but they could at least theoretically be ordered somewhere, unlike a nuclear battery.
Control Module: And here the System finished me off. The frequency stabilizer required the creation of a resonant tuning fork from the magical metal Uru. I mentally pictured my half-kilogram ingot. I didn't even know how to scratch it, let alone shape it into a perfect form 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 the rest, it was a weak consolation.