The choice, limited to only one option, felt like a tight collar on the neck of my ambitions. Had to cut to the quick. Protective Field Generator and Gravitational Gyroscope, I discarded them immediately. These projects looked and sounded like titans for my current self, assembly of which would require, at minimum, a workshop, and at maximum an entire industrial complex and, probably, expensive resources. These are goals for the future, for that me who doesn't yet exist. Stun Grenade, though temptingly practical, seemed too... down to earth. It's a consumable, tactical tool that in extreme cases could be bought or replaced with something similar. No, I need something fundamental.
So on my mental table remained three cards, hopefully trump ones: Poison, Muscles and Intellect. Muscle Stimulant beckoned, tempted with promise of strength without side effects. In a world where behind every corner could lurk a super-strong thug, physical power is a weighty argument. But the longer I read through recipe lists, the clearer I understood: brute force is just a tool. And I wanted to become the one who creates these tools.
And therefore, Intellect.
This is the foundation of foundations, the base on which anything can be built. This is the foundation that will allow me not just blindly follow blueprints received from the Forge, but understand them at an intuitive, deep level. Perhaps even modify and improve them. Additionally, in this universe, intellect isn't just an advantage, it's a real weapon of strategic purpose. Reed Richards, whose brains stretched as easily as his body, changing the very fabric of reality. Tony Stark, who created in a cave from scrap metal a heart for himself and armor for the whole world. Otto Octavius, Victor von Doom, Hank Pym, even the perpetually cash-strapped Peter Parker. Countless individuals in this world rose to heights or plunged into depths of madness exclusively thanks to the power of their non-trivial brains. If this damn brew allows me even temporarily, even by a couple measly units to overclock my own processor... This will open before me such horizons of possibilities that I now, given the grayness of my consciousness, probably don't even suspect.
And also... there was another reason, far more personal, sharp as a splinter under the nail, that I tried not to think about. In my past life I wasn't a genius. I wasn't an idiot either, no, just... ordinary. One of billions of cogs in a giant mechanism. I studied diligently, bit into work, tried to jump out of my pants to achieve something significant, but there was always someone smarter, faster, more talented. I saw how ideas that wandered as foggy images in my head, others embodied in brilliant, successful projects. I felt how possibilities I didn't think of floated away to those who could calculate everything several moves ahead.
This wasn't so much offensive, rather... exhausting. A constant grueling race in which you know in advance your place somewhere in the middle of the flow, which is actually why at some point I dropped everything, moving practically to the countryside, which in fairness I didn't regret. Here, in a world where stakes are immeasurably higher, where on one scale is Tony Stark's genius, and on the other, the Green Goblin's madness, being "ordinary" is a death sentence. Muscle Stimulant would give me strength, ability to run away or fight back. But it wouldn't teach me to see the trap before I fall into it. It wouldn't allow me to create something that would even the odds with gods and monsters. And intellect... It's not just a weapon. It's my personal rebellion against past grayness. A chance not just to survive, but finally become what I always wanted deep down but couldn't, architect of my fate, not its extra.
I approached the window. Below, along the sidewalk, flowed faceless figures of people. In my past life I was one of them. A person living by rules created by others. I bought tools made at others' factories, built from materials produced by others' technologies, followed laws written not by me. My creative impulse was enclosed in rigid frames of the physical world, legislation and my own limited knowledge. Muscle Stimulant will make me just a strong, enduring part in someone else's mechanism. And Brew of Intellect... it will give a chance to become the mechanic myself. Not just follow instructions, but write my own. Stop being a user and become a developer. This thought intoxicated better than any whiskey. The ability not just to adapt to this insane world, but understand its fundamental principles and, perhaps, even change them a bit for myself. This was the highest form of craft I couldn't even dream of. And this finally confirmed my choice. Strength is a tool. Intellect is the hand that holds all tools.
True, one problem remained that my mind had already dissected dozens of times, possible ingredients. What if I can't obtain them due to their rarity or sky-high price? What if they don't exist in this world at all? The second I mentally dismissed, relying on the system's adaptability. It should adjust the recipe, select analogs. But the first... Alright, in any case this is a long-term investment. Can't create this brew in the coming days or months, can later. I'm not going to stand still. In my plans at minimum assemble a Spud Gun, and at maximum... Don't even know, Death Star, hah?
I focused again on the internal interface. It didn't resemble a computer screen, more like a semi-transparent mental blueprint hanging right in my consciousness. Text and icons glowed with soft, ghostly blue light, and navigation happened not by eye movement but pure intention. I "thought" about choosing Brew of Intellect, and the corresponding line in the list highlighted. Next to the "Confirm" button glowed the number "-50 OP," and in the center of the expanded window slowly rotated a three-dimensional model of a small flask with shimmering liquid. I froze for a moment. Fifty points... earned by honest, painstaking labor. My first serious investment in something truly tangible, albeit in the future. From the thought that it might turn out empty, a chill ran down my spine. What if the recipe is unfeasible? What if I just burned my OP for nothing? I forcefully drove these thoughts away. He who doesn't risk sits until the end of his days in a cardboard box in Hell's Kitchen, shying from every shadow. Gathering my spirit, I formed a mental command, putting into it all my determination. "Confirm."