Chapter 27
Sunday evening.
The time when normal people allow themselves to unwind before the work week begins — gathering with family, catching up with friends.
But I had long since fallen out of the "normal" category.
While I rest, some Draugr is sharpening his axe.
While I sleep, Thanos is grinding out another set of bicep curls.
Loki is weaving his cunning schemes, and Galactus — unburdened by anything resembling morality — is sizing up another planet full of billions of sentient beings for dinner.
Sure, I could have laid down for a couple of hours.
The world definitely wouldn't have collapsed.
The problem was that over the past week and a half, an avalanche of radical changes had swept through my life — and it wasn't just the bloodsuckers who'd scared me half to gray.
My renewed nineteen-year-old body literally vibrated with excess energy and needed somewhere to put it.
And my consciousness, carrying the memory of an adult's life, demanded that energy be spent on something worthwhile.
The Master Watchmaker skill threw more fuel on that fire.
It gave me more than just physical precision — it gave me a flow state, the ability to lock in completely on a task and shut out everything else.
And underneath all of that was one simple, all-encompassing truth: I was in the Marvel universe.
A world where vampires weren't even in the middle of the food chain.
And I had a cheat System capable of turning me into, if not a god, then at least something close.
The formula for success was straightforward: work.
Craft new items, farm OP, improve myself across every dimension, build connections, and leverage my meta-knowledge — which was just as much of a cheat as the System itself.
Don't slack.
And one day I'd be arm-wrestling Thor, schooling Stark on engineering, and snapping my fingers at Thanos.
So instead of resting, I sat in my garage-lab.
My hands moved with a smooth, almost hypnotic precision.
On the workbench was a spread of microchips, lithium-polymer cells, and inductance coils.
I was building a custom power bank with wireless charging and a built-in low-power EMP emitter — a simple device based on an online guide, but perfect for sharpening skills and farming OP drops.
The soldering iron felt like an extension of my fingers.
The world narrowed down to the gleam of solder and the precise placement of each contact.
This was the flow state — and in moments like that, the part of the brain freed from physical work starts living its own life.
Naturally, it drifted toward girls.
I'd been pushing those thoughts aside for days now, but the hormones of a young body were starting to collect their due.
Nineteen years old.
Peak biological activity.
And I happened to be living in a world populated by some of the most beautiful, powerful, and interesting women ever conceived by the collective imagination of comic book artists.
First to come to mind was Gwen Stacy.
Spider-Gwen.
The same girl who had caught me off guard in her spider suit during those first few days.
I'd done my research and found her through Peter's circle.
She was objectively flawless — long golden hair, bright blue eyes, a face that belonged on the cover of Vogue.
What was she even doing in science?
With her looks, any modeling agency would have signed her on the spot.
And why was she risking that face, and her life, to save ordinary people?
Her philosophy of heroism remained beyond my current comprehension.
Who else?
Obviously, the universe's resident femme fatale: Natasha Romanoff.
Black Widow.
Super-spy, elite operative, trained partly to seduce and break impressionable, hormonally volatile young men exactly like me.
That was the major league — you wouldn't find her on social media.
But you would find Jean Grey.
Red-haired, eighteen, a student at Professor Xavier's private school.
She didn't particularly hide her identity, which was surprising.
Though Xavier probably had his reasons — maybe it was part of managing one of the planet's most powerful and unstable mutants, the host of a cosmic force capable of burning stars.
She matched Gwen in beauty but was a poisonous flower.
Reaching for her was the equivalent of putting your head in a lion's mouth.
Emma Frost.
Susan Storm.
Anna Marie — Rogue.
Scarlet Witch.
Captain Marvel.
Elektra.
Mystique.
Felicia Hardy, Black Cat.
Dozens, if not hundreds of fascinating, extraordinarily dangerous, and overwhelmingly attractive options.
But this wasn't a wish-fulfillment story where the transplanted protagonist was automatically the center of the universe and every beauty lined up at the door.
These women had their own lives, their own romantic histories, their own tragedies and goals.
I'd probably never even cross paths with most of them.
But purely aesthetic appreciation? Nobody was stopping me, right?
Enough self-deception.
Like any self-respecting man, I wanted more than just to admire from a distance.
I wanted to earn the best.
And even though I didn't amount to much right now, that would change.
First came the foundation: strength, resources, safety.
Only once I could guarantee not just my own life but someone else's could I afford to set aside any time for a personal life.
[Created simple electro-mechanical construct "EMP-Powerbank." Complexity: Low. Received +100 OP!]
Device producing minor EMP interference while simultaneously functioning as a compact charging unit.
The repetitive work had pushed out the unnecessary thoughts, and the satisfying ping of a System notification brought me back on course.
Right — aircraft first, girls later.
In my case: farm OP to protect myself first, everything else after.
It was gratifying that the System had kept its word — my creations now came with brief descriptions.
Laconic to a fault, but it was progress.
Maybe as the System's capabilities grew with each spin, those descriptions would eventually become more detailed, revealing hidden potential or unusual synergies.
Almost on autopilot, I assembled three more EMP power banks.
The process had been refined to a rhythm: hands moving on their own while the mind stayed free.
That simple crafting loop earned me another 300 points, pushing my balance to 340 OP.
Exhaustion finally caught up with me, and I tossed the tools onto the workbench and went to bed.
Tomorrow was circled in my mental calendar in thick red marker.
I woke at exactly eight in the morning without an alarm — another perk of a renewed young body.
I made a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and strong coffee.
The aroma filled the kitchen while I settled in at the table with my laptop.
Today I couldn't miss one of the most important events in the world's near-term history — and for me, a starting point: the final presentation of Reed Richards's space expedition.
8:30.
The countdown timer on the news portal hit zero, and the screen filled with a packed conference hall swarming with journalists.
The camera found the podium, where a man around thirty stood at the microphone.
At first glance: typical nerd.
Slightly hunched, sharp suit, intelligent but mildly distracted eyes.
I wasn't fooled.
This was Reed Richards — the single greatest intellect on the planet.
Honestly, the frequency with which he got overlooked during crises like Loki or Thanos raised serious questions.
With his mind, half those disasters could've been stopped at the earliest stage.
Behind him, like a support team, stood four people.
The camera swept slowly across each face, and my brain — already briefed from prior research — delivered a quick rundown.
Ben Grimm: solidly built, former military pilot and astronaut, every inch of him projecting quiet confidence.
Best pilot Richards had.
Loyal friend.
Future tragic monster.
Johnny Storm: the youngest, twenty-five, a classic handsome charmer with a disarming smile — but behind that easygoing exterior sat a man with a doctorate in physics and a mind for mechanical engineering that most people never guessed at.
Susan Storm: his older sister, elegant and striking, twenty-seven, a biochemist of the first order.
She carried herself with composure, but her eyes held an undercurrent of unease — about the conference, maybe about the expedition itself.
The fifth figure stood slightly apart from the rest, her face hidden by shadow and the hood of a dark mantle.
Deliberate intrigue.
Meant to be the announcement's big reveal.
For me, there was no mystery.
I was almost certain I knew who it was.
Reed began to speak.
His voice — calm, perfectly modulated — filled the hall and pulled every eye to him.
"We stand on the shore of a boundless cosmic ocean," he began, and there was no theatrics in it — just a statement of fact.
"For millennia, humanity has looked at the stars and asked: are we alone in the universe? Today, we are ready to take the first step toward turning that question into an answer."
He pressed a button on his remote, and a slide appeared on the screen behind him: a planet swathed in blue-green haze.
"The TRAPPIST-1 system. Forty-four light-years from here. Several years ago, our telescopes discovered something extraordinary — a planet in the habitable zone, with an atmosphere bearing unmistakable biomarker signatures: methane and oxygen."
He paused, letting the magnitude of that statement settle over the room.
"Our expedition's goal is straightforward, yet immense: confirm or refute the existence of life beyond Earth. We will land, conduct spectroscopic analysis, map the surface, and collect samples. We will touch a new world."
The next slide showed the spacecraft.
On the outside, it looked like a sleek but otherwise ordinary futuristic shuttle.
The magic, I knew, was entirely on the inside — and that was precisely where Richards's genius made itself visible.
"To cover that distance, our team developed the Vanguard of Starlight," Reed continued, and for just a moment, unmistakable pride entered his voice.
"At its core is an experimental engine built on a modified warp drive, drawing from the theoretical principles of space-time compression and powered by a reactor that stabilizes the cosmic radiation I have studied for decades. This engine will carry us to our destination not in hundreds of years — but in days."
There it is, I thought.
The key element.
Cosmic energy — their gift and their curse alike.
Detailed infographics filled the screen.
Engine: Modified warp drive. Uses energy drawn from a cosmic-ray-stabilizing reactor to create micro-tunnels in space-time (Dr. Richards's adaptation of the Alcubierre concept). Hull: Alloy of unstable molecules designed to absorb and disperse cosmic radiation. Navigation: Quantum computer with integrated AI. Crew: 5.
I mentally flagged two phrases.
"Cosmic rays."
"Unstable molecules."
The blueprint for catastrophe — and for the birth of heroes — was right in front of me.
"And of course, an undertaking of this scale would be impossible without the planet's finest minds," Reed said, turning to introduce his team.
After Ben, Sue, and Johnny, he turned to the hooded figure.
"But even our combined efforts would not have been sufficient without the financial and intellectual contribution of our primary investor and co-scientific director — a man whose genius rivals the best minds of this generation."
The hooded figure stepped forward and threw back the hood.
The hall drew a sharp breath, then erupted into applause and a barrage of camera flashes.
Victor von Doom.
Crown prince of Latveria.
Polymath, master of physics and robotics.
Unmistakably handsome, with aristocratic features and a gaze that cut like a blade.
At twenty-five, he held the number-two spot on Forbes's global "top 30 under 30," yielding only to Tony Stark.
He surveyed the room with the calm authority of someone who had never once doubted that the world was his to command, and offered a slight smile.
A predator's smile — the kind that came naturally to a man who knew exactly where everything was headed.
I leaned back in my chair.
The show had begun.
The Fantastic Four and Doctor Doom were heading for the stars, toward a destiny I already knew.
And I was the only one in the audience who did.
On screen, Reed Richards swept a hand toward the image of the Vanguard of Starlight.
"The expedition will take no more than two weeks," his voice rang with certainty, almost prophetic in weight.
"And who knows — perhaps by early October, humanity will step into a new era. The era of explored space."
The hall exploded with applause.
Reed waited patiently for the noise to settle, and when it did, his expression turned more serious.
Beside him, Victor von Doom stood with an expression carved from marble — the perfect image of aristocratic genius.
Damn near model looks combined with staggering intellect, I thought.
Does the universe have any interest in balance at all?
If someone's a super-spy or a world-class thief, they also happen to be a supermodel.
If someone's a genius billionaire, they're impossibly handsome too — Stark, Doom, same story.
Even Peter just needed to add some muscle and stand up straight.
Against the backdrop of all these people, my own ordinary appearance was mildly demoralizing.
Then again — enough of that.
What did I have to complain about?
I had something nobody in this world possessed.
"And now," Reed said, "we are ready to take your questions."
A forest of hands shot up.
The tense part began.
"Mr. Richards," a woman in the front row said, her voice sharp as a scalpel, "how do you justify the colossal expense of this mission if the biomarker hypothesis turns out to be wrong?"
That landed.
I caught a muscle in Reed's jaw twitch for just a fraction of a second.
Unlike Stark, he was visibly uncomfortable when the conversation turned to money.
Too much was riding on this expedition — it was backed by a consortium of corporations and two governments.
But he composed himself quickly.
"The value of this mission cannot be measured by the search for life alone," he answered steadily.
"Even a world with no life to find will yield invaluable data on planetary geology and suitability for future colonization. The technologies we developed for the Vanguard — the warp engine, the protective alloys — are already a revolution in themselves, and will generate returns many times their cost. Think of this not as expenditure, but as an investment in the future of the human species."
"Next question!" The moderator pointed toward a reporter at the back.
"Why risk human lives at all? Why not send a safer automated probe?"
"Because a probe is just a tool," Reed replied.
"It follows its programming. Our crew is a team of experts capable of adapting. No algorithm can replace a pilot's instincts, a biochemist's analytical judgment, or an engineer's resourcefulness in an unexpected situation. For a mission of this magnitude — where a discovery for the ages may be at stake — we need not machines, but the finest minds and hands humanity has to offer."
"Safety question — what happens if the cosmic ray reactor fails?" someone called out.
"The reactor has a triple failsafe system," Reed explained patiently, as a professor would to students.
"Magnetic limiters, an emergency energy dump, and a backup thermonuclear source. We have run fifty full-scale simulations. Not one failure."
"What about personal risk to the crew? What if the mission fails entirely?"
"Risk is inseparable from any great achievement," Reed said, and for just a moment his eyes took on a steely quality.
"But we have done everything in our power to minimize it. The ship is equipped with autonomous return systems, and every crew member has completed a year of extreme-condition training. In the event of a catastrophic failure, all data will still be transmitted to Earth via quantum communication channel. Nothing we discover will be lost."
Dozens more questions followed.
Smart ones and foolish ones both.
Richards deflected them with the ease of a seasoned fencer who had prepared for every angle.
For one fleeting, irrational moment, a wild thought crossed my mind: what if I found a way onto that ship? Got the powers?
If I had the ability to turn invisible, maybe I could have tried sneaking aboard.
But reason shut that down immediately.
Too many problems.
First, the security system of a world-class genius's spacecraft would expose me within minutes.
That would mean the flight gets scrubbed at best, and nobody gets their powers.
At worst, I'd be treated as a spy.
Second — and this was the real issue — there was absolutely no guarantee I'd like what happened to me.
What if I ended up with Ben Grimm's fate?
What if instead of stone I turned into something worse?
No thank you.
If it works, don't touch it.
I wasn't about to throw myself into that adventure, especially with the launch happening tomorrow.
Technological Modernization was coming.
From there, Extremis wasn't far.
Things would be good soon enough — no cosmic lottery needed.
The presentation wrapped up under another wave of applause.
I closed the laptop just as a taxi pulled up outside.
Peter stepped out, backpack over his shoulders, curiosity bright in his expression.
Today's presentation would enter the history books, and tomorrow's events even more so.
But despite that, Parker and I were about to write our own small chapter in this story.
One dedicated to materials science and the creation of a perfect suit.
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