Three days passed in a blur.
Between resting, eating like a man who'd just discovered what actual seasoning tasted like, and tinkering with my power like a kid with a new toy and no supervision, I was starting to settle into the rhythm of this strange, ridiculous new life.
The house was quiet.
And I didn't leave. Not once.
It wasn't fear, exactly—okay, maybe a little fear—but mostly common sense. I was twelve. Young. Squishy. And this was the Land of Rain, where even the puddles looked like they had a kill count.
Going outside now? That was how you died with dramatic music swelling in the background and your name misspelled on a memorial plaque.
So I stayed put.
Quietly building.
Quietly learning.
Quietly getting stronger.
Because when I did step out, I wouldn't be the helpless kid who'd lost everything.
I'd be something else.
Something they'd regret crossing.
But the real focus? My ability. The Celestial Workshop.
After that first attempt, I'd been testing its limits like a kid with a new game console—and what I found was both thrilling and terrifying.
Turns out, I could only have three items queued for manifestation at any given time. And the time it took? Not instant. Not even close.
Mundane items—simple tools, clothes, even basic weapons—those popped out almost immediately. A dagger, a sleek phone, a lockpick set.
But anything advanced—anything that touched on future tech or magic—took time. Real time.
Though honestly, I'm still not sure why the phone worked. I mean, technically, in this world, that thing should've been considered advanced tech—radio signals, touchscreens, lithium batteries? That's basically magic here.
But hey, I'm not about to look a gift chakra beast in the mouth.
If the Workshop wants to hand me a win, I'm taking it.
Probably best not to question it too much anyway. Knowing my luck, the second I start poking holes in the logic, the whole thing'll stop working—and then I'm stuck eating bland rice again and trying to invent email with kunai.
All created in a few seconds to a few minutes, ready to be summoned into my hand from the workshop. Right, the workshop also has an inbuilt inventory like those in the games. Unfortunately, I can only store items made by the workshop.
The amulet was finished and had already been placed around my neck for protection.
Anyways, here's what I had in my current queue:
A modified Asauchi from Bleach. A nameless Zanpakuto that initially appears to have no unique qualities beyond being a weapon. However, its true power lies in its ability to change and grow with its wielder. Estimated Manifestation Time: 12 days, 1 hour, 31 minutes.
The Grand Chariot from Akame ga Kill.
Estimated Manifestation Time: 27 days, 1 hour, 36 minutes.
Not bad.
I wanted Boosted Gear first—who wouldn't want a giant red dragon gauntlet that screams "main character energy"?
But then I saw the manifestation time.
Three. Hundred. Days.
No thanks, I'll probably be dead by then, or worse, some background tragedy in someone else's story.
So Grand Chariot it is. Sleek, deadly, and it would only take a month.
A win's a win.
Lastly,
The Dragon's Elixir — designed to enhance my body and unlock the ability to use mana.
Estimated Manifestation Time: 12 days, 2 hours, 12 minutes.
I didn't want to rely only on weapons and gear. If I get disarmed, I'm screwed. But if I've got mana flowing through me? That's a game-changer. More options, more flexibility. More fun.
Though… I have no idea how mana's gonna play with chakra. Could be a disaster. Could be a power-up. Either way—eh, let future me deal with that mess.
I based the elixir on a CYOA I played in my past life. One of those dumb text generators that let you break the universe if you min-maxed hard enough.
Truth be told, I originally aimed higher. The Perfect Golden Sentry Serum—that was the dream. Ultimate body, mind, and powers, all wrapped in one shiny golden injection.
Then I saw the price tag:
Manifestation Time: 1,000 days.
Yeah… nope.
And yes, I tried to add a fourth item. The workshop flat-out denied me. I got a shimmering red X over the fourth design, along with a text that appeared in glowing silver words:
"Manifestation queue limit reached. Please wait."
So that was the rule: three max in the pipeline. Once something manifested, I could summon it to my workshop inventory, and it would stay there until I dismissed or used it. But until then, I had to wait.
I leaned back in the armchair in the corner of my room, the city below was waking up, and here I was, building magical tech in my brain like I was some kind of anime Tony Stark with a crafting addiction.
So with my god-tier Workshop momentarily booked up, I did what any sane, responsible, emotionally stable twelve-year-old with access to world-breaking creation ability would do:
I went completely off the rails.
It started with the basics.
Swords. Every type I could think of—katana, longsword, rapier, broadsword, claymore. Some looked like they belonged in a museum, others like they'd been pulled straight from an anime protagonist's final arc. All of them flawless. Razor-sharp. Perfectly balanced.
Then came the daggers. For throwing, for stabbing, for backup stashing in boots, coats, and probably baked into muffins if I ever got that creative.
Knives? I made one for literally every use I could think of. Kitchen knives sharper than my comebacks. Combat knives sturdy enough to cut steel. One knife that was just for slicing apples in the coolest possible way. Because aesthetics matter.
And then... guns.
Handguns. Revolvers. SMGs. ARs. Shotguns.
I even made a sniper rifle so long it probably needed its own license.
I built them from scratch, studying each design like I'd been born with the blueprints in my DNA
Everything from entry-level pea shooters to anti-tank, monster-murdering, "this-should-be-illegal" tier firepower.
Ammo too, obviously. Hollow points. Armor-piercing. Incendiary. Rubber bullets for when I wanted to be polite. Exploding bullets for when I didn't.
And when I got tired of pew-pew?
Boom-boom.
Oh, and grenades? Yeah.
Flashbangs. Frags. Sticky bombs. Smoke bombs.
Made some cute ones shaped like ducks.
Made some not cute ones shaped like tiny nukes
I even threw together a few bricks of C4 and good ol' fashioned dynamite sticks for that Looney Tunes flavor.
If everything went to hell, I was ready to rain absolute chaos like a one-man artillery division with ADHD.
I didn't care if chakra could stop bullets—no one's chakra-proof when I turn the battlefield into a Michael Bay movie.
Worst-case scenario? I spam everything like a panicked video game protagonist with a grenade fetish.
Best-case? I never have to use them, and I just hoard them like a loot goblin.
But let's be honest. As fun as it was to make things that go boom, I couldn't exactly throw a grenade at boredom.
So, I made toys.
Gaming consoles from my past life? You bet.
Nintendo Switch—complete with custom skins and Joy-Con drift magically removed.
A PSP, because classics deserve love.
A Game Boy Advance SP in neon green, just because it made me smile.
I wanted to make a PS5—really did. But then I remembered I'd need a power source and a TV. So I shelved that dream for now. Handheld consoles would do the trick.
I even added a cozy couch, snacks I crafted on the fly, and created a controller that never got sweaty. Because power corrupts, and I wanted comfort with my chaos.
Another thing I learned? My creations don't need maintenance. No oiling, no charging, no praying to the tech gods to keep things running. Guns don't run out of ammo. Swords can break if abused, sure—but they'll never rust, never dull unless I want them to. It's like everything I make comes with a lifetime warranty... backed by whatever cosmic nonsense powers the Celestial Workshop.
All of them are just a thought away in my inventory.
Honestly? Kinda broken. I love it.