Chapter 4
Three days passed in a blur for Tatsuya.
Between resting, rediscovering the magic of seasoning, and tinkering with his new power like a kid left alone with a toy store full of gadgets, he was starting to settle into the strange rhythm of his new life.
The house was eerily quiet.
And he didn't leave. Not once.
It wasn't exactly fear. Okay, maybe a little fear. But mostly, it was common sense. He was twelve. Young. Squishy. And this was the Land of Rain, where even the puddles looked like they had kill counts.
Going outside now? That was a ticket to an overdramatic death scene, complete with swelling music and his name misspelled on a memorial plaque.
So, he stayed put.
Quietly building. Quietly learning. Quietly getting stronger.
Because when he did step out, he wouldn't be the helpless kid who'd lost everything.
He'd be something else.
Something they'd regret crossing.
But the real focus? His ability. The Celestial Workshop.
After that first attempt, he'd been testing its limits like a kid with a brand new game console, and what he'd discovered was a mix of excitement and terror.
He learned that he 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, he was still a little confused about the phone. Technically, it should've been considered advanced tech in this world—radio signals, touchscreens, lithium batteries? It was practically magic.
But hey, he wasn't about to question it.
If the Workshop was handing him a win, he was taking it.
Probably best not to poke too many holes in the logic, though. Knowing his luck, the second he started overanalyzing, it'd stop working—and then he'd be back to bland rice soup and trying to invent email with kunai.
All the items were created in mere seconds to a few minutes, ready to be summoned into his hand from the Workshop. Right, the Workshop also had an inventory system, just like in video games. Too bad he could only store items made by the Workshop.
The amulet he'd created for protection? It was already around his neck.
Now, in his current queue, Tatsuya had:
A modified Asauchi from Bleach. A nameless Zanpakuto with no apparent special qualities, but its true power lay 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.
He'd wanted Boosted Gear first—who wouldn't want a giant red dragon gauntlet that screamed "main character energy"? But then he saw the manifestation time.
Three. Hundred. Days.
Yeah, no thanks. He'd probably be dead by then, or worse—just some side character whose tragic backstory was glossed over. So, Grand Chariot it was. Sleek, deadly, and it'd only take a month.
A win's a win.
And lastly:
The Dragon's Elixir—designed to enhance his body and unlock the ability to use mana. Estimated Manifestation Time: 12 days, 2 hours, 12 minutes.
He didn't want to rely only on weapons and gear. If he got disarmed, he was screwed. But if he had mana flowing through him? That was a game-changer. More options, more flexibility. More fun.
Though... he had no idea how mana would interact with chakra. It could be a disaster. Or a power-up. Either way, eh, future him could deal with that mess.
He'd based the elixir on a CYOA he'd played in his past life. One of those text generators that let you break the universe if you min-maxed hard enough.
Truth be told, he'd originally aimed higher. The Perfect Golden Sentry Serum—ultimate body, mind, and powers, all wrapped in one shiny golden injection.
Then he saw the price tag.
Manifestation Time: 1,000 days.
Yeah… nope.
And yes, he tried to add a fourth item. The Workshop flat-out denied him. He got a shimmering red X over the fourth design, accompanied by a message that appeared in glowing silver letters:
"Manifestation queue limit reached. Please wait."
So that was the rule: three max in the pipeline. Once something manifested, he could summon it to his Workshop inventory, and it would stay there until he dismissed or used it. But until then? He had to wait.
Tatsuya leaned back in the armchair in the corner of his room, the city below beginning to stir as the sun rose. Meanwhile, here he was, tinkering away in his mind like he was some kind of anime Tony Stark with a crafting addiction.
With his god-tier Workshop momentarily booked up, Tatsuya did what any sane, responsible, emotionally stable twelve-year-old with world-breaking creation abilities would do:
He went completely off the rails.
It started simple. Swords. Every kind he 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. Throwing daggers. Stabbing daggers. Backup daggers for his boots, coat pockets, and probably one day, stuffed into muffins if his creativity reached that level.
Knives? Oh, he made one for every possible use. Kitchen knives sharper than his comebacks. Combat knives tough enough to cut through steel. He even created one just for slicing apples—because aesthetics mattered.
And then... guns.
Handguns. Revolvers. SMGs. ARs. Shotguns. He even made a sniper rifle so long it probably needed its own permit. He built them from scratch, studying each design like they'd been in his DNA from the start. Everything from entry-level pea shooters to anti-tank, monster-murdering, "this-should-be-illegal" firepower.
Ammo? Yeah, obviously. Hollow points, armor-piercing, incendiary, rubber bullets when he felt polite, and exploding ones for when he didn't.
And when he got tired of the pew-pew?
Boom-boom.
Grenades? Naturally. Flashbangs. Frags. Sticky bombs. Smoke bombs. He even made cute ones shaped like ducks. Less cute ones, shaped like tiny nukes.
He threw in some bricks of C4 and classic dynamite sticks for that Looney Tunes vibe.
If everything went to hell, Tatsuya was ready to rain pure chaos down like a one-man artillery division with ADHD.
He didn't care if chakra could stop bullets—no one's chakra was bulletproof when he turned the battlefield into a Michael Bay movie. Worst-case scenario? He'd spam everything like a panicked video game protagonist with a grenade obsession. Best-case? He'd never need to use any of it and just hoard it all like a loot goblin.
But let's be real—he couldn't exactly throw a grenade at boredom.
So, he made toys.
Gaming consoles from his past life? Oh yeah. A Nintendo Switch, complete with custom skins and Joy-Con drift magically removed. A PSP, because classics deserved love. A neon green Game Boy Advance SP, just because it made him smile.
He almost made a PS5—he really did—but then he remembered he'd need a power source and a TV. So, he shelved that dream for now. Handheld consoles were more than enough to keep him occupied.
And because he could, he created a cozy couch, snacks on the fly, and a controller that never got sweaty. Because power corrupts, and he wanted comfort with his chaos.
Another thing he learned? His creations didn't need maintenance. No oiling, no charging, no praying to the tech gods to keep things running. Guns didn't run out of ammo. Swords didn't rust, didn't dull unless he wanted them to. It was like everything he made came with a lifetime warranty—backed by whatever cosmic nonsense powered the Celestial Workshop.
All of it just a thought away in his inventory.
Honestly? It was kinda broken. And Tatsuya loved every second of it.