Chapter 3
Tatsuya sank into the couch. His mind swirled with thoughts of the Workshop. He closed his eyes, reached for it, and—almost immediately—it flickered to life again.
This time, he didn't want to start small. He didn't want to test the limits of something simple. No, he was ready to push it.
A gun.
Not just any gun—a pistol he'd design from scratch. Something he'd never even thought about building before.
Normally, that would've been impossible. He didn't know the first thing about firing pins, recoil systems, or barrel rifling. But in the Workshop…
The second he focused, it was like a switch flipped inside him. Suddenly, everything clicked into place. Diagrams filled his mind, not in words, but as raw, visual knowledge, like someone had cracked open a gun manual and downloaded the entire thing directly into his brain.
His hands moved before he even had time to process. The components materialized on the workbench—metal frames, grip panels, slides, springs—all the tiny, intricate parts that made a gun tick. The tools, strange and unfamiliar, felt like an extension of his fingers, and with each movement, he knew exactly how to use them.
He wasn't just building a gun. He was designing it. Sleek. Compact. Balanced. Lightweight but packing enough stopping power to punch through a wall. He added a matte-black finish, molded the grip to fit his hand perfectly, and even installed a safety switch, custom sights, and a silencer-compatible muzzle.
If Batman and John Wick had a baby, this would be their favorite toy.
When he was done, Tatsuya stepped back, his heart thudding in his chest.
Manifest.
He opened his eyes.
It was there. Cold metal. Polished. Real. The gun fit perfectly in his palm, like it had always been meant to be there. He held it up, sighted down the barrel, and felt the weight settle into his bones.
He stared at it, stunned.
A grin slowly tugged at the corner of his lips.
For a moment, a surge of excitement ran through him. There were endless possibilities now. He could create anything—anything.
What if he could go beyond ordinary tech? What if he could make something magical? Legendary?
Excalibur.
The name alone carried weight. Myth. Legend. Magic. The sword of kings.
He pictured it—golden hilt, ornate and regal. The blade, glowing faintly, shimmering with power. Not just a weapon, but a symbol. A force.
As he focused, something strange happened. Knowledge poured into him. Not through words or textbooks, but as pure understanding. He knew how to forge the blade—not just physically, but spiritually. The perfect balance of weight and edge. The materials required to hold magic without shattering. The symbols to carve. The runes to etch. The flow of mana through the steel.
Ancient sword-making techniques blended with futuristic enchantment theories, and Tatsuya understood the purpose behind every detail—why one angle mattered, why a specific alloy would bind better with energy.
And then, the magic.
It wasn't vague or abstract. It was structured—circles, arrays, incantations—logical systems behind the myth.
It was overwhelming… but it made sense. The Workshop was feeding him exactly what he needed, exactly when he needed it.
He kept going, refining the image in his mind with greater precision and clarity. He wasn't just imagining Excalibur anymore.
He was building it.
When he tried to manifest it, the sword appeared clearly in his mind—but nothing materialized.
It was like he was on the verge of pulling it into reality, but just couldn't reach it.
Frustration bubbled up beneath his skin. He pushed harder, willing the sword into existence, but again—nothing.
He stood up and started pacing around the room. Why can't I just bring it out?
A small message popped up in his vision:
Manifestation time remaining: 300 days.
The realization hit him like a punch.
His ability to manifest complex items wasn't instantaneous. Simple things—the mundane tools, the basic objects—they could pop into existence right away. But something like Excalibur? Sacred Gears? High-tech inventions?
Those needed time.
Tatsuya stopped, processing. His impatience gave way to understanding. He'd have to wait for the more complex items to materialize, but that was fine. He'd take what he could for now.
With a quick decision, he moved on.
He focused again, but this time on something simpler—still magical, but more manageable. A basic amulet—a protective charm. Something that would keep him safe from harm.
A message popped up again:
Manifestation time remaining: 3 days.
It was like a timer counting down, telling him exactly how long it would take to complete the process.
His heart raced with excitement as he looked around the room.
On one hand, he had an almost unlimited design space to create whatever he could imagine.
But on the other hand, anything too complicated… that would take time.
Just as he started thinking about testing more, his stomach growled loudly.
Tatsuya rolled his eyes. Of course, it was right now that his body decided it was starving.
Tatsuya opened the pantry door, hoping for a miracle. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. No stray crackers, no forgotten can of beans—just empty shelves staring back at him. Fantastic.
But then, a thought struck him.
The rice and miso.
It wasn't much, but it was enough. His parents had sent him out on that errand for a reason. And if he hadn't gone, he'd probably be lying next to them right now—cold, lifeless, and... well, dead.
He grabbed the bag of rice, tore it open, and dumped it onto the counter, followed by the miso paste.
Boiling the water took forever, and by the time it was ready, Tatsuya's patience was shot. But he added the miso and rice, stirred the concoction, and inhaled deeply.
It wasn't gourmet by any means. It smelled like... well, like something you could eat when you had nothing else. Bland. But Tatsuya had grown up with food that didn't try to impress him. His parents weren't rich, and their meals were always functional—never fancy, never flashy. Just food to get by.
He scooped a spoonful into his mouth, chewing slowly. Simple. Not bad. Not good either. Just... food.
As he sat down at the table, his mind started to drift. He spun the spoon between his fingers as thoughts of the Workshop crept into his head.
Could it… make food? Real food? Something better than this... whatever this was?
Alright, screw it, he muttered, pushing the bowl aside.
He closed his eyes, and just like that, he was back in the Workshop.
He imagined the ingredients: a thick, marbled cut of steak, fresh herbs, garlic, real butter, coarse sea salt. The moment the image formed, the ingredients appeared—laid out in front of him like he was preparing for some divine culinary challenge.
A pan hovered above a flame that didn't need fuel. Tatsuya's hands moved on instinct, guided by a knowledge that wasn't his own, as if every Michelin-starred chef in existence had suddenly possessed him. If Gordon Ramsay could've seen it, he'd be taking notes.
Tatsuya seasoned the steak like it owed him money, pressing it into the pan with a satisfying sizzle. The butter melted, garlic and rosemary hit the heat, and the smell? Oh man. If he could bottle that scent, he'd own the Elemental Nations in a week.
He basted the steak with butter like it was his sole purpose in life, flipping it to reveal a perfect golden crust. This wasn't just cooking; this was art.
When it was done, he plated it with the care of a royal chef—white porcelain, perfect cut, fresh herbs on top.
Manifest.
He opened his eyes.
There it was, sitting on the counter. A steak so perfect, his sad rice soup looked like it was slinking away in shame. Still sizzling, still warm.
Tatsuya picked up the fork and knife, cut into it—the pink center, juices flowing like a meaty waterfall—and took a bite.
And holy. Actual. Shit.
His knees almost buckled.
It was like his tongue had been baptized. Like the universe had finally taken pity on him and said, "Sorry for all the trauma, kid. Here's a meal that'll make up for it."
Each bite melted in his mouth. Rich, buttery, seasoned just right. This wasn't food. This was forgiveness in meat form.
When he finished, he leaned back in the chair, completely satisfied and smug.
The Workshop was a cheat code. He hadn't just cooked a steak—he'd cooked the steak. The kind of meal that made grown men cry and write emotional Yelp reviews.
Wait.
If he could cook like that... what else could he do?
Music? Sculpting? Painting? Engineering? Anything that required skill—anything that could be created—could be his.
The Workshop didn't care if he'd practiced for ten years or didn't know where to start. The moment he committed to creating something, the knowledge clicked into place. Like snapping your fingers and suddenly understanding quantum physics.
Tatsuya wasn't just some twelve-year-old stuck in a war-torn ninja world anymore. He wasn't a kid with a chip on his shoulder and unresolved trauma. No.
Now? He was unstoppable.