I sank into the couch, trying to clear my mind—the Workshop. I closed my eyes and reached for it.
It flickered to life almost instantly.
This time, I didn't go for something simple.
I wanted to test it. Push it.
A gun.
A pistol I'd design from scratch—something I'd never even thought about building before.
Normally, that'd be impossible. I didn't know the first thing about firing pins, recoil systems, or barrel rifling. But in the Workshop...
The second I focused, it was like a switch flipped. Suddenly, I knew. Diagrams filled my head, like someone had cracked open a gun manual and downloaded the whole thing straight into my brain.
My hands moved before I even caught up. Components appeared on the bench—metal frames, grip panels, a slide, springs, all the tiny, intricate parts that made the thing tick. Even the tools were unfamiliar but felt like extensions of my fingers. I didn't just build a pistol—I designed one. Sleek. Compact. Balanced. Lightweight, but with enough stopping power to punch through a wall.
I gave it a smooth matte-black finish, with a grip that molded to my hand perfectly. Safety switch, custom sights, silencer-compatible. If Batman and John Wick had a baby, this would be their favorite toy.
When I was done, I stepped back, heart thudding.
Manifest.
I opened my eyes.
It was there. Cold metal. Polished. Real. It fit in my palm like it had always been meant to be there. I held it up, sighted down the barrel, felt the weight settle into my bones.
I stared at it, stunned.
I grinned, feeling a little surge of excitement.
I couldn't help but smile at the possibilities.
What if I could create something beyond ordinary tech?
Something magical. Legendary.
Excalibur.
The name alone carried weight. Myth, legend, magic. A sword of kings.
I pictured it—the golden hilt, ornate and regal. The blade, glowing faintly, shimmering with power. Not just a weapon, but a symbol. A force.
As I focused, something strange happened.
Knowledge began pouring into me. Not in words or textbooks—just understanding.
How to forge a 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 core of the steel.
Sword-making techniques from ancient times blended with futuristic enchantment theory. I understood the purpose behind every detail—why one angle mattered, why a specific alloy would bind better with energy.
And then came the magic.
Not just vague ideas of "power" but structured knowledge. Circles, arrays, incantations—systems of logic behind the myth.
It was overwhelming… but it made sense. The workshop was feeding me exactly what I needed, exactly when I needed it.
I kept going, refining the image in my mind with greater precision and clarity. I wasn't just imagining Excalibur anymore—
I was building it.
And then, I tried to manifest it.
The sword appeared in my mind, but nothing physically materialized. It was like I was on the verge of pulling it into existence, but I couldn't.
Frustration simmered beneath my skin. I pushed harder, willing the sword to appear, but once again, nothing.
I stood up, pacing around my house. Why can't I just bring it out?
A small message popped up in my vision: Manifestation time remaining: 300 days.
Then, like a flicker of understanding,
My ability to manifest wasn't instantaneous for complex items. The simpler items—the mundane tools, the basic everyday objects—those were quick and easy. But things like Excalibur? Sacred Gears? High-tech inventions? They weren't going to pop into existence that easily.
These things needed time.
I stopped the queue. I decided to opt for the short-term items for now.
I sat back on the couch again, my mind swirling with new possibilities. I need to test this.
I focused again, this time on something a bit more magical but still simple. A basic amulet—a protective charm, something that would keep me safe from harm.
A small message popped up in my vision: Manifestation time remaining: 3 days.
It was like a timer, telling me how long it would take to complete the process..
I looked around the room, my heart racing with excitement.
On one hand, I had a virtually unlimited design space for creating whatever I could imagine.
But on the other hand, I would have to wait for anything too complicated to actually appear.
I wanted to continue more when my stomach grumbled, loud enough to make me roll my eyes. Of course, it was right now that my body decided it was starving.
The pantry was a bust. Absolutely nothing left. Not even a stray cracker or a forgotten can of beans. Great. But then, I remembered.
I still had the rice and miso.
It wasn't much, but it was enough. My parents had sent me out on that errand for a reason. And if I hadn't gone, I would've been lying next to them right now, cold and... well, dead.
I grabbed the bag of rice, ripped it open, and set it on the counter with the miso paste.
Boiling the water took forever, but when it was ready, I added the miso and the rice, stirred it around, 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 that was something I was used to. My parents were never rich, and when you grow up on food that doesn't even try to impress you, it just becomes the norm.
I took a spoonful, chewing slowly. It was simple. It wasn't bad. It wasn't good either. Just food.
Sitting down at the table, I kept eating, but my mind kept drifting. I stared at the spoon in my hand, spinning it between my fingers as I thought about the workshop.
Could it... make food? Real food? Better than this, whatever this is.
"Alright, screw it," I muttered, pushing the bowl aside.
Let's find out.
I closed my eyes and reached inward, and I was back again.
I imagined the ingredients: a thick, marbled cut of steak, fresh herbs, garlic, real butter, coarse sea salt. And the second I pictured them, they appeared—laid out in front of me like I was prepping for some divine culinary battle.
A pan hovered over a flame that didn't need fuel. My hands moved on instinct, like I'd been possessed by the spirit of every Michelin-starred chef in existence. Gordon Ramsay would've shut up and taken notes.
I seasoned the steak like it owed me money. Pressed it into the hot pan with a satisfying sizzle. The butter melted, garlic and rosemary hit the heat, and the scent? Oh man. If I could bottle it, I'd own the damn Elemental Nations in a week.
I basted the steak with butter like it was my sole purpose in life, flipping it with a perfect golden crust. I wasn't just cooking—I was arting.
When it was done, I plated it like I was serving a divine king. White porcelain. Perfect cut. Fresh herbs on top. And then—manifest.
I opened my eyes.
There it was, sitting on my kitchen counter. A steak so perfect it made my sad rice soup slink back into the corner out of shame. Still sizzling. Still warm.
I picked up a fork and knife, cut into it—pink center, juices flowing like a meaty waterfall—and took a bite.
And holy. Actual. Shit.
My knees almost gave out.
It was like my tongue had been baptized. Like the universe finally looked at me and said, "Sorry for all the trauma, kid. Here's this."
Each bite melted in my mouth. Rich, buttery, seasoned just right. It wasn't food. It was forgiveness in meat form.
When I finished, I leaned back in the chair, totally spent and totally full, a smug grin spreading across my face.
The Workshop was a cheat code. I hadn't just cooked a steak. I'd cooked the steak. The kind of meal that makes grown men cry and write emotional Yelp reviews.
Wait.
If I could cook like that... what else could I do?
Music? Sculpting? Painting? Engineering? Anything that required skill—anything that could be created—could be mine.
The Workshop didn't care if I'd practiced for ten years or didn't even know where to start. The moment I committed to creating something, the knowledge clicked into place. Like snapping your fingers and suddenly knowing quantum physics…
I wasn't some twelve-year-old stuck in a war-torn ninja world with a chip on his shoulder and unresolved trauma anymore.