Life at the Academy was starting to feel like a really long, really boring loading screen. My physical stats were still basically bottom-tier. In Taijutsu class, I was the kid everyone wanted to spar with because I was an easy win. Shuriken practice was even worse; with my noodle arms, the projectiles usually hit the dirt about five feet in front of me. Even my chakra extraction was a slow, painful crawl. My body was a total bottleneck for my brain.
But after school and on the weekends? That's when the real work happened.
I spent every spare second at the Fourth Maintenance Squad's workshop. The smell of oil and the clatter of tools felt more like home than my own apartment. I wasn't just sitting in a playpen anymore. Now that I could move around and had that tiny, microscopic spark of chakra, I started actually getting my hands dirty.
When the mechanics went on break, I'd sneak over to the dismantled puppet shells. I'd run my fingers over the gear assemblies, figuring out the mechanical advantage of every lever and pulley. I even started picking up scrap wood and metal from the floor, using the shop's basic tools to try and build my own parts. I didn't have enough juice to power anything yet, so I focused on pure mechanical engineering making sure the joints moved smoothly and the tolerances were tight.
"Hey, look at the kid," one of the old-timers whispered to my dad one afternoon. I was busy filing down a scrap piece of wood to make a perfect tenon joint. "Look at the way he holds that file. He's not just hacking at it. That's precision work, Sharyu. Your boy might actually be a natural."
Sharyu looked up from a chakra-conducting joint he was soldering. He watched me for a second, and I saw that familiar flicker of worry in his eyes. To him, I was still the sick kid who shouldn't be overexerting himself. "He's just messing around," Dad said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself. "He's too weak for the field, so he's gotta do something with his hands."
Then, Lady Chiyo showed up for a surprise inspection.
Since the war ended, Chiyo looked like she'd been through a thresher, but her eyes were still sharp enough to cut glass. She moved through the workshop like a hurricane, checking the repair logs and the quality of the new builds.
When she got to the back, she stopped dead.
Most kids would have been staring at the big, scary combat puppets standing against the walls. But there I was, sitting on a pile of junked parts, holding a tiny, rusted gear up to the light. I was checking the tooth wear, trying to figure out if the friction heat had warped the metal. I probably looked like a tiny, very stressed-out quality control inspector.
Chiyo didn't say a word. She just watched me.
I saw her pick up a damaged bearing I'd been working on. I'd dabbed a little grease on it and was spinning it to test the rotation. I looked at a metal plate with a fried chakra circuit and shook my head the layout was a mess, totally prone to overheating.
I realized someone was watching and looked up. I didn't do the whole "scared kid" act. I just gave her a polite nod, set the part down, and stood up.
"Whose kid is this?" Chiyo asked. Her voice was flat, but I could tell she was curious.
"That's Sharyu's son, Sayo," the squad leader said, rushing over. "He's a bit frail, so he hangs out here while his dad works. He's quiet, mostly just plays with the scrap."
"Sharyu's boy..." Chiyo muttered. She stepped closer to me, her shadow looming over my pile of junk. "You like this stuff, kid?"
I nodded. "It's consistent. Everything has a reason for being where it is."
"Consistent, huh?" Chiyo tilted her head. "What do you think a puppet is, exactly?"
I thought about it for a second, trying to translate my engineering background into words a five-year-old would use. "It's an upgrade. Like... a way to make your reach longer and your hands stronger using logic instead of just luck."
The room went quiet. That wasn't a five-year-old's answer. That was a philosopher-engineer's answer. Chiyo stared at me, her eyes boring into mine. I didn't blink.
She reached into her robes and pulled out an old, weathered scroll made of animal hide. The edges were frayed, but it looked like it had been handled with a lot of care.
"Take this," she said, holding it out.
I took it with both hands. It felt surprisingly heavy for a piece of leather. I looked at her, confused.
"It's a basic primer," Chiyo explained. "Structural theory, rune etching, and the fundamentals of puppet control. You probably can't use half of it yet, but you seem like the type who'd rather read than play tag. Memorize it."
This was a massive deal. An introductory scroll from a legend like Chiyo? Most kids would have killed for this. It was a vote of confidence I didn't expect.
"Thanks, Granny Chiyo," I said, giving her a serious bow.
She gave a tiny, almost invisible nod and walked away to finish her inspection. But I knew the game had just changed.
The next few weeks were a blur. I spent my mornings at the Academy, faking my way through "how to be a ninja" classes. But as soon as the bell rang, I was back in the shop, devouring that scroll.
My photographic memory was a godsend. I didn't just read the scroll; I scanned it. The blueprints, the transmission logic, the rune patterns they all got mapped over my old-world knowledge of robotics.
And on my way home, I'd "accidentally" take the long way past the temple. Bunpuku was always happy to see me. I'd show him the runes from the scroll that I didn't quite understand since puppet cores are basically just fancy sealing arrays and he'd explain the theory. Even Shukaku would weigh in, usually yelling about how "dumb" a certain design was because it was "too easy to smash," which actually helped me identify the structural weak points.
I was building a massive database of forbidden knowledge, combining high-end robotics with ancient magic. I was still a scrawny kid in a desert, but underneath the surface, the roots were spreading.
I was just waiting for the right moment to build something that would blow everyone's minds.