Two years at the Academy had been a total grind. My brain was basically a supercomputer at this point, stuffed with every scrap of theory Suna had to offer, but my body was still a budget-model laptop from 2005. Refining chakra was like trying to pull water from a dry well every day, I'd spend hours just to get one tiny, glowing thread of energy.
But in my hands, that one thread was more than enough.
The basic Puppet Technique scroll Chiyo gave me was already burned into my memory. The hardest part for most students was the "Chakra Thread" shooting energy out of your fingertips, keeping it thin and stable, and using it like a wireless link to move a puppet. For most kids, it was an impossible wall. They didn't have the "bandwidth" or the fine-tuning. They'd spend years just trying to get a single string to stop flickering.
For me? It was my home turf.
The insane level of control I'd been forced to develop just to survive now felt like a superpower. On my first try, I guided that tiny spark to my fingertip, and with a single thought, an invisible line of pure energy shot out. It hit a wooden block a few feet away and locked on like a magnetic latch.
I twitched my pinky. The block slid across the table, as smooth as if I were moving it with my hand. The connection was rock-solid, used almost zero power, and felt completely natural.
Okay, I thought, watching the block glide around. I see how it is. For puppetry, "signal strength" matters way more than "battery size."
The theory was handled. Now, I needed actual hardware.
I wasn't interested in the massive, clunky combat puppets the village used. I didn't have the juice to move them, and honestly, they were aerodynamically stupid. I needed something light, low-power, and stealthy. A scout. I started thinking about the micro-robots from my old life and settled on the most efficient design nature ever came up with: the spider.
Eight legs for perfect stability. Low center of gravity. Easy to hide. Efficient gait.
I started building it in my corner of the workshop. I didn't use any of the expensive alloys I just used scrap wood and old metal pins. For a "power core," I used some chakra-conductive dust I'd swept off the floor and etched an ultra-tiny energy-gathering rune onto it. It was a "trick" I'd picked up from Bunpuku's spiritual talks making a core that could slowly sip ambient energy to keep the "OS" in standby mode.
I simplified the controls, too. Instead of manually moving every leg, I built "mechanical intelligence" into the joints. One chakra pulse from my thread sent a "forward" command, and a system of tiny levers and springs inside the body handled the actual walking. It slashed the processing power I needed to use.
The build took weeks. I spent every free minute at my tiny desk, using coping saws and files. I cut my fingers constantly, but I just used that clunky Healing Technique Chiyo taught me to patch myself up and kept going.
My dad, Sharyu, watched me from across the shop. He'd "accidentally" leave a sharper file on my bench or point out a stress point in the leg joints without actually saying anything. He was letting me do my own thing, but he was always there as a safety net.
Finally, on a Tuesday evening as the sun was setting, I tightened the last screw.
It was a palm-sized wooden spider. It wasn't pretty. It looked like something a very stressed-out hobbyist had made in his garage, all exposed gears and rough-cut wood.
I took a deep breath. I linked my chakra thread to the port on the spider's back. I sent that first, tiny spark.
Buzz.
The energy-gathering rune flashed a dim blue. Inside the spider, I heard the faint click-clack of gears engaging. I sent the "move" command.
The wooden legs started to move in a stiff, steady rhythm. It crawled off my palm, onto the table, and nimbly climbed over a pile of books. It was slow, but it was incredibly stable.
Holy crap, it works.
My heart was pounding. I tried "left," "right," "stop." I even made it lift a front leg to tap a piece of paper. Every command was executed perfectly. It had zero attack power and only had a range of about ten feet, but for a seven-year-old with a "frail" body, it was a freaking miracle.
I'd taken junk, two different lives' worth of knowledge, and a tiny spark of magic, and I'd given it "life."
I watched the little guy crawl across my desk and felt a massive grin spread across my face. This wasn't just a toy. This was the first step. This was proof that my brain was the only weapon I'd ever need.
I looked at the little wooden bot and whispered its name.
"Spider."