Throne of the Ghost Emperor (Danny Phantom X Naruto)
Chapter 67 - 15

Chapter 67 - 15

Chapter 15: How to Build an Iron Man Suit Without Blowing Up Your Bedroom (Probably)

Tucker Foley's bedroom looked like RadioShack had exploded inside a Best Buy and then crashed into a conspiracy theorist's garage. Wires snaked across every surface, LED lights blinked like judgmental eyes, and half-assembled gadgets sat in various stages of "almost working." There was a soldering iron older than his gaming console, a drone that occasionally emitted ominous hums, and enough toolkits to start a small robot rebellion.

It was chaos.

It was home.

Tucker dropped his backpack, flopped into his spinny chair (which made a noise like a dying dolphin), and pulled out the folder Danny had given him. He expected... okay, honestly? He expected cool doodles, some Ghostbusters-style schematics, maybe a few instructions like "press button, zap ghost, profit."

What he got was basically a war manual written by a ghost-hunting Tony Stark.

Page after page of detailed guides, neat diagrams, tech theory, battle tactics, and custom gadget blueprints stared back at him. These weren't scribbles from a bored high schooler. These were high-level, military-grade plans disguised as homework. If Danny had told him they'd been found in a secret SHIELD lab, Tucker would've believed it.

His jaw dropped somewhere around page five.

"These are his hard work from, like, a year or two," Tucker muttered, eyes wide. He touched the paper like it might vanish. "And he gave them to me?"

It wasn't just cool. It was personal. It was trust.

And in that moment, Tucker Foley made a decision: he wouldn't let his best friend down.

He'd been coasting for a while, sure. Comfortably hiding behind his "tech support" title while Danny threw punches and Sam threw sass. But this—this was a chance to step up. Not just as the guy in the chair, but as someone who earned his place in the fight.

Excitement fizzed through him like soda after a shake. He could do this. He would do this.

Then he turned to the physical training section.

It started innocent enough. "Jog two laps around the block." Okay. Manageable.

Then it said, "Repeat 10 times. Daily."

And it just got worse from there: push-ups, core drills, agility routines, sparring practice with real-time combat simulations. There were even nutrition notes.

Tucker blinked at a smoothie recipe that called for kale, flaxseed, and something called spirit root powder.

"Nope," he whispered. "Not unless kale learns to taste like pizza."

Still, the message was clear: Danny wasn't handing out free upgrades. He was handing out blueprints for transformation.

A part of Tucker—the part that panicked when PE class showed up on his schedule—wanted to hide under his bed and let his laptop raise him. But a bigger part—the one that had watched his best friend get flung across a cafeteria and still stand up—was done being afraid.

Besides, if Danny could take punches to the face, the least he could do was a few push-ups.

He closed the folder with reverence and placed it on his desk like a sacred artifact. Then he looked around his room, the blinking lights and sparking wires now a canvas of possibility. His fingers twitched with the need to build.

Because here was the real kicker: Tucker now knew, without a doubt, that the Fenton family had been sitting on tech that was basically Iron Man level. The notes described it in tiers—simple devices first, then upgrades, then wearable armor with full-on weapon modules.

And if Danny could trust him with this?

Then one day, Tucker Foley was going to build a suit of armor that would make Iron Man weep with envy.

"Step one," he declared, standing with dramatic flair. "Try not to electrocute myself."

His stomach growled.

"Step one-and-a-half: snacks. Then armor."

He dashed to the kitchen like a man on a mission (because building futuristic ghost armor requires at least three microwaved burritos), his mind already scheming out circuits and energy sources.

Sure, Sam and Danny had each other, and yeah, sometimes that left Tucker feeling like the third wheel on a unicycle. But now?

Now he had purpose. Now he had a plan. Now he had potential and a blueprint for world domination (or at least, self-respect and a six-pack).

The Tucker Foley Revolution had officially begun.

And step two might involve goggles. Because every mad genius needs good goggles.

---------------------------------

Sam Manson stormed into her room like a thundercloud with eyeliner.

The door slammed shut behind her with dramatic finality, and she stood there, fists clenched, eyes blazing, as if daring her bedroom furniture to comment on her mood.

None of it did. Her vanity mirror wisely kept its opinions to itself.

Sam's room was a perfect clash of contradictions—much like her. Dark velvet curtains, black rose arrangements, skull-shaped candle holders, and bat-wing décor mingled with soft pillows, plush bedding, and fairy lights. It was like a vampire and a Disney princess had called a truce and split the territory fifty-fifty.

She kicked off her boots, tossed her bag onto her coffin-shaped beanbag chair (don't judge), and pulled out the thick manual Danny had given her—The Guide to Ghost-Gardening and Biotoxin Glory, as she had mentally titled it.

She hadn't opened it yet.

Mostly because she still couldn't stop thinking about him.

Danny.

Her ghost boy.

The image of him lying on the ground, bloody and bruised, his usual cocky grin replaced with pain and shame, played over and over in her head like a broken horror movie. And the worst part? She hadn't done anything. Just stood there. Watching. Useless.

Sam Manson—self-declared fierce feminist, environmental crusader, vegan vigilante—had been completely, utterly powerless.

That was unacceptable.

She opened the manual.

The first page was covered in neat, blocky handwriting—Danny's. He had clearly spent hours on this, maybe weeks. Maybe months. It was organized, annotated, and packed with the kind of information you couldn't just Google unless you wanted to end up on a government watchlist.

There were sections on identifying natural poisons in various regions. Notes on synthesizing anti-toxins and building up poison resistance with controlled exposure. Diagrams of pressure points for paralyzing enemies with a single touch. Full-on chemistry formulas that were way beyond high school science level.

And then—of course—there were the plants.

Pages and pages on plant growth manipulation using ghost energy. Ghost-enhanced chlorokinesis. Her personal favorite: "Rapid Vine Deployment for Hostile Entanglement."

"He's serious," she muttered, eyes wide. "Like, really serious."

Danny hadn't just believed in her. He had planned for this. Like he knew she could handle it. Like he expected her to become something powerful.

There was even a sticky note on one of the pages with a scribbled doodle of her in a Poison Ivy-esque outfit holding a potted ghost-cactus. He'd drawn himself trapped in vines nearby with a tiny speech bubble: "Remind me not to tick you off."

Sam rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched up.

She flipped through more pages. It wasn't just a training manual. It was a message.

"I believe in you. I know what you can become."

And if that didn't light a fire under her goth boots, nothing would.

"Fine," she muttered, stretching and cracking her knuckles like a cartoon villain prepping for a lab experiment. "If Danny wants a botanical warrior goddess with toxic hands and a spooky greenhouse of doom... I'll give him exactly that."

Sam Manson wasn't just going to sit back and watch the world toss her boyfriend around like a rag doll. Not anymore. Not when she had a freaking ghost-energy plant control blueprint in her lap.

As she gathered gloves, safety goggles, and a notebook for jotting down terrifyingly cool ideas, she paused and looked around her room.

Dark, dramatic, full of untapped potential.

Just like her.

"Oh, I'm going full villain origin story on this," she said with a smirk, flipping her hair. "But, like, the morally ambiguous kind that fights for the environment and possibly sets fire to some laboratories."

With that, she turned on her desk lamp (it had bat wings, obviously), opened the first page, and got to work.

Somewhere in the Fenton household, a certain ghost boy was probably icing his bruises and thinking Sam was just "processing."

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Danny:

You know your life has taken a sharp left turn into "what even is normal anymore" territory when your after-school routine includes microwaving last night's meat and preparing for secret ninja ghost training with magical adjustable weights... made by a guy living in your soul.

Welcome to my Tuesday.

I got home, tossed my backpack onto the couch like it had personally offended me, and beelined for the kitchen. The place was blessedly empty—no surprise bazookas going off, no mom chasing ghosts with a ladle, no dad yelling about ectoplasm in his socks. A rare quiet day in the Fenton household, which meant one thing:

Fridge.

I raided it like a starving pirate. There were some leftovers—roast beef from last night that I barely remembered eating—and a surprisingly ripe bowl of strawberries that hadn't yet mutated. I nuked the meat in the microwave (bless its buzzing soul) and started slicing fruit with the intensity of a samurai in a cooking show.

Then I sat down and devoured it.

I mean, really devoured it. Like, vacuum-cleaner level inhaling. Old me would've been satisfied halfway through, but now? I was basically fueling a hybrid engine running on ghost power, teenage metabolism, and pure stress.

That's when the voice in my head piped up.

"I prepared some weights for you to wear starting today," said Naruto, oh-so-casually, like he wasn't dropping a training bomb during my sacred fruit time. "Check under your bed."

I froze mid-bite, a strawberry halfway to my mouth. "Weights? Already? Isn't it, like, too soon for that?"

"Kid, you're healing by eating. Your body's adapting rapidly—common sense doesn't apply anymore."

I stared at my plate like it had personally betrayed me.

"Yeah... you're right. Common sense is officially dead. Rest in peace, June 2010."

Which is probably the last time I remembered a math test without ghost drama.

After a few dramatic sighs and a moment of mourning for my lazy after-school hours, I headed upstairs, changed into the closest thing I owned to gym clothes (read: band T-shirt and basketball shorts), and looked under my bed.

Sure enough, there was a black duffel bag labeled in glowing letters: "PROPERTY OF DANNY'S TRAINING HELL. ENJOY!"

I unzipped it to find four shiny metal rings. They looked like something a villain would use in a sci-fi movie to control gravity. Each one had weird little etchings on it, like tattoos that glowed faintly when I touched them.

"Where did you even get these?" I muttered.

"I made them myself," Naruto said smugly. "They can change their weight because of the seals I put on them."

"How?"

"With your body."

That sentence did not sit right.

"My body?" I repeated slowly, my left eyebrow trying to escape to another dimension. "Wait... you're using my body while I'm sleeping?"

"Is that a problem, young padawan?"

"Not unless you also used my toothbrush."

"...No comment."

I groaned.

Naruto had a point, though. Ever since I started training with him, things were different. Faster healing. Better reflexes. Weirder cravings. (Seriously, who craves celery?)

And now? Magic muscle-building rings.

I strapped them on—two around my wrists, two on my ankles—and the weight hit me instantly. It wasn't unbearable, but it was noticeable. Like walking through water. Heavy, invisible water made of ghost energy and regret.

"Which workshop did you break into for this?" I grunted, flexing my arms.

"Don't worry—they'll be compensated."

I narrowed my eyes. "By who?"

"By you, obviously."

"Oh, great. Add 'training debt' to my list of ghost problems.'"

I stood in front of the mirror, limbs heavy and muscles already beginning to ache. And for once, I didn't see a skinny teenager who barely survived gym class.

I saw someone who was becoming.

Maybe not a hero yet.

But definitely a guy with cool training weights and a mentor who might be slightly unhinged.

I clenched my fists, then promptly lost balance and fell sideways into my laundry basket.

Progress. Probably.

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