Throne of the Ghost Emperor (Danny Phantom X Naruto)
Chapter 82 - 30

Chapter 82 - 30

Chapter 30: "Ghost Armor and Parental Overkill"

In which my parents decide I'm ready for war, I meet a machine gun drone named Daisy, and somehow, I don't explode anything.

By the time I got home, I was starving. Not like "ooh, I could go for a snack" starving—more like "feed me or I will gnaw through this drywall" starving. Apparently, ghost training, rooftop flips, and existential conversations with Naruto worked up more of an appetite than I'd realized.

So when I stepped into the kitchen and caught the scent of Maddie Fenton's famous six-cheese lasagna (yes, six cheeses—my arteries are screaming just thinking about it), I nearly levitated off the ground.

"Hey, kiddo!" Dad boomed, his voice loud enough to vibrate the refrigerator magnets. "We made your favorite!"

Correction: my favorite, Jack's favorite, and possibly also the neighbor's dog's favorite based on how loud it was sniffing from two houses away.

I blinked at the table. There were mountains of food. Like, multiple lasagnas. A small tower of garlic bread. A salad bowl that could fit a toddler. And then... a special plate. Set at my usual seat. It was at least twice the size of Dad's.

"You guys expecting a linebacker to show up or something?" I asked as I sat down.

"We're expecting you," Mom said with a wink. "Your metabolism has gone into hyperdrive, Danny. You're growing faster than Jack's ghost chili recipe explodes."

Dad gave a proud nod and patted his belly. "And believe me, that thing explodes fast."

I dug into the food like a polite tornado while my parents exchanged glances across the table. Uh-oh. That look. That "let's talk to Danny about something but not scare him off before dessert" look.

"Danny," Mom began, folding her hands, "we're really proud of how brave you've been lately. We know you've been stepping up—taking on ghosts, helping people..."

I paused mid-bite. "Thanks?"

"But," Dad chimed in, "you've also been going out there with just your fists and some sneaky ghost kung fu."

"Which, to be clear," Mom added, "is very cool. But also very reckless."

Here it comes.

"We were thinking," Dad said, grinning wide, "maybe it's time you started training with us. For real. With gear. Suits. Blasters. Drills. And the ghost obstacle course. You remember that, right?"

"You mean the one with the slime tunnel and the flamethrower treadmill?" I asked, voice rising half an octave.

"That's the one!" Dad beamed. "We can even start you on Level One. Y'know, the beginner setting. Only two laser turrets."

For a second, I hesitated. Old Danny—like, pre-ghost, pre-Naruto Danny—would've found an excuse and sprinted in the opposite direction. Probably through the window.

But now?

I looked at them, at their proud faces. At the way Mom's eyes lit up, and how Dad was practically bouncing in his seat.

And weirdly enough... I felt kind of happy.

These were my parents. Yeah, they were eccentric and had a slightly unhealthy obsession with spectral beings, but they loved me. They wanted me to be part of their world. Really part of it.

"You sure I won't slow you guys down?" I joked, nudging my plate away.

Dad snorted. "You survived being vaporized by a DJ ghost. I think you'll do just fine."

Mom smiled. "We'll take it slow. Minor hunts only. And don't worry—we'll make you a suit that actually fits."

"Can it not have neon orange flames?" I asked.

"...No promises," Dad said with a wink.

I laughed, leaning back in my chair, stomach full and heart even fuller. Maybe ghost hunting with my parents wouldn't be so bad.

As long as no one made me wear goggles and a lab coat at the same time.

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After dinner, Dad clapped a giant hand on my back and said the four most terrifying words in the Fenton household:

"Let's hit the lab!"

Now, normally that sentence would lead to chaos, minor explosions, or being coated in ectoplasm. But tonight, it was said with so much enthusiasm and zero fire hazards that I couldn't say no.

I followed them downstairs and stepped into the lab—not just walked, but actually looked. Like, really looked. And it hit me all at once.

This place wasn't just a basement crammed with sci-fi cosplay props. It was... impressive. Like NASA meets Ghostbusters with a PhD impressive. There were machines I couldn't name, glowing blueprints plastered on walls, containment chambers humming softly, and tech that looked like it belonged in a Marvel movie. No joke—one of the scanners was labeled "Dimensional Echo Regulator."

And here I was, standing in it, trying not to feel like the human equivalent of a bag of microwaved marshmallows.

You're proud, aren't you?

The thought snuck up on me like a jump scare. Because yeah—I was. My parents were geniuses. Pioneers. They built all this with their own hands. They protected the city. They were heroes in lab coats.

And I was just... Danny. The kid who used to panic over gym class.

Suddenly, my old friend Anxiety decided to claw its way out of the basement of my soul and make a dramatic entrance.

"What if I can't live up to this? What if I mess it up?"

"What if I'm just pretending to be strong?"

I didn't even realize I had spaced out until a familiar voice floated beside me.

"Hey, dumbass."

I blinked. Naruto, in his ghost form, floated next to me with his arms crossed and his expression somewhere between casual mentor and emotionally perceptive gremlin.

"Stop comparing yourself to them," he said. "You're not supposed to be them. You're supposed to be you. And you're doing great at it."

My brain short-circuited a little. Since when did the orange ninja ghost know exactly when to mental-smack me back into reality?

But before I could emotionally spiral further, my parents—bless their chaotic, loving souls—grabbed me by the arms and led me to what they called the "GhostPhys Readout Machine."

In simple terms: Sci-fi gym check-up on steroids.

They started attaching sensors to my arms, legs, chest, forehead—honestly, I'm pretty sure at one point they had more stickers on me than a kindergartener's water bottle.

Mom tapped her tablet. "Alright, Danny. We're going to calibrate your baseline so we can tailor your training plan. Just do a few simple strength and endurance exercises."

"Nothing major," Dad added. "Just lifting, running, jumping, some cartwheels—OH! Try the ghost treadmill!"

I stepped up, expecting to embarrass myself.

And then I bench-pressed 100 kg like it was a paperweight. One-handed. Everyone blinked.

Next, I lifted a 50 kg metal cube, spun it around, and tossed it like a medicine ball.

Then came the treadmill. Fifteen kilometers per hour. Not a jog. A sprint. My lungs didn't even burn. My heart rate barely spiked. And when I stretched after? Full split. No pain. No drama. Just pure, ghost-enhanced flexibility.

When it was over, my parents stared at the numbers like they'd discovered a new ghost type: "Teenager, Danny variant: species unknown."

"You're not just fit," Mom said, amazed. "You're combat-grade. Like... special ops level. This isn't normal."

Dad rubbed his chin. "You've got stamina, power, agility—kiddo, you might be even stronger than I was at your age!"

That should've made me panic.

But it didn't.

Because this time, when I looked at their faces—those big, proud, slightly misty eyes—I didn't feel like a fraud.

I felt seen.

Accepted.

Maybe even... ready.

Naruto nudged me with a grin. "Told you. Now stop moping and ask about the plasma cannon."

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Okay, so there's something terrifyingly exciting about your parents telling you they want to arm you to the teeth.

Like, one minute you're just trying to digest your meatloaf and not die of secondhand embarrassment, and the next—

"Danny, we think you're ready to start using equipment."

That was Mom's version of "Here, sweetie, have a tank."

They walked me deeper into the lab—past the containment pods, past the floating ecto-specimen jars, past the vending machine (which, fun fact, dispenses ghost-repellent gum)—and stopped in front of a sealed weapons vault.

Dad punched in a code that was definitely a high score on an 80s arcade game, and the vault hissed open like the Gates of Ghost Hell.

"Welcome," he said dramatically, "to the Fenton Arsenal!"

Inside was every weapon a comic book nerd slash supernatural survivalist could dream of. I swear, Tony Stark and Batman would've both cried tears of joy.

Let me break it down for you:

The Ghost Cannon – Imagine a bazooka had a lovechild with a space laser. This thing was so big I'm pretty sure it needed a truck to move it. It hummed with menace. One shot could level a house. Or three, if you're Dad and terrible at aiming.

The Ghost Net – It looked like a regular net. Until you noticed the glowing ecto-thread and the fact that it electrocuted anything non-corporeal with 500 volts of ghost sizzle.

Ghost Grenades – Shaped like limes. Acted like mini sunbursts. The kind of thing you definitely don't want to mistake for a stress ball.

The Ghost Rifle – Sleek. Silver. Glowed green at the barrel. It had adjustable settings for stun, knockback, or full "say goodbye to your afterlife" mode.

Ghost Axes & Swords – Because why just shoot a ghost when you can yeet it with medieval flair?

Drones – Oh yeah. They had drones. Like mini-jet fighters crossed with angry wasps. They could track ghosts, fire at them, and were equipped with Fenton-brand ghost-piercing rounds. Dad named the prototype "Daisy." It waved at me. I may have waved back. I don't know.

And then... came the armor.

It was standing on a pedestal like it was about to audition for Power Rangers: Phantom Ops Edition.

All white, with sharp green accents, smooth as stormtrooper chrome. Full body. Full tech. There were ports for energy bursts, vents for overheating, and even a voice modulation system in the helmet. Basically, it was the "please don't die" suit of dreams.

"It's not flight-ready yet," Mom said, adjusting her goggles, "but it has adaptive shielding and an energy sync with the ghost rifle. Perfect for short skirmishes and urban combat!"

"And it makes you look cool," Dad added, which was definitely part of the official design pitch.

They stepped aside, and there it was: The Prototype Phantom Suit. My suit.

"Try it on, kiddo," said Dad, beaming like a proud weapons dealer on Bring-Your-Kid-To-Work Day.

I'll be honest—I was terrified. Like, this was serious. A week ago, my most advanced weapon was sarcasm and ducking.

But I stepped forward, heart pounding. Naruto, floating silently at the edge of the room, gave me a quiet nod. He didn't need to say anything. I knew what it meant:

You've got this.

The armor clicked together around me piece by piece. Chestplate. Leg armor. Arm braces. Boots. Helmet last. When it sealed shut, the inside lit up with a soft HUD, and for a second I could hear my own breathing amplified like I was inside a sci-fi movie.

Then the ghost rifle was placed in my hands. Lightweight. Balanced. Humming with power.

"Welcome to the team," Mom said softly.

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You ever walk into a room and realize your parents have been secretly Batman-level rich in square footage this whole time?

Yeah, that was me. Standing at the edge of what I thought was a normal-sized lab, ghost rifle in hand, only to be guided down a ramp into what could only be described as Area 51, Fenton Edition.

Seriously, the place was massive. Like... Olympic-stadium-meets-underground-lair levels of huge. There were turrets. Platforms. Rotating obstacles. Floating droids. Probably a snack bar in a corner somewhere. I wouldn't have been surprised if there was a whole Fenton bowling alley behind one of those titanium doors.

"We purchased the entire underground infrastructure of the block back in '88," Mom said casually, as if that was a normal sentence.

"We got a deal!" Dad beamed. "Nobody wanted to build over the wormhole to the Ghost Zone."

I chose not to ask questions.

Anyway, training time. I had the rifle. I had the armor. I had two proud parents watching me from a control booth. And in my head? Naruto was floating around like my personal ghost coach.

"Keep your form tight. You've sparred with shadow clones, you can definitely shoot slow-moving soda cans with attitude."

The first phase was easy: stationary targets. Glowing ecto-dummies popped up in sequence.

One by one, I blasted them with ghost energy rounds. Turns out, fighting ghost samurais and flying werewolf clowns really does improve your aim.

Pew. Pew. PEW!

Each one dropped in a sizzling cloud of green mist. A buzzer rang, lights turned green, and a Fenton bot actually gave me a thumbs up.

"Nice shooting, kiddo!" Dad's voice echoed over the speakers. "Let's kick it up a notch!"

Cue Phase Two: Moving Targets.

Now we were talking. The walls shifted, drones whirred to life, and suddenly I was in a sci-fi version of laser tag—except the lasers were real and the tag could knock you unconscious.

Targets zipped across rails. Others popped up from the ground. One had a Nerf bat and actually tried to run at me. Bold little guy.

I dodged left, rolled over a crate, spun around, and nailed a drone mid-air. One target tried to fake me out by going invisible. Cute. I shot it through the shimmer. Boom.

Naruto floated beside me, arms crossed, nodding slowly.

"You're adapting fast. The training with Kid Sasuke paid off."

"Don't remind me," I muttered, ducking under a swinging arm from a mechanical dummy. "He still keeps trying to 'accidentally' stab me in the soul."

By the end of the trial run, I was sweating inside the armor (note to self: Fenton tech needs a better cooling system), but I was standing tall. All targets down. No burns. One minor bruise from tripping over my own excitement.

Mom tapped something on her tablet and a score popped up on the wall: "FENTON COMBAT GRADE: B+"

"You're already at trained cadet level," she said proudly.

"One step away from ghost cop!" Dad added.

"Or ghost warrior monk," I said, wiping my face. "Let's aim for something with cooler robes."

As I powered down the rifle and headed back to the lift, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirrored wall.

For a second, I didn't see the scared kid who used to hide behind sarcasm. I saw someone who could stand up, take a hit, and return it twice as hard.

I saw someone who was actually becoming a hero.

And somewhere inside my helmet, I swear Naruto whispered:

"That's the spirit."