The internet—an invention that changed the world and became the heart of the information revolution.

In the modern world, society was transformed by the internet to such a degree that history could practically be divided into two eras: pre-internet and post-internet.

When the internet became widespread, the word "convenience" infiltrated every part of daily life—from how people lived to how they accessed information, to how nations governed and militaries operated.

Everything began to revolve around it. There was no going back.

If someone from 2024 were suddenly thrown back into the early 21st century, they might miss their smartphone, sure, but they could still get by. Computers were common by then, and while the experience wasn't ideal, it was at least tolerable.

But rewind to the early 1990s? That would be a nightmare. The internet had barely arrived, and computers were severely underpowered. Gathering knowledge meant asking people or digging through books—something a person from 2024 would find downright unbearable.

That's the scale of the internet's impact.

Even online novels reflect this shift—protagonists in stories from ten years ago who traveled back in time never worried about adapting to pre-modern life. If they had a stable household, they'd be fine. They were used to a world without the internet, after all.

But after the rise of smartphones, everything changed. Characters now complain about the lack of food delivery and online connectivity, reflecting how authors—and by extension, readers—have come to rely on the net.

Now, Uchiha Kei was bringing that very internet to the ninja world.

And he wasn't settling for some primitive version either. He was launching a future-era internet, far beyond what 2024 ever saw.

Network lag? Frame drops? Signal loss? Fluctuations?

Please. Those aren't even concerns.

Because Uchiha Kei was a cheat-code incarnate. What he introduced wasn't just technology—it was spiritual networking. Ultra-futuristic black-tech. And he had no intention of burdening himself as its main server.

No, that job went to the Nine-Tails. In fact, tailed beasts were the perfect candidates to act as root servers.

To them, the data load was barely a drizzle compared to the emotional chaos humans radiated. During Kei's recent experiments with the Nine-Tails, he simulated the mental strain of traffic from a hundred million active users.

The Nine-Tails' response? "This is nothing. It's not even as annoying as a mob of terrified, angry shinobi screaming in my face."

That was all Kei needed to hear. Spiritual traffic posed no threat to the Nine-Tails.

As for Kei himself, his spiritual load capacity had recently increased too. If he used to handle a stress level of 100, he could now take on 180.

Rope Tree caused about 5 points of pressure.

Hashirama Senju? 58.

Not because of raw power—but because his spiritual and biological presence was in a league of its own. He was, by most measures, almost a different species—closer to an Ōtsutsuki wearing human skin.

Kei estimated that Tobirama Senju would only create about 20 points of strain. Even Uchiha Madara with the Rinnegan might not match Hashirama.

So, Kei's spiritual internet still had user capacity limits. He would need to grow stronger to turn this into the ninja world's version of the Throne of Heroes.

As for the Nine-Tails, while they only tested traffic for a hundred million users, that was already more than enough for now.

After all, the entire ninja world didn't even come close to that number of simultaneous active users.

Based on current estimates, the Nine-Tails could likely handle up to 1.3 billion—more than the total population of the entire continent.

And the Nine-Tails wasn't the only candidate. Eventually, Kei could bring in other tailed beasts to share the server load.

Even if each one was weaker than the Nine-Tails, their combined capacity would be immense.

In short, Kei didn't have to worry about server overload.

As for cybersecurity? Please. This was a spiritual network. Whoever had permissions here was a god. Hackers wouldn't stand a chance.

Besides, Kei was the only one who truly understood this system. Everyone else thought it was a high-level genjutsu—just some illusory trick that linked minds together.

Sure, some people might try to study it, but without even basic understanding, what could they achieve?

It'd be like handing a Type 95 assault rifle to a caveman. They might figure out how to shoot it, but good luck reverse-engineering one.

Kei had no concerns about security breaches.

As for what would happen if he died and the system collapsed… well, if things got that bad, there wouldn't be a world left to worry about anyway.

And longevity? Immortality?

In the ninja world, that was always possible.

Kei wasn't even against turning into an Ōtsutsuki if needed.

So no, he wasn't afraid.

Once the spiritual network spread, the great shift in the ninja world would begin.

—

"What? The Konoha Gaming Guild is launching a new service? A new genjutsu-based internet era? Wait—isn't that just the same LAN they use in arcades?"

"Wait, wait… you mean it connects multiple arcades across the village? Huh? Not just arcades—games people buy at home can link into the network too?! As long as they're in Konoha?"

"Wha—no way! You mean I can just stay home and play multiplayer with people across the village?!"

The crowd in the arcade buzzed with excitement.

This was the first test site for the new system—and the most ideal one, packed with people and ripe for word-of-mouth promotion.

The network's strategic value was too high to be announced through a flashy press conference. That would only draw unwanted attention from other villages.

Konoha had just barely tricked those itching for a Third Great Ninja War into backing off—Kei and the higher-ups weren't about to provoke them now.

So while this was a major milestone, the rollout was kept low-key. Publicly, it was framed as an upgrade to the existing LAN tech—nothing more than improved arcade connectivity.

No one mentioned the other capabilities.

Naturally, people assumed Konoha had simply made a few technical improvements. Other villages expected as much, so it didn't raise alarms.

That was the official story.

Privately, though? The first time old-school ninja like Hiruzen Sarutobi used the spiritual network's prototype, communicating instantly via a sealed scroll version of "WeChat," they were stunned.

After the test succeeded—contacting a base 100 kilometers away in real time—they all agreed: this tech must remain a secret.

For now, remote communication was restricted to Konoha personnel only, and only to those with sufficient rank and counter-intelligence clearance.

If other villages learned just how far this "genjutsu network" could reach, they'd lose it. Everything Konoha's Psychological Operations Bureau had built would go up in smoke.

So yes—Konoha would use it, but it had to remain top secret.

The gaming features would stay limited to within Konoha. Cities with arcades could form their own private LANs. Rural towns? They'd be on hold for now.

A cautious move, but the right one.

The genjutsu games had only existed for a few months—barely enough time to shake the world. Konoha needed to keep growing, to keep gathering strength, if it truly wanted to become the power that towered above all others.