You were small. And not at all like a future leader.

Slender arms, a lightweight frame, sensors that trembled at the slightest sound. Optics – bright, curious, too alive for the harshness of Cybertron.

You stumbled over your own steps, sometimes bumping into walls, often falling backward when trying to lift something heavier than a toy block.

But Optimus saw it differently.

He didn't see weakness. He saw material. Raw, wild – but strong.

When you learned to stand on your own two feet, he held your palms — gently, but so that you felt supported, not replaced.

Your fingers slid over his, sometimes squeezing them so tightly, as if you were afraid the world would disappear if you let go.

And Optimus: quiet, calm, confident — said. "Balance is the first thing a leader must learn." Even when you were a baby.

You were so stubborn.

When other children played, ran, and built towers, you chose something else.

You tried to lift heavy objects. You pounded your fists on the metal floor. You got angry when you couldn't do something — squealing, growling, shaking your hands.

Even then, you possessed what would later become your strength: a heart that refused to accept defeat.

Optimus watched silently. But whenever you fell, he would only say. "Get up. Again."

Without pity. Without cooing. But never without support.

When you were a little older..

You could already walk confidently. And then the real training began.

Lesson 1: Move Properly.

Optimus stood you in front of him in the long, empty corridor of the base.

He took a step forward, and you had to repeat. He turned, and you did the same. He sped up, and you stumbled, got confused, fell, got up, fell again, and started walking again.

And he would simply raise his palm. "Keep your back straight. Heels soft. Breathe deeply."

You hated these phrases. But even then, they were shaping your stance.

Lesson 2: Strike.

Your first training staff was almost lighter than air. But you still held it with both hands, straining as if you were carrying an entire iron table.

Optimus placed a lightweight dummy, almost a toy, in front of you.

"Strike." You struck. The staff barely touched the surface.

"Harder." You struck again. Nothing.

You grew angry, hissed, and stamped your feet.

And he uttered the phrase that became your personal motto: "You're not weak. You just don't know how to use your strength yet."

After that, you struck so hard that the staff flew out of your hands.

Optimus smiled softly. For the first time in many days of training.

You tried to be like him.

You looked at his stance, his back, the way he held his head — and tried to imitate him.

It was funny. Your shoulders were shaking, your chin was too high, your feet were too wide.

And Optimus, passing by, merely touched your shoulder with his fingertips. "Don't imitate. Become yourself. But stronger."

Lesson 3: Self-Control.

You were a little storm in a child's shell. Any mistake, and you sighed angrily. Any comment, and your sensors trembled. Any loss, and you dropped everything, turned away, and stubbornly remained silent.

Optimus never yelled. Never.

But he would stand next to you, kneel down, and calmly say.

"If you don't learn to control your heart, you will never lead others."

You didn't yet understand the weight of those words. But he repeated them every time you got angry. Every. Time.

The most important day of your childhood.

You were still very young then — but already determined.

The dummy stood in the center of the room. Your staff in your hands. Optimus stood before you.

You tried to strike correctly. You couldn't. Your shoulders ached. Your chest shook with anger. Your optics filled with sparkling drops of Energon.

You clenched your teeth. You gripped the staff. And struck with all your might.

The dummy fell to the floor.

You stood there, breathing heavily, your whole body shaking.

For the first time Optimus came up to you, and said:

"That's it. You will become a leader."