.
Chapter 26
learning to walk again, I believe I've waited long enough
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64年12月
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The sun isn't even up when they're walking to the training ground. The sky is still a dull blue bruise. Mist clings to everything. It cold. The kind of cold that gets into your bones. Aneki drags her feet in front of him, a flask with cold black tea in her hand, and he can see the amused grin on Kisame's face in his peripheral.
"Why are you punishing us, Oji-san?" she says, all grumbly and tired and— Akuto can even hear a hint of a whine in her voice.
This training ground is nothing like the ones he has access to, nothing like the standard or Academy grounds, either. It's tucked behind tall hedges and low stone walls. Near Nakagawa and even Uchigawa. A winding gravel path leads to a wide, open field. At the end of it trees line the plain and grow into a small forest.
You need to be a jōnin to book one of these, Akuto thinks. Jōnin or higher.
Akuto frowns. "You're hiding something, aren't you?"
"Of course he is," Kisame says with a smile so wide it sends shivers down his spine. It's also the sort of shit-eating grin someone only has when they too are in the know and know that no one else in the room is in the know.
Fuguki-oji dallies after them, dressed in his work clothes— dark pants tucked into standard-issue shoes, over which he wears his garish legwarmers, much to Akuto's disappointment. He wears a light grey poncho over it— a cigarette in his hand and Samehada strapped over his shoulder via a brown belt decorated with tassels. Akuto hopes his uncle won't make them fight against it; his taijutsu is shit and the sword consumes chakra as if its life depends on it. And maybe it does. The Yōtō are weird like that.
"Recent events have me worried," Fuguki says, nonchalant in a way Akuto knows means that he's stressed the fuck out. "I'd like to know where you stand, in terms of strength. So, you'll spar against Kisame here and we'll go from there."
Nanami snorts. "And if you don't like what you see?"
"I'll make sure to change that."
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The spar against Kisame is brutal. A flurry of steel, sweat, dirt, and blood. Akuto feels mostly useless— scratch that, he feels completely, utterly, and totally useless. His left is wide open. His balance sucks. And otherwise he hasn't improved at all since yesterday. There's no need to speak about ninjutsu or genjutsu. Every time he has managed to gather some semblance of chakra, Kisame's already disrupted his concentration. Which means Nanami does most of the fighting. Akuto makes sure to tank most of the hits, though, and by the time they're done, he's aching all over.
He's lying on the ground, breathing heavily. Aneki's squatting next to him. "Like what you saw?" she asks, cheeks reddened by the effort. Sweat gathers on her forehead and eyebrows.
Kisame stands in front of them, completely at ease. No sweat, no heavy breathing, no flush from any effort whatsoever, because Kisame fights like it's breathing. Akuto swallows his bruised pride and watches Kisame roll his shoulders like the fight was a warm-up. Bastard.
Fuguki-oji takes a long drag from what must be his seventh cigarette of the day. "There's room for improvement."
Akuto laughs. "Nice way of saying 'you suck'." He high-fives Nanami. Kisame huffs a laugh.
Fuguki-oji sighs. Takes another long drag from his cigarette. "You don't, in fact, 'suck'." He sits down on a larger stone by the edge of the training ground, stretching his legs out before him. And still, he towers over them. "Akuto, you've recently gone through a life-altering event— you just lost an arm. It's understandable that you haven't yet adjusted to that. And Nanami, you're doing fantastic. You're almost certainly mid-chūnin level now and, rest assured, I will write a letter of recommendation later today. Kisame, I'll write you a letter of recommendation for your jōnin promotion. I believe it's overdue."
Kisame grins. It looks honest and makes him look five years younger. "Thanks, Sensei."
Aneki nods, like it's a conversation they've had before. And maybe it is. He waves the thought away, ignores his ribs squeezing tight and the frustration bubbling in the pit of his stomach, and instead focuses on the conversation at hand. "But?" he asks, and tugs his hand in the sleeve of his kimono, to hide the trembling.
"No buts," Fuguki-oji says, exasperated. He taps out his cigarette, then burns the butt with a flick of fire release.
Aneki's eyes briefly lock with his. "No, there's definitely a 'but' coming— that's a but sentence."
"As I said," Fuguki-oji continues, ignoring their teasing, "there's room for improvement."
"He's gonna have us do a self-assessment," Aneki says— sounding amused and annoyed all at once— when Fuguki-oji lapses into a bit of a strange silence, gaze far, far away. "And then he's gonna twist the knife."
"Wonderful."
Fuguki-oji nods to himself. "Why don't you start, then, Nanami?"
Aneki rolls her eyes. "Fine." She bites the inside of her cheek, rolls her neck, and looks at the ground like it owes her money. "I've got this shit habit of dropping my guard after a feint lands. I also need to tighten my footwork. I hesitate too much when I don't have a solid read. And I need to broaden my ninjutsu range. Something for shot to mid-range." She exhales through her nose. "I also need to stop relying on others to bail me out when I get cocky."
Kisame snorts from the side. "True."
"Bite me."
Fuguki-oji hums in acknowledgement, then looks at Akuto. "And you?"
"I lose my balance every time I move too far left. Or too much, anywhere. I collapse under pressure. My draws are too slow and clumsy. My taijutsu is shite. My chakra control is as bad, unless I'm using healing jutsu. I haven't tried genjutsu or ninjutsu yet." He pauses; breath tight. "I want to fix all of it. I want to fight like I used to."
Fuguki looks at Kisame. "You're both not wrong," he says, crossing his arms. "Nanami, your offensive instincts are good, but you tend to overcommit. You telegraph your tension. Akuto, you're gonna be rebuilding from the ground up. Your fundamentals are a mess. On the bright side, you've been through the learning progress once, so this'll be a bit easier. And your recovery rate is better than expected. You both have talent. What you need is polish."
Fuguki-oji nods. "Both of your goals are realistic, if given time."
Aneki grins at him. "You're not gonna survive this," she says, with no bite.
Akuto returns the grin. "Well, happily, neither are you."
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Nanami's right, in a way.
Training with Fuguki-oji is tough. They're up at dawn, with a quick breakfast on the way to the training grounds, then work until noon and after a short lunch break, they continue until late afternoon. Kisame is always with them, but does his separate training most of the time. Every now and then, Okan drops by to find new ways to make them suffer but she's out on missions almost constantly.
They start with taijutsu.
Fuguki stands in front of him. Arms crossed. Eyes narrow. Samehada on his back shifts with every breath. Akuto stands in front of him, legs shoulder-width apart, ninjatō in his hand, his old stance. Right forward. Left anchoring. Spine straight.
It's wrong. He knows it.
He just doesn't know how to fix it. Not yet.
"Start," Fuguki says.
Akuto breathes in. Muscle memory takes over. He slides into the first kata of his taijutsu-style. Step, shift, sword arc—
"Wrong."
Akuto freezes mid-movement. "I haven't even finished the kata."
Fuguki steps closer. "That's the problem. You're doing it like you have two arms. Every move you've ever learned assumes balance you don't have anymore." He moves behind Akuto, heavy bootsteps crunching against gravel. He taps Akuto's left shoulder. "This isn't pulling weight anymore. So, the rest of your body has to pick up the slack. Understand?"
Akuto doesn't respond at first. His jaw tightens. His throat works. "I understand," he says at last.
"Good," Fuguki replies. Then, "Again. From the top. Slowly."
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Akuto relearns how to stand. Fuguki forces him to adjust his front leg inward, to shift his centre toward his right hip, and to rotate his spine just slightly.
Everything feels strange.
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"Feet. Wider."
Fuguki's voice sounds across the clearing, disapproving.
So, Akuto adjusts. Again. His stance slips the moment he moves into the next position. His centre's off. His balance still skews to the right. His ninjatō— his new one— slips from his grip. He catches it but barely. His fingers are trembling.
Fuguki watches, silent now. That's worse.
Akuto resets. Again.
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He can hear Kisame and Nanami laughing near the fire. Smells the grilled fish Fuguki-oji caught earlier. His stomach growls. But his hand is still clenched around the sword, and he hasn't landed a single clean draw in over an hour.
Every attempt is wrong. His elbow jerks out. The sword wobbles. Sometimes it catches on the sheath. Sometimes he yanks it out too fast and nearly smacks himself in the face.
One time he did. Tasted blood.
Nanami yells at him, "You're gonna pass out if you keep skipping meals, idiot."
Akuto wipes his mouth and tries again.
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He saves the ninjutsu training for when he's alone, always late in the evening. Today, it's past midnight and he's alone with a new annotation scroll on a desolate training ground. He has a flashlight and a pen, and traitorous hope burning in his chest.
Attempt #41: nothing
Attempt #52: chakra destabilised. again.
Attempt #55: chakra reacted quickly. then destabilised.
He closes his eyes and forms the next seal. Dragon. It feels strange, awkward. His palm's too sweaty. But then—
crack.
A single spark. Blue-white, jagged, beautiful— then it collapses in on itself and hits him quare in the chest. He hits the dirt. Breath knocked out of him.
For a second, he just lies there. Chest rising. Falling. Everything hurts like hell.
Then, he laughs. Bitter and sharp.
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Sparring with Kisame is like trying to fistfight a waterfall. Nothing like he every imagined in any of his daydreaming scenarios, when putting himself into different worlds wasn't real, but also exactly how you should imagine sparring with him.
Akuto's arms are sore. His footwork's lagging. His grip keeps slipping under pressure, and every time he tries to block, Kisame doesn't even blink. He just bats the sword away like swatting flies.
"Don't flinch," he says.
Akuto does flinch. And gets smacked in the ribs for it.
He snarls, swings back—
Misses by half a metre.
Kisame raises his eyebrows at him— Akuto feels the grim satisfaction, entirely petty and sharp, that Kisame can't raise only one eyebrow, like that somehow makes him less perfect, less superhuman, less insufferably untouchable— but it doesn't take away from the way frustration keeps bubbling in the pit of his stomach and the way his pride lies splintered beside him on the ground.
But when he gets back up, his stance is just a little more solid than yesterday.
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His sword slips. Again.
But this time, it's not from his grip— that's improved— but from his centre.
Fuguki grows something under his breath. Something Akuto's pretty sure he really doesn't want to know, so he resets his first kata form again. Right foot forward. Left shoulder turned. Sword poised at an angle his body used to understand. Now it just feels like asking a broken clock to tell time again.
"You're fighting yourself," Fuguki says, lighting another cigarette. "Not the kata."
Akuto doesn't answer. Just resets. Again. And again and again and again.
But his foot finally lands where it should, the next kata follows without wobbling, and the sword doesn't dip.
Progress.
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A wooden post stands at the edge of the training ground, near some trees, beaten and weathered. His task is simple: run through his kata five times with no slips, misses or resets.
During his first attempt, he overswings. His second, his shoulder locks up on the block. Third, foot wrong. Again. He nearly trips himself. Fourth, he grazes the post and draws blood from his own hand.
He stares at the cut. Breathing hard. Lips pressed to a thin line.
The fifth time, is ugly. Slow. Absolutely not field ready. But he finishes it without breaking form.
The corners of his lips tug upward. His chest feels a little bit lighter.
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The back garden is quiet.
It's early evening, and the Decembre mist is thick gain. Frost laces the edges of dark leaves. Akuto's sandals leave shallow prints in the gravel as he makes his way to the back of the garden, the corners where no one else goes, where skeletal vines and pale winter flowers stretch like bones toward the sky.
Okan waits for him there, kneeling next to a patch of monkshood. Its indigo petals are just beginning to curl in on themselves. They're past bloom but still dangerous. She doesn't look up as he approaches. The slow snip of her shears cut through the silence like a metronome.
"You wanted to see me?" he says, stopping beside her.
"Yes," she says. Clips another stem. "Come sit."
He does, carefully. The frost hasn't thawed and his breath curls in the cold. "Are we continuing the poison lessons?"
"Soon," Okan says. She places the shears beside her, then turns to face him. "But there's something more important first."
That's never a good sentence.
Akuto swallows. "It's not The Talk, is it?" he asks, bracing himself for impact like a deer caught in the headlights. "Because I already know the— uh— birds and bees bit. And the logistics. And the— uh— murder math."
Okan's mouth twitches, just once. "Not that one. Not yet. Fuguki will have it with you in a few years. I've already spoken with Nanami." She straightens and folds her hands in her lap. "This is the Shinobi Talk."
"That's not real."
"It is."
He shifts. "…Like an actual thing or something you just made up to make me regret asking?"
"Both." She gestures to the garden. "If you're to continue this path, Akuto, you'll need hobbies, or a hobby, outside of shinobi life. Something that reminds you you're still a person. This is mine."
He looks at a patch of dormant aconite between other flowers and thinks about all the time he's nearly tripped over her poison plants like a complete idiot. "You plant poisons."
"Yes," she says, matter-of-factly. "But it's still a way to clock off. Others gamble. Cook. Paint. Some raise animals."
He raises his eyebrows. "Is that what you think I need? A hobby?"
"I think it's what you need before you need it." She looks him straight in the eyes. "What you do in Saigawa doesn't count."
He freezes. "…You know about that?"
"Of course I do, sweetheart," she says. "You're not subtle. And I'm not blind."
Akuto quiets for a bit, flips a stone in his hand. Then, softly, he asks, "Can I do gardening? Like you?"
"If that's what you want, I'll teach you."
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It's well past midnight when he's back on his desolate little training ground, eating his last dango, hand holding his pen tightly. He stares at the annotation scroll like it might lie and tell him he's not failing.
He exhales deeply. Slowly. His hand trembles just forming the Dragon seal. His chakra stutters, splits, snaps.
He breathes in and out. Tries again.
Nothing happens. But it doesn't backfire, either. No explosion, no burns.
Attempt #64: stable. no output but stable.
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He doesn't think Kisame's ever learned how to hold back. His swings are heavy and brutal, like they're meant to test bones.
Akuto barely dodges one, but the second one clips his side and sends him tumbling.
"I felt that one," Kisame says, voice flat. He hardly ever smiles but when he does, it's terrifying and Akuto remembers all his fight scenes from the anime with visceral clarity.
He coughs. "Yeah. Me too."
They circle again. Akuto adjusts his footwork mid-step. Rembers the new kata, tries to apply it, turn inside Kisame's range—
It almost works.
Then, Kisame sweeps his legs and pins him to the ground with one hand.
"Not bad," Kisame says.
Akuto lies there, gasping. It's the highest praise he's gotten so far and still, it feels like a lie.
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It's the stupidest goal: draw the sword smoothly, in one motion, without snagging, jerking, or failing.
But it takes him three full weeks to manage it once without any mistakes. Any errors.
His arm cramps afterwards. He nearly drops the ninjatō anyway. But it was right. Smooth. Clean. Like he used to.
He smiles.
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Aneki's fourteenth birthday is celebrated in their flat. It's just a small gathering, him, Fuguki-oji, Okan, Mei and two of Nanami's closest friends— Kiriko and Kiyoshi. And Nanami, of course. They're celebrating in the afternoon, to make time just for her, before they gather in the evening to celebrate the new year.
They're in the living room, sitting on zabuton, circling the chocolate cake on chabudai. Okan smiles softly as she sets down the small plates, Fuguki folds his legs onto the zabuton with a soft smile, and Mei waves a bottle of something suspiciously fizzy and probably not legal at Akuto with a wink.
Nanami sits on her cushion, arms looped over her knees, grinning the way people do when they're trying not to get emotional and very much failing at it. "Alright," she says, her voice warm. "This is stupid. You're all stupid. I like it."
"Oh, good," Akuto says, deadpan. "I was worried you'd hate your surprise chocolate cake."
The others laugh. Mei loud and genuine, Kiyoshi with a snort, and Midori deep from her chest. Okan's smile is a bit wider when she hands out the cake and Fuguki-oji grins. They continue to talk about nothing for a while. But it's the kind of nothing that fills the air like steam in a bathhouse.
Eventually, they hand out presents. Nanami accepts them gracefully, absolutely delighted in the usefulness of them all— nearly crushes Mei in a hug when she receives hers— and then it's Akuto's turn.
"Right," he says, sliding it across the table like it might explode. "Here."
Nanami blinks. "You got me something?"
"Duh," he says, glancing away. "Just… thought it might be useful, y'know. I got it back in Suiiki."
She unties the string slowly. Peels back the rough wrapping. Reveals the field kit. She unrolls it carefully, going through the contents one by one— flint, twine, basic medical supplies, and a whetstone.
She's quiet for a long second. Then she looks up. "You absolute sap," she says, but her voice cracks on the last syllable.
"I can take it back," he says too quickly, already reaching for it.
"Touch it and you die."
She rolls it back up, tucks it to her chest like it's made of gold, and slouches sideways into him until her head rests on his shoulder— his left shoulder. He freezes. Then softens. Lets her lean.
"I love it," she says quietly. "I always lose mine. Thanks, dango head."
Akuto smiles. "No problem."
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The fireworks go off with a heavy sound, muffled by the mist. More thud than crackle. More warning shot than celebration.
Akuto watches from the roof.
Below, people light incense outside their homes. Small sticks burn low in rusted holders, nestled beside salt piles and handmade, makeshift charms against misfortune. Some of the younger kids wear fox, turtle or slug masks. Others wear none.
It smells of burned offerings and saltwater. Faintly, he can hear someone playing the shakuhachi. It's low and haunting, like a lullaby for ghosts.
Nanami's somewhere at a shrine with Mei. Okan and Fuguki-oji are doing some of the old rites— offerings to the gods of sea, wind, and everything else. Incense burned for save passage, salt thrown to ward bad luck, and sake poured into the soil for ancestors. Kisame probably bullied his way into a local drinking contest.
Akuto sits on the roof and eats dango by himself. He likes it better that way.
Kiri toasts to survival. To the ones who lived. To the ones who didn't. To the next fight. To whatever comes after.
So, he does, too.
When the next fireworks go off, he throws a piece of dango to the crows and watches the mist swallow it whole.
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65年1月
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The field around him looks flat. It isn't.
Akuto's right foot slides into a patch of soft moss mid-kata, throwing him off-centre. His ninjatō arcs too far left and the entire sequence collapses like a wet tent.
Fuguki doesn't say a word. Just gestures for him to do it again.
Akuto's shirt clings to him with sweat. His calves burn. His spine feels like a coiled rope, tight and on the verge of snapping.
The next time, he shifts his weight earlier. Listens to the ground.
The kata still sucks but he doesn't slip.
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The clone technique should be simple. It is simple. One of the first E-rank techniques taught at the Academy— everywhere, he thinks. At least, that's what Okan told him when she first taught him. It's a basic thing, non-physical, meant to confuse, distract or deceive opponents. It's a stepping stone. Meant for children.
Hand seal one: Ram. Nailed it.
Hand seal two: Snake. Wobbly, but stable.
Hand seal three: Tiger. Barely acceptable.
His chakra flow? Wild. Instable. Like pouring water through a cracked pipe. The clone sputters into existence for half a second— headless, lopsided, and then pop— gone, leaving nothing but an aftertaste of failure.
Akuto sits in the grass, arm heavy from the weighted bands around his fingers. The hand seals, the chakra build-up, it all feels foreign, like trying to write poetry in a language he forgot.
He stares at his hand. Not angry. Just… tired.
Then he shakes his hand and tries again.
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Fuguki's pointing to a familiar diagram. Tendons. Arteries. Blind spots.
"You're not strong enough to brute force your way through fights," he says. "You have to disable. Drop them before they drop you."
Akuto frowns. "But what if I miss?"
"Then you die."
Cool. Very comforting, Uncle.
Later, when he spars Nanami, he aims for her thigh. She knocks the sword away like it's a toy, then flips him flat on his back.
"Wrong artery," she says, offering a hand.
He takes it, but doesn't say anything.
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Akuto's arms are sore. Again. Always.
Fuguki shouts from across the field. "Your sword starts in your hip, not your hand!"
Akuto adjusts. Feels the pull of muscle chaining, like the motion begins in his foot, travels through his leg, curls up his spine, and then into the sword.
He swings.
It's not fast, not yet. It's not flashy.
But it lands.
Fuguki grunts. Approves. That's basically a standing ovation coming from him.
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He's on clone attempt number fourty-one. The floor around him is littered with scorch marks, puddles of sweat, and three ghost-like half-formed bodies that vanished before they stood.
He takes a deep breath. Runs through the seals.
Ram. Snake. Tiger.
The chakra flows better this time. Smoother.
There's a flicker of a close. With a full face this time.
It collapses right away. But he grins.
Writes it down on the scroll.
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It's strange to be back at the Academy, even if he isn't attending any classes anymore and even though the students have all long since gone home. He's in the Chūōkan, in an office that smells like damp paper, bitter coffee, and cold ink.
Akuto stands in front of desk, hand tucked in the pockets of his pants. He's wearing freshly washed clothes and his most neutral face. Hides the way his muscles ache and his lungs still burn from the training earlier. He's also scrubbed the blood out from under his fingernails, just in case.
Kiri besides him fidgets. He wears his worn standard-issue shoes. His knees are scuffed and his jacket patched and trying very hard not to fall apart.
The chūnin behind the desk looks from Akuto to Kiri and back again, then she sighs like she's aged two decades in the last ten seconds. "Sponsor?" she asks, tapping her pen impatiently against the edge of a form that already has smudges on it.
Akuto nods once. "Sanbokan Akuto. Genin. Field ninja. I'll cover his expenses." He jerks his chin toward Kiri, who blinks up at him like a startled cat. "He's from Saigawa. He's smart. Put him where you like. Just don't waste his time."
The chūnin grunts. "No birth record?"
"Do I look like a hospital?"
She scribbles something extra on the form and stamps it, the thud echoing like a gravel. "All right. Kiri… that's his full name?"
"For now."
She slides the papers into a tray. "He starts on April 1st. 1-J."
Kiri tugs on Akuto's empty sleeve as they leave. "Did you mean that? That I'm smart?"
"Don't make me take it back," Akuto says, and shoves a rice ball into the kid's hands. "You screw this up, I'm making you clean my stuff for the rest of your life."
Kiri beams. Akuto pretends not to see it.
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The first time he tries the Hiding in the Mist Jutsu again, nothing happens.
Not even a puff.
Akuto stands in the middle of the training field, hand shaking, sweat trickling down his back. He knows the feel of it, how the chakra mingles with existing mist to thicken it, or how it unspools from him like breath on glass.
But now? It stutters, halts, and falls apart like wet paper.
He exhales deeply. Tries again.
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He finally gets a proper cloud out on the twenty-third attempt of the night. It's thin and low, but it covers a good two metres. Ankle-high mist, creeping over stones and grass like it owns the place. Still nothing compared to what it used to be but—
He smiles. Brief. Tired.
Then the wind shifts—
The mist disappears in an instant, blown out like a candle.
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Sparring in the mist is like fighting underwater.
Fuguki's coming at him with no warning. Akuto ducks low. Tries to use the mist. His steps are quieter now. And he doesn't make the chakra ripple as much.
But Fuguki still finds him easily. Slams him back with Samehada.
Akuto hits the ground. Gasping.
"Better," Fuguki says. Cigarette in his mouth. "Still too loud."
Akuto grins through the pain. "Give me a few months."
"You don't have many left. Move faster."
And Akuto does.
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The flat is quiet again. Same incense. Same flowers. Same butsudan, photos, and prayers. And this year, Akuto still stands behind Nanami. Alive.
He watches her bow. Her hands shake slightly, but her back stays straight. She steps aside without a word, black sleeves brushing his as they pass. He nods, barely, and kneels.
The names haven't changed. Guen. Azumi. Minato. Suguru. Yasagu. Still gone. Still young in their pictures. The incense curls like breath. The chrysanthemums wilt a little slower this year.
But there's space now. A quiet space where his photo could have gone. Should have gone. And didn't.
He breathes in. Lets it settle in his chest like seawater. This year, this family isn't lighting incense for him because of his dumb mistake. Isn't tracing his name in kanji. Isn't whispering stories about how he used to laugh or what he might've looked like had he grown older.
He's still here.
He doesn't take that for granted.
Not today.
He holds his one hand in a half-prayer— as if he still had two— bows his head, and offers thanks. For the ones they still mourn, and for the chance to carry their stories a little longer.
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65年2月
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Kunai to ninjatō. Ninjatō to kunai.
The transitions are horrible at first. Rough. Clumsy. Rushed. He fumbles the second kunai twice. Drops the ninjatō once.
Fuguki sighs like the weight of the world just passed through his lungs. "You're fast. Act like it."
So Akuto does.
Next round, he lets the kunai fall on purpose. Kicks it up, catches it mid-switch, and transitions into a full spin with the ninjatō already in motion.
Aneki claps once. It sounds dry and sarcastic. "Show-off."
He bows.
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The sword whips toward Kisame's side.
It's a fake.
Kisame blocks anyway— just long enough for Akuto's kunai to flash upward from his obi, straight toward Kisame's throat.
It doesn't land.
But it almost does.
Kisame snorts. "You're getting dirty."
"Good," Akuto says, panting. He backs off. "Fair doesn't win fights."
Kisame's smile is all teeth.
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He falls into a position that looks wrong. One leg forward, spine tilted too far left, the ninjatō barely raised.
Fuguki-oji doesn't correct him.
He's baiting. Drawing the opponent in.
The first time, Nanami falls for it. He clips her wrist with a feint and rolls out of reach before she can counter. The second time, she doesn't. She knees him in the ribs and flips him like a sack of rice.
Still. It words. Sometimes.
That's progress,
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The mist is too tick today.
But that's the point. Akuto's standing blind, ninjatō ready, in the middle of Fuguki's shitty"mist disruption" drill. He can't see anything. No opponents, not movements, not even his own hand. And he can hardly hear anything.
The first strike comes from behind. The blunt side of a katana to the ribs. He yelps.
The second from the right. He tries to parry. Too slow.
The third—
He feels it. The shift in the air, the mist. Hears the step.
He ducks.
Samehada sails overhead.
Akuto grins.
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He tries the Hiding in the Mist Jutsu again.
The seals work fine. The chakra forms alright.
But it doesn't spread. It clumps. Patchy and thin. Like mist in a broken mirror.
Akuto grits his teeth. Shakes out his hand. Breathes through his hips like Fuguki taught him. Still nothing useful.
Again.
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.
He's practicing weapon transitions again. Kunai to ninjatō, ninjatō to kunai. Over and over and over in a loop until his fingers cramp and his wrist aches.
The kunai slips.
He curses and resets.
The ninjatō falls.
He screams. Loud, this time. (Fuguki doesn't look up.)
Akuto picks the ninjatō back up with shaking fingers. His palm's bleeding.
But the next one lands.
He keeps going.
.
.
He nails the seal sequence— Dog. Boar. Ram. Easy.
The chakra pours through him. Too fast. Too much.
His fingers shift. His skin ripples. A different face starts to form. Older, broader, familiar. He's Emery again. Brown hair, brown eyes. Two arms. But the left one feels lighter in the henge. When he tries to hold a kunai, he holds it for the split of a second, then it falls through.
And then—
His spine convulses. Everything shatters. He hits the ground hard, gasping.
Then, everything goes black.
When he wakes again, it's morning and Fuguki-oji's standing over him.
Fuguki doesn't say anything. Just waits for him to get up.
He does.
.
.
Nanami's fast.
Not Kisame fast. But sharp fast. Like fighting a knife mid-air.
Today's drill is simple in its form: one strike. Land it in under fifteen seconds. It's his sister who makes things difficult for him.
Akuto darts forward. Fakes low. Spins high.
She dodges.
Ten seconds.
He flips the kunai from his sleeve and lunges for her right side.
Twelve.
She twists. It grazes her sleeve
Fourteen.
"Dead," she says, tapping his neck with her fingers. "Try again."
.
.
He starts using the mist differently. Not to hide himself— but to listen to it. The way movements disrupt the flow. Every ripple. Every step. Every drag of kunai across grass.
He still can't see but his other senses sharpen.
When he dodges five attacks he didn't see coming, Fuguki nods.
.
.
It'd doesn't look like his old one— feet shoulder-width apart, weight evenly distributed, arms raised to protect his face and throat. His new stance is low, off-centre for others, one leg wide, and ninjatō drawn across the back shoulder.
But it works.
He moves with it. Feints from it. Strikes from it.
Fuguki nods when Akuto runs through all his kata. Smooth as butter. Not a single mistake. "It's yours now. Don't change it."
Akuto grins. "Didn't plan on it."
.
.
He finally gets the mist to form properly.
And for the first time, he tries to fight inside it—
It falls apart by the second strike.
But the way he moves before it does— the silence of it, the balance, the naturalness, like he was born for this— it feels right. Like something's almost there. Waiting to be finished.
He writes in his scroll, Attempt #91: stable. lasted for about two seconds. felt good.
.
.
Akuto sees Kōsei again after almost three months and countless visits to Saigawa.
The boy stays to the shadows of the alley for most of the time, until almost the very end, when Kiri-cchi has gone off to play ninja with some friends and the people seeking treatment have left. Akuto waves the last patient off with a smile.
He doesn't turn to Kōsei. Lets the boy come to him.
Kōsei's still terribly thin and wears too-big clothes but there's no bruise on him today. Instead, he comes with a broken nose.
"Hey," he says with a soft smile. "That looks like it hurts. Want me to take care of it?"
Kōsei hesitates, then nods.
"Alright."
He gently sets the nose, telling Kōsei what he's about to do before doing it, then sends chakra to his palm and heals it. When he removes his palm, it looks like it's never been broken in the first place.
Kōsei smiles at him for the first time. Shyly.
Akuto grins back and finds he'd burn down the world for him.
.
.
65年3月
.
The mist comes easier now. It doesn't fight him. Doesn't run from him, either. It forms, surrounds him. Thick, steady, and exactly where he wants it.
Fuguki calls out from behind him, "Trap drill. Go."
Akuto drops low. Hides behind the rock. Waits.
The first enemy— Nanami, of course— steps into the field. In his own mist, it's easier. A little bit like he imagines how sensors feel, he notices almost everything. Movement, breathing, the shift of gravel underfoot, and the ghost of chakra where it brushes against his own. He sneaks to where his sister stands, threads wire around her path. Quiet. Fast. He's sweating through his shirt.
She triggers it. Reacts. Cuts free. Too late—
Akuto's behind her and taps her neck. "Dead."
She grins at him.
.
.
He moves.
Foot. Twist. Strike. Pivot. Duck.
It doesn't feel like he's thinking. It feels like music. For a breathless three seconds, he's just moving, each step pulling the next forward.
Fuguki's watching, arms crossed. Says nothing.
Then Akuto steps too far left, slips on moss, and lands hard on his hip.
Rhythm gone.
Pain back.
Still. He felt it.
.
.
Night drills are a special kind of awful. He can't rely on vision. Can't trust his balance. And the mist is colder. Clingier. Even the sounds change. They're softer. More spread out.
But that's the point, apparently.
Fuguki lights no torches. Just gives the signal.
Akuto moves.
Wire trap. Left.
Step. Pause.
Kunai drop. Fake out.
The dummy enemy springs— and he's already moving.
Kill trap.
He breathes out. Chest heaving, fingers shaking.
Then, Fuguki says, dry as always, "You're slow."
.
.
It's late. Too late. His skin's buzzing with overuse.
He runs through the seals, slower than usual. Focuses. Breathes. Pulls chakra in from his belly like it's second nature.
Ram, Snake, Tiger.
A shimmer. A form.
The clone stands. Solid. Fully shaped.
Akuto stares at it.
It waves at him. Then pops.
He hits the floor five second later and doesn't get up.
Sleeps eighteen hours.
Wakes up with tears dried on his cheek and a large breakfast on his desk. Wakes up someplace he definitely didn't fall asleep.
.
.
His ninjatō is wrapped in soft padding, but it still stings when he drives it into the target dummy's neck groove.
One strike. No swing. Just a short snap from the hips. Efficient. Lethal.
His wrist flares with pain immediately after.
"Again," Fuguki says.
Akuto resets. Tries again.
He gets through seven before the pain makes his vision blur.
.
.
He channels the chakra into the kunai like he would into his palm for a healing jutsu. Gentle, focused.
It glows faintly. Holds.
He throws.
It wobbles mid-air, veers right, and explodes far too early. Dirt and mist blast into his face.
He's coughing, bleeding from a cut on his cheek, and Aneki's standing there trying very hard not to laugh.
"Almost impressive."
He wipes his face and says, "Next time I'll aim at you."
"Promise?"
.
.
Night drill. Again.
He hasn't slept nearly enough since the clone breakthrough.
His fingers are lead. His mind slow. Chakra unstable and low.
He missteps. The trap he laid catches him.
Wire yanks his foot, and he hits the ground so hard his sword skitters out of reach.
Fuguki walks over. Doesn't help him out. "Your kill zone's only as good as your body. Sleep is part of training."
Akuto blinks at him. "…That sounded suspiciously like advice."
"Everything is advice."
.
.
The spar is short. Nanami presses him hard. Aggressive. Efficient.
Akuto falls back. Not in retreat, not in weakness like before. But in rhythm.
Step. Duck. Faint.
He draws her into a trap.
Wire snaps across her ankle.
She stumbles—
His ninjatō's already there.
Kill tap. Right over her heart.
Fourteen seconds.
Fuguki claps once.
Nanami stares at him for a long time, then nods. "Finally."
.
.
Today's drill is combat meditation. Night mist. No fighting. Just breathing.
Inhale. Exhale.
Balance in stillness is harder than movement. His body keeps twitching, anticipating attacks that never come. His hand flexes around the hilt of his word even though he's not supposed to draw it.
Fuguki's somewhere in the mist. Maybe. Maybe not.
He doesn't know. So, he just… breathes.
When the wind shifts, the mist doesn't go around him. It goes through him.
That's the win.
.
.
It's shaky. Smaller than it should be. But it's complete.
Clone 105 stands beside him. Fully formed. Same hair, same eyes, same scar, same look of exhausted determination on its face.
He reaches out. It mimics.
He doesn't smile, doesn't cry, doesn't even blink. Just nods to it. Says, "We've got work to do," and starts testing techniques while holding it up.
It lasts for thirty-five seconds before dissolving.
New record.
.
.
Rain drills aren't planned, but when the storm rolls in, Fuguki has them gather at the training ground asap.
It's two in the morning.
He slips three times in the first minute. By the third fall, his back is soaked, and his fingers numb.
But—
He adapts. Lower stance. Shorter movements. He stops trying to look good and starts trying to stay upright. And when Kisame comes in from the side, Akuto catches him with a feint— uses the splash from a puddle to hide the step.
Not a hit, of course not. Not against Kisame. But a near one.
Kisame raises his eyebrows. "That one's new."
.
.
The kill dummy is made of straw and shame. Akuto has faced it at least a hundred times by now. But this time, this time he moves with silence.
Mist on his side. Wire loose but purposely so. Footsteps soft.
He draws. Shifts. Strikes— one movement.
His ninjatō doesn't even make a sound as it hits the dummy's "throat."
He steps back.
"Minimalist kill," Fuguki says. "Good. Mark that one."
Akuto does.
.
.
65年4月
.
Akuto stands beside Chiyomi on the parent/sponsor side, hand tucked into the pocket of his pants. She leans on her cane, eyes focused on the crowd.
They don't speak much.
In the clearing in front of them, Kiri is easy to spot. The boy's bouncing lightly on his heels, clutching his scroll like it might fly away, and chattering to the person next to him (who seems just as excited as Kiri looks).
The shinobi— some kachū, by the looks on his face— prattles on and on and on about Kiri and it's values and the same shit he had the fortune of not having to suffer through when he attended the Academy, having been spared the full six years.
But Kiri smiles happily and runs to the front when his name is called by his teacher— not Munashi, thank Zabuza— and gathers with the rest of his future classmates. Already, he is chatting up someone else.
Kiri waves to Akuto when it's their turn to leave and Akuto waves back. Heart heavy.
.
.
The mist curls around him like he belongs to it now.
Akuto crouches low on the training ground, eyes narrowed. It's early. Too early. His body isn't warmed up properly. His brain's still groggy.
Fuguki stands next to him. He got some genin to train with them today, since both Kisame and Nanami are out on missions for a bit. "Make them think you're everywhere."
Akuto nods once. Breathes the mist in like it's part of his lungs now.
Vanishes into it.
.
.
"Close your eyes," Akuto says.
Kiri squints at him. "Why?"
"Because that's part of the surprise."
Kiri crosses his arms, but does what he's told, scrunching his face up like he's expecting to be hit with a bucket of ice water. "If you throw a frog at me again, I swear—"
"That was one time."
"It was mean!"
Akuto snorts. "You named the frog."
"That's not the point!"
Akuto flicks Kiri on the forehead, tells him to stay put, and moves quietly. Lights the tiny candle with a lighter he nicked from Fuguki-oji (with plans to return it). Sets the small cake on the table. It's not much. Just something he baked early in the morning before he collapsed from the drills his uncle pushed on him the day before and the too-long hours of ninjutsu training at night.
He did write Kiri's name in icing on top. Kiri with a little star and a tiny spiral that sort of looks like a leaf if you squint.
"Alright," Akuto says. "Open."
Kiri peeks at first. Then gasps.
"It's for me?" he whispers, eyes wide.
"No," Akuto says sarcastically. "It's for the frog. Of course it's for you, idiot."
Kiri beams.
"You're six now," Akuto says. "Which means you're legally required to have cake."
Kiri's laugh bubbles out like a kettle left on the stove for too long. "You remembered!"
"Of course I remembered," Akuto says. "You wouldn't stop talking about it for three weeks."
Kiri throws his arms around him in a tackle-hug before Akuto can stop him. "Best Nii-san ever!"
.
.
He's not allowed to announce himself, Fuguki tells him one day. Now, he has to make people flinch before he even moves.
"Fear's louder than footsteps," he says. "You want them to hear the silence and panic."
So, Akuto starts slow. At night. Standing just outside of Nanami, Kisame, and random genin or chūnin's awareness range. Shifting gravel, dragging cloth, knocking a single pebble. Watches how they react. Sees the slight tensing, the sideways glance, the hesitation before the next step.
Not fear. Not yet.
But attention.
And attention is the first lie.
.
.
Fuguki got the dummy to talk.
Akuto has no idea, but Fuguki somehow managed to rig it with a playback seal. It begs. Pleads. "Please don't— I have a family—"
Akuto hesitates.
(Grating laughter, beady eyes—Don't you have a family—)
His ninjatō hovers at the dummy's throat. It doesn't look real. It doesn't sound real.
But something deep in his chest still stutters anyway.
He doesn't kill it.
Fuguki resets the voice.
Akuto sets his jaw.
Next time, he doesn't wait.
(Hours later, he throws up.)
.
.
His foot drags on purpose.
Just enough weight to mimic hesitation. Just enough sound to echo off the trees and bounce.
He moves in a half-circle around some chūnin, who's blindfolded for this drill. The older shinobi twitches toward the sound— away from where Akuto actually is.
A moment later, Akuto taps him on the back with the flat of his ninjatō.
The chūnin rips the blindfold off, teeth bared. "That was creepy."
Akuto grins. "Thank you."
.
.
He used to be good at genjutsu. Though he never had many chances to use it properly, it was something he was kinda proud of. Whether it was his vertigo genjutsu, simple illusions, or even sensory disruptions— he could loop a sound and once managed to fool a shinobi into chasing a ghost for ten minutes straight.
Now?
He tries to use a simple disorientation jutsu.
His chakra flares. Spikes.
Crashes.
He blacks out and wakes up in the dirt with Fuguki crouched over him, pressing a cold rag to his forehead.
"Don't skip meals," he says. "You're not a ghost yet."
.
.
The goal: move through the course without a single sound.
He's barefoot. Slow. His spine straight. He can hear his own heartbeat. Every step is careful.
The mist is thick. His breath low.
He sees the target dummy. Sword readied. Perfect kill angle.
Then snap—
A dry twig under his heel.
The dummy glows red. Failure.
Akuto's knuckles go white on the hilt.
Again.
.
.
He channels the chakra down through his thighs first.
Just a little. A whisper of lightning.
The burn starts immediately. Every nerve lights up. His muscles twitch out of rhythm. It's like trying to run while being stabbed with needles.
He collapses after one step.
But the next day, he tries again.
And makes it two.
.
.
It clicks during the seventh infiltration drill.
He doesn't hide in the mist.
He performs in it.
He leaves footprints that lead nowhere. Loops around to repeat a sound twice so it seems like he's behind both enemies.
He makes one genin stab a dummy out of panic. Another runs straight into a trap.
He doesn't kill either.
But when the drill ends, Kisame whistles and says, "I hate how well you're starting to get this."
Akuto exhales deeply.
Finally.
.
.
He sits in the middle of their garden, surrounded by his own mist.
He's not meditating. Not training.
Just listening.
Just mist and him and silence.
A bird lands near him. A snake slithers through the flowers somewhere behind him. A frog croaks in the distance.
.
.
This time the dummy sounds like a child.
The voice trembles. Pleads. Whimpers.
Akuto knows it's fake. Knows it's recorded.
But his hand won't move.
Fuguki watches. Not judging.
Akuto finally lifts the ninjatō. It's slow. Hesitant.
He makes the kill, but his heart is racing. Breath jagged. Vision too tight.
Later, he throws up behind the training shed.
Fuguki says nothing. Just leaves a water bottle beside him.
.
.
He's practicing foot-feints with Kisame again.
"Walk like you want to die slowly," Kisame says helpfully. "That's the idea."
Akuto tries.
He drags his step. Shifts his weight. Lets his heel strike a second too late, to echo—
—and immediately loses traction on moss. Flips forward. Slams into a rock.
Face-first.
Nanami snorts from the side. Mei laughs.
Kisame shrugs. "Honestly? Looks convincing."
Akuto groans into the dirt.
.
.
The lightning muscle channeling isn't stable. Nowhere near it.
But he can feel the potential. How it speeds his limbs. How it sharpens the flow. But then—
Then the backlash hits. Sharp and sudden, like someone jamming hot needles into his spine.
His right leg goes numb mid-sprint.
He collapses, skin sizzling slightly.
When Fuguki reaches him, Akuto is already biting down on his empty sleeve, trying not to scream.
"No technique's worth killing yourself for," Fuguki says, dragging him up.
Akuto doesn't reply.
He's already planning how to try again.
.
.
He starts practicing voice echoes. Whispers. Sounds that aren't quite real.
"Over here," he says, then pushes the chakra into the mist to echo it elsewhere.
It works once. Confuses some genin into splitting.
He tries again.
The sound loops, louder this time. Louder than intended. Jagged. It doesn't echo. It shrieks.
It breaks the silence so hard that Nanami flinches.
He winces. Fades back into the mist. Retreats.
Too much chakra. Wrong inflection.
He'll try again tomorrow.
.
.
Three drills.
Two failures.
A whole ass chakra backlash.
He's dizzy. Vision keeps sliding sideways. His left leg feels like rubber and regret.
Fuguki gives him the look. That look. The one that says, I'll push you until you break unless you say no.
Akuto can't open his mouth to ask for a break.
He can't.
.
.
Akuto leans against the Academy gate, hand in his pocket, one foot braced behind him. Aching all over. He's already spotted Kōsei— much to his surprise— the boy being the first one out of the Ninenkan. Shoulders hunched like he expected the world to hit him on the way home.
Akuto didn't say anything. Just watched.
Now, the second wave of students is spilling out. Noisier and more chaotic.
He hears Kiri before he sees him. "Nii-san! Nii-san! I made six friends today!" he shouts, pushing himself past students. Runs toward him like he's about to launch into orbit. His jacket's rumpled, there's dirt on his fingers, and one of his boots is half open.
Akuto straightens and lets the boy crash into his side. "Six, huh? That's how many now? Fifteen?"
Kiri grins. "One of them's from the Yuki clan! He says his older brother makes exploding tags at home! Can you believe that? He said he's gonna sneak me one!"
Akuto raises an eyebrow. "You're not allowed around explosives unsupervised."
Kiri huffs. "It's not a real one. I think. Probably."
They start walking toward Saigawa, with Akuto letting Kiri set the pace and fill the silence with chatter.
"Then there's Tsubaki— her parents are farmers and she wants to learn ninjutsu to protect the crops— oh! And there's Dai, who's huge and says he wants to be a samurai even though he's Kiri-born, and…"
Akuto tunes most of the chatter out, but nods and asks questions at the right places, and walks Kiri home.
He doesn't see Kōsei again that day.
.
.
The final drill of the month is set at dusk.
He lays one trap. Makes two noises.
Then hides.
The genin squad comes in. Cautious. Ready.
They never even reach the mist before they pull back—
Spooked by what might be inside.
Fuguki calls the drill. "Minimal input," he says. "Maximal fear."
Akuto writes it in the scroll.
.
.
65年5月
.
He channels lighting chakra down to his feet.
Just a pulse. A whisper. Enough to move faster, close distance, vanish from sight.
He kicks off—
—and immediately eats dirt. His legs lock mid-movement with a lightning spasm that feels like his tendons just snapped.
He groans into the dirt. Gasping.
Nanami stands over him, unimpressed. "I felt you start to disappear. Then I watched you die."
Akuto coughs. "Gimme a minute."
"You don't have a minute."
.
.
The goal: create dread without movement.
No sword. No voice. Just presence.
Akuto sets the mist thick and high. Lays subtle sounds. A kunai drop here, a fake breath there.
One genin sees a flicker of movement.
They freeze.
The others pause. Whisper. Reposition.
Akuto hasn't moved in ten minutes.
But now, no one moves.
Fuguki grunts. "Fear doesn't need sound. You're learning."
.
.
He can't get the timing right.
The reverse-stab kata demands he strike before the opponent finishes attacking. He's not used to interrupting. He was trained to evade, then reply.
So, the first ten attempts?
He waits. Gets "killed" every time.
Fuguki watches, arms crossed. Doesn't say a word.
On the eleventh try, Akuto stops waiting. He steps in during the swing.
The stab lands. Not clean, but first.
.
.
Engage. Disengage. Reappear.
It's simple on paper.
Not so simple in practice. Akuto enters the mist, ninjatō low. Feints left. Attacks right. Then drops a smoke bomb and tries to vanish before the opponent retaliates.
Too slow.
A tag goes off behind him. In a real fight, he's dead. Again.
Kisame sighs. "Mist's your ally, Akuto. Not your crutch. Move like the mist does. Quiet, fast, and always where I'm not expecting."
Akuto nods. Is listening. He's also writing it down in his scroll, along with every other failure (or success), like it's a language he's learning to speak.
.
.
He steadies his breathing. His right hand flickers through the seals one-handed. Pain pulses in his knuckles.
Lightning crawls up his spine—
He vanishes.
Reappears six metres away, behind the wrong dummy. Lands on one knee, gasping. The mist around him scatters from his speed burst. His muscles feel like broken wires.
He stays on the ground for a long while.
The clone jutsu can wait.
.
.
Kisame swings down hard. Never one to hold back.
Akuto sidesteps. Not fully, just enough. He presses his foot against Kisame's shin mid-swing. Shifts his weight. And lets Kisame's force carry him forward into a spin.
The blunt end of his ninjatō taps Kisame's ribs.
Not a kill. But it should have been. Could have been if it was anyone else but Kisame.
"Again," Kisame says. Akuto can hear a hint of respect in his voice. In the way he raises his eyebrows.
.
.
He pushes too hard.
Three lighting flickers in one session. On the third, he lands wrong. Knee buckles. Lightning backfires up his leg. Into his spine.
He screams. Falls. Seizes.
Nanami's the one who drags him back to the flat. She doesn't speak.
The next morning, he wakes up with a large breakfast and a post it note stuck to his forehead. Don't run before you can't walk, idiot, it reads.
.
.
It happens entirely on accident.
He flickers too soon, lighting misfiring. Slams his nervous system, and his leg goes out mid-strike.
He falls into the target. Hilt-first.
But it's unexpected. Fast. Brutal, even. The "enemy" doesn't react in time. It's still a kill. And—
And Akuto realizes that the pain slows him, but the stumble misdirects.
He writes in his scroll: pain failure. if i move like i'm injured, they'll underestimate the burst. use it.
.
.
He's blindfolded. No mist. Just memory and movement.
Fuguki yells, "Go!"
Akuto moves. Draws the sword mid-motion. A single heartbeat— his own.
The strike lands too far left. Kill fails.
Fuguki growls. "Faster."
Akuto doesn't argue. He runs it again. And again. And again.
Until he memorises it like others would kanji.
.
.
The lighting is too strong. Too much chakra. It shoots through his spine like glass shards wrapped in fire.
He flickers—
Collapses face-first into the mud.
For a second he doesn't move. Can't move.
Then his hand twitches. He turns his face sideways and laughs. Bitter. Dry.
"Too much," he tells himself. "Okay. You can try again."
.
.
It takes him another two weeks before he gets it right.
The mist is thicker now than it's ever been. Perfectly controlled. And only where he wants it. He closes his eyes. One seal. Dragon.
Lighting pulses. Not a surge, not a storm. Just enough.
He flickers.
Gone.
Then—
Behind the dummy, mid-strike before it would've turned.
One clean move. No sound. The strike lands.
Fuguki says behind him, "Again."
.
.
The mist-vanish drill used to get him caught every time.
Now?
He appears behind one dummy. Tags it. Drops a smoke bomb. Flickers sideways. But not too far, just enough to get out of view. Disappears again.
Two more dummies go untouched.
One turns toward where he was. Not where he is.
He tags the final one mid-spin.
9.8 seconds.
Fuguki's voice sounds through the mist, "Again."
But it sounds proud.
.
.
He wakes up in his room with muscles tremors and blood in his mouth. His chakra is depleted and his tenketsu feel raw, like he dragged them through thorns.
He rolls over in his hammock. Groans.
There's tea waiting for him on his desk. Someone left it. No note.
He sips it. It hurts to swallow.
But he still limps out for training.
Because lighting doesn't rest.
.
.
65年6月
.
He doesn't need to form the mist anymore, after hundreds upon hundreds of attempts. It just comes now. One breath in, one breath out, and it crawls from the ground like it's been waiting for him.
Nanami watches from the edge of the training ground. Arms crossed. "You ever think it's too easy now?" she asks.
He doesn't answer.
Later that night, he wonders the same thing.
.
.
He doesn't set traps anymore, either. He orchestrates them. Tripwire pulls a clone into a fake stumble. The stumble draws attention. The enemy goes for the distraction while the real him waits for the one who reacts.
One genin panics mid-drill. Stumbles back. Hits a sound tag.
Screams.
It wasn't meant to go off.
Akuto pulls back. Fast. Cancels the drill.
His heart's racing. Not from fear. From adrenaline. Satisfaction.
(Joy.)
That's what scares him.
.
.
He doesn't remember falling.
Just blinks and suddenly he's on the floor of the training ground. Cold sweat. No idea how he got there. His legs are twitching. Fingers locked in a half-seal.
Fuguki's standing over him. Cigarette in his mouth. Calm. Too calm. "You skipped dinner again. Your Okan worries."
Akuto coughs. "Didn't feel hungry."
"You didn't feel anything."
The next day, the training schedule changes. Less lightning. More silence. More sessions with Okan in the garden.
He doesn't fight it.
.
.
The mist is thick. Too thick to see.
He's inside it. Alone. The drill demands he kill three enemies without ever leaving the mist.
He doesn't.
He makes them come to him. Draws them with noises. Movement. Makes them think he's closer. Then cuts off sound entirely.
They hesitate.
He kills the first one in silence. The second panics. The third flees.
He never steps out.
Fuguki logs the time: 12.7 seconds. 3 targets. No engagement break.
.
.
No light. Not even moonlight. The mist is dark. Cold. Dead.
The dummy is rigged to sound like a child again. Crying this time. Shaking.
Akuto doesn't flinch.
He steps forward, goes for the kill. Quick. Quiet.
He doesn't feel anything.
The next day, he goes back to Saigawa. Scrolls full of supplies. Reserves full with chakra to spent healing. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't do anything but the usual. Doesn't look for Kiri or Kōsei or Satsuki.
He goes there just to feel again.
(When he gets home that evening, he throws up.)
.
.
He finishes setting the kill zone in under three minutes. Wire, tags, sword. All perfect. All undetectable.
Fuguki tests the zone himself. Trips over one wire. Flinches— ever so slightly. Akuto can only tell because the mist is his.
"You could kill someone before they even think about fighting," Fuguki says.
Akuto nods. And wonders, again, if that's still what he wants.
.
.
Lighting shoots through his legs. Low voltage. Quick burst.
He flickers forward. Appears behind the dummy before the strike is over.
Clean kill.
Then, for one horrifying second, he doesn't remember moving at all.
It just happened.
He stares at his hand. Sees red.
Fuguki says, "Again."
He obeys. But slower, this time.
.
.
He's in a drill with two genin again. They're all different people most of the time. He has no idea where Fuguki always finds them. What he trades for them to help him.
The mist is thick. Weapons and traps placed. Flicker ready.
They don't stand a chance. One, the genin, cries out before the strike even lands. The other runs. When it ends, Akuto looks down at the sword in his hand.
He doesn't remember drawing it.
He doesn't even remember the face of the one he tagged.
It takes him five minutes to stop shaking.
.
.
Fuguki doesn't say much.
But the next day, the drills are different. More grounding. Less kill-cunt. More control.
Akuto doesn't argue.
.
.
He finally manages a genjutsu again. One of his own.
It starts with his own voice. A breath. A whispered word.
Then mist.
Pressure on the ears.
Then the sound of footsteps… his own, repeated out of sync, coming from all directions. The targets get trapped in a loop where Akuto is everywhere and nowhere.
It's an area-of-effect one, so he doesn't even need eye-contact.
He tests it on Fuguki.
Fuguki-oji approves.
He feels sick for hours.
.
.
Fuguki forces him to sit.
No drills. No mist. Certainly no lighting.
Just breathing.
Akuto fights it at first. His skin itches for action. For rhythm. For purpose.
Then the silence hits.
The mist inside his head finally clears.
For ten full minutes, he doesn't think of killing anything.
That night, he sleeps.
Deeply. For the first time in months.
.
.
They spar again.
He flickers in with mist, fast enough to get close.
Nanami parries without looking.
He uses his new genjutsu. It delays her by a second. Then she grabs his wrist mid-strike, knees his stomach, and drops him with a clean, calm throw. Holds her sword to his neck. Draws no blood.
"Twelve seconds," she says.
He coughs. "…I'm improving."
She doesn't disagree.
.
.
The flicker pulls right again. He overcharges the ankle. Lands with too much force and stumbles. But this time—
He uses it.
Rolls into a low sweep that clips the dummy's leg.
Messy.
But effective.
Fuguki nods. "Make failure look intentional."
.
.
He watches Nanami train.
Not fighting. No ninjutsu. Just stepping. He watches the way she moves before she moves. Her ships shift a fraction of a second before her ninjatō swings.
That night, he adjusts his own kata. Not faster, but earlier.
It changes everything.
.
.
65年7月
.
It's hour two of the simulation.
No rest. No reset. Just a constant churn of mist, wire traps, and rotating squad members of genin Fuguki got gods know where sent to hunt him down.
He drops the fourth genin with a clone-feint combo. But on the fifth, his legs buckle mid-flicker. He collapses into the cold mud.
Dead, officially. Drill over.
Fuguki walks past him. Doesn't stop. "If you stay down in the field, you don't get to try again."
Akuto doesn't say anything.
But when he sits up three heartbeats later, his hand is already forming seals.
.
.
He hears the genin's breath hitch.
One step. Two steps. Then his genjutsu triggers. Three perfect seconds of fake footsteps behind the boy. The genin spins. Slashes empty air.
Wide open.
Akuto's kunai is already at his throat.
.
.
Lighting chakra burn through his muscles mid-sprint. Too sharp.
His ankle turns.
But he doesn't stop. He reaches for his ankle, pushes Yang chakra into his palm, green light glowing.
He doesn't slow.
It's ugly. It hurts.
But his ankle is hale by the time he makes the next kill.
.
.
They're older than him. Bigger. Quicker to surround him.
The drill begins.
Akuto vanishes into the mist at once. Somewhat decent clone to the right. Misdirection tag, courtesy of Kirimaru, behind. Real Akuto drops from a tree.
Tags one.
Gets clipped by a kunai to the left shoulder. Deep.
He doesn't stop. Instead, he uses the stagger to bait another.
By the end, he's down.
But so are three others.
.
.
It happens again when he's walking home.
He blinks and then he's lying face-up in a bush. Dim moon overhead. Aneki finds him. She doesn't comment. Just sets a water flask beside him and disappears into the trees.
The next day, Fuguki increases his rest cycles by thirty minutes.
.
.
Akuto's limping. Flicker overused. Chakra already drained.
He's the last one standing in the final squad drill of the week.
He shouldn't win.
Doesn't.
But he fights until his knees buckle, kunai swinging, breath ragged.
Fuguki steps in before the last strike lands.
"No flair," he says, crouching beside him.
"Only death," Akuto says.
Fuguki smirks. "And you're finally learning when to stop before yours."
.
.
He hits his rhythm again.
Two dummies down. Third in sight.
He flickers.
The pain hits late—
Rebound from lighting released too close to the spine. His legs lock mid-move. He slams shoulder-first into the ground.
Sprawled. Drenched in sweat. Can't move.
The dummy just stands there.
Mocking.
.
.
He releases the genjutsu.
The sound illusion is perfect.
His target whirls, wide-eyed— he's got them.
He flickers—
—and oversteps. Loses balance. Has to scramble to land the hit.
It's still a kill.
But it's messy. Sloppy.
He writes down, power doesn't mean control. i'm not there yet.
.
.
No clones. No mist. No genjutsu. Just him, his ninjatō, one arm.
The genin comes in wild. Predictable.
Akuto steps aside. Pivots. Low parry. Counter-strike.
Kill tap to the chest.
No dramatics. No flair.
Just practice turned instinct.
.
.
65年8月
.
Fuguki doesn't say anything anymore. No strategy. No warning. He just points to the woods and says, "They're in there."
Akuto nods once. Doesn't ask how many or where.
He simply disappears into the mist.
.
.
This time, after the extended mission sim—
Three hours. Mist-heavy. Seven different zones. Five traps avoided. One clone killed—
He doesn't pass out.
He's limping. Eyes bloodshot. But he walks back.
Nanami nods at him when he passes her during her ninjutsu training with Mei.
He grins back.
.
.
He's faster and quieter now.
Clone steps left.
Genjutsu released behind.
The target spins toward the wrong sound, slashes through the clone—
— and Akuto flickers in from the right.
It's so seamless it looks like a team attack.
.
.
He triggers the start.
First target walks into a genjutsu. Second gets pulled into mist and clone misdirection. Third almost gets him— katana nearly slices his ribs.
He adapts. Sacrifices a clone. Takes the hit. Still lands the kill.
Time: 2:51.
Fuguki nods.
.
.
No genjutsu. No lighting.
He breathes in.
Steps forward.
Ninjatō swings once.
Target drops.
Everything else is still.
.
.
Mist.
Clone.
Lighting flicker.
Genjutsu.
Healing jutsu mid-run.
It's messy. Ugly. Slower than he wanted.
But it works.
Every piece falls into place. Not clean. Not perfect. But his.
He finishes the run panting.
Fuguki nods and says, "You finally stopped thinking like a student."
.
.
The door creaks open.
Akuto walks inside. Same warmth. Same low light. Same smell— aged wood, smoke, steel, and faint alcohol. But still not unpleasant. It hits him different today. Softer, maybe. Familiar. Not suffocating.
Seven people again, maybe fewer. Doesn't matter.
The man with the wooden leg is here again, as well. Same table. Same zabuton. And if Akuto had to guess, same drink. He doesn't look up at first. Doesn't have to. He probably knows Akuto's here, in the way old fighters always do.
Akuto walks over. No hesitation this time. Doesn't need an invitation. No tension. No glance at the exit like he'd rather be anywhere else. He sits down without a word.
Same zabuton.
The table feels the same under his plam. The dents, the grain, the weight.
He breathes out.
The old man glances at him. Eyes narrow. Then, a flicker of recognition passes. He lifts his drink.
Akuto doesn't smile. Just nods.