The air in the morning was chilly, fresh, and still—until the collision of our first strike rang across the backyard.
My father stood facing me, arms relaxed at his sides, feet planted like a mountain. I stood in front of him, lightly panting, already drenched from the warm-up. It wasn't sparring. This was the first lesson in the last three days that I'd get from him before he departed for the frontlines.
We glared at each other.
No words. No cues.
Then we stepped into motion.
I charged forward, for his side with a snapping jab and a sweeping low kick. He pivoted out of reach so easily, allowing my momentum to take me just far enough to leave my guard open. I readjusted, closing my form, spinning low and rising with an elbow to his ribcage.
He countered it with his forearm. The shock hurt my bones.
He returned with a knee intended for my gut—I dodged it and slid past him, attempting to capitalize on the moment. I threw a palm strike in the direction of his lower back.
But he was already out of there.
He sank low, turning his body and hooking me with a leg sweep. I jumped over it, just in time, and staggered to the ground. His hand flashed at my throat. I turned, using my wrist to parry it, and hit him back with a punch to the jaw—at last, a clean shot—
Unless it wasn't.
He leaned his head just far enough forward for my fist to brush against his cheek, then caught my forearm in mid-swing. I struggled to pull away, but his hold was like a vice.
"Good try," he said nonchalantly—and kicked his foot into my chest.
I didn't even realize it until I was flying.
Air rushed out of my lungs as I was flung backward, and slammed hard into the courtyard wall. My back slammed into the stone with a hard thud, and I collapsed into a sitting position, gasping for air, chest afire.
I sat there for a moment.
I struggled to my feet, panting.
My father remained where he was, rolling his shoulder. He seemed to have hardly warmed up.
Then he grinned. "Come on. We have a lot to do."
He didn't waste any time.
I charged forward, unleashing a low sweeping kick at his legs—an opening tactic I'd watched dozens of genin fall for. But he didn't even blink. In a single motion, he stepped just beyond the arc, seized my collar, and sent me off balance with a careless twist. I broke my fall, flipped, and came down on one knee.
Nano whispered in my head, dissecting everything:
"Muscle tension detected in left calf—marks false feint." "Chakra in fingertips. Possible parry from a high angle." "No weight shift—strike unlikely. Counter from right in preparation."
I moved quickly, deflecting a punch into a tight roll, then struck back with an elbow at his ribcage. He parried it neatly.
He raised an eyebrow in the middle of the spar. "You're analyzing every move, aren't you?"
I didn't respond. I didn't have time. I was too occupied trying to get one clean hit.
He wasn't merely good. He was impenetrable.
I attempted to change direction, luring him with feigned motions, combining techniques from another ninja I'd trained—but his responses were flawless. Not flashy. Just. sound. As if he knew what I was going to do before I did.
An hour elapsed.
My breathing was labored, my chest moving rapidly up and down. My shirt was soaked. My skin was bruised and scraped. He stood there, hardly winded, arms crossed like we'd just eaten breakfast.
"How did you avoid that last combination?" I asked, attempting not to sound annoyed.
He smiled—smug but warm.
"I didn't dodge it. I faked you out," he said. "I let you think I was shifting left, then struck from the right at the last second. You focused too much on where my body looked like it was going."
I frowned.
He advanced, voice subdued. "Your taijutsu is strong. I can see that you've developed your style based on what you've learned from others. That takes a lot of skill. But keep in mind—because a style is constructed from observation doesn't mean it suits you. You must mold it to fit with your instincts."
I nodded slowly.
"And one more thing," he added. "Add feints to your movement. Conceal your real intent. Observe muscle shifts, facial tension, and breathing—but never take any of those as the ultimate truth. True experts will alter their moves in the last second. If you pursue ghosts, you'll get stuck."
His tone changed. "Now. let's proceed to ninjutsu."
He stood up straight. "You know the three fundamental academy jutsu?"
I nodded. "Yes."
His brow rose. "Confident. Demonstrate."
I smiled. This was the moment I'd been looking forward to.
I lifted one hand—only one. Less than a second, and I wove the signs. Poof! Smoke burst around me, and when it dissipated, three impeccable clones stood with me—twinning each other, moving in perfect synchrony, flawlessly between them.
His mouth fell open. No words—just pure astonishment.
"How did you finish hand signs using one hand?" he asked, agog.
I shrugged and smirked at him. "I don't know. Perhaps I'm just a once-a-decade genius?"
He blinked. Gaped at me. Then laughed—shaking his head, attempting to restore composure.
"Okay, genius," he said. "Demonstrate every jutsu you've learned but not mastered."
Without further ado, I advanced.
Wind Release: Great Breakthrough—a blast of air erupted from my chest, and leaves and dust flew around.Water Release: Waterfall Basin—a wave smashed onto the training grounds, drenching the earth.Earth Style: Earth Wall, then Hiding Like a Mole—the earth uprose, and I vanished under it. Next, I did Shadow Possession Jutsu and Mind Transfer Jutsu—both slow, both crude, but they worked.
My father observed everything with a keen eye. When I had done, panting, he came over and placed a hand on the shoulder.
"You've learned a great deal," he said. "Even more than I anticipated. But you're expending too much chakra without coordinating it with the situation. If you're attempting to retreat, then employ something broad-range like Great Breakthrough. Don't go maximum power when half-casting would suffice."
I nodded.
"And your Shadow Imitation and Mind Transfer. you've studied the theory, but you must practice it more. Your chakra release is sluggish—particularly with Yin nature. Acquaint yourself with it. Sense it. It's subtle, quiet, precise. It's not about strength—it's about threading a needle through a storm."
I drank in each word.
And then he stepped back, cracked his neck, and smiled.
"Let's go on."
He took a few steps back and turned to face me again. The gravity was back in his tone, but there was now a glint of enthusiasm in his eyes.
"We begin with something practical. Wind Release—Gale Palm. C-rank. Easy, effective, and lethal in the right hands."
He lifted one arm, created a single-hand seal, and then extended his palm forward. A burst of compressed wind shot out of it, piercing and powerful. It cut through the air, scattering leaves and raising dust. A training dummy several meters away fell over with a loud thud.
It can knock enemies off-kilter, give you greater reach in hand-to-hand combat, or increase speed if you throw it behind you. Concentrate your chakra into your palm—acutely—and let it all go in one direction. Controlled force.
He showed me again, this time slower, allowing me to observe how the chakra flowed from his shoulder down into his hand. Nano spoke the flow pattern of chakra in my head, creating it for me in real time.
I nodded and moved forward.
Hands raised. Concentration. I focused the chakra into my hand, imagining it like compressed air inside a sealed chamber. Then I pushed it forward.
Whoosh.
Too soft.
I tried again. The next blast had power, but it was unfocused—more of a gust than a strike.
"Compress it more," he said. "Like coiling a spring. Then snap."
On the fourth attempt, the wind cracked like a whip. A small rock in front of me flipped over from the pressure.
I smiled. So did he.
"Nice," he said, nodding once. "Now something a bit more creative."
He approached a clump of earth, kneeled, and laid his hand on the ground.
"Earth Release: Mud Wolves."
He created a string of signs—Boar → Dog → Ram → Horse—before slapping his palm onto the ground. The earth rippled, becoming slick and muddy. Within seconds, the mud coalesced—into wolves. Four of them, growled, motionless, eyes faintly aglow with chakra. They moved around him like summoned animals.
"This one's versatile," he described. "Scouting, distractions, pressure attacks. The chakra links remain active as long as you continue to feed it—treat them like mobile extensions of your will."
He gestured. "Your turn."
I replicated the hand signals, caused the chakra to sink into the earth, and concentrated with all my might. The mud foamed, rose—and fell back in.
"Too little structure," Nano said. "Try solidifying chakra form sooner in the rise."
I adapted. During the second try, one wolf fully came out—sloppy, unsteady, but it worked.
"Better," said my father. "You'll have to practice this more, but you're getting the right flow."
He sent his wolves away with a hand seal. Then, his voice changed again—deeper, harder.
"Now. Our clan's tradition."
He lowered himself into a stance I knew instantly.
"Shadow Sewing Jutsu."
His shadow lengthened, then instantly branched out into thin, jagged tendrils—like black ropes or ink spears, curling and twisting with exact accuracy. They shot up, coiling around a nearby log and spearing through leaves in mid-air.
"This is one of our most lethal arts. Unlike Shadow Possession, it's not for immobilizing. It's for attacking—pushing, stabbing, grabbing. You control your shadow like a weapon, and the secret is chakra control. You're going to have to balance the flow at the tips. Imagine controlling several fingers simultaneously."
He moved towards me, knelt, and stared at me in the eyes.
"Begin slow. Master one thread. Then two. Master the dividing of your attention. Don't think it will be easy—it won't."
I made the ram hand seal, extended my chakra, and threw my shadow ahead. It lengthened—but too rigidly. I attempted to divide it.
Nothing.
"Use Yin chakra," he instructed. "Subtle. Mastered. Be like a puppeteer, not a force."
I breathed and attempted again. This time, I poured chakra more slowly, gentled my intent, and allowed the shadow to creep.
It twitched.
Then it split—only a few inches, but definitely.
I felt my heart thud.
"Good," he said. "We'll keep at this. Shadow Sewing takes time. But once you get it. there's no warning when it strikes."
"Tomorrow," he told me, "we begin sparring with these. If you want them to function in an actual fight, you'll have to drive them over the edge."
I nodded.
"I'm ready."
My body hurt with each movement. Muscles pounded, bruises burned with heat, and each joint seemed to have been turned just so that it could protest. I hauled myself back inside, hardly able to raise my arms. The day had sucked the last drop of energy out of me.
"Nano," I grumbled. "Ease the pain. Painkillers. Medium dose."
"Acknowledged."
A chilled, weightless feeling ran through my body like a whispered wave. The ache didn't disappear, but it muted to a bearable level. I could breathe again.
"Start processing today's data," I instructed, entering my mindscape.
"Analyzation in process."
A second passed, and then Nano's voice spoke in my mind.
"Complete. Your father's taijutsu model has been assembled and is now available for virtual combat simulation. His distinctive movements have been charted and incorporated into your evolving taijutsu style. Chakra routes for recently learned ninjutsu have also been logged. Muscular and chakra feedback systems have been calibrated to enable one-handed hand sign performance."
I nodded, taking in the information.
"Demonstrate virtual combat augmentation," I instructed.
Nano's tone changed to instruction mode.
"Virtual Combat Augmentation is a neural-synced simulation environment. You can fight against models constructed from people you've taken data on. You currently have two combat models available for use: Itachi Uchiha and your father. Note: your father's model is running at 15% capacity because of sparse data."
I stopped, considering.
"If I go in tonight… will I be physically and mentally prepared by morning?"
"Yes. Although your mind will be working while in simulation, your body is in a rest state. I will help with stabilization and restoration of mental energy after the session."
That was good enough for me.
I flopped down into bed, letting my body slide into the bedding. I shut my eyes and whispered:
"Load father's model."
There was darkness.
A heartbeat later, I was in a darkened dojo—virtual, but real enough that I could sense the grittiness of the floor beneath my bare feet. In front of me stood my father. Not the actual one—but the 15% model, designed from today's battle.
Nevertheless… the gaze in his eyes was the same.
He bowed slightly. I did the same.
Then we fought.
I charged forward, starting with a feint jab and attempting to slip low beneath his defenses. He didn't even flinch. He shifted—ever so slightly—and I got punched in the stomach by his knee. I stumbled back, reeling, as he made a hand sign. Poof! He was gone.
Body Replacement Jutsu.
I turned—but too late.
A chop came from behind and struck me on the neck. I spun and countered. No one was there.
Another poof. He returned—my father, transformed into me. Before I could move, his fist connected with my chest and knocked me crashing across the dojo floor.
Three moves.
Body Replacement. Transformation. Timing to perfection.
That was all.
I was lying there, looking up at the ceiling of the virtual world, stunned.
He'd been letting me have it easy. Even at 15%, this simulation copy of him tore me apart in three moves. That reality hit deep. And it sparked a fire.
I stood up again.
"Again."
We fought again. And again. And again.
I lost. Sometimes in five moves, sometimes in ten. I attempted wind jutsu—he replied with positioning. I employed clones—he hit the actual one on his first try. He employed feints, misdirection, terrain, shadow control, and even subtle posture changes to push me into traps.
But I persisted.
Midnight went by.
Once, I struck him—just once. A back-fisted strike to his side following a clone distraction. He still won the bout, but I struck him. I documented each error, each pattern, and each deception.
I learned.
Battle IQ counted. Reflexes, chakra, even skill—none of which ever assured victory. The terrain itself was a participant in the contest. Corners. Shadows. Footing. Sound. Deceit.
By the time Nano's voice shattered the quiet—
"Simulation session over. Mental endurance is close to breaking point. Leaving now to recover."
—I was still on my feet.
Bruised. Tired. But upright.
And as the world receded, I made myself a silent vow:
Tomorrow, I won't only train harder—I'll train smarter. I'll learn to read everything, not just opponents—but the battlefield itself. That's how I'll win.
"""
Chapter length-2531 words
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