Mizuki's attack came with frightening speed—just like a true battlefield veteran.
His kunai thrust struck straight toward Souji's lower back with lethal precision.
But instead of the usual resistance of flesh, his hand met something else entirely.
A wooden thunk.
Mizuki froze.
"Damn it…!"
There was no joy, no thrill, no satisfaction.
Every seasoned ninja knew the distinct feel of stabbing a real body.
And this wasn't it.
Body Replacement Technique.
Before he could even finish the thought, the "Souji" he had stabbed exploded into white smoke, leaving only a carved wooden stake hanging from Mizuki's kunai.
A cold killing intent washed over Mizuki's neck.
His entire body stiffened.
His breath caught.
His heart nearly stopped.
He felt—no, he saw—a towering black figure behind him. A Shinigami-like silhouette cloaked in darkness, holding a massive scythe. The blade hovered against his throat, whispering death.
Mizuki's vision darkened.
His mind emptied.
He felt his life ending at this moment—cold, quiet, meaningless.
All the years he spent running from failure.
All the years chasing strength.
All the years wanting recognition.
It all collapsed into a single moment of terror.
This was why he and Iruka tried becoming academy teachers.
The fear of war.
The fear of death.
The fear of being powerless.
And despite running, death had come anyway.
Then a calm voice cut through the terror.
"You're right," Souji said behind him, stepping out of the fading illusion. "But it's a pity—you are not the first person to teach me a lesson."
Souji lifted his blade slightly.
"The first person who taught me…"
"…showed me the true meaning of being a ninja."
He leaned closer.
"Ninjas always live in lies."
Mizuki swallowed, unable to move.
"So within this one month," Souji continued softly, "I learned every lesson the ninja academy had to offer."
This wasn't arrogance.
This was the truth.
Souji had once believed he didn't need this world's ninjutsu. He had thought the system alone would carry him. After all, as a transmigrator, he knew the future—he knew the monsters that would one day roam the battlefield.
By normal standards, he would only ever become a Jōnin at best.
Kage-level? Impossible.
Ōtsutsuki-level? Laughable.
So he had abandoned the world's "normal path" and focused entirely on what the system gave him.
But then—
Orochimaru slapped him awake.
That Body Replacement Technique Orochimaru used had shocked him to the core. Souji realized something crucial:
Without the foundation of this world, he would die long before reaching the future he feared.
Feitian Yujian-ryū gave him terrifying destructive power, yes.
But his combat methods were too simple, too narrow.
Ninjas were tricksters, liars, illusionists, strategists.
To survive here, he needed everything—
Swordsmanship.
Ninjutsu.
Deception.
Subtlety.
And above all—
Adaptability.
He even had to thank Itachi.
Thanks to Itachi, Souji had textbooks and clan manuals normally restricted to Uchiha prodigies.
While Souji reflected, Mizuki broke down completely.
"Kuso…! Why?!" he screamed. "Why can your clan grow so strong? Why does a brat like you get Hokage-sama's attention?! Why do you get Orochimaru-sama's attention?! Why does everyone acknowledge you?!"
His voice cracked.
His hands clawed at his own hair.
He looked nothing like a shinobi—more like a man losing the last threads of his sanity.
Souji sighed.
"Well, you're acting more like a child than me."
He drew back his sword, dismissing it from Mizuki's throat, and turned away with disdain. His footsteps were slow but confident.
"What kid?!" Mizuki roared, refusing to accept it. "I survived the Third Ninja World War! I fought! I bled! What right do you have to humiliate me?! You're just from a better clan! If it weren't for that damn Sharingan—"
Souji didn't even flinch.
This was exactly what he was waiting for.
A fragile mind
A wounded ego
A man desperate for acknowledgment
A man ready to break
A man ready to be shaped
A perfect subordinate.
Souji stopped walking.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
He turned halfway, keeping his face unreadable.
"You've lived through battles, yes," he said. "But that alone doesn't make you an adult."
He folded his arms.
"Adults grow through small pains too. Forgetting toilet paper. Finding your favorite food shop closed. Being let down by simple things."
"These tiny desperations—they force people to mature."
Mizuki stared, trembling.
Souji stepped closer.
"If you were truly mature, you wouldn't resent where you came from. You didn't choose your origins."
"If you were truly mature, you wouldn't cry because others don't see your worth. It just means you're not bright enough yet."
Then—
Souji kicked Mizuki to the ground, pinning him with a foot to the chest.
Mizuki coughed blood from the blow.
Souji leaned forward, staring straight into Mizuki's eyes.
"You wonder why I survived Orochimaru?" he asked.
Mizuki's pupils shrank.
Souji raised his voice slightly—
"The reason is simple. It's because I already understand—"
"I DON'T NEED THIS NONSENSE!" Mizuki screamed desperately, interrupting him. "I gained enlightenment in the Third Ninja World War! I—"
Souji stomped on his chest again, silencing him with another painful gasp.
He spoke coldly:
"Enlightenment is not self-sacrifice. Enlightenment is not about throwing your life away."
"True enlightenment…"
"…is carving a path forward in a dark wilderness when no one else can."
He lowered his gaze.
"Look at yourself."
"My misfortune is inflicted by others—so I fight back. But you? You blame your origin. You blame your lack of attention. You blame everything but yourself."
"You hate today. You'll hate tomorrow. You'll hate the next day."
"You don't even respect yourself."
"You're lost in darkness. Afraid. Cowardly. Frozen."
"You hide under your metaphorical blanket like a child terrified of ghosts."
He stepped harder.
"And you call that enlightenment?"
Mizuki trembled, breath shallow, eyes unfocused.
Souji smirked.
Exactly what he needed.
A broken enemy.
A moldable subordinate.
A talent ready to be reshaped.
This was step one.
And Souji never wasted an opportunity.
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