The door to my father's office slammed shut behind me with a definitive click that echoed down the empty hallway, the sound quickly swallowed by the fog that always seemed to linger in the complex's corridors like a silent observer. The parchment in my hands felt heavier than it should—a simple roll of parchment sealed with red wax, but it carried the weight of expectation, of proof. My father's words still resonated in my ears: "Prove that you can learn from just this parchment. This is a test." His voice had been firm, almost casual, but I knew it wasn't. It was his way of assessing me, of seeing if the fire in my eyes was real or just a fleeting childish spark.
I wasted no time. The parchment burned in my hand, propelling me forward. I needed a place to study it, to practice without interruption. The main training grounds were too open, highly likely to attract curious glances from brothers or worried looks from mothers. Instead, I slipped through a side gate, heading for the wooded perimeter of the clan grounds. The path was familiar, winding between rocky outcrops dotted with low shrubs that stubbornly clung to life in the salty, unforgiving soil. The mist was denser there, wrapping around my legs like living tendrils, the fresh air smelling of damp earth and pines. The trees began to cluster more densely as I ventured deeper—a natural barrier my father always said was both defensive and decorative. Birds chirped faintly above me, their songs muffled, as if the mist swallowed the sound along with the light.
I found my place after a short walk: a small clearing surrounded by denser woods, dominated by a massive oak tree whose trunk was as thick as three men shoulder to shoulder, its bark rough and gnarled like the skin of an ancient warrior scarred by countless battles. Roots snaked across the ground, twisting into the earth like anchors that held the tree steady against the coastal winds that howled through the village on the stormiest days. The spot was perfectly secluded, the trees densely clustered around like silent guardians, the mist hanging thicker there, concealing the location from the main compound but still keeping me within the protective embrace of the clan's territory. It was ideal—a private arena where I could face this challenge alone, with the only witnesses being the rustling of the leaves and the indifferent mist.
I sat leaning against a nearby rock, its surface cool and slightly damp with dew that seeped into my tunic, sending a shiver down my spine. The grass was damp beneath me, supple with moisture, and I carefully unrolled the parchment in my lap, the paper crackling softly under my fingers—a crisp, intimate sound in the tranquility of the forest. The ink gleamed black and precise against the yellowish background, my father's handwriting evident in the neat captions and intricate diagrams adorning the margins. The title was straightforward, almost deceptively simple: "Chakra Adhesion Techniques: Climbing and Controlling the Surface." I took a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs with the earthy scent of the forest, and began to read, the words pulling me like a current sweeping me into the depths of an ocean of knowledge.
The scroll began with the fundamental principles I had already glimpsed through my passive experiences with the chakras—the chakra as a dual force, a harmonious blend of physical energy drawn from the body's cells and spiritual energy forged in the will of the mind, shaped by focus and intention. But it soon delved into the details of tree climbing, explaining it as an advanced form of adhesion: creating a suction helix on the soles of the feet, a spiraling vortex of energy that pulled you toward the surface instead of pushing you away, defying the relentless force of gravity. "To master tree climbing," the text read in Father's firm, objective handwriting, "one must possess strong control of the chakras, generating sufficient suction force to counterbalance the entire body weight against the force of gravity. This requires not only precision in shaping but also substantial reserves to sustain the climb without exhaustion mid-ascent, which could result in injury or worse." The diagrams illustrated the helix in exquisite detail: arrows spiraling inward from the tenketsu points of the foot, forming a dynamic vortex that exerted force against the surface while distributing weight evenly across the sole. Formulas calculated the energy generated based on mass, gravity, height, and surface friction — E = m * g * h / eff, where efficiency (eff) depended on the user's skill, a variable that could fluctuate dramatically, from 0.5 for beginners struggling with basic movements to almost 1.0 for experts who could make them appear effortless.
Warnings were scattered throughout the text, bolded and underlined for emphasis, with a stern tone like a teacher's reprimand: "Instruct only those with genin-level chakra reserves and control. Novice attempts may lead to falls, chakra depletion, or severe physical strain. Attempt only under supervision initially." I paused, staring at the words as the mist swirled around me, a cold tentacle brushing my cheek as a warning. Genin level? At four years old? Doubt crept in like the mist between the trees, cold and insistent, enveloping my thoughts. Most children my age couldn't even accurately sense their chakra, much less mold it into a sustained helix capable of defying the iron grip of gravity. An average shinobi in training could take weeks or months just to accumulate the necessary reserves for such a feat. But then I thought of my father—his discerning gaze as he handed me the scroll, the subtle challenge etched into the lines of his face, the way he didn't hesitate or offer reservations. He wouldn't be so reckless, so thoughtless in his actions. He had seen my progress firsthand—the way my chakra reacted during those water-molding exercises, the depth of my reserves that seemed like a bottomless well compared to the shallower reserves of my brothers. My mother's Uzumaki blood, fused with the raw, unyielding vitality of the Hoshigaki clan, gave me a supernatural advantage, a reservoir that pulsed stronger, regenerated faster. He knew. I felt calm with this realization, the doubt receding like the tide moving away from the shore, leaving behind a firm determination. My father was not insignificant; this was his way of pushing me, of testing whether I could bear the weight of what was to come without crumbling.
I continued reading, absorbing every nuance with the hunger of someone yearning for knowledge. The technical section was dense, a treasure trove of insights that my past-life engineer's mind devoured avidly, dissecting it like a complex machine to be disassembled and understood. The management of the chakras was portrayed as a dance of microsecond adjustments: the propeller needed to pulse in perfect rhythm with each step, expanding upon contact to create an inflexible suction and contracting upon lifting to release completely, leaving no energy residue that could destabilize the next movement. For trees, the irregular texture of the bark—deep furrows worn down by years of wind and rain, knots protruding like scars, the dampness of the mist making surfaces slippery and unpredictable—demanded a flexible vortex that would adapt instantly to these variations. A flow that was too rigid and it would shatter the bark like brittle glass under pressure; too loose and gravity would reclaim it with a swift, humiliating tug. Body positioning added layers of complexity: at a 90-degree incline, the body weight shifted entirely to the feet, requiring core strength to maintain balance against the unnatural angle; the hips tilted slightly to distribute mass evenly; the arms acted as counterweights to prevent tipping; each muscle group contracted in sequence to support the structure. The scroll further detailed: the contact area of the sole was minuscule, dividing the entire body mass into mere centimeters of shell, transforming each step into a precarious battle against the laws of physics, where even a small miscalculation could mean failure.
The physical exertion increased the challenge exponentially: the abdominal muscles contracted like compressed springs to keep the torso aligned, the calves and thighs burned from the constant tension of the incline, the lungs fought against the compressed posture that transformed each breath into a conscious and deliberate act, rather than automatic. The air seemed denser in that position, the mist pressing as if it wanted to add its own weight to the equation. Equations on the scroll described the losses in efficiency: wind resistance added drag, requiring extra chakra to compensate; the mist interfered with chakra stability, introducing moisture that could dilute the helix if not taken into account; even fluctuations in heart rate or breathing interrupted the flow if control wasn't absolute. Common pitfalls were listed in exhaustive detail, each a cautionary tale: uneven distribution causing one foot to grip firmly while the other slipped as if on ice; Overcompensation causing the shell to burst open in a hail of splinters that could cut or injure; or gradual exhaustion mid-ascent leading to a sudden, uncontrolled fall that could twist an ankle or worse. "Practice iteratively," the scroll advised in a marginal note, scribbled by the Father's hand. "Analyze each fall; refine the propeller. Mastery comes not from success, but from understanding failure."
It took me more than two hours to read everything—comparing the complex diagrams with the text, memorizing the formulas, visualizing the suction helix in my mind until I could almost feel it pulling at my soles, the energy coiling like an invisible spring ready to bind me to the tree. The sun was already higher, dissipating the mist like a thin veil that transformed the forest from a dark enigma into a green, soft, and ethereal labyrinth. The birds sang louder above me, their calls piercing the silence like kunai in paper, a reminder that the world outside my focus followed its own rhythm. My head was buzzing with information, the analytical part of me—the engineer from my past life—dissecting the mechanics with enthusiasm: how to calibrate the vortex for the irregular texture of the bark compared to the smooth surface of the stone? Could I adapt the helix to walk on water later, reversing the suction to a repulsive force that would allow me to stand on the waves? The theory was solid, even elegant, an enigma solved on paper with logic and precision. But practice... practice would be the true test, the forge where theory met reality and bent or broke.
I stopped before the oak tree, carefully rolling up the scroll and tucking it safely inside my robe, the scroll rustling softly against the fabric. My heart pounded, a mixture of excitement and nervousness, the pulse echoing in my ears like distant waves. I concentrated, drawing chakra to my feet, visualizing the helix—the energy spinning inward, creating a suction that would bind me to the trunk. First attempt: little energy. My foot touched the rough bark, pressed down, and slipped immediately, the surface scraping against my sole like coarse sandpaper, leaving a sharp sting that made me wince. I cursed under my breath, shaking my head to disguise it, the soft, damp grass beneath my feet as I repositioned myself, the dew soaking my sandals. Second attempt: intensify the chakra flow. My foot was steady, the helix pulling forcefully—too forcefully. As I lifted my other leg, shifting my weight, the bark cracked under the pressure, splinters flying like fragments of a kunai, the tree groaning in protest as a small piece gave way. I fell backward, landing hard on the grass with a thud that took my breath away in an instant, the impact shaking my spine and sending a shock through my arms.
"Balance," I murmured, repeating the mantra from the scroll, massaging my wounded ego more than the growing pain in my body. I stood up again, shaking off the dust and fragments of bark, the mist clinging to my skin like a second layer of sweat. Third attempt: adjust the flow, find that elusive point of balance. One step—hold for three seconds, the suction pulling just right, the bark holding without cracking. Two—my body leaned to that 90-degree angle, gravity pulling down like an invisible enemy hand, my abdomen burning as muscles struggled to maintain structure. Three—the weight shifted, the contact area of the sole minuscule, dividing my mass into centimeters, and then… I slipped. I fell again, my arms thrashing in search of a balance that didn't exist.
The attempts turned into a cycle of trial and error, each a lesson in frustration and gradual understanding. Progress came in frustrating fragments: one step, then a foothold; two steps, a brief moment of triumph before the inevitable slip. The angle was brutal, unforgiving: body perpendicular to torso, gravity a constant adversary pulling with relentless force, my weight shifting with every inch gained, turning the climb into a precarious act of balance. My abdominal muscles burned from the effort of keeping me upright, calves and thighs trembling as they supported the weight of the incline, lungs gasping against the uncomfortable posture that compressed my chest and made each breath a heavy sigh. The contact patch of the sole was minuscule—dividing all my body mass into mere centimeters of rough bark, each step demanding precise chakra pulses synchronized with foot placement. Too much on the heel and I would tumble backward like a falling tree; too little on the toes and I would slide forward in a humiliating climb. The 90-degree tilt turned every movement into a physics puzzle: the hips tilted to counterbalance the suction force, the arms acted as stabilizers to prevent tipping over, the fog added its own layer of difficulty, making the shell more slippery, and the suction propeller needed constant adjustments to compensate for the moisture.
Sweat mingled with the mist on my skin, trickling into my eyes and stinging like salt on an open wound, my robe clinging uncomfortably as the hours passed. The sun arched over my head, gently warming the air and dissipating the mist into a faint glow that transformed the forest into a dreamlike labyrinth of green and gray. I tried all day, battling the mounting fatigue, my chakra reserves dwindling but regenerating thanks to the Uzumaki heritage that coursed through my veins like a hidden spring. The falls accumulated into a series of bruises: arms covered in purple marks from catching myself mid-tumble, scratches from the tree bark stinging with each wipe of sweat, the grass below becoming a familiar cushion offering little comfort. "What's wrong?" I murmured aloud after the umpteenth slip, sitting leaning against the tree with the open scroll in my lap for reference, the scroll now stained with the dirt from my fingers. Irregular flow? Were the reserves failing to support the inclination? The dilemma gnawed at me, a barrier that seemed as solid and inflexible as the oak tree itself. The scroll implied it was methodical, a series of steps to follow with logic and precision, but in practice, it was chaos—the chakra needed constant, instinctive adjustments, not a continuous flow, but a living rhythm that adapted to the grooves in the bark, the inclination of my body, even the light breeze whispering between the leaves above. The physical effort amplified everything: my abdomen contracted like a compressed spring to maintain posture, my legs burned from the unnatural angle, my mind raced to calculate each pulse of energy.
Why was it so difficult? Because it wasn't just about grip; it was about harmony—body, chakra, and surface in perfect synchronicity, each element feeding the others without friction. One misstep, one lapse in concentration, and gravity won, pulling me down with gleeful inevitability. The 90-degree incline transformed the exercise into an ordeal for the whole body, the weight distributed over such a small area that each muscle had to work double to maintain its structure, the effort building like a fire in my limbs. As the afternoon drew to a close, exhaustion hit like an overwhelming wave, my reserves dwindling, my vision blurred by sweat and fatigue. But in the final attempts, a light appeared: three steps, a pause to breathe, the propeller pulsing just right, the shell firm—and then the fall. Progress, small, but tangible. I sat there as the light dissipated, the mist thickening again into an opaque veil, pondering how to completely break through the barrier. A more precise propeller? Softer, more intuitive pulses? The enigma consumed me, a welcome dilemma in this new life, my mind searching for solutions while the forest around me darkened.
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