I woke to the first whisper of mist creeping into the room, a cold, damp breath slipping through the window cracks like invisible fingers, brushing against my skin and dragging me out of deep sleep. My body still ached—not the sharp pain of repeated falls, but a dull, constant throbbing, as though every muscle had been stretched beyond its limit and was now slowly knitting itself back together, fiber by fiber. My ankles throbbed with an intensity that made me grit my teeth with every movement, the tendons pulling like over-tightened strings on an out-of-tune instrument. My calves and thighs burned with a slow fire that climbed my legs and settled in my lower back, a relentless reminder of the battle I had fought against gravity on that tree. My stomach contracted involuntarily with each deep breath, still struggling to hold balance at that impossible ninety-degree angle. The sweat from the night before clung to my skin, mixed with the dew of the incoming mist, leaving a sticky, cold residue.
The shared dormitory was an organized chaos of sleeping bodies. Kenta muttered in his sleep, kicking the blanket aside with an irritated sigh, exposing his short, already muscular legs marked by early training. Haruto turned dramatically, burying his face in the pillow as if he could block out the dawn. Toma, the quietest of the three, slept curled up like a ball, breathing in steady, deep rhythms. Rokuta, in the far corner, snored like a hibernating bear, blanket tangled at his feet, his oversized-for-his-age body sprawled across the mattress as if it were too small to contain his explosive energy. Daigo was already gone—his bedding folded with military precision, the air around his spot still faintly warm, a lingering trace of his presence. He always left early, whether for missions or solitary training, carrying the weight of being the eldest like invisible armor.
I dressed in silence, the simple training tunic sliding over sensitive skin, the rough fabric scraping against fresh bruises and sending tiny sparks of pain. The scroll was still tucked in the inner pocket, carefully rolled, its comforting weight pressed against my chest—a talisman of victory. My heart beat a little faster than usual, a mix of anxiety and anticipation. What did Father have planned for today? He had seen me on the tree, acknowledged my achievement with those short, loaded words: "Very good. You reached the goal." But what came next? Jutsu? Advanced training? Or something darker, more in line with the unforgiving world of Kirigakure?
The hallway was empty, the stone floor cold beneath my sandals, echoing softly with each cautious step. Mist seeped through the narrow windows, turning the air into an ethereal curtain that distorted the shadows of extinguished lanterns. The compound was still asleep, but I could feel life pulsing behind the doors—the distant grumble of a mother waking the younger ones, the muffled cry of one of the babies, perhaps Yumi or Taro, complaining of morning hunger. I walked toward the main training field, the air growing cooler as I approached the outer doors, thick with the salty scent of the nearby sea and the eternal humidity that clung to the skin like a second layer.
The field stretched out before me, wrapped in morning mist that turned it into a ghostly dreamscape. The ground was still damp from the night's drizzle, puddles reflecting the gray sky like broken mirrors, the earth marked by footprints from previous training sessions. Father was already there, a colossal silhouette against the fog, arms crossed over his broad chest, the Kubikiribōchō strapped to his back like an extension of his own spine. His wild black hair dripped with moisture, his black eyes fixed on the horizon, impassive as the abyss. Beside him, the "fire trio"—Daigo, Rokuta, and Nao—were already training. Daigo led, his movements precise and fluid, the Mist-style kata performed with the lethal grace of someone who had already tasted real blood. Rokuta followed with his explosive energy, punches slicing the air with sharp whistles, his face flushed with effort and excitement. Nao was more restrained, watchful, adjusting every stance with a concentration bordering on obsession. They were Hanae's sons, the first wife, and they carried the weight of that lineage—the eldest, the strongest, the ones paving the way for the rest of us.
Father turned his head slightly as I approached, his black eyes piercing me like blades. There was no warm greeting, no approving nod—only a low grunt that echoed in the damp air. "You came." His voice was deep, like the distant rumble of an approaching storm, vibrating in my chest. He didn't wait for a reply; he jerked his head toward the brothers, who instantly stopped training and straightened like soldiers at attention. Daigo wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm, his dark eyes meeting mine for a brief moment—a subtle nod of recognition. Rokuta grinned, serrated teeth flashing, while Nao simply watched, his expression neutral but curious.
"You four," Father said, his voice slicing through the mist like a blade, "come with me." Without further explanation, he turned and began walking, his heavy steps sinking into the wet earth, leaving deep footprints I could barely keep up with. We followed in silence—Daigo in front, Rokuta and Nao at my sides, me bringing up the rear. The main field fell behind, swallowed by the fog as if it had never existed. We walked to an isolated area beyond the compound's main walls, a place I had only glimpsed from afar: a clearing surrounded by steep cliffs and the sea beyond, waves crashing against the rocks with a constant roar that echoed like a warning. The air there was saltier, sharper, thick with the smell of seaweed and sea foam. The mist thickened, cutting us off from the world, turning the place into a secret enclave, perfect for secrets that could not be overheard by unwanted ears.
Father stopped in the center of the clearing, turning to face us with an expression that brooked no interruption. His black eyes swept over each of us—Daigo, steady and ready; Rokuta, impatient but attentive; Nao, watchful; and me, trying to ignore the pain in my ankles while holding my posture straight. "The world is not fair," he began, his voice low but carrying an authority that made the air hum. "You think you understand that, but you don't. Not really. In Kirigakure, weakness is a death sentence. The noble clans—those with kekkei genkai, with blood secrets that turn them into battlefield monsters—don't wait. They train their children from the moment they can stand. Four years, five years—it doesn't matter. They pour clan techniques into them like poison into a vein, shaping them into weapons before they are even people. The Hoshigaki? They throw their pups into the sea to learn to swim or drown. The Yuki? They freeze the air around the cradle so the cold becomes part of them. And the others… you will see one day."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air like the mist around us. I felt their weight—this was no abstract lesson; it was a reality I already knew from my past life, from the stories I had devoured as Erick. At MIT, I had learned that knowledge was power, but here in the shinobi world, it was survival. Father continued, his voice gaining intensity: "I am no different. I train you early because the world doesn't wait. The academy? It's only the beginning. A shinobi career is a trail of blood and betrayal, and I won't let you walk into it unarmed. You are Akashio. You carry Hoshigaki blood in your veins—brute strength, regeneration that makes immortals envious. But that's not enough. You need tools. Jutsu that will prepare you for what's coming."
His eyes settled on Nao and me, the youngest of the group. "Daigo and Rokuta already know what I'm going to teach today. They learned it months ago, step by step. But you two… it's time. The first jutsu is simple, but essential. Suiton: Mizudeppō—the Water Cannon."
He raised one hand, gesturing to the damp air around us. "Suiton techniques are not like other natures. They depend on the environment. Water chakra is influenced by humidity, by the presence of natural sources. In a dry desert, where the air is parched and the earth cracked, a water technique requires more chakra—you have to draw moisture from within yourself, force the element into existence from nothing. The cost is high, the jutsu weaker, slower. But here, in the mist of Kirigakure, or on a beach with waves crashing, or under a torrential rain? The environment feeds the jutsu. The moisture in the air, the water around you—it drastically reduces the chakra cost. You're not creating from nothing; you're amplifying what already exists."
I absorbed every word, my mind racing ahead as always. In my past life as Erick, I had dealt with energy efficiency in robotics—optimizing batteries, minimizing circuit losses. This was similar: the environment as an "external battery" for chakra. In a dry place, you spent more "energy" to generate the same output; in a humid one, the cost dropped, allowing stronger or more sustained jutsu. It was brilliant, strategic. Father went on: "Mizudeppō is introductory because it teaches this in practice. It allows you to summon a mass of water directly from your mouth—a powerful jet. It's not just an attack; it's a tool to change the battlefield. In a dry place, use it to create puddles, increase humidity, prepare the ground for more advanced jutsu. In combat, it can knock enemies down, pierce light defenses, even extinguish fires or dilute poisons. It's Rank C—above the academy's basic D—because it demands precise control. It's not just spitting water; it's shaping chakra to compress, accelerate, and direct."
He gestured to Daigo. "Show them."
Daigo nodded, stepping to the center of the clearing, feet spread for stability, the damp ground clinging to his sandals. He formed the seals quickly—Tiger, Ox, Rabbit—a fluid sequence I memorized instantly. His chest swelled slightly, chakra building like internal pressure, and then he opened his mouth. The jet came like an explosion—a blast of crystalline water, compressed and accelerated, slicing through the air with a sharp hiss that echoed off the cliffs. It traveled fifteen meters in a fraction of a second, striking the ground with a force that made the earth tremble faintly beneath my feet. It wasn't a dramatic crater, but a long, shallow fissure, as if hydraulic pressure had chipped the surface, cracking stone and scattering wet fragments around. The water spread into a shallow puddle, reflecting the gray sky, the air now thick with a fresh, mineral scent.
I blinked, stunned. It reminded me of something from my past life—a fire hose under extreme pressure, the kind used to fight high-rise fires, where the water came out with enough force to knock down a grown man or crack concrete. There were no firefighters in this world, of course—this was a world of ninjas, not heroes with hoses—but the image fit perfectly. The pressure, the speed, the impact—it was identical.
Rokuta whistled, impressed despite already knowing it. "Always impressive, brother." Nao watched in silence, his eyes analyzing every detail—the angle of the jet, the compression, the control. I felt my chakra stir, a tingling in my abdomen, eager to replicate. Father gestured to Rokuta. "Now you." Rokuta repeated the seals; the jet came out strong but slightly less focused—twelve meters, a smaller fissure, but still lethal. "Good," Father said. "Now, you two. Nao, Arashi. Watch the seals. Feel the chakra gathering in your throat, mixing with saliva, shaping the internal water. Compress. Direct. Don't waste energy—use the surrounding moisture to amplify."
Nao went first. He formed the seals—Tiger, Ox, Rabbit—with trembling hands, chakra building but irregularly. He opened his mouth, and… nothing. Just a thin thread of saliva mixed with a drop of water, dripping pathetically to the ground. No pressure, no jet. He frowned, confused, his face flushing with frustration. "Again," Father ordered, merciless. Nao tried a second time, seals faster, chakra stirring—but the result was worse: a weak spray, like spitting water from a fountain, barely reaching one meter before dissipating in the damp air. The mist seemed to mock him, absorbing the moisture effortlessly. Nao huffed, fists clenched, clearly irritated.
My turn. My heart raced—not from fear, but excitement. I knew the theory cold; now it was practice. I formed the seals—Tiger, Ox, Rabbit—feeling chakra rise, gathering like pressure in my chest, mixing with the moisture in the air I inhaled. I opened my mouth, and… a weak spurt came out, like drinking water and spitting it, barely forming a two-meter arc before falling harmlessly onto the damp earth. No impact, no fissure. Just a pathetic spray that evaporated in the mist. I tried again, adjusting the flow—more chakra, more compression. The jet came, but uncontrolled: an irregular burst that fanned out wide, losing force immediately, barely reaching three meters. My face burned with frustration, the muscles in my throat aching from the poorly directed effort.
Father watched in silence for a moment, his black eyes assessing our failures like a general inspecting poorly trained troops. Then he spoke, his deep voice cutting through the air like a blade. "You failed because you didn't understand the basics. Jutsu are not just seals and raw chakra. Each hand seal is a key that moves chakra in a specific way. When you form the Tiger, chakra spirals upward, activating tenketsu points in the chest and throat. The Ox directs the flow to the lungs, mixing it with breath. The Rabbit compresses everything, turning the energy into pressure. It's a sequence—like a chain of commands that activates the right meridians in the body. If one link fails, the jutsu collapses."
I blinked, processing the words. In my past life as Erick, this felt familiar—like lines of code in a program. Each seal was an instruction: "If Tiger, then upward spiral; if Ox, direct to lungs." When the sequence executed correctly, activating the "chakra points" like functions in a script, the jutsu manifested. But it wasn't purely mechanical; there was fluidity, adaptation. Father continued: "That's not all. For elemental jutsu like this one, there is nature transformation of the chakra. You must convert your internal energy into Suiton—water. It's like changing the shape of chakra so it takes on the properties of the element: fluid, compressible, expandable. Techniques without elements don't need this—they are pure chakra manipulations, like the Clone Technique. But for Suiton, you transform while forming the seals. It's difficult at first because it requires synchronization: seals guiding the flow, mind shaping the nature. But once you get the rhythm, you'll see it's easier than you imagine. The body learns. The chakra adapts."
The words made sense. I visualized it: the seals as code, the transformation as a function that changed the "type" of chakra—from neutral energy to water. In an environment as humid as this, transformation was easier, the chakra "borrowing" moisture from the air to convert more efficiently. I tried again, focusing on the sequence: Tiger—upward spiral, chakra swirling in the chest. Ox—direct to the throat, mixing with saliva. Rabbit—compress, transform into Suiton. I opened my mouth, and the jet came better—five meters, a straight line, but still weak, dissipating without impact. "Better," Father said. "Feel the transformation—imagine the chakra becoming liquid, flowing like the sea."
Nao tried again, following the instructions. His jet reached four meters, an improvement, but still spraying at the end. "More synchronization in the seals," Father corrected. We continued for hours, the sun rising and thinning parts of the mist, the air warming with our effort. Each attempt was a lesson: once, my chakra didn't transform properly—steam came out instead of water, hot and useless. Another time, Nao compressed too much—the jet exploded in his mouth, making him cough water. Father watched, correcting: "Rhythm is key. Fast seals, but precise; gradual transformation, like water filling a vessel."
My progress came in waves. On the tenth attempt, the jet reached eight meters, leaving a minimal fissure in the ground. I felt it—the code executing, chakra points activated, transformation flowing. Like programming a robot: wrong sequences caused bugs; correct ones produced perfect output. Nao improved alongside, his jet reaching seven meters. Daigo and Rokuta demonstrated variations—curved jets, thinner for piercing—encouraging: "Feel the flow, little brother."
By the end of the day, exhausted, throats sore and chakra depleted, Father dismissed us. "Practice. This is the first. Tomorrow, more." I walked back as the setting sun dyed the mist orange, body destroyed but mind sharp. The first wave—conquered, even if with effort. The entire ocean awaited me.
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