Two months had slipped by since Father left for his mission, vanishing into the endless veil of mist that cloaked Kirigakure like a shroud. The compound felt strangely hollow without him—his absence was a void that echoed in the stone corridors, in the way the wind howled a little louder through the cracks at night, in the subtle shift of tension among the mothers as they whispered updates from the village. We knew he was alive, though. News of a Jōnin as renowned as Isamu Akashio, one of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist, would have rippled through the village like a tidal wave if he had fallen. Whispers in the market, hurried messengers at the gates, a somber visit from the Mizukage's aides—it would have reached us by now. Instead, there was only silence, the kind that spoke of ongoing battles far from home, missions shrouded in secrecy and blood. I didn't worry; worry was a luxury for those who hadn't been forged in this world. Father was a monster among men, wielder of the Kubikiribōchō, the Executioner's Blade that drank the blood of its victims to mend itself. He would return when the job was done, his shadow falling heavy over us once more.
In his absence, the days blurred into a relentless grind of sweat, steel, and chakra. I trained mostly with my older brothers—the "fire trio," as some of the mothers called them: Daigo, Rokuta, and Nao, all sons of Hanae, the first wife. They were my anchors in this storm of self-imposed discipline, pushing me harder than Father ever had in those initial sessions. Daigo, at eleven, was already a genin, his movements precise and lethal, his presence commanding without a word. Rokuta, nine and bursting with explosive energy, turned every spar into a chaotic brawl that left bruises and laughter in equal measure. Nao, seven and more reserved, analyzed every move like a strategist, pointing out flaws with a quiet intensity that cut deeper than any blade. We trained from dawn until the mist turned golden with the setting sun, our breaths fogging the air, the ground churned into mud beneath our feet.
In his absence, the days blurred into a relentless grind of sweat, steel, and chakra. I trained mostly with my older brothers—the "fire trio," as some of the mothers called them: Daigo, Rokuta, and Nao, all sons of Hanae, the first wife. They were my anchors in this storm of self-imposed discipline, pushing me harder than Father ever had in those initial sessions. Daigo, at eleven, was already a genin, his movements precise and lethal, his presence commanding without a word. Rokuta, nine and bursting with explosive energy, turned every spar into a chaotic brawl that left bruises and laughter in equal measure. Nao, seven and more reserved, analyzed every move like a strategist, pointing out flaws with a quiet intensity that cut deeper than any blade. We trained from dawn until the mist turned golden with the setting sun, our breaths fogging the air, the ground churned into mud beneath our feet.
Mornings started with weapons. Father's gift—the set of kunai, shuriken, and senbon—had become extensions of my body, but they hadn't started that way. The kunai were heavy in my small hands at first, their black steel cold and unyielding, the balance unfamiliar as I hefted them in the dim light. I remembered the first throw: standing ten meters from the straw dummy, the air thick with the salty tang of sea spray carried on the wind, my fingers gripping the handle too tightly. The kunai wobbled mid-flight, embedding itself off-center in the dummy's shoulder with a dull thump, straw fibers puffing out like dust. The sound was unsatisfying, the vibration traveling back up my arm like a rebuke. Rokuta laughed, his voice booming across the yard, clapping me on the back hard enough to sting. "Not bad for a squirt, but aim for the heart next time—or you'll be the one bleeding!" he shouted, his breath hot and smelling faintly of the dried fish he'd snuck for breakfast.
I adjusted. Threw again. The second kunai sliced through the air with a faint whistle, the mist parting briefly in its wake, and struck closer to the charcoal-marked heart. The impact sent a jolt up my arm, the dummy swaying slightly on its wooden post. The smell of damp straw filled my nostrils, mixed with the earthy scent of mud churned by our footsteps. "Better," Daigo said from the side, his voice calm but approving, crossing his arms as he watched. "Loosen your grip next time. Let the weight do the work." Shuriken came next—lighter, requiring a flick of the wrist that made my forearm burn after a dozen throws. They spun like deadly stars, their edges catching the faint light, but the first few clattered harmlessly against the dummy's base, embedding in the dirt with soft thuds. The wind from the sea tugged at them mid-flight, a salty breeze that cooled the sweat on my brow but complicated every calculation. Nao watched silently, then demonstrated: his shuriken flew true, three in rapid succession, thunk-thunk-thunk into the throat mark, the sound sharp and final. "See? It's about the spin," he muttered, wiping his hands on his tunic. "Too much and it curves; too little and it drops."
Senbon were the real challenge. Those slender needles, cold and smooth like ice against my fingertips, demanded precision I didn't yet have. The first throw felt wrong from the start—the needle too light, slipping from my grasp with barely a whisper. It tumbled end over end, glancing off the dummy's arm and vanishing into the grass with a faint rustle. The second embedded shallowly in the straw, but at the wrong angle, quivering like an accusation. I could feel the frustration building, a hot knot in my chest, the salty taste of sweat on my lips as I wiped my forehead. In my past life, weapons were firearms—loud, mechanical, with triggers that delivered death at impossible distances. Here, it was all feel: the cool metal warming in my palm, the subtle shift of weight as I aligned my throw, the way the mist dampened my grip and made everything slick. By the end of the first week, my fingers were raw, blistered from the repetitive motion, the skin splitting and oozing clear fluid that stung in the salty air. "You're getting the hang of it," Rokuta said one day after a particularly bad session, where half my senbon missed entirely. "But stop gripping like you're strangling a fish. Relax, or you'll cramp up."
Taijutsu filled the mid-mornings, our bodies slamming together in controlled chaos. The yard smelled of sweat and crushed grass, the ground soft and yielding underfoot, mud splattering our legs with every pivot and lunge. Daigo paired me with Nao first—fair, since we were closer in size. His fists came fast, the air whistling with each strike, his skin cool and clammy from the mist. I blocked, countered, felt the impact jar up my arms, bones vibrating like struck tuning forks. "You're too stiff," Nao grunted after landing a glancing blow to my ribs, the pain blooming hot and sharp. "Loosen up, or you'll break." Rokuta joined later, his grapples like being caught in a vice, his breath hot and ragged against my ear as he locked me in a hold, the smell of his sweat sharp and metallic. "Feel the flow, little shark," he'd grunt, twisting until I tapped out, my joints screaming. "Don't fight the lock—use it against me!" We practiced the Mist kata endlessly—direct, brutal strikes to vital points, no flourishes, just efficiency. My knuckles bled from punching the wooden posts, the rough grain scraping skin away layer by layer, the pain a constant companion that sharpened my focus. "Good form," Daigo said during one drill, blocking my strike with his forearm, the impact sending a numb tingle up my elbow. "But faster next time. Speed kills before strength does."
Afternoons were for Mizudeppō, the only jutsu Father had taught us before leaving. The secondary yard by the cliffs was perfect—isolated, with the sea's roar providing a constant backdrop, waves crashing against rocks below with a thunderous boom that shook the ground faintly. The air tasted of salt, heavy and briny, sticking to my tongue as I formed the seals: Tiger, Ox, Rabbit. The chakra coiled in my chest, a warm pressure building like steam in a kettle, mixing with saliva until my mouth felt full, tingling. The first attempts that month were still frustrating—jets that sputtered out at ten meters, dissipating into mist without impact, or exploding too wide, spraying harmlessly. The failure tasted bitter, like swallowing seawater. But practice honed it. By the second week, my jet reached thirteen meters, carving shallow fissures in the rocky ground, the water hissing as it struck, steam rising briefly before the mist swallowed it. Nao kept pace, his control more precise, though mine had more raw power. We targeted boulders now, the impact sending chips flying, sharp fragments stinging my cheeks like tiny needles. "Not bad," Rokuta commented after one of my better shots, the fissure cracking wide enough to fit a finger. "But try curving it next time—like this." He demonstrated, his jet arcing mid-air to hit a side target, the water splashing with a wet slap.
It was in the third week that Daigo pulled us aside after a particularly grueling taijutsu session. The yard was slick with our sweat and the afternoon drizzle, the air heavy with the metallic tang of exertion and the faint ozone from a distant storm. "Father developed something during his career," Daigo said, his tone low, almost reverent, as we sat in a loose circle on the damp grass. The blades of grass poked through my tunic, cool and prickly against my back. "It's not a jutsu—not in the traditional sense. It's a skill, honed over years. He calls it 'Echo Hearing'—an enhancement of the senses that turns your ears into weapons."
Rokuta leaned forward, eyes gleaming, his breath still ragged from the spar. "Yeah, Father can hear a heartbeat at a hundred meters. Like a dog's ears, but sharper. He trained it in the field—listening for ambushes in the mist, tracking enemies by their footsteps on wet ground, even hearing the draw of a blade from its sheath before the sound reaches normal ears."
I blinked, processing. In my past life, enhanced senses were sci-fi—cybernetic implants, augmented reality. Here, it was chakra adaptation, the body evolving to survive. Daigo continued: "The body adapts to scenarios, and chakra amplifies it. For ninjas, we push limits—eyes for genjutsu resistance, skin for durability. Father pushed hearing. He started young, in the wars, blindfolding himself in fog to rely on sound alone."
The training began the next day.
We started simple—or so it seemed.
Daigo blindfolded us with strips of black cloth, the fabric rough and slightly damp, tying it tight enough that no light seeped through. The world went dark instantly, the mist's chill pressing closer, sounds amplifying: the distant crash of waves like thunder, the rustle of leaves in the breeze like whispers, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears like a drum. "React to sounds," Daigo instructed, his voice coming from somewhere to my left, muffled yet clear. He threw small pebbles—first one, then two, the soft whir cutting the air.
I dodged the first by instinct, the pebble grazing my shoulder with a faint sting, the smell of wet earth rising as it hit the ground. The second clipped my ear, hot pain blooming. Nao grunted nearby, a similar miss. We practiced for hours, the blindfolds chafing my skin, sweat soaking the cloth until it clung like a second skin. Sounds became everything: the subtle shift of weight on gravel before a throw, the faint intake of breath from Daigo as he aimed. Failures were punishing—pebbles bruising ribs, leaving welts that throbbed in the cold air. "Missed again," Rokuta teased after I took one to the knee, the impact like a bee sting amplified. "You gotta listen deeper, not just hear."
By the end of the first week, I could dodge three out of five. The darkness sharpened everything: the salty tang of sea air carried hints of Rokuta's sweat as he joined, his laughter booming like an explosion. "Listen for the wind," he advised, his voice vibrating through the ground under my feet. "It's whispering secrets—if you're not too dumb to hear them." Nao snorted. "Easy for you to say. You've been at this longer." Rokuta shrugged. "And I'm still crap at it. Father's the master."
The second month intensified. We added movement—walking blindfolded through the yard, avoiding obstacles Daigo placed: rocks that tripped, branches that whipped at face height. The ground felt alive under my sandals, each pebble shifting with a crunch, mud sucking at my heels. Sounds layered: birds cawing overhead, waves rumbling below, brothers breathing nearby. "You're stepping like an elephant," Nao muttered during one drill, after I stumbled into a low branch, the wood scraping my forehead raw. "Lighten up, or they'll hear you coming from a mile away." One day, Daigo escalated: sparring blind. Nao and I circled each other, the air thick with tension, his footsteps soft but distinct—left foot dragging slightly from an old bruise. I struck first, fist cutting air with a whoosh; he dodged, countering with a palm that grazed my cheek, the impact like fire. "Too slow," he hissed. "I heard your knuckles crack before you swung."
We failed often—trips, misses, collisions that left us sprawled in mud, laughing through pain. But progress... well, progress was a joke. After two months, I could sometimes pick out the subtle scrape of a foot on gravel from twenty meters instead of fifteen, or distinguish a thrown pebble from a rustling leaf at ten paces instead of five. But heartbeats? Even at arm's length, it was a muddled chaos—my own pulse thundering in my ears, drowning out everything else. Nao was worse; he'd freeze during blind sparring, head cocked, but miss the incoming pebble by inches every time. "This is impossible," he snapped one afternoon, ripping off his blindfold after another failure, his face flushed with sweat and irritation, the cloth leaving red marks around his eyes. "I've been at it for weeks, and I still can't tell your heartbeat from the waves crashing!"
Daigo placed a hand on his shoulder, steady as always. "It's not impossible—it's just slow. Father took years to get where he is. Wars, endless nights in the mist, pushing until his ears bled. I've been training this for over a year, and I can barely hear a heartbeat at thirty meters on a quiet day. In this fog? With the sea roaring? Forget it. It's like trying to hear a whisper in a hurricane."
Rokuta chuckled, leaning against a post, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yeah, and even then, I'm lucky if I catch a rustle at twenty paces without screwing up. Father's on another level—he hears whispers through blizzards, heartbeats across fields. Told me once he took out an ambush party because he heard their leader's sword scrape the sheath a hundred meters out. But us? We're crawling. If it were easy, every ninja in the village would be doing it. This ain't some quick jutsu; it's grinding your senses until they break and rebuild sharper."
I ripped off my own blindfold, the sudden light stinging my eyes, the world blurring for a moment before sharpening—the gray mist swirling, the distant cliffs edged in faint silver from the hidden sun. "So why bother if it takes forever?" I asked, rubbing the chafed skin around my temples, the ache pulsing in time with my heartbeat. "We could be practicing something useful instead."
Daigo's eyes met mine, serious. "Because when it does improve—even a little—it saves your life. Imagine hearing an enemy's breath before they strike, or a hidden trap's mechanism clicking in the fog. Father created this from nothing—no clan secret, no scroll. He noticed how chakra adapts the body over time, like how our skin toughens from constant training or our eyes adjust to low light. He pushed hearing the same way. No one else we know does it like this. Maybe variations exist—sensory clans like the Inuzuka with their dogs—but this is his. Pure adaptation. And yeah, it's a pain. Progress is glacial. But stick with it."
Rokuta nodded, serious for once. "He's right. I've improved a tiny bit—can tell footsteps from wind rustles better now—but nothing game-changing. Nao, you're basically at square one still. Don't beat yourself up; this thing's designed to break you before it builds you."
Nao kicked a rock, sending it skittering into the mist with a faint clatter. "Great. So we're wasting time on something we'll suck at for years."
"Not wasting," Daigo countered. "Building. Father's proof it works. Just... slowly."
I stayed silent, blindfold dangling from my hand, the fabric damp and heavy. My own "progress" was barely there—a faint distinction between a pebble's whir and a leaf's rustle at twenty meters instead of ten. Heartbeats? Forget it. The technique demanded years, a slow burn of adaptation where chakra gradually rewired the ears. Difficult. Tedious. If it were easy, every ninja would have superhuman hearing.
Yet we persisted.
Mornings bled into afternoons, weapons training blending with taijutsu. The yard smelled of sweat-soaked earth, the mud churned into a slick paste that clung to our sandals and splattered our tunics with every lunge. Kunai throws became rhythmic—the cool steel warming in my palm, the faint whistle as it cut the air, the satisfying thunk into straw. "You're telegraphing your throw," Nao pointed out during one session, dodging a shuriken that embedded in the post behind him with a sharp crack. "I heard your shoulder pop before it left your hand." Shuriken spins grew tighter, edges humming like angry bees. Senbon remained elusive, their lightness a curse; I'd throw twenty, hit five vital points, the needles quivering in the charcoal marks like accusations. "Grip lighter," Rokuta advised, demonstrating with a flick that sent a senbon whistling into the dummy's eye mark. "Like this—feel the release."
Evenings brought the hearing drills. Blindfolds on, the world reduced to sound: the drip of condensation from eaves like tiny bells, the scuffle of feet on gravel like thunder, the distant caw of seabirds sharp as kunai. Daigo threw pebbles; Rokuta added distractions—clapping randomly, whispering taunts. "Hear this?" he'd say, snapping fingers inches from my ear, the pop exploding in my skull. "Or are you deaf already?" Progress crawled: by the end of the first month, I dodged four out of ten instead of two; by the second, maybe five. Nao hovered at three, frustration boiling over. "This is pointless," he grumbled one night, yanking off the blindfold, eyes red-rimmed. "I've improved nothing. Still can't dodge worth a damn."
Daigo sighed. "None of us have, really. Small steps. Father's the only one who's mastered it."
Through it all, I wove in chakra control. Mornings: leaves adhered while climbing trees blindfolded, the pull burning like acid, bark scraping palms raw. Afternoons: water bubbles while throwing senbon, chakra split—adhesion vs. precision. Evenings: Mizudeppō variants while listening for sounds. The family noticed. While Kenta chased Haruto with sticks, mud flying in arcs, I trained. While Toma built forts from wet earth, hands caked in brown, I trained. Mothers whispered: "He's relentless—like Isamu." Maluso left extra salve, her touch lingering, eyes proud yet shadowed.
Two months of grind.
Sharper.
Stronger.
Ready.
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