The kunai embedded itself in the training post with a satisfying thunk. Center mass. Eighth throw in a row.
Tatsuya didn't celebrate. He drew another blade and threw again. Nine.
Three months since the evaluation. Three months of grinding, of pushing his body past what should have been possible, of filling every waking hour with purpose. The reserve pool had become less a holding pen and more a launching platform—missions flowing steadily now, each one an opportunity to learn, to grow, to become something more than adequate.
He'd taken every opportunity offered and manufactured several that weren't.
"Your form's improved."
Shin emerged from the treeline, his own sword across his back. They'd developed this rhythm—early morning sparring before the official training rotations began. Iron sharpening iron.
"Yours hasn't," Tatsuya replied. "You're still dropping your shoulder on the overhead cut."
"And you're still telegraphing your thrust." Shin drew his blade in a smooth motion. "Shall we?"
They circled each other on the packed earth of Training Ground Three. Dawn light filtered through the canopy, painting everything in shades of grey and gold. The clearing was empty except for them—too early for the other reserves, too late for the insomniacs.
Shin moved first.
His style was fluid, water-like—attacks flowing into retreats into counters with seamless precision. The kind of swordsmanship that came from years of dedicated practice under proper instruction. Before whatever had happened to his team.
Tatsuya met him with something different. His blade work was precise rather than flowing, each cut targeting specific anatomical vulnerabilities. Where Shin saw openings, Tatsuya saw tendons, arteries, nerve clusters.
Steel rang against steel. They traded strikes across the clearing, neither giving ground. Shin's overhead came down—shoulder dropping, just as Tatsuya had noted—and Tatsuya stepped inside the arc, his blade sliding along Shin's to lock the hilts.
"Dead," he said quietly, his free hand pressed against Shin's chest where a chakra scalpel would have severed the pulmonary artery.
Shin's eyes narrowed. Then he laughed—a rare sound from him. "That technique of yours is cheating."
"Cheating implies rules." Tatsuya stepped back, lowering his sword. "Combat doesn't have rules. Just survivors."
"You sound like Instructor Yamada."
"Yamada's not wrong about everything."
They reset and went again. And again. By the time the sun was fully up, both of them were breathing hard, covered in the small nicks and bruises that came from serious practice.
Tatsuya pressed his palm against a shallow cut on his forearm. Chakra flowed—green-tinged, warm—and the wound began to close. Slower than a real medic would manage, but functional. The bleeding stopped. The pain faded.
Shin watched with undisguised interest. "Still strange to see. Healing yourself between rounds."
"Lets me train harder." Tatsuya flexed his arm, testing the repair. Adequate. "You should learn. Basic field medicine is useful for everyone."
"My chakra control isn't good enough. You know that."
"Then improve it."
Shin snorted. "Not all of us are obsessive."
"No," Tatsuya agreed. "That's why most of us die young."
The hospital had become his second classroom, seems like the second time he's said something like that, he mused.
Not the emergency ward or the surgical theaters—those were restricted to trained medical staff. But the training annex, where medic-nin learned their craft, had proven accessible to any shinobi willing to ask politely and demonstrate genuine interest.
Tatsuya had asked. He'd demonstrated. And now, three times a week, he sat in the back of lectures meant for medical track genin and absorbed everything he could.
The theory was simple. He already understood anatomy better than most of the instructors—had spent a lifetime cutting human bodies open and putting them back together. What he needed was the chakra application. How to make healing energy flow through his hands. How to direct it precisely enough to mend rather than damage. How to see with chakra what eyes couldn't perceive.
"The Mystical Palm requires continuous chakra emission at a specific frequency," the instructor was saying—a middle-aged woman with grey-streaked hair and the permanent exhaustion of someone who'd seen too many patients die. "Too fast, and you'll accelerate cell growth beyond sustainable levels. Too slow, and the effect is negligible. The body knows what it needs to heal. Your job is to provide the energy in a form it can use."
Tatsuya took notes. Not on the anatomy—he could teach that section himself—but on the chakra dynamics. The frequency ranges. The emission patterns. The subtle feedback that told you when healing was working versus when it was causing harm.
After the lecture, he practiced in an empty training room. Hands glowing faint green, pressing against his own bruised ribs from the morning's sparring. Feeling the way chakra interacted with damaged tissue. Learning the rhythm.
It was inefficient. A trained medic could have healed these injuries in seconds; it took him minutes, and left him more drained than it should have. But efficiency would come with practice. What mattered now was understanding.
The chakra scalpel was different.
That technique he'd figured out himself, extrapolating from medical texts and combat applications. The hospital taught it as a surgical tool—precise incisions without breaking skin, perfect for delicate operations. They didn't teach what happened when you used it on someone who was still fighting back.
He practiced that privately. Late nights in his barracks room, shaping chakra at his fingertips until the edge was sharp enough to cut flesh without physical contact. The technique had graduated from "promising" to "reliable" over the past months. He could sever a tendon with a touch now. Could open an artery if he needed to.
A hidden blade that no one expected. That no one could block.
He didn't advertise it. Some advantages were better kept secret until the moment they mattered.
Fire came easier than healing.
His affinity was strong—the paper test had proven that—and fire techniques responded to him with an eagerness that water or earth never would. The Great Fireball had been his first real jutsu, learned through a combination of observation, library research, and painful trial and error. Now it was reliable. Not Uchiha-level—he'd seen clan members in the village produce flames that dwarfed his best efforts—but solid. Respectable.
The Phoenix Sage Fire had come from a joint mission with a chunin who used it casually, scattering small fireballs to flush enemies from cover. Tatsuya had watched, analyzed the hand seals, and spent two weeks reverse-engineering the technique. His version was rougher, less controlled, but functional. Multiple projectiles rather than one large blast. Useful for different situations.
The Flame Bullet was pure suppression—a stream of fire that could hold a position or deny an approach. He'd found the technique in a library scroll, one of the basic fire releases available to any Konoha shinobi with the affinity. Nothing special, but another tool in the arsenal.
Dragon Fire was still beyond him. The technique required threading flames along a surface or wire, maintaining cohesion across distance. His attempts produced scattered sparks rather than controlled streams. More practice needed.
But three combat-ready fire techniques was more than most genin could claim. Combined with his taijutsu, his kenjutsu, his medical capabilities—he was becoming something unusual. A generalist with dangerous depth in specific areas.
Adequate was retreating in the rearview mirror.
"Again."
Duy's voice was calm but implacable. The Eternal Genin stood with his arms crossed, watching Tatsuya work through the Strong Fist forms for the twentieth time that evening.
Tatsuya's muscles screamed. His lungs burned. Sweat dripped from his chin, marking dark spots on the rocky ground of their private training area.
He didn't stop.
Step. Strike. Pivot. Guard. Each movement precise, powerful, designed to channel maximum force through optimal angles. The Strong Fist was not subtle—it was overwhelming. Meet your opponent with such devastating power that defense became irrelevant.
"Your hip rotation is three degrees off," Duy observed. "You're losing power in the transfer."
Three degrees. The man could see three degrees of deviation in a movement that took less than a second.
Tatsuya adjusted. Tried again. The strike came faster, harder.
"Better. Again."
This was the foundation Duy was building. Not the Eight Gates—not yet, probably not for years—but the body conditioning that would make the Gates survivable. Strength. Speed. Flexibility. The ability to channel force without destroying yourself in the process.
"The Gates are not about power," Duy had explained during their first session. "They are about removing limits. But limits exist for reasons. Your body protects itself from forces it cannot handle. The Gates override that protection. If your body is not prepared..."
He'd trailed off. The implication was clear enough. The Eight Gates could make you invincible for moments. They could also tear you apart from the inside.
So they built the foundation. Hour after hour of conditioning, of forms, of pushing the body to its limits and then carefully—so carefully—expanding those limits. The progress was glacial. But it was real.
"You heal faster now," Duy observed during a water break. "Your recovery time has improved significantly."
"Medical training. I can accelerate my own healing."
Duy's eyes sharpened with interest. "Show me."
Tatsuya demonstrated—hands glowing faint green against a bruise on his forearm, the discoloration fading over the course of a minute. Inefficient, chakra-intensive, but functional.
"Fascinating." Duy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "If you could apply that during training... maintain tissue integrity while pushing beyond normal limits..."
"I've been experimenting. It's difficult to heal and exert simultaneously—the chakra flows conflict."
"But not impossible?"
"Nothing's impossible. Just expensive."
Duy's smile was small but genuine. "You understand. Good. That understanding will serve you well." He settled back into ready stance. "Again. Twenty more repetitions. Perfect form."
Tatsuya suppressed a groan and resumed.
Mira found him leaving the training ground, her expression troubled.
"They're watching more closely now," she said without preamble. "Your improvement rate has attracted attention."
Tatsuya kept walking, forcing her to match his pace. "I assumed as much."
"This is serious. The man I told you about—the one with the bandages—his people have been asking questions. About your training schedule. Your techniques. Who you spend time with."
ROOT. Still circling. Still evaluating.
"Let them ask. I'm not doing anything wrong."
"That's not how they see it. Talented orphans with no clan protection, no political backing—you're exactly what they recruit. And you're becoming hard to ignore."
He stopped. Turned to face her. "What would you suggest? Train less? Hide my capabilities?"
"I—" She hesitated. "I don't know. I'm just warning you. When they approached me, I was able to refuse because I wasn't remarkable enough to push. You're becoming remarkable. They might not give you a choice."
Tatsuya considered this. The shadow organization that officially didn't exist, recruiting child soldiers for operations the Hokage couldn't publicly sanction. He knew what they did. What they made people become.
"If they approach me," he said carefully, "I'll handle it."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But hiding isn't the answer. The only real protection is being valuable enough, connected enough, that taking me would cost more than I'm worth."
Mira's laugh was bitter. "And how do you plan to become that?"
"One mission at a time."
He resumed walking. After a moment, she followed.
"There's a joint operation coming," she said. "Multi-team. Extended duration. The roster isn't finalized, but your name is on the preliminary list."
"Where did you hear that?"
"I have my sources." A pause. "Jiraiya of the Sannin is leading it. Border security against Iwa. The kind of mission where people either advance or don't come back."
Jiraiya. The name sent a cold shock through his chest. One of the Legendary Three. The man who would train the Fourth Hokage, who would die fighting Pain, who wrote terrible novels and maintained the village's most extensive spy network.
"When?"
"Briefing tomorrow. If you're selected."
If. But Mira had good intelligence. If his name was on the preliminary list, there was a reason.
He thought about everything he'd been building toward. The fire techniques. The kenjutsu. The medical capabilities that made him useful in ways most genin couldn't match, both new and old... The chakra scalpel that no one knew he had.
"Thank you for telling me."
"Just..." Mira's voice was uncharacteristically soft. "Be careful. These operations have high casualty rates. And the people who come back aren't always the same."
"I know."
He left her at the intersection where their paths diverged—she toward the barracks, he toward the Third District.
Yuki was waiting.
The Harada residence was modest but comfortable—a two-story building in the merchant quarter, with a small garden out front and the smell of fresh-dyed fabric emanating from the workshop in back. Tatsuya had visited three times now, always during the approved hours, always announced in advance.
The Haradas had welcomed him cautiously at first. An orphan shinobi claiming connection to their adopted daughter—such things could be complicated. But Yuki had vouched for him so earnestly, had explained about the battlefield and the journey and the promise he'd made, and eventually caution had given way to something warmer.
"Tatsuya!" Yuki met him at the door, her smile bright. She'd grown in the months since he'd last seen her—taller, healthier, the haunted look in her eyes replaced by something more like normal childhood. "I didn't think you'd come today."
"I might not be able to visit for a while. There's a mission."
Her smile faltered slightly. She understood what that meant—she'd lost her family to such things, after all.
"A dangerous one?"
"They're all dangerous." He crouched to her eye level, the way he'd learned put children at ease. "But I'll be careful. And I'll come back."
"You promise?"
He shouldn't. Promises like that were lies waiting to happen. But looking at her face—this child he'd carried through a war zone, who'd somehow become an anchor for his own humanity—he couldn't help himself.
"I promise."
Mrs. Harada appeared in the doorway, a kind-faced woman with fabric dust on her apron. "Tatsuya-san. Would you like to stay for dinner? We're having grilled fish."
"I shouldn't impose—"
"Nonsense. You brought our daughter back to us. The least we can do is feed you occasionally."
He stayed. The meal was simple but good, the conversation light. Mr. Harada asked about his training; Mrs. Harada fussed over whether he was eating enough; Yuki showed him the arithmetic she was learning for the business. Normal things. Family things.
It felt foreign. Precious. A glimpse of the life he might have had, in either world.
When he left, the sun was setting. He walked back to the barracks through streets that were beginning to empty, thinking about everything he'd built and everything he might lose.
Tomorrow, the real test would begin.
The briefing room was larger than the one Yamada used—designed for full squad assemblies rather than individual meetings. Tatsuya arrived early, found a seat in the back, and watched as other shinobi filtered in.
Most were chunin. A few jonin. And there, near the front, two figures who drew every eye in the room without seeming to notice.
Jiraiya of the Sannin was... not what Tatsuya had expected. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a mane of white hair that seemed almost deliberately unkempt. He wore traditional clothing rather than standard uniform, and his posture was relaxed to the point of carelessness. But his eyes—dark, sharp, constantly moving—told a different story.
Beside him stood a boy. Blonde hair, blue eyes, features that seemed too young for the jonin vest he wore. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. But the way he carried himself, the quiet confidence in his stance, said that age was irrelevant.
Minato Namikaze.
Tatsuya's chest tightened. There he was. The future Fourth Hokage. The Yellow Flash. The man who would seal the Kyuubi into his own son, who would die protecting the village, who would leave behind a legacy of heroism and sacrifice.
Unless something changed.
Unless someone changed it.
The briefing officer—a scarred jonin with a missing ear—called the room to order.
"This is a multi-team operation. Extended duration, elevated threat level. Border security in Sector Seven, where Iwa probing attacks have increased significantly over the past month."
He outlined the mission parameters. Supply line protection. Patrol rotations. Rules of engagement. The kind of careful, measured planning that distinguished organized military action from desperate violence.
"Team assignments are as follows."
Names were called. Chunin grouped with jonin, genin slotted into support roles. The machinery of war, assembling itself.
"Team Jiraiya: Jiraiya-sama leading, with Namikaze Minato as tactical second. Combat support from reserve pool genin Meguri Tatsuya, Inuzuka Takeshi, and Inoue Ren."
Tatsuya's name, listed alongside legends.
He kept his face neutral. Showed nothing of the fear or the hope churning in his gut.
Jiraiya glanced back at the mentioned names. His gaze passed over the others and landed on Tatsuya—just for a moment, just long enough to make assessment.
Tatsuya met his eyes. Didn't flinch.
Something that might have been approval flickered across the Sannin's face before he turned back to the front.
After the briefing, the teams gathered in smaller clusters to coordinate. Tatsuya made his way toward Jiraiya and Minato, acutely aware of every eye tracking his movement.
The other two genin assigned to their team arrived at the same time. Takeshi was Inuzuka—the clan markings on his cheeks made that obvious—but without the ninken partner that most of his family carried. A tracker, then, relying on his own enhanced senses. He vibrated with nervous energy, clearly overwhelmed by proximity to the Sannin.
Ren was larger than Tatsuya, heavily muscled for a genin, with a stolid face that revealed nothing. Taijutsu focus, probably. The kind of fighter who absorbed punishment and kept coming.
"So," Jiraiya drawled, looking them over. "The fresh meat. Let's see what we're working with."
He pointed at Takeshi. "You. Specialties?"
"Tracking, Jiraiya-sama! Enhanced smell and hearing, basic Inuzuka techniques, I can—"
"Shorter answers. You." He pointed at Ren.
"Combat. Taijutsu. Some earth release."
"Better." The finger swung to Tatsuya. "And you?"
"Medical support. Fire release. Kenjutsu."
Jiraiya's eyebrow rose. "Medical and combat? Unusual combination."
"I prefer versatility."
"Do you." It wasn't a question. The Sannin's eyes were sharp despite his casual posture. "Show me your sword."
Tatsuya drew the blade in a smooth motion—not aggressive, but fast enough to demonstrate competence. He held it at guard, letting Jiraiya examine the weapon.
"Standard issue. Nothing special about the steel." Jiraiya's gaze moved from the sword to Tatsuya's hands. "But you know how to hold it. Where did you train?"
"Academy basics. The rest I taught myself."
"Self-taught." The skepticism was audible. "Give me a form. Second kata."
Tatsuya flowed through the movements without hesitation. Step, cut, pivot, guard—the pattern he'd practiced thousands of times, refined through sparring with Shin and the muscle memory this body had inherited. He finished in ready stance and waited.
Jiraiya studied him for a long moment.
"Not academy standard," he said finally. "Your targeting is different. Anatomical focus." His eyes narrowed. "You're aiming for tendons. Arteries. Not just center mass."
"Efficient."
"Dangerous. Especially for a genin." He turned to Minato. "What do you think?"
The young jonin had been watching silently, his expression thoughtful. Now he stepped forward, that warm-but-assessing look fixed on Tatsuya.
"Your footwork is solid. Economy of motion suggests significant practice—more than academy training would provide. Fire and medical is an unusual combination, as Jiraiya-sensei noted. Most shinobi specialize in one direction."
"I don't have clan techniques to fall back on," Tatsuya said. "Versatility is what I can offer."
"Hmm." Minato's head tilted slightly. "Reserve pool. Survivor of the Third Division. Your file says you walked out of a battlefield that killed everyone else."
"I got lucky."
"Did you?" Those blue eyes were uncomfortably perceptive. "Tell me something, Tatsuya-san. Why medical training? Most combat-oriented shinobi consider it a waste of time."
Because I was a surgeon in another life. Because healing is what I was made for, even if this world requires me to kill.
What he said was: "Dead teammates can't complete missions. If I can keep people alive long enough to succeed, the mission succeeds. Simple pragmatism."
Minato's smile was small but genuine. "Simple pragmatism. I like that."
Jiraiya snorted. "You would. Alright, fresh meat—here's how this works. You follow orders. You don't do anything stupid. You stay alive long enough to be useful. Questions?"
Takeshi's hand shot up. "What are our engagement protocols for—"
"That wasn't a real question prompt. We'll cover protocols on the march." Jiraiya was already turning away. "Gear up. We move in two hours."
The team dispersed to prepare. Tatsuya was checking his equipment one final time when a shadow fell across him.
Minato, standing close but not crowding. His presence was... odd. Warm despite the obvious lethality, approachable despite the rank disparity.
"You're not what I expected from reserve pool," he said quietly.
"What did you expect?"
"Desperation. Rough edges. The look of someone who knows they're expendable." A pause. "You have rough edges, but they're... deliberate. Refined. You've been shaping yourself into something specific."
Too perceptive. Far too perceptive for a teenager, even a prodigy.
"Survival requires adaptation," Tatsuya said carefully. "I adapted."
"Mm." Minato didn't seem convinced, but he didn't push. "This mission will be dangerous. Iwa's committed more forces to this sector than intelligence initially suggested. There's a reason they wanted medical support on every team."
"I understood that when I accepted."
"Did you?" The warmth in Minato's expression shifted toward something more serious. "Understanding and experiencing are different things. You've seen combat—your file makes that clear. But extended operations in contested territory, against enemy shinobi who want you dead... that changes people."
Tatsuya thought about the three men he'd killed on the escort mission. The way their eyes had gone empty. The complete absence of feeling afterward.
"I know."
Something in his tone made Minato pause.
"Stay close during engagements," Minato said finally. "Your medical capabilities make you a priority target if the enemy identifies them. But they also make you valuable. Keep our people alive, and I'll keep you alive. Deal?"
"Deal."
Minato nodded once, then moved away to speak with Jiraiya. Tatsuya watched him go, heart hammering against his ribs.
The future Fourth Hokage. The man he'd crossed impossible distances to find.
And now they were going to war together.
The march took two days.
They traveled fast—shinobi pace through forest terrain, covering ground that would have taken civilians a week. Tatsuya pushed himself to keep up, burning chakra for enhanced movement, grateful for the conditioning Duy's training had provided.
The team settled into a natural rhythm. Jiraiya led from the front, his apparent carelessness belied by the way his attention never truly wandered. Minato ranged ahead and behind, scouting, his speed making him seem almost omnipresent. The three genin held the middle, with Takeshi's enhanced senses providing additional early warning.
They spoke little during travel. Saving breath, conserving energy. But during breaks, conversation happened.
Takeshi was nervous and eager, filling silences with chatter that seemed compulsive. His clan had expected him to partner with a ninken like the rest of the family; his compatibility with the dogs had been low, leaving him to develop his tracking abilities without the traditional support. The reserve pool had been his only option after his original team fell apart.
Ren was harder to read. Quiet, competent, speaking only when spoken to. His earth release was basic but solid, and his taijutsu showed real training. Someone had invested time in him, even if he wasn't saying who.
On the first night, Jiraiya gathered them around a small fire.
"Iwa forces in this sector are primarily chunin-level, with jonin leadership," he said, the jovial mask dropped in favor of professional briefing. "Their probing attacks have been targeting supply lines—disruption rather than direct assault. But there's evidence they're building toward something larger."
He sketched a rough map in the dirt. "We'll be patrolling this corridor. Three checkpoints, rotating coverage. Other teams are handling adjacent sectors. If Iwa commits significant force, we call for support and delay until it arrives. Questions?"
"Rules of engagement?" Ren asked.
"Hostile shinobi are legitimate targets. We're not here to start a war, but we're not here to die politely either. Use your judgment."
Tatsuya studied the map, committing terrain features to memory. "The western checkpoint is exposed. Limited cover, clear sightlines for enemy observation."
Jiraiya's eyes flicked to him. "You noticed that."
"The approach is funneled through a ravine. Good for ambush if we're the ones waiting. Bad if we're the ones walking into it."
"Mm." Something that might have been approval crossed Jiraiya's face. "You think like a tactician."
"I think like someone who doesn't want to die."
"Same thing, in this business." Jiraiya leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "You've got medical training. Show me."
Tatsuya held up his hands, letting healing chakra flow until they glowed faint green. The light was steadier than it had been three months ago, the emission more controlled.
"Mystical Palm. Basic proficiency—I can stabilize serious wounds, handle most field injuries. Not hospital-grade, but functional."
"Better than most genin and chuunin even." Jiraiya's eyes were sharp. "What else?"
A test. Everything with this man was a test.
Tatsuya considered his options. Showing the chakra scalpel meant revealing a hidden capability. But Jiraiya was his commanding officer on a dangerous mission. Surprises could get people killed.
He let the healing chakra shift, reshape, condense at his fingertips until it formed a thin, almost invisible edge.
"Chakra scalpel. Combat adapted."
Jiraiya went still. Beside him, Minato's eyes widened slightly.
"Where did you learn that?" The Sannin's voice was carefully neutral.
"I figured it out. Medical texts describe the technique for surgery. I realized the same principle could be applied differently."
"Applied to cutting people apart rather than healing them." It wasn't a condemnation—more like acknowledgment. "Show me."
Tatsuya rose, walked to a nearby tree. He pressed his palm against the bark and pushed chakra through in a controlled slash.
The cut appeared without visible cause—a clean line, maybe a centimeter deep, as if someone had drawn a blade across the wood.
"Tendons," he said. "Arteries. Anything soft enough to sever without requiring physical force."
Jiraiya was quiet for a long moment.
"How many people have you killed with that?"
"Two. During an escort mission three weeks ago."
"And it doesn't bother you? Taking lives with a technique meant for healing?"
Tatsuya met his eyes. "Techniques are tools. Tools don't have morality—only applications. If cutting a tendon stops an enemy from killing my teammates, that's a good application."
Jiraiya studied him with an intensity that felt almost physical. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
"You're a strange one, Meguri Tatsuya. Cold logic wrapped around something that isn't cold at all." He shook his head. "Keep that technique hidden until you need it. Element of surprise is worth more than reputation."
"Understood."
The fire crackled in the silence that followed. Eventually, conversation resumed—lighter topics, careful avoiding the weight of what they were marching toward.
But Tatsuya caught Minato watching him afterward. That assessing look again, but deeper now. More personal.
He'd revealed something. He wasn't sure yet whether that was a mistake.
They reached the operational area on the morning of the third day.
The forward outpost was a temporary structure—camouflaged shelters nestled in a ravine, occupied by a rotating garrison of chunin and genin. Other teams were already present, having arrived via different routes. Maybe forty shinobi in total, spread across the sector.
Jiraiya reported to the operation commander while Minato briefed them on specific patrol routes. The tension was palpable—everyone knew contact was coming, just not when or where.
Two days passed in careful monotony. Patrol rotations. Checkpoint monitoring. The careful dance of watching and being watched, probing without committing.
Tatsuya used the time to observe.
Minato in particular was fascinating. His speed was obvious—he moved faster than anyone Tatsuya had ever seen, even when he wasn't actively trying. But it was his awareness that truly set him apart. Nothing escaped his notice. Every teammate's position, every potential threat, every subtle shift in the operational environment—all of it tracked, catalogued, integrated.
Genius wasn't just about power. It was about processing.
On the third evening, Takeshi's nose caught something.
"Movement," he said sharply. "Southeast. Multiple contacts. Human—enemy shinobi."
The camp went from rest to readiness in seconds. Jiraiya's hand signals sent teams to defensive positions. Minato vanished toward the threat axis, too fast to track.
"Meguri, you're with me," Jiraiya said. "The rest of you, hold the center and protect the supplies."
Tatsuya followed the Sannin into the treeline, heart pounding but hands steady.
The enemy hit them thirty seconds later.
There were more than expected. A dozen, maybe fifteen—chunin-level, moving in coordinated groups with the precision of trained soldiers. Not a probe. An assault.
Tatsuya's first opponent was a kunoichi with stone-grey armor and a tanto in each hand. She came at him fast, blades weaving patterns meant to overwhelm.
He didn't try to match her speed. Instead, he read her movement—the subtle tells that indicated which strike was real and which was feint. His sword rose to parry the true attack while his body shifted to avoid the follow-up.
Steel rang. He felt the impact jar through his arm.
She was stronger than him. Faster. More experienced.
He didn't care.
His free hand came up as she pressed the advantage. She didn't see the danger—why would she? His palm wasn't holding a weapon.
The chakra scalpel severed the tendons in her left forearm.
Her tanto dropped. Her eyes went wide with confusion, then fear. The arm hung useless, fingers refusing to close.
Tatsuya's sword opened her throat before she could scream.
No hesitation. No remorse. Just the next threat, already incoming.
Fire jutsu came to his hands without conscious thought. Phoenix Sage Fire scattered a cluster of enemies trying to flank, small fireballs tracking their evasive movements. One caught an Iwa-nin in the shoulder; another splashed across a rock formation, forcing defenders to reposition.
Somewhere to his left, Jiraiya was doing something that sounded like the world ending. Flames and impacts and the screams of men dying badly.
Ahead, Minato was a blur.
Tatsuya caught glimpses—between his own fights, in the spaces between heartbeats. The blonde jonin moved through enemies like they weren't there, leaving bodies in his wake. Not the Yellow Flash yet—no teleportation, no signature technique—but the foundation of the legend. Speed that defied comprehension. Precision that bordered on precognition.
This was the difference between genin and genius. Between adequate and extraordinary.
"Medical!" someone shouted. Takeshi's voice, strained with pain.
Tatsuya disengaged, backing toward the call. Found the Inuzuka boy on the ground, a kunai embedded in his thigh. Femoral artery—he could see the blood pulsing, too bright, too fast.
"Hold still."
His hands glowed green as he pressed them against the wound. The chakra flow was rough, desperate—not his cleanest work, but enough. The bleeding slowed. Stopped. Takeshi's face went from grey to merely pale.
"Stay down," Tatsuya ordered. "You move, you die."
He turned back to the fight.
An enemy was right there—Iwa chunin, sword raised for a killing blow at Tatsuya's exposed back.
Fire Release: Great Fireball.
The jutsu formed faster than it ever had before. Desperation compressed the chakra, accelerated the transformation. Flames exploded from his mouth, catching the enemy full in the chest.
The man didn't scream. There wasn't time.
Then Ren was there, intercepting two more enemies with his earth-reinforced fists. The heavy genin fought like a wall—absorbing blows that would have broken Tatsuya, returning them with compound interest.
The battle shifted. Contracted. Jiraiya's assault had broken the enemy's coordination, and Minato was systematically dismantling what remained.
It ended almost as quickly as it had begun.
Fifteen enemy shinobi. Maybe two minutes of actual combat.
All of them dead.
Tatsuya stood in the aftermath, breathing hard, covered in blood that was mostly not his own. His chakra reserves were dangerously low—the healing on Takeshi had cost more than he could afford.
But they were alive. His team was alive.
Jiraiya appeared beside him, barely winded.
"Casualty count?"
"Takeshi took a bad hit. I stabilized him—he needs proper medical attention, but he'll live. Ren has minor injuries. I'm..." Tatsuya checked himself. Cuts, bruises, nothing serious. "Functional."
"And you killed—how many?"
"Three confirmed. Maybe four."
The Sannin nodded slowly. His expression was unreadable.
"That technique. The one you used on the first enemy."
"Chakra scalpel."
"She never saw it coming. Professional kunoichi, probably five years of combat experience, and she never knew she was dead until you opened her throat, that should tell you something."
Tatsuya said nothing. There was nothing to say.
"Get some rest," Jiraiya said finally. "This was a probe. The real assault will come soon."
He moved away to coordinate with the other teams. Tatsuya watched him go, then turned to find Minato standing nearby.
The young jonin was studying him again. That look—warm but piercing, friendly but assessing.
"That technique," he said quietly. "When you touched the enemy's arm. That wasn't standard Academy training."
Exactly what Tatsuya had known someone would eventually notice.
"Chakra scalpel," he said. "Medical technique. I adapted it, like i said, before the attack."
"Adapted it for combat huh?" Not a question.
Minato was silent for a moment. The sounds of the aftermath—wounded being treated, reports being compiled, the distant crackle of dying fires—filled the space between them.
"You're interesting, Tatsuya-san," he said finally. "I think this mission is going to be educational."
He walked away before Tatsuya could respond.
Educational. Right.
In the distance, Jiraiya was watching them both. His expression was unreadable.
The mission was just beginning.