Time slipped by relentlessly.
By mid-April in the Year 11 of the Shinobi World, the winds sweeping through Sunagakure had already taken on a distinct, arid heat.
The secluded training ground on the edge of the academy had tacitly become the exclusive domain of Sengoku and his three upperclassmen 'whetstones'.
Thwack! Thud!
The heavy sounds of physical impact mixed with ragged, exhausted breathing.
In the center of the yard, Sengoku was moving with an eerie, frictionless grace. His Puppet Shunshin was no longer restricted to short, rigid pivots like it was two months ago. It had matured into a seamless, flowing dance of sudden accelerations and impossible angles.
Surrounding him in a tight triangular formation, Tetsumaru, Matsufuji, and Kakuda pressed the attack. Their coordination had improved drastically; their strikes were sharper, heavier, and synchronized. They had clearly spent hours refining their teamwork to deal with him. Yet, against Sengoku's perfected footwork, they were still suffocating.
Their fists, kicks, and thrown shuriken were always a fraction of a second too slow. Just as a blow was about to land, Sengoku would trigger a micro-pulse of chakra, sliding out of harm's way with unnatural ease.
He wove through their aggressive assault like a fish darting through reeds. Occasionally, he would strike back—a light tap against a flexing joint to disrupt a punch, a subtle redirection that sent a kick sailing into empty air, or a calculated shove that nearly caused them to hit each other.
"Left!" Tetsumaru roared, throwing a devastating hook.
His fist met empty air. Using a minute chakra burst from his heel, Sengoku had already ducked below the senior's line of sight, gliding past his flank. As he passed, Sengoku lightly tapped two fingers against Tetsumaru's exposed ribs before vanishing again.
"Damn it! Again?!" Matsufuji cursed as his sweeping low kick missed entirely, Sengoku having executed a perfectly flat, frictionless backward glide.
From the rear, Kakuda lunged in for a blindside grapple. Without even turning his head, Sengoku surged forward, his body abruptly snapping into a high-speed dash as if yanked by invisible wires, leaving Kakuda grasping at dust.
The grueling three-on-one spar lasted for a solid fifteen minutes.
Finally, Tetsumaru waved his hands wildly and collapsed onto the sand, his chest heaving, his uniform soaked in sweat and grime.
"I'm done! I'm done!" Tetsumaru gasped, staring at the sky. "We can't even touch you! What the hell kind of Shunshin is this anyway? It looks nothing like what the instructors do, and it just keeps getting more ridiculous!"
Matsufuji and Kakuda, equally exhausted, slumped down beside him. They looked at Sengoku—who was merely breathing a little heavier than usual—with deeply complicated expressions.
Over the past two months, their feelings toward the younger boy had charted a bizarre course: from humiliated rage, to absolute shock, and finally, to a dull, accepted numbness. They had become the perfect whetstones to polish Sengoku's unique jutsu. In return, the sheer, oppressive pressure of fighting Sengoku had forcefully accelerated their own combat awareness and teamwork. It was a strange, purely pragmatic relationship devoid of any actual friendship.
Standing a few paces away, Sengoku carefully regulated his breathing. He assessed the condition of his meridians. The Puppet Shunshin still demanded a steep chakra cost, but the sharp, tearing pain in his legs was gone, replaced by a manageable, dull ache. His body had finally adapted to the strain.
The next morning, the academy schedule proceeded as usual.
During the geography block, the instructor droned on about the topography and resource distribution of the Land of Wind. Sengoku listened with intense focus. To others, it was boring textbook filler; to him, it was vital tactical data for future survival outside the village walls.
Just before the ninjutsu period began, Sunada Shun stepped into the classroom. He walked to the front, his cold eyes sweeping over the students, cutting through the ambient chatter instantly.
"Today, we cover the second of the three basic academy techniques: the Transformation Technique," Sunada announced, his voice devoid of inflection.
"The principle is straightforward. You coat your body in a layer of chakra, then meticulously manipulate its shape and how it refracts light to simulate a target's appearance. This includes altering your perceived physical dimensions."
Sunada let the information settle before continuing. "The key to this jutsu is a perfectly stable chakra output and a flawless mental image of the construct. Maintaining the illusion requires a constant, steady drain on your reserves. Be warned: the jutsu will disperse if you sustain a sufficient physical impact, and high-level sensory ninja or dojutsu users can easily see through the camouflage. Its primary use is basic infiltration and misdirection."
"Observe," Sunada commanded.
He didn't bother weaving hand seals. His body shimmered for a fraction of a second. In the blink of an eye, the instructor vanished, replaced by a massive Fuma Shuriken nearly as tall as a man. The cold, metallic luster and razor-sharp edges were breathtakingly realistic. Only the faint, almost imperceptible ripple of chakra gave away its true nature.
With a soft poof, Sunada reverted to his human form. "Begin your practice," he ordered, stepping back into the corner of the room to observe with his clipboard.
The classroom quickly devolved into chaos.
Because the core of the technique relied purely on the external shaping and projection of chakra, it demanded an immense level of micromanagement. Most students immediately hit a wall.
All around the room, horrific, eldritch abominations began to pop into existence. One student tried to transform into his deskmate, resulting in a faceless, flesh-toned blob with mottled colors. Another attempted to become a wooden desk, only to produce a squiggly, unstable block of wood with four violently wobbling legs.
Araki Ryo, his face red with effort, strained to turn himself into a simple kunai. A puff of smoke cleared to reveal a floppy, dough-like object that looked more like a melted slug than a weapon. With a pathetic squeak, the illusion collapsed, returning a highly embarrassed Araki to his seat amidst the snickers of his peers.
Nearby, Yotaka Arashi attempted to transform into a desert scorpion. He succeeded, but the result was a terrifying, half-human-sized arachnid with disproportionately massive claws. It looked incredibly menacing for exactly two seconds before the unstable chakra structure shattered into white smoke.
Sengoku sat quietly, analyzing the chaos.
Sunada's explanation was all he needed. Since the jutsu bypassed complex hand seals and relied entirely on the precise, external sculpting of a chakra shell, it played directly into his greatest strength.
Sengoku didn't hesitate. He willed his chakra outward, perfectly wrapping his body in a dense, controlled layer.
There was no dramatic puff of smoke, no loud popping sound. The air around him simply rippled like a stone dropped in a calm pond.
In an instant, Sengoku was gone. Sitting perfectly on his chair was a massive, pristine Fuma Shuriken, identical to the one Sunada had demonstrated down to the microscopic glint of light on its metallic surface.
"Huh? Where did Sengoku go?" Yotaka Arashi muttered, turning his head. He jumped in his seat when he realized a giant, lethal weapon was resting exactly where Sengoku had been.
Sengoku smoothly canceled the jutsu.
A second later, he applied a new mental image. His body shimmered again. This time, a perfect replica of Sunada Shun stood beside the desk. Sengoku had captured everything—the dead, unblinking eyes, the precise angle of the facial scar, and the heavy, oppressive aura.
Imitating Sunada's flat, monotonous cadence, the replica spoke. "Quiet."
Though the voice still carried a faint, unavoidable childish pitch, the visual intimidation was so absolute that several students in the immediate vicinity instinctively shrank back and clamped their mouths shut.
Sengoku rapidly cycled through several more transformations: a chair, a textbook, an adult shinobi. Each shift was instantaneous, flawless, and required a negligible amount of his refined chakra reserves.
From the corner of the room, Sunada Shun observed the display. His scarred face remained a mask of indifference, but his pen moved sharply across his clipboard, marking down the data. The rapid mastery didn't shock him; he had lived long enough to see what true, heaven-defying geniuses looked like.
When the dismissal bell for the morning session finally rang, Sunada turned and left the classroom without a word.
Normally, the afternoon schedule dictated physical sparring sessions for the class. However, because Sengoku's taijutsu had become so overwhelmingly oppressive, Sunada had officially banned him from participating in the lower-year combat blocks. It was a pragmatic decision by the instructor to prevent Sengoku from inflicting lasting psychological damage on the rest of the class.
Consequently, once the morning theory and ninjutsu lessons concluded, Sengoku's afternoons were entirely his own.