Chapter 7: The Form of Nothingness
Kakashi stood perfectly still, his father's blade clenched tightly in his hand. The morning air
pressed against him, thick with silence, carrying the faint scent of dew and freshly turned soil.
Each blade of grass bent slightly under the weight of unseen wind, and the soft rustling of leaves
whispered in the distance. In front of him stood the vivid image of his father—calm, poised,
unyielding.
Kakashi's breath was ragged, shallow, each exhale trembling as though his lungs themselves
were rebelling. Sweat trickled down his jawline, soaking into the collar of his dark navy shirt.
His body screamed for rest, for release from the crushing pressure of repeated self-imposed
torture. Yet he remained rooted to the spot, eyes locked on the figure that had haunted his
training for the past days. His mind raced through every lesson, every scroll, every detail of
Sakumo's techniques he had painstakingly memorized.
Then, without warning, he exhaled sharply and lunged forward.
The blade arced upward from below in a motion fluid and precise, like a snake striking through
the grass. Sakumo Form 73: Rising Serpent—the sword technique of his father's intricate sword.
Sakumo tilted backward just in time. The steel whispered past his face, leaving a ghost of cold
air in its wake. Kakashi pivoted instantly, switching to a reverse grip, driving the blade
downwards toward his father's chest, targeting his heart and compensating for the difference in
reach.
But Sakumo was faster. One fluid motion, and his own blade shifted from his right hand to his
left, falling with deadly intent. He caught Kakashi's right wrist with his right hand, then as the
blade fell in his left hand he twisting it sharply, redirecting towards Kakashi's abdomen. As the
edge of the sword came dangerously close to Kakashi's abdomen.
Instinct surged. Kakashi pressed his back against Sakumo's chest, grounding his legs and
releasing a controlled burst of chakra. The ground cracked beneath them as he leveraged every
ounce of strength, tossing his father over his shoulder and slamming him into the dirt.
For a single heartbeat, both froze. Kakashi's left arm pinned Sakumo's right, his own blade
poised at lethal intent about to fall in right into Sakumo's chest. Time seemed to stretch, every
detail hyper-real, every heartbeat amplified, every subtle shift in posture cataloged.
Then movement blurred—Sakumo's left hand flashed upward like lightning.
Steel screamed.
In an instant, Kakashi's right arm was gone, severed cleanly. Before he could even comprehend
it, the world twisted again—his father's blade came down in a final, precise arc. Kakashi had
died.
He died for the 168th time. Sakumo Hatake had not fallen once.
Even though it had all been in his mind, in reality he hadn't moved from the spot for the past two
hours. His body was exhausted, but the true fatigue gnawed at his mind. The mental strain was
immense—reliving 168 battles in such vivid detail left him feeling every strike, every cut, every
sore muscle as if they were real. This was precisely why he had chosen the early morning for his
simulations—the time when the brain functioned at its sharpest, when focus was clearest, and
when every imagined battle could be etched into memory with maximum efficiency.
At the battlefield dissolved like mist in his mind, leaving only the echo of the strike in Kakashi's
mind.
Even in his imagination, a pale shadow of the real man had humbled him.
Sakumo Hatake, the White Fang of Konoha, was not merely a legend whispered in awe—he was
a force beyond measure.
It was no rumor but fact: Sakumo's might is greater than the Three Legendary Sannin combined.
Where others faltered, he stood unyielding. Entire battalions fell before him, and he returned
unscathed. His very presence shattered enemy morale.
Kakashi now understood the truth. His father's invincibility was not born of technique or
strategy alone, but of instinct—honed to perfection, boundless, relentless, absolute.
Because of Sakumo's unmatched power, Konoha endured far less damage than other villages.
Countless shinobi who might have perished in the Second Great Ninja War lived to see another
dawn.
Yet history records his downfall. A single mission failed—not from weakness, but from mercy.
He chose to save his comrades, and for that choice, the village turned against him.
From that day, Kakashi carved his own vow: never to place comrades above the mission.
Because the comrade you save may be the very one who condemns you for the mission's failure.
He collapsed backward onto the soft grass of his father's old training field, gasping, limbs
trembling. The same ground where Sakumo had honed every strike, every evasive motion, every
instant reaction. Seven seconds of battle had stretched into endless minutes in his mind.
"I should have taken care of his left arm before going for the kill," he muttered, voice flat, eyes
half-lidded.
He lay motionless for a long moment, watching dawn light spill over the rooftops of the village.
The air smelled of earth and dew, clean and sharp. Stretching his sore limbs, he slowly sat up and
murmured almost to himself:
"Oh… I have to go to school today."
Kakashi rose fully, the cool morning brushing against his skin. He flexed his fingers open and
closed, feeling the familiar thrum of chakra pulsing through every vein, every fiber. For days, a
quiet fear had lingered in his mind—what if, once the pain in his chakra circuit finally
disappeared, he lost the ability to feel it at all?
That pain had been his map. His guide. Every surge, every jolt, every pinch of discomfort had
traced the path of his chakra, revealing its flaws and its strengths. Without it, he worried he
might lose the connection he had fought so tirelessly to build.
Yet now, standing in the early light, he realized the awareness was still there. Every current,
every pulse, every flicker of energy responded to his will. Pain was gone—but the precision
remained.
He could sense the entirety of his chakra circuit as though it were etched beneath his skin—alive,
responsive, obedient. Most shinobi could merely guide chakra; he could now command it,
orchestrate its flow, control timing, intensity, and direction with absolute authority.
Not just where it moved, but how fast, how much, when.
Absolute control.
In the past week, he had read every scroll his father had ever written. He memorized all ninety
six of Sakumo Hatake's sword and taijutsu forms his father had mastered throughout his life only
in 5 days. Yet, as he practiced, a fundamental realization slowly took root—learning and
mastering were two entirely different things.
For most shinobi, mastery meant the mind commanded the body what need to be done in specific
moment. But his father's definition—true mastery—meant the body acted without thought,
without hesitation, without permission from the mind: a perfect, instinctive extension of will.
Because Sakumo's strength had never come from technique alone. He had no formal style, no
predictable patterns. He fought through pure instinct, guided only by necessity, by the single
minded will to kill swiftly and decisively. Fluid, chaotic, unbound—his movements came from
survival itself. Yet beneath the seamless, violent flow of his body, his mind remained an engine
of relentless calculation. Each strike, each evasion, each seeming flourish of randomness was
paired with a quiet mental choreography: noting weaknesses, anticipating reactions, and finding
the fastest, most efficient way to end the fight.
He remembered a line from his father's notes, read countless times:
"The only intent in battle is to kill. You must end your enemy as fast and as simply as possible. Your
body must move on its own—without thought, without hesitation. It must adapt and create whatever
outcome is needed. At the same time, your mind must be present, calculating the battle ahead,
assessing the enemy's strengths and weaknesses, and guiding your body to counter them with perfect
timing. If your mind and body cannot work separately you will never reach the state of Mu no Kata—the
Form of Nothingness."
Now, Kakashi understood the deeper truth: mastery was not merely a matter of muscle memory
or raw power. It was the fusion of instinct and intellect, of chaos and calculation, of movement
and thought intertwined. To achieve the Form of Nothingness was to trust the body completely,
while the mind orchestrated the outcome with ruthless precision.
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. "Then that's where I'll begin… my journey to be the
strongest." Thinking of everything he'd learned—and everything he still had to master.
Dismissing all thoughts, he pushed himself up and walked toward the house. He grabbed the
water bottle he had left beside the back door and took a slow sip, savoring its chill.
Things had changed since the accident two weeks ago—and so had he.
He finally understood how meaningless it was to chase power at the cost of his own life. Looking
back, he could almost laugh at how blind he'd been—driven by rage and grief, mistaking self
destruction for strength.
Tsunade and Minato had been right all along. He hadn't truly been seeking power then; he had
been seeking an end. Power was only the excuse—a more acceptable word for death.
But that boy was gone now. The loss still lingered like a scar beneath the skin, but it no longer
ruled him. Now, his pursuit of strength had purpose—not born from despair, but from discipline.
He would be smarter this time. Patient. Calculated. Because real strength wasn't found in
reckless ambition or pain—it was built, refined, and earned through control.
And if he broke himself again on the way to greatness… then all of it—his father's legacy, his
own evolution—would mean nothing.
After all, what use was power to a corpse?
5:38 a.m. Kakashi had been awake since 3:30. The first fifteen minutes were spent stretching,
loosening every muscle, tendon, and joint with methodical precision. He moved deliberately,
quietly, like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of movement.
After stretching, he ate leftover miso soup and rice from the night before—simple, cold, yet
sustaining. Then he began his simulated practice, running through movements from his father's
scrolls: sword strikes, stances, footwork, and chakra control. Each step measured, every motion
refined. His breathing matched the rhythm, a quiet metronome to guide his body's flow.
After completing the training, he prepared breakfast. Rinsing rice with care, watching the water
swirl, draining and pouring until clean grains rested in the cooker. The motion was soothing, a
meditative ritual that grounded him.
While the rice boiled, he bathed. Steam fogged the mirror as warmth drew fatigue from his
muscles. Afterward, cross-legged on the wooden floor, he meditated, aligning his mind and body
with the rhythm of his restored chakra.
Dressed in simple dark clothes, he caught his reflection and remembered his father's voice:
"Father," a four-year-old Kakashi had asked once, on his fourth birthday, "Did I become nine?"
Sakumo had smiled warmly. "No, son. Why do you ask?"
"You said you'd take off my mask when I turn nine. But… why is has to in the age of nine not
now?"
His father chuckled softly. "Because, Kakashi, when you turn nine, you become a new version of
yourself—stronger, wiser, more mature. It's a Hatake tradition. We remove our mask to
celebrate that growth."
The memory faded. Kakashi stared at his reflection now—older, sharper, colder.
"I've already become that new version," he murmured. Then he removed them mask from his
face.
The boy in the mirror was striking—seven years old, pale, porcelain skin smooth and unscarred;
cheeks still softly rounded, a jawline only beginning to sharpen into the planes of adulthood.
Silver hair, thick and slightly tousled, fell in a blunt off-center fringe and feathered at the
temples, leaving his ears visible. His forehead was smooth beneath fine, slightly arched brows
darker than his hair, set low enough to give a focused, quietly serious look. Large, almond
shaped eyes with generous irises—a cool silver-gray—caught the light with a bright catch; lashes
were fine but noticeable, and there was no mark or discoloration around them. A small, gently
upturned nose sat above a reserved, well-defined mouth whose straight line suggested
determination rather than anger; the lower lip was softly rounded. His chin remained short and
childlike, the neck slender and unmarked, and the whole expression read calm composure—
mature resolve held in a child's face.
The smell of cooked rice drifted through the house. He put a huge portion of rice in a big boule
more than a kid of this age eats then Kakashi went words the fridge and got out two eggs. He
thought to himself 'I need to buy more eggs and some vegetables… and rice.' Then he came to
his table cracked two eggs over the steaming grains, humming softly as he mixed the eggs with
the rice. Discipline, nutrition, and rhythm replaced desperation and rage.
'I can't train if I'm not healthy' he thought. 'Power means nothing if the body breaks first.'
Finishing breakfast, he cleaned up and checked the clock.
'I should also change Father's bank account into my name.'
He walked toward the door but paused for a moment. The cool morning air brushed against his
bare face—strange, unfamiliar, yet freeing. For the first time in years, there was no fabric
between him and the world. No mask to hide behind. No barrier to retreat into.
He lifted a hand to his cheek, feeling the exposed skin.
'So this is what it feels like… going out as myself.'
There was no fear in the thought—only recognition. A quiet acceptance. A quiet resolve.
He stepped outside, silver hair catching the soft morning light.
'Today… I walk as the new me.'
He inhaled deeply, centered his breath, and continued down the path toward the Academy—
unmasked, focused, and utterly unafraid.