Arata-sensei's gaze swept across the group, his expression neutral. Unlike Daigo-sensei, who carried a constant air of exasperation, this man radiated something different.
Murakami observed him for a while but couldn't place a finger on it so he discarded the thought.
"Bukijutsu," Arata-sensei began, "is not simply the art of wielding weapons. It is an extension of your body, an extension of your will, and, if necessary, an extension of your intent to kill."
His tone was smooth, almost casual, yet every word carried weight.
A few in the audience shifted uncomfortably at his words, but a few others, Murakami included, remained still, taking in every word.
Arata-sensei didn't sugarcoat anything.
"Many of you think you already know how to fight," he continued. "That's fine. But let me make something very clear—this class will not be some mindless swinging competition."
"You will be expected to have reached a certain level of mastery over your weapon of choice at the end of each term." He said.
"Mastery over a weapon means mastery over distance, timing, and the opponent's psychology. Fail to understand that, and you'll die with steel in your gut before you even realize you lost."
Silence.
He hummed at the reactions and continued. "If you think this lesson is about picking up a weapon and looking cool, leave now."
No one moved.
That much was expected. If they did, they were forfeiting a fundamental area of their shinobi studies.
Not even fools would make that mistake.
Arata-sensei tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for a challenge, and when none came, he exhaled through his nose.
"Good."
With a sharp motion, he grabbed a wooden practice sword from the rack beside him and tossed it into the air. The moment it reached its peak, his arm blurred—
Crack.
The wooden sword shattered midair, splintering into useless fragments. He had struck it with his bare fist before gravity could even reclaim it.
Murakami's brows rose curiously at the display.
He had seen demonstrations before, but something about the way Arata-sensei did it, so fast and effortless, sent a clear message.
This wasn't a man who wasted movements. This was a man who knew exactly how much force was needed to break something.
"Definitely a high ranking chūnin." He muttered inaudibly to himself.
This served as a cold reminder that, in battle, weapons weren't the only things that could be broken. Getting hit with a fist of that speed and power…
Murakami shook his head at the thought. 'Let's not think about that now.'
The shattered pieces of the wooden katana fell to the ground around him, as he nodded, seemingly satisfied with our silence. "Weapons are tools," he continued. "They are not what makes you strong. You make them strong."
"Now," he said, stepping forward, "before we move on, I want each of you to answer a question. If you were facing an opponent with a weapon, what would you do first? You." He pointed at one of the students.
A girl a few rows ahead sat up straight. "Analyze their stance."
Arata-sensei nodded. "A good start. Next?"
Another student hesitated before answering. "Check their grip on the weapon?"
"Correct."
One by one, he called on more students. Each gave their answer, from analysing the distance to footing and movement, until finally, his eyes landed on Murakami.
"Break their rhythm." Murakami replied smoothly.
His brow raised slightly. "Oh?" He had noticed that the others were being defensive with their replies focused mainly on analysis.
Murakami's answer went beyond that.
To break an opponent's rhythm, one must have already analysed everything there is to analyse about them.
Murakami met his gaze. "No one fights at full efficiency when they're forced to adjust to something unexpected. If I can disrupt their tempo before they establish control, I create an opening."
Arata-sensei's brow lifted slightly, and for the first time, the corner of his mouth twitched. The way the boy answered was akin to someone who had been in combat, which was impossible considering his age and current status.
"Interesting."
His gaze lingered for a moment before he moved on.
Once the questioning was done, he clapped his hands together. "Now that I've heard your thoughts, it's time for the real lesson." He turned toward the door. "Follow me."
…
The Armory.
The Armory wasn't just a storage room filled with weapons—it was an entire section of the Hokage building dedicated to acquisition and maintenance of academy weapons.
(A/N: I may not have mentioned it but Konoha Academy is a building conjoined to the Hokage Tower. The entire building was never shown in its entirety in the anime but there are also other buildings within it.)
Rows upon rows of weapons lined the walls, from katana to exotic choices like tonfa, naginata and kusarigama…almost every conventional weapon imaginable was present.
"Each of you will choose a weapon today," Arata-sensei announced. "This will be your designated weapon until you graduate."
Murmurs rippled through the group causing Arata-sensei to smirk at our reactions. "Choose wisely. A poor choice will haunt you for years."
'That's true.' Murakami nodded to himself. 'Wouldn't want to waste quality time building upon a discipline not suitable for you.'
Murakami walked among the weapon racks, his fingers brushing over the weapons, his thoughts swirling on the best weapon that will fit his desired fighting style.
He observed that many students swarmed the sword rack like moths to an open flame, eyes gleaming as they reached for sleek katanas and shorter ninjatō.
A few gravitated toward the others he couldn't recognise their names turning them over in their hands like they were already picturing some grand battlefield moment.
Murakami decisively walked right past all of it.
Swords were flashy, attention-grabbing and cliché.
From his perspective, it was the kind of thing that made people stare and expect greatness the moment you unsheathed it. And that was exactly the kind of expectation he wanted no part of.
Seriously though, a sword was powerful, but predictable. The moment you saw someone unsheath one, you knew what to expect—slashes, thrusts, precision strikes.
He shook his head. 'No, I needed something quieter. Something that didn't scream, Look at me! I am a warrior of legend! every time I held it.'
Just then, his gaze caught sight of it.
A staff.
It was plain and unassuming. Just a long, sturdy wooden staff with no unnecessary embellishments. There was no shine or deadly curve like the naginata, just a tool that spoke not of power, but control.
"Perfect." He muttered and walked towards it and lifted it and gave it a slow spin.
It felt natural in his hands.
Balanced.
A solid whuff cut through the air, followed by a satisfying thud as it struck the ground lightly with one end.
Unlike a blade, which was limited to cutting and stabbing, a staff had versatility. It could strike, defend, disarm.
'It provided control.' I evaluated with a smirk.
Arata-sensei approached, glancing at my choice. "A staff?"
I turned and met his gaze. "A blade can only cut. The staff can do much more."
For a moment, there was silence as we looked at each other.
Then, he smirked.
"Hmm." He nodded and turned to walk away.
One by one, we recorded our weapon of choices in a thick ledger near the entrance.
I wrote:
Haruki Murakami – Staff
When the last signed out, Arata-sensei turned back to us.
"These weapons are yours until you graduate," he said. "You will train with them, master them, and learn their strengths and weaknesses."
His eyes sharpened. "Some of you may regret your choices. Some of you may find them limiting. But that's the point—a weapon is only as strong as the one wielding it."
He let the words settle before smirking.
"Let's see how well you adapt."
Murakami ightened my grip on my staff. He couldn't agree more to Arata-sensei's words.
A weapon was truly only as strong as the one wielding it.
He had no doubt in his mind and knew that whether or not he had made the right choice, only the future will tell.
…
By the time the class ended, the day was already coming to an end giving way to the evening bustle.
Students drifted from the academy gate in groups, some excitedly discussing their new weapons, others second-guessing their choices.
Murakami held his staff across his shoulders, hands draped over it lazily as he walked. It earned a few side-glances, probably because it wasn't a sword or something that looked lethal, but no one said anything outright.
That was perfectly fine. Murakami was never one to care for other's opinions in the first place. They made their choices, he made his.
The academy grounds were still lively despite classes ending. Training fields were still occupied, and a few students lingered to get extra practice in before heading home.
Just as he was about to leave, he spotted a familiar group heading in his direction.
"Murakami!".
Daichi, with his usual easy grin, was making his way towards him. He was in another class, but they always managed to cross paths by the end of the day.
Tsubaki was right behind him, arms folded, her sharp gaze sweeping around like she was evaluating everyone's worth. Renji and Sota followed, chatting animatedly about their training.
And, of course, Katsuro Nara trailed slightly behind, hands in his pockets, looking like he hadn't a single worry in the world.
"Yo," Murakami greeted, shifting his staff so it didn't get in the way.
Daichi whistled when he saw it. "A staff? Didn't take you for the type."
Murakami shrugged. "Swords are too much trouble."
"You just don't want attention," Tsubaki pointed out.
"Exactly."
Murakami wasn't surprised by her remark. They were his siblings who spent the most time with him, and even if he didnt want it, it would be impossible for them not to have an idea or two on what kind of person Murakami is.
Renji laughed. "At least you're self-aware."
The six walked together, talking about their classes, instructors, and, most importantly, what they planned to do with the rest of their evening.
"I'm heading to the orphanage," Renji said, cracking his neck. "The younger ones keep trying to outdo each other in sparring matches. They need a referee before someone loses an eye."
Sota smirked. "I keep telling you, let them lose an eye. That's how real warriors are made."
"Spoken like someone who isn't responsible for them," Renji shot back.
Daichi clapped a hand on Murakami's shoulder. "You coming?"
That was perfunctory, Daichi already knew the answer, and as expected…
Murakami shook his head. "Nah. Got work."
Neither of them questioned it. They all knew about the store Murakami 'worked' in with the help of Hina, and one by one, they peeled off toward their own destinations.
Katsuro was the last to leave, giving him a lazy wave before heading toward the Nara district.
And just like that, Murakami was the only one walking.
With his new weapon in hand, he walked toward the Market District
The streets were busy this time of day, but he barely noticed as his mind was elsewhere—on the staff resting against his shoulder, on the weight of it, on what it meant to wield something that wasn't sharp and wasn't designed to kill in one clean stroke.
'Without the intention to do so…' He pointed out in his thoughts. He knew that despite not being sharp, it was still adevastating weapon when used wirh the intention to kill.
A famous assasin from a movie in his past life used a pencil to kill, what more a staff.
'Not like I was planning to become a killer.' He mused. Yes, all Shinobi must kill at one point in time simce the world and profession demanded it, but still, 'If I can help it, why kill?'
'If I were attacked with the intent to kill…now that was another matter entirely.'
And so, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that choosing the staff was the easy part.
The real challenge was figuring out how to use it. And the thought of that caused him to frown.
A sword? You had endless references for that. Swordsmen were everywhere, paintings, scrolls, history books.
Hell, there was even an entire country of them.
Though they go by the name samurai.
Classic.
The techniques were well-documented. If you wanted to learn how to use a blade, all you had to do was swing the blade a few dozen times and you've got the handle on it.
But a bo staff?
That was different.
Murakami scoured through his memories of his past life but all he could come to were blurry as no one really paid attention to staff welders.
The only memorable one in his mind was Jin Mori, and even that person absurdly strong that his casual swing could render the heavens.
Murakami pasued as he remembered this fact. 'That is not a good reference material.' He chided himself.
He knew the basics—how to grip it and how to swing—but beyond that?
Nothing.
He twirled the staff absentmindedly as he walked, earning a few odd looks from passing villagers.
'Would I have to figure this out alone? Trial and error?' He wondered.
That sounded inefficient.
And possibly painful.
Not to mention, time consuming.
'Tch..' he clicked his tongue and exhaled sharply through his nose as he came to the only solution could come up with for a person in his position.
Arata-sensei.
As a student of the academy, Arata-sensei was his best bet for guidance, and if the academy had a manual or scroll on bojutsu, he'd be the one to ask.
It made sense, really. Why struggle in the dark when there was a direct path to learning?
'Yeah. That's what I'd do.' he concluded as he brought the staff to rest on his shoulder once again. 'Next time I see him, I'll ask.'
With his decision made, he refocused on his surroundings.
The Market District was alive as usual, food stalls releasing fragrant steam into the air and children weaving through the crowds, giggling as they dodged customers.
It smelled like grilled skewers, fresh-baked sweet buns, and too many bodies pressed into the same space.
It was familiar and comforting.
Only just a little chaotic.
He turned down a corner and came onto a quieter side street leading to his destination.
There was a possibility of meeting a few unruly kids and budding teenagers, but they were nothing to worry about. They were merely canon fodder…
No, even canon fodders had the minimum strength of a genin, those guys were not at that level, and their only redeeming quality was that their courage.
It was nothing of a surprise for runaways kids of this time to be fearless. Especially in a village that currently took priority of shinobi than on your average civilian.
Due to the war that was raging along the borders, there was a lack of certain amenities the village should provide.
Such as security of life and property.
That wasnt something he bothered to worry about, since they would know better than to trouble him and his property.
A previous successful attempt at his store overnight had quite a couple thugs…
Murakami shook his head.
They didn't qualify to be called thugs.
The point was after a few swollen faces and bruises on the body, it hadn't happened again.
There were still a few daring riff-raffs that thought was nothing but all bluff.
Shaking his head as he arrived in front of his store, he could help taking a pause to observe the it.
The store wasn't anything grand. Just a small general shop tucked between a tea house and a fabric vendor, its sign slightly faded from years of sun and rain.
To him, it was his second home, away from home.
At least, that's what it had been for a long time. Too bad they were moving to a bigger place after this year.