…
By the time Murakami left the Hokage Administration district that evening, his brief encounter with Hatake Sakumo had already been pushed to the back of his mind.
Interesting?
Yes.
Memorable?
Certainly.
But ultimately, Sakumo's existence had nothing to do with his immediate priorities.
Strength did.
The past month had only reinforced that thought further.
Mission after mission, battle after battle with Kaito-sensei Murakami had gradually become more aware of his current limitations.
Not against Genin.
Not even against most Chunin.
But against the upper threshold of the shinobi world itself.
Jonin.
Specialists.
Prodigies.
Monsters.
The people who truly dictated the flow of war.
In the current shinobi world, those labels weren't just titles or flattering descriptions used in casual speech.
They were rough attempts to categorize something that, in reality, refused to fit neatly into ranks at all.
A Jonin was, at its core, a general-purpose weapon.
Not necessarily the strongest in raw terms, but the most complete.
They had enough ninjutsu, taijutsu, battlefield awareness, and leadership ability to operate independently or command squads in real combat.
A Jonin could adapt to most situations, survive ambushes, complete high-risk missions, and make decisions that affects entire teams.
But "adaptable" did not mean "unbeatable."
Because shinobi combat was rarely fair.
A Special Jonin often existed in that gap.
They were not always weaker than Jonin. In fact, in a specialized field, many of them were stronger.
A Jonin might dominate in a general fight… and still fall in seconds to a Special Jonin whose entire existence was built around one perfected domain.
A Genjutsu specialist didn't need overwhelming strength, just a single opening.
A Fuinjutsu specialist didn't need speed or power, just preparation and placement.
A Taijutsu specialist didn't need tricks, just contact.
An elemental specialist didn't need versatility,.only overwhelming environmental control, forced positioning, and the ability to turn a single misstep into decisive damage.
Because against a Jonin, raw firepower alone usually isn't enough.
Jonin can evade, substitute, or tank brief pressure. What they can't afford is being forced into bad terrain, bad timing, or repeated restricted movement.
That's where elemental specialists become dangerous, not because they hit hard, but because they make the battlefield stop being neutral.
A wrong match up could spell death.
In a straight confrontation, a Jonin often had the advantage.
But shinobi battles were rarely straight.
One wrong assumption.
One misjudged opponent.
One step into a prepared field.
And the difference in rank stopped mattering entirely.
Then there were Prodigies.
Not defined by rank, but by trajectory.
Shinobi whose growth curves broke expected limits.
A Genin who adapted like a Chunin or a Chunin who fought like a Jonin.
Not because they had reached maturity, but because they learned too fast for the system to label them properly.
They were dangerous not because of what they were, but because of what they would become.
And finally…
Monsters.
Not official or recorded. Just something Kaito used to describe certain individuals when standard classification failed completely.
These were shinobi who no longer fit the normal rules of comparison.
Not necessarily invincible, but capable of producing outcomes that defied expectation.
A Jonin-level opponent should not lose to a Genin.
A squad should not vanish to a single individual.
A battlefield should not shift because one person arrived.
And yet it happened.
Those were monsters.
The kind of existence that forced even experienced shinobi to reassess reality mid-fight.
Because in the shinobi world, hierarchy was useful for administration…
But useless in combat.
A bad match-up did not care about rank.
A Jonin could die to a Special Jonin or Chunin.
A prodigy could overwhelm a veteran.
A monster could erase all assumptions entirely.
And the only consistent truth was simple:
If you misjudge your opponent, you might not get a second chance to correct it.
And because of that, Murakami had spent most of the month quietly consulting Kaito during training whenever opportunities arose.
Mostly through spars.
At first, those spars had been simple exchanges intended to test fundamentals.
Taijutsu.
Reaction speed.
Combat judgment.
Positioning.
But gradually, Kaito began increasing the pressure.
And every single time…
Murakami lost.
Effortlessly.
Sometimes before he even fully realized what happened.
Kaito's movements were too clean.
Too experienced.
His attacks carried no wasted motion whatsoever.
Even his chakra control during combat felt oppressive.
Yet strangely enough, Murakami found himself enjoying those spars more than anything else recently.
Because unlike theory…
Pain was honest.
A failed movement immediately exposed weakness that could be exploited.
A delayed reaction immediately carried consequences you may or may not come back from.
Over the month, Kaito had given him several pointers regarding physical conditioning and chakra development.
Most of them are surprisingly straightforward.
Improve explosive movement.
Refine breathing during combat.
Stop relying excessively on prediction.
Strengthen the body through repeated stress adaptation rather than static training alone.
"The body grows fastest when forced to adapt," Kaito had said lazily during one of their sessions while casually stepping around Murakami's strike before sweeping his legs out from beneath him.
THUD.
"And shinobi fighting on the frontlines adapt faster than anyone else."
Murakami remembered lying on the ground afterward while staring silently at the sky.
Kaito continued speaking as though discussing the weather.
"That's why battlefield survivors are different."
They were not stronger because of talent or bloodline, but because repeated exposure to life and death gradually reshaped both mind and body into something sharper.
Something more efficient at survival.
Compared to them, shinobi who spent their entire careers inside the village doing safe assignments naturally lagged behind.
Murakami understood that principle immediately.
In truth, he had already understood it long before Kaito explained it.
Stress forces evolution.
Pressure creates adaptation.
That concept remained universal no matter the world.
And because of that, Murakami never doubted Kaito's guidance.
At the same time however…
There was one subject Kaito never questioned him about.
His casting speed.
Or more specifically, how absurdly fast Murakami molded chakra internally before executing techniques.
Even during spars, Kaito had occasionally narrowed his eyes slightly whenever Murakami activated Phantom Step almost instantaneously.
If he didn't know better he'd think it was a body movement technique and not an elemental technique.
Yet he never asked.
Perhaps because every shinobi had their own secrets.
Or perhaps because he simply didn't care enough to pry.
Either way, Murakami saw no reason to volunteer information unnecessarily.
So instead, he focused on what he could improve openly with him.
Taijutsu.
Physical conditioning.
Combat adaptability.
That evening, after returning home and completing his usual training routine, Murakami sat cross-legged within the quiet darkness of his backyard.
The night air remained still around him.
His breathing slowed gradually.
Then his chakra began circulating internally.
Not rapidly like during combat or explosively like during physical enhancement training.
But gently, like flowing water.
Murakami's eyes remained closed as his awareness gradually turned inward.
Toward the mental world existing beneath consciousness itself.
The mindscape, or as certain martial traditions described it.
The Sea of Consciousness.
A mental domain formed from consciousness and spiritual energy.
This is where perception, will, and chakra refinement converged into an internal sea of awareness.
Genjutsu fundamentally relied upon interference within that domain.
Not merely disrupting chakra flow externally, but affecting perception itself.
The senses, emotion, consciousness.
Illusion techniques targeted the mind directly.
Which meant strengthening one's mental world held value far beyond merely resisting Genjutsu.
A stronger mind improved chakra control.
Improved perception.
Improved focus.
And perhaps most importantly…
Improved spiritual energy itself.
Murakami understood this clearly.
Physical energy originated from the body.
Spiritual energy originated from the mind.
Together, they formed chakra.
So if his physical development had temporarily stagnated…
Then the next logical step was obvious.
Refine the other half.
Slowly, Murakami guided his awareness deeper inward.
Toward silence… stillness.
Toward the invisible sea hidden beneath thought itself.
And for the first time in weeks… something shifted.
It wasn't movement in the physical sense. It was more like… reality had peeled back a layer.
His breathing no longer felt like breathing.
His body no longer felt like a body.
There was only awareness.
Endless, quiet awareness stretching into something vast and unfathomable.
Then—
DRIP.
A single sound echoed in the void.
It was clear and heavy.
DRIP.
Murakami's consciousness stirred.
He wasn't sure where the sound came from, but it didn't feel imagined.
It felt like it belonged here.
As if something inside this inner world had just acknowledged his presence.
His "eyes" opened, though he no longer had physical eyes in this place.
And then … He saw it.
A vast, still expanse of water.
No… Not water exactly, but something that behaved like it, endless and reflective, stretching beyond perception.
Sea of Consciousness.
And somewhere within it…
DRIP.
Another drop fell.
Sending faint ripples across everything.
Murakami went still.
Because he understood immediately.
This place… was not empty.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
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