A sword's edge is honed by grinding, and plum blossoms bloom through bitter cold. One cannot see the rainbow without enduring the storm. Mikami, tempered by years of hardship, understood this truth deeper than most.
Heaven does not drop pies. True strength was forged only through relentless effort. Even if a pie did fall, only those who were already prepared could hope to catch it.
His clear eyes sharpened, the pupils twisting and morphing. A perfectly regular, five-pointed star pattern materialized within them, its intricate crimson lines connecting with geometric precision.
The Pentagram Mangekyō Sharingan.
Each wielder's Mangekyō pattern was unique—Sasuke's hexagram, Itachi's pinwheel, Madara's shuriken. So too were their awakened abilities, which, beyond the common Susano'o, often granted powers bordering on the divine.
Take Uchiha Shisui's Kotoamatsukami, the ultimate genjutsu, currently considered unbreakable. Mikami's own left eye undoubtedly held a specific ability, though its nature remained, for now, undiscovered.
Haaa…
He exhaled slowly. There was no time to dwell on the Mangekyō's secrets. Ever since the confrontation with Uchiha Fugaku, he had thrown himself into relentless research.
In his palm, a sphere of gentle, golden light coalesced once more, warm as jade, holding none of light's usual scorching fury.
Viewed through the Mangekyō, his perception was transcendent. The very flow of light became visible, a river of shimmering particles he could now trace and comprehend. Minute energies in the air, invisible to the naked eye, were laid bare before him.
He brought his other hand over, cradling the luminous sphere between his palms.
The world fell into a profound silence. Mikami's entire being was focused, his Mangekyō unmoving. So intense was his concentration that sweat beaded on his brow, dampening his hair. The very air around him seemed to grow still, the natural flow disrupted by the sheer density of his chakra and will.
Slowly, with infinite care, he began to pull his hands apart.
As the distance between his palms grew, the initial sphere of light stretched and narrowed. A form began to emerge: a straight, solid shaft of condensed radiance. The more he pulled, the longer and more defined the golden lance became, while its core grew denser, brighter.
"A weapon forged from compressed, high-density light… It should be able to pierce through anything," Mikami mused, observing the terrifying energy contained within through his Sharingan. A fierce, proud smile touched his lips.
His hands, caressing the shaft, trembled slightly from the strain and the power he held. While this technique's area of effect couldn't compare to something like the Yasaka Magatama, its destructive potential, concentrated to a single, infinitesimal point, was arguably far greater.
In essence, it was the antithesis of a wide-area attack—taking that same immense power and focusing it into a needle meant to pierce the heavens.
"Heh… I really am a genius. This is at least S-Rank," he thought, a spark of triumph in his heart. Though the underlying principle of energy manipulation had parallels, the application was his own. To concentrate scattered force into a single point of annihilation—it was a creation born of his unique convergence of abilities.
Still, he felt no overwhelming pride. By comparison, Hatake Kakashi had invented the S-Rank Raikiri at age twelve. While Mikami was only ten, he had the advantages of the Mangekyō and the Pika Pika no Mi. Outshining the "friendless" Kakashi wasn't exactly a monumental feat.
"I'll call it… the Particle Lance." The name came to him, inspired by concepts of ultimate speed and penetration from a half-remembered past life.
"What a weak, uninspired name."
Ling'er's crisp, disdainful voice echoed in his mind, dripping with contempt for his nomenclature skills.
"Oh, you have a better one?!" Mikami retorted inwardly, rolling his eyes and tossing the conversational ball back to her, settling into a posture of skeptical listening.
Well, if you're so unimpressed, you come up with something.
"I—" Ling'er began, then paused. Knowing Mikami, he would reject any suggestion she made out of hand and mock her for it anyway. There was no point in setting herself up for that, especially with him.
"'Particle Lance' is fine, I suppose," she said, her tone artificially light. "You'd just veto anything I proposed anyway, wouldn't you?"
"You—!" Mikami's eye twitched, a flush of irritation rising. She'd seen right through him. He had been planning to do exactly that—reject and ridicule. Her preemptive strike left him mentally sputtering, unable to vent.
"Don't talk if you have no culture!" he finally growled, his ears burning.
Hm?
At that moment, his heightened senses prickled. Several unfamiliar chakra signatures had entered his previously empty courtyard.
His head snapped to the side, the eerie crimson pentagram of his Mangekyō locking onto the intruders.
Though night had fallen, rendering the world in shades of gray to normal eyes, to Mikami's enhanced sight, it was as clear as day.
Five figures stood below. He recognized only one: the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, his face solemn as he calmly puffed on his pipe, the white haori of his office stark in the darkness.