Chapter Seven: Getting Beaten Up
Training Ground 3 was nothing more than an isolated area behind the Kyoto Jujutsu Academy. There were no advanced equipment or sophisticated aids to help anyone with jujutsu techniques—at least, that's what Obito Zenin initially thought when he first arrived at the place.
The ground was hard-packed dirt, uneven and littered with small, sharp pebbles that promised future bruises. A few lonely, leafless trees stood sentinel at the edges, their branches clawing at the grey dawn sky. The air was cold, carrying the damp, earthy scent of morning and something faintly metallic. It looked less like a training ground and more like a back-alley spot where inconvenient people were quietly disposed of.
But after three hours, the place was filled with painful sounds and the thuds of a body hitting the earth.
THUD. CRUNCH. WHUMP.
Obito's body was falling to the right and left, continuously, as he endured a beating from his new instructor. The man appeared to be in his thirties, possessing a trained body—not overly muscular, but lean and efficient. He was at least 180 cm tall. His fighting style relied on his hands, or so Obito thought while trying to dodge blows meant to put him into a long-term coma. He miraculously succeeded in avoiding them, but that didn't stop him from hearing the sound of wind being compressed as a fist whistled past his ear.
WHOOOSH.
The force of the punch was enough to create a visible pressure wave in the air.
"This isn't good. You need to activate your cursed technique."
The voice of Kyoshi Ryo was low, almost bored. He was a Grade Two sorcerer, known for his fine control over cursed energy and one of the people who worked directly for Manager Yoshinobu Gakuganji of Kyoto Academy. He had been tasked with teaching this boy before him.
While throwing a punch aimed at the boy's face, Kyoshi noted that the boy's movement was decent, and the cursed energy he possessed was quite suitable. Contrary to the reports, it was enough for him to easily become a Grade Two sorcerer in the future. But the thing that made Kyoshi inwardly grumble as he threw a casual hook was that the boy, instead of dodging it with a clean, practiced motion, displayed movements as if he were learning to fight right now.
—And this was correct. In this moment, Obito was suffering more than ever before. Even when he had been in the military (in his past life), he had never been beaten this badly. It wasn't that he couldn't do anything, but the movements of the person before him were too fast. Faster than the blink of an eye. The strength of a Grade Two sorcerer far surpassed that of the curse he'd faced at the water park by significant levels. And more dangerous than all of that was that the person before him acted as if he weren't even exerting any effort. This brought forth a wave of complaints Obito didn't dare voice aloud.
—On the other hand, Kyoshi was reading Obito from the ground up. Firstly, he knew Obito's cursed energy level was very good compared to the reports he'd received. But his combat skills, his fighting reflexes, were abysmally low. It was as if he had never fought before.
"Try to block this, boy."
Kyoshi gestured for the boy to ready himself. Then, he unleashed a barrage of punches. Each punch was incredibly precise and aimed to make a person feel genuine danger. He controlled his cursed energy so his strikes weren't lethal. Yet, the force of each blow felt like an iron hammer to Obito, who with every hit felt as if he were being struck directly by a sledgehammer.
BAM! THWACK! POW!
Unfortunately, even with his yelps of pain, the speed of the attacks didn't decrease. This left his body accumulating numerous bruises. As for his hand, which had been broken just a day before, it had been healed in a way he hadn't imagined. It turned out there were some tools at Kyoto Jujutsu Academy. One of these tools was designed to repair bones using cursed energy. Obito's hand had been fixed by that cursed tool.
—At first, he was surprised. Such a tool in the original story? But when he thought about it, he realized that even if such things existed, not everyone could benefit from them, especially with Shoko Ieiri at Tokyo Jujutsu High, who possessed the Reverse Cursed Technique. Unlike Tokyo High, Kyoto Academy needed cursed tools to heal others. Of course, there were other reasons too. One of them was that it was natural for novice sorcerers to get injured, and for the sake of missions and due to the low number of sorcerers, many tools had been created to help them heal faster. This tool could only heal bones, not internal injuries or bleeding...
Obito couldn't bring himself to be grateful for that tool healing his arm, because at this moment, he was being beaten senseless.
Finally, with a punch from Kyoshi, Obito felt as if he were about to vomit. The punch struck his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him completely and sending his body flying several meters backward.
WHUMPF! SKIDDDD...
He landed on his back, skidding through the dirt, pebbles scraping against his jacket with a sound like sandpaper on wood (scrrrrrtch).
"What is this? Is that all you have? Try to use your cursed technique! Try to use this anger!"
Kyoshi's beating wasn't without reason. The goal of his strikes, of putting Obito in a bad state, wasn't just physical but psychological. When a person is beaten, they get angry. Anger is a negative emotion, and it's very helpful for stimulating cursed energy, acting as a catalyst for the manifestation of a cursed technique.
With every blow, Kyoshi observed the changes in Obito's cursed energy. He noticed that at first, the cursed energy rose in a normal way to enter a combat state, but then it stopped increasing. So, he increased the strength of his blows to provoke the cursed energy once more.
—Come on, boy. Show me you're not just trash.
If this continues any longer— Obito took a deep breath while trying to hold his aching stomach. But a kick aimed directly at his head nearly connected. It was good he was alert for that one moment to lean back. However, the kick made the air directly in front of his face distort, as if letting out a groan of pain from the severe compression and fracture. This kick could easily shatter a stone door.
—This man… he's trying to kill me. He's not joking. If I don't show my cursed technique, he might actually kill me.
And frankly, this was correct. Kyoshi had been ordered by the manager to use everything at his disposal to make the boy's cursed technique manifest. He was permitted to injure Obito even if every bone in his body broke. Therefore, Kyoshi was very relaxed as he employed blows aimed at shattering bones, but he avoided fatal strikes to the greatest extent possible. Being Grade Two, his control over cursed energy was on a completely different level from Grade Three sorcerers. He could easily deliver lethal blows, or conversely, ensure no blow was ever lethal, or even convert all the force into a precisely non-lethal, bone-breaking impact.
CRACK!
That was the sound of Obito's forearm blocking a kick meant for his ribs. A sickening, dry sound that promised more pain to come.
If this situation continues like this— The situation was now critical. But even so, Obito was tightly focusing his cursed energy. He was using cursed energy to protect his body while simultaneously trying to maintain a steady output and even attempting to reach his cursed technique. Because he understood that if he activated his technique, this pain might end.
—Of course, he also didn't realize the improvement that was occurring. But Kyoshi, on the other hand, perceived it with precise clarity. At the beginning, Obito couldn't control the release of his cursed energy at all. But this time, he managed to block and endure a blow that should have knocked him unconscious. This caused a smile to appear on Kyoshi's serious face—a smile Obito didn't see because he was busy weathering another attack.
Kyoshi had sent a vertical kick towards Obito's left leg. The blow caused Obito to kneel on the ground, but he didn't forget to defend by raising his arms to protect himself. The past few hours of training and pain were like a textbook he was reading so he wouldn't fail and be expelled from the exam. And in this moment, the exam was his very life. So, even while feeling the pain from his leg, which felt like molten lava, he didn't forget to raise his arms to guard.
THUD! His forearms absorbed the impact, the vibration rattling his teeth.
The training schedule continued in this manner for a little while longer before Kyoshi stopped and let out a sigh.
"Haaah… I understand. It seems you genuinely can't release your cursed energy to activate your technique. Not because you don't want to release it."
Kyoshi was very precise in reading the flow of cursed energy, so he felt Obito's actions were sincere. He wasn't hiding his cursed technique. It's very difficult to hide the flow of cursed energy without excellent control. But from observing Obito's movements throughout this entire period, he was aware this young man didn't have the skill necessary to conceal a technique.
—It seems I must send this report to the manager.
On the ground, Obito was lying flat. His body throbbed with pain. He had been subjected to hundreds of punches and kicks all over his body. There was a cursed bandage—something Kyoshi had told him about—that would heal his body after the training ended. But at this moment, he wanted to cry. How badly he wanted to take that cursed tool and throw it into the sea so it wouldn't heal him, because he knew if he were healed, he would return tomorrow, or even tonight, for this monster (Kyoshi) to beat him until he lost the ability to move once again.
Unfortunately, Obito couldn't escape this place.
"You can return to your room now. I will go. We'll resume training tomorrow at the same time."
With that, Kyoshi left, abandoning Obito alone, drowning in pain.
Squelch. Crunch.
The sound of Kyoshi's retreating footsteps on the gravel path grew fainter and fainter,until there was only the sound of Obito's ragged, wheezing breath and the distant caw of a crow.
Then, Obito said in a pained voice, "Why couldn't I activate this damned technique? Is there some secret preventing me from using it, or is there a problem with it?"
He didn't shout. He didn't have the energy. The words were a dry, cracked whisper, carried away by the cold morning breeze.
He lay there, staring at the grey sky. Every inch of him felt like one giant, pulsing bruise. The taste of copper was in his mouth—he'd bitten his cheek at some point. His clothes were damp with sweat and stained with dirt. He tried to move a finger. A sharp, electric jolt of protest shot up his arm.
"Okay… getting up. That's a thing people do," he mumbled to himself, his voice sounding strange in the empty field.
The process was a symphony of agony. First, he rolled onto his side with a groan that sounded like a dying animal (unnnngh). The gravel bit into his hip. Then, he pushed himself up onto one elbow, his muscles trembling violently. His left leg screamed in protest when he put weight on it. It wasn't broken—Kyoshi was too precise for that—but it felt like all the tendons had been replaced with burning wires.
Creak. Pop.
His joints issued alarming sounds as he finally,shakily, got to his feet. He swayed, the world tilting dangerously. He saw spots dance before his eyes.
He looked towards the path leading back to the academy buildings. They seemed a thousand miles away.
One foot in front of the other. Shuffle. Drag. His right foot scraped against the ground. Every step sent fresh waves of nausea through him. He was a puppet with its strings cut, trying to remember how to walk.
The journey back was a blur of pain and humiliation. He passed a few early-rising students. They didn't say anything, but their eyes spoke volumes—a mix of pity, curiosity, and cold assessment. He was the Zenin failure, getting the special "motivational" training. He kept his head down, focusing on the pattern of cracks in the cobblestone path.
He finally reached the dormitory wing, the sterile hallway feeling both like a sanctuary and a prison. He fumbled with his door handle, his fingers numb and uncooperative.
Click.
The door opened.He staggered inside and collapsed face-first onto his bed without even bothering to remove his shoes. The smell of his own sweat and dirt filled his nostrils. The mattress, which usually felt like a slab of concrete, now felt like a cloud.
He didn't move for a long time. The pain was a living thing, wrapping around him, squeezing. But beneath the pain, something else was simmering. A deep, cold frustration.
He had been pummeled for hours. He had been genuinely afraid for his life. He had felt anger, desperation, fear—all the prime ingredients for a cursed energy buffet. And yet, the Sharingan had remained stubbornly dormant. No red eyes. No tomoe. No magical slow-motion vision.
Why?
He replayed the fight in his mind. Kyoshi's movements had been a blur. He hadn't been able to predict them. He had relied on pure, panicked instinct and the minimal reinforcement he could muster. It was a world of difference from the fight with the water curse, where everything had seemed to decelerate.
Was it because he knew, on some level, that Kyoshi wouldn't actually kill him? That it was a "controlled environment"? Did the Sharingan, or whatever this power was, require genuine, mortal peril to activate? Not just pain, not just fear of pain, but the absolute certainty of death?
Or was it something else? A mental block? Did he, on some subconscious level, reject this power because it wasn't truly his? Because it was a souvenir from a fictional character in a world that shouldn't exist?
He groaned and rolled onto his back, staring at the familiar crack in the ceiling. His body protested the movement with a chorus of aches.
"Stupid eyes," he muttered. "Ungrateful, temperamental, high-maintenance stupid eyes. I provide the near-death experience, you provide the super-vision. That's the deal. That's the classic Isekai protagonist contract!"
Silence. The crack in the ceiling did not transform into a divine revelation.
He thought about Kyoshi's words. "You genuinely can't release it." Not won't, but can't. As if there was a wall between his will and the technique.
He lifted his hand, the one that had been broken and magically healed. He tried to focus, to summon that dark, smoke-like aura. A faint, pathetic wisp flickered around his fingertips for a second before dissipating like mist.
"Come on," he whispered, concentrating. "Just a little more. Just enough to… I don't know, make this pillow more comfortable."
Nothing.
With a sigh that hurt his ribs, he gave up. Exhaustion was finally winning over pain. His eyelids felt like they were made of lead. The throbbing in his body began to soften at the edges, blurring into a general, heavy ache.
As he drifted on the precipice of sleep, a final, treacherous thought slithered through his mind.
What if he was just trash? What if the Zenin reports were right? What if the water park was a fluke, a one-time adrenaline miracle? What if this world, with its brutal hierarchy and monstrous curses, had simply made a clerical error by letting him in, and now it was just a matter of time before the error was corrected—permanently?
He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep before he could find an answer, his body already beginning the slow, cursed-energy-assisted process of repairing the damage. The cursed bandage hidden under his clothes pulsed with a soft, warm light, knitting bruised tissue and calming inflamed muscles.
Outside his window, the grey dawn had given way to a pale, indifferent day. Somewhere in the manager's office, Kyoshi Ryo was writing his report, concluding that while Subject Obito Zenin possessed adequate cursed energy reserves, his ability to manifest his supposed innate technique was currently non-functional, possibly due to psychological blocks or inaccurate initial assessment.
And somewhere else, in the deeper shadows of the jujutsu world, other eyes might have been reading different reports, their interest faintly piqued by the anomaly of a Zenin with a visual technique that refused to show itself.
For now, Obito's world was reduced to the four walls of his room and the relentless, pounding echo of fists against flesh. Tomorrow promised only more of the same.
He slept, a beaten boy in a world that had no patience for weakness, unaware that his most difficult fight wasn't against a curse or a ruthless instructor, but against the very nature of the power sleeping behind his own, stubbornly ordinary eyes.
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End of Chapter.
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