Chapter Twenty-Seven: Evolution After Instruction
And so, the situation continued for two days.
Tick. Tock. The clock hands dragged themselves around the face with the enthusiasm of a sedated sloth. Time, it seemed, was also bored.
Obito would consistently meet with Inumaki and Panda.
Their interactions settled into a strange, new routine, a sort of dysfunctional tea party where no one quite trusted the china but everyone enjoyed the biscuits.
Maki, on the other hand, would look at him with unvarnished disgust from across courtyards or down hallways.
Her glare was sharp enough to peel paint, sterilize medical equipment, and curdle fresh milk at a distance of twenty paces.
Scrape.
That was the sound of her gaze dragging over him. A mental, metaphysical scraping of rusty metal on bone. He half-expected to look down and see flakes of his dignity littering the ground around his feet.
He couldn't do anything about it.
The original owner of this body was… provocative. A masterpiece of social ineptitude and targeted cruelty. He deserved it. So Obito did nothing. He wore the legacy of that jerk like a cheap, itchy sweater he couldn't take off.
Besides, he didn't have the time or the strength to forcibly earn her special respect.
And he certainly didn't have time for a chat, because if the girl saw him, she'd just start fighting. Her knuckles would crack in anticipation, a sound like dry twigs snapping under the boot of fate.
Snap. Crackle. Pop. A cereal mascot's symphony of violence.
But on the other hand, the situation with Inumaki and Panda began to differ, bit by bit.
The relationship between the three became surprisingly… good. It was a fragile, cautious kind of good, built on shared weirdness rather than deep trust, like three alley cats deciding to share a dumpster but keeping one claw unsheathed just in case.
This was because the two weren't fully swayed. Each had their own thoughts.
True, they paid heed to Maki's words and didn't trust him at all, yet they didn't push him away. It was a fascinating state of social limbo: actively distrusting someone while simultaneously accepting his presence at sparring sessions. The human—and panda and cursed-speech-user—mind was a wondrously contradictory thing.
And for Obito, that was something good. He had a short period left before returning to Kyoto, and this period would end soon. A tiny, precarious window of opportunity.
"Hey, so… do you want to spar?"
It was Panda who asked, his sewn-on smile cheerful, a permanent crescent of faux felt and thread.
He stood now in one of the training yards, a dusty, sun-baked rectangle of packed earth that had seen more punishment than a medieval mule. He wanted to test Obito's abilities after seeing his fight with Maki. The boy had been able to predict the attacks of that monstrously strong girl.
True, he hadn't been able to land a single hit on her, thanks to the vast physical gap—a gap wider than the philosophical divide between optimists and people who have actually met other people—but the mere ability to avoid such rapid attacks spoke volumes about his cursed energy control and perception.
Or, you know, blackmail from the universe.
Panda and Obito stood looking at each other in heavy silence.
The air between them shimmered with heat and intent, thick enough to slice and serve on toast.
Inumaki, acting as referee, used his speciality. He raised a hand, his movements economical and precise, like a conductor about to begin a very violent symphony.
"Takana."
He stated. Begin.
The word hung in the air, crisp and final.
The match started.
Whump.
Panda surged forward with a speed belied by his plush, rotund form. The ground seemed to depress under his charge, as if sighing in resignation. He sent a precise, sharp punch—not necessarily wrapped in cursed energy, but fast and direct, cutting through the air with a swish that promised a world of hurt.
Obito used his reflexes, twisting his torso at the last possible moment. The punch passed by his ribs, close enough to rustle his shirt.
Fwoosh.
A breeze of near-miss. But that was all. He didn't counter. His counter-attack strategy was, at this stage, largely theoretical and based on hopeful thinking.
He did, however, attack next.
He used a style he'd learned from Kiyoshi—the man who had spent what felt like an eternity pounding him into the ground during his "education." A mentorship that resembled a rockslide more than pedagogy.
Thanks to the Sharingan, he had become able, even if only slightly, to mimic Kiyoshi's movements with decent accuracy. It was like having a violent, internal choreographer.
If Kiyoshi Ryu, the Grade 2 sorcerer, could have seen the scene—Obito executing a sharp sidekick while evading a combo with a concise duck, all without using his distinctive eyes—he would have been shocked. And possibly billed him for the unauthorized use of patented martial arts.
For a sorcerer of Obito's age and (lack of) experience, his development was undoubtedly rapid. A concerning, possibly unnatural speed.
But the truth wasn't reliance on talent alone.
Obito's innate talent was weak. Pathetically so. The spiritual equivalent of a damp match in a hurricane.
But the Sharingan didn't just work by seeing, predicting, and repeating. It also burned the muscle memory into the body, enhancing the capacity for replication. It was a brutal, neurological shortcut. A cheat code for the physically ungifted, paid for in migraines and existential dread.
The fight became intricate.
Panda began using boxing techniques leaning towards direct assault, mixed with the raw physical power of being a cursed corpse, to rapidly overcome Obito's defenses.
His fists became a blur of brown fur, a percussive rhythm of thud-thud-thwack against Obito's blocks and parries, which sounded more like slap-pat-ouch.
"This isn't all your power, is it?"
Panda grunted, weaving under a copied jab that was a pale, underfed ghost of Kiyoshi's original.
"Why aren't you using your cursed technique?"
He directed several more punches—a left hook (whoosh), a right cross (swipe), a low body shot (thump aimed at the kidneys).
Obito jumped (sproing, a nervous sound), bent (creak, a concerning spinal sound), and evaded (wheeze, a respiratory sound). His movements became a fluid, if slightly desperate, dance of avoidance in the training field.
It was less a spar and more a very motivated game of tag.
And so, Panda said loudly, panting slightly, "Well?"
A single word, dripping with playful challenge.
Obito merely smiled, a thin, focused curve of his lips. It was the smile of someone about to do something inadvisable but potentially informative.
"If you want it."
By directing his cursed energy to his eyes, Obito Zenin's eyes changed to red.
Fzzzt—pop.
A soft, ocular ignition. The Sharingan's tomoe appeared, three comma-like shapes spinning slowly in each crimson iris, locking onto Panda with the gentle warmth of twin laser sights.
Instantly, the world shifted.
Panda's movements became slower, clearer, like a video switched to half-speed. Every shift of stuffing, every tightening of stitch, became a readable paragraph in the book of combat.
Simultaneously, Obito's own speed and mastery of cursed energy surged. It was a sudden, visceral upgrade. Like swapping a tricycle for a jet ski. In a library.
Fzzzt— The air seemed to crackle with static potential.
In one moment, Obito vanished from his spot.
There was a shhh of displaced dirt, a polite sound for such an impolite speed.
He reappeared behind Panda, who was startled but reacted with swift, ingrained instinct, spinning to block the anticipated attack from behind.
Whirr-thump. Panda's pivot.
But in the moment Panda committed to the block, he was shocked to find Obito had already shifted the attack point.
Huh?
The thought-bubble practically appeared over Panda's head.
Weren't you attacking my shoulder from behind? Why did you change your attack so fast? This feels… familiar.
While executing a backward lunge posture, a kick from Obito, powered by cursed energy, connected solidly with Panda's leg.
CRUNCH.
A sound not of breaking, but of deeply compressed stuffing and resilience meeting amplified force. The impact, amplified by cursed energy, made Panda's body lose its center of balance.
His stuffed form, being animalistic and highly durable, didn't feel pain, so he quickly adjusted his posture with a grunt and a rustle-thump of rearranged internal fluff.
But Obito had predicted this.
He swiftly changed position again, a blur of motion, and was now in front of Panda.
Wait.
Panda's internal monologue was getting frantic.
These steps. Aren't they—
Obito didn't let Panda finish the thought. He launched a horizontal kick towards Panda's midsection. The force contained in this kick was strong enough that Panda was sent flying several meters backward.
WHOOMF.
A sound of compact mass meeting unyielding air resistance. He tumbled, roll-roll-rolling across the hard-packed earth before skidding to a stop (screech) and pushing himself up with a plushy squeak. He looked at Obito with something akin to disbelief.
"You… are you using her movement style?"
If the girl with monstrous strength had been present to witness this scene, she would have gone insane and immediately marched over to Obito to beat him to death. The march would have been very fast. And very angry.
She might have come close to killing him.
But Obito had made sure she wasn't around. It was a basic survival instinct. So, he used her style.
While smiling.
A small, terribly polite, utterly infuriating smile.
"I told you I can copy physical skills using the Sharingan eye," Obito said, his voice even, as if discussing the weather. "I'm using her movement skills now because they're useful."
While using another's style—the third aspect of the Sharingan's abilities—Obito's cursed energy spread, allowing him to mimic the physical state for a short period. He was able to use skills he had witnessed (while being thoroughly beaten by them, it should be noted). It was learning by absorbed trauma.
Initially, this was the first test to see if he could make himself mimic the style enough for others to notice.
And during this, Obito understood that Panda had sensed the similarity.
He smiled, seeing no problem with what he'd heard. The smile of a man who has just photocopied his boss's signature and gotten away with it.
But on the other hand, Panda was astonished. His felt face couldn't show it, but his whole posture screamed bewildered amazement.
I think it took her a long time to perfect that movement. True, it's much slower than Maki's, but the accuracy and direction were spot on. This is plagiarism of the highest, most unsettling order.
"Alright then," Panda said, his tone shifting. The playful edge was still there, but underneath, a more serious, dense aura of cursed energy began to emanate from him.
It made the dust at his feet stir in a small vortex.
Swirl.
A tiny, localized tornado of "oh, now you've done it."
"I'll get serious now."
Obito noted the shift in defensive and offensive cursed energy flow. It was like watching the pressure gauge on a boiler climb into the red. He didn't hesitate. Hesitation was for people with better life insurance.
In the next minute, a direct clash occurred.
BAM. CRACK. THWIPP.
Panda used more professional boxing techniques, now seamlessly blended with cursed energy. The attacks weren't aimed at killing, but their speed was meant to inflict very painful hits. Each punch now carried a whump-CRACK of pressurized air and energy, a sonic boom in miniature.
But Obito evaded (swoop), attacked (snap), and began to create his own hybrid style. Using Kiyoshi's foundational techniques, mixed with Maki's stolen movement skills via the Sharingan, he fought not to win, but to survive and learn.
It was like watching someone desperately assemble IKEA furniture while being attacked by a wolverine. Chaotic, studious, and full of potential for disaster.
The fight continued for a full hour.
The sounds were a symphony of combat: the scuff-scuff of shifting feet on dirt, the thud of blocked strikes, the sharp exhale-hiss of breaths, the occasional rip of fabric grazing a near-miss. The clap of Panda's paws meeting Obito's forearms. The grunt of effort. The whirr of the Sharingan constantly spinning, a barely audible psychic hum.
Finally, they stopped.
Not with a grand finale, but with a mutual, exhausted understanding.
Sigh. Thump.
Obito knelt on the ground, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his chin to hit the dry earth with tiny pats, as if the ground was crying little salty tears for his exertions. Panda was calmer; he hadn't used all his energy and could have fought longer. Being a cursed corpse had its perks, like not having lactic acid.
But Obito was in a different state. He was gasping. His lungs sounded like broken bellows.
It was true he could mimic skills using cursed energy, but the body had limits. He couldn't sustain using skills that surpassed his physical capacity for long. Furthermore, the copying ability itself steadily exhausted his neurological capacity for reaction.
Using the Sharingan required immense concentration during offense and defense, plus an even greater mental effort to maintain the copying effectively, all while integrating it with his own fledgling style.
This had drained Obito faster than he'd wanted. It was the spiritual equivalent of trying to do advanced calculus while juggling chainsaws and reciting poetry backwards.
But in the end, he smiled, a tired, genuine smile.
"You're… very strong… Panda-senpai."
The words came out between gulps of air.
Panda smiled at the praise, a genuine crinkling around his button eyes, but he was left somewhat speechless. Through the fight, he had seen Obito's potential. A potential that bloomed in the harsh, artificial sunlight of a stolen technique.
Frankly, Panda could say directly that this young man could become Grade 1 if his physical skills improved further. But even with just his current cursed energy control… he wouldn't be far from Grade 1 in the future. It was a troubling, fascinating prospect.
After that, laughter and fun continued between Panda, Inumaki, and Obito for a longer period.
Chuckle. Snort. "Okaka!"
During it, Obito gained a lot of information about the two. Honestly, the two also didn't try to hide their own special information. In the end, both of them didn't like hiding things much unless they were very personal matters. Panda was an open book, if that book was made of felt and stuffed with secrets. Inumaki was a restricted scroll, but he pointed helpfully to the relevant clauses.
So, soon, a good friendship formed between the three.
A fragile, strange, but undeniable friendship. Built on sparring, shared weirdness, and the unspoken agreement to ignore the cloud of murderous rage that followed one of them around.
But on the other side, from a distant place, there was the sound of angry breathing.
Huff… Huff…
The rhythmic, steam-engine chug of pure, distilled fury.
Maki was watching the three of them, grinding her teeth. The sound was a low, grating gnnch, like rocks being pulverized in a mortar.
Screech.
Her gaze was a physical weight. If looks could incinerate, the training yard would be a glassy crater.
After a moment, she turned on her heel with a sharp swish of her training pants, a sound like a guillotine blade falling through silk.
She returned to training in another place behind Tokyo Jujutsu High, a secluded grove that had become her personal arena of arboreal annihilation.
With every movement she made, trees were being cut down and falling.
SWISH-THWOOM. CRASH.
A melody of destruction. Chop. Crack. Thud. Repeat.
If there had been any ordinary person behind to witness this scene, they would have been scared to death. Of course. They'd also probably need a new pair of pants.
While decimating the poor, innocent forestry, she muttered through clenched teeth, each word bitten off and spat into the air.
"That bastard… He has a cursed technique? When did he become able to use cursed energy so efficiently? He can fight Panda?"
Then she stopped. A sudden, frozen statue of rage.
Her eyes glinted behind the lenses of her transparent, purple-framed glasses. The spear in her hand spun with such ferocious speed it left a pressure wave, emitting a sharp whistling sound.
FWEET-SWISH!
A sound that promised transfiguration into kindling.
Another tree, a proud pine that had done nothing but exist and photosynthesize, was cleaved perfectly in half.
SPLINTER-CRACK-THUD.
It toppled with a mournful groan, its journey from sapling to firewood complete.
"Just wait," she snarled, the words dripping with venom hotter than any snake's. "When I catch you, I'll kill you for this."
She felt ashamed because her skills had been used by someone she despised to this degree—a person who had insulted her and her sister while being weak himself. It was the ultimate insult. Theft of her hard-earned violence.
But she finally stopped. The rage settled into a cold, hard coal in her gut. She decided to go back to training. The time would come when she would take revenge. But not now. Now, there were more trees that needed to learn a lesson in humility.
Obito, unaware of Maki's furious, arboreal carnage—the silent scream of falling timber—had bid farewell to Panda and Inumaki.
Panda waved a fluffy paw. "See you, weird copycat kid!"
Inumaki used his own special way of saying goodbye. He raised two fingers in a peace sign.
"Shake."
Obito nodded, offering a tired wave of his own, and quickly entered his room.
Click.
The door shut behind him, sealing him in silence. The sudden quiet was a physical blanket, muffling the world.
The smile on his face faded, replaced by a clear, focused calm. It slid off like a discarded mask, landing on the floor of his psyche with a soft plop.
He went and grabbed his notebook from the desk, the binding making a soft thwip as he opened it to a fresh page.
The scratch-scratch of his pen became the only sound. He began to write several things he had understood from this experience, particularly about his body's endurance limits and the things he'd discovered about Panda's skills. The page filled with diagrams, arrows, and brutally honest self-critique. Stamina: pathetic. Energy density: watery. Survival instinct: acceptable.
Finally, when he finished writing everything down, the scratch of his pen ceasing with a final dot, he decided to sit and look at his hands.
They were slender. A teenager's hands. Not a fighter's hands. Yet.
He then activated the Sharingan.
Fzzt.
His eyes changed to red in an instant. In the dim room, the crimson glow was the only light source, painting his face in eerie, shifting shadows. He looked like a demon contemplating a spreadsheet.
Cursed energy… I can control it fairly well now.
The thought was clinical. Analytical.
It was time to think about finding a way to attack.
He had become able to increase his control over cursed energy reinforcement and boost his speed, allowing him to channel it to any part of his body in a short time. But even so, his offensive power compared to his evasive ability was low.
He was a dodging master with the punching power of a disgruntled hamster. He couldn't finish any fight quickly. He didn't possess a skill that allowed him to decisively end a duel. He was all setup, no punchline.
So, he began to think of something.
He focused on controlling his cursed energy, making it coil around his fist. He visualized it, willed it.
The cursed energy moved, responding to his will with super-fast speed, and wrapped tightly around his clenched hand with a faint, purple-black shimmer. It looked like he was wearing a knuckleduster made of angry twilight.
He watched the flow of cursed energy for a short period, the shimmer pulsing weakly.
Throb. Fade. Throb.
He spoke to the empty room, his voice flat.
"There's a big difference in the quantity of cursed energy."
What Obito was thinking about was that during his spar with Panda, he had noticed Panda was able to reinforce his strikes with a much greater quantity of cursed energy than Obito could muster for his own reinforcement. Panda's hits felt dense, heavy with power. Obito's felt like being tapped by a ghost wearing a velvet glove.
So he wondered in this moment, the Sharingan casting a red spotlight on his pathetic, glowing fist:
Does this mean I can't output a larger amount? Or is there a barrier preventing me from raising the quantity of cursed energy in my strikes?
At any rate, he spent a full two hours reviewing this idea. The only sounds were the turning of notebook pages (flick), his own measured breathing (in… out…), and the occasional frustrated sigh (huff).
Finally, after several failed experiments where his energy sputtered and faded with a disappointing fizzle, like a wet firecracker, he found the problem.
It wasn't his cursed energy itself, nor his control. His control was fine. Precise, even.
Rather, his cursed energy output was changing too slowly. It was… thin. Diluted. The difference between a laser and a flashlight. Between a gourmet reduction sauce and dishwater.
He sighed, a long, weary exhale that seemed to deflate his entire frame.
Sighhhhh.
The problem isn't my control. It's my talent.
Talent was the problem inherent in this body. He wasn't gifted. The original Obito was a dud, a spiritual void. The Sharingan was what helped him understand and copy physical techniques using its third level. But without it, his power dropped significantly.
If he had fought Panda using only his own base skill for a short time, Panda would have defeated him utterly, embarrassingly. It wouldn't have been a fight; it would have been a pat-down with concussive consequences.
But using the Sharingan, he was able to make Panda take him seriously. Yet, at the same time, he hadn't shown his full potential. This meant, the thought crystallizing in his mind like a shard of ice:
I have to overcome this talent problem through even more rigorous training.
A grim, exhausting conclusion. The universe's answer to a lack of talent wasn't a magic pill; it was more sweat. Always more sweat.
And so, a new item was added to his training regimen: the density of his cursed energy during reinforcement, to increase his physical striking power. At the very least, until he could raise his basic physical strength.
His body right now was still scrawny. He was still a teenager of 16, all elbows and angles and unrealized potential. A skeleton waiting for some meat and a lot of metaphorical gym time.
He looked at his faintly glowing fist in the dark room, the cursed energy sputtering like a weak flame on a windy night.
Flicker… fade… flicker.
It wasn't enough. Not yet.
It was a faint, pathetic light in a very dark world.
But it was a start.
A small, stubborn, stolen start.
And in the world of jujutsu, where curses festered in the shadows, sometimes a stolen start was all you got. You just had to hold onto it, nurture it, and try not to get killed before it could grow into something you could call your own.
He closed his eyes, letting the Sharingan deactivate.
The red light vanished, plunging the room into pure, peaceful darkness.
Click.
The sound of a plan settling into place.
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End of Chapter.
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