Chapter Thirty: Naobito Zenin Shows No Mercy
The moment Obito launched himself forward, it was with the desperate grace of a startled pigeon.
His attack was swift. He reinforced himself with cursed energy, the familiar shimmer coating his skin like a second, volatile layer of cellophane. He could feel it crackle along his knuckles—a cheap, desperate electricity.
Crunch. Shhh-ick.
His fist, powered by that energy, cut through the air. It was, he thought in a fleeting, hopeful millisecond, actually decent form. It was on the verge of connecting with the serene, impassive geography of Naobito's face.
—What's going on? Why isn't he moving…?
His mind was a frantic teleprompter.
—Does he not consider my attack worthy of a reaction, or can he avoid it easily?—
His racing mind drew conclusions, all of them bad. But his punch was already in motion, a committed mistake.
Unfortunately, the moment his fist brushed the space where Naobito Zenin should have been, the man became a mirage. A ghost in a fine kimono.
Obito's cursed energy-charged punch passed right through the point where Naobito's head had been, meeting nothing but empty, mocking air with a disappointing, deflated whoosh.
"Hmmmm. Interesting."
The voice came from behind him.
Dry. Amused. So close it felt like the words were being tapped directly onto his cervical vertebrae.
Obito's blood didn't just run cold; it executed a perfect, frozen dive into his boots. In that moment, it felt like the universe itself had just given him a wedgie of cosmic proportions. A shudder of pure, instinctual terror—the kind that makes your spleen try to hide—ran through him.
But he didn't hesitate. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford.
His eyes changed.
Fwoom.
A silent, internal ignition. The world bled into shades of crimson.
—The Sharingan technique.—
The moment his eyes transformed, everything around him slowed, as if the air had turned to thick, transparent honey. Even Naobito, who had been about to grab the boy by the scruff of his metaphysical neck and slam him into the ground with a blow meant to knock him unconscious and possibly rearrange his organs, seemed to move through this syrup.
Naobito felt a flicker of… something. Disappointment? Pity for himself, for wasting his afternoon? He'd thought this boy might have some real talent. His method of using cursed energy was decent, for a amateur. But his reaction time, his spatial awareness… it was like watching a kitten try to swat a laser pointer operated by a god.
But then, the red color.
It wasn't just a color. It was an announcement. A shift in the room's pressure.
The Clan Head of the Zenin clan felt Obito's cursed energy rise. Not just rise—it surged. The control, the speed, the spread of his awareness—everything multiplied several times over, like a calculator slapped by an angry hand.
—So this is his cursed technique… Interesting. It's good. What does it do? Increase his physical stats? Or his perception?—
Even while trying to deduce, Naobito's body didn't stop. It was an insult to call it movement. He simply ceased to exist in one spot and began to exist in another. There was no blur, no transitional smear. It was a divine editing of reality.
Shwip.
He had arrived at Obito's back once more, a position he was starting to consider his personal parking space. But this time, the cursed energy in Obito's body was denser, a more conscious, prickly shield. The boy was learning. How tedious.
"Can you block this blow, little boy?"
The question was delivered with the mild curiosity of someone wondering if a fly would avoid the swatter. The inevitable result Naobito expected was Obito's body flying through the air in a graceful arc of defeat before crash-landing in the sand, unconscious and possibly snoring.
But the expected result failed to materialize.
In the crimson-hued slow-motion of his vision, Obito saw the trajectory of the strike—a line of condensed intent and malice. He reacted within countable, agonizing microseconds. He executed a series of micro-movements, a jerky, uncoordinated ballet of survival, to deflect the punch. His body twisted in a graceless but effective parry.
Thwack!
The sound was like a wet towel slapped against stone. The force, even deflected, was monstrous. It sent him stumbling backwards, his feet performing a frantic, screeching tap-dance in the sand.
Skritch-skritch-skritch!
He flipped several times, limbs flailing, a human pinwheel of desperation, before finally coming to a stop in a low, shuddering crouch. Sand pattered down from his uniform like brown rain. He looked up at Naobito with intense, red-eyed silence, as if already running through a dozen catastrophic scenarios for dealing with attacks from any conceivable, and inconceivable, direction.
—This is wonderful. So the reports were true. With this, it would be easy for him to handle Grade 2 curses. A useful exterminator for pests.—
Naobito internally acknowledged the accuracy of the information and let out a comfortable sigh. Haa. It was the sound of a man whose investment had just shown a tiny, fractional return.
—What's going on? Why does this old man seem so relaxed? What the hell is he thinking? That punch just now almost turned my spine into a modern art sculpture.—
Unaware of the Clan Head's internal portfolio management, Obito's back trembled uncontrollably. The power contained in that casual punch was enough to create a shockwave of air that had shoved his body forward like a leaf in a hurricane. He'd managed to wrestle control at the last second, but he was now in a bad state—a state named 'Oh God, Everything Hurts.' He realized the speed difference wasn't a gap; it was a canyon, and he was at the bottom looking up at a tiny, fast-moving speck.
—My eyes can follow his movement. But he's not even using his cursed technique to accelerate! This is just this old man's natural speed? How is that possible? Is he powered by spite and fine whisky? What kind of power does he have?—
Naobito Zenin, head of the Zenin clan, was a Special Grade 1 sorcerer. The hierarchy was a cruel ladder. Grade 2 sorcerers possessed exceptional control and versatile techniques effective against most curses. Those of Grade 1 and Special Grade 1 not only had practical cursed energy application but also unique hereditary traits they could use to boost their stats into the realm of the absurd.
Even for someone like Gojo, plus the King of Curses himself, Ryomen Sukuna, their innate technique was the foundation of their special strength—Infinity and the Cleave/Dismantle technique. The power of Special Grade sorcerers relied heavily on their innate cursed technique, while Special Grade 1 sorcerers relied on superior talent, plus enhanced inherited techniques and a higher efficiency and disgusting quantity of cursed energy.
The man before him, Naobito, wasn't Special Grade, of course. But he was the peak of Special Grade 1. He possessed a normal kinetic speed that, even with the magical slow-motion of the Sharingan, Obito could only handle with the difficulty of a man trying to drink soup with a fork. And that showed the foundational, humiliating gap in cursed energy control, power manipulation, and basic reinforcement. Obito was playing checkers; Naobito was playing 4D chess where the board was also on fire.
"It seems you're a boy with an interesting technique. Does this mean you can capture my form as I move?"
The question was casual, but it hung in the air like a blade.
—What does this comment mean? Is he mocking me? Or is he genuinely curious if I can see the bullet that's about to hit me?—
Obito thought for a moment, his brain sifting through options like a panhandler looking for edible trash. He decided to speak, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The air felt like sandpaper in his lungs.
"That is correct, sir. I can see your movement."
The old man's eyes narrowed abruptly.
Squint.
It was a small movement, but in the heightened reality of Obito's senses, it was as dramatic as a portcullis slamming down. This change startled Obito, who immediately adopted a defensive posture so tense it looked like he was trying to become a human fortress. His arms came up, his cursed energy flared—it was the spiritual equivalent of a small, yappy dog puffing up its fur.
The truth was, Naobito prided himself intensely on his speed and ability to move, even without his legendary 24-Frame technique. It was a point of personal, grumpy vanity. So, upon hearing that a boy who could barely control cursed energy a short while ago—a boy who probably still had to think about which foot was left—had become capable of seeing his movement using his cursed technique, he felt a distinct, sharp prick to his pride. It was an impertinence. It demanded correction.
He decided it would be best to teach this child a lesson. A physical, painful, possibly philosophical lesson.
"Fine, then. Try to see what I will do."
The old man barely finished his words. They seemed to hang in the air for a fraction of a second after he himself had vanished.
Poof.
Obito's eyes screamed danger. His Sharingan pulsed, and he saw Naobito's cursed energy rise to a much higher, denser quantity than before. It wasn't a flare; it was a deepening, like the ocean getting suddenly, terrifyingly profound. When he vanished, the ground beneath seemed to suffer a localized atmospheric crisis. The sand compressed in multiple, overlapping footprints that appeared and disappeared instantly, with a series of muffled whump sounds, as if a ghostly elephant was tap-dancing.
A kick came from a blind spot Obito hadn't noticed, because he was too busy focusing on the insane, stroboscopic movements and flow of cursed energy in the air, which was disappearing and reappearing like a bad cosmic signal.
But in a fraction of a fraction of a second, his mind, fueled by pure animal terror, sent a desperate surge of cursed energy to his technique, pushing it to a second level. It felt like overclocking a cheap computer—it might work, but something was definitely going to melt.
—Prediction level activated following deceleration.—
At this moment, the movements of the ground, plus the air and everything surrounding Obito, slowed down much further. It was like watching the world through a layer of frozen amber. He became able to see movements with insane precision—the individual grains of sand shifting, the flutter of Naobito's sleeve—and he also felt the cursed energy coiling like a spring from the blind spot.
He jumped. Quickly. With extreme, spastic agility.
Sproing!
It was an ungainly hop, but it worked. He avoided the kick that would have neatly folded him in half. The air where his ribs had been whiffed in protest.
But before he could feel even a spark of happy relief and relax a single, clenched muscle…
"It seems your eyes are indeed very precise. But you lack experience."
He barely heard the old man's words, which seemed to be whispered directly into the marrow of his ear bones from impossibly close by. The voice was calm, a teacher pointing out a flawed equation.
Then, with a BANG that felt internal, his body was suspended in the air. Not flying, but hung, like a puppet with its strings cut mid-swing. A deep, throbbing pain announced itself from every direction in his body at once. His mind, still working at maximum, fever-pitch speed, tried to analyze the cause, filing through the data like a panicked librarian.
—What's happening? Where did I go wrong? I dodged that attack. How did I end up here? Did I teleport? Did he? Am I dead? Is this the afterlife? It hurts too much for the afterlife.—
The thing Obito didn't realize—couldn't realize—was that his Sharingan eyes were doing an excellent, even heroic job. They had managed to track and predict. He had successfully avoided all the attacks he saw.
But at the same time, he failed to realize that this man, Naobito, had released his cursed energy in a specific, controlled area and increased the effect of his speed to a ludicrous degree. He still wasn't using his innate 24-Frames technique, but his speed at this moment was capable of generating three separate, tangible attacks simultaneously without even needing it. It was speed so advanced it created afterimages that could hit you.
So, Obito had avoided two strikes at the same time—one from the front, one from behind—with his jerky, miraculous hop. But he hadn't noticed, hadn't even registered, the third strike that came from below, a rising uppercut of cursed energy and fist that used the compressed sand as a launchpad. The illusory speed of the man was simply faster than Obito's physical body's ability to respond, even with his brain screaming instructions.
Obito was now in the air, about a meter off the ground, his body having taken that blow directly to the center of his stomach.
Ugh!
It wasn't a sound he made; it was a sensation that erupted from his core. It was suffocating, a vacuum punch that evacuated all air and dignity from his lungs. He desperately wanted to vomit, to cry, to renounce jujutsu and become a florist. But he tried to control it, to keep his cursed energy active, a guttering candle in a hurricane.
Then he saw him.
Naobito was standing in the air before him. Not flying. He was just there, standing on nothing as if it were a solid step, his body in a horizontal, almost casual pose, poised to deliver a final, educational punch.
"Show me you can be stronger, boy. If this is all your technique has, you are nothing."
The words were flat. Final. They weren't an insult; they were a diagnosis.
And something in Obito broke. Or maybe it ignited. The anger—toward this whole situation, this impossible world, this infuriatingly fast old man—ignited to its absolute limit. It was a clean, white-hot fury.
He acted automatically, beyond thought. His eye shifted. The tomoe within the crimson spun, rearranging, pushing to a third level. It felt like his optic nerve was being used as a jump rope. His cursed energy spiked, a jagged, uncontrolled surge, and he activated the physical copy technique. His mind, in its panic, grabbed at memories—Maki's swift, efficient movements and agile footwork, Kiyoshi's sharp, perfectly controlled strikes. He didn't know if it would work. He just imitated, a monkey with a god-complex.
—Now let's see if this young man can act.—
Naobito was about to deliver a violent, concussive blow toward the heart and chest, designed not to kill, but to drop the boy into a deep, dreamless sleep for about a week. A timeout, with internal bruising.
But during that motion, he was surprised.
A small, genuine flicker of it widened his eyes a millimeter.
The child's body twisted in the air with a sudden, unnatural fluidity. Moreover, his cursed energy, previously wild, sharpened, focusing around his limbs with a new, mimicking precision. The punch that should have hit him like a freight train was intercepted, not by a block, but by a kick. Obito's foot lashed out, striking Naobito's fist with a perfectly timed, desperate deflection.
THWOCK!
The sound was a dense, meaty thud that echoed with a secondary BOOM in the air, causing a minor shockwave that ruffled their clothes and sent a circular puff of sand expanding outward.
Obito's body was flung toward the ground like a discarded toy, but in that flight, he adjusted. He twisted, he contorted, he somehow turned a catastrophic plummet into a merely bad landing. He hit the ground on his feet with a heavy, jarring THUD that traveled up his legs and rattled his teeth.
He didn't pause. He looked at Naobito, his red eyes blazing with pain and fury, and then he dashed.
The movement was different. Ghost-like. The control of cursed energy was suddenly, shockingly masterful—a poor copy of mastery, but a copy nonetheless. The punch he threw was fast, angled, and on the verge of hitting Naobito's momentarily surprised body…
But that was all.
With his decades of experience, Naobito's hand snapped out. Snap. It closed around Obito's wrist like a steel manacle forged in the fires of condescension.
"Tch."
But Obito didn't stop. The moment Naobito grabbed his hand, he used it. He sent a good, jolting amount of cursed energy to his foot, planted his other foot, and used the older man's immovable grip as a pivot to launch his entire body into a spinning kick aimed directly at Naobito's stomach. The force was concentrated, a desperate spear of energy.
Swish-CRACK!
The kick connected. Not solidly, but it connected. Naobito's kimono indented.
"You little rat. You try to attack even while I hold you?"
The anger was obvious, but only for a moment. It was the irritation of a master painter finding a smudge on his canvas. A faint, almost imperceptible flush of true annoyance colored his cheeks.
But soon, a difficult, grudging smile appeared on Naobito's face. It was a thin, sharp thing, like a crack in old ice. He caught the follow-up kick with his other hand—a casual, dismissive slap of a catch—then he disappeared from his spot.
Fwip.
He appeared directly on Obito's left side, so close Obito could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap and the older, deeper scent of power.
Obito was shocked into utter silence. He didn't say anything, just tried to turn away, his body moving in a frantic, stiff twist.
"It's time to end this, child."
The sentence was a period at the end of a very short, very violent paragraph.
Before Obito could form a thought, a plea, or a curse, he tasted blood. Metallic, warm, and profoundly personal. He didn't even look down. He didn't need to.
Naobito's fist, moving faster than perception, had found its mark. It sank into Obito's chest with a terrible, intimate finality.
The sound was a sickening, wet CRUNCH of breaking bone and compressed flesh, a sound that seemed to echo in the sudden silence that followed. It was the sound of a lesson being written directly onto the skeleton.
Obito flew.
He didn't stumble or skid. He was launched, a ragdoll with a tragic backstory, his trajectory a blur of pain and limbs. He sailed across the training ground and slammed, back-first, into the thick wooden wall surrounding it.
KABOOM-SPLINTER.
The impact was catastrophic. The wood didn't just crack; it exploded inward in a shower of splinters and dust. The entire structure groaned in deep, wooden protest.
Creeeak… CRACK!
Obito embedded himself in the wreckage for a moment before sliding down to crumple in a heap on the ground, a puppet with its strings utterly severed.
The last thing Obito remembered before the darkness rushed up to swallow him whole was Naobito's smiling gaze from across the yard. The old man was stroking his sharp, precise mustache in a thoughtful, almost playful manner—a gesture that contrasted grotesquely with the serene severity on his face just a moment before.
—Damn it… What kind of monster is this? What is this speed? He didn't even use his cursed technique… This is just… Tuesday for him…—
The thought flickered and died.
Darkness swallowed him whole, a merciful, silent blanket after the storm of fists and philosophy. The only sounds left were the slow, settling patter of dust and sand, the occasional tink of a falling splinter, and the distant, amused hmm from the old man standing victorious and utterly unruffled in the center of the ruin he had so casually created.
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End of Chapter.
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