Chapter Thirty-One: After Two Days – The Sharingan's Copying Style
Damn it.
Here I am, waking up in a different place again. It seems this has become so normal I've started to become numb to it. My life now is just a series of unfamiliar ceilings and varying degrees of bodily pain. If I ever get back to a normal world, I'll have serious trust issues with furniture.
Obito awoke a minute ago—or at least, his consciousness swam up from the black, sticky depths of oblivion about sixty seconds prior. He looked around the traditional Japanese room without moving his head, an act that felt like a monumental effort. The scent of tatami straw, antiseptic, and old, polished wood filled his nostrils—a potpourri of 'you've been injured again.'
He immediately conducted an internal assessment of his physical state, a ritual as familiar as brushing his teeth.
He felt pain. Of course he felt pain. It was a deep, throbbing, personable ache that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, a loyal companion he hadn't asked for. But the pain was… managed. Domesticated. It was clear the wounds and the bones that had been so rudely introduced to Naobito's fist in his chest had been tended to by a professional. Or at least by someone who knew which end of a bandage was which.
That's what he thought as his eyes traced the stark white bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. They were neat, precise, and utterly condemning. He took several deep, careful breaths, each one a minor victory against the stabbing discomfort in his ribs.
In… out. In… out.
The air was cool. It tasted faintly of dust and regret.
He rose from the bed, the futon rustling softly in protest beneath him—shffft—and stood on his feet. The world did a gentle, swaying waltz for a moment. He felt weak, a bit dizzy, perhaps. A human-shaped bowl of undercooked jelly. But he didn't care about that. He was about to leave the room, to find answers, or at least a bathroom.
But the door slid open before he could take a step.
Shhh-click.
It was a sound of perfect, silent efficiency. He stopped, a deer in the very polished headlights of Zenin hospitality, and waited for the person who would enter.
A woman dressed in traditional Japanese clothing entered. She moved like a ghost on rollers. She looked at him with eyes as expressive and warm as polished river stones before speaking in a voice that was cold, flat, and utterly devoid of human inflection.
"You are awake, Master Obito. Master Naobito awaits you."
After that, the woman bowed slightly, a movement so crisp it could have sliced paper, and gestured toward the open door with a hand that seemed carved from pale ivory.
Obito was silent. His brain, still booting up, processed the words.
—Master Obito? That's new. And terrifying.—
—Naobito awaits? Damn it. Does that man want to beat me up again? Screw him. I didn't expect him to be this cruel. I knew there would be a beating—it's practically a cultural greeting here—but to lose consciousness… That's just poor hospitality.—
He looked at the woman, whose face was a mask of serene obligation. She seemed to be merely carrying out orders, a biological automaton in a beautiful kimono. He began to think for a moment before asking in a low, raspy voice that surprised even him.
"How long was I unconscious?"
The woman replied without a hint of emotion, her tone soft yet chillingly cold, like snow falling on a grave. "Two days. You have been unconscious for two days, Master."
Two days.
The words hung in the air, heavy and stupid.
—I'm not used to being called 'Master,' but that's not what I'm focusing on. Two days? I lost a weekend? Did I miss any good meals?—
—Really? That man is going to pay. Did I lose two days of my life because of this man? Did he have to act that way? And why do I lose consciousness so often? Is there a manufacturer's defect? I'm supposed to be a sorcerer. Aren't we meant to be durable? Why doesn't my body recover fast enough? Is my healing factor on dial-up?—
Obito, in his righteous internal fury, didn't realize the sheer, concentrated danger of the blow he had received. It hadn't been a simple punch. It had been a thesis on pain, saturated with cursed energy specifically designed to overwhelm and shut down a weaker system. His body was a budget model trying to run premium software, and it had blue-screened. That's why he remained unconscious for two days—his system was doing a full, agonizing reboot.
Moreover, reversed cursed technique hadn't been used like last time. That was a luxury service, apparently. Instead, regular medical materials plus some simple, medieval-looking procedures had been employed. The healing wasn't fast; it was grudging.
In the end, Obito sighed—a sound full of gritted teeth, frustration, and the faint, hopeful whisper of a sob. Haaa…
The woman, interpreting his sigh as assent (or simply not caring), turned and led him back through the silent, watching halls toward Naobito's room once more.
He took a deep breath at the threshold, the air tasting of dust, dread, and the faint, lingering aroma of expensive tea. The woman opened the door.
Creeak.
A sound that promised nothing good.
"Please enter. The Master awaits you."
Inside, like a scene on a loop, Naobito sat on the floor in the traditional seiza style. He seemed engrossed in the profound, mystical art of drinking tea. The old man was stroking his beard with one hand, a study in casual power. When Obito entered, he didn't look at him. He just continued sipping his tea, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Slurp.
It was a sound that conveyed complete, utter ownership of the space-time continuum.
Obito stopped in his spot for a moment, his body screaming at him to flee. He then chose the exact same cushion he'd sat on before—a spot that now felt like a defendant's chair—and settled down. The cushion felt harder, lumpier, as if it had been stuffed with judgment and pebbles.
After another minute that stretched into a geological age, Naobito finished his tea. He placed the cup down on the low table with a definitive, period-at-the-end-of-a-sentence clack.
He finally looked at Obito. His eyes were like old coins—hard, valuable, and slightly tarnished.
"Starting from now, I will teach you how to use those eyes properly."
Obito blinked. The words didn't compute. They bounced off the 'pain' and 'resentment' centers of his brain.
"You were right," Naobito continued, as if commenting on the weather. "You can see movements at a slower speed. Not only that, but you can also predict the location of strikes."
The man spoke as if listing several dry, academic facts he had observed during their one-sided demolition derby. It was clear to a Grade 1 sorcerer of his experience that Obito hadn't just been flailing. He had been tracking. He had been predicting. If the boy's physical vessel hadn't been such a pathetic, wheezing jalopy, the result might have required Naobito to, say, use two hands. Or think about it for a second. This fact alone—the potential efficiency of the tool—was enough to attract the pragmatic, cold attention of the head of the Zenin clan.
—On the other hand, Obito was surprised. His mental gears, rusty from sleep and trauma, ground slowly. He didn't know why the leader of the Zenin clan suddenly wanted to train him. Charity? Unlikely. Guilt? Please. He didn't say anything, just sat there looking as vacant as possible while his mind frantically deduced.—
—I understand. He's trying to use me. Of course. It seems he's realized I have a good enough cursed ability—a fancy camera—and also noticed the problems—the photographer is a chimp. But he knows the chimp can be trained. So he wants to help me? He's trying to recruit me to his side. To make me a useful little weapon.—
Obito quickly agreed with this deduction in his mind. It was the only one that made a brutal kind of sense.
Naobito tilted his head slightly. "Do you have any objections or questions?"
This wasn't the voice of someone asking for your decision. It was the voice of someone telling you that you have no choice, but he was politely curious if you had any amusing, last-minute delusions to share before accepting your fate.
Normally, Obito would have tried to refuse this offer. Not because he didn't want training or was afraid of being beaten—after arriving in this world and experiencing many types of humiliation, beatings, and even attempts to flee for survival, his pride was beginning to die a quiet, unmourned death. He wanted nothing more than strength. He craved skill like a desert craves rain.
The factor that made him weak, even with the magical slow-motion eyes, was his pathetic inability to react to attacks because his body was a wet noodle with ambitions. This body hadn't been trained for a long time, unlike many of the monsters he kept running into.
Even Yuji Itadori, at the beginning of the Jujutsu Kaisen story, possessed a body that could bench-press a car and withstand the metaphysical hangover of hosting the King of Curses. And even Yuta Okkotsu, while emotionally fragile, possessed a cursed energy reservoir so vast it could drown continents. He didn't even need much training; he could pick up a sword and immediately compete with a superhuman like Maki, reacting to her insane speed and strength through sheer, overwhelming spiritual wealth.
What was the difference between them and Obito? It wasn't just experience, because they were also baby sorcerers once. It was because they were born on third base, thinking they'd hit a triple. They were physically strong or possessed cheat codes—a bottomless well of cursed energy or a cursed girlfriend who could level buildings.
But Obito didn't have this reservoir. His cursed energy was almost… polite. Middling. If he were to say how much he had mastered, he might have reached the level of a seasoned amateur, but not a master. There was a Grand Canyon-sized difference between that level and the one he was currently pseudo-occupying while burning his brain cells with the Sharingan.
"I have no objections, sir."
Obito's voice was steadier than he felt. He met Naobito's gaze.
"But may I ask why you wish to train me?"
Naobito was surprised by this question—so much so that it actually showed on his face. His eyebrows lifted a millimeter. It was the spiritual equivalent of a tectonic shift. Obito saw it but didn't know the reason for the Clan Head's surprise. Was it because he asked? Or because the question was so naively blunt?
But for Naobito, this question was genuinely amusing. He even laughed after that. It started as a dry chuckle and escalated.
"Ha… Ha-ha… Hahahaha!"
It was a dry, rasping, dusty sound, like stones grinding together in a forgotten tomb. It wasn't a joyful sound. It was the sound of bleak amusement at the cosmic joke of it all. It increased the trembling in Obito's body—not from fear or awe, but from extreme, profound confusion. The laughter continued, unabated, for a full minute.
Cackle… wheeze… cackle.
And during that long, uncomfortable minute, Obito could only think one thing, a mantra of pure resignation:
—Yeah. Sorcerers. They're just insane people with superpowers. Every single one of them. This is my life now.—
Naobito finally stopped laughing, wiping a non-existent tear from the corner of his eye with a precise finger.
"Because you possess good talent, boy."
He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Why would I train you if you didn't have talent? Do you think I'm so charitable as to waste my precious time on garbage?"
This brutally honest question from the old man made Obito fall silent abruptly. The air felt very still.
Of course. Why would he teach me? I know he wants to, but I wanted a different answer. Something about seeing potential, or inner worth, or… anything other than 'you are a potentially useful tool.' And certainly, Obito didn't think it was out of mere kindness, but a small, stupid part of him had wanted to test the waters. To see if there was a shred of something resembling mentorship beneath the tyranny.
He had his answer. It was a 'no' carved in ice.
Naobito, utterly unaware of Obito's fleeting existential crisis, simply began explaining the agenda. Time, after all, was money, and he had many other meetings about clan politics and whose son had disgraced whom.
"I will now train you in combat footwork."
The sentence was delivered with the excitement of someone reading a tax form.
The two went to the training ground. The morning air was crisp and cold, carrying the clean scent of damp earth and distant pine. The shattered wall Obito had so recently decorated was already repaired. The Zenin clan's maintenance department was clearly efficient and probably traumatized.
There, Naobito began by having Obito activate the Sharingan.
"Eyes. Now."
Obito complied. The world sharpened, bled of its mundane colors, and was overlaid with the vivid, swirling flows of cursed energy. It was like putting on magical, pain-inducing X-ray goggles.
He became able to see Naobito's cursed energy, which rose around him like a visible heat haze, shimmering and dense.
Then, the man disappeared from in front of Obito.
Not with a shwip or a poof, but with a simple, disrespectful cessation of existence in one location. The old man was moving at great speed, but to the Sharingan, the details were laid bare. He wasn't teleporting; he was dashing with explosive, short bursts of power that crackled at his feet. He moved in a zig-zag pattern across the sand, leaving afterimages that lingered for a microsecond in Obito's enhanced vision.
Finally, he stopped and looked at Obito, not even slightly winded.
"Were you able to notice what I did just now?"
The question was a test. If Obito didn't possess the Sharingan eyes, he would have seen nothing but a blur and felt a deep sense of personal inadequacy. But thanks to the eyes and their ridiculous, cheat-code perception, he had seen it. The pattern. The method.
"You are converting cursed energy into short-range explosions, aren't you? To increase your speed in brief moments. Like… cursed energy firecrackers in your soles."
Naobito smiled. It was a thin, sharp thing.
—As expected. This child has a technique suitable for training, combat, and short-range engagement. He is suitable for teaching. If it were anyone else, even that arrogant brat Naoya, they wouldn't be able to discern the secret behind this speed so quickly. They'd be too busy feeling offended.—
On the other hand, Obito, who had analyzed the foot movement, was certain he had seen this when Naobito was fighting. He had been using this method the whole time. Now Obito understood the reason this man was fast. These microscopic explosions—controlled, precise detonations of cursed energy—tripled his speed at least. They couldn't be used for marathon running because they'd turn your feet to paste, but with cursed energy reinforcement, it was clear that by using this method, the user could achieve bursts of speed that defied physics and good sense.
—Damn it. I saw this, but I didn't think about it properly. I was too busy trying not to die. I could use this method. It could give me a decent burst to dodge powerful or sudden attacks. It's a getaway driver for my pathetic body!—
That's what Obito thought, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. It was immediately doused by Naobito's next words.
"Now it's your turn."
Naobito's voice was flat.
"You must accomplish this by the end of the day. I want to see results. Do you understand?"
Then, before a moment passed, Obito was looking at him with a gaze of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. His face was a masterpiece of 'you cannot be serious.' But his body was trembling, a combination of lingering injury and rising panic.
—What does this man think? Does he believe I can execute this precise, advanced control of cursed energy in one day? Even the basic reinforcement technique took me days, and I'm still about as reinforced as a wet paper bag. Is he trying to kill me via impossible homework?—
But these were only Obito's internal screams. Externally, after a moment of stunned silence, he stopped being dazed and his expression shifted to one of grim, ridiculous determination. He had to try. The alternative was probably another wall-smashing.
He decided to use the Sharingan eye's copy technique. His ace in the hole. His control-C, control-V for combat.
The amazing thing about this technique was that it allowed him to see cursed energy control with absurd precision and copy the operating method used by another person. He hadn't been able to use this method reliably before because there were big differences between his cursed energy 'font' and others'. It was like trying to copy a master's calligraphy with a broken crayon. But over time, and through the desperate, fumbling training to increase the density of his control after attempting to copy Panda's boxing technique, he had become… less terrible at it.
Naobito stepped back, putting a good ten meters of sand between them, and watched. His arms were crossed, his face impassive.
The boy summoned his cursed energy. It rose around him, shimmering, uncertain.
—Good. He's making a very good start.—
Of course, when Naobito thought that in his mind, he was being profoundly, deeply sarcastic. The situation was ripe for mockery. The control was decent for a novice, but the amount of energy was pathetic, and the 'style' was non-existent. It was like watching someone try to start a jet engine with a magnifying glass and hope.
But Naobito paused.
He felt it again—that uncanny, slightly unsettling feeling when the child used those red eyes in a different, more invasive way. Obito wasn't just seeing or predicting now. It seemed as if he was… conjuring. The cursed energy around him was shifting, warping, trying on a new shape like an ill-fitting suit.
Obito, while using the imitation technique to copy another person's cursed energy style for a short period, entered a state of spiritual plagiarism. His own cursed energy contorted itself, trying to match the unique 'fingerprint' of the person he was copying. In the same way, if that person used a physical style, his own muscles and cursed energy flow would twitch in mimicry.
Of course, there were specific, annoying conditions Obito had learned through painful trial and error. He could only do it for a limited period—about as long as a good sneeze held profound meaning. It consumed his cursed energy like a sports car guzzles fuel. But in return, he could imitate energy and physical skills with a creepy, temporary accuracy.
That was the reason he had managed that last, desperate flurry before being turned into a wall decoration. Not because Obito's copy was weak, but because Obito himself was weak, and the people he had copied in that moment—Maki, Kiyoshi—were themselves weaker than Naobito by several orders of magnitude. It was like copying the fighting style of a fierce kitten to fight a tiger.
But at this moment, he was trying to imitate the source himself. He was trying to copy Naobito's cursed energy style.
—The energy swirls around the boy continuously. But at the same time… this looks… familiar. Uncomfortably so.—
That made Naobito's eyes twitch slightly. Not from shock, but from a slow, dawning astonishment. His personal style and technique of using cursed energy were something refined over decades. They had a specific texture, a rhythm, a signature. And the cursed energy of the boy before him was… changing. Warping itself into a cheap, knock-off version of that signature.
It was audacious. It was bizarre. It was, frankly, a little insulting.
This continued for a full minute. Obito stood utterly still, his brow furrowed in concentration, red eyes glowing. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The air around him crackled with unstable, mimicked power.
Finally, he stopped. He opened his eyes—they were still crimson—and took a shuddering breath.
Then, he moved.
He disappeared from his spot. Fwip.
It wasn't the seamless, insulting vanish of Naobito. It was jerky. Strained. Like a bad special effect. But he moved faster than he ever had.
And in one chaotic, glorious moment, he appeared in three places at almost the same time—a blur to the left, a shudder to the right, and a wobble behind his starting point—before collapsing back into the middle of the field, panting like he'd just run a marathon while being chased by bees.
Fwip-fwip-fwip… thud.
He looked at Naobito, his chest heaving, his legs trembling so violently he was surprised they didn't just give up and detach. Haa… haa… haa… Each breath was a small victory over lung collapse.
"I… did it… didn't I?"
The head of the Zenin clan looked at him. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then a smile spread across his face. It wasn't warm. It was the smile of a scientist who has just discovered a fascinating, possibly dangerous new mold.
"Yes. You succeeded."
He paused, letting the word hang.
"But you lack the correct technique. Your form is atrocious. Your control is a screaming toddler. Your efficiency is non-existent."
He took a step forward, his geta sandals clicking on a stone.
"Your training," he said, his voice dropping to a low, almost pleasant murmur, "will be enjoyable, boy."
That last sentence, delivered with such serene promise, sent a shiver down Obito's spine that had nothing to do with the cold. It felt like a contract had just been signed in blood, and he was the paper.
But Obito, through the haze of exhaustion and pain, managed a smile. It was a weak, wobbly thing, but it was there. A tiny act of defiance.
And in his heart, amidst the panic and fatigue, he vowed something, a petty, stubborn promise to his future self:
—I'll make sure I repay this 'debt'. Every aching, miserable moment of it.—
The old man just chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like dead leaves skittering across a stone floor in an empty castle.
Heh.
It was the sound of the trap snapping shut.
──────────────────────
End of Chapter.
──────────────────────