Chapter Thirty-Four: The Smiling Punching Bag & The Guilty Opportunist
Yuta Okkotsu, by some miracle of social awkwardness and forced proximity, gradually became more comfortable after a few days in this place.
"Comfortable" was a relative term, of course. It was the comfort of a man who, after being chased by wolves, finds himself in a cage with slightly less aggressive, but far weirder, animals.
The people here were, without a doubt, strange. There was Panda, a living, breathing, talking plush toy who discussed philosophy and threw punches with the force of a small truck. There was a boy his age, Inumaki, who communicated exclusively through the names of fish ingredients—"Salmon," "Bonito Flakes"—a culinary Morse code that left Yuta more confused than enlightened. Moreover, there was the girl, Maki Zenin. Every time his eyes so much as flickered in her direction, he could feel Rika stirring in the back of his mind, a possessive, jealous static that whispered violent, protective urges. He'd quickly learned to mentally soothe her, a process that felt like calming a gargoyle with separation anxiety. On the plus side, Maki seemed to have zero desire to be within ten meters of him, which in one way made him sad (rejection always stung), and in another, filled him with profound relief (fewer chances for accidental spectral dismemberment).
Anyway, he was talking to a group of weirdos who openly called themselves insane. Yes, they were. And sometimes, they trained with a brutal intensity that made his old PE classes look like naptime, all to master something called cursed energy. He was starting to grasp that he had a… knack for it. A good talent, they said. It seemed every time he fumbled through an exercise, their reactions ranged from stunned silence to baffled applause. They told him he'd "mastered cursed energy reinforcement," a fundamental technique. The level Yuta reached was probably baby-steps to them, but he was pathetically, genuinely happy with the praise. He was providing a good factor. He wasn't just a disaster waiting to happen.
He didn't want to die, not really, but a deep, shameful part of him felt he should, to make the world a safer, less haunted place. The people around him always got hurt. Rika did that to "protect" him, a protection that felt like being guarded by a tactical nuke—effective, but with immense collateral damage and permanent fallout. His current, fragile ability to talk to some people without the immediate fear of them being turned into abstract art was… nice. It was more than nice. It was a revelation.
Then, while he was turning these heavy, lonely thoughts over in his mind like wet stones, the black-haired young man named Obito approached him. In these past few days, Obito had become the person he interacted with the most. He smiled—a real, non-threatening smile. He laughed, a dry, short sound that seemed surprised to be coming out of him. He even told jokes, which were usually met with polite confusion but felt like a gift. Moreover, he taught him things. Actual, tangible things about this bizarre new world that the others either assumed he knew or explained in ways that involved panda metaphors or fish-based syntax.
The boy had a broad, practical knowledge about cursed energy that cut through the mystic jargon. The quiet boy, Inumaki, or the panda creature named Panda, couldn't teach him well for simple, surreal reasons: Yuta wasn't yet used to taking life lessons from a mascot, and the other boy's vocabulary was a locked door with a sushi menu as the key.
But Obito was different. He could explain. He could demonstrate. And he trained with him. Constantly. Over the past days, their spars had become the backdrop of Yuta's new life. At this very moment, he was twisting his body, muscles burning, to dodge a swift, testing jab Obito sent towards his ribs. Swish. He realized the young man before him was very fast. Obito had a way of seeming to be in two places at once—a blur from behind, a feint from the front—a disorienting dance that kept Yuta's instincts screaming. But instead of panic, it reinforced a new, fragile desire: to become stronger. To keep up.
He used a defensive stance he'd seen in a movie once, managed to grab Obito's wrist as it shot past, and used the momentum to try and unbalance him. He'd gradually become braver in doing this, a courage born entirely from Obito's constant, calm commentary.
"You must always be ready to attack. Not just defend. Defense is a pause before a counter. Don't worry, I can take it."
And then, other words, delivered with a strange, patient intensity:
"Never underestimate your opponent. But more importantly, never forget your back exists. I attack you from behind for a reason. For your benefit. The world won't fight fair, Yuta."
Yuta was convinced by these words in a shockingly short time. They made sense. They felt like survival lessons from someone who'd learned them the hard way. He'd even been given a cursed ring—a cold, heavy band of metal—to wear. It was a seal, Gojo had explained, to help control Rika's power. With it on, the terrifying pressure in the air around him lessened. Rika was still there, a brooding presence in his soul, but she wasn't lashing out randomly. She wasn't trying to tear Obito apart for getting too close. That alone felt like a miracle.
While pushing his body backward from a grapple, losing his footing, and feeling the familiar, jarring thud of his back hitting the training sand, Yuta felt a bizarre spike of… happiness? The pain was sharp, immediate. The sensation of falling, of impact, of dust in his mouth—it was all terribly, vividly real. He had spent so long being a ghost in his own life, everyone tiptoeing around him as if he were a fragile, cursed vase. He had never experienced this—the shared, physical language of combat, the pain that meant you were learning, not that you were destroying. He wasn't a masochist. He just wanted to improve. To be something other than a problem.
"You're getting better."
He heard Obito saying that sometimes, the words punctuated by the sound of Obito catching his own breath. Haa… Or was Obito smiling? It was hard to tell sometimes; the smile often didn't reach his eyes, which stayed watchful, analyzing.
Was Obito feeling like a real friend? The concept was so foreign, so desperately wanted, that Yuta clung to the possibility like a lifeline.
So, it continued this way. Sand, sweat, the thwack of limbs meeting, the scuff of feet on dirt. He tried to learn how to do it—how to reinforce his skin so a punch felt like a shove, not a break. How to shift his weight to avoid being thrown. How to read the tiny tells in Obito's posture before he moved. Everything about his new friend was something different, a series of lessons he genuinely, hungrily wanted to learn.
---
On the other side of the sweat and dust, Obito looked at Okkotsu, who was once again sprawled on the ground like a discarded ragdoll, with a gaze of pure, unadulterated confusion.
The boy always smiled when being hit. Not a crazy grin, but a small, genuine, thankful smile that made the hairs on the back of Obito's neck stand up. It was deeply unsettling. Was Obito hitting him too softly? Was this some form of advanced, spiritual masochism he wasn't aware of? Was the kid broken in a way not even the manga covered?
So, he kept hitting him. He attacked from behind with the [Cursed Acceleration] technique, a burst of speed that still felt clumsy in his own feet. Fwip-thud. He pretended to offer sage advice, wrapping exploitation in the paper of mentorship.
"This will benefit you. That's why I attack from behind. In a real fight, curses don't announce their intentions."
But the boy wasn't angry. He wasn't resentful. The smile just got brighter, more trusting. He became more social, asking questions about techniques, about the school, about Obito's own training. It was like beating a puppy and having it wag its tail harder.
And the worst—the absolute, galling worst—was that the power of the boy carrying the Special Grade cursed spirit Rika was rising like a tide. Not in explosive bursts, but in a steady, terrifying crescendo. His control over cursed energy, which had been a wild, untamed river, was being channeled with increasing precision. His combat instincts were sharpening from 'panicked flail' to 'competent block' at a rate that defied all known laws of jujutsu physics. It was as if he was a natural warrior who'd simply forgotten he knew how to fight and was now remembering at an accelerated pace.
If Obito weren't so practiced at plastering a neutral, slightly bored expression over his true feelings, he would have screamed into the void. Why? Why did he have to be inserted into the body of a spiritual pauper, a kid with the cursed energy equivalent of a piggy bank, while this walking nuclear reactor got to be a prodigy? It had taken Obito sheer bloody-minded will, near-death experiences, and a magical cheating eye to reach his current, mediocre level. Yuta just needed to get punched a few times and have someone be mildly nice to him, and his power level ticked up like a score in a video game.
He had easily become able to transfer his cursed energy around his body with a fluidity Obito could only mimic with intense concentration. Not only that, but he was beginning to match Obito's speed. Those fleeting strikes where Obito used [Cursed Acceleration], which should have been blurry impossibilities to a beginner, were now being anticipated, parried, or at least reacted to with a clumsy grace. Over time, the gap was closing. The punching bag was learning to hit back.
—Is there a limit to his development rate? Or is the limit just 'whatever the plot requires'? This is truly insane. This is cheat codes on top of cheat codes. But—
Obito stopped mid-motion, his fist halting an inch from Yuta's cheek. He forced his lips into what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He reached down, grabbed Yuta's arm, and with a practiced twist, used the boy's own momentum to slam him into the sand again. Whump.
He stood over him, breathing steadily. "You're really amazing, you know that?" Obito said, the words feeling like sawdust in his mouth. "You're truly helping me learn, too."
Yuta looked up from the ground, sand in his hair, a bright, unguarded smile spreading across his face as if he'd just been given a medal instead of a faceful of dirt. The warmth in that gaze was a physical thing, a beam of sunlight that made Obito feel a brief, sharp pang of something ugly and cold—guilt—before he mentally shoved it into a box and buried it under more pressing concerns.
He was using Okkotsu. Plain and simple. He was using the boy as a living, breathing training dummy, a stress-relief punching bag who didn't immediately retaliate by turning him into modern art. Obito was so damn tired of being the one on the ground, of being humiliated by monsters, outsped by old men, and outclassed by everyone with a better bloodline. But before Okkotsu, Obito could be the experienced one. He could win. He could systematically dissect the fight, offer 'teaching,' and all the while, he was the one reaping the real benefits.
He wanted to be a friend? No. He wanted to be a parasite. A friendly, helpful parasite that taught its host how to be a better meal. He even knew the child before him was starved for connection, adrift in a sea of weirdos who were, frankly, terrible at basic human interaction.
Panda was a panda. A nice, wise panda, but still a panda. For a recently traumatized normal teenager, that was a bridge too far.
Maki was a walking storm cloud of anger and familial issues. Her glare could curdle milk, and her opinion of Yuta seemed to dip even lower whenever she saw Obito near him. Yuta, in his innocent bubble, didn't notice the corrosive dislike. Obito, hyper-aware of every social current, felt it like a change in barometric pressure.
Meanwhile, the last candidate for 'normal human interaction,' Inumaki, was a monument to silence. The cursed speech was a tragic limitation, but the result was the same: Yuta, who desperately needed to talk, to be heard, to have a conversation that didn't involve interpretive dance or zoological surprises, was left in a quiet desert.
But what about Obito? He was the perfect candidate. He could string sentences together. He could pretend to care. He could manufacture empathy. He could smile on command. He told jokes that landed with a thud but were appreciated for the effort. He listened to Yuta's halting questions and gave clear, simple answers. So, against all odds, a pathetic facsimile of friendship sprouted in the toxic soil of Obito's deception.
For the first time since being violently dumped into this world, Obito felt he was talking to someone who, on some level, might understand the shape of his loneliness. In the end, even if Okkotsu was a character from a story, he was a real, breathing, hurting human at this moment. And Obito wanted to exploit that fact. He would never forget his mission, his own survival. He was an opportunist in a borrowed skin.
He would exploit the child to develop himself, and it was succeeding beyond his cynical expectations. Obito's own strength was developing in the shadow of Yuta's brilliance. He used the Sharingan in fleeting, hidden moments—a quick crimson flash when Yuta's back was turned or his eyes were squeezed shut in concentration. In those moments, he wasn't just watching the fight; he was recording it. He was copying the subtle, instinctual ways Yuta's cursed energy moved, the micro-adjustments of reinforcement, the effortless flow from defense to offense. It was like downloading a master's muscle memory through a dodgy connection, but it worked. It raised Obito's own cursed energy manipulation by several notches.
At night, when the campus was silent except for the chirping of insects (cree-cree-cree), Obito would train alone in a secluded corner. He'd activate the Sharingan, not for combat, but for playback. He'd mimic Yuta's movements, trying to force his own stubborn cursed energy to move with that same natural, fluid rhythm. It was hard, grating work, like trying to teach a brick to swim, but it yielded results. His reinforcement became more efficient, less wasteful. His Cursed Acceleration technique, stolen from Naobito, became smoother, less jarring on his joints. All of this, because he was plagiarizing the homework of a natural-born genius. Yuta's talent was like breathing—unthinking, automatic, perfect. And Obito was the guy in the corner, frantically taking notes on how to inhale.
Thus, Obito's morally bankrupt strategy for self-improvement continued, a silent engine humming beneath the facade of camaraderie. He was completely unaware that Okkotsu was looking at the entire dynamic through a radically different, heart-wrenchingly naive lens.
For Obito, he was a villain in a training montage, exploiting an innocent for personal gain. A guilty opportunist.
For Okkotsu Yuta, Obito was a kind person. A wonder. A patient friend who taught him everything he needed without asking for anything in return, who spent hours with him, who took hits and gave them back, all to make him stronger. A smiling guardian.
This stark, tragic contradiction wasn't apparent to either of them, both too damaged by their own unique forms of isolation to see clearly. Obito, haunted by future knowledge, weakened by past humiliations, and driven by a primal fear of being crushed in this brutal world. Okkotsu Yuta, haunted by a literal ghost, isolated by a love that destroyed, and yearning for any connection that didn't end in ruin.
The afternoon sun, a tired orange orb, cast long, distorted shadows across the training ground as they moved. The sounds were a familiar symphony: the thwack of a blocked forearm, the heavier thud of a body hitting sand, the ragged haa… haa… of shared exhaustion.
"Again, from the left this time, Obito-kun?" Yuta asked, pushing himself up, his shirt stained with sweat and dirt.
"Sure," Obito said, rolling his shoulders. A joint popped. Crick. "But I'm not going easy. Your left side is still weak."
Swish. Crack!
Yuta took the hit on his raised arm, skidded back, lost his balance, and hit the ground with a dusty whump. But the smile—that damn, unwavering smile—never left his face. It was the smile of someone who, for the first time in years, was being touched by the world and not breaking. Not breaking others. Just… experiencing.
Obito looked at that smile, felt the gnawing, rodent-like guilt scratching at the inside of his ribs, and then calmly, efficiently, buried it. He piled on more rationalization: He's getting faster. Good. That means I can push my acceleration to a higher tier next time. His reinforcement is getting denser, more focused. Good. I can analyze the energy flow pattern with the Sharingan later, try to replicate that density.
He walked over, the sand crunching under his shoes. Crunch. Crunch.
He offered a hand, his expression carefully arranged into something resembling encouragement.
"Ready for another round?"
Yuta took it, his grip strong, calloused already from the brief training, and utterly trusting. "Always."
Sigh.
The guilt was there, a small, cold pebble in the river of his ambition. But the river was wide, and the current was strong, carrying him towards the only thing that mattered in this kill-or-be-killed world: strength. The strength to survive. The strength to stop being a pawn. The strength to maybe, one day, look in a mirror without seeing a coward and a fraud.
Even if the path to that strength was paved with the genuine, grateful smiles of a boy he was betraying with every friendly word, every shared laugh, every 'instructional' punch.
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End of Chapter.
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