Wind training, Jiraiya said, would be more "natural." More intuitive.
What he meant was: it would involve slicing things until I either mastered the chakra flow or gave myself an accidental haircut.
We started with leaves. Classic exercise. Split a leaf cleanly with Wind Release. Easy on paper. In practice? I ended up blowing them into my own face more than anything.
"Try to picture your chakra like a blade," Jiraiya explained. "Not just movement. Sharpness. Intent."
"I'm intending to nap," I muttered.
He ignored me.
We moved from leaves to twigs. Then to bark. Then to pebbles. Every time I thought I had the pressure aligned, the wind pulsed instead of slicing. Not a cut — a collapse. The leaf would bend. The twig would crack sideways. The wind wasn't sharpening.
It was folding.
"Okay," I said, holding up the remains of yet another branch. "Clearly, Wind Release and I have different ideas about relationships."
Jiraiya studied the shredded bark, then knelt beside the rock I was practicing on.
"You're not pushing with your chakra," he said. "You're pulling from the wrong angle. It's like you're trying to make the air give up on itself."
I blinked. "Is that a thing?"
He gave me a look. "Not until you showed up."
So we adjusted. Or rather, he told me to adjust, and I just kept doing weird things until something stuck.
I stopped trying to slice. I let the wind build up and curl. Not out — but in. And when I focused, something clicked.
Not a blade.
A vacuum.
The branch I was holding cracked in half — not cleanly, but like the pressure had collapsed from within.
Jiraiya let out a low whistle.
"That... shouldn't work. But it did."
"Story of my life," I said, shaking out my hand.
"You didn't use Wind to cut. You used it to disrupt structural tension."
"Translation?"
"You gave the air a panic attack."
The days blurred together after that. Wind drills. Earth drills. More meditative nonsense with toads. At night, I slept under the stars and dreamt of pressure waves.
Sometimes I'd wake up with the grass around me flattened in a perfect ring. Other times, the rocks near my bedroll had cracked.
My chakra wasn't just reacting.
It was exploring.
On the tenth day, Jiraiya brought out a boulder.
"Split it," he said simply.
"Do I get a sword?"
"Nope."
"A lunch break?"
"Only if you split it."
I sighed, focused, and reached for Wind Release.
Instead of a sharp exhale, I pulled in.
I let the wind compress. Curl. And I didn't aim to cut the rock.
I aimed to make it forget it was solid.
A low hum echoed. Dust puffed out.
Then — crack.
The boulder split down the middle, like it had been waiting for an excuse to fall apart.
I stood there, stunned. Not triumphant. Just... confused.
Jiraiya approached, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.
"That's not Wind or Earth alone," he said. "That's... pressure inversion. Disruption."
"I don't think it's me doing it," I whispered.
He placed a hand on my shoulder. "No. It's you. But it's a new kind of you."
That night, I sat alone with my hands on the ground.
I pressed chakra into the soil.
And watched it slide — not outward, but inward. Like the earth wanted to swallow it, not repel it.
I wasn't molding chakra.
I was letting it find the cracks.
And every time it did... something shifted.
Not broken.
Not shaped.
Just... unmade
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— void_chakra