When I first learned how to channel chakra, it felt like trying to light a fire with wet flint. Sloppy, stubborn, and always seconds away from sparking out.
Now?
Now it feels like breathing into a box and hearing someone else's lungs fill with air.
The scroll burns softly under my hand. Not from heat, but from purpose. The new page—Phase Two—is etched with strokes that don't match my writing but somehow match my rhythm.
Internal Collapse Theory.
I don't understand all of it yet, but I understand enough:
Fold the chakra within.
Create a negative pressure zone.
Collapse it inward instead of outward.
Let terrain and tension decide what survives.
It's not an attack.
It's a field.
And I think I'm about to create my first one.
I pick an empty patch of training ground. Sand over stone. Shallow-rooted trees nearby. Enough space to fold without drawing a crowd.
Takkun and Damu are nearby, sparring—or rather, creatively tripping over each other. Damu's attempting a side-step with his eyes closed. Takkun is swinging kunai like it's part of an interpretive dance.
"Are you both training or auditioning for Konoha's first shinobi musical?" I ask.
Takkun spins, poses. "I call this move—Silent Footsteps on Broken Dreams."
"You're about to be silent if you take one more step into my field," I warn.
That gets their attention. Damu drops into a crouch. Takkun actually shuts up.
Genma appears as usual—no footsteps, no warning. Just presence.
"Go ahead," he says. "Let's see it."
I close my eyes.
Chakra pulses inward.
Crack. Pull. Hold.
This time, I don't release.
Instead, I keep holding. Let the pull stretch inward, tighter, closer, until my chest feels like it's about to snap in half.
Then—
Fold.
It's not a jutsu.
It's a refusal.
I pour the chakra into the air around me—and then I deny its form. I unshape it. I ask it to forget what it was trying to become.
And for one heartbeat, it listens.
The wind stutters. The dirt shivers.
And the space around me bends—not enough to break. Just enough to sag inward like the terrain is second-guessing its own density.
A five-meter ring forms around me. You can't see it. But step inside, and your body will.
Takkun does.
He stumbles.
"Hey—what the—why does the ground feel like it's drunk?!"
"Folded Edge," I say simply.
Damu reaches in slowly with a stick. The tip warps—not visually, but the weight shifts. He pulls it back like he's touched fire.
Genma kneels beside the edge, pressing his hand down.
"You didn't just collapse pressure—you bent instinct."
He looks at me.
"You made the body question what it trusts."
I nod, breath shallow.
"It only lasts five seconds. Longer, and the feedback rebounds."
Genma stands.
"Then your goal is six."
Later that day, we run drills.
Not standard ones.
Genma has Takkun and Damu throw shuriken at me while I activate the Folded Edge. I'm not allowed to move. I just hold the field.
First round, I flinch.
Second round, I hold.
Third round, Takkun forgets which side is up and hits himself in the leg.
I log everything.
Scroll Entry – Folded Edge Trials
Duration cap: 6.3 seconds before rebound
Ideal activation: just before enemy stance lock
Secondary effect: auditory distortion (phantom echo in opponent's ears)
Notes: Users inside field experience loss of directional chakra flow. Potential future use in genjutsu disruption?
Genma watches as I sketch out the next glyph.
"Don't try to master this overnight," he warns.
"I'm not trying to master it," I say. "I'm trying to understand why it feels familiar."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Familiar how?"
"Like I've done it before. But not me. Someone else. Through me."
He says nothing.
But he doesn't look surprised.
That night, the scroll page glows.
Just briefly.
A new note appears at the bottom.
Folded Edge – Phase Incomplete
I stare at it.
My hand didn't write it.
But it's written in my rhythm.
And I think I know what it's waiting for.
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Every bit of support keeps the Void walking forward.
— void_chakra