The camp's atmosphere was tense, yet strangely light.
Morale had lifted, subtly but surely, following the sharp display of Shuichi's precision and Osamu's perceptiveness. Their instincts had cut through the fog of uncertainty like true shinobi. Both had been summoned to report on the incident, and as a result of their decisive actions, each received a reward. Commander Kurai granted them a single C-rank jutsu of their choice.
Osamu requested the Kanashibari no Jutsu—the temporary paralysis technique.
Shuichi, always valuing speed and initiative, chose the Body Flicker Technique.
The camp remained suspended in an uneasy stillness—a fragile peace dictated by the ongoing war. With the "flee-on-sight" threat of Minato Namikaze now stationed at the frontlines, a shift had occurred. Though Minato himself was a prodigy destined to be the Fourth Hokage, his team was still ordinary by comparison. So, for strategy and safety, Team 7 had taken quarters in the camp—close to the action, but removed from the direct fire.
Yet to Osamu, none of that truly mattered.
Only one thing did: he needed to grow stronger.
He trained relentlessly—day after day, night after night. The cycle blurred into a rhythm of repetition, though no day felt quite the same. Osamu valued his life too much to stagnate, to allow himself to regress. He refused to become cannon fodder in someone else's story.
At present, he and Shuichi were sparring in taijutsu in a small clearing just beyond the tents—their usual training ground. But Osamu was off-balance, moving strangely, as if drunk. There was no alcohol in his system—just the dizzying pursuit of a jutsu that demanded adaptation and vision beyond the ordinary.
"Osamu, try again. You've gotta get used to the wider field of view—come on," Shuichi called out.
"Easy for you to say," Osamu muttered, clicking his tongue.
"The Tora Shisen isn't that overwhelming. Don't focus on the details—just let your vision settle in. Your reflexes will follow."
Again, Osamu clicked his tongue in frustration.
He was trying to master the Tora Shisen—the very precursor to Shuichi's clan dōjutsu, the Shikōgan. The technique flooded the user's vision with chakra-enhanced clarity, granting night vision and a field of view nearing 180 degrees. Powerful, yes—but disorienting when untrained.
Still, Osamu persisted. Because in this world, strength wasn't optional—it was the price of survival.
Shuichi lunged first.
His footwork was fluid—sharp pivots, quick bursts of speed—and Osamu barely caught the movement in time. He activated the Tora Shisen, pupils thinning into slits, his vision expanding like a wide-lens camera. The world opened up: shadows danced more vividly, subtle motions sharpened, and the colors dimmed just slightly, as if twilight had settled over everything.
But clarity wasn't comprehension.
Shuichi's elbow came in hard. Osamu blocked too slow, stumbled back, then pivoted awkwardly, overcorrecting from visual overload. His breath hitched, his body lagged behind his eyes. Shuichi didn't let up—his follow-up kick swept Osamu's legs clean out from under him, slamming him onto the dirt.
"Again," Shuichi said, already resetting his stance. "You're thinking too much."
Osamu lay there, chest heaving, blinking at the sky through the flickering intensity of the Tora Shisen.
"I'm not a genius like you," he muttered.
"No," Shuichi said, offering a hand, "that was a given not everyon can be as cool as me "
****
Day One.
Osamu's legs ached. His arms moved out of sync with his vision. Every spar ended the same—off-balance, overwhelmed, eating dirt. But he got up.
Day Two.
They fought at sunrise. Osamu didn't speak much. His guard was tighter, but his reactions were still off. He saw too much and reacted to the wrong thing. Shuichi didn't go easy on him. That was never the point.
Day Three.
Osamu tried closing his eyes mid-fight. Just for a second. Resetting. Then reopening them—letting the Tora Shisen flood in again. Still dizzy. Still too slow.
Day Four.
Progress. He dodged a blow he wouldn't have seen before. Shuichi nodded once. That was enough.
Day Five.
Blood on Osamu's lip. Dust in his mouth. A bruise bloomed along his ribs. He smirked through it. For a moment, the disorientation faded—his instincts cut through the fog. He parried on reflex. It felt right.
Day Six.
The world no longer spun. The visual chaos of the Tora Shisen began to harmonize with his breath, his steps, his rhythm. His mind—once panicked—learned to let go, to trust.
On the seventh day, they clashed again under a grey morning sky.
Shuichi came in fast—faster than before. A feint to the left, real strike from the right. But this time, Osamu didn't flinch. He saw it—really saw it—not as noise, but as intention. His body moved with uncanny timing, pivoting to evade, fist sweeping low.
They exchanged a flurry of strikes—taijutsu, tight and brutal. Shuichi's grin widened with each blocked hit.
Then Osamu landed a blow. A real one.
A fist to Shuichi's shoulder, enough to stagger him back half a step.
Silence followed.
Shuichi exhaled, rubbing the spot. "You finally see your whole hunter now–feels good. yeah?"
Osamu's eyes glowed faintly with the chakra threading through them. His voice was steady.
"I think I am."