If chakra control felt like unlocking a secret language, physical training felt like trying to shout in a foreign tongue Kenji barely understood. While his mind soared, grasping the theoretical underpinnings of movement – the perfect balance runes, the coiled energy of a ready stance, the sharp trajectory lines of a strike – his body remained stubbornly earthbound. Clumsy. Slow. Annoyingly average.
Sparring drills were the worst. Circle up, pair off, try not to get hit too much. Easier said than done when your opponent was Kiba Inuzuka, a boy who moved with the restless energy of the puppy, Akamaru, yipping encouragement from the sidelines. Kiba wasn't sophisticated, but he was fast and aggressive, a whirlwind of limbs.
"Alright, Kenji! Try not to fall asleep this time!" Kiba grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Kenji took the standard Academy stance, his muscles protesting slightly. He focused, pushing past the immediate physical sensations, watching Kiba through his runic sight. He saw the bright, flickering flares of 'intent' ignite around Kiba's shoulder and leg fractions of a second before the boy actually moved. A lunge, low and fast.
Kenji reacted, seeing the path Kiba's attack runes solidified along. He shifted his weight, twisting his body. His physical reaction was still a beat too slow, not quite the effortless evasion he could visualize, but it was enough. Kiba's fist punched the air where Kenji's ribs had been moments before, throwing the attacker slightly off balance.
"Whoa! Lucky!" Kiba exclaimed, recovering quickly. Akamaru barked, a tiny echo of his master's surprise.
Lucky? Maybe. But Kenji knew it wasn't just luck. It was reading the opening sentence before the word was fully spoken. The problem was, his body could barely keep up with the translation. And doing it constantly, monitoring those fleeting runes while trying to manage his own clumsy movements, was exhausting.
Kiba pressed his attack, a flurry of simple punches and kicks. Kenji dodged, blocked awkwardly, stumbled back. He could see every move coming, every flicker of 'intent', every committed line of 'force', but weaving through them physically felt like wading through molasses. He needed an edge, something more than just seeing.
An idea sparked, dangerous and untested in this context. As Kiba lunged again, Kenji didn't just focus on dodging. While shifting his weight back, he focused sharply on the ground beneath Kiba's advancing foot, channeling a minuscule thread of chakra, trying to impose a fleeting rune of 'minor imbalance' or 'slip' onto the packed earth surface. It wasn't about making an ice patch; just… making that one spot fractionally less reliable than expected.
It required intense concentration, layering the runic intent over his own defensive movement. He felt the chakra drain, sharp and sudden.
Kiba's foot landed precisely on the targeted spot. For a split second, nothing happened. Then, his ankle seemed to turn just slightly more than it should have on the perfectly flat ground. His aggressive momentum faltered, his balance disrupted just enough to make his follow-through punch go wide, forcing him to hop awkwardly to regain his footing.
"Woah! What the—?" Kiba stared down at the ground, then back at Kenji, confused. There was nothing there.
Kenji didn't wait. He saw the momentary opening, the confusion in Kiba's runes. He pushed forward, executing the simple palm strike Iruka had taught them. It wasn't powerful, but with Kiba off-balance, it connected solidly with his shoulder, staggering him back a step.
The whistle blew, signaling the end of the brief spar. Kenji had technically scored a point. He stood breathing heavily, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, his chakra reserves noticeably lower.
"Man, weird footing," Kiba grumbled, rubbing his shoulder but looking more perplexed than annoyed. "Felt like I stepped on a ghost."
Kenji just offered a noncommittal shrug, avoiding eye contact. His heart was hammering. It had worked. But the risk… the concentration… and the look he suddenly felt fixed on him.
He glanced across the training yard. Sasuke Uchiha was watching them, his usual mask of indifference replaced by a sharp, analytical focus. He wasn't looking at Kiba, or even celebrating Kenji's minor victory. His dark eyes were narrowed slightly, fixed on the spot where Kiba had stumbled, then flicking to Kenji's feet, then back to Kenji's face. It wasn't the look of someone impressed by a lucky shot. It was the look of someone who had seen an anomaly, a piece that didn't fit the puzzle, and was filing it away for later scrutiny. A cold knot tightened in Kenji's stomach.
The feeling intensified during kunai practice. Hitting the straw targets demanded physical consistency – stance, grip, release – things Kenji struggled with. His first few throws were mediocre, hitting the outer rings or missing entirely. He watched Sakura throw with fierce determination, hitting near the center. Then Sasuke stepped up. Crisp form, minimal effort, perfect bullseye. Kenji saw the flawless execution in runes – sharp, concise, controlled. Pure skill.
When Kenji's turn came again, he felt Sasuke's gaze still lingering nearby. He held the cool metal kunai. He saw the target, visualized the ideal runic line – 'trajectory', 'impact'. He knew his form wasn't good enough to hit the center consistently. But maybe… maybe he could help it along. More than just a nudge this time.
He took a breath, trying to mimic Sasuke's focused calm. As he drew his arm back, he channeled a thin stream of chakra into the kunai, trying to reinforce not just the 'trajectory' rune, but weaving in a subtle 'guidance' or 'seeking' aspect aimed directly at the target's dead center. It felt like threading a needle with pure energy.
He threw. His physical form was still only adequate, maybe slightly better than before. But the kunai left his hand feeling… different. Alive.
THWACK!
Dead center. Not just hitting the bullseye, but striking with enough force that it buried itself deeper than usual, splitting the wooden core of the target slightly. It quivered there, a perfect shot that felt utterly unearned by his physical skill alone.
Silence hung for a beat. Several students stared. The instructor blinked, surprised. "Kenji! Now that's how you do it! Excellent throw!"
Nearby, Shikamaru Nara, who'd managed to hit the target with a sigh suggesting profound exhaustion, opened one eye slightly wider. "Troublesome," he murmured, loud enough for Kenji to hear. "First the ghost-step, now pinpoint accuracy. Anomalies are piling up." He yawned and closed his eye again, apparently deciding further thought was too much effort.
Kenji quickly retrieved his kunai, his hand trembling slightly. He felt drained, far more than simple practice should warrant. He'd achieved the result, yes. But it was too clean, too sudden a leap in skill. He could feel multiple pairs of eyes on him now – the instructor's surprised approval, Kiba's lingering confusion, Shikamaru's lazy but sharp observation, and worst of all, Sasuke's cold, calculating stare that seemed to see far too much.
He'd wanted an edge. He'd used his runes to get one. But every unnatural success, every moment that defied logical progression, was another brushstroke painting a target on his back. Hiding wasn't just about keeping silent anymore. It was about controlling the results, making his 'talent' seem plausible, incremental. Because the lines he saw were a secret, and in the shinobi world, secrets this potent didn't stay hidden forever unless you buried them deep under layers of calculated normalcy. The tightrope he walked just got narrower.
--- End of Chapter 3 ---