The room smelled of ink and cedar again. Scrolls had been unrolled like flower petals across the floor, each one displaying lines of delicate kanji spiraling inward like coiled springs. Sakura sat cross-legged at the center of it all, her brow furrowed, her brush paused above a fresh slip of parchment.
Gensai sipped tea in silence across from her, legs folded neatly beneath him. The light from the oil lamp flickered across his face, outlining the hard lines beneath his eyes.
"You're hesitating," he said calmly.
Sakura lowered her brush. "Because I don't know how to make it... feel."
He inclined his head slightly. "That's the challenge of interpretive sealing. The seal must be able to discern intent. I asked you to create a seal that can tell the difference between motion and impact in motion."
"Right," she murmured, tapping the brush against her lip. "But... motion is motion. How do I tell the seal there's a difference unless I give it a mind of its own?"
"Not a mind," Gensai said. "A pattern. The difference lies not in the action, but in the result. What follows a motion with intent to harm is usually a spike in pressure, displacement, sometimes even a shift in air temperature. Teach your seal to listen."
Sakura frowned deeper, but nodded. She set her brush back down and began drafting anew, her strokes more careful this time. Behind her concentration, Gensai watched in silence.
---
Later that evening, she stood outside, watching a candle flame flicker under a glass jar. She had affixed her latest test seal to the base, keyed to flare if a sudden pressure or heat wave approached it. She tapped the glass. Nothing. She slapped it—gently. Still nothing.
Then she struck it, fast and sharp. The seal pulsed.
Her heart skipped.
It had recognized the difference. Barely—but it had.
---
When she returned to Gensai's home the next day, her face was flushed with something like pride. He listened as she explained her test, her adjustments, the variables she'd tried.
He nodded once, satisfied. "Your seal is still shallow, but its logic is sound. It's not rejecting harm yet—but it's starting to see it."
Sakura exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "Honestly, I didn't think it would work."
"Doubt is common at the beginning," he said. "Most techniques start with watching, not acting."
He stood and walked to a scroll-lined cabinet. "You've taken the first step. Your seals are starting to understand their world. Now... make them decide."
---
That night, after Sakura left, Gensai took a seat by his writing desk and opened a narrow drawer.
Inside, hidden beneath spare sealing parchment, was a thin strip of medical gauze. It was faintly stained.
He unwound his sleeve and gently wrapped his arm again. The pain was worse at night. Always worse when he was still.
There was no panic in him. Just a quiet acknowledgment.
Time was moving.
He had students now. And they were growing.
---
The following morning, as Sakura arrived early to resume her studies, Gensai greeted her with a small box.
Inside were half a dozen wooden tiles, etched with different formulas.
"From Shikamaru," he said. "He wanted to share a few of his refinements with you."