The second morning was no less jarring than the first. I awoke with a gasp, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, the phantom sensation of falling from a great height still clinging to me. For a split second, I was Jack, expecting to see the familiar posters on my bedroom wall and the glow of my computer monitor. Then, the scent of tatami and the sight of the pink hair splayed across the pillow brought reality crashing back down.
I was Musashi. This was Konoha. This was real.
I sat up, running a hand through my long, silky hair. It still felt alien, but a little less so than yesterday. A faint sense of ownership was beginning to take root. I padded over to the mirror, my movements less shaky, more accustomed to this body's innate balance. The girl in the mirror stared back, her bright blue eyes holding a mixture of lingering confusion and a newfound flicker of resolve. The ahoge on top of her head bounced as I tilted my head, and I couldn't help but poke it. It sprang right back into place. Some things, it seemed, were immutable laws of the universe.
"Get a grip, Musashi," I murmured to my reflection. The name felt more natural on my tongue today. "You survived day one. Now the real work begins."
After dressing in the same practical outfit as yesterday—it seemed our divine benefactor had provided a wardrobe with several identical sets—I strapped the daisho to my hip. The weight of the two swords was comforting, a solid, tangible link to the power promised by my system.
When I opened my door, Satoru was already there, leaning against the wall in his usual nonchalant pose. This time, however, something was different. He wasn't wearing his blindfold. Instead, he sported a pair of simple, perfectly circular black sunglasses. His snow-white hair was let down, falling softly around his face. It was his casual look from the anime, and it was somehow even more distractingly handsome than the blindfold version. He turned his head towards me, a lazy smile on his face.
"Morning. Decided to give the old eyeballs a bit of a breather," he said, tapping the side of his sunglasses. "The blindfold helps filter the data overload from the Six Eyes, but it's a bit much for just walking to school. Sunglasses are a decent compromise."
"Six Eyes?" I asked, my curiosity piqued as we started our walk towards the Academy. "You can already use them?"
"Use them? They're always on," he explained, expertly weaving through the morning crowd. "It's less of an active skill and more of a state of being. I'm perceiving the world in absurd detail. I can see the flow of chakra in everyone around us like… like colored rivers. I can see the residual energy left by jutsu. Right now, I can see that the dango shop owner three blocks away is using a tiny bit of fire-natured chakra to keep his grill perfectly hot. It's… a lot. My brain feels like it's been overclocked and is running a million diagnostic programs at once."
I tried to imagine what that must be like and failed. My own senses were sharp, a passive benefit of this new, high-spec body, but what he was describing was on another level entirely. It was a glimpse into the sheer hax-level power his Gojo template represented.
"So when you did the Transformation Jutsu…"
"Easy," he confirmed. "I didn't have to guess how to mold my chakra. I could literally see Iruka-sensei do it. I saw the pathways it traveled, the quantity he used, the precise nature of the transformation. All I had to do was copy it. It's like having the ultimate cheat sheet for every jutsu in existence."
"That's… completely unfair," I stated flatly.
He grinned, a flash of white teeth. "You're telling me. My Sukuna and Megumi templates are still at zero, but even just having Gojo's perception is a game-changer." He glanced at me, his head tilted. "What about you? Any latent epiphanies from your trio of legendary Japanese figures?"
"Just a vague sense of how to stand properly," I admitted. "My body knew how to form the hand signs perfectly. My system called it an 'intuitive grasp of physical forms'. It's a start, I guess."
"A perfect start for a sword wielder," he noted. "Form is everything in swordplay. You've got the foundation. Now you just need to build the house."
His observation was astute. While he had the cheat codes to the universe's operating system, I had been given the flawless fundamentals. Two different paths to power.
We entered the classroom to a similar scene as yesterday. Naruto was arguing with Kiba about something, Sasuke was brooding, and Sakura and Ino were once again trying to stake their claim on the seat next to him. Our arrival caused a minor stir. Satoru's new look earned him a fresh wave of admiring and curious glances, which he soaked up like a cat in a sunbeam. We took our seats in the back, the quiet island in the sea of childish chaos.
Iruka-sensei entered, clapping his hands for order. "Alright, class, settle down! Yesterday we tested your practical skills. Today, we focus on theory. Can anyone tell me what chakra is?"
Sakura's hand shot up instantly. "It's the essential energy necessary for any shinobi to perform jutsu! It's created by mixing one's spiritual and physical energies."
"Exactly right, Sakura! Very well said," Iruka praised. He turned to a large chalkboard and began to draw a diagram of the human body, showing the chakra coils and the tenketsu points. "This energy flows through your body in a network called the Chakra Pathway System. By controlling and molding this chakra, and by forming specific hand seals, you can produce incredible effects…"
As he spoke, I tried to feel the chakra within me again. It was that same warmth in my gut, but it was faint and slippery, hard to grasp. The theory was abstract, a collection of words and diagrams that didn't quite connect to the feeling.
Then, a flicker. A thought, unbidden, that wasn't entirely my own.
[Senji Muramasa (Saber) Template has reacted to the concept of 'Creation'.]
[Synchronization Rate: 0.00% rightarrow 0.01%]
[Innate Skill (Conceptual): Forging. You have a nascent, intuitive understanding of the process of 'making'. Applying this concept to Chakra.]
Suddenly, Iruka's words started to make a different kind of sense. He was talking about molding spiritual and physical energy. Forging. It was like a blacksmith taking two different types of metal, heating them in the forge of the body, and hammering them together on the anvil of the will to create something new: chakra. The hand seals weren't just magical gestures; they were the precise folds and steps needed to shape the final product into a specific tool, a jutsu.
It was still a difficult concept, but now I had a metaphor, a framework to understand it through. The ghost of an old, obsessive swordsmith in the back of my mind was giving me a crash course in magical metallurgy.
I glanced at Satoru. He was leaning back in his chair, sunglasses perched on his nose, looking utterly bored. To him, this lecture must have been like a university professor being forced to listen to a child explain addition using apples. He could see the chakra, feel it, understand its every property. He didn't need the theory.
The morning of lectures eventually gave way to the afternoon, and Iruka led us all outside to the academy's training yard. "Alright, theory is important, but a shinobi is defined by their actions! Today, we begin taijutsu practice. Basic stances, blocks, and strikes. Pair up!"
The yard erupted into a flurry of activity as students chose their partners. Predictably, Sakura and Ino both made a beeline for Sasuke, who ignored them both with practiced ease.
Iruka clapped his hands and sighing. "Alright, I'll be assigning the pairs for today to ensure a good skill balance. First up… Sasuke, you'll be sparring with Satoru."
A ripple of anticipation went through the class. The top student of the class versus the mysterious, flawless new kid. Sasuke's eyes narrowed, a spark of competitive fire igniting in their dark depths. This was the first real challenge he had faced in the academy, and he knew it. Satoru just gave a lazy grin and pushed his sunglasses up on his head, revealing those impossibly blue eyes for a moment.
"Alright," he said, sauntering into the center of the ring drawn in the dirt.
"And Musashi…" Iruka scanned the remaining students. "You'll spar with Kiba."
Kiba Inuzuka grinned, cracking his knuckles. Akamaru, perched on his head, gave a confident yip. "Alright, pinky! Try not to cry when I'm done with ya!"
"Don't worry," I said, my voice even. "I won't."
We took our positions in a separate ring. While all eyes were initially on the Satoru vs. Sasuke match, I focused on my own opponent. Kiba was all raw aggression and canine confidence. He crouched low, his hands held like claws, a feral grin on his face.
"Begin!" Iruka called out.
The main event started instantly. Sasuke exploded forward, his movements quick and precise for a boy his age. He aimed a sharp kick at Satoru's side.
But Satoru didn't move. He just stood there, hands in his pockets. Sasuke's foot stopped, dead in the air, a single inch from Satoru's uniform. It was as if he had hit an invisible wall.
Sasuke's eyes widened in shock. He jumped back, confused. Satoru hadn't even flinched.
"Is that all?" Satoru drawled, his voice laced with amusement.
From the corner of my eye, I saw it unfold. Sasuke attacked again, a flurry of punches and kicks. None of them landed. They all stopped just shy of making contact, repelled by an unseen force. It was Limitless. Even in its most embryonic form, he had manifested the concept of Infinity. The space between him and Sasuke's attacks was being infinitely divided, so they could never reach him. It was subtle, invisible to everyone else, but I knew what I was seeing. To them, it just looked like Satoru was untouchable.
"My turn," Satoru said.
In a flash, he vanished. The next moment, he was behind Sasuke, one finger gently tapping the back of the Uchiha's neck. "Checkmate."
The entire class was silent. Iruka's jaw was hanging open. Sasuke was frozen, trembling not with fear, but with a mixture of shock and utter humiliation. He, the prodigy of the Uchiha clan, had been so effortlessly, so casually defeated.
"Winner, Satoru," Iruka managed to say, his voice strained.
At the same time, Kiba decided to make his move on me. "Don't get distracted!" he yelled, lunging forward with a wild, clawing strike.
My mind went strangely calm. I had no taijutsu training. I hadn't thrown a real punch in my life—either life. But as Kiba charged, the world seemed to slow down.
[Miyamoto Musashi Template in effect. Innate Skill 'Fifth Form' (Embryonic) activated.]
[Analyzing opponent's form... Flaws detected.]
I didn't think. My body just moved. I shifted my weight to my back foot, rotating my hips just so. Kiba's clawed hand, aimed for my face, swiped through empty air, throwing him off balance. His forward momentum carried him past me. My body, following a script I didn't write, continued its rotation. I dropped my center of gravity, my right leg sweeping out in a perfectly timed, perfectly formed arc.
It wasn't a powerful kick. It was simply… correct. It connected with Kiba's ankle at the precise moment his weight was committed to his lunge. He yelped in surprise and tumbled forward, landing in a heap in the dirt.
Akamaru barked in alarm. Kiba sat up, sputtering, dirt on his cheek. "What the—? How did you do that?"
I was just as surprised as he was. I stood there, my body already back in a perfectly balanced, neutral stance. It felt like I had solved a math problem with my body. His attack was the equation, and my movement was the elegant, simple solution.
"Winner, Musashi," Iruka announced, his head swiveling between my ring and Satoru's, a look of profound disbelief on his face. He had two new students, and both had just effortlessly defeated two of clan born in the class on the first day of taijutsu.
A pair of notifications chimed in my head.
[Successful application of combat principles has been registered.]
[Miyamoto Musashi (Saber) Synchronization Rate has increased to 0.25%.]
[Fellow Transmigrator 'Satoru' has demonstrated overwhelming combat prowess.]
[Satoru Gojo (JJK) Synchronization Rate has increased to 0.50%.]
We were making progress.
The rest of the day was tense. Sasuke shot glowering looks at Satoru for the remainder of the afternoon, a new, intense rivalry now burning brightly. Kiba was more subdued, occasionally glancing at me with a confused, grudging respect. It seemed we had successfully announced our presence.
When school ended, Satoru and I walked out together.
"Well, that was fun," he said cheerfully, popping a piece of candy into his mouth. "Sasuke-kun needs to work on his fundamentals. All that clan pride doesn't help much when you can't even touch your opponent."
"Don't be an ass," I chided, though I couldn't suppress a small smile. "You humiliated him."
"He'll get over it. Or he'll get stronger. It's a win-win for the plot," he said flippantly. "You handled Fang-boy pretty well, though. Very aikido. All grace, no wasted movement."
"It was all the system," I admitted. "I just let my body do its thing."
"That's what the system is for. It's our new instinct." He stopped at a fork in the road. "Academy training is fine for the basics, but it's too slow. We want to get strong? We do it ourselves. Meet me at Training Ground 3 in an hour. It should be empty."
"Training Ground 3?" I asked. The place where Team 7 would have so many of their formative moments. "Alright. I'll be there."
An hour later, I arrived. The training ground was just as I remembered it: a wide, grassy field bordered by a forest and a river, with the three infamous wooden posts standing in the center. The evening sun cast long shadows across the clearing.
Satoru was already there, sitting cross-legged on top of one of the posts.
"Ready to start the grind?" he called down.
"As I'll ever be," I replied, drawing the katana from its sheath. The blade was simple, unadorned, but it shimmered in the low light, perfectly balanced and wickedly sharp. Just holding it felt right.
"I'm going to work on my chakra control," Satoru said. "Trying to make Limitless more of a conscious tool than just a passive shield. You should probably start with the basics. Get used to swinging that thing around."
He was right. I had the blade, and I had the innate sense of form. Now I needed to connect them. I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. I stood in the center of the field, holding the katana in a two-handed grip.
What would Musashi do?
The answer came as a whisper of instinct. A stance. My feet shifted, my knees bent, my back straightened. It was a basic kamae, a ready stance, but it felt as solid and immovable as a mountain. From there, another instinct bloomed: a sequence of movements. A downward cut. A horizontal slash. A thrust.
At first, my movements were stiff and awkward. I was Jack, thinking my way through it. My arms ached with the unfamiliar weight. The blade wavered. But I pushed through, following the ghost of a memory that wasn't mine. I moved through the kata again, and again, and again.
With each repetition, it became smoother. My mind emptied, and my body took over. The movements started to flow. The sword felt less like a tool in my hands and more like a part of my arm. The sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the training ground in twilight, and still I moved, lost in the rhythm of the blade. A thin sheen of sweat covered my body, and my muscles burned, but I felt… alive.
[Repetitive practice of swordsmanship has deepened your understanding of the blade.]
[Miyamoto Musashi (Saber) Synchronization Rate has increased to 0.40%.]
I finally lowered the sword, breathing heavily. I looked over at Satoru. He was still sitting on the post, but now a single leaf was floating in the air a few inches from his outstretched finger, spinning lazily. He was holding it there with nothing but his chakra, a classic exercise in fine control, but the utter effortlessness with which he did it was astounding.
He opened his eyes. "Feeling it?"
"Yeah," I panted. "I think so."
"Good." He hopped down from the post, landing silently. "That's enough for one day. Pushing too hard too soon leads to injury. Come on. I'm starving. My treat. I hear there's a legendary ramen stand in this village."
My stomach rumbled at the mere mention of it. "Ichiraku Ramen?"
"The very one," he grinned. "Let's go pay our respects to the true god of this world."
Walking into Ichiraku Ramen was another surreal moment. Teuchi was there behind the counter, a kind smile on his face. And sitting at the very end of the counter, slurping down a bowl of miso ramen with gusto, was Naruto Uzumaki himself. He looked up as we entered, his cheeks bulging with noodles.
He recognized us from class and gave a muffled, "Hey!"
"Yo," Satoru said, sliding onto a stool. I took the one next to him.
"Two bowls of pork miso ramen, please, old man," Satoru ordered with a familiarity that made Teuchi chuckle.
As we waited, the atmosphere was surprisingly peaceful. The simple, delicious smell of the broth, the quiet chatter, the sight of Naruto happily devouring his fifth bowl. It was a moment of normalcy in our insane new lives.
Our ramen arrived, and it was heavenly. The broth was rich and complex, the noodles were perfectly chewy, and the chashu pork melted in my mouth. We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both of us ravenous after our training.
"You know," I said whispering, between slurps, "seeing him like this… it's hard. Knowing everything he's going to go through."
Satoru glanced at Naruto, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. "Yeah. It is." He pushed his bowl away, finished. "But we can't be his guardians, Musashi. We have our own path. The best way we can help him, and everyone else, is by becoming strong enough to be trump cards when the time is right. When the plot isn't enough."
He was right. It was a cold comfort, but it was the only one we had.
We finished our meal, paid Teuchi, and bid Naruto goodnight. We walked back to our apartment under a sky full of stars, the cool night air a welcome relief.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked as we reached our doors.
"Every day," he confirmed. "The grind doesn't stop." He gave me a small, genuine smile, a rare thing that wasn't tinged with his usual arrogance. "You did good today."
"You too," I replied, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with chakra or ramen. In this crazy, dangerous world, I wasn't alone. I had a partner. A rival. A friend.
I went into my room and sat on my futon, my muscles aching in a deeply satisfying way. I called up my system screen, the blue light a familiar presence in the dark.
[Host Status:]
- Name: Musashi
- Synchronization Rates:
- Miyamoto Musashi (Saber): [0.40%]
- Senji Muramasa (Saber): [0.01%]
- Minamoto-no-Raikou (Berserker): [0.00%]
The numbers were still tiny, almost insulting. But they were higher than they were this morning. It was tangible proof of my effort. I had a long, arduous road ahead of me. I had to master the sword, unlock my other templates, and somehow become a warrior capable of standing alongside monsters like Satoru and the future threats of this world.
It was daunting. It was terrifying.
But as I lay down to sleep, for the first time, it also felt possible.