The morning sun filtered through the Uchiha compound, painting its dark rooftops in hues of gold. Yet Keiji felt no warmth from it. His arms and legs still ached from Izuna's lightning drills the previous day, but today promised no reprieve.
Today's teacher was not Father's inferno, nor uncle Izuna's storm.
It was his mother.
Unohana stood in the garden courtyard, the early light glinting off her long dark hair, neatly tied back. Her expression was unreadable, her calm composure more terrifying than Madara's suffocating pressure or Izuna's sharp commands.
"Keiji," she said softly. "Today, you train under me."
Her voice was gentle, almost soothing—but Keiji had lived long enough to recognize the hidden steel beneath it. The warmth was a mask. Somewhere behind her calm, the blade waited.
Gengar floated at Keiji's side, its wide grin dimmed, its round eyes strangely cautious. Even the ghost understood: today would be dangerous.
---
The First Cut
Without preamble, Unohana produced a small, trembling rabbit and set it in Keiji's hands.
"Wound it," she ordered.
Keiji blinked. "What?"
"Wound it. A healer must first know how to destroy before they can learn how to mend. That is the foundation of Medical Ninjutsu."
His throat tightened. He remembered the lessons of Tsunade from his previous life's knowledge. To become a true medic, one must have the will to take life and save it in equal measure. But it was one thing to know the principle and another to cut flesh with his own hand.
Still, under her unwavering gaze, Keiji drew a kunai and made a shallow incision along the rabbit's flank. Blood welled up instantly, staining the fur. The creature whimpered, and guilt churned in his stomach.
"Now heal it."
Unohana's hands glowed faintly green as she steadied his trembling fingers. "Focus. Soften your chakra. Narrow it into a thread. Healing chakra must caress the wound, not crush it."
Keiji exhaled slowly, forcing the sparks of his uneven chakra into something gentler. The green glow flickered at first, then steadied as he concentrated. The blood slowed. The wound knit closed.
The rabbit stilled, breathing again without pain.
"Again."
Before Keiji could sigh in relief, Unohana reopened the wound with a flick of her blade.
Keiji's jaw clenched. So this is her method… cruel, but precise.
Again and again, she forced him to wound and heal, until his chakra control grew smoother, more refined. By the tenth attempt, his hand no longer shook. By the fifteenth, he could mend without faltering.
Unohana's eyes gleamed faintly. "Adequate. For now."
---
The River of Chakra
By midday, she replaced the rabbit with a simple bowl of water.
"Your reserves are vast," she said, "but crude. Even the largest river is useless if it cannot be guided into streams."
She gestured to the bowl. "Channel chakra through the water. Keep the surface still."
Keiji frowned but obeyed. The first attempt sent ripples scattering across the bowl. His chakra leaked wildly, uncontrolled.
"Again," Unohana said.
Sweat rolled down his temples as he repeated the exercise. Slowly, painstakingly, the ripples diminished. Finally, the water lay calm, reflecting the pale sky above.
"Good. Now make it swirl clockwise. Then counterclockwise. Then split into two motions at once."
Keiji groaned internally. The task demanded impossible precision. Hours bled away as he refined his chakra threads. His temples pounded from the concentration. Yet, at last, the water spun in twin spirals, clockwise and counterclockwise simultaneously.
Unohana gave the faintest smile. "You are beginning to understand. But remember this: a battlefield will never wait for hesitation."
---
Blood and Bone
That evening, Unohana led him not to the dining hall but to a small medical tent at the compound's edge. Inside, two Uchiha warriors sat—freshly injured from training duels.
"Treat them," she ordered.
Keiji's heart stuttered. "But I—"
"Treat them."
The first man's thigh bore a deep gash. Blood seeped through his bandages. Keiji's hands shook as he pressed glowing chakra against the wound. At first, his energy flared too sharply, and the man hissed in pain. Keiji steadied himself, recalling her earlier command: gentle, precise, constant.
The bleeding slowed. The torn flesh knit back together. The warrior grunted in approval.
The second man's arm was bent at an unnatural angle. A fracture. Keiji swallowed hard. He extended chakra threads like invisible sutures, guiding the bone back into place. The man gasped, but the alignment held.
When Keiji finally released him, sweat dripping down his brow, Unohana's eyes softened—slightly.
"Good. Medicine is not mercy. It is survival. And survival is the only truth of the battlefield."
---
The Sword in Silk
When night fell, Keiji expected rest. Instead, Unohana led him into the clan's private dojo. Torches flickered against the polished wood.
She drew her sword.
Steel glimmered coldly under firelight.
"Now we train in what I was once known for," she said, voice as calm as ever. "Kenjutsu."
Her blade moved in a blur. One moment she stood before him, the next her steel was at his throat. Keiji hadn't even seen her step.
Gengar hissed low, its grin faltering, but Unohana's killing intent froze even the ghost in place.
"This is the other side of healing. A true healer must be capable of killing without hesitation. Otherwise, the enemy will not allow you to live long enough to save anyone."
Keiji swallowed hard and picked up a practice blade. "Then… teach me."
---
The Demon's Dance
The clash began.
Her blade was a whisper of death, flowing like water, striking like thunder. She struck his wrist, his ribs, his thigh, each touch a reminder of how easily she could have killed him.
"Do not treat the blade as steel," she instructed. "It is an extension of your body. Breathe with it. Flow with it. Kill with it."
Keiji staggered under the relentless assault. Sweat stung his eyes, his arms screamed with each parry. Her strikes were beautiful—graceful arcs, precise cuts, perfect control—but beneath the beauty was raw terror.
She was not merely a healer. She was Yachiru Unohana—the whispered demon of blades.
---
Ghostly Fusion
Hours later, Keiji collapsed, his practice blade slipping from numb fingers.
"Enough," he gasped, chest heaving.
Unohana lowered her weapon but said nothing. Her silence was worse than scolding.
Gengar floated forward, pressing a shadowy hand to Keiji's shoulder. A strange warmth surged through him, tinged with something darker. His chakra flared, mixing with the ghost's spectral essence.
For a heartbeat, his green healing aura merged with Gengar's purple glow, forming a swirling, dual-colored light. Wounds on his arms knit shut instantly, exhaustion easing.
Keiji gasped. "What—what was that?"
Unohana's eyes widened—the first crack in her composure. "That energy… Keiji, what have you done?"
"I—I don't know. It just happened."
The glow faded, leaving eerie silence. Gengar grinned again, but the mirth didn't reach its eyes.
Unohana's expression tightened. For the first time, Keiji wondered if even she felt unsettled.
---
The Urumi Vision
As the dojo grew quiet again, Keiji forced himself upright. His body screamed, but his mind burned.
He remembered something from his past life—an ancient weapon from India. Not a rigid blade, but a flexible one. A sword-whip that required fluidity and precision: the Urumi.
A thought bloomed like fire in his chest. What if such a weapon existed here? What if chakra could shape and master it?
He closed his eyes and whispered inwardly. System… can you provide me with any knowledge, information, and insights about anything I ask?
The cold, mechanical voice answered instantly.
[Yes.]
Keiji's hands clenched. Then give me complete knowledge of the Urumi sword art. Show me how to forge one in this world. Show me how to adapt it for chakra, to make it a style no shinobi has ever seen.
The system's voice echoed, final and absolute:
[Request acknowledged. Urumi Sword Art… transferring.]
Keiji's eyes flew open as the flood of knowledge poured into his mind—smithing techniques, forging methods, stances, strikes, chakra channels woven into flexible steel. The whip-blade danced in his imagination, deadly and divine.
His heart pounded. His breath came ragged.
The battlefield would never be the same again.
---
End of the Chapter
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