Chapter 33: A Body Forged, A Life Lost
"The mental change... it's affecting my left eye," Takumi murmured, feeling a wellspring of potent ocular power churning just beneath the surface, on the verge of a breakthrough.
He remained shirtless, focusing inward as he began to cycle his chakra, directing it through the specific pathways for 'Lightning Release: Iron Fortress.' A current of electricity, invisible to the naked eye, crackled just beneath his skin, stimulating his muscle fibers.
He let out a long, controlled breath. The D-rank technique was already beginning to feel insufficient for his newly enhanced physique. Its effects were becoming negligible. He needed more advanced ninjutsu, and soon.
"Takumi."
A familiar voice called from outside his door.
"I'm coming!" he called back. He crossed his modest, worn-down courtyard and pulled the door open. "Miss Mikoto. What brings you here?"
Mikoto stood there, a cloth bag slung over her shoulder. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back, a stark contrast to the sight of Takumi's bare, heavily muscled torso.
"Takumi, this is your allowance for the month," she said, pulling out a stack of banknotes bearing the Konoha symbol from her bag.
"Takumi, you..." she began, intending to hand him the money, but her words faltered as she took in his appearance. It was the first time she had seen such a powerfully and symmetrically built physique on someone so young, and her eyes lingered for an unconscious moment. Fugaku had been wounded on missions before, and she had seen him without a shirt. His build was not as aesthetically proportioned or defined as Takumi's.
Is this the Yotsuki talent? she wondered. Muscle shape was largely genetic; some could never achieve perfect alignment no matter how hard they trained, while others were born with it. She finally understood why Tsunade had remarked that the boy was suited for the path of a taijutsu specialist.
"Sorry, Mikoto-san," Takumi said, looking up at her—she was still taller than him. "I was in the middle of training. I rushed to answer the door and forgot to put a shirt on."
"Ah, it's... it's quite alright. You're just a child," Mikoto replied, shaking her head quickly to dispel her own awkwardness. Why should she feel flustered by a child? She handed him the money, reminding him to be frugal and not spend it recklessly.
"Understood, Mikoto-san," Takumi nodded. This stipend was his lifeline, a combination of support from Konoha and the Uchiha clan. It was enough for a civilian to live on, but for a shinobi with equipment and training needs, it was always tight.
"I've also spoken with Fugaku. We'll arrange another visit with you soon," Mikoto said, offering a warm smile before turning to leave.
Takumi responded with polite thanks and closed the door only after she was out of sight.
"It's the same as always. I still need to find a way to earn money, and fast," he muttered, carefully counting the notes before storing them away. Kurenai was a source of funds, but it wasn't a sustainable solution. At best, it would cover the cost of a standard katana. His spar with Kakashi had curled the edge of his kodachi, requiring maintenance—a luxury he wouldn't have on future, time-sensitive missions.
"What I really need is a chakra blade," he mused. A weapon forged from special metals that could seamlessly conduct and even amplify his chakra nature would be a force multiplier.
He then retrieved the scroll for 'Lightning Release: Lightning Finger,' a technique he had neglected, deciding it was time to deepen his foundational understanding of Lightning Release.
The Uchiha Compound
"Mikoto, you're back." Fugaku was wiping sweat from his brow, having just finished his own training session. His green flak jacket was slung over a nearby chair. For a shinobi, constant self-refinement was the law of survival; one either advanced or fell behind.
"Did you get the stipend to Takumi?" Fugaku asked casually.
"Yes, I gave it to him," Mikoto nodded. Her eyes then caught on a small, burnt hole in the mesh undershirt Fugaku wore—standard protective gear for most shinobi.
"There's a hole in your shirt," she pointed out.
Fugaku looked down, spotting the two-centimeter tear that revealed the skin beneath. "A mishap while practicing Fire Release," he explained with a hint of pride, pulling the shirt off over his head to reveal his own sturdy, battle-hardened torso.
"What is it, Mikoto?" he asked, noticing her lingering gaze and mistaking it for shyness.
"No, it's nothing," Mikoto said, shaking her delicate head slightly. But she confirmed her initial impression: Fugaku's build, while powerful, lacked the refined, balanced proportions of Takumi's. How does a boy even train to achieve that? she wondered privately. Though Fugaku was broader and taller, his overall musculature wasn't as harmoniously developed.
"Right," Fugaku smiled, fetching a fresh mesh shirt and pulling it on. He was fairly confident in his own physique, forged through years on the battlefield.
"The meeting is about to start. We should go," Fugaku said.
"Of course," Mikoto nodded.
These periodic gatherings were mandatory for all Uchiha who had officially become shinobi. The upper hall of the Naka Shrine was open to all clan members during the day, even non-shinobi. The secret chamber below, however, was reserved for confidential internal meetings, its existence and location known only to a select few.
The Hatake Residence
The setting sun cast long shadows as Kakashi hurried home, his daily training complete. But as he slid the door open, the air inside felt heavy, oppressive, and carried a faint, metallic, foul odor.
He frowned, toeing off his shoes. "Father, I'm home."
Silence was his only answer.
A cold dread began to coil in his stomach as he walked further into the house. His father hadn't left since the public shaming by the very comrades he had saved.
In the living room, on the low table where his father usually received guests, lay several yellowed sheets of letter paper, covered in dense, frantic handwriting. The ink was not yet fully dry. Kakashi's eyes scanned the words—"regret," "failure," a profound sense of despair bleeding from every line.
"Father?!" he called out, his voice tighter now. He almost ran to his father's room and threw the door open.
The sight that greeted him struck with the force of a physical blow.
Hatake Sakumo lay collapsed on the tatami mats, a sharp tanto buried deep in his chest. The blood had saturated his clothes, a dark, spreading crimson that had seeped into the woven straw of the floor, filling the room with the cloying, iron-rich stench of death.
Kakashi stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide, his mind refusing to process the horrific tableau.
"Why...?" The word was a ragged, torn whisper. He stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees beside his father's body. A trembling hand reached out, gently touching Sakumo's cold, stiff hand, the skin already waxy and unyielding.
The crushing grief of loss, the white-hot fury at the village's rigid rules, and the suffocating guilt of his own powerlessness crashed over him in a devastating wave, threatening to drown him completely.
(End of Chapter)
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