The sun was beginning its slow descent when Murakami arrived back at the orphanage. The familiar scent of the place as well as the distant chatter of children filled the air.
Laughter and excited shouts echoed across the open space as a few of the younger kids were darting around, swinging wild punches and clumsy kicks at each other.
Their so-called "training" was nothing more than exaggerated play-fighting, but Murakami didn't bother correcting them.
They had enthusiasm…and enthusiasm counted for something.
He hid his presence and moved through them unnoticed, heading toward the far end of the training ground where a small, untouched patch of dirt lay undisturbed.
No one stepped near it. Not because he had forbidden it, but because Murakami had made it clear through words and action that the space belonged to him alone.
He crouched beside a faint inscription on the ground and pressed his palm to the seal.
Chakra flowed through his hand, and a soft shimmer rippled outward. Lines lit up in pale blue before a translucent barrier flickered into existence and disappeared just as fast.
A simple privacy seal. Nothing too advanced, just enough to keep wandering children and their noise away.
Stepping inside, Murakami settled into a lotus position at the center. He rested his hands on his knees, closed his eyes, and allowed the barrier's subtle hum to fade into the background.
Then he breathed.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Meditation was a daily ritual, a moment to synchronize mind and body. Clarity in thought meant precision in action, a truth that held as firmly in martial arts as it did on the battlefield.
Thirty minutes passed in silence.
When he opened his eyes again, he exhaled slowly and rose to his feet. His muscles were less tense, his mind clear.
'It was time.' He thought and slipped into a stance and began to move through a series of katas.
Every motion was unhurriedly performed.
His steps were controlled.
The shift in weight measured.
Every strike, precise.
This was more than training. It was refinement, sharpening his body into a weapon.
And as he moved, he felt it: a gradual rise in his chakra reserves.
It was subtle, not a dramatic increase, but real.
Chakra and internal energy really do have a lot in common, he thought.
In his past life, concepts like Qi or Ki were the backbone of martial arts novels and manhwa. A life force tempered through discipline, used to strengthen the body and enhance physical prowess.
Chakra wasn't so different.
Both required refinement.
Both demanded control.
Both could push a human beyond their natural limits.
But in this world, that discipline was… lopsided.
Taijutsu and Genjutsu were undervalued, overshadowed by the dominance of Ninjutsu.
Why bother mastering your body when chakra lets you breathe fire or summon lightning?
Yet that mindset made exceptions like Might Guy stand out even more.
Guy was an anomaly, no bloodline, no special talent, no eye techniques.
Just pure martial prowess honed to insanity. Through sheer discipline, he had reached a level where he could fight gods.
The Eight Gates weren't just a technique; they were proof of what Taijutsu could be when pushed to its peak.
'Funny,'Murakami mused, slowing his movements.
The so-called "auxiliary" disciplines—Taijutsu and Genjutsu—were the same ones that nearly broke the world.
The Mugen Tsukuyomi was a Genjutsu.
The Eight Gates? Taijutsu.
'Damn.' Murakami thought as he gradually slowed to a stop. His body thrummed with the lingering tension of exertion, but his thoughts were sharper, more focused than ever as a single idea formed.
'A martial art of my own.' Murakami came to a conclusion. That was what he needed.
One shaped by his understanding of chakra, body mechanics, and the principles of internal energy he'd known in another life.
Because the more he studied this world and compared its energy system with the other, the more the parallels became obvious.
Ki refined the body while Chakra weaponized it.
Ki was internal energy, cultivated through breath, discipline, and bodily mastery while Chakra was that same internal energy mixed with spiritual force and molded into something modular, shapeable, externalizable.
Ki strengthened the self and could only be externalised at the pinnacle of mastery while Chakra strengthened the self and reshaped the world even at the beginner stage.
A martial artist refined their life force to surpass human limits but a shinobi molded that same force into fireballs, illusions, seals, and techniques that bent natural law.
Two systems of power, identical in essence but wildly different in expression.
If Ki was the whetstone, Chakra was the blade.
Understanding both meant he could build something new and efficient.
The thought locked itself into him like a puzzle piece finally snapping into place.
He wasn't arrogant enough to think he could invent new jutsu from nothing, not yet.
That was a task for prodigies or madmen. But developing a style that merged physical refinement with chakra-based amplification?
That was doable.
That was within reach.
So he shelved the grand idea for now. There were other priorities.
Tomorrow, Hina would have a list of purchasable techniques ready.
Once he reviewed them, he would begin piecing together the foundation of his own system, a martial style that wasn't just imitation, but evolution.
A style built on efficiency.
Refinement.
Power.
He deactivated the barrier and began walking back toward the building, the last traces of sunset painting the orphanage in warm light.
Tomorrow would bring new opportunities.
Ninjutsu. Genjutsu. Taijutsu. Fūinjutsu.
If he could one day create something akin to a "Heavenly Demon Arts" incorporating all of them… maybe then he could finally feel safe in this unpredictable world.
His thoughts drifted one last time to the next thing that could ensure his freedom.
Senjutsu.
To master this, one must learn to draw natural energy inside their bodies, blending it with their own chakra to create senjutsu chakra
'Isn't that basically another form of spiritual energy cultivation?' Murakami thought idly as he walked.
While it was appealing, he immediately rejected the idea.
'Absolutely not. I'm not touching that mess yet. I still like being human. Maybe in a hundred years—but right now? Nope.'
With that, Murakami stepped back inside the orphanage.
Tomorrow awaited.
…
Dinner was its usual brand of chaos at the orphanage but as always, everything somehow fell into place.
Hoshino-san handled most of the cooking, while Murakami assisted with chopping and prepping the ingredients.
If he wasn't here, the children would cling to him like hungry parasites, rambling on about things he couldn't comprehend, asking him questions, tugging at his sleeves, treating him as the orphanage's unofficial older brother.
It was exhausting but it was home.
After the younger kids were tucked into bed and the older ones finished cleaning up, Murakami finally stepped outside for some Ninjutsu training.
Technically, he wasn't supposed to be practicing near the orphanage, something about "potential structural damage" and "Murakami, if you break another—" echoed in the back of his mind.
He shook his head and ignored it. He was being responsible. Mostly, but it was already too late to go to the lake.
His Shockwave technique had been improving steadily.
When he tried improving the technique at first, his bursts of air knocked him backward instead of the target.
But now, he could shape the force with intent: brief bursts for quick impacts or stronger ones capable of sending someone flying.
The range remained inconsistent between 2 to 5 meters, but he wasn't trying to level mountains.
Yet.
He noticed that the greater the control, the shorter the range and the heavier the impact, but the lesser the control, the farther the range and lighter the impact.
Genjutsu, on the other hand, was where his excitement truly lay.
It wasn't as flashy as Ninjutsu or as immediately lethal as Taijutsu, but it was undeniably effective.
The idea of bending perception, making someone see, hear, or feel something that wasn't real appealed to him in a way that felt almost artistic.
His early illusions had the stability of a cheap knockoff painting: blurry, inconsistent and easy to spot.
Imposing his will on the surrounding and distorting it to his desire was an addicting process, like learning to bend reality itself with nothing but focus and finely tuned chakra.
Each attempt was a lesson, some failed spectacularly, others held for a few precious seconds, but every success, however fleeting, left a thrill in his chest.
The more he forced the world to obey his perception, the more he understood the subtle interplay between mind and chakra, how even the smallest fluctuation could break an illusion and modulating chakra flow to match "sensory frequencies"
It was meticulous, frustrating, exhilarating work all at once, and Murakami found himself craving the next opportunity to push the limits of his control.
And he made steady progress.
With time, the visuals became clearer and more convincing. He could sustain illusions longer, and even subtle elements like sound distortion or temperature shifts were beginning to feel natural.
It still wasn't perfect. He held the feeling that any shinobi would still break free faster than he liked, but the average person? They'd never know they were trapped until it was far too late.
Murakami made a mental note to test the technique on someone in actual combat, preferably someone who wouldn't kill him out of annoyance.
When his training wrapped up, he returned inside.
Tomorrow would be interesting.
Hina should have compiled the list of available techniques by now, which meant one thing: a shopping trip for new jutsu.
It was a strange feeling.
A few months ago, he never considered spending money on scrolls, but after his recent conversation with the kids… why not?
If he was going to grow stronger, he might as well do it properly.
With that thought, he collapsed onto his futon and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow was another day, and an expensive one at that.
'Oh yes. Something to look forward to.'