The chakra within Arata's body was sage chakra.
Though his total reserves equaled those of an elite jōnin, the quality of that chakra already surpassed it.
On the rooftop opposite, Kakashi frowned.
Something about that energy nagged at him.
"This chakra… it feels like Lord Jiraiya's."
"No… more precisely, like when Jiraiya-sama enters that state."
He had seen it once before — the legendary Sage Mode of Mount Myōboku.
And the aura now radiating faintly from Arata's sleeping body was nearly identical.
"So the boy really is hiding some incredible secret."
Kakashi stood there in silence, conflicted.
By protocol, this was something he should report to the Third Hokage immediately.
But after years in the Anbu, Kakashi understood what that would mean.
If Hiruzen learned that a civilian-born twelve-year-old possessed a chakra of this nature — a power echoing Sage Mode — the boy's life would never again be his own.
Best case, endless surveillance.
Worst case… experimentation.
Kakashi's eye hardened.
"Let's hope you never become a threat to Konoha," he murmured.
He decided to keep it secret.
Besides the Hyūga, only his Sharingan could have detected the unique quality of Arata's chakra.
As long as he stayed silent, even Asuma's report to the Hokage wouldn't raise suspicion.
With that decision made, Kakashi vanished into the night.
Arata, asleep and unaware, had no idea he'd just avoided becoming a village specimen.
But even if he had known, he probably wouldn't have cared much.
He'd been given a second life — and after what he'd seen of this world, he no longer clung to destiny.
If he could resist, he would.
If he couldn't… then he'd accept it without fear.
His heart was unnervingly calm — neither reckless nor resigned, simply steady.
The next morning, Arata arrived early at the training field.
He immediately noticed something: Tanako was quieter than usual.
There was a faint distance in her eyes.
Itsuki, however, was the same as ever — loud, curious, and impossible to shut up.
He leaned close to Arata, whispering conspiratorially,
"Hey, Arata… last night, you and Tanako on your way home — did anything happen?"
Arata raised an eyebrow. "What exactly do you want to hear?"
Itsuki gave a grin so suggestive it could have curdled milk.
"You know what I want to hear."
Arata sighed. "Nothing happened. Stop imagining things."
Itsuki groaned dramatically. "You didn't notice? Tanako totally likes you!"
He threw up his hands. "That was the perfect chance, and you just let it slip! Disappointing, man — so disappointing!"
Arata felt a headache coming on.
"Are you even twelve? You sound like a middle-aged uncle."
Itsuki folded his arms, pretending to sulk. "Tch. If I were you, I'd have confessed already. Do you even realize how lucky you are? She's gorgeous, kind, and her family's loaded. You could've sealed the deal!"
Arata rubbed his temples. "Maybe focus that energy on training instead. You might even hit genin-level reflexes by the time you're fifty."
"Don't talk to me," Itsuki said, waving him off like an offended old man. "I'm too disappointed."
Watching his teammate act like a clown, Arata could only sigh helplessly.
Tanako, standing nearby, had turned red as a tomato.
She wanted to yell at them both but couldn't — their voices were low, meant to be private.
Still, every other word burned her ears.
Last night, she'd nearly told Arata how she felt.
Nearly.
But courage had failed her.
And though her mother's warning had made her pull back a little, her heart hadn't listened.
Suddenly, Arata's expression shifted.
Something in the air changed — a faint metallic whistle, almost imperceptible.
He moved instantly.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
Three sharp impacts rang out.
When the dust settled, Arata was standing protectively in front of Tanako and Itsuki, one kunai in hand.
Several others — kunai and shuriken — were buried in the ground on either side of them.
Arata's eyes narrowed.
His tone turned cold.
"Sensei… don't you think that was a little excessive?"
Because that attack — those angles, that timing — would've killed two ordinary genin.
If he hadn't reacted, both Itsuki and Tanako would've been skewered before they even understood what was happening.
From the shadow of a tree, Kimoto Tōichi stepped out, clapping slowly.
"Excellent," he said, smiling faintly. "Just as I thought — those strikes wouldn't even faze you."
Arata didn't answer. His voice had no edge of respect now.
The sensei's sudden ambush — after yesterday's psychological assault — had crossed a line.
The two others were still pale, realizing what had just happened.
They looked down at the kunai scattered at their feet and shuddered.
If not for Arata… they'd already be dead.
Itsuki swallowed hard.
Tanako's gaze fell on Arata's back — steady, unshaken, like a wall between them and death.
For the first time, she saw him not as a quiet boy, but as something far more —
A mountain.
A silent shield.
But Arata's face was unreadable.
He wasn't impressed.
He was angry.
To him, Tōichi's "test" was reckless — a careless gamble with his teammates' lives.
Seeing the boy's glare, Tōichi chuckled and walked closer.
"Don't be so tense. It was only a little test of your reflexes. I wasn't actually going to hurt you."
Arata didn't answer.
He didn't believe that for a second — and his silence said as much.
Still, since no one was injured, he let it drop.
For now.
What Arata didn't know was that his reaction — that instant, perfect defense — had shocked Tōichi far more than he'd let on.
In the space of a heartbeat, Arata had sensed, analyzed, and blocked multiple projectiles from different trajectories — all faster than most genin could even see.
His body had moved before his mind did.
To an experienced Anbu like Tōichi, that wasn't something that could be trained in a few years.
That was instinct.
A terrifying, almost animal reflex born from something deep within.
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