Kiyohara and Kurenai walked side by side down the somewhat noisy street of the rear supply town.
"You're going to deal with that stuff?" Kurenai glanced at the sealing scroll on his back and asked softly.
The lollipop in her mouth had already shrunk; the lingering sweetness on her tongue really did loosen the tension in her nerves.
"Yeah. Trade it for money, patch up my gear," Kiyohara said simply.
He turned into a side alley with practiced ease and entered the same shop as before.
He set the sealing scroll on the counter and formed a hand seal to release it.
With a puff of white smoke, a pile of Mist-standard armor, ninja tools, and various personal odds and ends appeared on the counter.
"Standard jōnin Mist armor—damaged, but good material. Melt and reforge, it's worth a decent amount…"
The shopkeeper named a figure.
One hundred fifty thousand ryō.
Most of it came from Ao's high-grade equipment.
Kiyohara was satisfied enough with the price, then took out his sword.
"Maintenance on the blade. And add a ring to the end of the hilt," he said.
If you could manipulate shuriken and kunai with wire, why not a sword?
Close, he'd hold it. Far, he'd throw it.
"Just a ring? Easy. Maintenance plus mods, this much," the smith quoted.
Kiyohara nodded again and pushed most of the loot money across the counter.
"As fast as you can. And with what's left, give me two Fūma shuriken," he added.
Those giant shuriken had massive power, perfect for mid-to-long-range throws and area pressure—ideal on a chaotic battlefield.
"Come back at dusk for the sword," Master Yamada said, tucking away the money and weapon before bringing out two Fūma shuriken.
Kurenai had stayed quiet, watching him efficiently convert loot to cash, haggle, and plan out his gear.
That feeling rose in her chest again—the one that said, this guy is really practical.
He felt more like the "traditional" image of a shinobi than any of them.
"You really are… thorough," she couldn't help saying.
Kiyohara sealed the new Fūma shuriken into another scroll, glanced at her, and said:
"You can only talk about anything else if you stay alive."
Right now Mist hadn't launched a full-scale invasion, but once they did, Land of Fire would be crawling with Kiri shinobi.
For example, Land of Water was to the east of Land of Fire, yet in the original story, the place where Rin had the Three-Tails implanted was near Land of Grass—to the west of Land of Fire.
It seemed absurd at first glance—until you remembered that Madara had set the whole thing up.
How else do you push Obito into darkness?
So… this time, how will Obito fall? Kiyohara wondered.
Rin was a good teammate; if he could, he wanted her to live.
It was also convenient for him—he needed someone to teach him medical ninjutsu.
Right now, Rin was his only connection in that field.
Ultimately, a proud man like Madara only truly cared about his little brother Izuna and Hashirama. Everyone else barely registered.
His goal was simple: blacken Obito and force open Mangekyō.
As for how that happened—who lived, who died—he didn't much care.
If not for Obito, Madara probably wouldn't even bother looking at the people around him.
In theory, losing what matters most to a person doesn't only mean "death"… Kiyohara thought.
He suddenly remembered a certain story about a ruined king.
"Forever losing my love; see only ruin in all directions."
Would that kind of emotional damage be enough to push Obito over the edge?
If anything, pushing him into despair early might be better. Maybe then Madara's gaze would shift away from Kiyohara sooner.
...
Over the next half month or so, Kiyohara spent any spare time visiting Rin to train in medical ninjutsu—and, by the way, deepen their rapport.
The rest of his time, he'd go to some safe, empty place in the rear to train alone.
That kind of thing was common. Aside from chakra, there was another key factor in combat:
Information.
Gaining it or lacking it made battles completely different beasts. Jiraiya had literally died for intel on Pain.
So when a ninja was training, the unspoken rule was not to disturb them.
Kiyohara's silhouette flickered through the forest, sword in hand.
With swordsman Kiyohara's talent and insight now fused with his own, his growth was explosive.
Every cut carried the polish of decades of hard work.
The foundation was rock-solid.
He ran through the basics again and again until a light sweat beaded on his skin and his breathing was deep and smooth—then slipped into total focus.
In the past, he'd never been able to reach this kind of concentrated state while training swordsmanship.
But focus was its own kind of talent—the ability to throw everything else aside and pour yourself into a single task.
With that, progress came in leaps.
He worked on controlling Lightning Release: Lightning Stream output at a more sustainable level.
A standard jōnin—like Kakashi with a transplanted Sharingan—was roughly a "one Kakashi" unit.
As Kakashi aged, his chakra would increase.
Still, that was only enough for about four Raikiri in Part 1.
Only after he resumed training and raised his chakra to elite-jōnin levels did he gain a few more uses.
Now, as Kiyohara channeled Lightning into his blade, it hummed softly; thin arcs crawled along the edge.
He moved.
Schk, schk, schk.
Quiet slicing sounds rang out. Several thick tree trunks used as targets split cleanly in half without a sound, their cut surfaces perfectly smooth.
Kiyohara sheathed his sword, breathing only slightly heavier, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
Twenty days of training had demanded finer chakra control and tighter mental focus—but the results were obvious.
"Next… Leaf-Style: Willow," he murmured.
He refined Yin-natured chakra and merged it into his sword forms.
In an instant, it was as if dozens of blades manifested in the air, swirling.
His own figure began to blur.
An hour later, he finished and headed back toward the base.
For that half month, he'd only taken on routine missions. Life had been relatively peaceful.
But he knew it wouldn't last.
The war was intensifying. Shinobi were dying on the front lines every day.
Already stretched manpower grew thinner still.
So Kiyohara quietly waited for the next Willbook.
If things followed the same pattern as last month, it would come in about ten days.
Sure enough, when he returned to base, he received a summons.
In the center of the outpost, genin, chūnin, special jōnin, and even full jōnin were gathered.
Kiyohara was among the last to arrive.
Even from a distance, he could see a pale young man at the center of the crowd, surrounded by others.
Golden slit-pupiled eyes, purple markings at the nose, magatama earrings—
Kiyohara recognized him instantly.
"You're late, Kiyohara," Rin called, waving.
After half a month of daily contact, the two of them had grown noticeably closer.
~~~
Patreon(.)com/Bleam
— Currently You can Read 70 Chapters Ahead of Others!