A sharp, discordant clang of metal sliced through the dawn's quiet, chased by a muttered curse from somewhere beyond the canvas walls. My eyes snapped open, heart thudding with the instincts of a shinobi. For a fleeting moment, I was nowhere, suspended in the liminal space between dream and reality, staring up at the tent's sagging ceiling, its fabric trembling in the morning breeze.
Then memory flooded back: the camp, the medic's probing hands, the clipped words of the debrief. I was Safe. For now.
I pushed myself up too fast. The world tilted. A low rush filled my ears, and I had to brace a hand against the cot until the dizziness passed. My legs still felt a little heavy, but the ache in my head was duller and more tolerable.
After a minute, I exhaled slowly and swung my feet to the floor.
The ground was cool beneath the standard-issue sandals they'd given me. I stretched once, feeling my joints pop in quiet protest, then ducked out through the flap.
Morning light hit my face immediately, bright, harsh, and already warm. Judging by the sun's angle, it had to be mid-morning, maybe closer to ten. Around me, the camp was alive in that quiet, efficient way only shinobi managed.
Someone was repairing a damaged tent pole. A pair of genin hauled crates toward the supply post. Off to one side, a squad in flak vests was preparing to head out, checking gear, tightening straps, adjusting headbands.
My stomach growled.
Right. Food.
I scanned the rows of tents until I spotted one with a small line forming near the entrance the mess tent, if the smell of rice and broth drifting from it was any clue.
The ground was still soft from the morning dew, the air faintly humid. I kept my steps steady as I crossed the camp, nodding briefly to a few shinobi who gave me curious looks.
Inside the mess tent, simplicity ruled. Rough-hewn benches flanked long tables, and a trio of cooks, faces lined with the weariness of endless shifts, ladled portions from steaming vats.
When it was my turn, I took the tray wordlessly: rice, soup, and what looked like dried fish. Basic field rations. Nothing fancy.
I claimed a spot at the tent's edge, the canvas wall at my back, and took my first bite.
It was filling and Salty. Perfect.
I ate slowly, mechanically, my body demanding fuel while my mind wandered, sifting through the fractured moments since I'd woken in this place.
A few shinobi passed by, chatting quietly as they picked up their trays. One of them, a younger chūnin with a bandaged cheek, caught my eye and gave me a brief nod before sitting with his squad. I nodded back without thinking.
It was a small gesture, almost meaningless, but it stuck with me.
There was something unnerving about the way they carried themselves, an easy camaraderie in the middle of exhaustion and fear. A sense of shared purpose that ran deep. Out here, surrounded by tents and weapons and the smell of blood in the air, they still smiled, still talked like this was just another day.
The Will of Fire.
I'd read about it before, watched characters preach it like gospel. But seeing it here, alive in the eyes of people who could die tomorrow… it felt less like idealism and more like programming.
How much of this was real, how much was it genuine loyalty, and how much was indoctrination passed down through parents, teachers, and propaganda?
How many of them had ever stopped to question it?
In my old world, people worked, complained, and lived for themselves. Here, they lived to die well. That was the difference.
I didn't know if I admired it or feared it.
I finished the last of the soup, set the tray aside, and stood. The noise of the camp buzzed around me, sparring, orders being called, a faint hum of chakra as someone practiced nearby. I needed space to think, to move, to start.
I made my way towards the northern edge of the camp, past the med tents and supply racks. There was a small patch of open ground bordered by trees, mostly empty, save for a few crates and discarded targets. Perfect.
I moved there, loosening my shoulders and taking a slow breath. The fatigue had faded into a manageable dullness. My chakra… sluggish, but present.
Alright. Start small.
I picked up a dry leaf from the ground and balanced it on my index finger.
"Just like in the manga," I muttered under my breath. "How hard could it be?"
I gathered chakra to the fingertip carefully. The leaf trembled, then fluttered to the dirt.
"Too little."
I tried again, feeding more into the point. The leaf spun once, wobbled, then shot off and fluttered to the ground.
"Too much."
It went on like that for a while. A few times I managed to get it spinning properly, a slow, steady rotation that held for maybe two seconds before collapsing. Every time it fell, I picked it up again. Every time I adjusted, tried to balance the flow, to feel the rhythm old Basara had known instinctively.
He'd been decent, not a prodigy, but capable. And chakra control at this level, I remembered now, wasn't something every chūnin could just do.
I set another leaf on my finger, focusing harder this time. Tried spreading the flow across two fingers, failed instantly. Three was worse.
Still, I kept at it.
The leaves fell, one after another, silent against the dirt.
By the time I realized how much time had passed, the sun had shifted higher.
Sweat clung to my palms and the small of my back. My chakra reserves were already more than half gone.
I flexed my fingers, staring at the stubborn leaf that had once again fluttered to the dirt. My control was getting better, but nowhere near what it needed to be. Still, there was something comforting in the repetition, the constant trial and error.
But even through the frustration, I could feel something else: growth. Subtle, slow, but real.
My chakra pool was larger than it'd been before I'd woken up in this body, and the rate at which I was adjusting refining it was faster than it should've been.
Old Basara's memories told me enough to know that wasn't normal. Chakra manipulation wasn't just focus and breathing; it was instinct built over years of failure. The difference between a chūnin and a jōnin wasn't just jutsu count; it was control, efficiency, and the ability to use it all in combat
Maybe that's the edge I had from the CYOA. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, I wasn't about to question it.
I sat back on my heels and took a few steady breaths, feeling the drag of chakra depletion tug at my muscles. Then, deciding to switch focus, I stood and dusted off my palms.
"Alright," I muttered. "Let's see how this goes."
I stood in the clearing, feet planted firmly against the earth, and began weaving the hand seals
Doton: Doryuuheki (Earth-Style Wall) - Tiger → Boar → Dog → Snake → Ram.
My fingers moved deliberately, each gesture precise but unhurried, as I coaxed my chakra to life. It stirred deep within, a warm current pooling at my core, just below the navel.
As each seal locked into place, I focused on the flow. Chakra coursed through the intricate network of pathways within me, a tingling pulse that radiated from my center, down through my legs, and into the ground beneath my sandals. The Tiger seal sparked the initial surge, sharp and intent. Boar steadied it, grounding the energy with purpose. Dog and Snake shaped it, infusing the chakra with the heavy, unyielding essence of earth. By the time I reached Ram, the chakra felt dense, as if I could press and shape it like clay.
The earth responded with a low, guttural rumble. A crude wall of packed dirt and jagged stone began to rise, clawing its way up to waist height before faltering, crumbling into clumps of loose soil.
A failure, by most measures.
But the wall wasn't the point. I closed my eyes, replaying the sensation of each seal, each shift in the chakra's flow. The way it surged from my core, sluggish but obedient, threading through my body like ink spreading through water. The way the earth seemed to listen, trembling faintly when my chakra aligned just right with its nature.
With practice, I could refine it. Streamline the flow, make it smoother, faster. The seals were a scaffold, necessary for now, but with enough mastery, I could mold the chakra with fewer seals, and maybe halve the time.
I exhaled and readied myself to train everything the old basara knew.
The next few hours blurred into movement and repetition a rhythm of training that felt both alien and familiar. My body remembered things before my mind did, subtle corrections slipping into my stance without conscious thought.
I started with the basics of taijutsu katas. The old Basara's memories guided my body through the sequences, each strike and block mechanical at first, then sharper, smoother. My form wasn't bad, but the gaps showed themselves quickly: my footing was off on transitions, my center of balance slipped under pressure, and the timing between feints and follow-ups needed serious work.
Still, the flow came back faster than expected. Every repetition burned away some of the stiffness that had settled in my limbs since the injury. Sweat darkened my shirt, trickling down my spine, but I ignored it.
When my breath started to steady, I shifted to shurikenjutsu. I set up makeshift targets along a stretch of hard-packed dirt: stray logs, a discarded crate, a torn tent flap weighed down with stones.
The first few throws were sloppy; my grip felt wrong, the release timing off. But again, the muscle memory crept in. The sound of spinning metal cut the air one, two, three clean hits. A near miss. Another adjustment.
Soon, I was moving while throwing, using the natural rhythm of steps and pivots to feed into momentum. Kunai, shuriken, alternating, switching hands, pulling from the pouch without looking.
By mid-afternoon, my arms ached and my reserves were low, but I wasn't done. I needed to test something.
Shunshin no Jutsu.
Simple in theory, brutal in execution. A short-range burst of speed, less about combat and more about closing gaps or slipping away. In a fight, it was a gamble, everything blurs, your vision swallowed by the sheer velocity, leaving you half-blind for a heartbeat. It's no tool for sustained battle; it was more for escape or repositioning
I centered myself, feet planted on the packed earth, and formed the Tiger seal—fingers interlocked, thumbs pressed tight. A slow exhale steadied my pulse as I channeled chakra to the soles of my feet. It surged downward, hot and restless, pooling like liquid fire. I released it in a controlled burst, and the world dissolved into a smear of color and motion.
Five meters away, reality snapped back. My stomach churned, knees trembling under the sudden shift. Too much chakra, too uneven, like overpouring sake into a shallow cup. Wasted energy.
Again.
I adjusted, refining the flow lighter, more precise, a thread rather than a flood. The Tiger seal became a focus, a tether to guide the chakra's path. Each burst grew smoother, carrying me farther with less strain. Soon, I was flickering between the weathered training dummies, a ripple in the air rather than a cinematic flash
The hours slipped away unnoticed. The camp's sounds shifted,the clatter of dishes from the mess, the distant chatter of off-duty shinobi. A few glanced my way as they passed, their eyes tracking the lone figure cycling through drills at the camp's edge, but no one interrupted.
A faint tremble crept into my muscles, the quiet protest of a body pushed to its edges. Fatigue gnawed at me, but I wasn't ready to stop.
One last time
I centered myself, feet sinking into the soft earth of the clearing, and murmured,
"Doton: Doryuuheki."
My fingers traced the familiar seals -Tiger → Boar → Dog → Snake → Ram.
This time, it moved like a river unshackled, smooth and responsive, a warm tide that surged from my core. It rolled down my spine, a cascade of energy that spread through my shoulders and sank into the ground beneath me. The earth answered with a low, resonant hum, dirt and stone knitting together as they rose fast into a clean, shoulder-high wall. Solid. Unyielding. Not a single crack marred its surface.
A thin, hard-earned smile tugged at my lips.
I released the technique, and the wall dissolved into a cloud of dust, settling back into the earth.
I was breathing hard. My hands were scraped raw, my shirt stuck to my skin, and every muscle screamed in protest. I collapsed against a training post.
I rubbed a hand over my face, feeling grit and dried sweat under my fingers. "Guess that's something," I muttered.
For a while, I just sat there, letting my pulse slow.
Finally, I pushed myself to my feet and started the slow walk back to my tent. Each step made my legs protest, a deep ache spreading through my thighs and shoulders.
Inside, the air was cooler. I stripped off my flak jacket and undershirt, tossing them onto the cot. The fabric clung to my skin with sweat and dust, the scent of earth and smoke thick in the air. I grabbed the small towel I'd stashed earlier, dampened it from the canteen, and wiped myself down.
The water came away dark with grime. I ran the towel over my arms, across my neck, down my chest, feeling the sting of shallow cuts and bruises. The coolness helped, easing the tension in my muscles.
When I was done, I hung the towel near the cot to dry and pulled on a clean shirt.. It still smelled faintly of soap, a rare luxury out here.
My gaze drifted to the kunai pouch near my bedroll. Half-empty. I had maybe two shuriken left, one smoke bomb, and a single explosive tag. Not nearly enough. Especially not with only one more day before I was back on the active roster.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Can't go out like this."
Grabbing my pouch and tying it to my belt, I stepped out of the tent. The evening air had cooled; the sky overhead was darkening to indigo, streaked with the faint orange of the last light. I followed the worn dirt path toward the center of camp, guided by the muted hum of activity.
The armory wasn't hard to find a long, reinforced tent near the logistics area, marked by stacks of sealed crates and the faint smell of iron and oil that always clung to weapon stores.