"Time to start training," I decided, folding the scroll and heading for the exit.
Bringing the scroll with me wasn't allowed—those were the rules of the library. So, everything I studied had to stay in my head. Every detail, every condition, every seal. The technique "Constructing the String of Light" was only D-rank, but it was unusual: a fuinjutsu with elements of barrier control. And, most importantly, it was useful, not just another "chakra-flinging-in-the-air" move.
I reached the empty training field—number four. There were hardly any people here: perfect for working on the technique.
I stepped closer to the center, exhaled, and closed my eyes.
"Recall it..."
The core mechanism—chakra contouring.
This technique wasn't a typical trap. Not fire, not lightning, not even illusion. It worked—on the level of chakra itself.
I slowly inhaled, focusing.
"Your chakra must blend with the ground," I recalled the description. "You don't create a barrier around the target. You stitch it into the landscape."
I knelt down on one knee and placed my palm on the ground. I imagined the chakra flowing from my feet, spreading like thin threads, seeping into the soil.
Chakra contouring. It had to creep, almost unnoticed, surround... and close the loop.
"Seal!" I formed the Seal of Confrontation.
Underground, if the description was right, the sealing pattern now folded into a temporary fuin-structure—a thin, barely perceptible array, activating once a target entered its bounds.
This time, I imagined the earth itself becoming part of the technique. Not a barrier in the traditional sense—not a dome, not a wall—but as if the air beneath your feet thickened, pulling you downward.
I took a step toward the dummy and infused chakra into the ground.
"Constructing the String of Light," I whispered, feeling the chakra begin to resonate with the soil.
For a moment, a thin ring of light shimmered under the dummy's feet—an almost invisible strand, barely there.
I felt resistance in the chakra flow—as if it clung to the earth. That's exactly what was supposed to happen.
The barrier wasn't a wall—it was pressure.
If the enemy stepped inside—they wouldn't be able to substitute, jump out, or burst out with chakra. Not because something was holding them. But because everything they tried to launch upward would be smothered by the pressure of the chakra field.
As if the world around them had turned sticky and heavy.
"It works," I said to myself, slowly straightening. "Not perfect, but the mechanism triggers."
I tried again. This time—slower, trying to feel how the chakra wove into the earth, how the pattern formed, and how it sealed.
Inside the circle, the ground trembled slightly. The power was weak, but already stable enough to restrain a regular genin.
It wasn't just a barrier—it was geometry of suppression.
If I masked the activation and lured the enemy inside—they wouldn't have time to react. Especially if a trap, like an explosive tag, triggered beneath them at that moment.
I smirked.
"Looks like I just figured out how to use this."
I practiced again, and then once more. The barrier still vanished after 5–7 seconds, but that was already longer than in the early attempts.
Time for physical training, I thought, wiping sweat from my forehead.
Even though I dedicate half of each day to ninjutsu development, once the chakra runs dry, it's time to work on the body. Without that, you won't get far. No technique will save you if your legs are weak and your reflexes lag.
I walked over to the bench at the edge of the field and tugged on the strap around my ankle.
Weighted cuffs. A few days ago, I added a kilo to each leg. Back then, the heaviness was noticeable, especially in the knees. Now? Almost nothing. I'd gotten used to it.
"Time to increase the load."
The chakra flow slowly moved down to my feet, spiraling around the ankles. The cuffs trembled slightly—absorbing it. I poured in a bit more, adding another 2–3 kilos of chakra-weight per leg.
The knees reacted instantly—as if someone had pressed down from above.
I stood up, my body slightly heavier.
I took a test step—the weights added real heft, but my movements were still light and confident. My body had adapted; the extra load was no real barrier.
As I moved on to push-ups, I felt my muscles engage more, but fatigue hadn't set in yet. Midway through training, Gai and his father, Might Dai, unexpectedly ran onto the field—both in full gear, huge grins on their faces.
"Hey!" Gai shouted. "Let's train together! Let's see who lasts longer!"
Might Dai smirked and gave me a thumbs-up.
"Don't fall behind," he encouraged, starting to run laps around the field.
Meanwhile, Gai wasted no time—he dropped beside me and began push-ups. His face burned with effort, but he wasn't about to quit.
"So, how's your arm?" I asked as I pushed up again.
Gai held his breath for a second, focusing, then replied:
"Almost fine. But I can feel it still needs more training."
"The key is not to rush," I added, doing a couple more reps. "Better to build up slowly than get hurt again."
Meanwhile, Dai finished his lap and came over.
"You're doing well," he praised, standing close, hands on his hips—his expression serious, but with that warm, encouraging smile that always pushed you to go beyond what you thought possible.
"Thanks, Uncle Dai," I panted, not stopping the push-ups.
I'd been to Gai's house a few times—after training or just to pick him up. Sometimes I'd run into Dai: always moving, doing push-ups, hauling bags of rocks, or just giving Gai advice. Once, hearing me awkwardly call him "Mister Might," he waved it off and said:
"Call me uncle, since we're training together!"
And that's how it stuck.
The next second, he suddenly dropped beside me and, effortlessly, got into a one-arm push-up position. His other hand didn't even touch the ground—he tossed it behind his back like it was all just a game.
"Gotta keep up appearances," he said with a grin, starting the movement with perfect form.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gai speed up too—not wanting to fall behind his father. He looked determined, like he'd just issued himself a challenge.
I pressed my lips together, steadied my breathing, and tried to match their pace—even with both arms. For now, that was all I could do. But in this company, I didn't want to look weak.
"Alright, let's run!" Dai said, bouncing on the spot like he was just warming up.
Five minutes passed, maybe a bit more. My shoulders tingled, and the weights made every movement a conscious effort. But Dai looked like he'd just gotten started—chest lifted, back straight, his wide smile glowing. He was like a tank at full speed… and shining like a beacon of enthusiasm.
Gai jumped up almost at the same moment as his father, already in a runner's stance.
"Time for a run!" he yelled like it was the start of a festival.
I took a deep breath. My legs were heavy, but not aching. On the contrary—my whole body buzzed, ready to surge.
"Let's go!" I shouted, taking off.
We ran in a circle—three of us on the same track, each at our own pace, but equally energized. Might Dai led the charge like a locomotive. Gai followed—fast, sharp, as if chasing his father. And I was just behind, trying not to slow down, feeling how the chakra-weight stretched every muscle with every step.
"Breath!" Dai called over his shoulder. "Keep your breathing steady and your stride smooth! Strength comes with endurance!"
The air trembled under our feet. My head was empty of stray thoughts. Only rhythm, breathing, and the feeling of feet hitting the ground—leaving not just footprints, but impressions of effort behind.