Jairo's voice carried steady authority as he faced his son.
"Raizen, we've reached the final stage of your training. You've been progressing well. Everything we've taught, you've managed to grasp faster than I expected. But now is when it gets harder. Today, I'm going to apply a seal to your body."
Raizen blinked, taken aback. "A seal? What kind?"
Before Jairo could answer, Taro chimed in, flicking one of his bells idly.
"These are temperature seals. Simple in theory, brutal in practice. They track your chakra output through heat and cold. Push too much chakra, and the seal burns hot against your skin. Push too little, and it chills you to the bone."
Jairo stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "The point is to keep your chakra at a steady, stable level throughout a fight. If you can master this, it plants the seeds for chakra-enhanced strikes in the future. This method is one of the advanced trainings our clan developed. One day, it can even branch into tempering your body with lightning. But that lesson is for another time."
He gestured for Raizen to remove his shirt. "The seal must be applied directly to the skin to work."
As Jairo painted the careful strokes across his son's torso, Raizen couldn't hold back his curiosity. He'd always thought of his clan as physical fighters with unyielding bodies, not seal masters. Yet the precision in Jairo's brushwork told another story.
"What other seals has our family created?" he asked, voice low with genuine interest.
Taro's smile was thin but proud. "Plenty. There's the Gravity Seal—it can increase the weight on a body or an entire field, pinning enemies where they stand. Then the Resistance Seal, a favorite for training. It drags on your body like invisible chains. Work with it long enough and your strength grows fast. There's also a lighter variant—it strips resistance instead, making you faster and increasing flicker distance. But that one comes with a price: your strikes hit softer, and staying under it too long eats away at you."
He flicked his wrist bell once and continued. "Then there's the Binding Script—locks chakra flow in a limb, stopping hand seals mid-formation. And the Pulse Seal, a mark that releases bursts of chakra like heartbeats to throw off an opponent's rhythm. But the most famous seal—the one that made us known beyond Kumo—is the Harmony Seal."
Raizen's eyes lit with curiosity. "The Harmony Seal?"
Taro leaned back, gaze drifting to the cedar beams overhead. His tone shifted, taking on the cadence of a storyteller.
"You ever wonder why the world knows the Tsukihana name?"
Raizen smirked faintly. "Because of the Veil Body?"
Taro snorted. "That's the story the clan likes to parade. But the truth? It was a seal. The Harmony Seal."
His voice grew distant, as though carrying Raizen back through time.
"During the First Great War, Kumo was breaking apart. Squads scattered, men fighting like lone wolves. We were outnumbered and uncoordinated. The Raikage turned to our elders and demanded something—anything—that could keep shinobi alive. That's when the elders unveiled Harmony. Two seals, painted on two fighters. Simple in design, but powerful in effect. It linked their breath. One inhaled, the other felt it. One pushed chakra, the other matched it. Suddenly, genin pairs moved like seasoned jonin. Squads that should've fallen apart fought like one body."
Taro tapped his bell again, the sound soft in the quiet dojo.
"In one battle, thirty Tsukihana-sealed squads held a mountain pass against nearly three times their number. They didn't fight harder—they fought together. The enemy thought they were facing a wall of jonin. That day, Kumo stopped seeing us as just another family. From then on, we were the Sealkeepers of the Cloud."
Raizen's tired eyes sharpened. "So the Harmony Seal… it was teamwork carved into the skin."
Taro grinned. "Exactly. It made us famous. Feared. But it came with a cost."
Raizen frowned. "What cost?"
Taro's grin faded into something more somber. "When your breath is tied to another's, if one falters, both stumble. If one panics, both break. Harmony makes you stronger—but it also means you're only as strong as your weakest partner. That's why it's barely used now. Too risky for shinobi who can't trust."
His eyes flicked back to Raizen, sharp again.
"But one day… if you can learn to trust someone that deeply, you might be the first Tsukihana in decades to bring Harmony back to the field."
Raizen's chest rose and fell, the fresh seal on his skin warming faintly with his breath. For the first time, the idea of sealing didn't feel like ink and symbols. It felt like legacy.
Jairo pressed the last line of ink against Raizen's ribs and leaned back, studying his work. The seal shimmered faintly, already syncing with Raizen's breath.
"Good," Jairo said. "The temperature seal is set. From now on, every mistake will burn or freeze you until you learn to hold steady. That's lesson one."
He straightened, tone sharpening. "Lesson two is harder. With this seal in place, we'll push you into advanced drills to turn your hearing into a weapon. You've had a taste of it before. Now we make it brutal."
Raizen frowned. "What kind of drills?"
Taro stepped in, his tone almost playful. "Distraction drills. You've gotten too comfortable with the bell. You hear it, you react. Too easy. So from now on, we'll bury you in sound—and only one of those sounds means an attack is coming. Guess wrong, and you'll eat it."
Raizen tilted his head. "What sounds?"
Jairo counted them on his fingers. "Coin chime. Staff tapping the floor. A tuning fork. And the bell you already know."
Taro grinned, flicking his wrist bell. "We'll change the cue mid-fight, sometimes in the middle of a combo. You'll still have to guard, counter, and keep the seal warm. If you panic, you'll spike hot. If you hesitate, you'll freeze."
Raizen thought they were insane. He also knew insanity was the language of power. No one ever said regular training made great shinobi.
⸻
The Week of Noise
The first session broke him.
A bell chimed, and Raizen shelled high—only to eat Jairo's palm to the ribs. The bell had been a feint, the real cue a faint tap on the floor behind him.
The second session wasn't better. Taro flicked a coin into the air. Raizen snapped to guard, certain that was the strike. Jairo's kick swept his legs clean out from under him. The coin had been a distraction.
It went like this every day.
He came home with bruises across his ribs, scratches on his arms, a welt across his jaw. His mother didn't ask questions. His father and Taro didn't offer sympathy.
But something was changing.
By midweek, he began to notice patterns.
The bell was sharp and obvious—but that made it suspicious. The coin chime had an echo; it always bounced. The tuning fork sang thinner, higher, like glass in his ears. And through it all, the steady rhythm of hips and footwork never lied.
When his ears failed, his eyes went to the beltline. When both senses tangled, he forced his breath back to seven and let the seal guide him. Warm. Not hot. Not cold.
The pain didn't stop. He still got punished, daily. But each mistake sharpened him. Reaction came quicker. Guards tighter. Counters meaner.
By the end of the week, Raizen no longer chased the bell like a desperate dog. His body had learned to wait, to listen, to separate noise from truth.
⸻
What once sounded like chaos was starting to sound like music—and Raizen was learning to move to its beat.
The blindfold came next. Jairo tied it across his eyes, leaving him in darkness.
"One minute," Jairo said. "Me and Taro. One with sound, one without. Stay between us. Stay alive."
The first round was chaos. Raizen panicked. He turned toward every sound, opening his back. They sandwiched him, swept him, dropped him. The seal flared hot, punishing him. He gasped on the floor before the minute ended.
The second day, he lasted longer. He stopped chasing. He widened his stance, spine centered, hands high. When Taro's wrist bell chimed, he shelled high; when Jairo's step creaked, he slid on the arrow, staying between them. He still took hits, but fewer.
On the third day, they drove him into the corner. Instead of flailing, Raizen pressed his calf against the doorframe. Post. Wedge. Turn. He stole the angle back. He escaped the trap.
By the end of the week, he survived the full minute blindfolded. Still breathing. Seal warm. No panic.
For the first time, Jairo's mouth twitched into something almost like pride.
⸻
The weeks bled together. The seal became more than punishment—it became a teacher.
Too much chakra—burn.
Too little—ice bite.
The sweet spot: steady warmth.
Jairo sparred him while forcing him to hold it. If it flared hot, Raizen had to reset. If it froze cold, Taro body-checked him to the mat. Slowly, painfully, Raizen learned to fight enhanced—not wild. Every jab landed heavier. Every knee bump stopped Taro's rush cold.
"This," Jairo said, "is the road to chakra strikes. One day, super strength. But not if you can't hold the line."
⸻
Graduation. The bells came off.
The dojo was quiet. Jairo and Taro circled, barefoot, silent. Raizen stood blindfolded in the middle. For the first time in weeks, no chimes guided him.
The first round was brutal. A rush of air slapped his cheek before the fist landed. A floor creak came too late to save his ribs. Breath hissed, and he was already on the floor. He gasped, seal burning, pride aching harder.
"Again," Jairo said.
The second round, he began to hear what was left.
A board creaked under Taro's step. Raizen shelled high and slipped the strike.
A sharp inhale cut the air before Jairo's kick. Raizen checked shin to shin, pain biting both.
The faint whistle of a punch rushing air—he ducked and slid out, shoulder bumping into daylight.
Not perfect. Still late more than half the time. But when he caught one clean, his chest burned with something more than pain.
On the last day, Jairo lunged from Raizen's blind side. The boy's shell was there, shoulder crashing into chest, short cross to the body, exit on the arrow. Small. Mean. Early.
The seal stayed warm. The breath stayed seven. For the first time, the blind side wasn't a hole. It was bait.
⸻
That same night, far across the clan compound, another boy moved across polished floors. His steps made no creak. His breath made no sound. A jonin guided his blade with quiet corrections. The elders watched from the shadows.
"He'll do," one whispered. "If Raizen fails, we already have his replacement."
The boy's movements were smooth, ghostlike, the opposite of Raizen's noisy, battered grind.
⸻
Back in the dojo, Raizen sat with sweat dripping down his jaw. His body ached, his ribs burned, but his eyes were alive.
Jairo stood over him. "Three months," he said. "Do you know why I gave you this?"
Raizen shook his head, too tired for words.
Jairo's tone was calm, steady. "Because the blind eye was your wound. Every enemy saw it and went for blood. If you walked into the world like that, they'd kill you. But now—" he tapped his son's chest where the seal still glowed faintly, "—now your wound is a weapon. You can hear what others miss. You can move where others stumble. You've learned to fight with your whole body, not half of it."
He leaned closer, eyes hard. "Remember this, Raizen. Struggle isn't failure. Struggle is the forge. These three months weren't about making you comfortable—they were about making you dangerous."
Raizen's lips cracked into the smallest smile. The bells still echoed faintly in his ears, but now they sounded less like torment, and more like a challenge.
"Again?" he asked.
Jairo paused. Then nodded once. "Again."