Six months later.
The last half-year of Raizen's life had, in his opinion, been some of the best since his transmigration.
The academy days blurred together in their usual rhythm, but his after-hours focus on the electives gave him purpose. He had thrown himself into genjutsu practice, and the results were starting to show.
Once fragile tricks, his illusions now held steady — wider, sharper, layered with convincing detail. He learned how to anchor genjutsu through subtle triggers — a glance, a gesture, even the faintest brush of sound. Genzo's lessons on layering deception became second nature, and Raizen discovered he could bend reality just enough to make opponents question what they saw, what they heard, even what they remembered.
Though still far from mastery, his classmates had begun to whisper that sparring with Raizen meant second-guessing everything — every strike, every step, every word.
During the past six months, Raizen had mastered the two foundational genjutsu Genzo assigned to the class. Simple on paper, but in practice, they reshaped the way he fought.
The first was Genjutsu: Mist Veil — a D-rank illusion that clouded an opponent's vision with a faint blur, as though a thin fog had settled between them. At first Raizen fumbled with it, his illusions breaking apart the moment his focus wavered. But through trial and error, he discovered the most reliable trigger was eye contact. With a steady gaze, he could throw off his opponent's depth perception, making every strike feel like it came from the wrong distance. It wasn't powerful enough to decide a fight on its own, but it was perfect for setting up feints and slipping past a guard.
The second was Genjutsu: Whisper Thread, a trickier illusion that planted false sounds directly into the target's ears — a footstep behind them, the clash of steel to their left, even the whisper of someone calling their name. Raizen found that sound, unlike sight, was incredibly versatile as a trigger. A snap of his fingers, the clash of kunai, even the thud of a footstep — each could carry his chakra into the opponent's senses and unravel their focus.
Whisper Thread fascinated him most; sound could do more than distract — it could sow hesitation, doubt, even overconfidence.
Armed with just these two genjutsu, Raizen's fighting style transformed. In spars, he could tilt momentum with a single feigned sound or force an opening with a blur in his opponent's eyes. If they failed to recognize the illusion quickly, he could chain it into a decisive combo. For the first time since arriving in this world, Raizen felt that even the smallest tricks could make him dangerous.
The medical wing never felt like the other classes. There were no sparring mats, no kunai drills, no flashes of chakra lighting the air — just antiseptic, warm light, and the low murmur of concentration.
Raizen had spent half a year under the split guidance of Hoshino Kiyoko and Chōe Sayaka, and by now, he'd learned their rhythm by heart.
Kiyoko ran the first half of each lesson like clockwork. Her calm voice carried over the rows of students:
"Stage One — Advanced Chakra Control. Stage Two — Battlefield First Aid. Stage Three — Diagnosis and Basic Treatment."
She spoke like a conductor — slow, methodical, exact. Under her instruction, the class learned to take vitals with touch alone — pulse rhythm, breath rate, skin temperature — and record the slightest signs of dehydration or fever. She could read half a patient's condition just by how their shoulders moved when they inhaled, and she expected her students to do the same.
"Observation is your first jutsu," she'd say, moving beside Raizen to adjust his grip on a wrist. "Your chakra can't help what your eyes don't notice."
The second half of class belonged to Chōe, whose personality was the opposite of Kiyoko's measured calm. Loud, fast, and constantly eating dango between lessons, she taught like every second counted.
"Speed is mercy!" she'd shout as her stopwatch ticked. "Clean it, wrap it, and move on — they don't care how neat it looks if they're dead!"
Her field exercises were brutal: stitching under pressure, sterilizing wounds in the dirt, splinting "broken limbs" as smoke filled the air to simulate panic. More than once, Raizen's hands trembled as his timer hit zero and Chōe's voice rang behind him:
"Too slow! Again!"
Then came chakra thread training — the quiet art that changed him most.
Kiyoko placed wire frames and tiny glass beads across the table. "Form the thread," she'd instruct. "Guide it, don't force it."
At first, Raizen's chakra surged out like a flood, snapping the bead from its path. But by the fourth week, he could control it into a steady, hair-thin strand — invisible to the eye, but strong enough to lift and weave through every loop without breaking.
"Gentle doesn't mean weak," Kiyoko reminded him. "It means precise."
By month four, Raizen could:
Clean and dress wounds properly under timed drills.
Suture cleanly without tearing tissue on practice models.
Identify shock, blood loss, and mild infections through observation.
Clear chakra blockages in training dummies without flooding the network.
Maintain chakra threads for over a minute without flicker or collapse.
No one had learned a single healing jutsu yet — but that was never Year One's goal. Both Kiyoko and Chōe made it clear that these months were where true med-nin were made.
After one long session, Chōe snapped her timer shut and nodded at him.
"You'd keep a teammate alive, Raizen. Not bad for someone who likes breaking bones more than setting them."
Kiyoko smiled faintly. "And that same control will make every other class easier — genjutsu, fūinjutsu, even taijutsu. Precision connects everything."
Raizen flexed his tired fingers, the faint tingling of chakra still humming through them. For the first time, he truly understood what she meant.
Raizen's progress in Keiro's sealing class had been steady, deliberate — and exhausting.
There were no shortcuts in Fūinjutsu. Every stroke had to be perfect, every line had to breathe.
The first few weeks were spent buried in parchment, copying old formations until the smell of ink became as familiar as air. Keiro rarely raised his voice; his silence was the kind that carried pressure. One mistake, and he would simply hover over Raizen's shoulder until the boy found it himself.
Under Keiro's sharp eye, Raizen learned the five basic structures that formed the skeleton of any seal — the Base Sigil, Chakra Matrix, Command Line, Lock Point, and Release Trigger. They were the language of sealing, and Keiro made him write them hundreds of times until his hand stopped shaking.
Month by month, the lessons deepened. He learned to regulate chakra through a brush stroke without breaking its flow. He created Storage Seals that could hold small tools, Lock Seals that froze chakra leaks in training dummies, and Reinforcement Tags that made parchment strong enough to stop a kunai. His brush control became so refined that even Kiyoko, the medical instructor, would have approved.
By the fourth month, he had begun crafting compound formations — connecting small tags into single systems, like circuits humming in harmony. Keiro called these Arrays, the foundation of large-scale sealing.
Each success was quiet but satisfying. Raizen didn't crave praise, but he could tell Keiro was watching him more closely now, often pausing behind his desk before giving a single nod of approval.
Then, in the sixth month, the lessons changed.
One evening, after the other students had left, Keiro kept Raizen behind. The older man leaned against the window frame, the pale moonlight tracing the faint Tsukihana crest engraved on his forehead protector.
"You've learned well," Keiro said, voice low and deliberate. "Careful hands, steady mind. You remind me of the old Tsukihana scribes — before our clan forgot its craft."
He unrolled an ancient strip of parchment from his sleeve — its ink dark violet, the pattern intricate and spiral-like.
"This is one of our older techniques. Not lost, just… hidden. It's called the Weight Seal."
Raizen leaned closer. The formation was compact — three interlocked circles surrounded by binding lines, elegant and dense.
"It doesn't enhance strength or lighten your body like the Resistance Seal you might've seen in higher courses," Keiro explained. "This one is simpler. It increases pressure — slightly — over whatever it's placed on. Enough to pin a scroll, throw off balance, or anchor a limb."
He placed a brush in Raizen's hand. "Try it."
Raizen inhaled slowly and began to draw, remembering everything Keiro had drilled into him — control, rhythm, patience. The brush glided across the parchment, chakra flowing in thin, steady currents. When he completed the final ring, the tag pulsed faintly.
Keiro set a kunai atop it. The metal sank just a fraction deeper into the desk.
"It worked," Raizen whispered.
"Barely," Keiro said, though his eyes held quiet pride. "Right now it only adds a small amount of pressure — no more than twenty percent. But sometimes, the smallest shift in balance is all it takes to win."
Raizen stared at the tag, feeling the gravity of it — not its literal weight, but the connection to something old.
"Why teach me this?"
Keiro rolled up the parchment and tucked it back into his sleeve. "Because this art belongs to us. The Tsukihana were never known for brute strength. We won by understanding weight — of pressure, of timing, of choice. This seal carries that same principle."
Raizen bowed his head. "I won't forget."
As he left the sealing hall that night, the moonlight followed him down the corridor. The faint violet glow of the seal shimmered in his hand, warm against his skin — a quiet reminder that not all power came from force. Some came from balance. Some from heritage.
And for the first time, Raizen felt the pull of both.
The morning haze still clung to the academy windows when the elite class filtered into their homeroom. Chairs scraped. Whispered conversations drifted. The smell of chalk and metal filled the air — a strange mix of routine and nerves.
Raizen sat near the back, elbow on his desk, eyes half-lidded. His chakra threads idly curled between his fingers like faint strands of mist — a habit he didn't even notice anymore.
Karui slumped into the seat beside him, kicking his chair leg.
"Don't tell me you're gonna nap through another lecture."
Raizen didn't look up. "If it's important, I'll wake up before you understand it."
She clicked her tongue. "Still a jerk, huh?"
Before she could fire back, the door slid open.
Instructor Takuma stepped in — tall, composed, carrying the quiet authority of a man who'd seen too many missions to bother raising his voice. His hair was tied back, his jonin vest faded at the edges.
Instant silence.
Takuma's eyes swept the room, landing on each student one by one — Raizen, Reina, Omoi, Samui, Karui, Aika, Tetsuo. Every name worth remembering sat here.
He set a thick folder on the desk and leaned against it, arms folded.
"Good. You're all here."
No clipboard. No roll call. That alone told everyone this wasn't a normal morning.
Takuma's voice was calm but sharp.
"We're six months into Year Three. You've all chosen your electives, adapted to the new pace, and, for the most part…"
He paused, giving Karui a sharp glance, "…learned to keep your egos under control."
A ripple of snickering passed through the class. Karui smirked. Reina didn't.
"Starting next week," Takuma continued, "you'll take part in a comprehensive field assessment. It will test every skill you've trained for — teamwork, chakra control, adaptability, and judgment. Consider it your midterm… and a preview of what's expected from future shinobi."
The class straightened almost in unison.
Omoi raised a hand. "Sir, will it be individual or team-based?"
"Team-based," Takuma replied. He flipped through a sheet lazily.
"Each group will be built from multiple electives — combat, sealing, medical, intelligence, leadership. No choosing your friends, no stacking your advantages. The purpose is balance, not comfort."
The room filled with murmurs. Reina leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs, expression unreadable.
"So it's randomized," she said.
"Not exactly," Takuma replied. "The instructors will assign teams based on complementary skills." His gaze moved slowly across the room — deliberate, weighted. "You'll know your partners the morning of the exam. Until then, focus on tightening your fundamentals. Once you're out there, no one will save you from your own mistakes."
Aika raised her hand timidly. "Sensei… will we be told what the exam is?"
Takuma's mouth curved in a faint smile. "No."
A low groan spread through the room.
Karui scowled. "You're joking — we're supposed to train for something we don't even know?"
"That's the point," Takuma said, turning to the chalkboard. He began to write in smooth, practiced strokes. Three words appeared in bold, deliberate script:
Field Assessment: Operation Rising Storm.
The chalk dust lingered in the air like static.
He turned back toward them.
"Your job, until then, is to be ready for anything."
A faint hum of chakra rippled off him — subtle, controlled — a reminder that even the calmest jonin could snap the room to silence in an instant.
"You've all come far," he said finally. "Some of you faster than others." His gaze flicked briefly between Reina and Raizen. "This exam will show whether your growth was talent… or discipline. Dismissed."
The class broke into murmurs as he exited.
Reina muttered dryly, "So. Random teams, unknown test, and a name that sounds like a bad novel."
She leaned back, arms crossed. "Should be easy."
Raizen gathered his things quietly. "You talk like you already passed."
She smiled without looking at him. "I usually do."
Karui grinned. "Oh yeah, this'll go great."
Raizen brushed past them both — chakra threads flickering between his fingers like veins of light.
"Then let's see whose luck runs out first."
The room buzzed as he walked out — tension and excitement hanging in the air like thunder building behind the clouds.