Day one. Or maybe day fifty. Hard to tell in a tower where the sun never visits and the storm outside drowns every sense of time. My stomach told me it had been at least a week since I'd eaten properly, but the stone bed digging into my spine whispered otherwise: No. Just one night. One long, endless night.
The scroll in my lap was stiff and yellowed, smelling faintly of ash. The ink bled across the parchment in curling strokes, crisp and elegant — and utterly useless.
Fire Release: Great Fireball Technique.
I read the words three times, then lowered the scroll, glaring at Preta Path standing in the corner like a damn coat rack that had learned to breathe.
"Snake → Ram → Monkey → Boar → Horse → Tiger," I muttered under my breath, eyes narrowing at the line of hand signs. "Yeah, sure. That's exactly what I'm gonna do. Learn ninja sign language just so I can cosplay as a flamethrower. Pass."
I tossed the scroll onto the desk with a flick that felt more dramatic than it looked. The lamp flickered, throwing shadows across the cell.
Instead, I cleared my throat, sat up straighter, and said it out loud.
"Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu."
Silence.
Nothing. Not even a spark. I licked my lips, which were already cracked, and tried again. Louder.
"Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!"
This time, a pathetic puff of warmth wheezed out of my mouth, like a smoker's cough on a cold morning. A faint tongue of flame licked the air and fizzled out instantly.
I blinked at it. Then I looked at Preta. He didn't move. Didn't react. Just stared at me with those endless rings.
"…Fantastic," I muttered, falling back against the bedframe. "I'm a human Bic lighter. Fear me, enemies of the Akatsuki — I'll burn your eyebrows off."
Preta blinked once. That was it. That was the highlight of his emotional range.
I sat forward again, teeth gritted. My pride was still raw from being dragged, tackled, dressed like a mannequin, and starved. If I was going to survive in here, I needed more than sarcasm. I needed fire.
"Alright," I whispered, tasting iron and ash on my tongue. "Again."
I said it once. Twice. Ten times. With each attempt, the flame sputtered a little brighter. Heat pricked my lips. My throat burned raw. Sweat rolled down my temple.
Hours blurred into themselves. My voice cracked. My chest ached. But then—
Whoosh.
A sphere of fire burst from my mouth, roaring across the cell, slamming into the far wall. Stone hissed. Heat blasted back against my skin, searing the air. The flames died as quickly as they came, leaving only a blackened scar on the rock.
I doubled over, coughing smoke, clutching my knees. My stomach groaned like a wounded animal.
And in the corner, Preta raised a hand, placed his palm against the scorch mark, and calmly absorbed the lingering heat into nothingness. Like I hadn't just coughed up hellfire.
I laughed, ragged and bitter."Great. I bust my lungs learning to breathe dragons… and my audience is a walking fire extinguisher."
Silence answered me.
I collapsed back onto the bed, chest still smoldering, eyes stinging from the smoke. My first lesson was clear: in this place, even victory felt like losing.
Day two. Or maybe day two hundred. Time wasn't linear anymore. My body only knew two states: starving and exhausted.
The next scroll crackled in my hands, edges crisp, the smell of char thick enough I wondered if the last guy who tried it burned himself alive. The heading stared back at me in sharp strokes:
Fire Release: Great Fire Annihilation.
I snorted, dragging the back of my hand across my mouth."Oh, that's reassuring. The last one turned me into a half-decent blowtorch, and this one's just straight-up annihilation. Love the progression. Nice and subtle."
The seals listed below it made my head ache. Snake → Tiger → Monkey → Boar → Horse → Tiger. I leaned back against the desk, squinting at them. "You know what this looks like? Gym class choreography. Snake, tiger, monkey… all we're missing is a conga line. Screw that."
I tossed the scroll aside, inhaled deeply, and said it out loud.
"Katon: Gōka Mekkyaku."
A dry cough. A spit of smoke. My eyes watered.
"Brilliant," I croaked, waving away the haze. "We've gone from lighter to chain-smoker. Really moving up in the world."
Preta didn't even twitch. Just stood there, those ringed eyes dissecting me like I was a bug under glass.
Fine.
I pushed myself upright, chest tight, and tried again. Over and over. My throat scraped raw. Heat built in my lungs, stuttering, sputtering, catching fire for a second before dying in a puff. My head spun. Sweat dripped into my eyes.
But then—
It came.
A roar burst from my chest, heat ripping free like a tidal wave of flame. A wall of fire exploded across the chamber, swallowing the far side in a blazing inferno. The stone groaned under the heat, blackening, spitting sparks back at me. The air itself turned molten, every breath scalding down my throat.
I staggered back, arm up to shield my face, heart hammering. "Holy—holy shit."
And then Preta moved.
Calm. Silent. He stepped into the blaze, one hand lifting, palm glowing faintly. The fire — my fire — bent toward him, funneled into his hand, devoured. In seconds, the wall of flame was gone, snuffed out as if it had never existed. All that remained was a faint hiss of steam and the smell of scorched stone.
I stared at him, chest heaving, throat raw. He stared back, blank, endless.
"…Right," I muttered, collapsing onto the bed. "Of course. I finally manage a biblical inferno, and you just—" I flapped a hand weakly in his direction, "—Hoover it up like you're some kind of demonic Dyson."
Silence pressed in again.
I coughed, the taste of ash still thick on my tongue, and whispered:" Day two: I can officially burn down the world. But apparently I still can't light up one corpse in the corner."
My stomach growled, reminding me of my other ongoing problem.
And, like always, nobody cared.
By Day Five, my body wasn't mine anymore. My throat was cooked meat, my lungs ashtrays, my skin still damp from half-drowned water dragon drills. I smelled like burned hair and swamp mud, and the constant static from lightning practice had my arm hairs standing up like porcupine quills.
But the scrolls didn't stop. Neither did I.
Fireball? Easy now — I could hurl one across the room big enough to roast a horse. Inferno wall? Took half my breath, but I could carpet the cell in flames. The water dragon finally came, roaring out of my lungs like a tidal beast — though most times it drowned me before it hit Preta. Lightning spear? I'd finally stopped electrocuting myself every other attempt. Wind breakthrough? Yeah, I could knock over a wall of bookshelves with a single exhale.
I was still starving, still weak, but I was learning. And that terrified me more than starving.
That's when she came.
The paper slid under the door first, thin slivers unfolding like feathers in the stale air. They drifted together, folding, spinning, and then Konan was there, whole and silent, her cloak fluttering like wings before settling.
She didn't announce herself. Didn't ask. Just stepped inside, eyes sliding over the scorch marks, the water stains, the scorch and water stains from where I'd accidentally combined both.
She didn't speak, but I heard the smirk in her silence.
"Yeah," I rasped, wiping sweat and soot from my face, "welcome to my art show. I call this one 'guy who nearly drowned himself in mud.' Real abstract."
Her eyes flicked to the corner, where Preta still stood like a funeral statue. Then back to me. "Show me."
The words were soft, clipped. But they hit harder than Pain's booming decrees.
I swallowed, throat raw, then nodded. Breathe in. Hands clenched.
"Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu."
The fireball roared out, bright and hot, slamming against Preta's hand. Gone in an instant.
"Suiton: Suiryūdan no Jutsu."
Water surged, spiraling into the dragon's head before collapsing against his palm. Swallowed whole.
"Raiton: Gian."
A lance of lightning spat out, splitting into two bolts that hissed through the air, only to fizzle into his body like sparks into sand.
Wind followed. A gust strong enough to rattle Konan's hair out of place — for the briefest flicker, I felt proud of that.
I coughed, chest burning, throat clawing for relief. "There. Progress. All five. Not bad for a guy who couldn't light a match four days ago, right?"
She tilted her head. No praise. No mockery. Just studying me like she was folding the edges of a paper crane in her mind.
And maybe it was the hunger. Maybe the exhaustion. But I wanted something from her — a nod, a smile, anything.
So I reached for the scraps. Literally.
I snatched a torn edge of paper from the floor — one she'd left drifting when she entered — and clumsily bent it between my fingers. Fold, fold, fold. My hands shook, sweat slicking my grip, but I forced the shapes. A triangle. Another. A crude wing.
When I finally held it up, it barely resembled a bird. More like a crumpled bug that had lost a fight with a boot.
Still, I grinned, forcing bravado."Ta-da. Origami. Your move."
For a long moment, she just stared. Then her hand moved, smooth and effortless, plucking a strip from her cloak. Her fingers folded it without thought, crisp creases, perfect symmetry. In seconds, she released it.
A paper bird fluttered on invisible wings, circling me once before settling on my shoulder.
I looked at it. Then at my mangled mess. Then at her.
"…So mine's more abstract."
For the first time, her lips twitched. Not a smile — not quite. But something close.
She turned, cloak rustling, paper wings already dissolving back into sheets as she slipped toward the door.
I stared after her, still holding my ruined origami, and whispered to myself: "Five jutsu down, one terrible bird, and still only two meals a day. Yeah. I'm killing it."
The bird on my shoulder rustled softly, alive with her touch, as the door shut behind her.
The bird sat on my desk.
Not alive, not moving — just folded paper. White against the black scars of the wall, wings curved mid-flight as if it could lift off at any second. But it didn't. It never would.
And yet I kept looking at it.
Hours slipped by, or maybe it was days. I lost track. Preta never moved. The storm outside never stopped. The only thing that broke the silence was the hollow ache gnawing through my stomach. Two meals a day. Exactly two. Enough to keep me breathing. Not enough to make me strong.
I leaned forward on the desk, chin propped on my hand, eyes locked on the bird. "You know," I muttered, voice hoarse, "you're the only one here who doesn't want to kill me. Congratulations. You win the award for best cellmate."
Preta blinked once.
"Not you," I snapped. "Her bird."
I sighed, rubbing my temples. Hunger made my thoughts buzz like flies. It was getting harder to keep the sarcasm sharp — like even my humor was starving.
Then — paper rustled.
The door groaned open, and the air shifted. Her.
Konan stepped in, silent as always, cloak brushing the floor. Her eyes slid over me, then over the scorched walls, then back to me again. For the first time, I noticed she carried something. A small tray balanced in her hands.
My heart stuttered.
Food.
Not two bowls, like always. Three.
I sat up straighter before I could stop myself, throat working as the smell hit me — rice, vegetables, something warm and spiced. My stomach roared so loud it embarrassed me.
She placed the tray on the desk beside the bird. The contrast almost broke me: fragile origami and steaming food, side by side, as if both belonged to me.
"You've improved," she said, her voice the closest thing to gentle I'd ever heard.
I swallowed hard, eyes locked on the food, then dragged them up to her face. "Is this… is this bribery? Because if it is, you don't have to. I'd kill for this. Actually, scratch that — I'd kill with this."
She didn't answer. Didn't smirk. Just watched me, patient, unreadable.
Slowly, like the tray might vanish if I moved too fast, I picked up the first bowl. The heat bit into my palms, grounding me in the moment. My hands shook as I raised them to my mouth and ate.
The flavor hit like a revelation. Salt. Spice. Warmth. It wasn't just food — it was life. My body surged against it, greed clawing at me to shovel it all down, but I forced myself to slow. To savor. To make it last.
When I finally lowered the bowl, breathing ragged, Konan was still there. Still watching.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, tried to force a smile past the weight in my chest."So this is what mercy tastes like."
For a flicker, her eyes softened. Then the mask slid back into place, and she turned for the door, leaving the paper bird and the empty bowls behind.
I stared after her, then at the bird, then back at the door.
Three meals. Just once.
But it was enough to remind me that even in this prison, the rules could bend.
And if they could bend… maybe they could break.
Food changes everything.
One extra bowl. That's all it took. My body lit up like a furnace stoked with coal, muscles burning hotter, my head clearer. For the first time since I'd been dragged in here, I felt almost… alive.
And I knew exactly what to do with it.
I trained. Harder. Longer.
"Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!"
The fireball burst cleaner now, roaring forward without the stutter or cough. The wall blackened deeper, the air filled with the smell of singed stone.
"Suiton: Suiryūdan no Jutsu!"
Water spiraled from nothing, forming a dragon head so massive I had to stagger backward to keep from being swept up in it. When it slammed into Preta's palm, the shockwave rattled my teeth.
"Raiton: Gian!"
The lightning bolt cracked out of my mouth like a thunderclap, splitting midair into three spears that slammed against Preta's chest, sparking bright before they fizzled into nothing.
"Fūton: Daitoppa!"
Wind exploded outward, scattering the scrolls off my desk, lifting dust and ash in a storm. For a heartbeat, the paper bird Konan had left behind soared high, weightless, wings spread.
I laughed — an actual laugh, raw and cracked but real. Progress.
Then I pushed further.
Earth Spear. I clenched my fists, whispered the name, and felt my skin tighten, harden, roughen into stone. My knuckles slammed against the wall and left a crater. Pain shot up my arm, but my bones held. For once, I didn't bleed.
Mud River. I spat the words, and the ground beneath my feet liquefied into flowing muck, pulling at my legs, dragging me sideways. I caught myself on the desk, gasping, watching as the entire floor writhed like a swamp come alive. Preta didn't even shift his stance.
Narakumi no Jutsu. The name hissed past my lips, and suddenly Preta froze. Just for a flicker. His head tilted, his eyes widened a fraction — then he snapped out of it. I didn't know what he'd seen, but the chill crawling up my spine told me it wasn't pretty.
Shunshin. The hardest. I said it over and over, breathless, until my body blurred, stuttered forward, and crashed into the wall nose-first. Blood dripped hot down my lip, but I grinned through it. Because the next time, I flickered across the room clean. No stumble. No crash.
Hours bled into themselves. Sweat soaked my shirt. My chest burned with smoke, my mouth tasted of copper, my legs shook with fatigue. But with each repetition, each desperate breath, I felt the techniques sharpen, the motions smooth, the words burn less and ignite more.
Nine jutsu.
Nine, I should never have been able to touch. Nine that answered not to chakra, not to seals, but to me — to my voice, my will, my refusal to die here.
I collapsed to my knees, hands braced on the stone, lungs heaving fire and ice. My vision swam. My whole body screamed.
And still, I looked at the bird on my desk, wings caught in the draft of my last technique, fluttering like it was alive.
I smiled, cracked and bloody."…One more to go."