Darkness clung to Satoru like water. It was heavy, cool, almost viscous; for a long, suspended moment, Satoru wasn't sure if he was breathing at all. Then, suddenly, his lungs spasmed, and the world came rushing back in—air, sound, sensation.
He groaned softly, hand lifting to his forehead.
"Ugh…"
His voice sounded small against the silence pressing in around him. His skull pulsed in dull waves of pain, every heartbeat echoing behind his eyes. When he tried to sit up, the world spun once, twice, then settled into uneasy stillness.
Blinking, he rubbed his eyes until the haze of sleep—or whatever had replaced it—began to fade. Pale light filtered through the air, but it wasn't the golden warmth of morning. It was diffuse, heavy, colourless; mist hung low and thick, curling around him in ghostly ribbons. The ground beneath him was cold and damp, his palms sinking into patches of dewy grass and soft soil. The smell hit him next—earth, stone, and something faintly metallic.
He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the chill air.
"Was knocking us out really necessary?" he muttered under his breath, more to steady himself than anything else. His words drifted upward and were swallowed whole by the fog.
As his vision adjusted, he realised there was no sign of Ren or Mariko. He was alone.
A prickle crawled down the back of his neck.
He turned his head—and froze.
Rows upon rows of headstones stretched before him, fading into the mist until they dissolved from sight. Grey marble, chipped and old, some crooked, others broken.
The sound of the world condensed into fragments—the low hum of wind, the soft drip of water somewhere unseen, the distant caw of another crow.
Nothing else.
Satoru's stomach tightened. He stood carefully, his breath coming slower now. The hairs on his arms rose beneath his sleeves.
He took one step forward. The earth gave a soft crunch beneath his sandals. Then another.
The first headstone he reached bore a simple inscription:
YAMANAKA KAORI
Loving Father. Devoted Shinobi.
His breath hitched, sharp and involuntary.
"My father…?"
The name burned in his vision. His throat felt suddenly dry, his fingers trembling as he reached out to trace the carved letters. His father. He knew Kaori Yamanaka only through fragmented stories—half-remembered whispers from older orphans and stray records in the Academy's archive.
His chest tightened.
'No… it can't be real.'
He closed his eyes, taking a slow, deliberate breath.
"This isn't possible," he whispered.
When he opened his eyes again, his Sharingan flared to life; twin tomoe spun lazily in each iris, cutting through the haze with crimson light. The world sharpened—edges crisper, shadows deeper, chakra threads faintly visible as pale flickers in the mist. The air itself seemed to pulse with faint life.
He scanned the area. Every grave, every blade of grass, every stone radiated faint traces of chakra. It wasn't his chakra; it wasn't natural either. It was soft, layered—like the remnants of a dream.
"No way," he muttered. "This has to be a genjutsu."
He formed the hand seal.
"Kai."
A pulse of chakra rippled outward. The mist quivered—just slightly—but then settled back, unchanged. The tombstones remained, their inscriptions clear and cold as before.
He frowned, jaw tightening.
"Kai!"
Another surge of chakra. The world shuddered faintly. Still nothing.
Again.
"Kai!"
Silence.
The fog swirled gently around him, unbothered.
His frustration simmered, a low pulse beneath his ribs.
'It's a genjutsu. It has to be.'
The logic was undeniable; Sayuri had said, "When you wake up, fight and win." He'd "woken," all right—but this was no waking world. It was too quiet, too perfect in its eeriness.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm. The Sharingan flickered faintly as he scanned again—focusing this time not on the world, but himself.
His own chakra flow was steady, unbroken. No disruption, no feedback loops. Which meant—
"She's good," he murmured.
Whoever constructed this illusion—no, Sayuri—had done so seamlessly, threading her chakra directly through his senses and memory. There was no external anchor to disrupt; he was inside her domain.
Before he could think further, the stillness broke.
"Crunch."
A soft sound from behind him. The faint scrape of gravel against stone.
Satoru spun around, kunai flashing into his hand in one fluid motion. The fog parted briefly—and his heart stuttered.
Standing a few meters away was himself.
Same height. Same posture. Same calm, measured expression. Only… the eyes were wrong. His doppelgänger's eyes were devoid of light, the expression behind them utterly blank.
The reflection tilted its head slightly, as though studying him with faint curiosity. Then, without a word, it raised a kunai and slid into a fighting stance—identical to Satoru's own.
His pulse quickened.
"So this is what she meant," he whispered, voice steady but low. "Fight when you wake up."
The copy didn't respond. It moved.
"Clang!"
The sound of metal against metal shattered the stillness. Sparks flashed as kunai met kunai, the two of them locked in perfect symmetry. Each movement mirrored the other—strikes, parries, steps. Their breathing is even, synchronised, shallow and rhythmic.
Satoru feinted left; the copy did the same. He leapt back, hand weaving signs.
"Katon: Fireball Jutsu!"
Twin streams of flame roared forth, colliding midair in an explosion of heat and smoke. The blast wave sent dead leaves spiralling. Satoru rolled sideways through the haze, landing on one knee, eyes darting.
But the copy was already there—lunging, kunai aimed at his throat.
He blocked again, barely, the impact sending tremors up his arm.
'This thing isn't just mimicking my attacks—it's anticipating them.'
Their strikes blurred into a flurry—clang, swish, clang, thud—each sound echoing through the graveyard like ghostly percussion.
Satoru's breathing grew heavier. Every instinct screamed at him to adapt, to change rhythm—but how do you surprise an opponent who is literally you?
"This isn't just a genjutsu," he thought between blows. "It's something else… something deeper."
The reflection's expression remained emotionless throughout, but there was something faintly haunting in its movements—fluid, almost graceful, each step deliberate. It wasn't fighting to win; it was fighting to mirror.
He lunged forward suddenly, breaking the rhythm, feinting a downward slash before spinning low to sweep his opponent's legs. The copy caught the motion instantly, countering with the same maneuver. Both of them ended up rolling away, regaining footing at the exact same time.
They faced each other again in silence, both panting.
Then, faintly, the copy smiled.
It was small, sharp, wrong.
And Satoru's stomach dropped.
The smile was his own—but stripped of restraint, of humanity. It was cold satisfaction; cruelty without empathy.
The fog around them thickened, the graves seeming to draw closer, as if watching. The air grew heavier, pressing against his skin like unseen hands.
'Fight and win,' Sayuri's voice whispered faintly in his mind, though whether it was memory or illusion, he couldn't tell.
He gritted his teeth, mind racing. 'If it's mimicking me perfectly, then every move I make will just feed it. It's not about strength—it's about self-control.'
He took a deep breath, forcing his heartbeat to steady. His copy waited, motionless, eyes watching with eerie patience.
Then Satoru closed his eyes.
He let the Sharingan fade, lowering his weapon. The mist pressed closer, cool against his skin.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the reflection's kunai trembled, lowering slightly—as though uncertain.
"That's it," Satoru thought, realisation dawning. "It doesn't know what to do when I don't."
He opened his eyes again—calm, steady. "You're not me," he said aloud, voice quiet but firm. "You're what I'm supposed to overcome."
Satoru didn't move.
The kunai stopped inches from his throat. The reflection froze, body rigid.
Satoru exhaled shakily. "So that's your test, huh, Sensei?"
Far away—or perhaps not far at all—the scene shifted.
At Training Ground 17, Kurama Sayuri sat cross-legged in the grass, surrounded by silence. The faint murmur of the forest filled the air—birds, wind, distant water—but she was still as stone. The three genin lay before her in neat formation, each unconscious but peaceful.
Her hands rested loosely on her knees, forming a subtle seal. Her eyelids fluttered once.
When they opened, her irises gleamed with faint crimson light.
Her gaze drifted toward Satoru.
Sayuri's lips curved into a faint, sardonic smile.
"Interesting," she murmured.
=====
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