Air rushed into Satoru's lungs with a sharp, desperate gasp. His body jerked upright, muscles taut, hand flying to his hip on instinct. His fingers brushed the familiar cool metal of a kunai handle, the reflex both automatic and grounding.
He froze, waiting for the threat that had wrenched him from unconsciousness—none came. Only the rustle of leaves, the whisper of wind through grass, and the rhythmic thudding of his own heart filled the silence.
He exhaled shakily, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders. His breathing came rough, uneven, and a dull ache pulsed steadily at his temples, like a hangover that reached too deep. He blinked several times until the blurry outline of his surroundings sharpened. The oppressive mist, the rows of gravestones, the cold echo of his father's name—they were gone.
Instead, sunlight filtered weakly through the canopy above. He was back in Training Ground 17. The grass around him glistened with dew, trampled and torn in places where their bodies had lain. The faint smell of earth and leaves replaced the suffocating damp of the graveyard.
Satoru's gaze darted around the clearing. A few meters away, Ren and Mariko lay sprawled on the grass, still motionless, their faces peaceful as if sleeping through a pleasant dream. The sight should have eased him—but it didn't. His senses remained razor-sharp, his chakra awareness pulsing outward in instinctive waves.
He rubbed his forehead, groaning quietly. "What the hell… was that?"
The question hung in the air, uninvited and unanswered.
His eyes scanned the perimeter again, half-expecting some new threat to emerge from behind a tree. His instincts were still on edge; his chakra senses hummed faintly, though nothing about the environment screamed danger. Then his gaze caught a figure seated just beyond the shade of a willow tree—a stillness so composed that for a moment, he thought she was part of the scenery.
There, sitting cross-legged on the grass, was Kurama Sayuri.
Her deep blue hair caught faint glimmers of light where the breeze toyed with it; it moved like water under moonlight, each strand catching the wind before settling again. Her eyes were closed, face serene, hands resting on her knees in a meditative seal. She looked calm, almost detached—like a shrine maiden communing with something unseen.
"You're the first one," she said without opening her eyes. Her voice was smooth, deliberate, carrying the faintest curl of amusement. "Congratulations."
Satoru blinked. "First one?" His voice came out rougher than he intended. He scoffed softly, the edge of fatigue colouring his tone. 'Congratulations? That didn't feel like something worth celebrating.'
He groaned, rubbing his temples again. The ache refused to fade. "Seriously, what was that?"
Sayuri tilted her head slightly, just enough to let the wind tug a few strands of hair across her face. Her expression didn't change, and her eyes remained closed.
"Just a basic genjutsu exercise," she replied evenly.
Satoru froze. His brows twitched. "…Basic?"
He blinked again, staring at her blankly as his thoughts stuttered in disbelief.
'Basic?'
The memory of the illusion flickered behind his eyes—the graveyard, the fog, the cold weight of grief pressed into his chest, the mirror image that mimicked him with eerie precision. That had been no simple trick. That was immersion. That was psychological warfare wrapped in artistry.
Internally, he scoffed. 'If that was a basic genjutsu, then what I've been doing are party tricks.'
His analytical mind kicked in despite the exhaustion. He replayed what he'd felt, step by step: the layering of perception, the emotional manipulation, the illusion of physical combat. She hadn't simply tampered with sight and sound; she had manipulated his interpretation of reality. His brain hadn't just seen illusions—it had believed them.
He frowned slightly, half in awe, half in irritation. 'That wasn't just a genjutsu test. It was an emotional stress evaluation disguised as one. She forced us to confront instinct, fear, and reaction in an environment where hesitation equalled defeat.'
He looked at her again, but Sayuri's expression remained tranquil—almost indifferent, as though she were unaware that she had just turned his mind inside out.
Before he could speak again, a groan broke the stillness.
Ren stirred first, rolling onto his side with a low grunt. His hand shot up to his head, fingers clutching his hair as he blinked blearily. "Ugh… my head. What happened?" His tone was thick with grogginess, eyes darting between Satoru and the surrounding trees.
Beside him, Mariko gave a small whimper before pushing herself upright. Her blonde hair was tangled with grass, her face pale. She brushed at her clothes, blinking in confusion.
"Did we… just pass out?"
Sayuri finally moved. Her eyes opened slowly, the deep crimson of her pupils catching the sunlight like shards of garnet. For a fleeting moment, they seemed to glow faintly before dimming back to a calm, neutral hue. She stood gracefully, stretching her arms above her head, spine arching with quiet poise.
"It seems you're all done with your fights," she said casually. Her tone was mild, but her words carried weight that silenced all three genin. Then she clapped her hands lightly once—clap—a small, deliberate sound that drew their full attention.
Ren and Mariko straightened instinctively. Satoru remained kneeling, eyes fixed on her with quiet curiosity.
Sayuri stepped closer, boots brushing softly through the grass. Her demeanour shifted slightly—still calm, but with an undercurrent of authority. When she spoke again, her tone carried a balance between instruction and critique.
"Let's see…" She stopped in front of Ren first, looking him over. "You have good reflexes and spatial awareness. Clearly a weapons specialist."
Ren blinked, visibly surprised she'd gleaned that from a single glance.
"But," Sayuri continued, her gaze sharpening, "your timing is off. You hesitate before committing to an attack. That hesitation will get you killed one day."
Ren swallowed hard, nodding mutely.
Sayuri's attention slid toward Mariko next. Her expression softened slightly, though her eyes remained assessing.
"You tried to stabilise your chakra flow mid-combat," she said. "That's impressive for a medical-nin in training. But you rely too much on defence, like you're too afraid of hurting your opponent. You need to learn how to finish fights, not just survive them."
Mariko's cheeks colored faintly, embarrassment flickering across her features. She nodded. "Yes, Sensei."
Sayuri hummed, then turned toward Satoru.
The faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips. "And you…"
Satoru met her gaze squarely.
"You realised you were under genjutsu," Sayuri said slowly. "You even tried to break it—and adapted mid-illusion. That's commendable. Most don't even get that far before giving up."
Her tone was even, her praise measured and deliberate. Satoru could tell she chose her words with precision—enough to acknowledge effort, but never enough to imply satisfaction.
He nodded once. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," she replied smoothly. "You still lost consciousness in the end."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Satoru's mouth. He smirked. "Fair point."
Sayuri turned away, her long hair flowing like ink as she clasped her hands behind her back. "You all have potential," she said at last, her tone shifting to something lighter, though still edged with amusement. "Rough, unfocused potential—but not hopeless."
Ren exhaled audibly, shoulders relaxing. "That's… good to hear," he said, half to himself.
Mariko smiled faintly, her relief showing in the soft curve of her lips.
Satoru watched their reactions, his smirk deepening slightly. 'High praise coming from her, I guess.'
Sayuri's gaze flicked back toward them, her expression unreadable. "Don't misunderstand. Potential doesn't impress me. Results do."
Her words fell sharp and clean, cutting through the tentative relief like a blade through silk.
Then, with a faint sigh, she stepped back and crossed her arms. "Still," she murmured, "I can work with this."
The breeze shifted then, carrying the scent of pine and earth through the clearing.
Sayuri let the silence linger before speaking again. Her voice regained its edge—authoritative, final.
"Starting tomorrow," she said, "we meet here at five a.m. sharp."
Ren groaned under his breath. Mariko straightened nervously.
Sayuri's lips curved into a faintly sardonic smile. "Don't be late—or you'll wish you hadn't come at all."
The wind stirred again.
Before any of them could reply, Sayuri brought her hands together in a subtle seal. A moment later, her form blurred, breaking apart into a swirl of leaves.
"Fwshhh!"
The rustling sound lingered briefly before fading into the natural hum of the forest.
She was gone.
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