"You're too weak to survive."
Hiroshi's words cut through them like a stone thrown into water — the ripples spread through all three bodies. There was no compromise. No mercy. Only a cold verdict: if they wanted to survive in a world where the battlefield itself was alive, they had to change—now.
Hiroshi didn't bring them to a normal training ground. He brought them to the "Chaotic Nature Training Field"—a box of terrain designed by the Sensor Division to destabilize chakra. Here, the usual rules of combat were twisted: the ground absorbed energy, the wind split chakra flows, heat and cold spots appeared without pattern, and the terrain itself shifted according to the sensor chakra modulation beneath it. The goal was singular: force body and mind to adapt—or be destroyed.
The three stood at the edge of the field. Thin mist seeped from cracks in the earth, distorted insect chirps echoed oddly, and small trees leaned in unnatural directions. Ren exhaled, feeling the hum deep in his throat. This was no academic exercise. This was a test of survival.
Ren — Taming the Chakra River
Hiroshi's instructions were brief: "Walk from point A to point B. Don't break the flow. Don't let your chakra scatter. If you get thrown off, start over."
Ren stepped first. The ground beneath him throbbed like a giant heartbeat—some steps bulged, others sucked down. One misstep, his right foot lifted and the chakra flow in his leg was pulled in; his body jolted, almost losing balance. He swung his hands, forcing a micro wind barrier, but the air that should have stabilized him snapped back like stretched rubber.
Sweat soaked his forehead. Every step was a compromise between the urge to surge forward and the need to stay calm. He learned to read the terrain: a small heel stamp activated a chakra cushion in his foot; a deep breath consolidated his core flow; bending his knees at the right moment diverted pressure to the ground that "pulled." He sensed every possibility—bulge, suction, bounce—and gradually, like a person learning to tame a river, he adjusted his chakra pulse to the rhythm of the terrain.
After five full repetitions, Ren's feet stopped at point B, breath steady. His body shivered—not from cold, but from muscle fatigue and mental clarity. He looked at Hiroshi; the teal eyes held him a second longer than necessary. A small nod—a silent acknowledgment from a man who had seen countless raw potential.
Hana — Precision Amid Chaos
While Ren battled a terrain that "swallowed" chakra, Hana faced another challenge: fine elemental control. Hiroshi forced her to launch a series of small Katon flames at targets randomly moving due to the wild wind from Ren. Not size, not explosion—accuracy within millimeters. A single misaligned degree could nullify the attack or backfire.
Hana closed her eyes, mapping thousands of energy points falling like micro raindrops. On one side, she felt Bakugo's sensitive explosive aura; on the other, the subtle pull of tree roots bouncing. She inhaled, launched one spark—precise—then another. Three hundred repetitions, over and over, until the rhythm of her breath aligned perfectly with the pulse of the "field."
Each chakra push into her fingers brought a cold thrill: control was her sword; untamed explosion was a blind weapon. The training reassured her that in chaos, precision would save lives.
Bakugo — Lurking, Not Exploding
Bakugo's hardest challenge was not absorbing blows—it was sitting still, meditating to restrain his rage. Hiroshi placed him on a small platform with a simple directive: "Sit. Lower your ego." No targets, no duels. Only engineered silence where every thought became a source of tremor.
At first Bakugo resisted. "I DON'T NEED TO SIT! I NEED TO TRAIN!" he grumbled. But when Hiroshi extended a hand in the air, all the explosions inside him seemed controlled by an invisible remote. The choking sensation forced him to sit, close his eyes, and confront the thoughts he usually masked with anger.
Seconds passed, then minutes. Impulses roared, then were restrained. Bakugo felt the thoughts of victory, insult, and the urge to burn everything; Hiroshi forced each shadow to shrink, like twisting a dial to a whisper. His breathing became the tool. Long inhales lowered the frequency of chest explosions. Gradually, Bakugo understood—not stopping the explosion, but controlling its rhythm: when to detonate, how large, for whom.
Hiroshi watched silently. Occasionally, Bakugo opened his eyes and noticed the world no longer bounced off his anger. There, in the stillness, lay new freedom: deliberately compressed explosions, like precision explosives. Bakugo, who always saw control as a chain, for the first time felt that control could be the deadliest form of freedom.
---
That night, the three genin returned, muddy and aching, yet something new had taken root—not just physical fatigue, but a shift in mindset. Ren knew the pulse of the terrain, Hana honed her precision, and Bakugo learned to restrain explosions until the moment was right.
Hiroshi stood at the gate, watching his drenched students. "You're not perfect," he said flatly. "But you will learn to push your limits—or you will break." He added, without excess emotion: "Tomorrow, we increase the level."
Ren exhaled, a faint smile appearing—not from enjoying suffering, but from pride in their effort. Hana stared at her smoke-scented fingers with unusual calm. Bakugo closed his eyes briefly, feeling something he hated: a bond. Yet within that dislike, for the first time, he sensed responsibility gnawing at his ego—and he didn't entirely resist it.
The Chaotic Nature Field had torn through them, disrupted their adaptation, and left its mark. They weren't yet an unstoppable team. They hadn't fully mastered their egos. But for the first time, they returned with certainty: they could be tempered. And that was just the beginning.