The dense bamboo grove was Derek's latest proving ground. The stalks, a tall, green cathedral, swayed and clacked overhead in the steady mountain breeze. Two months. It felt like an eternity. The raw, clawing terror of the first weeks had settled into a grim routine, but lately, it had given way to something else: a grueling, obsessive focus. He'd stopped just surviving. He'd started to learn.
He paused in a small, sun-dappled clearing, his nine tails curling and uncurling restlessly. The dirt here was soft and dark, a good canvas. With a single, careful claw, he etched a line, then another, sketching the familiar spiral pattern of the Uzumaki clan. A memory fragment from the show, a symbol of willpower. Naruto. It felt like a lifetime ago, watching those episodes in his cramped apartment, half-paying attention while eating cheap takeout. Now, it was his only textbook.
Derek: Cracked the first chapter, finally.
His voice was still that low, rumbling growl, but he was used to it now. It was his voice.
The real breakthrough had been abandoning the show's exact methodology. No teacher, no scrolls, no talking toads. Just him, the forest, and sheer, stubborn trial and error. He'd started with breathing. Not just in-and-out, but feeling it. He'd picture it—the intake of air pulling in energy from the world, the exhale circulating it through his body. He'd close his eyes for hours, ignoring the itch in his fur, the hunger in his gut, focusing on that one internal sensation.
For days, nothing. Then, a flicker. A warmth in his core, distinct from his body heat. It was faint, like the last ember of a dying fire. He'd coaxed it, nurtured it with his concentration. He remembered the academy episode vividly: Naruto failing to stick a leaf to his forehead, the concept of chakra control. Derek had no forehead for a leaf, and no hands to make seals. So he'd adapted.
Derek: Pebbles. Rocks. Sticks. If it didn't move, I tried to stick it somewhere on me without touching it. Most boring game ever.
He'd start each morning with it. A small, smooth stone placed before him. He'd pour his focus, that newly kindled warmth, toward it, willing it to adhere to his paw. Failure. Failure. Failure. Then, one gray afternoon, as frustration threatened to boil over, the stone twitched. It didn't stick, but it moved. It was a signal. A confirmation. The energy was real, and he could touch the outside world with it.
From that point, progress, while slow, became measurable. The warmth became a flow. He could feel it circulating through pathways in his body that seemed both alien and instinctively familiar—the chakra network, he guessed. The intricate blue patterns that swirled across his white fur would pulse and brighten in time with the flow. He'd sit for hours, simply guiding the energy in loops, building its strength and his familiarity with its paths.
But then came the wall. Jutsu.
Derek: Hand seals. Of course. The universal cheat code for this world, and I'm built without the controller.
He'd tried. Oh, how he'd tried. He'd contort his front paws into clumsy approximations of the Ram, Boar, Ox sequences he recalled. It felt ridiculous, and more importantly, it did nothing. No puff of smoke for a transformation. No extra body splitting off. The energy just pooled uselessly inside him, frustrated.
That's when he'd been forced to think laterally. To remember what he was, not just what he wanted to be.
Derek: Kitsune. In every story, every legend, what are they known for? Not fireballs. Not cloning. Illusions. Trickery. Fox-fire. Messing with perceptions.
In the world of Naruto, that had a name: Genjutsu.
The realization was like a key turning in a rusted lock. Genjutsu wasn't about brute force or physical transformation. It was about subtlety, about influence. And many of the most powerful genjutsu, the ones that really mattered, didn't rely on a long chain of hand signs. They were triggered by a look, a sound, a word. The Sharingan's gaze. Itachi's finger. Sound-based techniques. They worked on intent, on overwhelming the target's chakra system with the caster's own.
He had glowing, slit-pupiled eyes. He had a voice that could carry strange resonance. He had tails that seemed to be natural chakra conduits. He had intent in spades.
He started small, practicing on the forest's inhabitants. His first target was a fat, oblivious wood pigeon. He'd crouch in the brush, lock his eyes on it, and pour a thread of his chakra outward, not to strike, but to suggest. He'd imagine the bird seeing a sudden shadow—a hawk diving. For days, the pigeon just pecked at the ground. Then, one afternoon, it froze. Its head jerked up. It let out a panicked coo and exploded into flight, crashing through branches in its terror.
Derek's heart hammered. Coincidence? It had to be.
He chose a new subject: a drinking deer at the lake. This time, he focused on layering the sensation of heat and the smell of smoke. He pictured flames licking at the deer's hooves in its mind. He pushed the chakra, sharp and insistent, through his gaze.
The deer snorted, lifted its head, and stamped its foot. It looked around, confused, then suddenly bolted, white tail flagging.
Derek: It… it worked. Holy hell, it actually worked.
From there, it became an obsession. He practiced from dawn until the light failed. Birds, squirrels, fish in the stream all became his unwitting test subjects. He learned to adjust the intensity. A gentle nudge to make a rabbit hesitate. A stronger push to make a fox turn and run from what it perceived as a larger predator. Hunting, which had been a grueling test of speed and stealth, transformed. Now, he'd stalk close, weave an illusion of safety or scatter his scent, and strike when his prey was mentally disoriented.
Derek: It's like fishing with cheats enabled. See me as a friendly log. Smell like fresh berries. Come on over… dinner is served.
He'd talk to Arnold, his rock, about the intricacies.
Derek: The key isn't just throwing chakra at them. It's weaving a narrative. You have to feed their own senses the lie. It's not about what I see, it's about what they expect to see, feel, and hear. It's psychology with a chakra catalyst.
He grew more ambitious. He tried layering illusions making a single squirrel see three of him approaching from different directions. He practiced on himself once, staring at his reflection in the still lake water and trying to warp it back into his human face Derek Smith, with his tired eyes and messy hair. The image flickered, blurred, and for one heart-wrenching second, a ghost of his old self stared back. The mental recoil was instant and painful. He broke the connection, panting. Some doors, he decided, were better left closed for now.
Through all this relentless practice, another shocking truth revealed itself: his stamina. Or rather, his apparent lack of a limit.
In the show, chakra exhaustion was a constant threat. Naruto would pass out after a big fight. Even Kakashi had his limits. Derek, however, could practice genjutsu for hours. He'd run intricate, continuous illusions on entire sections of the forest—making a clearing appear thick with thorny vines, or filling the air with the sounds of a predator pack—and feel no drain. He'd integrate physical training: chakra-enhanced leaps between trees, sticking to vertical surfaces with his paws, sprinting at speeds that blurred the undergrowth. He'd do this all day, every day.
One week, he decided to test it. A deliberate burnout drill. He woke at first light and began. Simple genjutsu on every creature he encountered. Then complex, sustained illusions on fixed locations. Then high-intensity physical training, chakra flaring constantly. He pushed through midday, through the afternoon, into the twilight. His body grew tired from exertion, but that deep well of energy inside him? It barely seemed to dip. It was like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon.
Derek (to Arnold, on the third day): This isn't normal. Kurama had massive reserves, but he was a tailed beast. A chunk of the Ten-Tails. What am I? Some kind of… spiritual battery with a fox-shaped case?
The implications swirled in his mind. The god's words: "Something powerful." This body wasn't natural. It was a construct, a vessel built for a reincarnated soul. His spiritual energy—the memories, experiences, and sheer will of a prior life—must be immense. Combined with whatever physical energy this yokai physiology produced… the result was a chakra reserve of staggering depth.
But during those deep, exhaustive practice sessions, as he pushed his awareness to its limits, he began to sense something else. Beneath the familiar, warm flow of chakra, there was a different current. Sharper. Colder. More primal. It stirred when his emotions ran high—frustration, fear, the rare flash of triumph. It felt less like a tool and more like a beast sleeping in the same cage.
He named it in his mind: Youki. Yokai energy. The inherent power of the fox spirit, separate from the blended human-fox chakra he'd learned to use.
He didn't neglect his physical form. Chakra was power, but power needed a conduit. He forced himself through a daily regimen. Sprints through treacherous terrain. Strength exercises using his own body weight—pushing up on his forepaws, holding difficult balances with his tails, shredding bark with his claws to keep them sharp. He'd watch birds of prey and try to mimic their efficient, lethal movements.
Derek: Can't be a one-trick fox. Naruto had the Nine-Tails, but he still got his face punched in until he learned to fight. Rock Lee proved you can be a monster with just your body. Gotta be both.
One crisp morning, after a long run that left his muscles pleasantly burning, he stood before an old, thick oak at the edge of the bamboo grove. It was a test.
First, he channeled his standard chakra. The warm, blue energy flowed smoothly to his front paws, coating his claws in a faint, humming light. He focused on precision, on control.
Derek: Like Sasuke's Chidori stream, but… claw-shaped.
He swiped, a clean, controlled motion.
There was a sharp crack. A deep, smooth gouge appeared in the trunk, as if cut by a monomolecular blade. The top half of the tree swayed, then slid sideways with a groan and a tremendous crash, settling onto the forest floor.
Derek: Nice. Controlled. Efficient.
He eyed the remaining stump. Curiosity, that old human flaw, pricked at him. What about the other energy? The youki? He'd only felt it in passing, a dark ripple beneath the surface. He'd never tried to wield it.
Cautiously, he turned his focus inward, away from the warm river of chakra. He reached for that deeper, colder current. It responded sluggishly at first, then surged forward, eager. The glow around his claws didn't just brighten; it changed. The serene blue was swallowed by a violent, electric indigo, edged with crawling black. The hum became a discordant, hungry vibration.
He didn't even make a formal strike. He just extended a single claw and gave a casual, almost experimental flick in the direction of a dense stand of bamboo twenty feet away.
The world didn't just cut. It unmade.
There was no sound of slicing. It was a deafening ROAR of displaced air and shattered matter. An invisible crescent of pure, annihilating force ripped outward. The targeted bamboo didn't fall; it disintegrated into a cloud of splinters. The force didn't stop. It tore into the trees beyond, shearing through trunks as thick as his body like they were stalks of wheat. A swath of forest thirty feet wide and fifty feet long was simply erased, transformed into a chaotic tumble of shredded wood and torn earth. The ground itself was scarred, dirt and stone flung into the air in a slow-raining debris cloud.
The silence that followed was absolute and profound.
Derek stood frozen, his paw still extended. The violent indigo glow had vanished from his claws, snuffed out the moment his focus broke. His nine tails were stiff behind him, every hair on his body standing on end. His expression, in the settling dust, was one of utter, blank shock.
Derek: …Uh.
A single, intact leaf drifted down from the canopy above, landing softly on his nose. He didn't blink.
Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his paw. He looked at the devastation. He looked at his own, now-inert claws. He looked back at the devastation.
Derek: I think… I'll just put the youki down for a while.
He took a careful step back. Then another. His movements were deliberate, subdued.
Derek: Yeah. Chakra only. For now. A good, long while.
He turned and melted into the untouched shadows of the forest, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The lesson was seared into his mind with more clarity than any scroll could provide.
Derek (whispering to himself as he fled): Stick to illusions, Derek. Hunt easy. Train smart. That other thing… that's not a tool. That's a natural disaster waiting to happen.
But as the adrenaline faded and the sheer, terrifying scale of that power settled in his memory, another thought, quiet and inevitable, followed.
Derek: One day… you might need a natural disaster.
He pushed the thought away, focusing on the path ahead. For now, he was a fox who wielded lies and wore a glow of blue light. That was enough. It had to be.