Chapter 30: The Art of the Kunai
The sheer, impossible contrast between Reitō's initial failure and his subsequent, flawless mastery left the training ground steeped in a stunned silence. It was as if a clumsy toddler had, in the span of a few minutes, transformed into a concert pianist.
As he walked back to the group, he passed Uchiha Hibiki. Without looking at him, Reitō murmured, his voice so low only Hibiki could hear, "I hope you enjoyed your moment."
Hibiki's face purpled with rage, his fists trembling. He was about to explode when Uno-sensei's voice, now laced with a new, grudging respect, cut through the tension.
"Enough. The basic throw is merely the alphabet," Uno announced, drawing all eyes back to him. "On a real battlefield, your enemy is not a wooden post. He will dodge, he will predict your throws. To be effective, you must learn to think in three dimensions, to control not just the launch, but the journey." In his hands, two kunai appeared. With a fluid motion, he sent them flying towards a target in a straight line. Then, a fraction of a second later, two more kunai left his hands. These latter knives flew faster, on a slightly different arc, and collided with the backs of the first two in mid-air.
Clang! Clink!
The metallic clinks were sharp, precise. The collision altered the trajectories of the first kunai, sending them veering off at unexpected angles to strike two different targets with solid thunks. It was a breathtaking display of spatial reasoning, timing, and force control—a high-level skill often seen in elite chūnin and jōnin.
"This," Uno stated, "is the Kunai Way. It is the language of angles and impacts. Do not expect to master it today. I show you this to shatter any remaining complacency. The path is long."
The students, humbled, began to practice. The results were predictably poor. Kunai clattered to the ground, flew wildly off-course, or missed collisions entirely. Uno observed without comment, his expectations low. This was a lesson in humility, not a test of skill.
Reitō, however, did not immediately join the chaotic attempts. He stood apart, his gaze inward. His Byakugan was not visibly active, but his inner vision was replaying Uno's demonstration in exquisite, slow-motion detail. He analyzed the exact wrist snap for the initial throw, the subtle body shift to generate the extra speed for the second pair, the precise point of impact on the first kunai's hilt, the resulting vector change. He built a complete, internal physics model of the action.
Only when the simulation was perfect in his mind's eye did he move. He walked to the weapons rack and, to the astonishment of those watching, picked up four kunai—two in each hand.
A murmur rippled through the group. Four? Mastering the two-collision technique was a distant dream for them; handling four simultaneous trajectories seemed like pure arrogance.
Even Uno-sensei's eyebrows shot up. Hope was replaced by skepticism. The boy was overreaching.
Namikaze Minato and Kushina, who had been watching Reitō with keen interest, exchanged a worried glance. This looked like showboating, a sure path to a embarrassing failure.
Reitō took his position. He didn't adopt a dramatic pose. He simply stood, his focus absolute. Then, in a blur of motion that was almost too fast to follow, his arms moved.
It wasn't one throw, then another. It was a single, continuous, orchestrated release. The four kunai left his hands in a staggered, micro-second sequence. They flew, not in simple pairs, but in a complex, interweaving pattern. The air sang with the sound of sharp metal.
Clang-clink! Clang-clink!
Two distinct pairs of collisions sounded, crisp and clean, high in the air. The deflected kunai didn't just veer; they spiraled, their new paths calculated and deadly. All four knives found their marks—two on the primary target, two on secondary targets ten feet apart—each impact a solid, resonant THUNK deep in the heart of the bullseyes.
The world stopped.
Uchiha Hibiki's jaw hung open. "Im… impossible…" he breathed, the word a hollow denial.
Uno-sensei stared. His own mouth was slightly agape, all sternness evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock. He had just witnessed a Jonin-level control exercise performed not just correctly, but with a speed and confidence that rivaled his own. This wasn't mimicry anymore; this was comprehension, adaptation, and execution of a high-skill technique on the first attempt.
Reitō, his expression still calm, walked to the rack for more kunai. He did it again. And again. Each repetition was faster, smoother, the collisions more assured, the final strikes more precise. He wasn't just doing the technique; he was refining it, owning it, in a matter of minutes.
When he finally stopped, a small pile of kunai lay embedded in a perfect cluster at the center of the primary target and neatly grouped in the others. The message was undeniable.
The silence was profound, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the wind.
Umino-sensei (Iruka's father, for the name was indeed a familial echo) looked at Reitō with an expression that blended awe, incredulity, and a dawning, thrilling suspicion. This speed of learning, this bodily intelligence… it was unheard of. The boy was a prodigy of a completely different order.
"Damn you, Hyūga Reitō!" Hibiki finally spat out, his voice thick with frustrated shame. He had to salvage something. "This… this is just tools! Next is ninjutsu class! I will not lose to you there!" Even as he said it, a part of him knew the truth. In the realm of physical arts, of body control, he was already hopelessly outmatched.
The gears of war were turning, even within the Academy's walls. In response to the escalating tension in the Land of Rain, the curriculum intensified. Classes stretched into the evening, with mandatory "self-study" sessions that were less about homework and more about endurance and chakra control drills under watchful eyes.
As Reitō sat through another long evening session, feeling the familiar, subtle ache behind his eyes from the strain, a cold certainty settled in his gut. They're preparing us. Not as students, but as reserves. The village leadership could smell the storm on the wind. The peace was brittle, and Konoha was quietly sharpening all its blades, even the smallest and newest among them. The sheltered world of the Academy was a rapidly thinning illusion. The real test, the one that mattered, was coming far sooner than any of them had anticipated.