The alcove to which my father led us seemed like a secret chamber carved from the very mist, its high stone walls covered in vines that dripped condensation like slow, relentless tears, each drop echoing softly against the damp floor. The air there was thicker, fresher, carrying the biting saltiness of the sea mixed with the earthy musk of moss and wet rock, an aroma that clung to my skin and tunic like an invisible veil. Fallen leaves covered the soft earth beneath our feet, crackling with each step, releasing a faint green scent that mingled with the ever-present dampness of Kirigakure. The distant roar of waves crashing against the cliffs below provided a constant, resounding soundtrack, like the heartbeat of the village, reminding us that we were always on the edge of something vast and unforgiving.
My father stopped mid-air, turning to face us with that unwavering gaze, his dark eyes reflecting only the grey light filtering through the mist. He crossed his massive arms, his muscles leaping like coiled ropes beneath his grey-blue skin, and the air seemed heavier, the distant roar of the sea fading into a muffled hum. His long black hair hung damp from the mist, framing a face scarred by battles that had made him the legend he was. The Kubikiribōchō hung on his back, its enormous blade gleaming faintly, as if thirsting for something more than just the dampness of the mist.
"You four have progressed further than the others," he thundered, his deep, resonant voice vibrating through the ground and piercing my bones, the words carrying the faint echo of thunder on water. "Daigo and Rokuta, you have internalized what I taught you. Nao and Arashi—you execute water and earth jutsus competently, but you lack the instinct to integrate them into battle. Executing is one thing; applying is surviving. Let's remedy that now."
He fixed his gaze on Nao and me, the scar on his left eye twitching as he slightly narrowed his eyes, as if assessing our potential against the unseen threats lurking in the shadows of the village. The water jutsu was Mizudeppō, the Water Jet—a penetrating jet of compressed liquid that could cut through defenses or unbalance enemies, carrying the fresh scent of rain with each shot. The earth jutsu was Doton: Doryūheki, the Mud Wall—a barrier of earth and mud that rose around the user, about two and a half meters high, solid enough to block attacks and serve as an improvised shield, the air thickening with the heavy, earthy scent of churned earth as it formed.
Without further ado, he wove the hand seals—tiger, ox, rabbit—his enormous hands joining in precise movements, both hands intertwining, fingers moving with surprising speed, the air vibrating with chakra like the preparation for a storm. A faint blue glow formed at his feet, absorbing the moisture from the mist itself, droplets joining in the haze like threads on a loom, the fresh, ozone-tinged aroma intensifying as a figure materialized from a nearby puddle: a Mizu Bunshin, a Water Clone. It was identical to him in every aspect—the same imposing stature, the same wild mane, the same scarred face, the same unyielding posture. Its form rippled subtly, translucent edges catching the light like a living wave, droplets tracing paths across its body as if it exuded the sea itself, but in strength, speed, and technique, it was him: the same power radiating from its structure, the same predatory glint in its eyes, the same aura that made the air seem heavier.
"This is a Mizu Bunshin—a Water Clone," my father explained, circling the duplicate with deliberate steps that sank slightly into the soft earth, his voice firm amidst the clone's faint watery glow. "It's identical to the original body in every aspect—strength, speed, techniques, instincts. The only differences are its chakra reserves, limited to ten percent of mine, and a slightly reduced stamina; it can withstand blows, but less before dissipating. Ideal for pushing you to your limit without restrictions."
He turned to Nao and me, his gaze like a blade pressing against skin. "You two will face him. Integrate the water and earth jutsus I taught you with taijutsu and weapons—fight like shinobi, not like mages exchanging spells from a distance. The clone will be on the same level as you, using the same techniques in combat. Adapt, apply, survive. Begin."
No and I exchanged a brief, resolute nod, the mist swirling around our legs like eager spectators as we unsheathed our kunai from hidden sheaths with a soft metallic crunch, the cold steel digging into our palms like an old friend. The clone's eyes—empty black mirroring my father's—fixated on us, its form undulating slightly as it assumed a balanced posture, water trickling from its limbs like anticipatory sweat, the scent of ozone intensifying in the air.
He lunged forward with a burst of speed, his feet cutting through the mist with dizzying intensity, scattering shallow droplets that arced like tiny comets. Mid-stride, his hands joined in two-handed seals—tiger, ox, rabbit—fingers interlacing with precision, and he unleashed a Mizudeppō, the jet erupting from his mouth like a pressurized spear, cutting through the mist with a piercing hiss that echoed off the stone walls, the fresh scent of rain blossoming as it headed toward the clone's torso. The clone writhed gracefully, its body deforming like a wave dodging a rock, the jet brushing its shoulder and exploding against the vine-covered wall in a spray of water that lashed like rain, steam rising slightly from the impact.
I approached without hesitation, kunai held inverted, delivering a low blow to the clone's legs while my free hand initiated the hand seals for Doton: Doryūheki. The blade cut through the air, the mist dissipating into silvery threads, the metal handle sharpening as it aimed to cut. The clone countered with a wide kick, its hands joining in two-handed hand seals to summon a Doryūheki—a wall of mud instantly rising before it, two and a half meters high, solid and uneven, the air thickening with the strong aroma of churned earth. My blade struck the barrier with a dull thud, sinking a few centimeters into the hardened mud before being repelled, vibrations coursing through my wrist like a struck bell.
Nao pressed from the side, kunai gleaming in a series of rapid thrusts against the clone's torso as his hands intertwined in two-handed seals for another Mizudeppō. The clone parried the thrusts with an arm that transformed into a watery shield, the kunai sinking with a wet sound before being repelled, droplets flying like jets of blood. He counterattacked with a palm strike towards Nao, but he dodged, the strike grazing his shoulder and distorting the air with a splash that soaked his robe, cold and shocking against his heated skin.
The clone retaliated fiercely, its hands clasped together in a two-handed seal for a Mizudeppō as it lunged at me in taijutsu, its fist pounding like a piston, the air whistling with force as it aimed at my chest. The jet shot out mid-attack, a narrow beam cutting through the air with a whistle that pierced the damp silence of the alcove, the fresh scent of rain bursting as it struck my chest. I dove to the side, the cold mud embracing me as I rolled, the jet crashing against the wall behind with a thud that chipped the stone, fragments sliding across the ground like hail. Rising, I counterattacked with my own Mizudeppō, my hands interlocking in two-handed seals, chakra coiling in my throat like a pressurized spring, the jet erupting from my mouth with a sharp blast, cutting through the mist toward the clone's flank. The barrier was blocked by another Doryūheki, the mud wall rising like a solidified wave, the barrier trembling with the impact, the mud cracking and splashing in arcs that soaked us, the smell of wet earth intensifying like the bed of a newly churned river.
Nao entered the fight, transforming her kunai into a throwing grip and launching it at the clone's head while advancing with a knee strike to its side. The blade spun like a deadly vortex, the mist dissipating in its wake with a faint whisper, but the clone dodged, the kunai embedding itself in the vine wall with a thud that caused droplets to fall. Nao's knee struck the clone with devastating force, distorting it like churning water, a splash erupting and soaking its leg. The clone counterattacked with a point-blank Mizudeppō, its hands closing into two-handed seals, the jet shooting from its mouth like a cannon, the fresh scent of rain exploding as it aimed at Nao's chest. Nao dodged, the lightning grazing its arm and eliciting a hiss of pain, the water soaking its sleeve.
I pressed the opening, the seals glowing with both hands for the Mizudeppō as I closed with taijutsu—a fine kunai strike to draw his guard, then the jet of water erupted from my mouth in full attack, the hiss cutting through the air like a blade. The clone blocked the blow with a watery arm, the shock resonating like metal on ice, vibrations shaking my wrist, but my jet struck his flank with precision, violently distorting his shape, the water gushing in a misty cascade that refreshed the alcove like a sudden rain.
The battle raged on, a perfect dance of jutsu intertwined in a furious melee—Nao trapping the clone with a wall of Doryūheki while attacking it with kunai, me firing jets of water amidst elbow strikes and sweeps. The niche transformed into a chaotic arena: churning mud, splashing water, kunai clashing with watery limbs in damp circles, aromas mingling in a dense mixture of earth, sweat, and ozone. Even so, the clone handled it all with effortless mastery—dodging our combined attacks with minimal movement, counter-attacking with precise jutsu and taijutsu that repeatedly forced us to retreat, its strength identically overwhelming despite its limitations. It parried Nao's kunai barrage with a watery shield, then summoned a mud wall to block my water jet, breaking our rhythm with a single casual sweep that sent us staggering.
Exhausted, we launched one last attack—Nao's water jet from the side, my mud wall rising to trap it—but the clone simply formed two-handed seals for a Mizudeppō that pierced Nao's guard, knocking him down with a wet impact, and then turned on me with a taijutsu combination that ended with a palm strike to my chest, sending me tumbling into the mud, the cold mud soaking my robe. The clone remained above us, swaying slightly, its form unwavering, chakra still abundant enough to dominate. It had won—effortlessly, as expected of a Jonin duplicate, even a limited one.
Gasping for breath, our bodies aching, Nao and I exchanged a defeated nod—the fog was now a swirling veil around our loss, the scents of battle lingering as a lesson in humility.
However, my father turned to Daigo and Rokuta, his voice cutting through the niche like an order from the depths. "Daigo, take your brother Rokuta and train him in Mizu Bunshin—the Water Clone Technique. You've already mastered it; now teach him. Go to the secondary courtyard—away from distractions."
Daigo nodded without question, his expression as serene as ever, while Rokuta smiled, clapping his hands together with a snap that echoed off the stones. "Finally! I've been waiting to form my own army." They set off together, Daigo's steps firm, Rokuta's bouncy with excitement. I managed to catch a few snippets as they walked away: Daigo explaining the seals — "Tiger to absorb moisture, ox to give shape, rabbit to stabilize" — Rokuta immediately trying, a watery bubble forming and then dissolving into a puddle with a splash, his laughter booming. "Again! I almost did it!"
With the four of us separated in the isolated alcove, my father remained only long enough to watch Nao and me catch our breath amidst the accumulated water and churned mud, our bodies slippery and aching from the clone's easy dominance. The clone had dispersed into a wide, undulating puddle at our feet, the last vestiges of its form evaporating in a thin vapor that rose like ghosts in the cold air. The alcove now smelled of wet earth, salt, and ozone—a dense, heavy, almost suffocating smell after the intensity of the struggle. My father nodded briefly, not in approval or disappointment, simply acknowledging that the lesson had been taught.
Then, without a word, he turned and left the alcove, his heavy footsteps echoing off the stone walls, the slight limp in his left leg almost imperceptible, yet unmistakable to anyone who knew him. The mist seemed to dissipate slightly before him, as if even the haze recognized the authority in his presence. Nao and I watched him leave, chests still heaving, kunai still loosely gripped in our hands, the cold steel slowly warming against our palms.
Moments later, he reappeared in the main training courtyard, his colossal silhouette cutting through the dissipating mist like a ship breaking through waves. The nineteen remaining brothers—those still dedicated to the fundamentals of tree climbing and basic chakra control—froze mid-movement as soon as he appeared. The younger ones, like Hajime and Jun, stood at attention, eyes wide and hands trembling, still pressed against the tree trunks. The older ones, like Tetsuya and Isao, lowered their kunai or wiped the sweat from their brows, the air suddenly heavy with expectation and a faint scent of fear mixed with respect.
The courtyard seemed larger now without the four of us, the mist swirling lazily around the scattered groups, the pale sun filtering in weak silvery rays that reflected off sweaty skin and the wet ground. The air vibrated with the low hum of nervous breathing, the distant rumble of waves below the cliffs providing a constant, resounding backdrop. My father stopped right in the center, the clipboard still clutched under one of his enormous arms, and raised his voice just enough to be heard across the open space without needing to shout.
"You've all shown progress in the fundamentals," he said, his tone gruff but carrying that underlying expectation that made spines straighten and eyes sharpen. "Climbing trees develops control. Now let's go beyond that. I'll teach you the basics of water and earth jutsus—starting with water, since that's our village's affinity. The technique we'll begin with is Suiton: Mizudeppō—the Water Bullet Technique."
He didn't rush into a demonstration. Instead, he began at the basics, the part no one had ever seen in stories or scrolls: the invisible complexity beneath the surface. He walked slowly among them, his imposing figure casting long shadows that moved like living beings on the mud, and spoke in that deep, measured tone that demanded absolute attention.
"A jutsu isn't just a simple trick of hand seals," he said, stopping beside Hajime, who was still catching his breath after a failed attempt to climb a tree. "Anyone can memorize positions. Anyone can wave their hands and hope for the best. But the jutsu only awakens when you understand the inner movement." He placed a large hand on Hajime's shoulder—not forcefully, but firmly, guiding the boy's small body to straighten up. "Chakra isn't magic. It's your life force shaped by will. To create Suiton, you first need to transform the nature of your chakra—transform it from raw energy into the essence of water. Fluid. Compressible. Heavy when still, devastating when forced."
He returned to the center, slowly raising both hands, fingers spread. Still no hand seals—just the preparatory posture. "Feel it first in your core. Gather the chakra there, like drawing water from a well. Then, guide it upwards, through the channels of your chest, to your throat. Let it mix with your saliva—the natural moisture is the bridge. Compress it as it passes through your mouth, like squeezing a stream through a narrow pipe. The hand seals are only guides—they align your tenketsu, open the pathways, but the real work happens within you."
Only then did he form the hand seals—tiger, ox, rabbit—both hands joining in precise, deliberate movements, fingers interlacing and moving with the calm certainty of someone who had done this thousands of times before. The chakra visibly concentrated in his chest, a soft blue glow illuminating the mist around him like underwater lightning, the air becoming crisp with the scent of impending rain. He inhaled deeply, the sound audible even from where I was watching, and exhaled.
A jet of water erupted from his mouth—not an uncontrolled spray, but a thin, pressurized bullet, cutting through the air with a sharp hiss that broke the silence like a blade. It struck a dummy twenty meters away, the straw exploding in a damp jet that spread the fresh scent of rain and salt across the yard, the impact cracking like thunder and knocking the target into the mud with a heavy splash.
The brothers stared intently, their eyes wide, the younger ones whispering excitedly in low tones, the older ones nodding thoughtfully, already trying to sense that inner change he had described. My father lowered his hands.
"Now you," he said, walking among them again, correcting their postures and hand positions with firm but careful touches. "Don't rush the hand seals. Feel the transformation first. If your chakra remains neutral, you'll just spit out water. Use Suiton."
Hajime was the first—his little hands trembled as he brought them together to make the seals, the movements abrupt but determined. He closed his eyes, his brows furrowed in concentration, trying to follow the invisible path my father had described. A weak stream trickled from his mouth like a dripping tap, splashing harmlessly onto his feet. My father nodded once. "Good start. You did it. Now squeeze harder—feel the pressure build behind your tongue like a dam about to burst."
Jun continued, managing a thin jet that reached five meters before extinguishing itself, hitting the ground with a hiss. "Better," my father said. "You've transformed it. Now control the flow—don't let it leak. Aim higher."
Sora, the youngest among them, could barely produce a mist, but he placed a huge hand on her head—gentle by his standards—and simply said, "Patience. Feel the flow. It will come."
He moved through the group methodically, patient in his gruff manner, and the courtyard soon filled with the sound of bursts of energy, surprised gasps, and the damp crackle of water against mud. The air grew heavy with the fresh scent of rain mingling with the ever-present brine and churned earth. Tetsuya hit the bullseye on the third try—a solid, narrow beam that pierced the arm of a training dummy, the tube bursting in a wet jet. Isao struggled at first, his jet veering sharply to the side, but after a few subtle corrections—my father guiding his hands, adjusting the angle of his neck, even gently pressing his chest to show where the chakra needed to focus—he managed a controlled shot that hit the target squarely.
The training continued, the fog slowly dissipating as the sun rose, its weak rays breaking through in silvery beams that danced on the wet ground. The water jets grew stronger, more precise; the ground turned into a thick mud pit from the missed shots; laughter erupted with the misses, applause echoed with the successes. My father made notes on his clipboard between corrections, his presence an imposing motivation—silent, unyielding, but never cruel.
From the edge of the alcove, still catching my breath beside Nao, I observed everything. The urge to join them pulled me, but I knew my place now was with the advance group. The water jets grew higher, the air vibrated with chakra, the courtyard transformed into a living symphony of growth and determination.
But, looking out at the distant sea, with the horizon swallowed by the mist, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen.
Something that would not forgive weakness.
Not even that of a small child.
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