"Transform into that."
Genzo pointed at a rusted, bottomless tin bucket in the corner. It was smeared with filth and emanated a stomach-churning stench.
Sosuke didn't hesitate.
Dog—Boar—Tiger.
Chakra surged from his coils, coating his entire body.
Poof.
The smoke cleared. In his place sat a battered tin bucket. Every texture of the rust and every jagged edge of the rim was perfectly replicated.
Sosuke curled his body tight, struggling to hide his limbs within the visual blind spots created by his chakra. It wasn't comfortable. To match the bucket's volume, he had to curl up into a tight fetal position. His muscles strained under the unnatural tension.
Clang.
A muffled grunt echoed from within the tin. The kick had landed squarely on Sosuke's spine.
"Do buckets scream?" Genzo asked coldly.
Clang!
Another kick. This time it struck the 'bottom' of the bucket—Sosuke's rear.
Sosuke clamped his jaw shut, swallowing any sound.
"Pain suppression," Genzo said, taking a swig of liquor. His voice was indifferent. "The [Transformation Jutsu] isn't just wearing a new skin. You have to believe you are the object. You are a tin bucket. You have no nervous system. Even if you're crushed flat, you do not make a sound."
He raised his empty liquor bottle.
Smash.
The heavy glass shattered against the bucket, sending shrapnel flying. The fragments pierced the thin chakra cloak, slicing deep into Sosuke's calf. Warm blood seeped into the dirt.
But the bucket remained completely motionless. No screaming. No trembling.
"Getting there," Genzo nodded. "Hold it. Ten minutes."
The old amputee walked to the side, unbuckled his belt, and began pissing on the pile of garbage. Urine splashed against a nearby tire, mere centimeters from the bucket Sosuke had become.
It was humiliation. It was also extreme psychological desensitization. Shinobi on a mission sometimes had to submerge themselves in cesspits or disguise themselves as corpses, allowing enemies to trample over them without a flinch.
Sosuke curled beneath his iron facade. The acrid stench of ammonia flooded his olfactory senses. Ultimately unable to tolerate the biological hazard, he released the jutsu.
He knelt on the ground, drenched in sweat. His back was a mottled canvas of bruises, and the laceration on his calf was already clotting.
"Again," Genzo ordered coldly. "Transform into the trash can. Transform into that rotting log."
That day, Sosuke experienced hell.
He was no longer human; he was the inanimate detritus of the junkyard. He was stepped on, kicked, splashed with stagnant water, and even pissed on by feral dogs Genzo lured over. Every time he dropped the transformation out of pain or biological revulsion, he was met with Genzo's ruthless mockery and additional training.
Until the sun set.
Sosuke lay in the garbage pile, reeking of filth, the original color of his clothes completely obscured by grime. Yet, the rock he had transformed into remained a rock—even after Genzo struck it three times with his heavy iron crutch.
No trembling. No breathing. Even his body temperature was deliberately suppressed by restricting cellular energy output via chakra.
"You're getting the hang of it." Genzo finally put away his crutch. "Remember this feeling. Throw away your dignity. Sever your pain receptors. Only then can you deceive the enemy."
That was just the appetizer.
The next day brought more [Transformation Jutsu] practice.
"Transform into that." Genzo pointed at a patch of tall weeds at the edge of the junkyard.
A crooked scarecrow stood there. It wasn't just battered; it was half-rotten. The hay spilling from its seams was black with mold, and a few unidentifiable, faded rags hung off its wooden frame. Several crows perched on its shoulders, brazenly pecking at the grass seeds and insects hidden within.
"A scarecrow?" Sosuke asked.
"It's called environmental mimicry," Genzo said, taking his customary sip of alcohol. "The [Transformation Jutsu] doesn't just fool the eyes; it requires true integration into your surroundings. You need to become a tree, or a scarecrow. Even if the wind howls, the rain beats down, or a bird sh*ts on your head, you do not move."
Genzo waved his hand. "Go. Pull out the original one and take its place."
Sosuke complied. He waded into the weeds and uprooted the moldy scarecrow.
Dog—Boar—Tiger.
Chakra flowed.
Poof.
A brand-new, yet outwardly dilapidated scarecrow appeared in the brush.
Sosuke maintained a rigid 'T' pose, balancing entirely on one leg. To simulate the single wooden stake driven into the earth, he had to tuck his other leg tightly against his torso. It was an extreme test of equilibrium and muscular endurance.
"Hold it." Genzo found a comfortable spot to sit. "Unless I call stop, you don't move. Even if the sky falls."
The first ten minutes weren't unbearable. But half an hour later, the agony set in.
First came his shoulders. Holding both arms perfectly horizontal seemed mechanically simple, but maintaining the tension for over thirty minutes ignited a burning lactic acid buildup in his deltoids. Next was his supporting leg. His ankle began to tremble under the isolated body weight; his calf muscles locked up like petrified stone.
"Don't shake," Genzo's voice drifted over from afar. "A scarecrow is an inanimate object. Inanimate objects don't shiver from muscle fatigue."
Sosuke gritted his teeth. 'Force it.' He violently mobilized his chakra, wrapping it around the failing muscle fibers like an internal cast, artificially immobilizing his own skeletal structure.
The wind blew. Weeds brushed against his suspended leg. It itched.
A green bottle fly buzzed over, landing squarely on the tip of his nose—the scarecrow's cloth face. The insect aggressively rubbed its forelegs together. Through his chakra-enhanced perception, that microscopic friction was infinitely magnified into a maddening tactile sensation.
Sosuke's body desperately wanted to sneeze.
He clamped down on his diaphragm, suffocating the reflex until it was nothing more than a microscopic internal tremor.
But that wasn't the hardest part. Then came the crows.
A murder of crows fluttered down, perceiving Sosuke as a genuine scarecrow or merely another fixture of the trash heap. One landed directly on his outstretched arm. Its talons were razor-sharp, piercing through the thin visual illusion of his chakra cloak and digging straight into his flesh.
Sosuke remained perfectly still.
The crow tilted its head. With its sharp beak, it violently pecked at Sosuke's ear, testing the biological material to see if it was edible.
Agony. The cartilage felt as if it had been impaled by a heavy-gauge needle.
Sosuke's internal chakra network fluctuated for a fraction of a second.
Poof.
The [Transformation Jutsu] shattered.
"Gah!" Sosuke cried out, clutching his bleeding ear. The startled crow took flight in a flurry of black feathers, cawing loudly.
"Is that your limit?" Genzo remained seated, thoroughly unimpressed. "If that had been an enemy scout, you'd already be a corpse. Again."
Sosuke locked his jaw, swallowing his physical limitations. He stood up, warm blood seeping through the fingers pressed against his ear. He offered no complaints. He formed the seals.
Poof.
The scarecrow stood upon the garbage heap once more.
He maintained the suspension for the entire morning. He endured crawling flies, pecking crows, and dizzying dehydration from the midday sun. But slowly, a biological rhythm established itself. It was a calculated state of 'submerging' his conscious self-awareness.
He decelerated his heart rate. He minimized his respiratory output.
When he stopped resisting the external stimuli and systematically processed himself as a mere fixture of the environment, the physical trauma seemed to distance itself from his brain.
By noon, a crow landed on top of his head once more. It didn't peck him. It simply perched securely, preening its feathers. It even dropped a load of liquid sh*t that trickled warmly down the brim of his straw hat.
Sosuke did not flinch. Even the latent fluctuations of his chakra had become mathematically undetectable.
It wasn't until the sun sank below the horizon that Genzo finally yawned and stood up.
"That's enough."
Sosuke immediately released the jutsu. He collapsed entirely into the weeds. His arms had lost all neurological sensation, hanging dead at his sides like severed appendages. The foot he had balanced on was swollen to twice its normal diameter.
"Your discipline is passable." Genzo walked over, his dark eyes analyzing the bird sh*t and deep talon lacerations on Sosuke's shoulders. "You pass this stage."
Sosuke lay flat against the dirt, his lungs expanding violently as he gasped for oxygen. This static torture drained his central nervous system far faster than any kinetic physical conditioning.
"Tomorrow," Genzo said, looking down at the boy. A trace of cruel amusement glinted in the veteran's eyes. "We train dynamic movement."
He turned to leave.
"Wrap your entire body in bandages beforehand. Tomorrow, you will bleed."