Drop.
Drop.
Sweat slipped from Shorai's white hair—usually neat, now clawed into disarray—and tracked down his temple before striking the soil. The ground around him was a patchwork of blackened rings and torn roots, as if a storm had tried to claw its way out of the earth.
Two figures stood in the clearing, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the same rhythm.
"I'm getting the hang of it, finally," both Shorais said at once.
Three months had passed since the first time wind and lightning had truly agreed to share a single channel. Back then, Swift Release had been a violent blink—an accident he survived. Now it was something else: a method. A cadence. A controlled burn that could be held without tearing him apart.
He let his eyes travel over the damage—splintered trunks, a boulder cracked like bone, a trench cut by impact—and allowed himself a small, private satisfaction.
"A bit more," Shorai muttered, wiping sweat from his lip, "and then I can refine wind and lightning separately. Clean them. Sharpen them."
The clone rolled his shoulders, the motion identical but somehow more careless. "What about water affinity? If we push it, we could unlock Ice… maybe even Storm Release."
Shorai shook his head. "Ice will take time. Storm too. Right now I need a fast taijutsu style that fits what I already have—wind for cutting and control, lightning for piercing and internal disruption. After graduation, maybe." His gaze narrowed. "Ice appeals to me more than Storm."
The clone lifted a brow. "Storm's efficient. Water and lightning compressed together? Devastating. Remember that man with the black tattoos—shooting beams like it was a performance?"
Shorai's grin was brief and sharp. "I remember. 'Laser circus.'" He inhaled slowly, as if tasting the idea. "But I have a hypothesis. Something beyond Storm—more lethal, more absolute. If it holds…"
His eyes drifted to the crimson sentry seal etched into the nearest stone—silent, vigilant, its glow faint under the thinning night.
"Options," he whispered, almost reverent. "Options for… Plasma Release."
The clone froze, then exhaled through his nose and pressed a palm to his face. "Right. Of course. 'Plasma.'" His voice turned dry. "Complicated. Focus-heavy. And if you misjudge it, you don't lose a match—you lose fingers."
Shorai didn't flinch. "The theory is the point." He flexed his hand, feeling the lingering sting of static in his tendons. "Vacuum could stabilize it. Or Ice could isolate it. Without fire affinity, I need a way to create and contain heat through ionization."
The clone's eyes sharpened. "And Yang Release to keep it viable."
Shorai's smile returned—smaller now, but dangerous. "As I said. Fiction for now. Out of reach." He looked at the sentry again, then at the empty air beside it. "But I want a professional answer."
His attention moved towards the Reality Stone.
A low hum settled into the bones of the world—like the air itself had remembered a scream and chose to whisper instead. Crimson-black motes gathered, then folded inward, knitting themselves into a spectral replica: his advisor, eyes like cooled embers.
"Give me your analysis," Shorai said. "My affinity state. Feasibility of plasma through vacuum or ice."
The construct stared through him for a breath too long, as if measuring the shape of his ambition.
"Plasma is ionized, superheated gas," it said at last. "In combat, it disintegrates organic matter on contact. Without Fire affinity, viability shifts toward sustaining conditions—vacuum stabilization or isolation layers."
Its voice remained clinical, but the air around it prickled with warning.
"Wind may provide stability," the advisor continued. "Water and Lightning can be compressed and ionized. Temperature must rise enough to separate molecules into a gaseous state before ionization. The process is focus-intensive. Possible—but unforgiving."
Shorai nodded once. "And the second path?"
"Ice Release," the construct replied. "Less taxing. More stable. Requires isolation layers and strict control. Yang Release is essential in both approaches."
He forced himself to ask the real question—the one that mattered more than pride.
"Which is safer?"
"Which can I train without risking dismemberment?"
The advisor's answer was immediate.
"Currently, neither can be recommended," it said. "Requirements unmet. Abstract feasibility confirmed. Ice Release is the most efficient and least dangerous."
Its gaze sharpened. "Recommend training only with shadow clones. Begin with Yin Release—anti-radiation shielding will be necessary for prolonged exposure."
Shorai let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Relief, not because it was easy—because it was real.
"At least it's possible," he murmured. "Maybe artifacts like mine have altered the rules of chakra physics."
The construct said nothing. It simply unraveled back into motes, leaving the air colder than before.
He returned to training.
Not to chase plasma—yet—but to perfect what he could wield today. Swift Release had to become instinct. A second heartbeat. A movement that didn't require thought.
By the time winter break approached, the forest had memorized his collisions.
After the Fuinjutsu test, Hiruzen Sarutobi asked him to stay behind.
The classroom emptied. The faint smell of ink and paper remained, layered under the older scent of tobacco and authority that followed the Hokage like a cloak.
Hiruzen's gaze pinned Shorai with unsettling gentleness. "You, Shorai, are a rare prodigy. The spirit of Minato… and Tobirama… lives strong in you."
Shorai bowed, controlled. "Thank you, Lord Hokage."
Hiruzen waved a hand. "No need for formality here. You've made progress?"
Shorai's lips curved. The pride was real—he simply didn't let it spill. "Yes, Grandpa. I've mastered wind and lightning transformation…" He paused, then chose honesty. "…and unlocked what I can call a Swift Release."
For a heartbeat, Hiruzen looked like an old man again—genuinely surprised.
"W-what?" he breathed, then chuckled sharply. "That's incredible. When? How did I not sense it?"
"About a week ago," Shorai admitted. "I kept it hidden. Not even Iruka knows."
Hiruzen's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but calculation. "Ho-ho. Good. Keep it that way—for now. And your taijutsu?"
Shorai's answer came too smoothly, as if he'd rehearsed it during midnight drills. "I believe I'll shock you, Grandpa."
Hiruzen's brow rose.
"I've studied medical ninjutsu," Shorai continued. "Anatomy. Tenketsu. Chakra scalpel. Limb emission. I built a style around precision—wind for angles, lightning for penetration."
Hiruzen inhaled, slow and deep. "Unbelievable." His voice softened, then hardened with truth. "To call you a genius is an understatement. Do you know what this means?"
Shorai's eyes sharpened. "Being careful around Hyuga users."
Hiruzen nodded. "Exactly." He studied Shorai the way one studies a blade—admiring it, and fearing what it might cut. "Shorai… you're far beyond genin level."
A pause.
"Your scores, your control, your knowledge…" Hiruzen's mouth quirked into a half-smile beneath the hat. "You're ready."
"Ready for what?"
Hiruzen's tone turned deceptively casual.
"I'll witness your graduation exam—here and now."
Shorai blinked—genuine surprise cutting through his composure. Then he steadied himself. "I'm ready."
"Show me Bunshin and Henge," Hiruzen said. "Kawarimi as well."
Shorai moved.
Chakra rose cleanly—no waste, no hesitation. The clone illusion snapped into being with academy-standard precision, then sharpened beyond it: stable edges, consistent density. Henge followed—seamless. Kawarimi—silent, practiced, almost disrespectfully smooth.
Hiruzen watched without blinking. When Shorai finished, the Hokage's expression held something that looked like pride and something that looked like concern.
"By my authority," Hiruzen said, "I appoint you a formal shinobi of Konohagakure."
"Congratulations, Shorai. You are a genin."
Shorai's chest tightened—not with joy, but with the sudden awareness of consequence.
"W-what?" He swallowed. "What do I do now? Go to the Academy? Get a headband? Grandpa… that could be suspicious."
Hiruzen's gaze softened. "You'll continue attending the Academy as before. Nothing changes." He leaned forward slightly. "You'll receive your headband at the official ceremony with your classmates. But from today onward, you are a genin in truth."
He counted the instructions off with a calm that implied preparation. "Keep training. Attend my fuinjutsu lessons. Your other exams still await. And above all—keep this between us. I'll speak with Iruka."
Relief loosened Shorai's shoulders. "Thank you, Grandpa."
He hesitated, then asked the question he'd been holding like a blade behind his back.
"Do the Council… or Root… know about me?"
"Have they noticed?"
Hiruzen's face didn't change much—but the warmth in his eyes dulled, briefly, as if a curtain had moved.
"I told you before—no need to worry," he said. "No one will come for you. Focus on your path. That's all that matters."
Shorai bowed deeply. "Thank you, Lord Hokage."
Hiruzen smiled again, returning the room to its earlier softness. "You're dismissed. See you in class."
Outside, winter air bit at Shorai's lungs. His heart hammered—not from exertion this time, but from the weight of being acknowledged.
No need to worry, he repeated to himself.
Yet his eyes—sharp, calculating—didn't match the reassurance. Excellence was a beacon. A prodigy could only be hidden for so long.
And sooner or later… someone would look up.