Shen Mo stood amidst the swirling dust of the training ground, his gaze fixed on Might Guy. He could practically see the gears of the man's soul grinding against one another. Guy wasn't just a man who wanted power; he was a man who worshipped the climb toward power. To Guy, the struggle was the sanctification of his existence.
"You remind me of a couple of people I've met across the stars," Shen Mo said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he let out a faint, appreciative smile. "People who decided that the 'rules' of the universe were just suggestions. Keep opening them, Guy. I can already see the shape of the destiny you're calling forth. It looks like a wildfire."
"Destiny..." Might Guy whispered. He looked down at the remaining row of Tier 2 jars. A grin, so bright it was almost blinding, split his face. "I've been punching destiny in the mouth since I was five years old. I can't wait to see what it looks like when it finally punches back!"
Guy was a man born into a world that prized lineage and genius. Fate had handed him a "failure" tag at birth, decreeing that a boy who couldn't mold ninjutsu was a boy who could never be a true shinobi.
His entire life had been a violent, sweaty, screaming rejection of that decree.
He had proven, through sheer, bloody-minded repetition, that a "nobody" could stand among the "somebodies." He had inherited that defiance from his father, and now, as he stood before these jars, that lifelong fire was fusing with the mystical energy of the Myriad Worlds.
"Ooooooh—!"
Guy's hands became a blur. He didn't just open the jars; he demolished them. He didn't even look at the loot—the scrolls, the weights, the strange vitamins. He tossed them aside like chaff, focused only on the pull of the final ceramic shells. The aura around him began to distort the air, shimmering like heat rising off a summer road.
"Well, if the Green Beast is going to make us look bad, we might as well join in," Nara Shikaku said, folding his arms and letting out a dry, tired chuckle. "Our youth might be a distant memory, but I'd like to think I've still got enough luck to pull something interesting out of the deck."
"Look at you, Shikaku! Actually showing initiative!" Inoichi Yamanaka laughed, already cracking his first seal. "If the laziest man in Konoha is motivated, the rest of us have no excuse to hold back. Let's see what the Yamanaka name can pull."
"I just hope the Gourmet Series has something better than the local BBQ place," Akimichi Choza added, his stomach letting out a rumble that sounded like distant thunder. He was already eyeing his jars with the intense focus of a man about to eat a ten-course meal.
Kurenai Yūhi stepped up as well, her movements graceful and resolute. She was determined to evolve her genjutsu beyond the traditional limits of the Leaf's techniques.
Even though they were only opening their Tier 2 jars for now, the combined total of six elite Konoha shinobi surpassed the haul Rasa had taken for himself in the Sand. Shen Mo felt a wave of satisfaction—his "profit margins" were expanding beautifully.
But it wasn't just about the points. As he managed the flow of items, he saw Asuma Sarutobi pull something truly bizarre from his Tier 2 batch.
It was the Buddhism Series.
Shen Mo stared at the screen in his mind, his mental expression a perfect: Σ(°△°|||)︴
Asuma? Really? The guy with the cigarettes and the trench knives?
The Buddhism Series was one Shen Mo had designed based on high-fantasy realms where monks didn't just pray—they crushed mountains with palm strikes and achieved indestructible bodies through zen. It was a path of absolute sacrifice and inner peace.
"Buddhism, huh?" Asuma said, scratching his beard as he looked at a small, golden prayer bead he'd just unboxed. "That's funny. My friend Chiriku always tells me that beneath this rough exterior, I've got a 'Buddha-nature' that won't quit."
"He's not wrong," Hiruzen Sarutobi added, glancing at his son with a mixture of pride and amusement. "Your heart has always been softer than your blades, Asuma."
"Your spirit really doesn't match your face," Shen Mo said, finally finding his voice. He was still a bit speechless. "But be warned, Asuma: the 'Buddha' in these jars isn't the one you find in a village temple. This is the path of the Universal Savior. Are you truly prepared to discard your own ego—everything you are—just to save others?"
Asuma didn't hesitate. He looked at the Hokage Rock in the distance, then back at his father. He remembered the long years of rebellion, the years he didn't understand the "Will of Fire." But now, as a man, he understood that the Will was nothing more than the ultimate sacrifice for the next generation.
"In a heartbeat," Asuma replied.
"Fine then," Shen Mo said, shaking his head with a smirk. "If the 'Vajra' fits, wear it. If you hate it, we can always pivot later. Just don't blame me if you start glowing."
In this world, monks could marry and have kids, so Asuma wasn't worried about losing Kurenai. He just figured he'd be a bit more "zen" during his fights.
Suddenly, a shift in the atmosphere drew everyone's attention back to Might Guy.
He had reached his final jar. As the ceramic shattered, a single, crystalline medicinal pill floated into the air. It was translucent, but inside its core, a tiny, burning red spark flickered like a miniature star.
"There it is," Shen Mo said, walking over. "The item that answers your call, Guy."
The training ground went silent. Shikaku, Inoichi, and even the hungry Choza stopped what they were doing to watch.
"This is it?" Guy asked, staring at the tiny pill. He looked at Shen Mo, his eyes wide and searching. "What does it do? Does it give me a new punch? A new kick?"
Shen Mo didn't answer immediately. He looked at the pill, then at Guy, as if weighing the man's soul one last time.
"Guy," Shen Mo began, his voice dropping to a serious, resonant tone. "You talk about youth more than anyone I've ever met. But tell me... do you know who the greatest enemy of youth is?"
Guy blinked. He hadn't expected a philosophy lesson. He thought for a long moment, his face contorting with effort. "Getting discouraged? Giving up because it's too hard?"
"No," Shen Mo said, shaking his head. His dark pupils seemed to expand, reflecting the red spark of the pill. "Limits. And Time."
The words hit Guy like a physical blow.
He'd spent his life ignoring those two things. He'd trained until his bones screamed, pretending that if he just worked hard enough, he could ignore the passage of years and the biological ceilings of the human body.
"You don't feel it yet," Shen Mo continued, his voice mercilessly clinical. "You're in your prime. You're getting stronger every day. But one day—maybe in ten years, maybe in twenty—your progress will stop. Your body will begin to decline. Your bones will grow brittle, and your heart will slow down. On that day, even if your spirit is still screaming with passion, your 'Youth' will be over. You will become a relic of what you used to be."
It was the cruelest truth in the world of a martial artist. Hot blood can't stop gray hair. Effort eventually hits a wall of diminishing returns.
Guy stayed silent. The usual "Youthful" slogans died in his throat. He looked at his hands—calloused, scarred, and powerful. The thought of those hands becoming weak and shaky was a nightmare he'd kept locked in the back of his mind.
But then, the silence broke.
Guy clenched his fist so hard the air around it popped. The aura around him didn't just burn; it erupted.
"So what?" Guy shouted, his voice cracking with a fierce, defiant joy. "As long as I can draw breath, my youth is alive! Limits? Time? Those are just more walls to kick down! If I hit my limit, I'll just have to stake my life to shatter it! If time tries to slow me down, I'll run until the world catches fire!"
He saw his father's face in his mind—the man who had died smiling, protecting what he loved, proving that his "Youth" lasted until the very last second of his life.
"True youth isn't about being young," Guy declared, tears of passion streaming down his face. "It's about protecting the things that matter, and using your life to prove that 'impossible' is just a word for people who are afraid to sweat!"
Shen Mo smiled. It was the perfect answer.