One month became two. Two became three.
Sasuke's skills grew steadily. Not explosively—no sudden power-ups or breakthroughs. Just consistent, grinding improvement.
His chakra reserves increased. His control became more precise. His technique library expanded.
He learned Wind Release basics. Water Release fundamentals. Lightning Release variations. Orochimaru threw everything at him, testing the limits of his Sharingan's copying ability.
"You're progressing faster than most," Kabuto observed during a medical check-up. "Your chakra pathways have expanded significantly. Reserves increased by approximately forty percent since you arrived."
"Is that unusual?"
"For three months? Yes. Most shinobi take years to see that kind of growth." Kabuto's analytical gaze studied him. "You're either naturally talented, or you're pushing yourself harder than I realize."
Both, actually. But Sasuke didn't say that.
Sparring sessions became routine. Kabuto was his usual opponent. The medical ninja was frustratingly good—decades of experience meant he could predict Sasuke's moves before he made them.
"You rely too heavily on your Sharingan," Kabuto said after throwing Sasuke across the training ground. Again. "What happens when you face someone faster than your eyes can track?"
"I'll get faster."
"Wrong answer." Kabuto helped him up. "The right answer is: develop other skills. Your Sharingan is a tool, not a crutch."
He was right. Annoying, but right.
Sasuke started training without his Sharingan activated. Forced himself to rely on instinct and prediction rather than precognition. It was harder. He lost more sparring matches.
But slowly, his fundamentals improved.
By month four, he was actually landing hits on Kabuto occasionally. By month five, he managed to win a match through pure strategy rather than visual prowess.
"Better," Kabuto assessed. "You're becoming a complete fighter, not just a Sharingan user."
Progress. Real, measurable progress.
But Sasuke knew it wasn't enough. Not yet. He needed more.