I hope you will give me, my friend, a comment in addition to some special stones that will help me continue.
──────────────────────
Chapter 3
The third hour of relentless motion bled into the training ground's dusty air. (Sosuke) ran. His lungs were twin furnaces, searing his chest from the inside with every ragged, gasping breath he hauled in. Yet, his legs, powered by a will that felt separate from his screaming muscles, maintained the same brutal rhythm. A steady, punishing thump-thump-thump of his feet against the packed earth was the only drum he marched to.
His eyes, sharp and focused, were locked ahead, unblinking. They saw nothing but the blurred path before him, the world reduced to a smear of brown and green. His shock of white hair, usually a static crest, now streamed behind him like a battle standard, whipping and snapping against the wind his own body created. Swish, thwip. The sound was a constant, sharp whisper against the roar of blood in his ears.
His speed was… average. By the standards of the shinobi who called this violent world home, it was a decent, sustainable pace for a long-distance run. But for any ordinary person from the world he once knew, it would have been a dead sprint, a pace impossible to maintain for more than a few minutes. He was a ghost of his past self, pushing a body that was both alien and familiar to its absolute limit.
He ran for three hours.
Finally, the last vestiges of strength evaporated from his legs. They buckled, folding beneath him like poorly constructed furniture. He didn't so much sit as collapse onto the hard ground, a cloud of dust puffing up around him with a soft poof. He sat there, hunched over, his body convulsing as he fought to reclaim the air his body had consumed.
"Huff… Oof… huff… By the gods, my chest… it feels like it's on fire…"
His voice was a raw, scratchy thing, torn from his throat. He pressed a hand against his sternum, as if he could physically quell the inferno within.
"Still… huff… I feel better than the first time."
In truth, this had been his routine for two weeks straight. Two weeks since he had invested a small fortune into his new obsession: specialized chakra weights. The ones he wore now were strapped securely to his ankles, their cold, dark metal a constant, heavy presence. He had paid a king's ransom of 40,000 ryo for them. An exorbitant price, but for a good reason.
They were forged from chakra-conductive metal, a rare alloy that allowed its mass to be multiplied through chakra infusion. Furthermore, they were engraved with intricate Uzumaki sealing formulae, making the precise control of their weight not just possible, but a required part of the training. He had chosen the most expensive model. The best for training, and undoubtedly, for long-term use. He couldn't afford to cut corners, not with what was coming.
"Now… for the extra training," he wheezed to the empty field.
After a ten-minute respite—a mere drop in the ocean of his fatigue—where he simply focused on turning his frantic gasps into deep, measured breaths, he pushed himself to his feet. His muscles protested with a chorus of aches, a symphony of pain. He decided on another exercise, pulling a training regimen from the depths of his borrowed memories. He had built this program himself, using the scattered, secondhand knowledge from his previous life.
He had never been a trainer or an athlete on Earth. Far from it. But he had been a consumer, a spectator. He had devoured countless training programs for entertainment, watched athletes sculpt their bodies into perfect instruments. It was a passive, distant interest then. Now, it was a lifeline.
That passive knowledge allowed him to understand the principles of building muscle without causing catastrophic damage to the body. It was a crucial understanding, even in a world where chakra could automatically heal a person and drastically enhance their natural recovery rate—especially if one had decent control over it.
He rose, his stance a little wobbly, and positioned himself in the center of the training ground. The time for push-ups had come. A fundamental exercise to strengthen his arm muscles. But he wasn't done. With a grunt of effort, he focused his will, transferring the chakra weights from his ankles to his wrists. He then activated them, increasing the load by 10 kilograms. A palpable heaviness settled into his arms immediately.
Clink. The metal bands seemed to groan as their effective mass changed.
Now, every push-up would be a dual exercise: a test of physical strength and a trial of chakra control. He had to consciously maintain a steady flow of chakra to the weights, ensuring the 10-kilo burden remained constant, even as his muscles trembled and his focus wavered under the physical strain.
The weights he had chosen were deliberately designed to be unstable. The user could either control the amount of weight with precise, focused chakra, or leave it to its own devices, forcing constant, split-second adjustments to maintain the desired weight during physical exertion. It was a brutal, but effective, way to train both body and energy simultaneously.
And so, he began. Down. Up. Each movement was a struggle, a battle against gravity and his own burning fatigue. The dust beneath his face was disturbed with every descent, the gritty particles tickling his nose. The sound of his own labored breathing, the faint creak of his joints, and the soft thud of his body lowering and rising were the only sounds in his world.
He continued in this manner, rep after agonizing rep, until he had completed one hundred push-ups. It was a Herculean effort, feeling as though his arms were being filled with lead and set ablaze. But he finished. The body of a shinobi, even one as comparatively weak as (Sosuke)'s, was far superior to any ordinary human frame. It was a vessel that could surpass the absolute peak of any Earthly athlete, and he was pushing it to its current limit.
Once again, he collapsed onto his back, staring up at the vast, pale blue sky. The sun was a bright, impartial eye watching his suffering. He lay there for a few minutes, watching the lazy drift of a few clouds, before forcing himself to his feet again. The ground felt uncomfortably warm against his back.
His legs were ready for their own special hell. This time, he began with squats. He dropped into a low crouch, then powered upwards, repeating the motion in a rapid, punishing rhythm. Down. Up. Down. Up. The muscles in his thighs and calves screamed with a fresh, new pain, a burning sensation that built with every repetition.
He pushed through, a machine of his own making, until he had hammered out one hundred squats without a single pause. Only then did he allow himself to stop, his legs feeling like overstretched rubber bands. He repeated this pattern of maximum effort followed by brief, insufficient rest with every exercise until his exhaustion reached a zenith, a peak of utter physical depletion.
"I feel… my chakra control is getting much better…" he mused, his voice still breathy. "The weights… I'm able to keep them at a constant 10 kilos now without much worry. But I also feel like my chakra reserves have grown a little bit larger. Not by much, I know. I'm aware it's impossible for them to skyrocket after just two weeks of training…"
He paused, his analytical mind, a holdover from his previous life, kicking into gear.
"But I also understand that chakra capacity is determined by physical strength. As the body trains and grows stronger, and with chakra constantly healing and enhancing it… it becomes easier to bolster physical power. It's a feedback loop."
Then, another thought, more unsettling, drifted into his mind.
"As for spiritual power… I feel like my mental energy is vastly greater than it was before. I tried going to the library to read up on the history of this shinobi world. It all matched the memories I have… but at the same time, it was far more complex. Yet, I was able to understand the terminology faster. I could even repeat everything I read and recall it perfectly whenever I wanted."
It was an unnerving feeling. Shinobi possessed enhanced memories because chakra naturally improved brain function, just as training improved the body. But perhaps, because he had transferred into this body, the mental strength of Ana, the person from Earth, had merged with the mental strength of the shinobi civilian, (Sosuke). It was the only conclusion he could draw, a strange fusion of two souls in one vessel.
Finally, noon arrived. The sun was directly overhead, casting short, stark shadows. He walked towards the nearest tree, its leaves offering a patch of merciful shade. He sat down beneath it, his back against the rough bark, and let out a long, weary sigh. Haaaaah.
His eyes scanned the training ground—the sun-baked dirt, the scattered trees, the silent, imposing wooden posts.
"If I didn't know the war was coming… if I didn't know this world is full of killing and maniacs who only want to bring peace through extreme methods… I might have actually enjoyed experiencing this power."
A wry, self-deprecating smile twisted his lips.
"Then again, I guess I still think of this power differently from the people of this world."
Big questions swirled in his head, philosophical ghosts that haunted his every waking moment.
"Why is it that people who can run anywhere, who can use abilities that far surpass normal humans, are reduced to mere tools for killing in the darkness? Wouldn't it be better if they became something useful for the world, instead of throwing their lives away meaninglessly on some battlefield?"
The thought felt naive even to him.
"Really, why am I thinking so philosophically? It feels like this world is trying to make me think more logically, more cynically, than the man I was in my previous world."
He couldn't quite remember that man clearly anymore. The memories were blurred, like a faded photograph. But he was certain he hadn't been this… brooding and philosophical.
"Better to stop thinking about it for too long. I need to get back to training."
After repeating the same grueling routine and running for several more hours, he finally broke for a late lunch at 2 PM. The food was simple, tasteless fuel, eaten without pleasure, solely for sustenance.
He returned home around 3:00. The small apartment was silent and still. He headed straight for the shower, the hot water a blissful agony on his sore muscles, washing away the grime and sweat of the morning. Afterward, he dressed in fresh clothes.
His wardrobe was spartan. All his clothes were standard-issue black shinobi gear, along with pants specially equipped with light protective padding on the knees and thighs. He pulled on the familiar, form-fitting attire. The memories ingrained in this body told him that (Sosuke) had always preferred these clothes, had felt a sense of identity in them. Now, they just felt like a uniform for a soldier who didn't want to be one. He also, as a matter of habit, put on the thin, mesh undershirt, the chakra-conductive armor that felt strangely cool and smooth against his skin.
By 6:00 PM, he was leaving his apartment again, heading back to the same training ground. This time, his purpose was different. The morning was for physical conditioning; the evening was dedicated solely to chakra.
He walked towards a specific, tall tree near the center of the field. It was a giant, its bark gnarled and thick, reaching high into the darkening sky. He had chosen this particular training ground precisely because it had trees like this, and more importantly, because it wasn't popular. The shinobi who came here were either those with students to train… or orphans. The other, more privileged shinobi were clan children.
"Clan children get to train within their own compounds. They have vast resources at their disposal to train with," he thought, a familiar, bitter taste in his mouth.
There was no point in dwelling on envy. He hadn't been born into a body with a prestigious bloodline. Even being from a minor clan like the Akimichi would have been something. But after weeks of existing in this body, he was starting to feel the futility of crying over spilled milk. The milk was spilled, it was sour, and he had to deal with it.
He placed his foot squarely against the rough bark of the tree's trunk. Then, he took a step. And then another. He was walking, defying gravity, ignoring the laws of physics as his previous world understood them. If anyone from Earth were watching, they would have gasped, their minds breaking at the sight, labeling him a magician or a demon.
But in the world of shinobi, this was a basic, if challenging, chakra control exercise. The principle of Tree Climbing. You focused a precise amount of chakra to the soles of your feet, creating a adhesive effect that allowed you to stick to any solid surface. It was all about concentration and control.
Fwoosh. Tap. Tap.
He began to ascend, his feet making soft, sticky sounds against the bark. After concentrating enough, he started going up and down without pause. It was a monotonous, draining cycle. Ascend for ten feet. Descend. Ascend again. His entire world narrowed to the feeling of chakra pulsing in his feet, the texture of the bark under his sandals, and the burning strain of maintaining focus.
He continued for a full hour, until he felt a distinct, hollow sensation in his core. He had depleted about 60% of his chakra. The moment the feeling hit him, his control slipped. His right foot lost its purchase with a sharp scrape, and he dropped the last few feet, landing in a clumsy but controlled crouch at the base of the tree. He sat down heavily, taking deep, shuddering breaths.
"This is so ridiculous," he spat into the dirt, frustration evident in his voice.
Even after two weeks, he found the entire concept absurd. Not the technique itself, but the disparity. He thought of monsters like Sasuke and Naruto from the original story. They had trained for this very thing for ten hours straight, pushing through the night, mastering it in just three days through sheer, unadulterated willpower.
But for an average person with an average chakra pool? Every attempt, every failure, made mastering such an advanced control skill exponentially more difficult. And, he supposed, the satisfaction upon mastery must be that much greater.
"This isn't about talent… it's about hard work," he muttered, a mantra for the talentless. "For others, those with monstrous chakra reserves, it's not about hard work. It's about trial and error until they finally succeed through brute force."
After letting out a few more frustrated growls, he steadied his breathing.
"It's going to take me a lot more time before I can move on to Water Walking, let alone master an elemental affinity."
He had already purchased the affinity-testing paper for the exorbitant sum of 50,000 ryo. It was costly because it was vitally important for a shinobi. Most skilled shinobi knew that understanding their elemental nature dictated which ninjutsu they would buy from the village's Technique Bureau.
And that was a real thing. Konoha possessed a bureau that sold techniques. You could exchange your mission achievements or contributions for any technique. For Genin, it was difficult to buy techniques of C or B rank. For Chunin, it was easier, allowing them to purchase up to B-rank or even A-rank if they saved up. As for Jonin, they could access techniques of A-rank, or even S-rank if they possessed sufficient strength and clearance.
Since he was, officially, a Genin with the accumulated contributions of a mid-tier Chunin—thanks to the war—he had a decent pool of points to draw from. In the end, after most of his team had died, he, as the sole surviving member, had inherited their mission shares. The clans hadn't bothered contesting such a paltry sum for a nobody, so it had defaulted to him automatically. He currently had a small fortune of one million ryo in his account, largely from his team's last, fatal A-rank mission.
With this financial cushion, he could secure the resources he needed for better training, and maybe even buy a decent technique or two if he had any money left over.
He thought about all this as he returned to his tree-walking drill. Up and down. Tap. Scrape. Thud. He focused on minimizing the chakra used, on making the flow as efficient as possible. All while still wearing the chakra weights, which added another layer of brutal difficulty and, consequently, benefit. Lifting the weights' augmented mass while climbing taxed his control fundamentally. The enhancement that came from chakra wasn't just about quantity; it was about density, precision in distribution. These weights helped with both: increasing physical strength and amplifying chakra power and control.
After one final, controlled descent, he stood still, assessing his own progress.
"Hmmm. Very good. I am improving. I can feel it."
He clenched his fist, feeling the residual chakra tingling in his palm.
"But it's not enough. I need more. In a week, I'll go to the Technique Bureau. But before that, I need to know which element suits me."
The reason for his delay was simple: he hadn't acquired the identification card yet. The Chakra Identification Card was a precious item, even in a major village like Konoha. It cost an amount equivalent to the reward for a C-rank mission, something an average Genin could rarely afford. Most ordinary Genin couldn't get their hands on one without serious saving or backing.
He looked up at the darkening sky, the first stars beginning to prick the deep blue canvas. The tree stood silent and tall before him, a patient, unyielding mentor.
"One more hour," he told himself, and placed his foot back on the bark.
The cycle began again. Tap. Tap. Scrape. The sounds of his struggle echoed softly in the quiet, empty field, a testament to one boy's desperate, stubborn fight against the destiny this world had written for him.
---
──────────────────────
Thank you for reading,my beloved readers! Your support means the world to me.
❤️(´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡
──────────────────────