The kunai embedded itself in the training post with a satisfying thunk. Center mass. Eighth throw in a row.
Tatsuya didn't celebrate. He drew another blade and threw again. Nine.
Three months since the evaluation. Three months of grinding, of pushing his body past what should have been possible, of filling every waking hour with purpose. The reserve pool had become less a holding pen and more a launching platform, missions flowing steadily now, each one an opportunity to learn, to grow, to become something more than adequate.
He'd taken every opportunity offered and manufactured several that weren't.
"Your form's improved."
Shin emerged from the treeline, his own sword across his back. They'd developed this rhythm—early morning sparring before the official training rotations began. Iron sharpening iron.
"Yours hasn't," Tatsuya replied. "You're still dropping your shoulder on the overhead cut."
"And you're still telegraphing your thrust." Shin drew his blade in a smooth motion. "Shall we?"
They circled each other on the packed earth of Training Ground Three. Dawn light filtered through the canopy, painting everything in shades of grey and gold. The clearing was empty except for them, too early for the other reserves, too late for the insomniacs.
Shin moved first.
His style was fluid, water-like, attacks flowing into retreats into counters with seamless precision. The kind of swordsmanship that came from years of dedicated practice under proper instruction. Before whatever had happened to his team.
Tatsuya met him with something different. His blade work was precise rather than flowing, each cut targeting specific anatomical vulnerabilities. Where Shin saw openings, Tatsuya saw tendons, arteries, nerve clusters.
Steel rang against steel. They traded strikes across the clearing, neither giving ground. Shin's overhead came down, shoulder dropping, just as Tatsuya had noted, and Tatsuya stepped inside the arc, his blade sliding along Shin's to lock the hilts.
"Dead," he said quietly, his free hand pressed against Shin's chest where a chakra scalpel would have severed the pulmonary artery.
Shin's eyes narrowed. Then he laughed, a rare sound from him. "That technique of yours is cheating."
"Cheating implies rules." Tatsuya stepped back, lowering his sword. "Combat doesn't have rules. Just survivors."
"You sound like Instructor Yamada."
"Yamada's not wrong about everything."
They reset and went again. And again. By the time the sun was fully up, both of them were breathing hard, covered in the small nicks and bruises that came from serious practice.
Tatsuya pressed his palm against a shallow cut on his forearm. Chakra flowed, green-tinged, warm, and the wound began to close. Slower than a real medic would manage, but functional. The bleeding stopped. The pain faded.
Shin watched with undisguised interest. "Still strange to see. Healing yourself between rounds."
"Lets me train harder." Tatsuya flexed his arm, testing the repair. Adequate. "You should learn. Basic field medicine is useful for everyone."
"My chakra control isn't good enough. You know that."
"Then improve it."
Shin snorted. "Not all of us are obsessive."
"No," Tatsuya agreed. "That's why most of us die young."
The hospital had become his second classroom, feels like the second time he's said something like that, he mused.
Not the emergency ward or the surgical theaters, those were restricted to trained medical staff. But the training annex, where medic-nin learned their craft, had proven accessible to any shinobi willing to ask politely and demonstrate genuine interest.
Tatsuya had asked. He'd demonstrated. And now, three times a week, he sat in the back of lectures meant for medical track genin and absorbed everything he could.
The theory was simple. He already understood anatomy better than most of the instructors, had spent a lifetime cutting human bodies open and putting them back together. What he needed was the chakra application. How to make healing energy flow through his hands. How to direct it precisely enough to mend rather than damage. How to see with chakra what eyes couldn't perceive.
"The Mystical Palm requires continuous chakra emission at a specific frequency," the instructor was saying—a middle-aged woman with grey-streaked hair and the permanent exhaustion of someone who'd seen too many patients die. "Too fast, and you'll accelerate cell growth beyond sustainable levels. Too slow, and the effect is negligible. The body knows what it needs to heal. Your job is to provide the energy in a form it can use."
Tatsuya took notes. Not on the anatomy, he could teach that section himself, but on the chakra dynamics. The frequency ranges. The emission patterns. The subtle feedback that told you when healing was working versus when it was causing harm.
After the lecture, he practiced in an empty training room. Hands glowing faint green, pressing against his own bruised ribs from the morning's sparring. Feeling the way chakra interacted with damaged tissue. Learning the rhythm.
It was inefficient. A trained medic could have healed these injuries in seconds; it took him minutes, and left him more drained than it should have. But efficiency would come with practice. What mattered now was understanding.
The chakra scalpel was different.
That technique he'd figured out himself, extrapolating from medical texts and combat applications. The hospital taught it as a surgical tool, precise incisions without breaking skin, perfect for delicate operations. They didn't teach what happened when you used it on someone who was still fighting back.
He practiced that privately. Late nights in his barracks room, shaping chakra at his fingertips until the edge was sharp enough to cut flesh without physical contact. The technique had graduated from "promising" to "reliable" over the past months. He could sever a tendon with a touch now. Could open an artery if he needed to.
A hidden blade that no one expected. That no one could block.
He didn't advertise it. Some advantages were better kept secret until the moment they mattered.
Fire came easier than healing.
His affinity was strong, the paper test had proven that, and fire techniques responded to him with an eagerness that water or earth never would. The Great Fireball had been his first real jutsu, learned through a combination of observation, library research, and painful trial and error. Now it was reliable. Not Uchiha-level, he'd seen clan members in the village produce flames that dwarfed his best efforts, but solid. Respectable.
The Phoenix Sage Fire had come from a joint mission with a chunin who used it casually, scattering small fireballs to flush enemies from cover. Tatsuya had watched, analyzed the hand seals, and spent two weeks reverse-engineering the technique. His version was rougher, less controlled, but functional. Multiple projectiles rather than one large blast. Useful for different situations.
The Flame Bullet was pure suppression, a stream of fire that could hold a position or deny an approach. He'd found the technique in a library scroll, one of the basic fire releases available to any Konoha shinobi with the affinity. Nothing special, but another tool in the arsenal.
Dragon Fire was still beyond him. The technique required threading flames along a surface or wire, maintaining cohesion across distance. His attempts produced scattered sparks rather than controlled streams. More practice needed.
But three combat-ready fire techniques was more than most genin could claim. Combined with his taijutsu, his kenjutsu, his medical capabilities, he was becoming something unusual. A generalist with dangerous depth in specific areas.
Adequate was retreating in the rearview mirror.
"Again."
Duy's voice was calm but implacable. The Eternal Genin stood with his arms crossed, watching Tatsuya work through the Strong Fist forms for the twentieth time that evening.
Tatsuya's muscles screamed. His lungs burned. Sweat dripped from his chin, marking dark spots on the rocky ground of their private training area.
He didn't stop.
Step. Strike. Pivot. Guard. Each movement precise, powerful, designed to channel maximum force through optimal angles. The Strong Fist was not subtle, it was overwhelming. Meet your opponent with such devastating power that defense became irrelevant.
"Your hip rotation is three degrees off," Duy observed. "You're losing power in the transfer."
Three degrees. The man could see three degrees of deviation in a movement that took less than a second.
Tatsuya adjusted. Tried again. The strike came faster, harder.
"Better. Again."
This was the foundation Duy was building. Not the Eight Gates, not yet, probably not for years, but the body conditioning that would make the Gates survivable. Strength. Speed. Flexibility. The ability to channel force without destroying yourself in the process.
"The Gates are not about power," Duy had explained during their first session. "They are about removing limits. But limits exist for reasons. Your body protects itself from forces it cannot handle. The Gates override that protection. If your body is not prepared..."
He'd trailed off. The implication was clear enough. The Eight Gates could make you invincible for moments. They could also tear you apart from the inside.
So they built the foundation. Hour after hour of conditioning, of forms, of pushing the body to its limits and then carefully, so carefully, expanding those limits. The progress was glacial. But it was real.
"You heal faster now," Duy observed during a water break. "Your recovery time has improved significantly."
"Medical training. I can accelerate my own healing."
Duy's eyes sharpened with interest. "Show me."
Tatsuya demonstrated, hands glowing faint green against a bruise on his forearm, the discoloration fading over the course of a minute. Inefficient, chakra-intensive, but functional.
"Fascinating." Duy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "If you could apply that during training... maintain tissue integrity while pushing beyond normal limits..."
"I've been experimenting. It's difficult to heal and exert simultaneously, the chakra flows conflict."
"But not impossible?"
"Nothing's impossible. Just expensive."
Duy's smile was small but genuine. "You understand. Good. That understanding will serve you well." He settled back into ready stance. "Again. Twenty more repetitions. Perfect form."
Tatsuya suppressed a groan and resumed.
Mira found him leaving the training ground, her expression troubled.
"They're watching more closely now," she said without preamble. "Your improvement rate has attracted attention."
Tatsuya kept walking, forcing her to match his pace. "I assumed as much."
"This is serious. The man I told you about, the one with the scar, his people have been asking questions. About your training schedule. Your techniques. Who you spend time with."
ROOT. Still circling. Still evaluating.
"Let them ask. I'm not doing anything wrong."
"That's not how they see it. Talented orphans with no clan protection, no political backing, you're exactly what they recruit. And you're becoming hard to ignore."
He stopped. Turned to face her. "What would you suggest? Train less? Hide my capabilities?"