[6535 Words]
Yasu walked a step behind the man who was now his sensei, the crunch of their boots against the dirt road the only sound between them. The silence stretched, thick and unspoken, as if neither of them knew what to do with it. The Jonin hadn't introduced himself beyond a name—Gensuke—but even that had been delivered without warmth, as if it were just another fact to be acknowledged.
Gensuke was tall, his presence imposing even without effort. His dark brown hair was cut short, though not neatly, as if he couldn't be bothered to care for it beyond necessity. His sharp features were hardened by years of experience, but it was his eyes that stood out—deep-set and a dull, almost lifeless brown, as if he had long since exhausted the energy for anything beyond function. He carried himself like a man used to war, not words.
It was clear he wasn't sure how to speak to an eight-year-old.
Yasu, deciding that waiting for Gensuke to break the silence would take too long, spoke first. "What kind of missions does this team usually take?"
Gensuke glanced down at him, considering. "Tracking. Infiltration. Occasionally elimination." A pause. "Not your usual Genin assignments."
Yasu absorbed that. He had expected something along those lines—he wouldn't have been placed here otherwise—but hearing it confirmed was something else. It meant this team was different. It meant they'd expect him to be useful.
"And the one I'm replacing?"
Another silence. This time heavier.
Yasu didn't just hear it. He felt it.
The subtle shift in Gensuke's chakra—like a blade dulled at the edges, like something once sharp now worn down with time.
Guilt.
The kind that lingers, the kind that never really leaves.
Gensuke's expression didn't shift, but Yasu wasn't fooled. The tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed slightly at his sides—it wasn't nothing.
"They were good," Gensuke said at last. His voice was even, controlled. But Yasu could feel the weight behind it. "Now, there's just the three of you."
Yasu didn't miss the implication. He wasn't replacing anyone. Just filling an empty space. And Gensuke?
His chakra said more than his words ever could.
It ran deep. Heavy. Like a man carrying something he couldn't put down, something he had long since accepted would follow him for the rest of his life.
He had lost students before.
He had lost this one before.
And it hadn't just been a mission gone wrong.
It had been his failure.
It wasn't something that haunted him every second of the day—not in the way grief does when it's fresh, when it's suffocating. But it was there. A weight in the back of his mind. A shadow in the quiet hours of the night.
The kind of thing a shinobi learns to live with. The kind of thing that keeps them awake staring at the ceiling, running through every choice, every mistake, every moment that led to that one irreversible second.
The second where he hadn't been fast enough.
Where he hadn't been strong enough.
Where one of his students died, and he had to keep going anyway.
And now, there was Yasu.
A child. Eight years old. Standing in the wake of someone who had once been his responsibility.
Gensuke had spent months watching his remaining students struggle beneath the weight of what had happened. He had trained them, pushed them, forced them forward because that was all he could do.
But he wasn't naive.
He knew Taro carried the burden of guilt.
He knew Shiori carried the weight of grief.
And he knew that Shiori wouldn't welcome Yasu easily.
Gensuke exhaled slowly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
It didn't matter.
Whatever he felt—whatever guilt, whatever regret—he had already made peace with one thing.
The world wouldn't slow down for them. And this team didn't have time to fall apart again.
He started walking again. "Come on," he said, not looking at Yasu. "They're waiting."
They arrived at a small clearing just beyond the main training grounds, where two figures stood locked in a heated argument. The girl's voice was sharp, edged with something that teetered between frustration and barely concealed grief, while the boy's tone held a quieter exasperation, an attempt at reasoning that was clearly failing.
"I didn't forget him, Shiori," the boy—Taro, Yasu saw—said, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. "That's not what this is."
The girl, Shiori, let out a short, humourless laugh. "Really? Because it sure looks like you've moved on just fine."
Taro exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair, making it stick out even more wildly. Up close, Yasu could see that it was still as unruly as when he had been younger—dark brown strands sticking out in uneven tufts no matter how often he ran his fingers through it. His eyes, a deep forest green, were sharp with emotion, narrowed in frustration but lacking real anger. He stood slightly taller than the girl, his frame lean but already showing signs of someone who would grow into a solid fighter. His clothes were practical—dark grey pants, a sleeveless black top, and a deep red scarf loosely wrapped around his neck, its edges frayed from wear. He looked like someone trying to hold things together, even as they slipped through his fingers.
Shiori, on the other hand, looked like she had no interest in holding anything together. Her blond hair, long enough to reach her mid-back, was tied into a high ponytail, though strands had come loose, framing her face in a way that made her narrowed eyes seem even sharper. They were a pale, piercing blue, the kind that held emotions too tightly wound to be let free. She wore a fitted dark-blue shirt with long sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her hands clenched tightly at her sides, as if resisting the urge to strike something—or someone. Her stance was tense, guarded, as though every part of her was ready for a fight, even when there wasn't one to be had.
She was still glaring at Taro when Gensuke finally spoke, his voice cutting through the argument like a blade. "Enough."
Both turned sharply, their eyes landing on Yasu for the first time. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Whatever they had been arguing about was momentarily set aside in favour of something new—someone new. And from the look in Shiori's eyes, she didn't like what she saw.
Shiori's reaction was immediate, her expression twisting into disbelief. "That's our new teammate?" She turned to Gensuke, gesturing sharply at Yasu as if he were some kind of mistake. "You're kidding. He's a kid."
Yasu, standing calmly beside Gensuke, blinked once. Technically, all genin were kids. But he knew what she meant.
She wasn't expecting him.
Shiori, however, was not done. She threw up her hands in frustration. "I thought we'd be getting a ten-year-old at least! Or maybe another Genin who lost their team, not—" she shot another look at Yasu, eyes narrowing, "—some academy brat who probably barely knows how to hold a kunai."
"Shiori," Taro interjected, his tone edged with discomfort, but she ignored him, whirling back to Gensuke.
"This has to be a mistake, right? He's too young. He's just going to slow us down. We don't have time to babysit."
Gensuke didn't react immediately, merely watching as she vented her frustration. But then Shiori turned to Yasu directly for the first time, arms crossing over her chest. "How old are you, anyway?"
Yasu met her gaze without flinching. "Eight."
"Eight?" Her brows lifted, her disbelief shifting into something closer to outright frustration. "You're eight years old?"
Yasu held her gaze, unbothered. "That's what I just said."
Shiori exhaled through her nose, tilting her head back slightly like she was trying to find patience she clearly didn't have.
"You're younger than the kids still in the Academy," she muttered, almost to herself. Then, turning back to Gensuke, she gestured at Yasu like he was some kind of unsolved puzzle. "How is this supposed to work?"
Yasu sighed internally.
Well.
This was going about as well as expected.
Taro, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke again, his voice quieter but firm. "I know him."
Shiori turned to him sharply. "What?"
Taro glanced at Yasu, and for the first time, there was something like familiarity in his eyes. "We met five years ago. He was three. I was training."
Shiori's head snapped back to Yasu, suspicion flickering across her features. "You two know each other?"
Even Gensuke, though far less reactive, raised an eyebrow slightly.
Yasu shrugged. "A little."
Shiori looked between them, then back at Gensuke. "And you didn't think that was important to mention?"
Gensuke remained unfazed. "Does it change anything?"
Shiori huffed but didn't argue further. Instead, she crossed her arms tighter, as if trying to physically contain her frustration.
Gensuke exhaled through his nose, then his tone sharpened slightly. "Shiori."
She stiffened, as if already expecting a reprimand.
"Like it or not, this team is official as of today. And whether you approve of it or not, Yasu is your teammate." His gaze swept over all three of them. "We don't have time for this kind of division. You're a unit now. Act like it."
Shiori looked like she wanted to argue, but Gensuke continued before she could. "Now. Introductions. Name, age, and your hopes and dreams."
Shiori let out a sharp sigh, clearly unhappy but obeying. "Shiori. Thirteen. And my dream—" she hesitated for the briefest moment before her voice hardened, "—is to be strong and one day join the anbu."
Taro was next, his voice steadier. "Taro. Thirteen. I… want to be someone others can rely on."
Then Gensuke's gaze landed on Yasu, expectant.
Yasu met Gensuke's gaze, then glanced briefly at Taro and Shiori. He could already feel the weight of their expectations—or, in Shiori's case, the lack of them.
He took a small breath and spoke, his voice even.
"Yasu. Eight."
That alone was enough to make Shiori's brow twitch, but she said nothing, waiting.
"As for my dream…" He hesitated, but only briefly. "I don't have a single goal—not yet. But there are things I want to achieve."
His tone shifted, growing more methodical, more measured. The way he spoke was… unnatural for an eight-year-old. Too structured, too thought-out.
"I want to master sealing techniques—to reach a level where my work can contain or control forces that others can't. There's a lot of untapped potential in seals, but not many people truly innovate with them. I want to change that."
Taro blinked. Shiori frowned slightly, as if caught off guard.
"I also want to create my own jutsu one day—not just modify existing techniques, but build something entirely new." His gaze flickered upward in thought. "Something that fits me. A technique that others will recognize as uniquely mine."
Another pause, but not from hesitation—just another careful breath.
"I also plan to pick up a weapon. I'm not sure which one yet, but once I do, I'll master it."
Shiori, despite herself, gave a sceptical scoff. "Seals, a custom jutsu, and a weapon? You planning to take over the world, or what?"
Yasu ignored her.
"And one day…" His voice dropped just slightly, becoming something quieter, heavier. "I want to be a strategist feared across countries."
Silence.
Even Gensuke seemed mildly surprised, though his expression barely shifted. Taro, who had remained composed until now, stared at him with something between confusion and intrigue.
Shiori, however, recovered quickly. "That's ambitious," she muttered, arms still crossed.
Yasu nodded. "Maybe. But I don't say these things lightly." He finally looked at her directly. "And before you say anything else—I know you have an issue with me."
Shiori stiffened.
"I don't expect to change your mind overnight. But I do expect you to acknowledge that I'm here, and I'm not a liability." He tilted his head slightly. "I graduated early for a reason."
The words hung in the air, leaving Shiori with nothing immediate to fire back.
Gensuke let the silence settle before finally speaking. "Alright." He crossed his arms. "Now that we have that out of the way, let's move on. I know what each of you can do, but this isn't for me. You need to understand each other's strengths—especially now that you have a new addition."
His gaze flicked between them. "So. Go around. Explain what you're good at."
Taro exhaled and nodded, shifting slightly where he stood. "I fight mid-range. I keep the enemy occupied so others can reposition or gather information. I can adjust my approach depending on the situation, but my main focus is making sure whoever I'm working with has the space they need."
Gensuke nodded slightly, but before he could move on, Shiori let out a sharp breath. "Right. And when that doesn't work? What then?"
Taro frowned. "What?"
Shiori uncrossed her arms, her expression sharpening. "You 'keep the enemy occupied.' But what happens when that doesn't work? What happens when you fail?"
Taro's fingers curled slightly at his sides.
"Shiori—"
"No, really," she continued, stepping forward. "Because I've seen what happens when you fail."
Taro's jaw tightened, and Yasu, watching the exchange carefully, saw it—saw the way the tension coiled between them, the way Taro's frustration wasn't just frustration. It was guilt.
Shiori pressed forward. "We lost someone because of you."
Taro flinched, just barely. But Shiori wasn't done.
"And now we're supposed to trust you to keep us alive?"
The words cut deep, and for the first time, Taro's frustration cracked into something closer to anger. "You think I don't know that?" His voice was sharp now, his usual composure fraying at the edges. "You think I don't remember every second of that day?"
Shiori didn't back down. "Then act like it."
Taro's hands clenched. "What the hell do you think I've been doing?"
The air between them was charged, the argument threatening to spiral into something worse.
Yasu felt everything.
It wasn't just their words, their glares, or the way their bodies tensed—he could feel the way their emotions ran through their chakra, shifting and twisting in ways most people couldn't perceive.
Taro's frustration wasn't just frustration. It was guilt, tangled and suffocating, woven into the very core of his chakra. Every time Shiori threw an accusation at him, his chakra tightened, coiling in on itself like a wound that wouldn't close. He wasn't just angry—he was weary, carrying something far heavier than he let show.
And Shiori—
Her chakra burned.
Not with rage, but with something deeper, something raw. Grief, still fresh even if she pretended otherwise. Her emotions were a sharp, thrashing current, lashing out at anything that tried to reach her. It wasn't just anger at Taro. It was pain, the kind that refused to fade, the kind that had settled into her chakra so thoroughly that it had become part of her.
She blamed him because that was easier than accepting the truth.
And Yasu—he wasn't separate from this. He could feel the way they both resisted him, like he was an intruder stepping into a space where he wasn't wanted. Shiori's chakra flared sharply when she looked at him, rejecting him on instinct. Not because of anything he'd done, but because his very presence was an insult to the past she refused to let go of.
He wasn't a teammate.
He was a reminder.
And Taro…
Taro didn't push him away outright, but there was hesitation, uncertainty, an unspoken thought lingering in his chakra. A question that hadn't been asked yet.
Yasu took a breath.
This team was broken. Their chakra was tangled in past regrets and unresolved wounds, and here he was, being asked to step into it as if it were something he could fix.
But he wasn't here to fix them.
He was here to work with them.
Even if it meant walking through a battlefield of emotions to do it.
Then—
"That's enough."
Gensuke's voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the tension like a blade.
Shiori turned sharply to him, jaw tight. "Sensei—"
"I said that's enough." Gensuke's tone left no room for argument. "I told you. We don't have time for this."
A heavy silence followed.
Shiori's expression was unreadable, her emotions locked behind sharp eyes.
Taro exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
Yasu, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke. "So," he said, tilting his head slightly, "are we going to finish discussing our abilities, or is this just a grudge match now?"
Shiori shot him a glare, but Gensuke gave an approving nod.
"Good question." He turned to her. "Shiori. Your turn."
Shiori inhaled slowly, reigning herself in. Then, finally, she answered.
"Stealth and subterfuge," she said, her voice cool but controlled. "I specialize in getting close without being seen. And when necessary—" her eyes flicked to Taro for the briefest moment "—eliminating threats."
Gensuke nodded. "And your genjutsu?"
Shiori hesitated, but then gave a curt nod. "I can handle it."
"Good." Gensuke turned to Yasu. "And you?"
Yasu took a small breath before responding. "I'm a sensor-type. I can track chakra in extreme detail, which means I can follow a target even in difficult conditions." He glanced briefly at Shiori. "And unlike some people, I don't need to be close to know where my enemies are."
Shiori scoffed but didn't interrupt.
"I also specialize in sealing techniques," Yasu continued. "I can set up barriers, suppress chakra, and contain threats that normal attacks won't work on."
He tilted his head slightly. "And I strategize."
Taro, who had calmed slightly, gave him a curious look. "Strategize how?"
Yasu's expression didn't change. "You'll see."
Gensuke didn't waste time.
He stood before them, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. The tension in the clearing still hadn't settled—not really—but he wasn't the kind of man to care about that.
"We're not standing around all day," he said. "You've got a new teammate. That means you're a new team. And you need to start acting like it."
Taro exhaled slowly, still carrying the weight of Shiori's words. Shiori kept her arms crossed, gaze sharp, as if daring someone to push her further. And Yasu…
Yasu just watched.
Gensuke let the silence settle before finally speaking.
"You know the drill," he said, addressing Taro and Shiori. "New teammate or not, we don't move forward until I know you can work together. If you can't do that, you don't get missions. Simple as that."
Shiori's jaw tightened. Taro nodded. They both knew he meant it.
They had been under him for three years now. They knew what Gensuke was capable of.
This wasn't just a man who led from behind—he was a tracker, a hunter, and a veteran of the kind of missions that never made it into official reports. He had trained them, shaped them into something usable, but he was never gentle about it.
They'd learned that the hard way.
"This is simple," Gensuke continued. "You take me down, you win."
Taro barely reacted. Shiori narrowed her eyes.
Yasu tilted his head. Interesting.
He didn't miss the way Taro and Shiori's postures shifted—like people who had done this before.
They knew what was coming.
And yet—
"We can't beat you," Taro said, voice even.
Gensuke's mouth twitched slightly, the closest thing to a smirk they'd ever seen from him. "Probably not. But that's not the point."
Yasu's mind was already moving. Taro's right. We won't win.
So that means this isn't about winning.
It's about teamwork.
Gensuke vanished.
Yasu barely had time to register the shift before a shadow flickered behind them.
Fast. Too fast.
Taro moved first, ducking just in time to avoid the strike aimed at his head. He countered with a sharp kick, but Gensuke was already gone, already repositioning.
Shiori reacted just as quickly, chakra flaring as she slipped into the trees—vanishing from sight.
Yasu remained where he was, watching.
Observing.
He wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to throw himself in without knowing exactly what was happening.
Taro and Shiori had already fought this fight before.
They had already learned what Gensuke was capable of.
And it still wasn't enough.
Minutes passed, and it was clear—they weren't working together.
Taro was trying to read Gensuke's movements, but he was alone. Shiori was setting up an ambush, but she wasn't communicating.
And Gensuke?
Gensuke was tearing them apart.
Yasu could feel the shift in their chakra.
Taro's frustration. His chakra pulsed in short, sharp bursts—he was trying, but it wasn't working.
Shiori's irritation. Her chakra spiked dangerously—she was moving too emotionally, too focused on proving herself.
And then—
It happened.
Taro and Shiori's movements overlapped.
Shiori struck from the shadows, expecting Taro to drive Gensuke toward her—
But Taro moved differently.
Shiori's kunai slashed past where Gensuke had been— and right toward Taro instead.
Taro barely caught it in time, redirecting the blade away from himself.
But the moment of hesitation—
Gensuke took advantage of it. A sharp crack echoed as he struck, and within seconds—
They were both down.
A silence followed.
Shiori was furious.
Taro was breathing hard, jaw tight.
And Yasu?
Yasu sighed.
"Okay," he said flatly. "That was pathetic."
Both Taro and Shiori turned toward him sharply. Yasu didn't flinch.
He tilted his head slightly, voice calm. "You're both so busy fighting your own war that you can't see what's in front of you."
Shiori scowled. "Excuse me?"
Yasu exhaled, gaze level. "You. You're reckless. You take every fight personally. You lash out, you attack blindly, and you don't trust anyone to have your back."
Shiori stiffened.
Yasu's gaze shifted to Taro. "And you. You hesitate. You doubt yourself. You fight like someone waiting for permission to move forward, and by the time you do—" he gestured to where Gensuke had taken them down effortlessly, "—it's already too late."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Yasu shrugged. "If you both want to keep losing, fine. But at least be honest about it."
Shiori's hands clenched into fists. "You little—"
But she didn't finish.
Even Taro, still catching his breath, couldn't deny it.
Gensuke watched, unreadable.
And then, after a long moment, he exhaled.
"Well," he said, "at least someone here knows how to think."
Yasu crossed his arms. "Are we actually trying this time, or am I just going to watch you two self-destruct again?"
Shiori's eye twitched.
Taro exhaled.
And for the first time—
Something shifted.
They weren't a team yet.
But they had started listening.
For a long, heavy second, Shiori stared at him.
Yasu didn't flinch.
He could feel her chakra twisting—a wildfire of raw, unfiltered emotion. Anger. Grief. Resentment. It wasn't just directed at him—it was at everything. At Taro. At their sensei. At the situation.
She wanted to reject his words. To throw them back at him, to deny that he had any right to speak at all.
And she did.
"Tch." She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Look at you, talking like you actually know something."
Yasu remained calm, watching as she turned away—as if dismissing him would erase the truth of what he'd just said.
But even as she tried to brush it off—
Her chakra shifted.
It was a small thing. A subtle crack in the armour she had so carefully built. A hesitation. A reluctant, bitter acknowledgment buried beneath her resentment.
Because she knew. She knew he was right. But that didn't mean she had to like it.
Her fists clenched at her sides. Then, after a long, sharp breath, she finally spoke.
"Fine," she muttered. "You're here now. Not like I have a choice."
Yasu tilted his head slightly, waiting.
But then—
Her gaze snapped back to him, sharp and cold.
"But don't get comfortable." Her voice was edged, seething. "You're not one of us. You're just a replacement."
Taro tensed. Even Gensuke-sensei's expression flickered slightly.
Yasu?
Yasu just blinked. So that's how it was going to be...
He could feel it—the weight of her emotions.
Shiori wouldn't accept him—not because she thought he was weak, not even because he was young.
But because accepting him would mean letting go.
And she wasn't ready for that. She might never be. Yasu exhaled slowly, expression unreadable.
"Alright," he said simply. "If that's what you want to call me."
Shiori narrowed her eyes, almost as if she had expected him to argue.
But he didn't.
Because he didn't care.
He wasn't here to replace anyone. He wasn't here to heal their wounds or force them to accept him.
He was here to do the job.
And that meant winning this fight.
Yasu turned slightly, shifting his focus away from Shiori and toward the real problem.
Gensuke-sensei stood a short distance away, watching them with that same unreadable gaze, waiting for them to figure it out.
Yasu's mind worked quickly.
They couldn't beat him head-on. They weren't coordinated enough to outmanoeuvre him.
But…
A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Yasu's lips.
They didn't have to win. They just had to outthink him.
"Come here," he whispered.
Taro and Shiori blinked.
"What?" Shiori hissed, voice still tense.
"Just—come here. Both of you."
There was a beat of hesitation, but finally, they did. Even Shiori, despite herself, leaned in as Yasu lowered his voice.
And then—
He told them the plan. Not All of it but enough that they knew what their part was.
Taro's eyes widened slightly, his initial tension easing into something closer to understanding.
Shiori, despite her hostility, couldn't immediately find a flaw in what he was saying.
And Gensuke-sensei?
He stood still, arms crossed, watching.
Waiting.
Unaware that his new team was about to pull something he wouldn't expect.
Yasu's smirk deepened slightly.
"Alright," he murmured.
"Let's do this."
Gensuke-sensei stood motionless, arms crossed, gaze flat. He had been doing this long enough to recognize when a team was planning something.
And yet—
Something about the way the three of them were suddenly gathered, huddled close and whispering—
That was new.
Yasu's chakra flared just slightly, and Gensuke felt it.
A shift. A ripple of something deliberate.
He waited.
Let's see what you're trying to pull, kid.
Yasu had them move deliberately. Not in the rushed, reactive way Genin usually did when scrambling to make a plan mid-fight, but with precision.
Everything had to look real.
Taro took the front, stepping forward as if bracing for a direct engagement. That part wasn't unusual—Taro was the team's mid-range fighter. It made sense for him to engage first.
Shiori disappeared into the trees. Again, nothing new. She always moved in the shadows, always positioned herself to strike when least expected.
And Yasu?
Yasu ran straight at Gensuke.
Oh?
Gensuke's eyes narrowed slightly.
The kid was fast.
Too fast.
Gensuke had barely seen him move before Yasu was already closing the gap, his chakra surging—but controlled.
What the hell?
This wasn't how an eight-year-old moved.
And then—
A seal appeared in Yasu's hand.
Gensuke reacted immediately, sidestepping with practiced ease, already anticipating the strike—
Except Yasu didn't strike.
He planted the seal in the dirt. Gensuke's foot landed directly on top of it. His chakra flared sharply in response—
—and then the seal activated.
The ground beneath him collapsed. Or at least, that's what it felt like.
The moment the seal triggered, the air around him twisted, a genjutsu woven directly into the barrier formula. For just a fraction of a second, his body felt weightless, as if he had stepped off solid ground into empty space.
And that single second was all they needed. Taro moved first.
Gensuke barely had time to register the kunai flying toward his chest before he caught it—but the instant his fingers closed around the weapon, his body jerked.
His arm—his whole body—felt heavier.
Yasu.
Seals.
The kunai had a chakra suppression tag wrapped around it.
It didn't fully block his chakra—he was a Jonin, not some amateur—but it was enough. Just enough to throw his movements off for a split second.
And then—
Shiori struck.
A flicker of movement from the trees. She was fast. Even Gensuke had to give her that. He moved to counter—but his foot was still on Yasu's seal.
The barrier activated. For the first time, Gensuke felt his chakra hesitate. A chakra suppression array? Stacked with a genjutsu seal?
An eight-year-old did this?
Shit.
The moment his movement stalled, Shiori's kunai was already pressed to his throat.
Silence.
Gensuke exhaled slowly.
They hadn't won. Not really.
If this were a real fight, he could still break free. He could overpower them, dismantle their strategy, turn their plan against them.
But that wasn't the point.
The point was that they had forced him to pause. And that—that was worth something. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.
"Well," he muttered, tilting his head just enough to glance at Yasu.
"That was interesting."
Taro was breathing hard, still processing what had just happened. His hands were shaking slightly, not from fear, but from sheer adrenaline.
Shiori was silent. Not because she had nothing to say—
But because, for the first time, she didn't know what to say.
And Yasu?
Yasu just stood there, perfectly calm, hands slipping into the sleeves of his shirt. Like he had already expected this to work.
"You stacked the effects," Gensuke said, eyeing him now with something closer to actual interest. "That wasn't just a suppression seal. You layered a chakra disruptor, a genjutsu trigger, and an anchor tag for weight distribution."
Yasu gave a small shrug, as if it were obvious. "One effect wouldn't be enough. You've fought under high-pressure conditions before. You're used to adapting."
His gaze flickered, sharp. Knowing.
"But if I hit you with multiple effects at once—especially ones that target different reflexes—" He gestured vaguely at Gensuke's feet.
"Even you have to think for a second."
Shiori still hadn't said anything.
Taro let out a short breath, looking at Yasu now like he was seeing him for the first time.
"You planned that?"
Yasu tilted his head. "Yes."
A beat of silence.
Then—
Shiori let out a sharp scoff.
"Of course you did," she muttered.
It wasn't an insult. Not really. But there was something begrudgingly accepting in the way she said it. She still refused to call him by name. Still kept her distance.
But she had listened.
And that was the first step.
Gensuke let the silence settle before finally speaking.
"Not bad," he admitted. "Sloppy in places, but not bad."
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders before stepping back.
"You'll get your mission," he said. "But only because I'm in a generous mood."
Taro blinked. "Wait—seriously?"
Shiori turned sharply. "You mean—"
"You're not ready," Gensuke said bluntly. "But you're not hopeless either."
His gaze flickered toward Yasu.
"And you," he muttered, "are a little terrifying."
Yasu blinked once. "Thank you?"
Shiori rolled her eyes.
Taro just laughed.
And for the first time, just for a moment—
It felt like they might actually become a team.
Someday.
Maybe.
.
.
.
Home.
It was strange when he thought about it.
He wasn't sure when he had started calling it that.
But it felt right.
Just like Hisao didn't just feel like a guardian.
Yasu, his ward.
Huh.
Strange.
When did that happen?
The quiet hum of the night filled the small space of their home, the soft clatter of chopsticks against bowls the only real sound between them. The air was warm, filled with the lingering scent of simmered broth and spices, a reminder that this wasn't an inn or a temporary stay.
This was home.
Yasu sat at the table, methodically eating with one hand while his other hovered over the half-finished seal spread out beside his plate. The ink hadn't yet dried, carefully precise strokes forming the beginnings of something complex.
Hisao didn't reprimand him for it.
He never did.
If anything, he glanced at the seal with mild interest, reaching for his cup of tea. "That's new."
Yasu nodded absently, adjusting a brushstroke. "Testing a chakra dampening formula. Not suppression—just redirection." He paused, picking up his bowl to take another sip of broth. "Most suppression seals create resistance, right? So I was thinking, instead of forcing chakra into stagnation, why not reroute it into controlled circulation? Like a redirection network instead of a deadlock."
Hisao hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Interesting approach. But you'd need an anchor to stabilize the flow. Otherwise, you'd risk feedback buildup."
Yasu nodded. "I accounted for that." He gestured vaguely at the half-finished seal. "That's what these secondary markings are for. It's still theoretical, but if I can get it right, it should allow movement without full suppression. It's meant for tracking suppression rather than combat lockdown."
Hisao exhaled, shaking his head with something almost like amusement. "That's advanced work for a Genin."
Yasu shrugged, reaching for his chopsticks again. "It's necessary."
Hisao took a sip of his tea. "How far along are you?"
"Seventy percent functional." Yasu frowned slightly. "The main problem is chakra resonance drift. Every time I try it on a live source, the reflow lags slightly. Not noticeable under normal circumstances, but in a high-stakes scenario, it would be useless."
Hisao smirked. "So you're overcompensating with secondary stabilizers."
"Obviously."
Hisao chuckled. "You're trying to brute-force finesse."
Yasu blinked at him. "...Yes?"
Hisao shook his head in mild amusement. "You should focus on adaptability over perfection. There's no such thing as a flawless seal. You need to make one that functions within its limits, not one that tries to account for every possible outcome."
Yasu exhaled. "That's what I said."
Hisao raised a brow.
Yasu poked at his rice. "It's just proving harder in execution than theory."
Hisao nodded. "That's the nature of seals. Theory is neat. Reality isn't."
A comfortable silence settled between them as they ate. It wasn't often that Hisao was home like this, and Yasu found himself instinctively settling into the warmth of familiarity.
Then—
"How was your team?" Hisao asked, leaning back slightly.
Yasu didn't even hesitate.
"Dysfunctional."
Hisao smirked. "Go on."
Yasu did.
With detail.
Too much detail.
"The dynamic is fractured," Yasu said bluntly. Hisao raised a brow, but didn't interrupt. He had asked. "Taro is competent," Yasu continued, methodically turning his chopsticks between his fingers, "but he hesitates too much. His movements are reactive rather than proactive. He's holding himself back—second-guessing choices before he even makes them."
He set a small piece of fish onto his rice, his tone almost absent-minded as he worked through his thoughts. "I assume it's tied to whatever happened with the previous teammate. He fights like someone making up for something. Like he thinks every mistake might be the next big one."
Hisao hummed, setting his teacup down. "And that's a problem because?"
Yasu blinked at him, mildly surprised by the question. "Because hesitation kills."
Simple as that.
He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "Taro is solid—reliable, even—but he's fighting a ghost alongside his opponent. If he doesn't stop looking over his shoulder, he'll never truly improve."
Hisao nodded slightly, but his gaze flickered with something unreadable.
Yasu, unbothered, continued.
"Shiori, meanwhile, is the opposite."
He set his bowl down, folding his hands in front of him. "She's aggressive and erratic. Her technical skill is high—arguably higher than Taro's in certain areas—but she's too emotional."
Hisao smirked faintly. "Most shinobi fight with emotion."
Yasu shook his head. "She doesn't fight with emotion. She fights because of it."
That was the problem.
Her chakra, her presence, her very intent—
It all bled anger. Grief. Resentment.
"She takes things personally," Yasu said, voice even. "Every battle, every strike—it's not just about the fight. It's about proving something."
His brow furrowed slightly, the memory still sharp in his mind. "It's clear she still holds onto what happened—she's still living in it."
Hisao exhaled quietly. "And you?"
Yasu tilted his head slightly. "What about me?"
Hisao gestured lazily. "What do you think of them? Not just their flaws."
Yasu blinked, considering.
"…Taro's alright."
That wasn't exactly praise, but it wasn't a complaint, either.
"Tactically, he's not bad. He listens. He wants to work together. And he's practical—he doesn't let his ego get in the way of a good strategy."
His chopsticks tapped lightly against the rim of his bowl. "But he's too careful. He wants to be dependable, but dependable people are only useful if they act. He's too afraid of repeating his mistakes to commit to his decisions properly."
A small pause. Then, in a quieter voice:
"But he's not a bad person."
Hisao's gaze flickered with interest. "And Shiori?"
Yasu sighed. "She's—" He stopped, reconsidered.
"She's hurting."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't speculation. He knew. Her chakra screamed it every time she moved, every time she spoke. "She's not bad, either," he admitted, as if begrudging the statement. "She's skilled. Sharp. Probably one of the best in her age group."
His brow furrowed slightly. "But she's still fighting a war that already ended."
He exhaled, sitting back slightly. "They aren't a team. They're a remnant of one. And I was thrown into it as a replacement for someone who clearly meant a lot to them."
Hisao watched him carefully. He didn't say anything—just let Yasu keep going.
Yasu exhaled, rolling a grain of rice between his fingers. "Shiori refuses to acknowledge me—at least, not as a teammate. She calls me 'replacement.'"
His expression didn't shift, but something in his voice cooled.
"I suspect that in her mind, accepting me would be a betrayal."
A small pause.
Then, with the most pragmatic finality.
"It's inefficient."
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
Hisao laughed.
Yasu blinked at him, oblivious.
Hisao shook his head, smirking. "You sound like you're conducting a battlefield assessment."
Yasu frowned slightly. "That's essentially what it is."
Hisao just grinned wider, picking up his tea again. "You really don't hold back, do you?"
Yasu tilted his head, genuinely confused. "Should I?"
Hisao exhaled, amused. "No, no—by all means, continue. Just don't let your team hear you talk like that."
Yasu frowned. "Why not? Everything I said was accurate."
Hisao shook his head. "That's the problem."
Yasu narrowed his eyes, lips pressing together.
He didn't get it.
What was funny?
He turned back to his food, still frowning slightly, muttering under his breath, "It's still inefficient."
Hisao kept smiling.
Yasu sighed before speaking again "I might have been a little… thorough."
Hisao chuckled again, shaking his head. "Just a bit."
Yasu exhaled, setting his chopsticks down neatly. "In any case, we had a training exercise today."
Hisao lifted a brow. "And?"
Yasu considered.
Then, finally, a small, knowing smirk crossed his lips.
"I made them listen."
Hisao studied him for a long moment before exhaling. "Of course you did."
A comfortable silence settled between them again, the warm glow of the lamp flickering slightly.
Home.
Strange how easily the word settled now.
Yasu glanced at his seals again, fingers brushing lightly over the ink.
Then, at Hisao, still sipping his tea, still watching him with that unreadable but vaguely amused look.
…Huh.
He really had started to think of him as family.
Strange.