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moshi moshi
"I watched your spar. Madara pushed harder than usual."
Arai bowed his head slightly. "I'm grateful for the challenge."
"You defended. You countered. You improvised. And you endured."
Tajima stepped forward, his dark eyes narrowing.
"You're not just training anymore. You're entering the world of shinobi. From today, you'll accompany Madara on minor operations. Observation, support, cleanup."
Arai's eyes widened slightly. He straightened. "I'm ready."
Tajima's gaze hardened. "No. You're not. But you need to be. This is not training, Arai. You'll face real men. With real weapons. You may have to kill."
A pause.
"I understand."
Tajima studied him for a moment longer. "You'll start with a bandit extermination squad—small group harassing our allied trade routes near the southern forest. Low-tier threats. But they kill without hesitation. Don't romanticize this. Killing is not glorious. But hesitation will get you killed—or worse, others."
Arai clenched his fists. "I won't hesitate."
"You will. Everyone does, the first time."
Tajima's voice softened just slightly.
"The key is what you do after."
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Bandit Extermination | Southern Ridge
The journey was brief—two days on foot through forest and rocky passes. Madara led, Arai flanked him. They were joined by two veteran genin-level Uchiha operatives who moved with silent professionalism. Arai kept up but remained quiet, eyes scanning constantly, internalizing everything—patterns in movement, formation, hand signal timings.
Their target: a small bandit encampment situated along a ravine, fortified with watchtowers, makeshift spikes, and stolen supplies.
Madara crouched with the squad atop an outcrop overlooking the camp.
"Five targets. Armed, disorganized, likely drunk," he muttered. "Minimal tactical awareness."
One of the operatives smirked. "Barely worth calling a mission."
Madara ignored him. He glanced at Arai. "You will handle one. Pick your moment. Make it clean."
Arai's chest tightened.
Kill… one.
He nodded, silent.
As the squad began their silent descent, Arai circled wide, his small frame ghosting through the underbrush. His target—a lone bandit on the outskirts, away from the firelight, humming as he urinated behind a shack.
Arai's heart pounded. His Sharingan activated automatically, the tomoe spinning as his senses sharpened. The man was broad-shouldered but sluggish. His chakra was faint, scattered. Non-shinobi.
Easy.
So why couldn't he move?
He stood there, knees slightly bent, kunai in hand.
The man turned.
Arai reacted—instinct, not choice. He moved forward and drove the kunai under the rib cage, angling upward.
The man grunted. Blood spilled from his mouth. He collapsed with a choked gasp.
Silence.
Arai stared.
It took a moment for his brain to process what had happened. The kunai clattered from his hand. His breath hitched.
He felt sick.
He crouched beside the corpse. His hands were shaking.
He hadn't hesitated when the moment came. But now, after… he felt the weight.
Not guilt. Not quite. But a numbing sense of finality.
This was no dummy. No sparring partner. He had ended a life. Irrevocably.
Later that night – Forest Camp
The squad had wiped the camp clean in under ten minutes. Madara hadn't even needed to draw his blade. The others were already asleep or meditating near the fire.
Arai sat alone, a little apart from the group, his hands resting on his knees, fingers still curled as if the kunai was still there.
Madara approached and sat beside him, not speaking for a while.
"You didn't flinch," he finally said. "That's more than many can say."
Arai didn't respond.
Madara continued, quieter now. "It's the silence that comes after—the moment when you look at what's left and ask yourself, Was I right? That question never fully leaves. And that's not weakness."
"I thought it would feel like justice," Arai murmured.
"It won't. Not with bandits. Not with enemy shinobi. Not even in war. We kill because we must. And the second you stop feeling anything when you do—" he paused, "—that's when you've truly lost something."
Arai's eyes flicked up. "Did you feel it too? The first time?"
Madara didn't answer immediately. Then: "Yes."
Silence again. The fire crackled softly.
Madara rose. "You did well. Rest. The world won't stop for your grief—but it'll honor your reflection."
Arai watched him walk away.
And slowly, he allowed himself to breathe again.
Back at the Compound – Days Later
Tajima reviewed the report handed to him by one of the returning operatives.
Madara stood beside him.
"He performed above expectations," Madara said. "Executed decisively. Emotion struck after, not during."
Tajima nodded slowly. "The right sequence."
"His Earth is most capable of the three. His fire control is improving. Lightning still unstable. But his reactions—he's reading ahead faster. And he's beginning to… understand what it means to be Uchiha."
Tajima set the report down. "Assign him another mission next week. Escort duty with mixed-genin group. Keep him learning. Keep him hungry."
Madara gave a small nod. "He's already hungry. Starving, even."
In Arai's Quarters – That Night
Arai sat cross-legged, his chakra flaring gently as he began his own quiet training again. He placed a small metal plate before him—iron-rich rock he'd extracted from the earth.
His hand hovered over it, pushing lightning chakra into it. The reaction was erratic—sparks flew, and the plate cracked slightly.
He muttered, focusing harder.
"Jiton: Tetsugan Hogo – Iron Core Bulwark."
The metal quivered, expanded—then collapsed again into brittle chunks.
Still not enough.
But it could be. With refinement, it could create armor. Defensive plating. Even weapons. Durable, heavy, infused with earth's strength—but mentally draining to form, control, and maintain.
He logged the drawbacks mentally:
High chakra expenditure Sluggish molding time Vulnerable if disrupted mid-channel
But the potential was real.
And the dream of mixing fire and lightning—a fusion of ferocity and volatility—still danced in the back of his mind.
"Too unstable," he murmured. "But maybe if I layer one as outer, one as inner…"
He began scribbling down theoretical flow charts and chakra pathways.
The weight of killing still sat in his chest.
But even that weight was now part of his path.
One life ended. And a hundred questions were born.
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Sayonara