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moshi moshi
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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Meanwhile in Senju Compound
The whispering winds of the Senju compound carried the scent of pine and wet grass. The terrain was peaceful, belying the warrior culture that thrived beneath its surface. Nestled deep within a grove of sakura trees, a training yard had been etched into the earth, shaped and reshaped by countless sparring sessions, chakra outbursts, and intense meditation. Today, however, it bore witness to something far more remarkable than mere jutsu drills.
A child stood in the center of the yard—barefoot, arms spread, the ground gently vibrating beneath him. Hiroshi Senju, now four years old, was immersed in his own world. Unlike most children, he did not speak often during training. Instead, he listened—to the rustling leaves, the flowing water nearby, and the silent breath of the earth. And he responded, not with calculation, but instinct.
"He's doing it again," Tobirama muttered, observing from the edge of the training circle, arms folded. His usually sharp eyes were narrowed in a mix of curiosity and mild disbelief.
"Doing what?" Hashirama asked as he stepped up beside his younger brother, a gentle smile forming on his lips.
"Channeling chakra without sealing. It's subtle, but it's there."
As if on cue, Hiroshi raised his right hand, palm facing the sky. A soft hum echoed as moisture condensed and twirled into a tiny spiral of water above his fingertips. The technique was simple—childish, even—but the control was extraordinary.
Hashirama chuckled. "He doesn't think through it. He just… does it."
"Which is why it's dangerous," Tobirama replied curtly. "Instinct is no substitute for theory."
"Yet somehow it works."
It had started long ago—Hiroshi's peculiar affinity for rapid healing. At merely two weeks old, he had nicked his finger on a shard of wooden crib. Within minutes, the cut had closed, and a dull flush had returned to his skin. The effort had left the infant drained and fussy for hours, but the signs were unmistakable.
Now, nearly four years later, that gift had evolved.
During a recent training mishap, Hiroshi had twisted his ankle while redirecting an earth-style deflection technique. The swelling began immediately. Yet, as he focused on calming his breath, warmth suffused the injury. Within minutes, the inflammation receded, the bruised tissue knitting itself back together. The healing still left him tired, but he recovered in hours instead of days.
"Your body knows how to repair," Hashirama had said after observing one such recovery. "But you mustn't rely on it recklessly. Rapid regeneration draws deeply from your reserves. When the time comes, you'll need that chakra to protect others."
Hiroshi nodded solemnly. He understood—at least, as much as a four-year-old could.
A week into his latest training phase, the clan elders had him tested with chakra paper. The result was unprecedented.
First, the paper singed—Fire. Then, it crumbled—Earth. Next, it became damp—Water. It wrinkled—Wind. And finally, it sparked—Lightning.
All five natures.
Even Tobirama was stunned into silence.
"He could surpass us both," Hashirama whispered that night to their father.
"He might surpass anyone," Tobirama added with reluctance.
Yet Hiroshi did not boast. He hardly even spoke of it.
"I don't want to master everything," he said to Mito Uzumaki during one of their shared lessons. "I just want to be able to help. I don't know which power I'll need for that. So… I'll learn all of them."
After the recent alliance with Uzumaki clan, Senju and Uzumaki have agreed to share their basic level knowlege to each other. Upon my request to father. Mito Uzumaki has teaching me basic of sealing arts. Mito Uzumaki, the brilliant daughter of the Uzumaki clan's head, was already showing aptitude in sealing arts far beyond her years. Despite her own prideful streak, she grew fond of Hiroshi's gentle curiosity and earnestness.
"Show me again?" he asked one morning, eyes wide with fascination as she drew an intricate sequence of ink-based seals on a scroll.
"You always ask that," she smirked, flicking her long red hair over her shoulder. "And then you end up changing it."
"I just… feel there's a better way sometimes."
To her surprise, he was often right.
One afternoon, he rewrote one of her basic storage seals, altering the anchoring glyph and stabilizing the chakra flow. The result: less chakra drain for a more consistent hold. It was revolutionary—for a four-year-old to intuit such complexity was beyond impressive.
"You're not just a Senju," she said with wonder. "You're something else, too."
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Sayonara