The third year's second semester neared its end.
Morning light shone through the window of the quiet room, where Shorai sat at the table, analyzing his progress on an off day from the Academy.
His hidden level of skill would astonish anyone—far beyond his peers, even most Chunin. In chakra control and molding, no one in class came close. The same went for the three basic jutsu. He had mastered them to a degree that bordered on instinct.
So far, he had shown only standard Academy taijutsu—nothing flashy. His confidence came from endless sparring against spectral replicas, honing reflexes and precision. It was enough to keep his matches with Sasuke at a draw, fooling Iruka—for now. A more experienced eye might notice the subtle edge in his movements.
His Shunshin no Jutsu had evolved. Now nearly silent, it left only the faintest blur or dust trail. He could close short distances with a burst of chakra, undetectable to untrained senses.
But a peculiar sensation kept resurfacing—the absence of friction. For brief moments, as he moved, air resistance vanished. He couldn't replicate it on command. He suspected it was tied to his Swift Release potential—Wind and Lightning merging in his veins. But elemental transformation wasn't his focus. Not yet. The Reality Stone's training construct had set his priorities: taijutsu, chakra reserves, control, and combat-ready jutsu with shape variations.
Chakra shaping came naturally for scalpel and clone techniques. Threads, however, remained unstable—maxing out at ten meters before detaching. The strain on focus was too great; his mind wandered under prolonged use.
He activated the Reality Stone, scanning his body's state.
Yang energy—physical conditioning—had hit a wall. Speed and strength gains were slowing. He needed a way to stress the body further, to force adaptation.
The Eight Gates came to mind. Just opening the first or second gate could push him beyond his limits. The third, at most.
But he hesitated.
The potential damage to his body, bedridden, skipping classes and alerting unwanted attention, were not things he wished to invite. He was sure that the natural Swift Release potential made the brute-force methods redundant. His goal wasn't raw power—it was instantaneous movement, rivaling Minato and Tobirama's space-time techniques at close to mid-range.
For long-distance travel, he theorized a reverse summoning between two seals. If that failed, he'd have to learn the Flying Thunder God—a monumental task.
His fighting style was taking shape—a fluid, adaptive system.
• First stance: High-speed, point-blank chakra expulsion—fists like Tsunade's, but faster, more precise.
• Second stance: A mix of palm, claw, and finger strikes, coated in chakra scalpel. External cuts, internal damage—targeting tenketsu, organs, pressure points.
He could use Henge and Bunshin together—create a smoke burst to mask movement. Or Henge mid-dodge, becoming something small, then reforming.
A quiet satisfaction settled over him.
The path was clear.
Now, he just had to walk it.
"Unless... unless I find the Time or Space Stone," he murmured, smirking. "Then... things just got simple. And a lot more complicated."
A flicker of memory—an old game, a forgotten campaign—resurfaced in his mind.
He leaned back, eyes closed, smiling.
—
Thud. Thud.
A sudden knocking brought Shorai back to reality.
"Shorai, are you awake?"
Mr. Tetsuo's voice.
Shorai opened the door.
Tetsuo stood with a tall, sharply dressed blond man in his forties—glasses, confident posture, an unusual swirl pattern on his lapel.
"Haga-dono, is this the boy?" Tetsuo asked.
The man stared at Shorai, eyes widening. "Oh yes. Yes. That's him!"
Shorai raised a brow.
"Young man! You're the one who brought the design, yes?" the tall man asked, intense.
"Y-yes…" Shorai replied, cautious.
"Ahem. I'm Haga Ren. Owner of Heavenly Lotus. The tailor who made your clothes works for me." He struck a pose, hand forming the company's swirl logo. "And I am very interested."
Shorai exchanged a glance with Tetsuo.
"I'd like to speak with you. In private."
"Of course," Tetsuo said. "Call if you need me." He stepped out.
Ren entered, scanned the room, then sat as Shorai offered a chair.
"You, young man, may have a gift for fashion design!" Ren declared.
"I… I was just experimenting," Shorai said, calm but wary.
"Not at all! Vision, form, function—remarkable!" Ren leaned in. "I heard rumors. A boy in Konoha, dressed unlike any shinobi. I returned from a trade mission, confirmed it. Found the design. Tracked you."
"I see. Haga-san—"
"Call me Ren."
"Ren. You came with a proposal?"
"Direct. I like that." Ren grinned. "Sell me your designs. There's demand. Curiosity. Opportunity."
Shorai hesitated. "I didn't prepare them… but I can recreate them. I'll bring them to your shop tomorrow."
Then, an idea.
"How about this—I make the designs. You sell them. I get 30% of each sale. No cost to you."
Ren chuckled. "You don't negotiate, you undercut. Fashion innovation is at hand!" He leaned closer. "Fifty-fifty. And I'll buy the initial designs—100,000 ryo each. An investment, Shorai-san."
Shorai's calm cracked—eyes wide, brows raised. Then, composure returned.
"I suppose there will be a written contract?"
"Of course." Ren nodded. "But there's one thing—"
Shorai tensed. "I'm all ears. As long as it's appropriate."
"Don't worry!" Ren smiled, eyes suddenly sparkled. "I have a brilliant idea. A fashion album. You model my designs. And yours."
"You want me to pose?" Shorai's calmness broke again.
"Yes! In your designs. In ours. It promotes your work. My brand. And covers the tiny-slimy chance I'm wrong about you." He winked.
They talked—Shorai's life, goals, training. Ren listened, impressed.
"When your designs are ready, go to the shop. Ask for 'Haga's plan.' They'll know."
They said goodbye. Ren left, thrilled.
Shorai remained—excited, energized.
He activated the Reality Stone.
For hours, he worked—designing, refining. Earth-inspired styles, reimagined for Konoha.
Only Naruto's knock interrupted him—inviting him to play.
"Can't. Busy," Shorai said. "But dinner at Ichiraku's—on me."
Later, he stared at the finished scroll.
"Damn," he whispered, smirking. "I'm good."