By day, the forest was just a place for herbs.
I knew the soil here by scent alone. I could tell which roots grew beneath which trees without even looking-- where the broadleaf bell root liked to hide, which mushrooms curled like sleeping beasts at the base of the elder pines, and which mosses clung to char like memories of flame. I had walked these paths too often, vanished too many times into the undergrowth, until the forest no longer noticed me at all. I had become a whisper in its rhythm--unseen, unimportant, almost native.
But at night, the forest was something else entirely.
Mist hung lower, heavier, as if the ground exhaled secrets it couldn't keep buried. The branches above creaked and swayed--not in the wind, but like old monks in prayer, muttering in languages no living tongue remembered. The breeze didn't slice through this place at night. It listened. Patient, curious and ancient.
And tonight, I hadn't come for herbs.
The system had fallen silent since the last mission, but its final command still echoed in my thoughts, coiled in the back of my mind like a forgotten mantra:
"Begin foundational practice in lightning affinity flow."
That was all. No scrolls. No diagrams. No guidance. Just those words--clinical, precise and impossible.
So I brought what I had. A dull wooden sword too light to mean anything. A heart buzzing with questions. And a pair of blistered hands that didn't know the first thing about holding lightning.
I placed the sword gently on a moss-slick log and stood still for a while, letting the forest breathe around me. Then I inhaled deeply. Once. Twice.
The first attempt was nothing short of ridiculous.
I clenched every muscle in my arms, stared up at the stars like they might drop a thunderbolt in response, and grit my teeth in sheer desperation, willing lightning into my palms with all the force of a prayer gone unanswered.
Of course, nothing happened.
The second try was more dignified, at least. I mimicked the sword draws I'd seen the Jonin perform--those fluid, precise motions I used to watch from the shadows while pretending to sweep the training yard. I focused on one clean unsheathing, tried to feel something stir in the silence.
Still nothing.
Pain began to creep up my arms. My shoulders ached. My thoughts slipped further and further away....into strange places. I started thinking about Rika's braid swinging behind her when she walked. About Hajime stealing my rice again and how I let him, always. About whether lightning even wanted to be called by someone like me.
And then--without warning--something flickered.
A pulse. A presence. A crackle, not heard but felt, like static brushing along the inside of my skin.
The system stirred to life.
[Kettai Current Stirred – Sync +1%]
[Microcurrent Detected. Calibrating.]
[Tip: Listen to the static.]
I jerked backward, nearly losing my balance over a twisted root. My breath caught. It hadn't been much, it was barely a tremor, more imagined than seen but it had been real. Real enough to make me pause. Real enough to believe. Real enough!
The voice of the system was back. Not barking commands or offering praise, but guiding in that quiet, unrelenting way it had. A whisper at the edge of my consciousness. A presence that didn't lead, but invited.
"Don't chase the storm…" I repeated, my voice low. "Listen to the static…"
This time, I didn't raise the blade. I left it resting where it was and let myself become still again. I focused on breath, not strength. On rhythm, not result. The night pressed in like a warm hand. A cicada clicked nearby. The air shifted. A crow called once, low and distant, and in that moment, something inside me moved too.
Not a flash, but a hum....subtle, patient. A current curling along my ribs, rising toward my skin like heat from a coal.
I reached for the sword.
This time, the draw was slow. Deliberate. Silent.
The blade didn't crackle.
But the air did.
[Inazuma Nuki: Attempt Registered]
[No Strike Achieved. Form Disruption Detected: Over-tension in wrist, unstable breath pattern.]
[Feedback Saved. Progress: Acceptable.]
I dropped to my knees, not from pain.....but from awe. The blade in my hand trembled faintly, as though something within it had been stirred awake.
I don't remember how long I stayed there. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. Breathing. Drawing. Failing. Learning how to fail better.
By the time I reached the outer walls of the compound, the sky had already begun to pale. Dawn crept up behind the trees, painting the world in dull greys. My arms hung loose, every joint aching, muscles turned to bruised thread. I moved on instinct alone, legs carrying me toward the east path, where the archway cast long shadows across the stone.
That's when I heard the voice.
"You hold your breath too long before you draw."
I froze. Slowly, I turned around to see who the voice belonged to.
Souta stood there, leaning against the low shrine wall as though he'd been waiting all night. His arms were crossed. His eyes were sharp, unmoving as watched me with that same eerie stillness he always carried. The kind that made you feel like a secret he'd already solved.
The black Jonin cloak hung open, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows. His gaze didn't blink. It didn't need to. He looked at me the way fire looks at dry wood, not unkind, but inevitable.
I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again. What was there to say?
He stepped forward, unhurried, and stopped just short of arm's length.
"When you draw," he said, voice low and clear, "your elbow lifts too high. The blade wavers. You're thinking about force. But lightning isn't forced."
He reached out and tapped the center of my chest with two fingers.
"It's released. Like a pulse. Sharp. Silent."
"I—I didn't mean to—" I stammered, shame prickling beneath my skin.
"You shouldn't train alone."
"I wasn't—" The lie died on my tongue. "I didn't think anyone would notice."
"I didn't." He turned, already beginning to walk away. "The forest did."
He paused once more at the edge of the path, without looking back.
"You're not ready," he said. "But you're not hopeless either."
Then he was gone--his steps so quiet they felt like part of the forest itself.
The next morning was worse than usual. The broom felt twice as heavy. The sunlight slashed too bright against the stones. My arms moved like broken branches, barely enough strength to carry the water jars without spilling them. Twice I caught myself nodding off mid-task, mind floating somewhere between exhaustion and elation.
But my thoughts weren't on chores.
They were on Souta.
Why had he spoken to me at all?
He wasn't known for kindness. If anything, he was feared for the opposite. His students whispered stories of harsh lessons--broken fingers, punished silence, drills that went on until the body gave out. He wasn't gentle. He wasn't forgiving.
And yet, last night, he hadn't punished me.
He had corrected me instead.
It wasn't praise. But it wasn't cruelty either.
I replayed his words in my mind--pulse, silent, released and the system's messages began to make more sense. It wasn't teaching me like a scroll would. It was adapting. Responding. Feeling through me, not above me.
And somehow, I knew.
Somehow, I felt it in my bones, in my bruises.
At midday, I passed Rika in the corridor outside the west hall. She paused, gave me a knowing smile.
"You look exhausted."
I offered a crooked grin. "Studied too hard."
"Maybe let your brain rest before it melts," she teased, brushing past and vanishing down the hallway.
The system remained quiet the rest of the day. No pings. No prompts. No updates.
But I knew, deep inside, I had taken a step. A real one.
Small. Unsteady. Almost invisible.
But forward.
And next time the Inazuma Nuki came?
I would be ready.
I would not miss.