Chapter 33: If Possible
"I'm fine..."
Tatsuro deactivated his Sharingan, panting as he lowered his head. Due to the sweat, his sunglasses had slipped off and fallen to the floor. The blood flowing from the corners of his eyes had already streaked down his face, mixing with sweat.
"Fine my ass! What's wrong with your eyes?"
Itou Shuichi looked flustered. It was the first time he'd ever seen someone bleed from their eyes just from learning martial arts. For a moment, he didn't know what to do.
"Master Itou, just hand me a towel. I'll be okay after I rest a bit."
"O-oh, alright. Hang in there—don't you dare die! I'm calling an ambulance!"
Itou Shuichi quickly snapped out of it, pulling out his phone while grabbing a towel from the corner—the one used for wiping sweat after training. Although it had been used before, it was always washed, so infection wasn't a concern.
"No, really, don't call. This happens all the time. I don't need emergency services."
Tatsuro waved it off. This wasn't his first time. When he first awakened his abilities after transmigrating, the same thing had happened due to overusing his eyes. This was no different.
"...Are you sure?"
Itou's hand hovered uncertainly over his phone. But Tatsuro didn't seem like the type to joke about his health. On the contrary—he was such a sly little fox that he clearly valued his own life highly.
"I'm sure. Just hand me the towel. I memorized everything just now. Once I rest, I can start sparring. I just can't keep learning more tonight."
"You memorized it?"
Itou handed him the towel, half-skeptical. He'd only demonstrated the techniques once—there was no way someone could replicate such complex movements after just a glance. They required adaptability and practice.
But this brat... might just be capable. He was freakishly talented, after all.
Tatsuro wiped the sweat and blood from his face and tried to open his eyes, but failed each time. It wasn't just pain—he could feel something strange. As if his eyes had hit their limit. Not in terms of chakra, but sheer physical strain.
Maybe if he pushed them again, something would happen... or nothing would, and he'd just go blind.
Even Sharingan couldn't withstand endless abuse.
He needed to be more careful using them.
If he went blind, he'd be like Gojo-sensei—except while Gojo wore a black bandage, he'd wear white. Gojo had white hair and a black bandage. He had black hair and would wear white.
Together, they'd be known as—
The Black and White Duo!
It even sounded cool!
For now, his eyes were unusable, but his body could still move. Under Itou's shocked gaze, Tatsuro bent down and felt around on the floor until he picked up his sunglasses, setting them gently on the table. Then, he stepped forward and began moving.
With shaky steps and weak punches, he mimicked what he'd just seen, imitating Itou's techniques with surprising precision.
Despite his obvious exhaustion, his form was almost textbook.
How was that even possible?
Itou watched in disbelief as Tatsuro repeated the sequence from start to finish. Punch after punch, movement after movement—clean, smooth, deadly. No hesitation.
He really had memorized it all. Was he even human?
Each punch, even if a bit weak due to fatigue, was technically perfect.
Itou couldn't help but be impressed. This brat was a freak. Bloodied eyes, weak limbs—and he still insisted on practicing. A cunning, smooth-talking punk on the outside, but inside?
He was a monster.
...
In Tatsuro's mind, the image of Itou's movements played on repeat. He copied them carefully, stroke for stroke.
He'd always believed one thing: Only through strength could he find peace.
The faster he grew, the sooner he'd be safe. Time waited for no one.
His eyes still throbbed, but the pain was lessening. The cursed energy within him had begun to flow again, slowly restoring his stamina.
Even with the pain, he continued. The techniques weren't just fancy moves—they were about being stable, precise, and ruthless.
That's all that mattered.
Having a hundred moves was useless if you didn't know when to use them. And being ruthless meant nothing if you didn't know how to strike.
If you hesitated even once in a real fight, you were dead.
Of course, unless you switched sides fast enough. Provided you had any value, that is.
As the final technique played out in his mind, Tatsuro slowly came to a stop. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.
Somehow, the fear he'd felt had faded.
He had feared going blind. Losing these eyes meant losing everything he'd worked for. A life of darkness, constantly stalked by cursed spirits, terrified him.
But now...
He could see.
"It really doesn't hurt anymore?"
Itou stared into Tatsuro's eyes, still concerned. That amount of blood… it didn't seem right.
"Thanks for the concern, Master Itou. My eyes are fine. Want to spar and test how well I learned?"
Tatsuro smiled faintly. He looked pale, his exhaustion impossible to hide, but he still tried to act like nothing was wrong.
This brat...
Itou's brow furrowed. He turned away and walked toward the iron training dummy, barking, "No sparring. If you fail tomorrow's test, I'm done teaching you. Now go to bed!"
"...Got it, Master Itou."
Tatsuro reluctantly agreed, though he'd been itching to test himself.
"No more chatter. Let me train."
The iron dummy rang out with clang clang clang as Itou resumed his strikes.
Tatsuro took one last glance and turned to leave.
He'd learned a lot tonight.
Still, he felt a little regret.
After all, true growth comes from battle—and tonight, he didn't get that.
If he had the choice, he'd skip eating and sleeping just to train.
As long as his eyes held up…
Either he or his teacher would have to drop first.
But for now, this was enough.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
---