The night's shade had blanketed the grassy land in a heavy silence. For some, it was an unwelcome reminder of uncertainty—shinobi and civilian alike. The small camp, home to a handful of shinobi, existed in a space neither safe nor truly endangered.
At the heart of the camp stood a large yurt, the command center and sanctuary that guarded the lives of many.
Inside, dim, flickering lanterns cast wavering shadows across the canvas walls. Their light fell unevenly on Kurai's face as he lifted his gaze from the small, worn map of the local area toward a corner of the tent.
"Kurai. Hope you've been well," said a voice.
There, as if slipping through the cracks of the world itself, stood a man with vividly blond hair, a soft smile playing on his lips.
"Minato."
Kurai's tone was flat, his expression unreadable. "Formalities are such a drag, so let's just skip ahead. I'm guessing the other fronts are holding up if the Third sent you to reinforce the northwest?"
"Mhm, sharp as always." Minato's faint smile didn't waver. "Kumo's started playing it a lot safer than before. Iwa's Jinchūriki areas are still a potential threat, though. Lord Hiruzen suspects the two might still have a vested interest in the war. Roshi's been underground since the Second War."
The lantern's flame flickered again, shadows dancing across the room as silence settled in—a sharp, calculated pause. Kurai Nara was deep in thought, contemplating something even a genius like Minato couldn't quite predict.
"I see. I doubt after the last war they'd risk their own progress using the Jinchūriki the way they did before. They'll probably place them more defensively this time." Kurai sighed, leaning back slightly. "What a drag. So, Minato… how's camp life treating you? Missing Kushina yet?"
A light laugh escaped Minato. "Haha, the atmosphere's been lighter—keeps morale up. Those kids really pulled through and saved the camp, huh?"
"Osamu and Shuichi, was it ?" Minato mused.
Kurai's gaze drifted lazily back to the map, voice low and steady. "Shuichi was a talented prospect back in the Academy. If not for his team failing their joint test, his potential could've been polished into something real sharp. As for the other kid... Osamu wasn't anything special at first glance. But I guess he had his own kind of talent, if the reports are to be believed."
A small chuckle escaped Kurai as a lazy, mischievous smile tugged at his lips.
"Talented?" Minato huffed lightly. "Well, at least Rin, Obito, and Kakashi won't feel too out of their depth, having them around."
Kurai's smile faded into something more thoughtful, almost calculating. "Still... the way Osamu's been using Shuichi—it's dangerous. Smart, but dangerous. The kids swinging a sword to large and sharp for him to handle "
Minato leaned against the main support beam holding up the yurt, arms folded casually.
"Using, huh? Kid's like a small Nara in the making," he said, voice still soft and calm, but concern flickered behind his easy tone, little connections forming in his mind. "Danzo... better keep an eye on that one."
Kurai snorted lazily, waving a hand through the air as if swatting away a fly.
"Nah. Kid's just overthinking things too much. Stressing out over nothin'. Honestly, more trouble than he's worth right now. But—" Kurai's grin sharpened a bit—"I hear you've been making a mini-you on your own team? What's his name... Kakashi, right?"
Minato chuckled, the sound low and genuine.
"Haha, yeah. Kid's talented, no doubt. But he's way too standoffish. Needs to learn how to let others in. That's why I'm thankful Lord Third put Rin and Obito with him. Those two really soften him up—drag a little humanity out of that stone wall he's trying to build."
The two shinobi lapsed into a more comfortable silence, the kind that felt warm instead of tense—like two old uncles gossiping about the next generation over cheap sake and a dying campfire.
*****
The small fabric tent Osamu called home was just like all the others scattered across the camp—crude, rough, and barely enough to keep out the night. But for him, it had become a place of quiet, painful rebirth.
He was thankful to be alive. Barely.
The memory of death—the gut-wrenching tear of flesh, the nauseating shock of his body failing—still clung to him like a second skin. If not for his body shutting down into a merciful numbness, he would've been broken by it long before now.
Cross-legged on the thin, scratchy mat of uncomfortable fabrics, Osamu forced his mind inward. He could feel the rough weave of the cloth pricking against his skin, but it was nothing compared to the phantom pain of cold steel parting his body.
He exhaled slowly.
Then, he activated his Toria Shisen.
The darkness behind his closed eyelids thinned, replaced by a dull, fleshy red—the veiny interior of his own eyelid. Unimpressive. But what mattered wasn't the sight itself. It was the feeling—the warmth.
Every time he used Toria Shisen, his chakra revealed itself in a faint, tangible way—a faint signature.
Focusing deeper, he sought out the lilac warmth flowing through his body. With a small effort of will, he pushed it outward—his chakra peeling from his body like invisible mist, forming a thin outline around him.
Two faint, threadlike lines of chakra tethered him to the growing outline as it expanded, brushing against the inner walls of the tent.
He felt it—the rough texture of the tent walls against his chakra. With a firm tug of intent, he reeled the chakra back in, then pushed it out again, expanding the perimeter. This time, he opened his eyes, blending sensation with sight, trying to force the feeling into a more solid form in his mind.
"Hmm... what to call this... Extreme Chakra Tiger's Domain? Yeah... that'll do," he muttered under his breath, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth.
This new technique, pieced together from scraps of puppet-master knowledge he'd heard about from the anime wasn't true puppeteering. He lacked the skill—and the chakra—for that.
Instead, he improvised:
A steady pulse of chakra, sent from a single tenketsu at his navel, creating a constant tether to the expanding, retracting outline.
If he'd had monstrous chakra reserves, he could have left the chakra flowing endlessly like a sonar pulse.
But Osamu wasn't some gifted prodigy. He was below average, clinging to every drop of chakra he could muster. So he recycled it—only casting the jutsu once, letting the thin chakra coating expand, shrink, and expand again without needing to recast.
Outside, a sharp, childish voice broke through his focus.
"Shuichi, you bastard! Take that back!"
Osamu blinked, the technique snapping back into him. Rising to his feet, he shuffled over to the tent's entrance and pushed aside the flaps.
Outside, two kids were locked in a sloppy, collar-grabbing brawl: Shuichi, and a black-haired youth with orange-tinted goggles dangling lazily from his neck.
Osamu exhaled slowly, his new body still feeling foreign, awkward.
"Here we go again..." he muttered, watching them with an expression that was too tired for these childish fights