Inside the training field, the tension was almost thick enough to chew through.
Asuma-sensei stared at me like I'd just grown a second head. His face kept twitching, stuck between disbelief, suspicion, and good ol' fashioned Konoha-style denial.
Seriously, was it that hard to believe a five-year-old could radiate pure, undiluted murder intent?
Okay… maybe it was.
Still, the way his eyes sharpened told me he wasn't going to take any chances. He wasn't buying the "innocent giggling kid" act anymore.
'Tch. So much for bluffing my way through.'
And yet, I wasn't going to show my hand completely either. Not yet.
No eyes glowing with ominous power. No terrifying truths from other worlds. Just me, a handful of shuriken, and a little teleportation finesse.
Simple.
Subtle.
Lethal.
Asuma adjusted his stance, clearly trying to shake off the pressure.
"Don't play games, kid," he warned, voice low and serious now.
But I was already gone.
Literally.
"Bump. Bump. Bump."
The sound of metal slicing the air echoed across the training field. A few well-placed shuriken sailed through, kissing the fabric of his pants and brushing past his sleeve—close enough to make him sweat, but not close enough to draw blood.
And judging by the very audible gulp that followed, he was sweating.
Asuma whipped around—too late—and caught sight of me behind him, already poised for the next throw.
His body reacted on instinct, battlefield honed. His eyes, not so much.
'You didn't see that, did you?'
I could see the question burning in his gaze.
He hadn't seen my movement. Not even a blur.
Just the sound, and then the steel.
"Shuriken...?" he muttered. "Is he a projectile-type ninja?"
Well, technically yes.
Also technically no.
You see, Asuma was thinking in chakra systems, techniques, and energy signatures. Basic shinobi playbook.
But me?
I had another engine under the hood.
Chakra wasn't my only source of power.
In fact, it wasn't even the main one anymore.
My magic power, condensed from soul rather than flesh, moved outside the typical chakra framework. It was silent. Invisible.
And deadly.
Across the field, Orochimaru watched with keen eyes and a smile that made me wish I could install a seal that said Do Not Dissect on my forehead.
"Asuma's going to lose," he said coolly.
His student beside him blinked. "What? No way! You're serious? But he's just—he's just five!"
Orochimaru let out a soft chuckle.
"Don't measure genius with your yardstick."
Yikes.
That was practically a verbal chidori to the soul.
Back in the field, Asuma had fallen into a rhythm again. He retreated to create distance, fingers twitching near his trench knives.
'He thinks I'm a taijutsu type. He thinks I need distance to close in again.'
Good.
He also thinks time is on his side.
Even better.
Only problem? I was bored.
"This is getting annoying," I muttered, adjusting my blindfold and exhaling sharply. "Let's wrap this up."
The second the words left my lips, I vanished.
No smoke bomb. No flashy technique.
Just—
Gone.
Asuma froze. His head whipped around, eyes darting like a cornered animal.
"Where—where is he?" he muttered.
Another familiar sound whistled through the air.
"Whoosh—"
"Whoosh—"
Shuriken, again.
But this time?
They weren't just warning shots.