The sun had barely risen when Sakura arrived at the Academy training hall. The classrooms were still locked, but the practice yard was open and lined with dummies, target boards, and chalk-drawn circles from yesterday's drills. Shikamaru was already there, reclining under a tree with his hands behind his head and eyes half-lidded in a state of thoughtfulness that only ever looked like sleep.
Sakura didn't say anything at first. She knelt beside one of the dummies and began unpacking her sealing kit: paper sheets, brushes, a slim pot of ink, and a folded scroll bearing the mark of her latest design.
"You're early," Shikamaru muttered.
"So are you."
"No, I'm just still here from last night."
Sakura raised an eyebrow. "You're joking."
"Mostly," he said, stretching. "Sensei said today we'd compare results. I wanted to get ahead of the scolding."
Gensai's arrival cut off the rest of their banter. He moved with calm precision, his robes fluttering slightly in the morning wind, and if he favored one side, neither student remarked on it.
"Today," he said without preamble, "we assess your practical applications. Not the theory. Not the scrolls. The work."
He knelt and drew a square into the dirt with a stick, then a circle inside it, then a series of branching arcs like antennae from each corner. It resembled a rudimentary circuit more than a seal.
"Sealing is language," he said. "Not art. Not science. Language. It must speak to the world and be understood by it. If your seal stutters, the world will not listen."
He looked at Sakura. "Show me the motion-impact seal."
Sakura moved quickly, unrolling the prototype with care. The petal-form array shimmered faintly in the morning light. She placed a small rock on one side of the seal. Nothing happened. She hurled a kunai.
A soft blue flare.
Gensai nodded. "Improvement."
"It still can't tell when I'm standing on it."
"Then don't let it carry that burden alone," he said. "Pair it with something that can. Shikamaru?"
The boy exhaled and reached into his pouch, withdrawing a design of his own. It was tight and compact, formed of nested rings like tree growth.
"Pressure relay," he said. "It's not mine. I just cleaned up an old template."
Gensai studied it, then gestured for Sakura to place hers beside it.
"Together," he said.
They set both seals down and Gensai handed her a weighted tag.
"Drop it gently. Then again, with force."
She obeyed. The first fall earned no response. The second flared both seals—hers in blue, Shikamaru's in red.
"Signal convergence," Gensai murmured. "One detects presence. The other confirms intent."
He didn't smile, but he looked satisfied.
Later, they sat beneath the same tree Shikamaru had started the morning under. Gensai handed each of them a slip of parchment with their names at the top.
"You'll be participating in the Chūnin Exams. Ten days from now. Your teams have already been entered. But your tasks remain the same. Observe, adapt, and refine."
Sakura blinked. "So soon?"
"You're not being sent to win. You're being sent to test your philosophy."
Shikamaru looked at the seal pages in his lap and muttered, "How troublesome."
Gensai didn't disagree.
---
That night, Sakura sat at her desk, journaling by lamplight.
> "Shikamaru's seal pairs with mine like opposite currents. It's like combining two thoughts into one sentence. Gensai was right—sealing is language. And now I need to learn how to argue with the world until it listens."
She paused, tapping the end of her brush to her chin.
> "I'm still worried about the reactive coil. It flares too easily. Maybe if I set a threshold that shifts based on proximity or acceleration... Ugh. Tomorrow."
She closed the book, exhaled, and turned out the lamp.
Outside, the leaves whispered in the night, unseen yet watching. The world was waiting.