The training arena was silent except for the sharp sound of metal slicing through air. Ash stood in the center, eyes locked on a dozen wooden targets scattered across the room. In each hand, he held a shuriken. His fingers twitched, muscles tense yet fluid—coiled like a serpent ready to strike.
Then, in a single breath, the shuriken flew.
With perfect arcs and uncanny timing, they collided mid-air with others he had thrown moments before. Each collision shifted the angle just enough to redirect the trajectory. The result: twelve perfect strikes, all dead-center in their respective targets.
Ash exhaled slowly. The Sharingan in both his eyes spun silently, their crimson glow bathing the room in an ominous hue. He blinked once, and the glow receded, but the fatigue was settling in—shoulders heavier, breaths slightly labored.
The Sharingan gave him the ability to read movements, predict angles, and replicate techniques with perfection, but at a cost. Here, in this world devoid of chakra, his dojutsu fed not on ethereal energy but on his physical stamina. The more he used it, the more it drained him.
He picked up a wooden training sword and stepped into the next station.
With clean, practiced movements, he swung the blade through a complex kata. His style was reminiscent of traditional kenjutsu—sharp, economic, and deadly. It wasn't his original skill, but one he had watched from a duel earlier that week and copied flawlessly using his eyes. Yet it was more than imitation. Ash adjusted, refined, and fused techniques, shaping them into something uniquely his.
He had tried jutsus too. Hand signs flowed from muscle memory, a ghost of his past life but when he activated them, nothing happened. No flames, no illusions, no shadows. It was frustrating, yet sobering. This was a new world, one with its own laws. If chakra didn't exist here, he'd carve a new path without it.
His resolve was interrupted by the soft click of boots behind him.
"Your control over projectiles is… elegant," said a calm, feminine voice.
Ash turned slightly, the Sharingan flickering back to life on instinct. Standing across the room was a girl perhaps a year younger, though her presence spoke otherwise.
She had long black hair, darker than midnight, flowing down her back like a silk river. Her eyes were an arresting shade of crystal blue pure, sharp, and yet oddly detached. The contrast of innocence and ice made her beauty ethereal, haunting even.
Ash didn't speak. He simply looked.
The moment their gazes met, Claire's body tensed subtly. Her pupils contracted, a flicker of unease passing through her composed expression. It wasn't fear but a primal alertness, like a predator meeting another cloaked in malice.
'Those crimson eyes…'
They weren't just watching her they were reading her. And within their depth, Claire felt something twisted. Rage, sorrow, loneliness—all wrapped in a killing intent that pressed against her like a blade at the throat.
She breathed in, suppressing a shiver.
"You're not just talented," she said, her voice cool again. "You're dangerous."
Ash deactivated his Sharingan, blinking slowly. "Depends who's asking."
Claire gave a faint smile. "Claire. From Class S."
Ash raised an eyebrow. 'So this was the girl who joined the elite class recently. Whispers in the academy told of a prodigy from a hidden ninja lineage, trained in stealth, assassination, and psychological warfare. Her movements were too quiet to be civilian-born, her presence too calculated.'
"And you?" she asked. "Ash Aragon. They say you were once hopeless."
He gave a slight shrug. "People change."
She stepped closer, her sharp eyes scanning his stance. "Your technique… It reminds me of something. Ancient, precise. You aim to end fights in one move."
Ash nodded. "Wasting motion wastes life."
Claire tilted her head, amused. "You fight like someone trained in silence."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then she asked, more quietly, "Are you planning to aim for Class A… or S?"
"I'll go as far as my strength takes me."
Claire's expression softened slightly, something flickering behind her icy gaze. "I'd like to spar with you. Soon."
Ash studied her. She didn't seem interested in dominance or superiority—more like curiosity. She had noticed the way he fought, recognized his quiet precision, and perhaps even respected it.
"I'll be here tomorrow," he said simply.
She nodded once and turned to leave.
As her figure faded down the corridor, Ash's Sharingan activated one last time—watching, memorizing the flow of her step, the way she distributed weight, even the tension in her shoulder blades. Not to exploit—yet—but to understand.
Because understanding was power.
When the doors closed behind her, Ash slumped slightly against the wall. His breathing was deeper now. The Sharingan took its toll.
But progress had been made.
No chakra? No problem.
He would turn every corner of this world into a weapon and mold his body into the blade that would pierce it.