Chapter 99: Forged in Suffering
Surrounded by the three Iwa-nin, Kakashi knelt on the ground, his world reduced to the frantic, insufficient rhythm of his own breathing. The enemy shinobi stared down at him, their expressions a mix of wariness and confusion.
What was this? Had this Konoha brat been injured elsewhere and just stumbled into their path?
One of them, deciding the oddity wasn't worth further analysis, drew a kunai. "Enough of this. I'll finish the little pest."
In the shinobi world, a forehead protector marked an enemy, regardless of age. Mercy was a luxury no one could afford.
A cold dread, sharper than any kunai, pierced through Kakashi's oxygen-deprived haze. He had never felt so utterly helpless, so completely vulnerable. The fight hadn't even begun, and he was already defeated by his own body.
The Iwa-nin advanced, kunai held ready.
Driven by pure survival instinct, Kakashi moved. His hand flashed to his pouch, withdrawing three kunai that he hurled toward his opponents with a weak, clumsy flick of his wrist. The Iwa-nin sidestepped them with contemptuous ease.
Gritting his teeth, Kakashi drew his short sword and forced chakra to his feet.
"Body Flicker Technique!"
The technique was a pathetic shadow of its true form. Instead of a blur, it was a sluggish, stumbling dash. The burst of chakra consumption and physical exertion sent a fresh wave of vertigo crashing over him. The Iwa-nin he was targeting didn't even need to dodge; he simply lashed out with a kick that sent Kakashi flying backward to slam against a tree trunk before sliding to the ground.
The three Iwa-nin burst into derisive laughter.
"Hahaha! Is this a joke? Is this kid here for our amusement?"
"Was that the Body Flicker? My grandmother moves faster than that!"
"Konoha must truly be desperate if this is the quality of their new blood."
The taunts were a distant buzz in Kakashi's ears. The impact had knocked what little air he had from his lungs, and the suffocating mask made recovery impossible. His vision darkened at the edges. A primal, overwhelming urge took hold—to tear the wretched cloth from his face, to breathe.
His hands shot up, fingers hooking under the edge of the mask, pulling it away just enough to create a small gap. The promise of cool, unfiltered air was a siren's call.
And then he stopped.
Kagenori-sensei is watching.
The thought cut through the panic with the clarity of a honed blade. His sensei's words echoed in his mind: "The mask cannot be removed except for eating and drinking. It must be worn even when fighting."
To remove it now would be to admit defeat. It would be to prove himself weak, unworthy of the faith his new master had placed in him on a mere whim. He had just become Kagenori's disciple. He would not disappoint him so immediately, so utterly.
With a growl of pure frustration, he forced his hands away from the mask, letting it snap back into place.
Fine. If I can't move, then I won't. I'll make them come to me.
He pushed himself up, raising his short sword to point shakily at the nearest Iwa-nin.
"Thunder Breathing, Fifth Form: Heat Lightning!"
A bolt of lightning chakra shot from his blade, arcing toward the enemy. But it was a pale imitation of Kagenori's technique. Where his sensei's Heat Lightning was a searing, instantaneous spear, Kakashi's was merely a powerful, if standard, Lightning Release jutsu.
The Iwa-nin reacted instantly. "Earth Release: Earth-Style Wall!"
A wall of solid earth erupted from the ground, intercepting the lightning blast with a shower of sparks and displaced dirt. Seizing the momentary cover, Kakashi hurled a kunai with two explosive tags attached. It struck the wall and detonated, shattering the earth barrier and filling the air with dust and debris.
He tried to use the confusion to retreat into the thicker foliage, but his leaden legs betrayed him. He had barely taken two steps before the Iwa-nin were on him again.
One swung a kunai in a wide arc. Kakashi brought his short sword up to parry, the clang of steel jarring his arms. The other two attacked from his flanks. With a desperate, graceless roll, he avoided their strikes, but the three Iwa-nin pressed their advantage, not giving him a single second to recover.
High in the trees, Kagenori observed the one-sided struggle with a detached calm. He understood Kakashi's strategy—to fight a defensive, minimal-movement battle. But the boy had forgotten a fundamental rule of combat: the enemy holds the initiative. They would not fight on his terms.
It was time to intervene. Kagenori rose silently to his feet, his body coiling like a spring, ready to flash into the fray at a moment's notice. These three were carefully chosen; strong enough to be a lethal threat, but not so powerful that Kakashi would be instantly overwhelmed without a chance to resist.
Below, the three Iwa-nin launched a synchronized assault. Kakashi's mind, starved of oxygen, had gone blank. He was operating on pure, honed instinct now. He blocked a slash, dodged a thrust, and as the third attacker came in, he did not retreat. He lunged forward, his short sword aimed at the man's abdomen—a brutal, reckless trade of injury for injury.
The Iwa-nin, unprepared for such desperation, flinched and aborted his attack to dodge.
In that moment, something shifted in Kakashi. The fog of hypoxia seemed to thin at its edges. He forgot his breathing, forgot his weakness. His body moved with a fluidity that belied his condition, his short sword becoming an extension of his will. He was fighting not with technique, but with instinct, and for a few fleeting seconds, he held the three experienced shinobi at a stalemate.
The Iwa-nin grew frustrated. This weakling they had mocked was somehow getting stronger, his movements sharper, his counters more precise.
The stalemate was an illusion, built on a foundation that was crumbling by the second. As Kakashi twisted to avoid a volley of shuriken, the last of his borrowed strength vanished. The world tilted violently. The crushing weight of his suffocation returned tenfold. His legs gave out, and he collapsed to the ground, his eyes rolling back into his head as consciousness began to slip away.
Seeing their opening, the three Iwa-nin moved in for the kill.
A blur. A whisper of displaced air.
Kagenori stood between them and his fallen disciple.
The Iwa-nin skidded to a halt, their instincts screaming of imminent danger.
Ignoring them for a moment, Kagenori knelt and deftly pulled the stifling mask from Kakashi's face. As the boy's mouth opened in an involuntary gasp for air, Kagenori's hand shot out, gripping his chin.
"Don't," Kagenori commanded, his voice low and firm. "Breathe too deeply now and you'll lose consciousness. Slow. Steady. Feel the oxygen filling your lungs."
He released Kakashi's chin. The boy, wide-eyed with a mixture of terror and relief, clamped his mouth shut and focused on drawing slow, shuddering breaths through his nose.
Only then did Kagenori turn his gaze to the three Iwa-nin. In one fluid motion, his ninjato cleared its sheath. There was no grand technique, no wasted movement. He became a phantom, a flicker of motion between the three men. Three precise, surgical slashes. Three throats cut before any of them could form a hand seal or raise a weapon in defense.
They fell, their confusion and frustration dying with them.
Kagenori sheathed his blade, the clean click echoing in the sudden silence. He returned to Kakashi's side, squatting down to observe his disciple.
Kakashi was finally breathing, the terrible grey pallor receding from his skin. The simple, profound comfort of air was a sensation he had never before appreciated.
"How was it?" Kagenori asked, his tone conversational, as if they had just finished a sparring session. "Did you enjoy the feeling?"
Kakashi opened his mouth to answer, but the words were choked off as a violent wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He doubled over, hands braced on the ground, and vomited violently onto the forest floor.