Moriko's smile was all teeth as she straightened, her whip coiled lazily around her wrist. "Class dismissed."
The next morning arrived with the same jarring normalcy as a kunai embedded in wood—routine, expected, yet still unsettling. Himari's body moved through warm-up drills beside Sakura's stiff-limbed katas, both pretending not to notice the fresh bruises peeking above Ino's collar. Across the training field, Naruto's shadow clones sparred with exaggerated intensity, their punches landing harder than necessary whenever a chunin instructor wandered too close. Even the air smelled ordinary—sweat, grass, the metallic tang of sharpened blades—as though last night's lavender-scented horror had been a collective hallucination.
At lunch, Tenten chewed her rice balls with mechanical precision while Hinata's trembling fingers smeared miso soup across her tray. No one mentioned the way Sakura flinched when a bench scraped against the floor, or how Ino's usually sharp tongue stayed conspicuously silent. The only deviation from routine came when Lee—blessedly, painfully oblivious—bounded over to challenge Naruto to a push-up contest. For three glorious minutes, the courtyard echoed with their competitive grunts instead of muffled sobs.
Afternoon classes passed in a blur of mundane torture: chakra theory drills, kunai target practice, a written exam on poison antidotes. The normalcy was almost worse—watching Moriko demonstrate proper wire trap techniques with the same hands that had wielded the paddle, hearing Ibiki's monotone lecture on interrogation tactics without a single reference to the marks on Sakura's thighs.
By dusk, Himari found herself staring at the Academy's weathered front gate, half-expecting it to morph into something monstrous. Instead, it remained stubbornly ordinary—just wood, just iron, just another day survived. She tightened her hitai-ate and stepped through. Tomorrow would be the same. And the day after that. And the day after that.
Konoha's true lesson settled deeper than any bruise: the ordinary was the most brutal training of all.
The days bled together with eerie normalcy—morning drills under Kakashi's lazy supervision, afternoon chakra exercises with Iruka's encouraging nods, evenings spent memorizing codes that held no hidden meanings. Naruto's loud proclamations about becoming Hokage rang hollow now, but no one commented when his voice cracked mid-sentence. Sakura's textbooks were meticulously highlighted, her kunai throws unnervingly precise, as if perfection could armor her against memory. Even the usual pranks felt staged—paint cans rigged to doors, exploding tags tucked into desks—performed out of obligation rather than mischief. The only deviation came during kunai maintenance, when Himari caught Hinata's trembling fingers nicking her own thumb on purpose, the blood smearing the blade in a way that almost looked like a seal. No one spoke of it. No one ever did.
On Thursday, Moriko demonstrated proper infiltration tactics by flirting with a blushing genin—harmless, textbook, devoid of the oil-slick intensity from before. Himari's nails dug into her palms when the instructor's laugh echoed just a little too familiar, but Sakura's elbow nudged her ribs in silent warning. They practiced seduction techniques on wooden dummies, not each other. Progress.
By Friday's endurance run, even the bruises had faded—yellowed ghosts on Sakura's knees, faint crescents on Naruto's shoulders where teeth had broken skin. When Lee challenged him to a race, Naruto's grin almost reached his eyes. Almost.
The bell rang. Class dismissed. The weekend loomed.
Konoha's greatest cruelty was how seamlessly horror folded into routine.
The Sunday night air clung thick with jasmine and dread as Himari traced the fresh seal on her thigh—tonight's "training" etched in ink that burned colder than the anticipation coiling in her gut. Outside the barracks, laughter slithered through the cracks of the kunoichi dormitories, sharp and knowing. Sakura's fingers trembled as she braided Ino's hair too tight, their usual bickering replaced by tense silence punctuated by the occasional hitch of breath. Even the cicadas seemed to hold their breath when Moriko's heels clicked down the hallway, her shadow stretching long under the flickering lantern light. Himari's stomach twisted—half-terror, half something sickeningly warm—as the instructor paused outside their door. "Advanced interrogation techniques," Moriko purred, her gloved fingers tapping the whip against her thigh. "Don't be late, girls." The threat hung heavier than the summer humidity, curling around Himari's throat like a collar she'd learned to crave.
The courtyard smelled of upturned earth and crushed lavender, but Moriko's smirk never wavered as the Hokage's elite instructors filed in—Ibiki's scarred knuckles cracking, Anko's tongue darting over senbon, Genma's senbon twirling with lazy menace. "Today's lesson," the Hokage began, hands clasped behind his back, "is shadow clone application." His smile didn't reach his eyes as he nodded to Moriko, who knelt with deliberate grace at the center of the training ground. "Instructor Moriko has volunteered to demonstrate... proper utilization." The first clone materialized before she could react—Ibiki's rough hands yanking her head back by the hair as Anko's duplicate drove a knee between her thighs. Then the air blurred with a hundred identical grins, and Moriko's choked laugh turned ragged as the clones descended in a wave of grasping fingers and unsheathed cocks, her kimono tearing like rice paper under the onslaught.
"Pay attention, students," Kakashi drawled from the sidelines, his lone eye crinkling as Moriko's body arched off the ground—first from pain, then from the relentless friction of a dozen thrusts synchronizing. "Shadow clones share sensory feedback." His finger tapped the pornographic scroll unfurled in his lap, showing genin the exact angle each duplicate used to piston into Moriko's writhing form. "Meaning..." A particularly brutal thrust from an Ibiki clone sent her scream ricocheting off the academy walls. "...every one of these thousand cocks feels *real.*" Naruto's fists clenched as Moriko's manicured nails scored bloody furrows in the dirt—her usual composure shattered by the way Anko's duplicates alternated between slapping her ass raw and stuffing her throat full. Himari's thighs pressed together involuntarily, her body throbbing with traitorous hunger as the clones reduced their instructor to a sobbing, drooling mess—the lesson excruciatingly clear: *This* was how Konoha broke even the unbreakable.
Moriko's scream tore through the courtyard as the first wave of shadow clones descended—Ibiki's duplicates pinning her wrists with brutal precision while Anko's copies dragged her knees apart, their fingers digging into her thighs hard enough to bruise. Her usual smirk shattered into a gasp when the initial thrust came from behind, the clone's grip on her hair yanking her head back to expose her throat just as another duplicate sealed its mouth over hers. The clones moved with terrifying synchronization, each thrust perfectly timed to deny her even a second of reprieve, their hands leaving reddened prints across her skin like brands. Moriko's hips jerked uncontrollably between pleasure and agony as the clones' pace turned punishing, her once-perfect hair now matted with sweat and dirt as she writhed beneath the onslaught—every inch of her body claimed, used, *owned* by the very techniques she'd taught them to wield.
Moriko's body arched violently as the next wave of clones seized her—Anko's duplicates twisting her nipples with razor-sharp precision while Ibiki's copies spread her wider, their cocks pistoning into her from both ends in ruthless rhythm. Her scream tore raw as an Ibiki clone fisted her hair, forcing her face down into the dirt just as an Anko duplicate mounted her from behind, slamming home with a wet crack that sent her spine bowing unnaturally. The clones moved with military precision, some gripping her throat to stifle screams while others alternated between brutal thrusts and sharp slaps to her welted ass—each impact timed to her involuntary clenches. Her once-immaculate kimono hung in shreds, revealing the way her breasts bounced obscenely with every synchronized penetration, the clones' fingers leaving darkening fingerprints on her pale flesh. When she tried to crawl away, a fresh Ibiki duplicate dragged her back by the ankles, flipping her onto her stomach as two Anko clones forced her knees apart again—this time with kunai pressed to her inner thighs. Moriko's broken moan dissolved into guttural sobs as they took her harder, deeper, the clones' identical grunts merging with the slick sounds of overstimulated flesh. Her thighs trembled uncontrollably, slick with sweat and other fluids, as the relentless pace ripped another orgasm from her—this one wet and shuddering, her nails splintering against the training ground's wooden posts. Across the courtyard, the genin watched in horrified fascination as their instructor came apart under the assault, her body no longer her own—just a vessel for Konoha's most brutal lesson.
Moriko's body convulsed violently as the Ibiki clones wrenched her thighs apart wider than thought possible—muscles straining, tendons screaming—while Anko's duplicates forced three thick cocks into her at once. The first plunged into her dripping cunt with a wet snarl, the second speared her asshole in one brutal thrust, and the third crammed past her gagging lips until her throat bulged obscenely. Tears streaked her flushed face as the clones established a savage rhythm, each withdrawal leaving her gaping and empty before slamming back in with synchronized brutality that lifted her hips off the ground. Her spine bowed like a drawn bowstring when a fourth clone seized her bouncing breasts, biting down on one nipple while twisting the other with kunai-calloused fingers. The air reeked of sex and salt as her body betrayed her—squeezing around invading shafts with involuntary pulses, her choked screams vibrating around the cock fucking her throat. Behind her, another Anko clone laughed against her ear before sinking teeth into her shoulder, the pain lost beneath the mounting pressure of a thousand shared sensations building toward an inexorable, degrading climax.
The Hokage's pipe clinked against his teeth as he observed Moriko's twitching form with detached interest. "Note the clone synchronization," he murmured, gesturing to where her body spasmed between thrusts—every muscle locked in helpless overstimulation. Behind him, a whimper escaped Himari's lips as Sakura's nails dug into her wrist hard enough to draw blood, both girls trembling with the visceral understanding: *This could be us next.* The clones didn't slow, didn't stop, even as Moriko's screams dissolved into wet, mindless gurgles around the cock stuffing her throat. Kakashi turned a page in his porn scroll. "Proper chakra control ensures no clone finishes prematurely," he droned, as if commenting on the weather. "Continue until subject loses consciousness... or womb takes seed."
Moriko's body finally went limp just as the first clone spilled inside her—a hot, pulsing flood that triggered a chain reaction through the linked duplicates. The clones vanished in puffs of smoke, leaving her twitching form curled in the dirt, semen leaking from every violated hole. The Hokage exhaled pipe smoke through his nose. "Dismissed." As the genin scattered, Himari caught Naruto's gaze—his usual fire replaced by something hollow, resigned. Sakura's fingers brushed hers in the dark. Tomorrow's lesson would be worse.