Chapter 137: The Time Limit of Battle
Yet Masamichi stood there—firm, unwavering, as though even time itself bowed before him.
Under the pale golden light filtering through the cracks of the sand dome above, Masamichi's figure resembled a statue sculpted by the desert itself—solemn, immovable, ancient.
A gentle wind brushed past, fluttering the long hem of his robe, emphasizing the quiet authority that surrounded him like a mantle no one dared disturb.
"So, you've finally arrived, hm? There are still a few minutes before the appointed time. You decided to come early? Good." Masamichi spoke with a flat expression, yet the faintest trace of satisfaction lingered in his voice.
His tone was low and composed, but carried a resonance that seemed to ripple across the room. It wasn't loud, but enough to press subtly against their chests—a quiet pressure that demanded respect.
Behind that calm face, the corner of Masamichi's lips curved ever so slightly—barely visible, yet enough to betray his approval of his students' discipline.
Makima stared at Masamichi for several seconds longer than the others, studying the man's expression—one that was nearly flawless, unreadable.
The golden light reflecting from the sand walls shimmered in her curious eyes, painting them with shades of wonder and intrigue.
Then, with a soft, cheerful tone laced with genuine curiosity, Makima asked, "So, Masamichi-sensei… what are we going to do today?"
Her gaze drifted around the vast hall that resembled a battlefield. Her eyes gleamed, curious and alert.
Her line of sight traced every corner of the room—from the massive pillars of compacted sand standing like dragon's fangs, to the high ceiling that loomed above like a hardened dome forged from the desert's own bones.
Each breath she took carried the dry scent of sand mixed faintly with iron—an unmistakable sign that this place had seen countless battles and harsh training sessions.
The room was enormous—so large it felt as if the entire building existed solely for this single, colossal training arena.
The air was lightly dusted, carrying a faint haze that glimmered in the sunlight. Faint traces of past chakra explosions scarred the walls: small holes, cracks, and burn marks that whispered of countless duels once fought here.
The compacted sand floor was smooth to the touch, yet every step sent a subtle tremor through their soles—as if the ground itself still pulsed with leftover chakra energy, echoes of old battles that refused to fade.
"You will fight my Kugutsu," Masamichi said, his eyes narrowing slightly, voice sharp as tempered steel.
"As I told you yesterday—if you manage to defeat my Kugutsu, you pass. You'll be recognized as full-fledged ninja. And officially, as members of this team."
His voice this time carried weight—not anger, but authority. Like the slow scraping of metal against metal, ringing clearly through the room's hollow air.
Masamichi's piercing gaze locked onto the three of them—cutting through Souta's composure, Pakura's confidence, and Makima's calm curiosity.
Souta felt a faint chill crawl up his spine. The words "this team" echoed in his head. This wasn't just a test—it was acknowledgment.
It was a gate to the true world of shinobi, where life and death were separated by the blink of an eye. Souta took a deep breath, his eyes firm, his heart beating steady as he stared straight at Masamichi—his resolve beginning to crystallize.
"We understand," said Souta, Pakura, and Makima in unison, their voices firm and perfectly synchronized—like a rhythm forged through years of discipline.
Pakura slowly clenched her fists, the faint pop of her knuckles echoing softly. Makima straightened her posture, her chin lifting ever so slightly, pride and determination glinting in her eyes. Souta remained still, calm yet focused, his mind already running through calculations—distance, speed, timing, tactics.
"Your time limit is until lunchtime," Masamichi continued. "If you fail before then, you don't eat. And if you're still unable to win by sundown…"
His voice trailed slightly, but the chill in his tone was unmistakable.
"… then you'll be marked as failures. You'll repeat an entire year at the Ninja Academy."
The silence that followed was almost tangible. Dust drifted lazily through the air as if time itself held its breath.
Somewhere in that vast hall, Souta's heartbeat echoed faintly, mingling with the whisper of the desert wind.
...
Chapter 138: Panda
Masamichi's tone was flat, yet it carried a subtle pressure that pierced straight through.
The meaning behind his words was far sharper than a simple threat of starvation.
This wasn't just about time — it was a test of mental endurance.
To endure hunger meant to endure weakness; to resist failure meant to resist shame.
Pakura swallowed slowly. In this scorching desert, the stretch of time until lunch felt like a thin line between stamina and despair.
Meanwhile, Makima, though appearing calm, had a faint glimmer of challenge in her eyes — as if she saw the time limit not as a threat, but as a game.
Masamichi then reached into the pouch at his lower back and pulled out a tightly rolled scroll. With a swift flick of his wrist, he unfurled it wide open.
The sealing symbols along the parchment pulsed, releasing a surge of white smoke that billowed through the air. A deep boom echoed, followed by a low vibration rippling across the floor. Fine grains of sand lifted and swirled gently in the haze.
From within the smoke, a massive figure emerged — a Kugutsu Panda, towering two meters tall. Its wooden frame was reinforced with black metallic plates; its eyes glowed crimson, and a guttural mechanical growl rumbled from its chest. Tiny blue sparks of chakra flickered through its joints, crawling like veins of lightning that powered every movement.
The heavy groan of metal filled the room — the sound of an ancient machine forced awake after a long slumber. Its surface gleamed faintly with moisture, and every shift of its limbs produced a harsh rasp of steel against wood.
"This," Masamichi announced, his voice carrying a quiet authority, "is what you'll be facing — Panda."
As he spoke, thin threads of chakra unfurled from his fingertips — luminous blue filaments, delicate yet razor-sharp, like strands of living light. They danced through the air before connecting to the puppet's limbs and torso, merging seamlessly with its joints. Each thread trembled in rhythm, pulsing faintly with Masamichi's steady heartbeat — or perhaps, the deep, measured thrum of his chakra field.
Kugutsu Panda turned its gaze sharply toward Masamichi's three students.
A cracking sound came from within its body, like metal bones shifting into place as its internal core fully activated.
Its red eyes flared brighter — two burning coals cutting through the dim room. The surrounding air seemed to darken, as if the light itself recoiled from its intensity. The puppet's chakra presence pressed outward, dense and heavy, stirring up loose dust that drifted wildly in the charged atmosphere.
"Prepare yourselves," Masamichi said softly, moving his fingers in a subtle gesture.
The Panda moved instantly. Its massive frame took a single step forward — and the ground trembled. Sand erupted beneath its feet, scattering through the air like waves of golden dust. Each footfall struck like the swing of a chakra hammer pounding into the desert floor.
The air thickened; a battle aura filled the space.
Heat radiated from the clash of chakra, curling in the air like invisible flames, pressing against their lungs.
Souta, Pakura, and Makima reacted in unison, leaping backward as the shockwave passed.
The sand at their feet scattered violently — a silent warning of the power before them.
They quickly assumed natural defensive positions: Makima on the left, her sharp eyes locked on the puppet's movement; Pakura on the right, body tilted forward in a stance that promised counterattack; Souta at the center, calm and deliberate — the rhythm keeper of the trio.
Without hesitation, Souta reached into his robe and pulled out a scroll marked with a large Number One. He unrolled it swiftly, forming a single-handed seal. A burst of white smoke exploded outward with a faint hiss.
...
...
...
Three figures materialized before Souta.
The air shimmered faintly as if the chakra in the room had recognized the new presence and braced itself. A faint hum vibrated through the ground, subtle but sharp, like tension strung across invisible wires.
The dim sunlight filtering through the desert ceiling cast a copper glow on their bodies, painting their shadows long and sharp over the golden sand.
The three Kugutsu stood still, yet their artificial aura was suffocating — not the empty stillness of dolls, but the intimidating calm of beings that had tasted countless battles.
The first puppet — Shōnin — stood at just over one meter tall. Its humanoid frame was slender, carved from aged wood, its surface scarred with hundreds of cuts and steel reinforcements hammered into cracked joints. It looked like a relic that had survived endless wars.
Shōnin wore a tattered black robe that fluttered faintly whenever the desert wind passed through, as if even the cloth refused to stay still. The puppet's arms ended in long silver claws that gleamed coldly in the light, each fingertip sharpened with chakra, glinting like freshly whetted blades.
Every slight movement from Shōnin whispered danger — a silent rhythm that promised speed, precision, and death in one motion.
The other two puppets remained motionless behind it, their outlines half-hidden in the haze of dust and chakra — waiting, silent, like predators biding their time.
And in that brief stillness, even the desert seemed to hold its breath.
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