Reluctantly, I tore my gaze away from the perpetually falling boy and looked at the girl.
"Of course there are," I said with a sinister grin, "but only for Nawaki. This genjutsu is based on real traps used in the First World War. Maybe this way he'll finally learn some caution. Anyway, forgive me, Mikoto-chan, but it's time to work with Nami-chan."
Forming the necessary hand seals in an instant, I whispered:
"Kaburi Tsurugi Bunshin no Jutsu!"
With a soft pop, two blades materialized in the air before me—perfect copies of my version of Kusanagi, my pride and joy.
Yes, I'd spent a lot of time turning what I inherited into something halfway acceptable. And then I got carried away—and this was the result. A one-handed hilt with a full guard formed as an intricate knot of two intertwined snakes protecting the hand. The blade itself was white and wavy—wounds from it were a complete nightmare for any medic-nin. In size, it resembled a reiterschwerter: long and seemingly massive, yet Kusanagi weighed no more than a kilogram. With its cutting ability and the general lack of armor in this world, it didn't need to be heavy.
A fine blade. Though I couldn't make it less conspicuous—the metal gleamed, and with certain techniques it even glowed like a Christmas tree! Not very shinobi-like.
Honestly, if not for my upgraded brain, a few shadow clones, and several liters of energy drinks, I wouldn't even be able to wield this wunderwaffe myself. Luckily, after reincarnation, I now had near-perfect memory and free access to my inner world. That allowed me to piece together my own style from everything I had seen and studied before, then drill it with shadow clones.
Good thing the Multiple Shadow Clone Technique was only declared forbidden five years ago, when the war was nearing its end—I had time to learn it without any trouble. Otherwise, I'd have had to bend over backward to Danzo and Hiruzen just to gain access to the restricted archives, and I had no desire to do that. One problem, though: my shadow clones were even more fragile than usual—I simply didn't have the strength to fully materialize them.
Still, my kenjutsu turned out quite respectable by this world's standards. After testing it during the war, I was satisfied. What annoyed me, however, was how some shinobi had turned the noble art of the sword into a circus of explosions, lightning, and other nonsense—and now I had to keep up with that.
"Since you didn't bring any bokken, Nami-chan, we'll train with these," I said, handing the Hyuga one of the cloned blades. "They're not physical—just ordinary copies mixed with a bit of genjutsu. When they strike each other, they'll behave like real swords, but when they touch real objects, they'll pass right through, only chilling the skin slightly. A special training version."
Without a shred of conscience, I lied—by tradition passing off a bug as a feature: the swords conjured by the technique were originally meant to inflict real, unbearable pain without causing any actual wounds.
"All right, let's begin. Let's go over what we covered last time."
To be honest, I'm not much of a teacher. If Nami were an ordinary child, my attempts to teach her would have failed spectacularly. But lately, I've begun to wonder whether clan shinobi are even human at all—their upbringing is simply inhuman.
Otherwise, I can't explain how this little girl absorbs everything I try to teach her.
What a crazy world… this isn't what I wanted.
I spent about two hours on the kids before it was time to remember my duties as a member of Root. By then, I'd managed to thoroughly exhaust the white-eyed little one and keep Mikoto occupied—though instead of training, she seemed more interested in watching me run the Hyuga ragged.
Oh, right—Nawaki did eventually make it through the obstacle course, which meant I had to congratulate him, since he looked completely deflated:
"Not bad, Nawaki-chan. You've just learned the most important jutsu: Try Looking Where You're Going," I said with a nasty little smile, patting the heavily breathing boy sprawled out on the grass. "Now you just need to drill it until it becomes instinct. Your task is to run the obstacle course as though no traps exist. Got it?"
"Orochi-san!" the Senju began to whine. "What kind of training is this? You even teach Nami-chan something worthwhile, but with me you're just messing around!"
"I'm preparing you for the harsh life of a shinobi the way I see fit. Don't like it? I'll be happy—I'll get to sleep longer," I said, shaking my head in disappointment. "Honestly, I didn't expect you to give up so quickly. I even requested access to the restricted archives to get a technique for you. What a waste."
"What technique?" the brat instantly sprang to his feet.
"What does it matter now?" I waved him off. "If you can't even handle the first task, then the technique would be useless to you anyway."
"What do you mean I can't?" the kid frowned. "I can do anything!"
"Really, anything?" I crossed my arms and looked down at him condescendingly. "Go on then. Show me Mokuton."
Watching Nawaki immediately sulk, I only grinned wider. I can just imagine how sick he already is of hearing that. Being the grandson of Hashirama and Mito isn't exactly easy—everyone and their dog feels the need to remind him that it's about time he amazed the world by mastering Wood Release.
"Don't twist my words," Nawaki muttered, his face flushed with anger. "I can run the obstacle course with traps as if they aren't there!"
"S-s-s," I only hissed in response, not even bothering to listen.
I suddenly found myself wondering—why, exactly, had no other Senju managed to awaken Wood Release? And yet, if the manga is anything to go by, a simple transplantation of the First's cells grants both an enhanced genome and immediate access to the ability.
I had no way to verify it yet—all the prisoners implanted with Hashirama's DNA had died in agony, and Danzo hadn't yet thought of experimenting on children. But if my sources are accurate, then something about this is… strange.
Nawaki and Tsunade are clearly their father's children—you can see the genetic resemblance in their faces. And I have no doubt that their father was Mito's son—I saw him myself, red-haired. Questioning the loyalty of the First jinchuriki would be absurd, so her grandchildren definitely carry Hashirama's genes.
And yet—they don't have the kekkei genkai?