…
"Hatake-san."
Sakumo smiled slightly. "Yo."
Murakami nodded once in acknowledgement.
"Saw you from down the street," Sakumo said, falling into step beside him as though the near-throw a moment ago hadn't happened. "You looked completely lost in thought. Figured I'd come say hi." A brief pause. "Didn't think you'd still be that alert."
"Hmm." Murakami glanced at him. "What are you up to?"
Sakumo blinked and stared at him for a moment. Apparently, he had expected the failed sneak attack to earn more than a formal greeting.
Then he shook the thought off and smiled. "Heading to the training ground. My teammates are already there." He paused. "You want to come? Train with us for a bit?"
Murakami's first instinct was no but then he thought about it properly.
Sora was a capable sparring partner but he couldn't push Murakami. Not really. The gap between them was wide enough that holding back had become automatic, which meant nothing useful came out of it beyond maintaining rhythm. Hideki was still in the hospital. That left his options for a sparring partner thin.
Sakumo, on the other hand, was one of the stronger genin his age. That much had been clear on the mission. And his teammates had held their own in a real engagement.
He was also, if he was honest with himself, curious about exactly how good Sakumo was.
A small smile crossed his face. "Sure,"
Sakumo looked mildly surprised before a small smile appeared. It seemed he hadn't expected Murakami to say yes.
…
Training Ground 17 was a standard open field with a tree line along its eastern edge and a cluster of wooden posts at its center showing the kind of wear that came from consistent, serious use.
Two figures were already there when they arrived.
Both of them turned at the sound of footsteps, and the moment their eyes landed on Sakumo, they delivered identical looks that communicated with perfect clarity exactly how they felt about waiting.
Sakumo raised both hands. "I know, I know—"
"You're late," the taller of the two said flatly.
"I'm aware. But listen, there was an old lady on the south road with luggage she couldn't manage on her own, and after I helped her I spotted a cat stuck in a tree near the market and I couldn't just—"
Hearing the words coming out of Sakumo's mouth, Murakami stopped walking. 'I thought Kakashi learned that from Obito.'
The thought surfaced before he could stop it, the image of a silver-haired boy in a mask, perpetually late, always armed with an excuse involving elderly women and stray animals.
He'd assumed it was something Obito had passed on. A habit inherited through grief and guilt given form in the person who survived him.
But Sakumo was doing it now. Casually, naturally, without any awareness that it was notable.
'Don't tell me it was inherited. And only after Obito died did it fully surface in him.'
He filed that thought away and resumed walking. It was irrelevant thinking about such things.
Ahead of him, Sakumo's teammates had already moved past the excuse as people who had heard variations of this story enough times to have strong opinions about it.
"The cat," the shorter one said.
"What about the cat?"
"Was it the same cat as last time?"
"That's not… cats get stuck in trees, it's not a pattern—"
"It's absolutely a pattern."
Then the taller one noticed Murakami.
The banter cut off cleanly.
"You're Murakami, right?"
Murakami stepped forward. "Murakami Haruki."
"Ishida Rei," the taller one introduced himself with a short nod. Lean and sharp-eyed, he carried himself like someone who took training seriously.
"Ueda Mio," the shorter one said. Compact and composed, the girl's arms remained folded in an unconscious habit.
"The escort mission," Ren said. "You were there."
"I was."
"That was impressive," Mio said simply. "Not something you see every day."
"You carried that fight," Ren said with an easy nod. "Credit where it's due."
Murakami accepted it with a small nod, the way he accepted most things, without dismissal, without inflation.
"Sakumo invited me to train with you," he said, turning to Sakumo.
"Yeah." Sakumo grinned. "Hope that's alright."
The remark caught both their attention and their expressions sharpened.
Murakami noticed it and smirked imperceptibly.
"It's no problem," Ren said, unfolding his arms. "How do you want to do this?"
"Introductions first," Sakumo said, dropping into an easy crouch near one of the training posts. "Murakami doesn't know how we work."
Ren considered that, then nodded. "Fair." He looked at Murakami. "I'm a close to mid-range fighter. Taijutsu is my foundation, fire release for pressure at distance. I'm not much for complicated combinations, I prefer to end things quickly."
"Translation," Mio said, "he charges and hopes the other person can't keep up."
"It works," Ren said, without particular defensiveness.
"It works on people slower than you," Mio corrected. She turned to Murakami. "I'm the opposite. Water release, mid to long range. I prefer controlling the field before committing to anything. Traps, redirection, positional advantage." A pause. "I don't like getting hit."
"Nobody likes getting hit," Ren said.
"I especially don't like it."
Sakumo smiled from his crouch. "I'm a weapons specialist. Blades primarily, though I can manage without. Taijutsu as a secondary, mostly to create openings for the blade rather than finish on its own." He tilted his head toward Murakami. "Speed is probably my strongest point right now. I can close distance faster than most people expect from someone my size."
Murakami absorbed all three without comment, then spoke.
"Earth and wind release. Taijutsu and bo-jutsu as my primary combat tools." He paused briefly. "Earth release is where my ninjutsu is most developed. Wind is functional but still developing in terms of shape."
"Bojutsu," Ren repeated, as though testing the word. "Staff?"
"Yes."
"Don't see that much."
"No," Murakami agreed.
Not many Shinobi use the staff as their primary weapon after all.
Mio was looking at him with the focused attention of someone already running calculations.
"Earth and wind together gives you solid range in both directions. Earth for control, wind for pressure."
"In theory," Murakami said.
"And in practice?"
"Getting there."
Ren clapped his hands together once. "Alright. Enough talking." He stood, rolling his neck. "How do we do this? One on one or group?"
"One on one first," Sakumo said, standing. "Get a feel for each other." He looked at Murakami. "Unless you'd prefer otherwise."
"One on one is fine," Murakami said.
"Then I'll go first," Ren said, already making his way toward the center of the training ground. He settled into a low, forward-weighted stance, the posture of someone who preferred taking the initiative. "Murakami. You good?"
Murakami stepped forward onto the field.
He didn't take a formal stance, raise a guard or shifted his footing. He simply watched Ren with quiet attention.
He was ready.
Ren came fast.
Faster than his frame suggested, Ren launched forward with practiced explosiveness. He crossed the distance in a straight line, his opening strike already committed before the last step landed.
Murakami sidestepped to the left, with precise and minimal movement, just enough to let Ren's strike pass the space where his face had been. He felt the displaced air against his cheek.
Ren's momentum carried him a half-step past, and in that half-step Murakami's staff was in his hand.
The staff appeared from its storage seal in the same motion as his sidestep. The reverse end followed immediately, tracing a short, controlled arc that caught Ren across the back of the shoulder.
It wasn't a strike meant to injure, only a precise indication that the opening had already been taken.
Ren took the hit, turned, and came back without hesitation. He didn't dwell on the mistake; he simply adjusted and moved forward, treating the exchange as another piece of information to use.
Murakami noted that with quiet approval.
The second exchange was faster.
Ren had adjusted, his attack came from a tighter angle with a less committed launch, enough reserve in his movement to change direction if the first approach failed.
He feinted left, shifted right, and the combination was clean enough that Murakami had to evade rather than simply redirect.
He stepped back, gave ground deliberately, let Ren feel like the press was working.
Ren pressed harder.
Then Murakami stopped retreating.
The next strike came in fast, a straight punch aimed for his solar plexus but Murakami did not retreat, instead he stepped forward.
The distance between them collapsed before Ren's fist could fully extend, placing Murakami inside the range where the strike lost its power.
His staff snapped upward in the same motion, the end catching Ren's wrist and knocking the alignment of the punch apart before it could land.
Not enough force to injure, only enough to destroy the structure behind the attack.
Before Ren could recover, Murakami rotated his hips and drove the staff horizontally into his ribs. The impact wasn't a full swing, but it carried enough force to shift Ren's body sideways and break his stance.
Ren stumbled two steps, caught himself, and looked up.
A moment of silence.
"Okay," Ren said.
"You adjust quickly," Murakami said. It wasn't a compliment exactly, more like an observation delivered as one.
"I have to," Ren said, straightening. "I'm not subtle enough to win on the first exchange." He rolled his shoulder where the staff had caught him. "Again?"
"Again," Murakami agreed.
From the tree line, Mio watched with her arms folded and said nothing.
Beside her, Sakumo was smiling.
Not at the result but at the particular quality of attention Murakami had given the exchange.
The same quality he'd noticed on the mission.
The way he watched his opponent rather than simply looking at them. The way he moved like someone who always knew exactly how much was necessary and never spent more than that.
Sakumo had met strong people before.
He hadn't met many who made strength look like this.