That breezy remark made Yoru’s eyelid twitch violently.
Without any chakra to lean on, purely by tempering this body day after day, Might Guy had ground out this kind of superhuman training volume by hand.
Looking at the bowl-cut boy in front of him, smiling with such simple honesty, Yoru couldn’t help but marvel that he was the real deal.
It only hardened his resolve to swindle the Eight Gates out of him for free.
“Fine.”
Yoru gritted his teeth and said, decisive, “Let’s test the waters today.”
Taijutsu training officially began.
The two of them launched into a crazed torture regimen on the training ground.
From sparring with fists to weighted running, then pull-ups and push-ups, and finally handstand walking.
Leaning on his peak-Genin chakra reserves, Yoru forcibly evened out the terrifying physical toll.
But under a load this heavy, the muscle-tearing soreness still drilled into him in waves.
Sweat soaked in and dried, dried and soaked again.
Before they knew it, the sky had gone dark.
Past eight in the evening, the two faced their final trial—handstand walking.
Yoru pushed along on alternating hands, trailing miserably behind Might Guy.
The two walked on their hands all the way out of the busy commercial street and into the outskirts of Konoha.
The houses grew fewer and fewer, the lights fading with them.
Until the surroundings sank into a pitch-black darkness where you couldn’t see your own fingers.
As the night wind blew, the already uneven dirt road felt even eerier.
Might Guy, walking up front, shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Yoru! Be careful! There are no streetlights here, the ground’s uneven—don’t sprain your wrists!”
This pitch-black setting turned the high-difficulty handstand training into a minefield.
One slip of the hand, and this gravel-strewn dirt road could disfigure a face on the spot.
Yoru clenched his back teeth, his palms feeling their way forward bit by bit over the rough sand and stones.
Their pace shrank dramatically, on the verge of degenerating into a turtle crawl.
Just then, Yoru’s peripheral vision caught an abandoned old public restroom by the roadside ahead.
The surroundings were choked with weeds, the wall plaster peeling, the whole thing dark as a haunted house.
Inspiration struck Yoru’s mind.
He pushed off with both hands, twisted his waist, and landed steadily on his feet.
He quickly switched his consciousness into the system space.
He slid his right hand naturally into his pocket.
That bizarre item buried at the bottom of his inventory appeared in his palm.
［Blindingly Fluorescent Green Underwear: Put it on and you’ll be the brightest light source in the night; not even several layers of pants can block its penetrating glow.］
Might Guy had just flipped over and steadied himself, about to ask Yoru why he’d stopped.
Yoru had already, quickly and mercilessly, shoved that bundle of fabric into his hands.
Pointing at the abandoned restroom ahead, Yoru began his con with a perfectly straight face:
“Might Guy, this is top-tier gear I custom-made specially for you. Go on—put it on over your bodysuit.”
His mind filled with question marks: Why wear underwear on the outside?
What kind of bizarre outfit is this?
But surely his best friend’s arrangement had some deep meaning behind it!
Out of a blind, ridiculous trust in Yoru, Might Guy didn’t hesitate.
He clutched the bundle in both hands and marched into the pitch-black restroom in high spirits.
Three seconds later—
Yoru stood outside the restroom with his arms crossed, waiting.
A rustle of fabric came from inside.
The next second— without any warning— the dilapidated, abandoned restroom seemed to be ignited by some mysterious force, trembling faintly.
A dazzling, eye-searing fluorescent green erupted from every brick seam and every broken window!
That light savagely tore through the darkness, shooting straight into the sky!
For over ten meters in every direction, everything was lit up bright as day by this vivid green glow.
The gravel on the ground and the ants relocating through the grass were crystal clear under it.
Even the veins on the leaves of the distant tree branches were lit up sharp and clear.
Yoru instinctively squinted and raised a hand to block the hardcore glare.
Looking at the outrageous commotion this piece of trash from the garbage system had caused, he clapped his hands, satisfied.
Sure enough, the system’s junk becomes a god-tier cheat once you repurpose it a little.
At this brightness, it’d do just fine as a searchlight for the Konoha Anbu!
“Creeeak!”
The rundown door of the restroom was pushed open.
Might Guy walked out with a confident stride.
At this moment, he was a fully automatic, high-output, human-shaped walking streetlight.
Might Guy looked down at his cyberpunk-glowing skin, then at the dirt road ahead lit up bright as day.
His eyes went red again with a whoosh.
“Yoru!”
Might Guy let out an energy-packed roar, his voice echoing wildly through the Konoha night.
“This gear doesn’t hinder movement at all—it even lights the way for our youth through the darkness! It’s too dazzling!”
He thrust his fists high, the fluorescent green all over his body flaring even harder as his muscles flexed.
“This is the light of youth!!!”
［Ding!
Recognition Points from Might Guy, +500!］
Driven back step by step by the green glare, Yoru watched the glowing bowl-cut boy, so worked up he looked ready to launch off the ground on the spot.
He couldn’t help laughing out loud.
The horizons have opened up, haven’t they?
This is the right way to re-employ the system’s trash—an absolute win.
“Come on, let’s keep grinding.”
Without another word, Yoru flipped over, braced on the ground, and dropped back into handstand-walking mode. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
Might Guy led the way in high spirits, his human searchlight at full power, clearing the path with green light.
Yoru followed behind, pushing forward with the help of the strong glow.
The view was clear as daylight, every stone on the ground easily avoided.
His handstand-walking speed shot right back to its peak.
This exhausting first day of taijutsu training had somehow been turned into a spectacle by him.
As long as he kept grinding with this “green searchlight” every day, the Eight Gates were as good as around the corner.
…
In the Sarutobi clan grounds, the night had already grown deep.
When Hiruzen pushed open the door to his home, the hands of the wall clock had passed ten.
The light in the entryway glowed warm, three dishes and a soup already set out on the dining table.
A film of oil had congealed on the surface of the dishes, and the steam over the soup bowl had long since faded.
Asuma sat at the table, one hand propping up his chin.
The three big bumps on his forehead were covered with conspicuous cross-shaped bandages, and the cut on his lip had just scabbed over dark red.
Hearing the door, he didn’t even lift his eyelids.
His right hand held his chopsticks, poking absently at the rice in his bowl, his face full of sullenness.
Biwako came hurrying out of the kitchen, took Hiruzen’s Hokage robe and hung it on the coat rack, lowering her voice to complain, “So late again.”
Hiruzen rubbed his brow, changed into loose, comfortable home clothes, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the table.
He’d just picked up his chopsticks— when Asuma finally lifted his eyelids, rolled his eyes sideways at him, and spoke with all the resentment and prickliness of a teenager.
“Well, well, the busy man’s home.”
Biwako frowned and immediately spoke up to scold him.
“Asuma, is that any way to talk to your father?”
Hiruzen chuckled and waved a hand to stop his wife’s rebuke, his tone gentle.
“It’s fine, let’s eat.”
The three of them started to eat.
Only the faint clink of bowls and chopsticks remained at the table, the atmosphere subtly silent.
Hiruzen picked at his food very slowly, his gaze inadvertently sweeping over the crisscrossing bandages and swollen bruises on Asuma’s face.
And over that pair of pants, obviously newly changed.
A trace of complicated thought flickered deep in his eyes, but he asked nothing.
The silence held for half a minute.
Hiruzen set down his chopsticks, picked up his teacup, and took a sip of hot tea.
His tone was as offhand as if he were discussing the weather.
“Asuma, I hear you’ve got a classmate named Uchiha Yoru?”
Asuma’s hand, reaching for food, noticeably paused.
A piece of fried egg dropped off his chopsticks and back into the plate with a plop.
His shoulders visibly tightened, his back going stiff.
That one sentence instantly dredged up some very unpleasant things.