Chapter 38

Chapter 38: "Welcome to the Pain Olympics – Beginner Division"

In which we all get assigned slightly terrifying teachers and pray not to explode.

You know that moment when you show up at summer camp expecting fun games and s'mores, but instead you get boot camp and possibly mild psychological trauma? That's what it felt like when Grandpa Hayato gave us the deadline.

"One week," he said, stroking his beard like he was auditioning for the role of Zeus. "Train with us for one week. If the masters agree you're fit to walk the path of the Ki warrior, you may stay. If not… you'll return to the land of exams and cafeteria lunches."

The gang looked at each other. No one said anything, but the collective expression read: we're so not going back to cafeteria lunches.

Then the assignments began.

Ukita got handed to Akisame, and honestly? It made sense. Ukita had been muttering about "perfecting the art of Judo" since day one, and Akisame was basically a walking philosophy textbook mixed with a human torture device.

"I will forge you into the ideal grappler," Akisame said kindly. Too kindly.

Ukita nodded like a soldier being drafted. "Thank you, sensei."

Poor guy had no idea what he was signing up for. (Spoiler: It would include rotating bone drills, balance tests on floating logs, and more pops than a chiropractor convention.)

Shogo—who was already radiating "anime rival" energy—got handed to Sasaki.

Not because he asked for him, but because Apachai, the human wrecking ball, liked him too much.

"Apachai! Want train with scary boy!"

"Yeah, no," Hayato interrupted. "We're still paying for the last time you trained someone on day one."

Sasaki, the calm swordsman who looks like he sleeps with his eyes open, just said, "I'll take him."

Shogo looked thrilled. Probably because Sasaki had that "cool final boss of the arc" aura.

Kisara was assigned to Kensei Ma, the Chinese martial arts master with six-pack abs, dad energy, and an unhealthy love for posing.

Kensai nodded like a proud uncle. "You have a fighter's spirit. I'll turn that into an art."

Kisara grinned. "Just make sure it hits harder than my last style."

"Don't worry," Kensai winked. "This one comes with explosions."

…He was kidding. Probably. Maybe.

That left Kenichi, Honoka, and Koga, who were promptly scooped up by Akisame too, because apparently he's not just a martial artist—he's also a one-man army with a PhD in pain.

"These three need structure. And controlled trauma."

"Wait—what?" Koga asked.

"Training," Akisame clarified with a smile that definitely belonged in a horror movie.

"Oh," Honoka whispered. "That's not much better."

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So picture this: it's a perfectly nice morning. Birds are chirping. The sun is out. The dojo smells slightly less like sweat than usual. You'd think it's going to be a good day.

Then Akisame walks in, looking like he's about to perform surgery on your soul, and hands you a training suit.

"Today's attire," he says. "Ten tonnes. Enjoy."

TEN. TONNES.

Let me put that in perspective. That's heavier than a school bus, three hippos, or my emotional trauma from fighting Sasuke. And now I'm supposed to wear it like a comfy tracksuit.

"I hope it breathes well," I muttered as I put it on—and nearly fell through the floor.

Here's the thing: with spirit energy enhancement, I could move. Barely. It felt like I was trying to do parkour with Mount Fuji taped to my spine, but hey—I wasn't faceplanting every three seconds, so that's a win.

Then came part two of the torture:

Apachai Hopachai.

AKA the Muay Thai Monster. AKA the gentle giant who breaks trees like toothpicks when he sneezes.

"Apachai will play with Naruto-kun today!" he cheered, bouncing like a deadly puppy.

Play = hit me hard enough to remodel my skeleton.

Akisame chimed in helpfully. "Naruto, today is about cellular trauma recovery. I need your muscles broken repeatedly so they heal stronger and denser."

Translation: I'm about to get stomped into next Tuesday.

The fight started with a playful kick.

BOOM.

I flew into a wall. The third one today. Don't ask about the other two. They're now part of the landscape.

But I stood up, panting, spirit energy flaring.

"Again!" I shouted, sounding way more confident than I felt.

SMASH.

WHAM.

SNAP. (Not me, the floor. Mostly.)

I'll be honest, Apachai was holding back. This was apparently kiddy mode. But even then, every time I got hit, I could feel my body shifting. Adjusting. Getting used to the weight and pressure. Like it was learning.

Akisame watched from the side, scribbling notes like a mad scientist. "Yes… yes… just 46 more strikes and his upper cell wall density should hit optimal regeneration velocity."

"Wait, FORTY- SIX?!"

"Forty-FIVE now," he said cheerfully.

By the end of it, I had been used as a mop, a wrecking ball, and once—briefly—a skipping stone.

But you know what?

I was standing. I was breathing. My suit didn't break, I didn't break. And for the first time… I felt the tiniest, faintest flicker of something inside.

Ki.

Not a lot. Not even enough to make popcorn. But it was there.

I grinned through a face that was slightly sideways. "I think I'm getting the hang of this."

Apachai gave me a thumbs up, delighted. "Naruto-kun strong!"

Akisame scribbled furiously. "Now let's try it underwater."

I take it back. This dojo is a villain origin story.

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Okay, real talk?

I wasn't expecting to actually use the Boosted Gear today. But after getting smashed into the tatami mats for what felt like the fiftieth time (and I'm not even exaggerating), I decided it was time to take things up a notch.

With a flash of red light, the Boosted Gear exploded onto my arm—red, sleek, dangerous, the green jewel at its center gleaming with power.

"Boost!"

The voice echoed in my head like a divine bell of judgment.

Akisame looked up from where he was silently instructing Kisara. His sharp eyes widened slightly—like seeing a sushi chef flinch.

"Welsh Dragon..." he murmured.

Akisame only nodded calmly. "If he's using that, then he'll survive this next phase. Good. I'll increase the seal's weight modulation accordingly."

Wait. WHAT?!

The seal on my ten-ton training suit began to glow.

10 tonnes… 12… 15…

By the time I heard the third Boost! from Ddraig, I felt like I was dragging a small moon.

But I was ready.

My spirit cloak flared into existence, swirling blue and gold like a one-tailed fox spirit. Energy crackled around me. My eyes gleamed red from Ddraig's influence, and the ground beneath my feet cratered with raw power.

Apachai smiled like a happy gorilla being offered a barrel of bananas.

"Apachai will go serious now!"

He charged like a train made of meat and terror.

I met him mid-charge. My cloak flickered, claws formed around my hands. I swung—he blocked—his arms were like steel bars wrapped in kindness.

I pivoted into a Muay Thai elbow aimed at his solar plexus—he deflected, caught my leg, and spun me like a Beyblade.

But I twisted in midair, slammed my palm down, and launched a Rasengan right at his foot.

BOOM!

A shockwave erupted. Apachai stumbled back—not from pain, more like he stepped on a LEGO.

I was already on him, switching to Karate, flowing with straight, precise strikes. Taekwondo spin kicks followed, fast and high.

Then a sudden grappling roll, flipping behind him—I locked his leg, trying to unbalance him—

Apachai flipped me.

I hit the ground so hard I tasted last Tuesday's breakfast. But I got up. Powered up. Boost!

I growled and roared—my cloak flaring into energy tendrils, swiping like extra arms.

Apachai came at me again.

Fists blurred.

I blocked low, shifted, threw a knee strike. Followed with a claw slash aimed at his shoulder—

WHAM.

He didn't move. I bounced.

I don't know how long it went on, but my body was adapting. I could feel it. Every time I got knocked down and climbed back up, I was stronger. Every Boost! made my strikes heavier. My breathing steadier.

I wasn't winning.

But I wasn't losing either—not where it mattered.

Because every second I stayed standing… every time I roared and answered Apachai's gentle violence with my own wild fury—

I was evolving.

When it was finally over, I was on my knees, breathing hard, arms limp, steam rising off my back.

Apachai patted my head with one giant hand like I was a puppy who'd just done a good trick. "Apachai is proud. Naruto-kun strong."

Akisame was taking notes like a mad scientist building Godzilla 2.0. "Fascinating. His muscular structure is absorbing spirit and cellular trauma at a record rate."

I looked up, grinning through blood and sweat.

"Next time… I'll be the one throwing you."

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Kisara:

Kisara Nanjo had prepared herself for many things when she agreed to train under Ma Kensei, legendary Chinese Kenpo master and part-time pervert, full-time whirlwind of chaos.

She'd expected pain.

She'd expected humiliation.

She had not expected to get a therapy session before throwing hands.

They were in a shaded courtyard of Ryōzanpaku, the sun casting long shadows as birds chirped like it was just another day—not like Kisara was about to be spiritually disassembled by a grandmaster in silk robes.

Ma Kensei—short, deceptively thin, mustache twitching with curiosity—stood in front of her with his hands behind his back, eyes serious for once.

"So," he began, "you admire Miu, yes?"

Kisara nodded. "She's strong. Really strong. I want to be like her."

"Why?" he asked simply.

Kisara blinked. "To be equal to the guys, I guess. You know, no one's gonna take a girl seriously if she can't—"

Ma raised a finger, cutting her off. "That's not a reason. That's a surface. Why do you fight, Kisara Nanjo? Truly?"

She paused, frowning. She hadn't thought that far. She was ready for squats, not soul searching.

"Before… I didn't have an answer. Maybe it was about pride. Maybe just anger. But now?" She exhaled. "Now I know. A weakling can't live peacefully in the world of the strong. If I want my loved ones to be safe, I need power. And not just for me. I want to help the people who believe in me."

Ma Kensei's expression softened for just a second—then snapped back into mischievous glee.

"Excellent answer!" he said brightly, like he'd just graded an essay. "Let's see if you can survive training now."

Without warning, Ma whipped out a brush and started drawing odd characters on Kisara's arms and legs.

"Hey—what are you doing?" she demanded.

"Weight seals," Ma said cheerfully. "To simulate training on Jupiter. Very effective!"

Kisara stood—and nearly collapsed. It was like her legs had turned to lead pipes. Her arms? Concrete noodles.

"You know," she groaned, "I don't remember consenting to gravity torture."

Ma only laughed and hopped back, hands clasped behind his back like he was admiring a student science project. "That's the spirit! Now try a roundhouse kick!"

She tried. The air laughed at her. So did Ma.

The sparring began. Or rather, Ma began violating physics while Kisara stumbled around with the grace of a brick in a dryer.

"Chinese Kenpo isn't just about fists," Ma explained, poking her arm with a single finger.

Suddenly, she couldn't feel her arm. "Wha—!?"

"That was a minor nerve shut-off," Ma said as he reactivated it with another touch. "Neat trick, huh? Good for annoying people and terrifying doctors."

"...You are the worst kind of genius," Kisara muttered, clutching her arm.

After the sparring, Kisara was sweating like a marathon runner stuck in a sauna.

"Lie down," Ma said, pulling out dozens of very suspicious-looking needles.

"Wait—acupuncture now?"

"Oh, don't worry. These are completely safe." He paused. "Unless I sneeze."

He didn't sneeze, thankfully. But what followed was a lightning show in her muscles.

Her limbs twitched. Her eyes sparkled. Her soul may have left her body briefly to scream into the void.

"There!" Ma cheered. "I've stimulated your meridians to push Ki flow! Also, this one improves digestion."

"Great," Kisara wheezed. "I'll fight better and poop better."