Naruto: Starting by Reading Minds in Naruto

Iruka waited alone in Training Ground 98, ponytail shifting whenever he looked toward the sky. The scar across his nose had long since become part of his familiar expression, which now tightened with every passing minute. 

”Did Sensei forget?” 

Tonbo had asked to evaluate his progress, and Iruka arrived early enough to prepare the field. The agreed time passed without any sign of him. 

Iruka had become a chūnin at fourteen and led a team for the last year. Hiruzen had also approved him as an instructor at the Academy, where he studied teaching as seriously as he once studied combat. Today was his opportunity to show Tonbo how far those lessons had carried him. 

He had arranged practice weapons around the edge of the field, checked the ground for old tags, and rehearsed several openings before Tonbo was due. None of that preparation helped with waiting. Every minute made him wonder whether he had misunderstood the time or whether an Analysis Team emergency had taken priority. 

A hawk cried overhead. 

Iruka looked up as a giant woven bird crossed the training ground. Recognition brought relief and a familiar trace of regret. Tonbo had taught the Living Weave to all three former students, but only Mibu Shinobu possessed enough genjutsu aptitude to produce an incomplete version. Neither Iruka nor Tessen Togekei had managed to animate a construct. 

That failure had not weakened Iruka’s loyalty. Tonbo had taught them with the seriousness normally reserved for personal disciples, so Iruka continued to think of him as Sensei even after their formal team dissolved. 

Tonbo jumped from the hawk. It shrank as it descended behind him, folding into a compact woven shape that disappeared inside his bag. He landed lightly and offered an embarrassed smile. 

”It seems I am late.” 

”You are,” Iruka said. ”I did not think you were someone who arrived late.” 

Tonbo lifted his chin and let his newly trained voice settle into a low, resonant register. ”Interesting. How did you know Hokage-sama had just appointed me a full jōnin and leader of the Analysis Team?” 

Silence crossed the field. 

”I did not know that,” Iruka said at last. His expression remained flat, but genuine happiness rose beneath it. 

”And now?” 

”Now I know. Congratulations, Sensei.” 

Tonbo nodded, satisfied that his student understood the required response. ”I heard you will teach at the Academy.” 

Iruka brightened. ”You told me that careful observation and patience suited me better than exceptional talent. Leading a team this year proved it. I can contribute to Konoha as a teacher and pass on the Will of Fire that Hokage-sama and you taught me.” 

Tonbo kept his face composed. 

His private relationship with the Will of Fire was far less reverent than Iruka imagined. The idea could inspire protection or justify obedience depending on who invoked it. Saying that aloud would achieve nothing except damage Tonbo’s standing and confuse a young man who had built a sincere purpose around its best interpretation. 

Iruka’s version asked him to guide children who might otherwise grow alone, identify strengths that louder teachers missed, and place responsibility before recognition. Tonbo found no reason to attack that belief merely because the phrase could be abused by men with different intentions. 

In public, Tonbo embodied the Will of Fire. In practice, he defined it for himself: protect Ayame, their child, his students, and the people whose lives made Konoha worth defending. If the slogan served those commitments, he would use it. 

”Good,” he said, placing a hand on Iruka’s shoulder. ”A chūnin at fourteen and an Academy instructor at fifteen. You are unquestionably my disciple. Continue working; the future belongs to you.” 

”You are only two and a half years older than I am. Stop speaking like an elder.” 

”Enough conversation. Show me what you learned. If you embarrass me, you remember the consequences.” 

Iruka swallowed. The taste-based punishments from their genin training remained more frightening than several dangers encountered during his own year as a team leader. 

Then confidence returned. He was a chūnin with field command experience and was about to become responsible for students. He could not tremble because his former teacher threatened an illusion. 

”Come, Sensei. I will not let your genjutsu stop me.” 

Tonbo studied the determination in his eyes and smiled. ”That is the answer I wanted.” 

He retreated and formed the Seal of Confrontation. Iruka answered. 

Wind moved through the grass. 

Both threw at once. Shuriken collided in midair and scattered sparks. Iruka closed the distance behind them, kunai striking Tonbo’s guard in a rapid exchange. His taijutsu was balanced and economical, yet Tonbo deflected every attack with one hand. 

”This is not enough, Iruka.” 

”I know.” 

Iruka smiled and began forming seals. The shuriken and kunai scattered around Tonbo were not failed attacks; each marked a point in a prepared formation. 

”Fire Release: Fire Cut.” 

Thin lines of condensed flame connected the weapons. They formed an inverted bowl around Tonbo and began contracting toward its center. More heat traced through the ground beneath him, dividing the soil into a tightening grid so he could not escape by burrowing. 

The geometry impressed Tonbo. Each weapon served as an anchor, while the fire lines narrowed the available routes in a predictable sequence. Pressure Damage could disrupt the formation, but reacting openly would reveal the target’s timing. A slower shinobi would be cut from several directions before finding the controlling point. 

Iruka closed his eyes before completing the technique, denying Tonbo the easiest path for visual genjutsu. 

”I developed this from the nature transformation you taught me,” he said. Pride entered his voice despite his effort to remain calm. ”Each line concentrates enough heat to cut more sharply than ordinary flame. Be careful.” 

The warning betrayed his worry. Iruka wanted to demonstrate the technique, not discover that he had killed his teacher. 

He had reduced the heat below the level intended for a real enemy, though even the restrained version could sever flesh. Closing his eyes prevented him from adjusting to Tonbo’s position, so the technique depended entirely on the arrangement completed during their weapon exchange. 

The fiery cage contracted. 

A hand touched his shoulder. 

”Do not interrupt me,” Iruka snapped, pushing it away. ”I am sparring with my teacher.” 

Then he understood. 

His eyes opened. Tonbo stood directly behind him, smiling. 

”Excellent work. You can develop original ninjutsu now.” 

Iruka turned toward the cage. The heat had carved the earth into a blackened checkerboard. At its center lay eight severed pieces of a small woven limb. 

”A phantom-beast clone?” 

The figure he fought had used no obvious ninjutsu or genjutsu, only taijutsu and weapons. Iruka assumed Tonbo was restraining himself for the assessment. Instead, a construct had occupied his full attention while the real Tonbo approached unseen. 

That possibility should have occurred to him. Tonbo’s phantom beasts could carry implanted combat habits and mimic recognizable movement. Iruka had treated the opponent as genuine because every block and counter matched what he expected from his teacher. The deception had entered through prior knowledge, not through his eyes. 

Iruka replayed every movement. He had watched his teacher from the beginning and prepared specifically to prevent an immediate illusion. 

”When did you replace yourself?”