Naruto: Starting by Reading Minds in Naruto

Horse. Snake. Ox. 

In Training Ground 88, Iruka completed the seals for Demonic Illusion: Eightfold Flavor. He raised the whistle hanging from his neck, gathered chakra behind his breath, and blew a prepared rhythm. 

Tonbo’s scroll divided the exercise into three tasks: maintain a stable note, match the prescribed chakra pulse, and restrict the area of effect. Iruka had practiced the first two separately. Today he attempted the complete sequence without anyone present to measure how far the sound traveled. 

The notes emerged sharp and uneven. Birds fled the surrounding trees. 

A shinobi approaching the training ground noticed the sudden movement overhead and wondered what kind of technique could frighten wildlife from so far away. 

Mizuki was a slender young man with pale blue hair, most of it covered by a simple cap. He advanced out of curiosity while concealing his presence by habit. An unpleasant melody reached him before the training field came into view. 

He frowned. Whoever held the instrument possessed no musical discipline. 

Several steps later, his tongue began producing saliva. A rancid taste spread across his mouth, and his stomach contracted hard enough to stop him beside a tree. 

Mizuki retched and spat, though nothing he did removed the sensation. 

”What happened?” 

The reaction had begun without food, poison, or visible attack. Either an unknown ninjutsu reached him through the trees or the music itself carried something beyond bad technique. 

He continued forward despite the nausea. 

The rhythm changed. Bitterness filled his mouth, stronger than any medicine he remembered. His face tightened while saliva gathered uselessly against it. 

This was no accident. 

Mizuki had survived enough missions to recognize a pattern after two effects. The whistle carried a secret technique, and the discovery brought jealousy almost as quickly as caution. 

He tested a standard genjutsu release while remaining behind the tree. The bitterness weakened for a heartbeat and returned with the next note, suggesting that the user was applying separate effects rather than maintaining one illusion. Covering his ears now might protect him, but it would also prevent him from learning anything about the technique. 

He had been born without a clan library or inherited method. The Academy taught him the same Clone Technique and basic skills as every other child. Acquiring more capable ninjutsu required missions, permission, and years of effort, while clan heirs received techniques before they understood how rare that privilege was. 

Mizuki suppressed his chakra more carefully. If he reached the training ground without being noticed, he might identify the user and learn enough to reproduce the method. 

The next sequence struck like sharp mustard rising through his head. His eyes watered, his nose burned, and every sense seemed concentrated behind his forehead. 

”I will see who is doing this,” he muttered. 

Obsession carried him onward. Hot pepper followed mustard. Sourness tightened his jaw. Spoiled milk, burnt broth, rotten fruit, and bitter herbs arrived through successive patterns until concealment became impossible. Mizuki staggered between the trees with his features twisted by sensations no physical food had caused. 

Then the whistle stopped. 

Iruka lowered it with a satisfied smile. Several days of practice had finally allowed him to cast all eight prepared variations. His control of intensity remained uneven, but repetition would solve that; chakra control had always been one of his strengths. 

He had aimed each pattern at a series of wooden targets, imagining a classroom-sized boundary around them. Without a human volunteer, he could judge only whether the chakra left the whistle cleanly. He did not know that the field had expanded through the surrounding forest or that a single listener had followed the sound through every layer. 

Footsteps approached too quickly and too heavily to belong to someone hiding. Iruka turned. 

A familiar figure entered the training ground with a flushed, discolored face and an unstable gait. 

”Mizuki-san?” Iruka asked. ”Did you come here to practice? Are you injured?” 

Pain and anger shifted across Mizuki’s expression before recognition reached him. ”Iruka?” 

Of all people, it could not be Iruka. Mizuki had always regarded him with a mixture of pity and superiority. 

”It is me. What happened?” 

Mizuki searched the clearing. No one else stood near the target posts, and he could sense no hidden chakra signature. 

”Where is the other shinobi?” 

”What other shinobi? I am alone.” 

”Do not lie to me. Someone was playing that terrible music. Where did he go?” 

The force of the question made Iruka step back. ”The person playing might have been me.” 

He raised the whistle. 

Mizuki stared at it. Iruka’s confusion appeared genuine, but accepting the answer meant accepting that the orphan he once consoled now possessed a technique Mizuki could not identify or resist. 

Iruka had advanced while Mizuki’s own career remained ordinary. The chūnin vest, Academy appointment, and now a secret genjutsu all suggested access to mentors and recognition Mizuki believed should have belonged to someone more capable. That belief made Tonbo’s scroll feel stolen before Mizuki ever saw it. 

He checked the field again, asked the question from another angle, and searched for tracks. No evidence supported the presence of another shinobi. 

Jealousy hardened inside him. His face returned to its usual friendly smile. 

”I am sorry for frightening you,” Mizuki said. ”I passed nearby and felt something attack my body. I thought an enemy had entered the training grounds. If it was only you, then everything is fine.” 

Iruka relaxed. 

”What technique were you practicing?” Mizuki continued. ”And why does the melody need to sound so unpleasant?” 

Embarrassment replaced Iruka’s concern. Tonbo’s notes claimed that harsh music added a second form of disruption even against creatures whose taste pathways did not match the genjutsu. The idea sounded clever in the scroll. Hearing Mizuki describe the result made Iruka wonder whether everyone would simply conclude that he lacked talent. 

”My teacher gave it to me,” he said with an awkward laugh. ”It is an auditory genjutsu called Eightfold Flavor.” 

The word *teacher* sharpened Mizuki’s interest. An inherited clan technique would be difficult to obtain and dangerous to copy, but a method created by an individual might exist in one scroll with no family guards surrounding it. Iruka’s open gratitude also revealed exactly where the knowledge came from. 

Then Iruka examined Mizuki more carefully. The watery eyes, strained mouth, and lingering pallor matched his own reaction after Tonbo’s test. 

”Mizuki-san, did the technique affect you?” 

Only then did he understand the route Mizuki must have taken. The whistle had projected beyond the field, and imperfect control exposed the passing shinobi to every variation. 

Mizuki had been kind after Iruka’s parents died, offering encouragement when loneliness became overwhelming. Repaying that kindness with eight consecutive sensory punishments made Iruka’s embarrassment unbearable. 

”I am sorry,” Iruka said. ”It was my fault.” 

He wanted to cover his face and flee. Mizuki wanted the scroll.