Naruto: Starting by Reading Minds in Naruto

”Whatever you do, don’t tell Iruka-sensei,” Tokuma warned. ”If he discovers this, none of us will have an easy time.” 

His classmates crowded around him, impatient for an explanation. Shikun and Saiji listened with particular interest. A reliable defense against Iruka might also help them resist Tonbo. 

”I call it Throat Guard,” Tokuma said. ”It protects the nerves responsible for taste and stops foreign chakra from reaching them. I’ve spent months developing it.” 

The Byakugan had made the work possible. During an earlier punishment, Tokuma secretly observed Iruka’s chakra: its path into his body, the points it disturbed, and the nerves the illusion targeted. Seeing the process was not the same as understanding it, however. He spent months studying basic genjutsu theory and medical descriptions of taste before he could design a safe response. 

His technique created a thin chakra defense around the vulnerable pathway. When Iruka tried to impose a flavor, the foreign chakra dispersed before reaching its target. 

Tokuma emphasized that the method was narrow. It would not release an ordinary visual illusion, protect his hearing, or defend against a technique aimed elsewhere in the nervous system. It defeated one known application because he had observed that application repeatedly. To the Academy students, those limitations mattered little. One escape from Iruka’s most feared punishment was enough. 

Shikun asked whether they could learn it without the Byakugan. Tokuma believed they could copy the finished chakra pattern, though they would need him to inspect their attempts. Saiji immediately proposed secret practice sessions before class. Within moments, the conspiracy acquired a schedule, hand signals, and a rule that anyone caught must pretend to have invented the technique alone. 

”We’ll keep it secret,” one student promised. 

”And practice looking miserable,” another added. ”He can never know it failed.” 

The class agreed eagerly. 

Tōma clenched a fist beneath his desk. With an awakened Sharingan, he believed he could have analyzed the genjutsu just as well. Tokuma possessed his clan’s dōjutsu while Tōma still waited for his own, and every new achievement widened the gap between rivals. 

Unaware of the conspiracy forming behind him, Iruka hummed as he walked toward the faculty office. Catching one of the students who had blamed him for their attack had greatly improved his day. 

Mizuki looked up when he entered. ”You seem happy.” 

Ebisu paused over a stack of assignments as well. He did not approve of frightening children into obedience, but Iruka’s methods had made every instructor’s work easier. 

”Their studies are improving,” Iruka said. ”I’m proud of them.” 

”Your special method certainly works,” Mizuki replied. 

Ebisu adjusted his glasses. ”It works, but you should use it less often. A technique cannot replace teaching. If students obey only to avoid punishment, they may stop asking questions, experimenting, and thinking independently. You could also become dependent on the easiest answer.” 

He spoke from several years of classroom experience. Tonbo’s classmates met and sparred often enough that Ebisu knew precisely how effective his genjutsu could be. Effectiveness alone did not make it suitable for every problem. 

Iruka considered the criticism without offense. His ambition was to prepare Konoha’s children for real missions, not simply keep a quiet room. 

”You’re right,” he said. ”If I use it automatically, I may suppress their creativity—and my own.” 

The realization unsettled him. His students’ conspiracy against Tonbo had been reckless, but it also demonstrated observation, planning, and teamwork. Excessive discipline might have prevented the prank while crushing the very instincts that could someday save them in the field. His responsibility was not to eliminate disobedience at any cost. It was to help children turn those instincts toward sound judgment. 

Ebisu nodded with approval. ”Reserve it for the exceptionally difficult cases. A useful tool still has its place.” 

Mizuki maintained his pleasant smile while rejecting every word. If he possessed Eightfold Flavor, he would use it until his students achieved perfect results. Their success might earn him promotion, and advancement mattered more than whatever creativity the method discouraged. 

Months had passed since his teammate’s death. Without direct proof against him, the Academy had still accepted Mizuki as an instructor. Suspicion nevertheless formed a ceiling above his career. He coveted any advantage capable of breaking through it, and Iruka’s reluctance to exploit one felt like a personal insult. 

Elsewhere in the village, a newborn’s cry rang through the Sarutobi compound. 

Shinnosuke paced outside the room until the sound stopped him. Hiruzen rose from his chair, relief softening the Hokage’s tired features. A medical-nin emerged a moment later. 

”Congratulations. It is a boy, and both mother and child are healthy.” 

Shinnosuke hurried inside. Hiruzen remained in the corridor and allowed himself a quiet smile. 

Konoha had endured the Third Shinobi World War, the Nine-Tails’ attack, and the recent Hyūga crisis. Each disaster had taken experienced shinobi and left fewer people to carry the village’s duties. Yet children were being born throughout the recovering clans, and capable new teachers were emerging at the Academy. Restoration would take years, but it had begun. 

From the courtyard, Hiruzen could hear relatives exchanging relieved congratulations. The Sarutobi had continued to serve even while their numbers thinned, and Shinnosuke himself had received only a narrow leave from active duties for the birth. The happiness around Hiruzen did not erase that reality. It made the sacrifices required by the village more visible. 

The birth also reminded him that Ayame’s due date was close. 

For several months, Hiruzen had kept Tonbo occupied with assignments inside Konoha. The arrangement gave him unusual stability while his wife approached labor, but the village still faced pressure beyond its walls. Tonbo’s strength could accomplish far more on a dangerous field mission than on work others could perform at home. 

Hiruzen knew the cost of allowing duty to consume a father’s time. His own distance from Asuma had grown from decisions that once seemed unavoidable. He did not want to repeat that mistake through Tonbo, yet a Hokage could not ignore military need simply because he understood the personal consequence. 

”I will wait,” he decided. 

Inoichi could temporarily handle much of the Analysis Team’s work. The Sealed Horizon project was nearing completion as well. After Tonbo’s child arrived, Hiruzen would judge the border situation, the team’s needs, and the new family’s condition before assigning anything. 

If the situation remained stable, Tonbo could continue serving inside the walls. If a threat required his particular talents, Hiruzen might have no better choice than to send him. Leadership often meant selecting which obligation would be neglected, then accepting responsibility for the harm that followed. 

Voices sounded from the room, followed by another small cry. Hiruzen’s expression warmed again. 

Since Biwako had died during the Nine-Tails’ attack, every new child in Konoha had seemed more precious to him. Each represented a life the village had preserved and a future it might still build. 

He entered to meet his grandson.