Sensei's Dance
The Keys
Green - Miura Lee, Man of Iron
Dark Gold - Rinka Akagi, Child of Heaven
Dark Slate Gray - Akaito Tenyo, Silver Thread
Firebrick - Chosuke-Chosuke Kirobokua, Chosupocylpse
Less than a week went by before he was assigned to a team painfully missing a teacher. Team 11 was its name, composed of three prospective students with talents for stealth, cleverness, and teamwork that broke down at the slightest disagreement. He was told they lacked discipline, and he was not surprised one bit. The eunuch girl and the boy in dark stripes bickered constantly, and the limbless cripple enjoyed conjuring his clones to "play" with him. His jitteriness ended when his master noticed a bottle of his beloved drink missing, and so, he set them a test.
It wasn't as if the children took a particular liking to a reclusive war veteran, far quieter and more reserved in his methods. He treated them like nuisances—giving them non-answers when legitimate questions were asked, drinking like an animal, and staring at the weary sky for too long—nothing like a man who had fought in two village wars, as they'd heard from grown-ups. The prospect of facing his strength and skills properly sounded like just the thing they needed to comprehend his mysterious ways. And he would deliver, in a fashion quite traditional for his clansmen.
"I shall come at dawn to this open spot. Once I do, you shall wait for me to finish drinking, and then your strikes may fly."
"Land a single strike on me before you're done for, and you may consider your test finished."
"I'll be waiting."
"Who does he think he—"
"Quiet!"
Two familiar faces hushed in the bush, their eternally masked friend hanging from a tree just above them, quietly observing Miura from afar, watching him drink away whatever sorrows were on his mind. They were careful not to be caught by the empty gaze of his pupils in the middle of the day—so unnatural, they felt torn from another person—eagerly watching his supply dry up, their plan soon coming to fruition. "Work smarter, not harder," was the phrase Akaito would go by when planning his seemingly invincible and devious plan.
"'Dunno if it'll work. He's probably gonna call cheat on us," exclaimed Chosuke, breaking the silence and boredom with much-needed musings.
"He looks intimidating only on the outside!" interjected Rinka. "Bet he doesn't talk just to look cooler. Scarface-lookin'—"
"Do you ever quit yapping on and on?" Finally, the brains of the operation gestured to his teammates, mainly lulling Chosuke to get down and take a look. "Doesn't matter who he is. What matters is our first impressions. We blow his expectations out of the water, and he'll be eager to teach us something!" His gaze inadvertently turned to his red-haired ditz, indicating all that needed to be known of her intelligence. "As long as SOMEONE doesn't mess up, we'll get there. It's one hit. We gotta do it once."
"I'd like to see you try, pump-chump."
"That's why my threads are the best. I pull them, and they turn to holed cheese." He affectionately pulled on a dozen strings extending from a glove he wore, quietly tugging on a massive system that surrounded their Sensei and, by extension, a battlefield that looked like an open palm in a sea of oak. Wherever he'd go, whatever he'd try, they'd catch him long before he'd spot them. Victory is subtle, nothing like Rinka wanted to pretend.
"That's why-"
"Uhhh. . . I think he's done, team!"
In their arguing, only one would notice Miura's bottle drop to the grass. The man quietly stood up and instinctively stretched his back, pulling up his arms and interlocking them. All went silent when the opportunity presented itself; their unaware, clearly drunken Jonin was about to suffer humiliation. Rinka grinned with excitement, while Akaito retained his stoic stance and focused on the threat far above their pay grade, leaving Chosuke behind, both figuratively and literally. His guts churned with Miura's awakening, unable to audibly share his worry. Something's wrong. They're not the masterminds here.
First went the obvious leader, pulling on the carefully designed strings. The jaws of hell opened with a screech, and multiple strands were launched, all discreetly aimed at his feet. That was the first row, with the second targeting the man's upper body, a trapping formation perfected throughout his adventures. Calculations were all set, and as a classic of the genre, one of them couldn't resist proclaiming their victory loud and clear;
"CAUGHT YOU!"
"RINKA, NO-"
It's impossible to tell if Rinka's warning set him off, or if the tiny silvery lines were too slow to fly past his vision—they'd never know, and Akaito was free to mentally blame his childish comrade for her cocky demeanour. What they witnessed now was Miura perfectly balanced on the chakra strands, on a single foot. A glance downwards revealed a spider's nest unfolding right before his eyes. Every thread, barely visible under the sunlight, extended from the treeline surrounding him, with three little shits standing bewildered behind his back. To keep his cool in moments such as these, it was paramount to resist the urge to turn back and watch their pitiable reactions. It's better to leave an early impression.
"Nice... trap." He exuded boredom in his wording, despite trying not to, momentarily realizing and producing a retaliatory plan before his crotch could be targeted for a "sneak attack." His other foot went right beneath the string, pulling with full force to rip the whole thing apart, and along the way, bringing Akaito, that little schemer, for classic Lee diplomacy involving a broken lip and rib.
Akaito couldn't even let out a squeak as he was ripped from his position and met a grown man's knuckle backhanding his cheek, sending him back to whence he came—the infinite abyssal depths of nature from where he shall not return... well, not without a plan! He now knew how fast this burn victim moved at the slightest tinge of danger and would come to blow it in his face. Once he pulled his head out of his tree stump, of course! This isn't the last time they've heard of the one who shall unify the world and pacify its villainy.
But right now, only the two functional members remained—a ditz and her trusty trickster. Without the brilliance of their scarf-wearing, edge lord smartass, the only thing left to do was mount an offensive on an oddly aloof Jonin, who was almost inviting them to fight him cleanly, disfavoring the idea of receiving a kunai to the kidney. This standoff would last longer than any of them could have imagined. Long stares were exchanged, the sun changed its position, and everyone was on the edge of their toes. Someone had to break the ice, and it would be him, a man who found physical testing much more preferable than spooking his students with his, let's say, inadequate communication skills that only worsened.
"...Uh—"
"ANGEL!"
Dialogue is for more refined personas; these taijutsu monkeys knew nothing but power-ups and punching their hardest. As Miura witnessed Rinka's body enveloped by the mysterious golden light from the heavens, his entire body tensed up—instinct calling upon the art of dojutsu to counteract a swift hook to the face, not just from one but three students simultaneously! Never forget Chosuke, that humorous rascal who added a bit of tactic to his assault; his real self aiming to knee the master in his jewels, and the clone, eagerly clipping its scissors, rushing in to deliver just one cut if the real deal wasn't enough.
Fujino could have slapped these brats to the next tomorrow, had he been here. But he isn't. He never will be.
With veins bulging around his eyes, and pupils becoming ever more visible, Miura's Byakugan wheezed to life, much to the surprise of the unsuspecting middle schoolers, buying him time for his assault. With his foot planted firmly on the ground, his hands extended in a wavy motion, index fingers transforming into surgical appliances that challenged the angel's divine decree by cutting her off from the source of her power.
"Sixteen."
Methodically, perhaps for the first time in this "fight," Miura let chakra course through his veins, bringing him the necessary speed to evade a clumsy genin, calling upon a spark she barely controlled, and rip into the assault. He let his fingers flow across her stature, pressing and cancelling the nodes inside her chest with such precision and speed that it was difficult to keep up. All with the intent of depriving her of power, he was successful and watched as Rinka, now near-paralyzed and out of breath, fell. Only one lamb was left to sacrifice.
Seeing her dispatched so easily, Chosuke made a run for it, hoping for a regroup and potential counterat—noooope. That burn-victim of a taijutsu master had already caught up with his failed assault.
And not through the application of finesse, no—for some reason, this innocent cripple deserved to have the full weight of a grown man befall him and then put him into the ground with a swift, powerful kick to the face that made him kiss the dirt even better than his female comrade. This dissuaded any further attempts from trying to fight the mad dog with fists built like hammers. In only a minute, the genins were all down. He could breathe easily.
Breathe in... breathe out.
And as his extra vision dissipated, the ultimate victor was decided in a single, swift throw of a rock at the back of the Jonin's head. Akaito's greatest strategic victory to date.
"Ow." Spoken matter-of-factly as usual, with Miura's eyes now set on the bruised edgelord who had escaped the abyss, watching the fight and striking when all guards were down. Even a child could pull off a plan this easy.
"C-Caught you!" Clenching his fist and filled with pride, he stepped from the shadow to confront the adult directly, looking for that grading. "We passed your stupid test!"
"Well, you didn't do it as a team," Miura met him with a shrug and sucked on his teeth, judging in the only way he could without alienating them with his "charisma." "But for the effort, I'll grade you with a solid... C. Yup."
"Lame..." Chosuke groaned from his fetal position, quietly standing up after the assault. "Y-You came in and demolished us! That's no fun."
"Fair thought. But I believed you were going to pressure me." Spoken wholeheartedly, he had come to see that these Shinobi's prowess was... greatly exaggerated by some of their peers. Guess this generation will be producing late bloomers.
"Uh-huh. And you're still gonna call this 'training'." He brushed it off with a snarky comment that only earned him approving nods—from the recovered Chosuke, and Rinka's judgmental gaze focused upon him as a reminder that this grandiose failure was all his fault.
"It's training if the only difference between you and a turtle is that one of you is not a withered husk," the Jonin retorted, hitting them with a bit of his own snark. He now had a dead weight on his hands, still paralyzed from several hits. Time to pick her up, he thought, and diffuse the situation. There's a perfect bar nearby that would serve these minors with much-needed calcium for their bones. Let those little motherfuckers grow strong.
He was the first to tread the road that led them all here, turning to extend his hand and coax the two young gentlemen to follow their nightmare assigned by the military.
"I'll explain everything when time's due. And since the time is appropriate—"
"You can call me Sensei."