Naruto: Starting by Reading Minds in Naruto

Gatō died on the unfinished bridge with Zabuza’s kunai across his throat.

The weapon fell from Zabuza’s teeth and struck the boards twice. None of the men hired to guard the shipping magnate dared to approach. Zabuza’s killing intent held them in place while he turned and walked toward Haku.

”A few setbacks convinced you that shinobi were a waste of money,” he said without looking back. ”You underestimated us, Gatō. One of the richest men in the world, killed by my hand. At least your death will not be entirely insignificant.”

He reached Haku and lowered himself beside the boy.

Naruto looked at Kakashi. ”What did he mean?”

”Gatō once employed many shinobi,” Kakashi said. ”He used them to destroy rivals, including the Yu Yi clan before its survivors joined Konoha. He fought forces from the Land of Hot Water for control of the Land of Waves’ port, and he used shinobi in conflicts between his companies.”

Years of paying for those operations had convinced Gatō that ninjas cost too much. He replaced them with gang members and ordinary thugs, hiring assassins only when a particular enemy demanded one. Men purchased cheaply and treated as disposable had no loyalty left when Zabuza reached him.

The history explained the contradiction before them. Gatō had possessed enough wealth to surround himself with capable shinobi, yet his final defense consisted of frightened men with clubs and swords. He had measured every servant only by immediate cost, then discovered too late that the cheapest force could not face an enemy willing to die.

”If he had followed his old methods,” Kakashi continued, ”we might not have survived even by joining forces with Zabuza.”

Naruto clenched his fists. ”Do not raise their morale now. We are strong too. Sasuke, Sakura, and I all mattered against Haku and Zabuza.”

Sasuke and Sakura smiled despite themselves.

”You did,” Kakashi admitted. ”All three of you used tactics I did not expect from genin. Tonbo’s training helped you find the right state of mind, and each of you changed the battle. Continue like that.”

He had planned to teach them about the powers behind missions only after they gained more experience. Work involving men like Gatō could not be understood as a contest between visible combatants. Money hired shinobi, ended clans, seized ports, and abandoned tools when the balance changed. Kakashi had discouraged them only because one success could make young ninja reckless.

Zabuza waited beside Haku with his eyes open. At last he realized they had stopped paying attention to him.

”When this is finished,” he said, ”bury me beside Haku.”

Far from the Land of Waves, another village ran with blood.

Black-clad Jashinists moved among the houses with scythes and kunai. They ended lives while promising that blood offered to their god would bring salvation. In the center of the village, they used the blood to draw a ritual circle and began to pray.

Some villagers fought back. Wounds opened across the attackers and closed with unnatural speed.

Tonbo watched from concealment.

He had followed this Jashinist group after completing the exchange with Itachi. The time spent observing them had answered part of his question. Their bodies were not truly immortal. A severed head or destroyed heart still killed them, but lesser wounds healed rapidly. A detached hand could be rejoined if placed against the stump before too much time passed.

The sect had developed an incomplete imitation of immortality. Combined with its curse ritual, even that partial success made the group dangerous.

Tonbo had seen cuts close within moments and broken flesh draw itself together after contact. The healing did not make the cultists stronger or more skilled; it allowed them to accept exchanges a normal shinobi would avoid. They could let a blade enter the arm in order to take blood from the attacker, confident that the injury would vanish before shock or blood loss stopped them.

Tonbo had also confirmed a limitation of the ritual. It required the intended victim to be present and began with fresh blood taken during the confrontation. A forgotten trace collected long afterward could not kill someone across an arbitrary distance. The cultists attacked in groups to secure blood, then trusted their accelerated healing while one member performed the curse and the others kept the victim from escaping.

Their recovery resembled the result of Tsunade’s stored-chakra healing without requiring a visible reserve of chakra. The mechanism remained unknown. Every regenerated wound still gave Tonbo more evidence about its boundaries.

At last he had enough.

”I will read their memories and return home,” he murmured. Ayame and the twins had waited long enough.

He released the concealment genjutsu and stepped into sight.

”Hello.”

Every cultist turned.

”A straggler?”

”A shinobi. Perhaps one of those useless men from Yugakure.”

The leader licked blood from his lip. ”It does not matter. Let his blood please Jashin.”

They rushed Tonbo together. Group attacks were not a momentary tactic for the sect but doctrine. Most moved at the level of chūnin; the leader had the speed and control of a jōnin.

Scythes met kunai in the village square. Tonbo moved like a dancer along the edges of their blades. Each strike missed by the width of a finger until one point caught his side and cast blood across the ground.

The attacker laughed and licked the blade.

”Go and meet our god, little shinobi.”

He drew the ritual beneath his feet. The markings spread over his skin like a mask, and he stabbed himself through the leg.

Tonbo screamed.

The sound made the cultist pause. The voice was familiar.

He stabbed himself again. Another scream answered, this time from the man standing to his right.

Tonbo stood at the edge of the square without a wound, watching the Jashinists attack one another.

”Against an unprepared opponent, complete sensory manipulation is almost unfair.”

The cultists saw Tonbo among them, but no two saw him in the same place. They felt his blood on their weapons, heard his voice from another body, and mistook their companions’ movements for his attacks. When they tried to release the genjutsu, Tonbo changed the touch of their fingers and the positions of their hands. They believed they had formed the correct seal while their real bodies did something else.

Sight, sound, touch, shape, weight, and distance all belonged to the illusion. Once every sense agreed upon the false scene, a victim could not identify which action might break it. Whatever Tonbo wanted them to feel became the only battlefield they knew.

An ordinary genjutsu left some contradiction for a trained shinobi to seize: pain that did not match a wound, chakra that moved incorrectly, or a hand seal felt differently from the way it looked. Tonbo’s technique removed those contradictions by changing the senses together. Even a correct attempt at release could be redirected before the victim understood what his real hands had done.

The Jashinists’ greatest advantage now kept them fighting. Wounds closed, convincing each attacker that the ritual protected him, and every fresh recovery gave the others another target. Tonbo watched from beyond their reach and waited for exhaustion to make their memories easy to enter.