Naruto : Infinite Buff!

Amatsu's mind stirred, calm as a still lake disturbed by the faint ripple of a falling stone. Beneath his placid exterior, thoughts churned with quiet intensity, sharp and deliberate. The serpent's technique was primitive—crude, instinctive, a clumsy siphon born of necessity rather than understanding. It lacked refinement, discipline, and mastery. Yet despite its inefficiency, it held an undeniable effectiveness, like a jagged blade that, though dull, could still draw blood.

"If even a mindless beast, bereft of reason and discipline, can extract chakra through such an unpolished method..."His thoughts sharpened like the edge of a whetstone, dissecting the process with ruthless precision. "Then what might be achieved if instinct gave way to calculation? If the raw essence of this technique were unraveled, its flaws stripped away, and reforged under the hand of mastery?"

The serpent coiled tighter around him, its scaled body trembling faintly as it fed. The faint pull of his chakra continued—a slow, steady siphon that gnawed at his reserves like a persistent tide.

Amatsu did not resist. His body remained still, undisturbed by the drain. Instead, he observed, every subtle movement of the serpent, every ripple of its chakra, etched into his mind. His thoughts stretched far beyond the moment, his gaze piercing the surface of the act to see the mechanisms beneath.

The silence between them was broken by his voice, low and deliberate, as unyielding as stone.

"A crude method," he murmured, his tone calm, almost detached. "Unrefined, yet not without potential."

His dark eyes glimmered faintly, their depths concealing the quiet storm of thought.

"Even chaos," he continued, his voice steady, "follows a pattern—if you look closely enough."

The serpent tensed, its primitive instincts sensing something it did not understand. But Amatsu's expression remained impassive, his thoughts already moving beyond the moment, dissecting possibilities, reshaping what was into what could be.

The notion settled in his mind like an ember, glowing faintly, yet promising fire if stoked. "To control the flow instead of being bound by it... to dictate the terms of exchange rather than submit to them." His gaze hardened, his thoughts turning inward. "If I can seize the principle behind this technique, then it could become a blade of my own."

He spoke again, his tone detached, as though testing the thought aloud. "What is instinct if not the first draft of truth? And what is mastery if not its careful revision?"

Amatsu's gaze remained fixed on the serpent, his expression as unreadable as carved stone. The creature tightened its coiled grip, its fangs piercing deeper into his chakra flow, but Amatsu did not flinch. What had once appeared as a threat now revealed itself as an opportunity—a locked door begging to be forced open, a tool lying dormant, waiting to be reforged.

"You reveal your flaws with every movement," he murmured, his voice calm, devoid of emotion and yet carrying the weight of absolute certainty.

Closing his eyes, Amatsu turned inward, descending into the depths of his own chakra. It was vast and steady, coursing through him like a great river—controlled, disciplined, unyielding. Yet where the serpent's fangs dug into him, the current fractured, splintering into chaotic streams as it was pulled away. The siphoning was faint but insidious, a quiet theft, a mockery of his inability to resist.

He did not fight it. Instead, he observed. His mind, sharp as a blade tempered in darkness, began to unravel the process. Each sensation, each ripple of chakra stolen from his core, was dissected with ruthless precision.

Amatsu's thoughts churned, delving into fragments of knowledge buried deep within him—remnants of a past life, distant yet stubbornly familiar. The principles of flow, resistance, and transfer surfaced in his mind like forgotten relics dredged from the depths of a still lake. He remembered siphoning gasoline as a child—how easily imbalance in pressure could force liquid from one container to another. A crude process, crude methods, yet governed by universal laws.

Where there was flow, there could be resistance. Where there was resistance, there could be control.

The serpent's crimson eyes glowed faintly, cold and unfeeling, staring at him with an eerie stillness. Its gaze seemed almost amused, as though it understood his struggle and mocked it. The faint pull of his chakra continued, unrelenting, a silent declaration of its dominance.

Amatsu's grip tightened on the creature—not in frustration, not in anger, but with the quiet, measured resolve of one who would not yield. His movements were deliberate, his thoughts like a scalpel cutting through the fog of uncertainty. He did not lash out, nor did he seek to sever the flow. Instead, he let the process unfold, his mind consuming every detail, every weakness hidden beneath the serpent's predatory instinct.

"All techniques have their flaws," he thought, his mind cold and calculating, dissecting the siphoning with the precision of a surgeon unraveling a frayed tapestry. "No method exists without weakness. No flow without disruption. This beast is no exception."

The serpent's siphoning grew more insistent, the pull gnawing at his reserves like a persistent tide. Yet Amatsu's focus did not waver. His chakra, though fractured, did not break. The principles of energy transfer played out before him, the serpent's crude mechanics laid bare under his scrutiny.

The pull was rhythmic, like a heartbeat—a pattern. And where there was a pattern, there was predictability.

Amatsu's lips parted, a soft murmur escaping into the stillness. "Even perfection is an illusion. Chaos, too, follows laws."

The serpent tensed, its predatory instincts sensing something it could not understand. Amatsu's presence had not faltered. The flow of his chakra, though disrupted, remained steady—unyielding, like the deep current of an ocean that no storm could disturb.

His fingers flexed around the serpent's coiled body, firm but composed. He was not merely enduring the siphoning. He was studying it, dissecting it, wielding his own weakness as a tool to unravel the creature's strength.

Crude methods. Inefficient tools. But even the simplest mechanisms could be reshaped, their flaws turned into weapons. Amatsu's mind did not rest. He observed. He calculated.

And slowly, the ripples in the still lake of his thoughts began to converge—shaping themselves into something sharper.

Unburdened by hesitation or doubt. He envisioned the flow of chakra within him, a river bending and twisting under his will. His goal was not to reclaim what had been taken—that was too ambitious, too reckless. No, for now, he would focus only on disrupting the flow, on halting the siphoning, even if only for a moment.

Drawing a slow breath, Amatsu concentrated on the fracture point, the place where the serpent's fangs met his skin. He pushed against the pull, visualizing his chakra as a tide resisting the siphoning current. His focus narrowed, his intent sharp as a blade.

Yet, nothing change.

Amatsu's first attempt was met with failure. The snake writhed in his grasp, its chakra slipping through his fingers like water through fractured stone. His brow furrowed, but he did not falter. Adjusting his focus, he attuned himself to the subtle rhythm of its siphoning instinct, mirroring its flow rather than forcing his own will upon it.

For a moment, nothing happend. 

Then—a pulse. Faint but distinct, it traveled up his arm like a ripple across a still pond. He froze, his breath stilling as he recalibrated. Slowly, carefully, he eased his control, matching the snake's natural cadence. It resisted, coiling tighter, but then the siphon steadied, humming faintly in his grasp.

The flow continued unabated, the serpent's crude parasitism untouched by his efforts. Amatsu did not waver. He tried again, this time shifting his approach, redirecting his chakra instead of opposing it directly. Again, the pull persisted, unbroken.

Outside, distant explosions rumbled through the earth, their tremors creeping into the cave walls like the footsteps of an approaching specter. The clash of steel, the ragged screams of the wounded, the roar of fire devouring flesh and stone—all wove together into a brutal symphony of violence. A world unraveling beyond the waterfall's veil.

Yet Amatsu remained still. Unmoved.

The battle outside did not matter. Victory, defeat—both were meaningless. His survival would not be decided by the chaos beyond these walls, but by what he could understand here, now.

Time passed, though he did not mark it. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breathing growing heavier with each failed attempt. Yet his resolve did not falter. Each failure sharpened his understanding, each misstep bringing him closer to clarity.

Then, in a moment of singular focus, it happened.

The flow faltered.

It was brief—so brief that it might have been imagined—but the pull on his chakra hesitated, like a flame flickering in the wind. Amatsu's eyes snapped open, his breath sharp and uneven. For a single heartbeat, the siphoning had been disrupted.

A faint spark of satisfaction flickered in his chest, cold and restrained. "It is possible," he thought, his gaze steady. "The flow can be influenced."

But the moment of triumph was short-lived. The serpent's pull resumed, stronger than before, as if compensating for the disruption. Amatsu unclenched his fist, his fingers trembling faintly from the strain. The effort had drained him, leaving his reserves dangerously low. This small success had confirmed his hypothesis, but it was only the beginning. Refining this technique would demand time—weeks, perhaps months of relentless effort.

Faint tremors rippled through the stone beneath his feet, the earth murmuring its warning. Amatsu's gaze shifted to the cave's entrance, sharp and unyielding. The storm outside was no longer a mere torrent of rain—its rhythm had changed, carrying with it the fiery pulse of conflict. A fight was coming. Closer with every breath.

"Time is a luxury I cannot afford, he thought, his gaze shifting toward the cave's entrance"

The sounds of battle grew louder, the echoes of conflict pressing ever closer. Each clash of steel, each distant explosion, seemed to reverberate through the stone walls, a reminder of the chaos that awaited him outside. Amatsu's expression remained calm, his mind sharp and calculating.

The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and stone, yet the world beyond the cave felt hotter, restless. 

The chaos outside drew closer with every passing moment, yet Amatsu did not flinch. 

The waterfall's endless song became a counterpoint to the violence beyond, a reminder of the stillness he had to maintain.. He exhaled slowly, his movements deliberate, as the echoes of steel and water filled the cavern like a final warning.

This experiment would have to wait. Survival demanded his attention now.

He rose slowly, his movements deliberate and controlled. The serpent, sensing his shift in focus, uncoiled itself and slithered into the shadows, its hunger momentarily sated. Amatsu did not watch it go. His thoughts were already elsewhere, turning over the implications of what he had discovered.

This small success was nothing more than a fragment of potential, a sliver of what could be achieved. Yet it was enough. Small victories, after all, were the foundation of greater power.

The echoes of war loomed closer, the promise of danger hanging heavy in the air. Amatsu stood in the dim light of the dying fire, his sharp gaze fixed on the cave's entrance. He had taken the first step, but the path ahead was long and treacherous.

---

Outside, distant explosions rumbled through the earth, their echoes bleeding into the cave walls like the dying groans of a mortally wounded beast. The clash of steel, the broken screams of the fallen, and the roar of fire consuming flesh and stone wove together into a brutal symphony of violence. A world unraveling beyond the veil of the waterfall.

Yet Amatsu remained still. Unmoved.

The chaos outside was irrelevant. Victory or defeat held no meaning here. His survival would not hinge on the tide of battle beyond these walls but on what he could understand in this moment. Beneath the storm of violence, an opportunity had revealed itself.

"This serpent shall be my pet from this moment onward," Amatsu decided, his gaze steady. His thoughts were calm as still water, yet beneath the surface, ambition rippled. "Its usefulness cannot be denied—not for the crude ability it demonstrates, but for the potential it represents. Instinct can be refined. Chaos can be harnessed. Through this creature, I will uncover techniques and truths it does not even comprehend."

His expression revealed nothing of the thoughts churning beneath. The serpent's crude siphoning of chakra—born of instinct and necessity—was no mere parasitism. It was a bridge. An instrument of knowledge. A raw mechanism waiting to be dismantled, understood, and reforged in the hands of a master.

He studied it silently, his sharp gaze dissecting every motion. The way it coiled, the way it fed—each small movement betrayed its nature, its limits. Even the most unassuming creatures could become tools of power when placed in the right hands. This snake, crude as it was, might prove to be far more than it seemed.

Tying the pouch shut, he secured it to his side once again. His fingers brushed briefly against the restless creature within, feeling its faint stirrings beneath the fabric. "Even the smallest instruments can carve paths to greatness," he thought, his expression cold and measured. "But only in the hands of one who understands their flaws."

The faint hiss of the snake faded into silence as he turned his attention outward. And then, like a stone sinking into the depths of still water, a thought rippled through him—a cold, sharp realization.

The idea was not idle curiosity but a calculated hypothesis. The serpent's crude parasitism proved one fundamental truth: chakra could flow from one being to another, drawn by force or intent. The method was unrefined, born of primal necessity, but the principle remained. And if the living could be drained of their chakra, then surely the dead could as well.

Amatsu's mind sharpened, his thoughts turning over the implications with ruthless precision. The battlefield outside was littered with corpses—each one a vessel, each one a potential source of power. If he could refine the serpent's crude hunger into something deliberate, something controlled, then every death could become a stepping stone.

He would no longer be bound by the limits of his own reserves.

The realization settled within him like a blade sheathed in ice. This technique, if mastered, could change everything. No longer would he rely on his own strength alone. He would turn death itself into his weapon.

But such mastery would take time. Time he did not have. For now, survival demanded his focus.

Amatsu's gaze shifted to Higanbana.

She lay near the faint embers of their dying fire, her small form curled against the cold. Her breathing was shallow, her chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms. In the dim light, her frailty was stark—her bones delicate, her figure slight, as if the world had already tried to break her but had not yet finished the task.

The fire's glow flickered weakly, unable to chase away the chill that seeped into the cave. There was warmth in her presence, but it was fleeting, ephemeral. Like something destined to be swallowed by the dark.

Amatsu approached her with measured, deliberate steps. His shadow stretched long across the uneven stone, falling over her sleeping form.

"Wake up," he said, his voice low but sharp, slicing through the fragile stillness like a blade.

Higanbana stirred, her lashes fluttering like the wings of a moth caught in an unrelenting wind. Slowly, she blinked, her crimson eyes lifting to meet his. For a moment, they shimmered with something soft—something vulnerable, trembling like dew on a fragile petal.

She flinched under his gaze. His eyes were cold, unyielding, void of warmth, like the frost that claimed the earth before dawn.

"...What's happening?" she murmured, her voice fragile, barely more than a whisper. "Is someone coming?"

"The clash approaches," he replied, his tone indifferent, stripped of unnecessary emotion. "Steel yourself. There is no room for hesitation."

Higanbana nodded slowly, the weight of his words sinking into her. Even in the dim light, there was something strikingly tender about her—like a flower blooming quietly in the shadow of a storm.

She rose without complaint, gathering her belongings with trembling hands. Her movements were slow but deliberate, her crimson eyes flickering with a quiet resolve that defied her frailty.

Amatsu turned his attention back to the cave's entrance.

The sounds of war were closer now—the clash of kunai, the roar of detonating jutsu. Each explosion shook the ground beneath their feet, the echoes of violence creeping ever nearer. The world outside was a battlefield, hostile and unrelenting.

But within that chaos, there was opportunity.

"The weak are trampled. The strong rise above them."

His mind returned to the snake and its crude ability. If he could refine the art of chakra extraction, he could turn the carnage of the battlefield into his strength. Every fallen enemy, every body left behind, would become fuel for his survival.

But for now, he pushed the thought aside. Survival came first.

"I'm ready," Higanbana said at last, her voice soft, barely louder than the faint crackle of the dying fire.

Her hands fidgeted for a moment before she clasped them tightly, forcing herself to stillness.

Amatsu did not look at her fully. His gaze remained fixed on the narrow path ahead, his expression carved from stone.

"Stay close," he ordered, his voice cold and distant, leaving no room for hesitation.

She nodded, her movements subtle, hesitant. But in her eyes, there was no defiance. Only quiet trust—fragile, yet unshaken.

"I won't fall behind," she murmured.

Amatsu glanced at her, his expression unreadable.

She was fragile. That much was undeniable. But there was something within her—a quiet persistence, an ember struggling against the storm.

"Good," he said simply.

Without another word, he turned toward the mouth of the cave and stepped forward, his figure disappearing into the mist.

Higanbana followed, light as a whisper, her presence just behind his.

And as they stepped into the war-torn night, Amatsu's thoughts lingered on a single truth.

Strength does not wait to be given.

It is seized by those with the will to claim it.

And he would claim it all.