"The strongest jutsu is the one you don't see coming."

— Shikamaru Nara, Naruto

--

Location: Otis's Training Ground – Riverbend Clearing, Morning

The snow had settled on the treetops like powdered sugar. Steam rose off the river. Otis stood shirtless on a wide boulder near the edge, his breath fogging in snow.

The clearing was quiet, save for the dull snore of a bear.

Yuki-Box was curled under a shelter of logs and cloth. She kicked occasionally in her sleep, possibly dreaming of fish or Hinata's sweet bean buns. Otis glanced at her, then back at the rock in his hand.

A smooth river stone. Cold. Fit perfectly in his palm.

Always starts like this, he thought.

He lifted his arm and rolled his shoulder. His body had been changing fast these past two years. His strength now? Nothing short of absurd. But it wasn't just power anymore. He'd learned angles. Weight. Friction. Vibration through the fingers. The difference between a puncher's throw and a sniper's toss.

But even with all that—he never bothered to name them.

That's a rookie mistake, he thought. You name the things you master.

He remembered something — from before. His previous life. Long nights. Junk food. Games. Menus filled with weapons. The cold click of a sniper. The absurd joy of naming a grenade "Larry."

Back in his old world, things had names. Guns. Weapons. Skills. You didn't just shoot. You used a Carbine Burst, a Slug Round, or .50 Cal Sabot Shell.

He grunted.

"Why not."

Otis smirked.

"Let's start with the basics."

He pulled his arm back and threw the stone.. Straight, fast — a clean flick.

It flew — sharp, straight, a clean whistle in the air — and snapped into a thick tree trunk with a loud THWACK

.

"That's a '9mm Flick'."

Light, fast, direct. Good for exposed targets and jawlines.

He picked up another stone. Slightly thicker, rougher on the edges.

He rolled it in his palm, leaned back, 

Something with weight… not quite sniper-level, but mean enough.

He threw. This one whistled through the air before cracking into a log and splitting it clean. This one hit harder. 

".50 Cal Breaker," Otis muttered, rubbing his shoulder. "Kills morale, not just ribs."

He started pacing now, eyes scanning the snow for stones of various shapes. He wasn't looking for just anything — he was classifying them.

Small, egg-shaped stones — good for speed.

Flat, wide ones — better for spread.

Jagged, uneven pieces — they bit into things like they had claws.

He stepped back, gathered a handful of stones, and threw them one after another, palm-slap style — wide spread, multiple impacts.

CRACK. CRACK. TAP-TAP. THUNK.

"Shotgun Scatter," he said.

He grinned.

Yeah... this is stupid. But it works.

He turned slightly and hit the same log again with a second burst. "Close-range, multi-target. Poor man's rasengan. I guess"

Otis paused.

He was getting into this. Too into it.

He picked up a big rock. It felt heavy. His biceps flexed as he held it above his head

"This one's for emergencies…"

Heavy. It felt more like a cannonball than a rock. He hefted it in both hands.

"Test fire," he muttered.

He pulled his arms back charging his muscles with chakra amplifying his body and focusing his strength

He grunted and tossed it high—into the air—watching it

It sailed skyward—and kept going.

He had to squint to even follow it. It looks like a black dot in the sky

Then he waited.

Waited…

Seconds passed.

The wind shifted.

And then—

BOOM.

A hollow thud erupted from deeper in the woods. A distant tree limb cracked and dropped like it had been punched by god.

He moved towards the area to check it 

It cratered into the earth like a meteor, sending snow and dirt flying.

Otis raised an eyebrow. "maybe Ballistic shot, I don't know"

He cracked his knuckles. "Cooldown: at least 20 seconds."

He walked over to the biggest tree he could find and tried a bounce shot — angling a flat rock against the bark and letting it ricochet off into a second log.

Thunk—PANG—THUD.

He nodded.

"Boomerang Bonebreaker?" He squinted. "No. That sounds like a cheesy wrestler move."

A pause.

He looked at his notebook — a small, beat-up thing he kept tied to a string on his belt. Pages filled with sketches, throw paths, angles, crude drawings of body targets. At the top of the newest page, he scribbled:

THROW TYPES —

Below it, he began to jot:

9mm Flick — Fast jab, soft tissue, exposed targets

.50 Cal Breaker — Mid-range power throw

Shotgun Scatter — Wide arc, multiple hits, short range

Ricochet (needs better name) — Indirect angle work

Curve Shot (also needs better name)— Still in testing phase… need precision

Ballistic shot — Overhead heavy, full-force

He sat down on a stump, breathing slow and even. Watching the trees sway. Bear still snoring.

"Better than calling every move 'rock throw number seven.'"

Otis stood in the snow, staring down at a stone the size of a melon.

Not a rock.

A boulder.

Rounded by time, thick, with mineral streaks like scars.

He squatted low and rolled it into both palms, muscles in his forearms flexing. His breath was calm — steady. But there was a spark in his eyes. The kind you only saw in people doing something stupid

or genius.

Or both.

"Test fire: Class-2 Impact."

He threw it after enhancing his body and the rock with chakra and let it fly — not forward, but up.

The thing soared, like a cannon shell,

Five seconds passed.

Then—

BOOOM.

A distant echo thundered through the forest. Somewhere, a tree exploded. Birds took off. Even Yuki-Box woke up, grumbling and snorting.

Otis blew out a breath.

He cracked his knuckles and picked up his notebook, flipping past earlier entries — 9mm Flick, .50 Cal Breaker, Shotgun Scatter…

He added a new section in his notebook.

Mortar throw — Small boulder, rocks high arc, lobs into crowds. Good for suppressing idiots behind cover.

Artillery toss — Full-body throw, long-range, extreme destruction. Not for daily use. (Ballistic Shot is the prototype).

He muttered aloud:

"Mortar for mid-sized boulders. Artillery for the ones that change the terrain."

He drew a small diagram: a curved trajectory arc, labeled with power levels.

Behind him, the bear let out a yawn and rolled over, dislodging a fish from her paws.

Otis turned back to the river and practiced again, now with a new rhythm in his stance. Breathe. Grip. Release.

He wasn't just tossing rocks anymore.

He was building an arsenal.

"One day, they're going to make jutsu out of this," he muttered. "And I'm going to copyright the damn manual."

--

(A/N)

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