Speed, Raising the Little Ten-Tails (Thanks to Chi Dada Gua for the Donation)

After the technique inscriptions were completed, the radiance faded.

Minamoto Takuya stood still, focusing on his senses, yet he did not immediately notice any major changes in his body.

He quickly realized why. Everything in this Laboratory was in a state of absolute stillness; even the dust in the air was utterly motionless.

No matter how sharp his nerves were, they had nowhere to show their worth in this vacuum-like silence.

He pushed open the door and stepped outside.

A gentle breeze brushed past him, carrying the breath of life.

A leaf broke free from a branch and spiraled downward; tiny motes of dust danced lightly in shafts of sunlight.

This utterly ordinary scene took on an entirely different meaning through the Tenseigan, those eyes that perceived all things.

The world had quietly "slowed" in his eyes.

The scene before him remained unchanged.

Yet Minamoto Takuya's perception felt as though it had plunged into a viscous current of time.

The path of every falling leaf, every instant of every speck of dust's movement, was stretched infinitely long and imprinted upon the ends of his nerves in exquisite detail.

What did that mean? It meant that in the face of the same actions and the same circumstances, he had far more time than before to think and respond.

That was the benefit brought by a tremendous leap in neural reflex speed.

Its uses extended far beyond the arena of battle.

Even in everyday life, this subtle control over the flow of time could bring an indescribable sense of composure and precision.

And in the ever-changing struggle between life and death, even the slightest extra "gap for thought" that appeared out of nowhere was immeasurably valuable.

It was enough to see through an opponent's openings, reverse the tide of offense and defense,