NOVEL NEXT Chapter 15: The Art of Observation
It was another ordinary day at the academy—or so it seemed. After the usual drills, the instructor clapped his hands for attention.
"Today, we focus on observation skills," he announced. "A shinobi who fails to notice the details is a shinobi who fails to survive."
He gestured toward the courtyard outside. "We've set up an exercise. Each of you will have three minutes to observe a scene and then report back with as many details as you can. Accuracy matters more than quantity."
When it was my turn, I stepped outside into the courtyard. My heart beat steadily as I scanned the area. A table was set in the center, with various objects: a kunai, a scroll, and a cup of tea. A tree nearby had a carving on its trunk, and three wooden dummies stood in the shadows.
I took it all in systematically, breaking it down piece by piece.
The kunai had a nick on the blade.
The scroll was partially unfurled, revealing faint kanji for "wind."
The tea in the cup was still steaming.
The carving on the tree was a simple spiral.
One of the dummies had a crack in its torso.
Three minutes passed quickly.
Inside, the instructor asked me to recount what I'd observed.
"The kunai had a nick on the blade," I began. "The scroll was unfurled and had the kanji for 'wind.' The tea was fresh, still steaming. The tree had a spiral carving. One dummy had a crack on its torso."
The instructor raised an eyebrow. "That's all accurate. However, you missed a key detail—the position of the sun. It was low in the sky, casting long shadows. A shinobi must always be aware of their environment."
I frowned, nodding. It was a fair critique. The exercise was a stark reminder that I couldn't let my focus narrow too much, even as I excelled at analyzing specific details.
That evening, I added a new layer to my training.
To improve my observational skills, I began practicing in different environments—my room, the academy, even the streets of the village. I trained myself to notice details quickly: the folds in people's clothing, the wear on their sandals, the shadows cast by lanterns.
I also started sketching in my notebook, using it to capture what I saw in as much detail as possible. It wasn't just for practice—it was for creating a habit of storing information visually and mentally.
The next day, we moved on to a more advanced exercise.
The instructor handed each of us a small piece of paper with a single kanji written on it. Mine said "fire."
"Your goal is to find two other students with matching kanji and form a group," he explained. "You'll need to observe and deduce who shares your symbol without showing anyone your paper."
It was a test of subtlety and observation, and I welcomed the challenge.
I watched as my classmates tried to read each other's expressions, giving away too much or too little. I moved carefully, making small talk and gauging reactions.
By observing how a few students shifted their glances or hesitated when I mentioned fire, I quickly deduced who my partners were. Together, we revealed our matching kanji and completed the task.
That evening, I sat by my window, looking out at the stars.
Observation wasn't just about seeing—it was about interpreting, understanding, and anticipating.
The instructor's words lingered in my mind: "A shinobi who fails to notice the details is a shinobi who fails to survive."
If I was to survive in this world—thrive in it—I needed to make observation second nature. Only then could I begin to shape the world around me.
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