[Honō Kusari]

Nokoribi.

The Forge Island of Kusagakure, the heart of the Honō Clan's Blacksmithing. The repetitive sound of hammer on anvil formed the pulse that drowned out all rational thought. There were no need for words in the hottest hell in Nohara, or perhaps anywhere else in the world. Naturally occurring Volcanoes only dreamt of rising to the temperatures that this facility could safely reach, armed not only with those who could control the element, but many wizened masters of steel and iron.

The inner sanctum was where all of the Village's finest arms were born, in both mind and body. Kusari's footsteps were muted, but his arrival was known to them all the same. Flickering shadows on the walls gave away the presence of all those who traversed the hallowed halls. They greeted him with nods, they met him with mind-numbing silence. The only sound that existed in this place, the only ringing that mattered, was the metallic heartbeat that breathed life into metal.

He shed his kimono at the door, for he would not need it.

Many of them wore the protective gear, the reinforced metal and high-temperature goggles. They wore the mitts and aprons, carefully held the tongs, moved the molten metal from vat to vat with practiced, cautious, thorough turns of the body. Nothing was quick within Nokoribi. Everything moved at a steady pace, slow, consistent. Safety was a priority, a value instilled by the powers that be after the need for such a facility came about.

Kusari was the exception, not the rule.

He shed now his undershirt, revealing lithe, sinewy muscles. The son of Gimu and Eiko was one of the few members of the Clan ever to be bred solely for this purpose, to wade through the cinders, to be awash in the element, to cultivate it with an intimate touch. When he arrived, they watched, but they did not deviate from their tasks.

They had their work. Kusari had his. He removed his slippers, placed them off to the side. He pulled his trousers up and tied them off above his calves, then began to stretch. It was hot- but he was no stranger to heat. His eyes had already glazed over, performing the rite over and over in his mind, obsessing over details, perfecting the motions.

Despite that the Kekkei Genkai belonged to the Clan...

This was Kusari's Yōton.

Training: Post 1

[Honō Kusari]

Dry, hot air sucked between his lips left them stinging and numb. He filled his lungs despite the thin and unwelcoming nature of the chamber, cycling out the carbon dioxide, the unburning and useless element that would not serve as fuel. Impregnating his chakra with Katon, compressing it, purifying it, and distilling it, he started to weave the handseals that gave rise to the power of Lava Release. He walked slowly forward, eyes staring straight ahead, mapping a fated course.

The pads of his feet touched the vat of metal, still not quite to temperature. He could feel his soles warming up, forcing the chakra out into the ore, sharing his innate inferno with them. Steam roiled upward around him, then smoke as his chakra pooled beneath him, then spread along the serpentine channels that spread outward from the center of the room. Near the south door to the room, one of the aides began to pull at a length of chain suspended from the ceiling, and after a few seconds of creaking, the large cogs above them began to spark, shift, and finally turn.

A previously dark, sweltering room became hellishly hot as pools of molten metal that had been suspended above, fed constantly and held in reserve now tipped, pouring out rich and unmolested, raw elemental slag. It crept along the path, replenishing the pools already in use, steadily making its way toward where the red-eyed youth stood, pouring out his life essence. Kusari held his last handseal tightly, unmoving as the river of lava finally came into contact with the metal he was standing on.

And he exhaled, harshly.

From every pore of his body, the Bringer of Sorrow erupted, steam quickly turning to flame as he ignited not only his own chakra, but ambient energy that came within a fraction of an inch of his body. The heat conjoined with the molten metal and the offering that had been made- of iron, of various other fine ores and minerals- was infused with combined Doton and Katon. Kusari poured the latent earth element into the metal to bolster its resistance, to insure that his flames would not simply make the metal wither, chip, and corrode. The intensity of his flames, in turn, cultivated a sterner, yet malleable substance that now melted down to join the flow, the River of Iron that they in turn used to arm Kusagakure, to protect its people, and to carve out a path to glory in its name.

But the ritual was far from over.

Training: Post 2

[Honō Kusari]

The braziers on all sides of him were ceremoniously lit, one at a time. The room went from dim to bright orange and red within seconds, billowing smoke from metal pulled, shaped, and thrust into cool water made the room stifling. The heat did no favors. They passed waterskins between each other to quench their parched mouths, but only the most disciplined of them failed to gag as the hot water burned their lips and throats. There would be no respite. Not until the task was complete.

The reservoirs were open, the offering accepted, the metals invested with Yōton chakra, but the smiths were only just starting their day. Older projects, new ones, they took up their tools and began to slave away in the inferno.

And Kusari continued his hellish task. He walked slowly across the river of slag, feet pouring out a constant flow of Chakra, feeding the Elemental heat, imbuing the substance with a property that differentiated it from others. There were many skilled smiths in the known world. The Honō style of Blacksmithing was a well-kept secret, and not only the Artisans, but those who kept watch over Nokoribi were sworn to silence. This ritual, the Rite of Purification, and the ever-flowing river of magma were Kusari's most sacred art. This marked one week since his last performance. The molten metals had waned, cooling slowly. Despite how thick and dense he had made it, how forcibly he infused it, the nature of Katon Chakra was still to burn out. Doton was more enduring, but they were an erratic fusion. For all of the beauty of the final product of a forging, the resources were limited. Finite. Fleeting.

As well should it be.

With this, the older metals joined with the new. His chakra suffused them all once more, renewing the heart of fire, bringing the earth to its melting point, maintaining an intensity that would last another seven days.

For that, he would have to not only impregnate the river, but he needed to become the heart of the Forges themselves.

Kusari held out both hands as he finished his preemptive walk, planting the Chakra all along the many channels, filling the reservoirs, replenishing the supply. He returned to the center of Nokoribi, brought his hands together, and made the sign of the Dragon.

Again, he took a deep breath.

Training: Post 3