Mission Below the Bloom [ E-Rank Self Modded Solo Mission]

Goro was a blur of quiet, mechanical efficiency.

He didn’t mind the grit coating his lungs or the way the stale, recycled air of the tunnels clung to his skin. To the crews passing by, he was just another piece of the scenery, a multi-limbed industrial tool meant to tear down the old to make way for the new.

They had been called here to clear space for a new storefront, an upscale apothecary. It was a sign of the times; as the village grew more crowded in its subterranean life, every foot of stone was being reclaimed and repurposed. Two of his arms hoisted a slab of cracked masonry from a wall that had stood since the migration; two others shoveled the history of the sector into a waiting hopper. Every stone he removed felt like a piece of the village's identity being traded away for "civilization."

The Tsuchigumo were the "Unseen Wall," but as the village changed, Goro felt the bricks of his own life shifting. The simple labor of the tunnels was no longer enough. Tomorrow, he was to report to the Toraono Dojo to begin his path as a shinobi.

The thought made his stomach knot. His kinsmen didn’t care much for the Toraono’s flashy, aggressive methods while they preferred the steady, silent strength of the Hive, but Goro knew the world was getting dangerous. If he wanted to protect his family, he had to learn to be a weapon, not just a shovel. He respected the Toraono for keeping Suna alive, but the fear of failing their standards felt heavier than the stone in his hands.

"Shift the weight. Pivot. Clear the path."

As he tossed a jagged piece of rebar into the scrap pile, Goro’s feet shifted into a low, wide stance. His movements were somber, almost hypnotic. He drifted into the familiar rhythms of the Hachiashi katas, using the manual labor as a foundation for his training. Every time he reached for a stone, it was a strike. Every turn to dump a load was a defensive rotation.

He paused, holding a heavy piece of debris above his head, and looked around the cavernous space. The tunnel was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic thump-thump of the biome’s life-support machinery.

"Ditched again," he murmured.

He wasn't angry; anger was a waste of energy. But the isolation was sharp today. The kinsmen he’d arrived with had finished their shift and headed back to the residential hubs, leaving the "freak" to finish the heavy lifting. Goro didn't mind. To leave a quota unmet was to fail the Hive, and he needed the work to drown out the anxiety of the Academy.

He set the masonry down and reached into his hip pouch, pulling out a battered, dull training shuriken. He looked at a distant, hanging piece of a tattered banner, a scrap of old Sunan cloth now just a rag in the dirt.

"I have to be better," he whispered to the shadows. "If I am not sharp, I am just a burden."

He took a slow breath, his six arms tensing. In his mind, he wasn't clearing a path for a shop; he was in the Dojo, facing the legendary instructors.

Thwack.

The shuriken buried itself in a wooden support beam.

Thwack. Thwack.

Two more followed in rapid succession, thrown from his secondary arms with clinical precision. He began to move through the rubble, leaping from stone to stone, his white braid whipping behind him. He turned the construction site into a mock battlefield.

He lunged forward, imagining a Toraono instructor watching him. He threw a series of rapid punches with his upper limbs while his middle arms stayed tucked for a sudden counter-strike.

"Left... right... upper... lower..."

[MFT]

Goro didn't stop until the rhythm of his breathing was the only sound left in the cavernous room. The mock battlefield dissolved back into a construction site, but it was no longer a chaotic mess of history and rubble.

He moved with a methodical focus, the kind that came from a life defined by utility. Standing over the pile of jagged masonry, Goro tilted his head back slightly. With a sharp, practiced exhale, he produced a thick stream of viscous, white silk from his mouth.

His middle arms moved instantly, catching the strand and infusing it with a steady pulse of chakra. The energy made the silk hum with a faint, structural strength. He worked the material with four of his hands, weaving the jagged rocks into tight, geometric bundles in the far corner. He didn't just stack the debris; he anchored it. The webbed clusters were solid, ensuring nothing would shift or slide while the village slept.

Next came the wooden planks. He gathered the splintered timber and, again, produced a fresh length of chakra-reinforced silk to bind them. He used a lower arm to tension the line while his primary hands aligned the edges into perfect, level stacks. He treated the discarded wood as if it were precious, ensuring the apothecary’s future owners wouldn't find a single stray splinter.

Finally, he turned his attention to the ground. Using his arms and the collective weight of his torso, Goro moved across the dirt in a slow, grinding trudge. He stamped the earth down, his multiple limbs ensuring even pressure until the ground reached a form of level. It was ready for professionals to perfect it, the building blocks crafted from his sweat.

He retrieved his training shuriken from the support beam, wiping the dust from the dull metal. He looked back at the space one last time. It was pristine. He had done more than meet a quota; he had turned a mess into a beginning.

"Finished," he whispered.

His long white braid hung over his shoulder, dusty from the day's labor. His extra arms retracting tightly against his sides under his clothes to minimize his profile as much as possible. He didn't need a thank you from the kinsmen who had left him behind. The work was its own reward, a quiet proof that he could handle the weight of the Dojo tomorrow.

Goro turned and walked out into the darkening streets of the residential district, his red eyes scanning the path as he headed silently toward home.

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