In the final days of January, a tense, bureaucratic atmosphere settled over the Sunagakure Academy.
As the theory module neared its monthly conclusion, Sunada Shun announced a formal written examination.
"The test will cover the foundational chakra theory, extraction methods, and standard shuriken trajectories taught over the past months," Sunada stated, his voice as cold and flat as ever. A ripple of anxiety passed through the classroom. Once the papers were distributed, the only sound left was the frantic scratching of graphite against paper.
Sengoku scanned his test. It was entirely composed of basic material: the theoretical mechanics of the Shunshin, close-quarters kunai grips, and chakra extraction formulas. It was merely a test to see who had been paying attention.
With his enhanced intellect, his recall was absolute. He picked up his pen and began writing without a single pause. His answers were concise, directly mirroring the academy's textbooks.
When he reached the inevitable essay question regarding the "Heart of a Shinobi," Sengoku didn't hesitate. He knew exactly what the academy wanted to hear. To avoid drawing unnecessary scrutiny, he coldly penned the standard propaganda: A shinobi's existence is defined by their absolute dedication to the Kazekage, and their highest purpose is to offer everything for the prosperity of Sunagakure.
He finished the exam in less than half the allotted time.
After reviewing his answers once, he glanced around the room. Most of his classmates were still writing frantically or chewing on their pens in frustration. A few desks away, Araki Ryo was scratching his head violently over a trajectory calculation. One student in the back tried to lean over and copy his neighbor, only to instantly freeze and shrink back under Sunada's glacial stare.
When the time was up, Sunada collected the papers and graded them at his desk, his eyes darting rapidly over the essay sections. He recorded the scores in his ledger without a change in expression.
Before dismissal, the results were announced. Sengoku's name was at the top of the list with a perfect score.
Sunada read through the rest of the ranks before giving his closing remark. "Theoretical knowledge is the bedrock of a shinobi. Master it, and you will become a more effective tool for the village." A few of the high-scoring students subconsciously puffed out their chests. Sengoku simply packed his bag, entirely tuning out the indoctrination.
After school, Sengoku bypassed the crowds and headed straight for his secluded section of the training ground.
He unrolled the Chakra Thread Manipulation and Puppet Mastery scrolls, quickly skimming the diagrams before snapping them shut. He already had the theories memorized perfectly; what he needed was physical execution.
He had completely abandoned the crude, full-footed blast of the standard Shunshin. Instead, he was pursuing absolute micro-control—treating his own leg like a puppet's joint. By stimulating specific pressure points with microscopic pulses of chakra, he could generate directional thrust. It required surgical precision.
Sengoku sank his focus into the sole of his right foot, isolating the meridian at his heel. He fired a tiny pulse. His body shifted slightly forward. He reset, isolating the outer edge, then the ball of the foot. Unlike his earlier attempts that left massive craters, the sand beneath him was now marked by a dense cluster of shallow, precise divots.
Through the mind-numbing repetition, he was making progress. By minutely adjusting the origin point of the burst under his foot, he could alter his trajectory by mere fractions of an inch mid-stride. He had internally named the technique the Puppet Shunshin.
However, progress always carried a risk.
Attempting to push his limits, Sengoku tried to chain a complex, multi-point sequence. But his focus slipped for a fraction of a second. The chakra pooled in his arch and detonated violently.
A sharp, piercing pain tore through his left ankle. Sengoku instantly dropped to one knee, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat down in the dirt. He extracted a thin, gentle layer of chakra and carefully wrapped it around the sprained joint, using the energy to soothe the inflamed tissue.
Once the sharpest edge of the pain subsided, he tried to stand. He rotated his left foot carefully. The joint was stiff and throbbed with a deep ache. Developing the Puppet Shunshin was out of the question for the rest of the day.
Accepting the setback, Sengoku sat cross-legged in the sand and pivoted his focus entirely to basic chakra extraction, meditating until the perimeter lights cast a yellow haze over the grounds.
He packed his gear, took one last look at the cluster of tiny footprints in the sand, and began the slow, limping walk home.
To favor his ankle, he took a shortcut through a narrow, dimly lit alleyway. Halfway through, three familiar figures stepped out from the shadows, blocking his path.
It was Saburo and his two lackeys. Their faces were twisted with a mix of malice and smug satisfaction.
"Well, well. If it isn't Sengoku," Saburo mocked, crossing his arms. He eyed Sengoku's injured leg. "Took quite a tumble at the training grounds, didn't you? Can barely walk."
Sengoku's eyes cooled. He realized they must have been watching him practice from a distance, waiting until they saw him fail and injure himself. It was a cowardly, opportunistic tactic, but undeniably effective for a street ambush.
He stopped, standing silently as he adjusted his breathing and assessed his own condition. His chakra was nearly depleted, and his left ankle was a massive liability.
"What's wrong? Too scared to talk?" one of the lackeys sneered, mistaking Sengoku's silence for fear. "You don't have a teacher around to save you this time!"
"Enough talking," Saburo snapped, a flash of genuine violence crossing his face. "Get him! Let's see how tough he is when he can't even stand straight!"
Assuming Sengoku was easy prey, the three boys charged forward, throwing wide, undisciplined punches.
A glint of cold steel entered Sengoku's eyes.
His enhanced intellect instantly mapped their crude, foolish trajectories. He might be exhausted and injured, but months of brutal, systematic conditioning and his upgraded physical stats had forged his body into something far beyond that of a normal academy student. Dealing with these three was entirely within his current limits.
The moment Saburo's fist closed in, Sengoku moved.
He didn't bother trying to block. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he slipped smoothly to the side. Like a viper striking, his left hand snapped out and clamped onto Saburo's wrist.
Saburo felt like his arm had been caught in an iron vise. The raw, unyielding strength halted his forward momentum instantly, yanking the smug expression right off his face.
Before Saburo could even register the shock, Sengoku pulled the boy's trapped arm forward, destroying his balance, and drove a vicious right knee directly into his exposed stomach.
Saburo let out a strangled, breathless gag. He folded entirely in half, collapsing to the ground like a dropped stone, instantly neutralized.
The sudden, brutal counterattack froze the other two lackeys in their tracks.
Sengoku didn't pause. He released Saburo and lunged forward.
The second boy panicked and swung a wild haymaker. Sengoku easily batted the weak strike aside with his forearm. Stepping into the opening, he drove a devastating liver blow into the boy's side. The lackey didn't even have the breath to scream; his eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the dirt, out cold.
Seeing his friends dismantled in seconds, the last lackey shrieked and turned to run. Sengoku closed the distance in two strides and kicked the boy hard behind the knee. The lackey crashed face-first into the dirt. Before he could scramble away, Sengoku planted his right foot heavily between the boy's shoulder blades, pinning him to the ground.
The entire exchange took less than five seconds.
The alley fell silent, save for Sengoku's heavy breathing. The explosive burst of movement had aggravated his sprain, making his left foot throb violently.
He looked down at the trembling boy trapped under his boot, gave him a dismissive kick to the side, and then turned his cold gaze toward Saburo, who was still curled on the ground, dry-heaving.
Sengoku leaned over, his voice devoid of any emotion. "I will say this one last time. I have zero interest in your pathetic gang games. Stop bothering me."
He grabbed Saburo by the collar of his shirt, lifting his face out of the dirt, and stared directly into his eyes.
"If there is a next time... I will break your legs. Do you understand?"
Sengoku tossed the boy aside, letting him roll into the unconscious lackey.
Saburo clutched his aching stomach and looked up. Meeting Sengoku's dead, unwavering eyes, a spike of primal terror pierced through his bravado. He had no doubt that this quiet, solitary boy would actually do it. Saburo gave a weak, trembling nod.
Sengoku gave them one final, dismissive glance before turning away, dragging his injured foot as he vanished into the shadows of the alley.
It took a long time before Saburo could finally push himself up, leaning heavily on the third boy. As he stared into the dark alley where Sengoku had disappeared, the terror in his chest slowly curdled into a deep, humiliating hatred.
"Just you wait, Sengoku..." he gritted out through clenched teeth.