The wait wasn't long.
Fweeee—BOOM!
A piercing screech tore through the desert night, followed by a brilliant explosion at the apex of the sky. A massive flower of golden light bloomed instantly, illuminating the upturned faces of the crowd below and drawing a collective gasp of awe.
More streaks of fire followed, detonating in rapid succession. Cascades of vibrant colors washed over the dark canvas of the sky, weaving together before falling like glittering rain. These were definitely premium imports from the Land of Fire—a stark contrast to the loud but visually pitiful black-powder fireworks Sunagakure usually deployed for its festivals.
With every new burst of color, a wave of genuine admiration rippled through the crowd.
Sengoku leaned against the cold stone wall, watching the display. The colorful flashes reflected vividly in his dark, unblinking eyes. The cheering and laughter of the surrounding villagers felt distant, as if filtered through an invisible barrier.
The dazzling lights naturally drew his thoughts back over the past year. Every ounce of his current strength, every Ryo he had saved, and every mechanism he had engineered had been paved with sweat, exhausting repetition, and countless hidden failures.
As the fireworks continued to paint the sky, the dreamlike atmosphere failed to disperse the cold reality pressing down on his mind.
The Academy curriculum had become a dead weight. The cultural classes and the repetitive drills of basic ninjutsu he had long since mastered offered absolutely no substantive growth; they were a complete waste of his time. The thought of early graduation resurfaced, striking with more urgency than ever before.
Why graduate? Because only by becoming an official Genin could he take on real missions and accumulate genuine life-and-death combat experience, rather than playing ninja in a sandbox. More importantly, missions paid. He desperately needed a massive influx of capital to fund his puppet development without wasting hours every single day mass-producing sandstone trinkets. Time was a luxury he didn't have. Based on his memories of his past life, the outbreak of the First Shinobi World War was looming on the horizon. He needed to stockpile absolute lethal power before the village was plunged into a global meat grinder.
The risks, of course, were immense. Early graduation meant facing real enemies who wouldn't hold back like his classmates or instructors. It meant stepping into the chaotic unknown.
Standing beneath the falling sparks, Sengoku's mind raced, weighing the tactical pros and cons.
Eventually, the explosions in the sky began to thin out. The final sparks faded into the dark, signaling the end of the expensive spectacle. The crowd murmured in satisfaction, slowly breaking off into small groups and preparing to head home.
Sengoku pushed himself off the wall, shoving his thoughts of graduation aside for now. That decision could wait. The true milestone of the night was imminent.
His gaze swept over the moving crowd as he retreated deeper into the unlit shadows at the edge of the plaza.
The clock ticked steadily toward midnight. The world was stepping into Year Twelve of the Shinobi Era.
Hidden in the absolute dark, Sengoku closed his eyes. He sank his consciousness entirely inward, summoning the translucent panel anchored deep within his soul.
[STR: 1
AGI: 0
INT: 1
Available Points: 0]
He locked his focus entirely on that final number, holding his breath.
He didn't have to wait long. As an invisible threshold was crossed, marking the exact transition of the new year, the panel gave a silent, seamless flicker.
[Available Points: 0] blurred for a fraction of a second. When it stabilized, the number had naturally changed.
[Available Points: 1]
'It's here.'
The heavy boulder of uncertainty that Sengoku had carried for the entire year finally vanished. A faint, almost imperceptible surge of relief washed over him, dissipating as quickly as it came. The panel's mechanic was confirmed: a slow but absolute progression of one point per year. Whether there were other ways to earn points remained unknown, but at the very least, he had a guaranteed avenue for growth.
Without wasting a second, he initiated the allocation.
His first choice was, naturally, Intelligence. The single point he had invested at the start of last year had completely overhauled his cognitive processing, learning speed, and chakra control. The return on investment was monstrous. He mentally commanded the new point to fuse with the [INT] stat.
However, unlike the water-flowing-into-a-basin sensation of his previous attempt, he was met with immediate resistance. A heavy, stagnant pressure pushed back against his intent. The invisible energy of the point hovered around the [INT] symbol for a moment before slowly retreating, unable to integrate.
'Failed.'
It was exactly as he had hypothesized. Every attribute had a hidden physiological limit at his current stage of bodily development. For a seven-year-old child, an Intelligence of 1 was the absolute ceiling.
He shifted his focus, directing the point toward [STR]. Physical power, chakra capacity, and raw stamina were equally vital for survival.
The same rejection occurred. The [STR] symbol flickered slightly, radiating a sensation of complete saturation. It outright rejected the incoming energy.
'As expected...' Sengoku thought coldly. Both his strength and intellect were maxed out for his current age and physical vessel. That left only one viable option.
He shifted his gaze to the final stat.
This time, there was no resistance. The energy sank in smoothly.
[AGI: 0] pulsed, seamlessly shifting to [AGI: 1].
The mutation struck instantly.
It began with his vision. The dimly lit, slightly blurred silhouettes of the dispersing crowd across the plaza suddenly snapped into terrifying, high-definition clarity. Every movement, every shifting shadow, and every falling grain of sand seemed to slow down, captured perfectly by his eyes. It was a massive leap in dynamic vision—as if his perception of the world had violently upgraded from a sluggish thirty frames per second to a hyper-smooth one hundred and twenty.