The orphanage woke up before the sun with the quiet rustling of blankets, soft groans of children reluctant to leave the warmth of their futons.
I got up like always before making my bed with practiced ease. Across the room, Daisuke was still half-asleep, blinking blearily as he yawned.
"Five more minutes," he muttered.
"You said that yesterday," I pointed out, grabbing my neatly folded clothes from the small wooden chest beside my bed.
"And I meant it yesterday too," he shot back, though he finally swung his legs over the side of his futon, stretching his arms with a grunt.
I ignored him and left the room, sliding the door open to the faint scent of steamed rice and burning firewood drifting faintly from the kitchen below.
The orphanage wasn't large, but it was organized. The main building was two stories high, built in a traditional wooden style with tatami floors and sliding doors.
It formed a rectangle around a small inner courtyard where laundry lines hung and children sometimes played when chores were done.
The upper floor was divided into sleeping quarters. On one side, the boys' room which lined the eastern hall, facing the sunrise.
The girls' quarters occupied the western side, separated by a narrow corridor and a rule enforced with an iron hand by Hoshino-san.
Up until the age of six, children could still sleep together in the mixed nursery at the far end of the hall. Beyond that, separation was strict.
"Boys mature slower," Hoshino always said, "so I trust you less."
A fair statement, considering the occasional midnight prank that got more than a few of us scrubbing floors as punishment, excluding me of course.
I wouldn't be caught dead doing such childish things.
The ground floor held the heart of the orphanage: the dining area, kitchen, storeroom, and the small study room we used for lessons.
A side building, added after the farm expanded, stored tools and harvest baskets.
Walking briskly, I arrived at the dining area and saw Aiko was carefully tying her obi. She caught my eye and raised an eyebrow.
"Academy students shouldn't be moving so slow," she teased, lips curving into a smirk.
"Good morning, Hoshino-san," I greeted as I stepped inside. The faint aroma of miso greeted me. She stood by the stove, tasting the soup with a small wooden spoon.
"Ara~ early as always, Murakami-chan," she said, setting the spoon aside with a knowing smile. "You'll make me look bad if you keep waking up before me."
I smirked. "You say that every morning, but somehow you're always here first."
She chuckled softly. "That's what happens when you grow old. Sleep runs away and leaves you to your thoughts."
I leaned against the counter, watching as she adjusted the fire under the pot. "Anything you need me to do?"
"Mm, since you're offering—fetch the rice from the store room, would you? The pot's nearly ready."
I nodded and left briefly, returning with the small sack of rice. Together, we worked at a quiet and familiar pace—her stirring, me rinsing and setting the rice to cook.
I measured the grains carefully before washing them three times until the water ran clear. Then I poured them into the pot, added the right amount of water, and set it over the low fire.
It would take about fifteen minutes to cook properly—long enough for the aroma to fill the kitchen and for the soup to finish simmering.
Hoshino gave the miso one last taste, nodding in approval. "Perfect. Go ring the bell, Murakami-chan. Let's feed our little army."
I grinned, wiping my hands. "Aye, general."
…
Breakfast was simple, it was just rice and soup, both made from ingredients we'd grown ourselves.
The vegetables in the broth came from our own fields, and the rice had been bought after we sold a few of our harvests.
It wasn't extravagant, but it was ours.
No one complained. After all, food tasted better when you worked for it.
…
Academy life was, for the most part, predictable.
Mornings were filled with exceedingly boring, but necessary topics. Afternoon's physical training remained the same
Sparring had already begun, and it was clear to me who had grown and who didn't.
Ren Hyūga for one moved with a precision that set him apart from the others but I wasn't surprised.
He was a freaking Hyūga. It'd be weird if he moved sloppily.
Each of his strikes was controlled, his footwork was fluid, his posture straight. He didn't boast, nor did he need to, his skill spoke for itself.
Each of his movements carried the unmistakable refinement of structured training outside the Academy, a discipline ingrained far beyond what the instructors had taught us so far.
Others were less controlled in their movements.
Daichi, for example, still had trouble balancing his power with precision. He was strong, but wasted energy in unnecessary movements.
Then there was Haru, a boy who flinched every time an instructor corrected his stance. He wasn't weak, but he lacked confidence, and it showed in the way his punches hesitated mid-air.
He kind of reminds me of Sota who always had wild ambitions but gets shy when asked how he hopes to achieve them.
I kept my own progress steady, good enough to be recognized, but not enough to stand out. I had no reason to rush…
…Who am I kidding, I had all the reason to rush, I just wasn't showing off in the academy.
The real lessons weren't in the Academy's curriculum.
They were in the village itself.
Despite my initial expectations, the Academy wasn't all about punching and memorizing history.
Sure, there were lectures, drills, and endless repetition, but there were also moments of genuine amusement.
Like how one kid accidentally set his sleeve on fire during a chakra exercise and had to be put out by a panicked instructor.
I had wondered how that was even possible but I didn't know it all so I just chucked it up to this world's logic
Or the way some students would doze off during theory lessons, only to snap awake when Matsuda-sensei slammed a book onto their desk.
Then there were the group assignments, small projects meant to build teamwork.
The latest one had us sketching out basic village maps, marking key locations like the Hokage Tower, the training grounds, and the various clan compounds.
"Why do we have to do this?" one boy complained. "We already live here."
"Because half of you get lost outside the main street," Matsuda-sensei deadpanned.
He wasn't wrong.
Navigating the village wasn't something most kids thought about. But for me, this was useful.
I used the assignment as an excuse to ask questions I wouldn't normally throw at strangers if I were alone. But since I was moving in my capacity as an academy student, I now could.
My questions ranged from why certain shops were placed where they were, which streets were busiest and how prices changed between districts.
People were surprisingly open when they thought it was just for schoolwork.
As for why I did this, if I wanted to build something for myself, I needed to know the terrain.
…
After classes, while some students raced home or went to play, I took my time walking through Konoha.
Every district had a different energy.
The market streets were loud, full of merchants calling out their wares, stalls packed with fresh produce, spices, and handmade goods.
Customers haggled, arguing over prices, while shopkeepers balanced between keeping business afloat and not being cheated out of their profits.
In contrast, the shinobi supply stores were quiet. They didn't need to advertise. Their customers knew what they needed, walked in, bought it, and left.
The blacksmiths were different.
Weapons were an investment, and buyers often spent time inspecting kunai and shuriken, checking their weight and balance.
The blacksmiths took pride in their work, some even demonstrating the sharpness of their blades by slicing through bamboo stalks in one clean stroke.
Then there were the tea houses and restaurants, places that catered to both civilians and shinobi alike.
Some were small and homely, while others had a more refined atmosphere, meant for high-ranking officials or wealthy patrons.
I paid attention to how money moved.
Who spent the most?
Who barely scraped by?
Which businesses thrived, and which ones struggled?
And with time, patterns began to emerge.
Shinobi spent money in bursts after missions when they had extra cash, but between assignments, they were frugal.
Merchants thrived on consistency.
Wealth wasn't in large transactions, but in repeat customers.
Most importantly, I noted which businesses were family-run and which were independent.
There was opportunity in that.
Not yet, but eventually.