Asahi tucked the crumpled leaf into his pant pocket. The simple act of closing his fingers over it sent a sharp cramp up his forearm. It felt as if his arm had run a marathon while the rest of his body slept.
He joined the edge of the student group, gathered around Iruka-sensei. Asahi's sweat was cold, the product of mental exhaustion, not physical exertion. It contrasted sharply with the steam practically rising off Kiba and Arashi, who were still playfully pushing each other, laughing as if the world were a joke only they understood.
"Good work today, class!" Iruka said, clapping to gather attention. His gaze swept over the group, lingering a fraction longer on Asahi. Pity? Respect? Asahi couldn't tell.
"Sasuke, Arashi, your fluidity is excellent! You're still using too much brute force, but your instincts are good," Iruka smiled. "Kiba, stop shouting your moves. A shinobi must be silent. Shino, excellent defensive footwork. Shikamaru… try not to fall asleep when your opponent attacks."
Shikamaru muttered a barely audible "What a drag."
"Remember," Iruka concluded, "Taijutsu isn't about who hits harder. It's about efficiency. Using your opponent's strength against them, applying your own exactly where it's needed. Now, inside, wash up! Lunch is almost here!"
The class broke formation with a cheer. Asahi hung back, moving with the deliberate slowness of someone afraid his legs might stop working if he made a sudden move.
He watched Arashi sling an arm over Naruto's shoulder, messing up his blond hair. "Did you see that sweep, Naru? Almost got it!"
Naruto, who had been training quietly with a calm Aburame clan boy, gave his brother a small smile. "Almost. But Sasuke-kun read your move before you even started."
"Pfft! Details!" Arashi complained, though his pride shone through more than irritation.
Asahi observed the interaction with an astronomical sense of distance.
'They have a rivalry. They push each other. They're on the same path.'
He wasn't on that path. Not even in the same forest. They were learning to run, while he was in a neurological lab trying to remember how to move his big toe.
'I have to recalibrate… my arm. My other arm. My legs. My torso. My neck,' the list grew in his mind, terrifying in scope. 'Every muscle I trained for physical efficiency. Every instinctive movement. Every reflex.'
This wasn't learning a new skill. This was tearing a house down to the foundation and rebuilding it brick by brick while still living in it.
'This isn't a video game with an EXP bar rising,' he thought bitterly. 'This is… like learning to play Flight of the Bumblebee on the violin after eight years as a heavy metal drummer. The hands know rhythm, but not delicacy.'
They entered the Academy building. The smell of chalk and old wood hit him. The other kids ran to the bathrooms to wash off sweat before lunch, their voices echoing through the halls.
Asahi veered toward the empty classroom. He wasn't hungry. The idea of food churned his stomach. His brain felt bruised.
He sat at his usual desk in the back, by the window. The afternoon sun streamed in, casting a warm rectangle on the wood, like a spotlight illuminating only him.
The classroom was silent. A blessed reprieve from the chaos of the yard.
He pulled the leaf from his pocket. Its edges were slightly torn.
'I can't wait. I can't just do this at home. I have to do it constantly.'
He placed the leaf on his left palm—his "good" arm, the one not cramped.
He took a deep breath.
'Step one. Stick.'
Chakra flowed. The leaf clung.
'Step two. Tension.'
He focused his will on his left pinky.
Click.
The leaf fell.
Asahi clenched his jaw. He picked up the leaf. Stuck it.
'Again.'
Click.
Fell.
'Again.'
He stuck it. Tensed.
The chakra wavered, but held. The leaf trembled.
He maintained tension and flow for three seconds before his concentration broke.
'Good. The left hand learns faster. Or maybe the neural pathway is already a bit cleared from work with the right.'
He was about to attempt the left ring finger when the classroom door slid open, startling him.
Asahi nearly crushed the leaf in his fist by reflex.
It was Iruka-sensei, holding a small bento.
"Ah, Asahi," Iruka said, slightly surprised to find him there. "You didn't go to lunch."
Asahi shook his head, unsure what to say. He remained silent, expecting a scolding.
Iruka studied him for a moment. He saw the empty desk, the exhaustion in the boy's eyes, and the half-hidden leaf in his hand.
The sensei said nothing about the leaf.
Instead, he approached and placed his own bento on Asahi's desk.
"You can't recalibrate an engine without fuel," Iruka said softly. "The brain consumes more calories than any muscle. If you're going to do… whatever it is you're doing… you need to eat."
Asahi looked at the bento. It was simple: rice, a bit of grilled fish, and pickled vegetables. It smelled of lemon and char, of home.
"But… it's yours, sensei," Asahi whispered.
"I have another one in the teachers' lounge," Iruka lied effortlessly. "Eat it. And Asahi…"
Asahi looked up.
"What you're trying to do," Iruka said, now very serious, "integrating a physical base so rigid with chakra flow… is Jonin-level work. It's what weapon specialists do when they learn to channel chakra through metal. It's hard. Don't expect to master it in a day. Or a month."
Asahi's heart skipped a beat. 'Jonin-level?'
"Eat," Iruka repeated. "And then maybe try sticking the leaf to your forehead and walking the hall. Change the context."
With that, Iruka left, leaving Asahi alone with the bento and a new, terrifying perspective on his task.