Ren left the main training field early that morning.
The session had been deliberately moderate. Not due to a lack of drive, but calculation. His body was still assimilating the strain from the previous day, and pushing beyond that point would have been wasteful, not productive. The village was only beginning to wake; a few shops were opening their doors, the distant smell of food mixed with the cold air, and only a handful of shinobi moved through the secondary streets.
He followed a less-used path, gradually distancing himself from the busier areas. The ground grew uneven, marked by exposed roots and old trails worn thin by time. Ahead, a simple field came into view, nearly abandoned, with weathered logs and scars in the earth that betrayed years of quiet, persistent use.
That was when he heard the impact.
A dry, repetitive sound. No explosions. No voices. No audience. Just constancy.
Ren stopped a few meters away.
Might Duy was training alone, kicking a thick tree trunk. His posture wasn't perfect, the movement lacked elegance, but there was something solid there. Every mistake was followed by an adjustment. No complaints. No long pauses. Just deliberate repetition.
Duy was still young. Strong, but far from what he would one day become. A genin considered ordinary by the village—someone few took seriously. Invisible to almost everyone.
Ren observed in silence.
This is how it begins, he thought.
Without recognition. Without apparent talent. Without guarantees.
When Duy noticed his presence, he turned with an open smile, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Hey," he said casually. "Here to train too?"
"Yes," Ren replied. "May I observe?"
"Of course!" Duy answered without hesitation. "If you want to try later, even better!"
Ren sat in the shade of a fallen tree and watched closely. The fundamentals were simple, but firm. His entire body participated in each strike. There was no waste—only persistence.
After some time, Ren spoke, almost as an observation rather than advice.
"You don't stop the strike when you miss. You adjust mid-motion."
Duy blinked, surprised, then laughed.
"If I stopped every time I messed up, I'd never finish anything."
Ren nodded.
Internally, however, his thoughts ran deeper.
No talent.
No powerful clan.
No special lineage.
And yet…
He will create the most extreme physical technique in the shinobi world.
The Eight Gates.
A forbidden art capable of rivaling monsters born far above everyone else.
An eternal genin.
And still, someone who would step where almost no one dared.
Ren's respect was not emotional. It was technical. Historical. Absolute.
"Keep going," Ren said as he stood. "Even if no one comes to watch."
Duy's smile widened even further.
"Hahaha! That's exactly the plan!"
Ren walked away, leaving the field behind. The rhythm of impacts continued for a while—steady and unyielding—until distance swallowed the sound.
Later, near the village's inner forest, Ren followed a narrow trail. The trees grew denser there, sunlight filtering through leaves and casting uneven shadows across the ground. The silence had weight—not emptiness, but awareness.
A young man sat on a low branch, observing the terrain below. He didn't seem to be training or resting. Just watching. His posture was relaxed, but his presence was sharp.
Ren slowed before approaching.
"Excuse me," he said, keeping a respectful distance. "I sometimes train around here. I wasn't sure if this space belonged to someone."
The man turned his head slowly.
"It doesn't," he replied simply. "It's just not used much."
"I'm an Academy student," Ren added. "I prefer quieter places."
The man dropped lightly from the branch.
"Hatake," he said, without excessive formality. "And you?"
"Ren."
Sakumo studied him for a few seconds. Not as a threat. As curiosity.
"You don't look lost."
"I'm not," Ren replied. "I'm just looking for a place where I won't get in anyone's way."
Sakumo shrugged.
"If you don't damage the trees, you can use it whenever you want."
Ren inclined his head slightly.
"Thank you. I won't overdo it."
"Good," Sakumo replied, already turning away. "Overtraining early usually comes at a price."
Ren remained still for a few seconds after he left, watching the branches sway gently above.
No promises.
No invitations.
No excessive interest.
Still, space had been granted.
On the way home, Ren took the side streets through the village. Children ran ahead, merchants talked in their doorways, and the distant sound of hammers and voices filled the air. Everything continued as normal, indifferent to the small decisions that, when accumulated, shaped futures.
Meeting Duy and Hatake did not mean immediate change. There were no alliances. No guarantees. Only initial observations.
It's still early.
Real people did not move like predictable pieces. But patterns existed. Limits too. And both could be understood with enough time.
Saving anyone was not the objective.
Reducing future risks was.
For now, it was enough to maintain presence, train consistently, and avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Relationships were not built in a single meeting. They were built through repetition.
The road ahead was still long.
And any deviation now would be wasteful.