That morning, the training yard seemed alive, as if the very mist of Kirigakure had decided to breathe along with us.
The air was thick, heavy with the salty moisture that clung to the skin like a second thin, cold layer. Each breath carried the metallic taste of the distant sea, mingled with the earthy aroma of churned mud, the burning sweat of moving bodies, and the faint resinous scent of damp wood from old posts. The sun barely penetrated the gray veil of the sky; it was a pale, diffuse light that transformed everything into shades of silver and lead, casting long, undulating shadows on the uneven terrain. Drops of condensation fell slowly from the dark edges of the roof—plip… plip… plip—a steady rhythm that mingled with the sound of panting breath, feet splashing in the mud, the dull blows of fists against the wood, and the occasional dry crack of a kunai sinking into the straw.
I leaned against one of the thicker posts, the rough, damp bark scratching my back through my thin training tunic, the fabric already soaked with sweat and mist, clinging to my skin like a second skin. My arms were crossed over my chest, and I observed everything with a calmness that didn't suit my four-year-old body—but which made perfect sense in the mind of Erick, the man who had seen deserts, laboratories, and battlefields long before being reborn in this world of shadows and blades.
Twenty-two older brothers filled the space. Twenty-two gray-blue bodies, muscles already defined by the clan's brutal discipline, black or dark brown hair plastered to their foreheads from exertion, eyes with the same fierce determination I saw reflected in the mirror every morning. They moved like an organized pack: the youngest clustered around tree trunks, the middle ones lined up before the weapons' throwing targets, the oldest exchanging blows in the center in taijutsu sessions that made the ground tremble.
Near me, the group of the youngest children—those between four and six years old—struggled with the tree-climbing technique as if gravity itself were a personal enemy.
Five-year-old Hajime, Sae's son, clung to the trunk like a stubborn lizard. His little fingers dug into the damp bark, the soles of his feet pressing down hard, his face red and contorted with concentration. His chakra oscillated unevenly through his palms and the soles of his feet—a faint bluish light trembling like a flame in a strong wind. He climbed one step… two… three… and then the flow faltered. The suction failed. His feet slipped with a wet squeal against the wood, and he fell backward into the mud with a dull thud that splashed cold mud up to my shins. "Damn it, again!" he muttered, slapping his palm on the ground, his eyes gleaming with frustration and restrained tears.
Four-year-old Jun, Yori's son, was even more stubborn. With trembling little fingers, he made the hand seals—tiger, ox, rabbit—muttering the positions like a mantra. When he pressed his palms against the trunk, the bark seemed to tremble in response, small chips falling off like dirty snow. He took a step up… his foot got stuck for half a second… his face lit up with hope… and then he collapsed again, sliding down with his palms scratched and red. "It's not fair…" he muttered, wiping his hands on his already soiled tunic, his lower lip trembling.
Sora, the quietest of the group, at three and a half years old, watched everything from a crouched position, her large dark eyes following every movement. She imitated the seals without touching their trunks, her tiny fingers forming the positions with surprising precision for her age. When she really tried, her chakra barely showed—a weak, almost invisible spark—but even so, she persisted, her little face furrowed in concentration, the sweet scent of childhood mingling with sweat and damp earth.
I approached them slowly, feeling the cold mud cling to the soles of my feet, the earthy scent rising in waves with each step. "Hey, Hajime," I called, my voice low but firm enough to stand out against the panting breaths around us. He lifted his mud-covered face, his eyes half-closed in suspicion—after all, I was the youngest, smaller than everyone there. "Let me show you again."
He hesitated, then nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve. I positioned myself in front of the trunk, took a deep breath—the icy air burning my throat—and formed the seals slowly and deliberately, letting them observe my every movement. The chakra concentrated in my core, warm and pulsating like fresh blood, flowing in controlled waves to the soles of my feet. I pressed my palm against the rough bark, feeling small splinters penetrate my skin, and channeled the flow—not too strong, not too weak, just the exact balance that created that subtle suction, as if the tree wanted to pull me inside it.
I took a step up. My foot got stuck. Another. Another. I climbed three meters effortlessly, my body perfectly angled against the tree trunk, the mist swirling around me as if curious. At the top, I paused for a second, looking down, and then landed with a light jump, touching down without splashing mud. The impact barely made a sound—just a muffled thud of my feet on the soft earth.
Hajime blinked, his mouth slightly open. "How...?"
"It's like sucking the tree into yourself," I explained, kneeling down to his level. "Don't push the chakra out. Pull it in. Feel the tree as if it were part of your body. Root, not leaf."
He nodded slowly, copied the hand seals more carefully, pressed his palms together... and climbed. Two steps. Three. When he slipped, instead of frustration, he had a smile on his face. "Thank you, Arashi!"
Jun came next, and I guided his trembling little hands along the seals, correcting the position of his fingers. "Looser. Let it flow like water." He managed to take a firm step, then two. When he fell, he laughed—a short, triumphant laugh.
Sora watched everything in silence. When her turn came, I knelt down, took her cold little hands in mine, and guided the flow. Her chakra was weak, almost a whisper, but pure. When she took her first step and stood still for two full seconds, her eyes widened in surprise and joy. She looked at me as if I had performed real magic.
While I was helping the youngest one, the rest of the courtyard pulsed with energy.
Rokuta was with the six- and seven-year-old children—Shun, Goro, Kensai, Isao—turning taijutsu into a mixture of training and violent play. His booming laughter cut through the air as he demonstrated a low hook. "Look here, brats! It's not just about hitting—it's about breaking!" His fist cut through the air with a whistle, the resulting wind stirring the mist and making the children's robes flutter. Goro imitated him, his small fist striking the post with a dull thud that made the wood tremble. Rokuta laughed, ruffling his hair. "Good strength, but aim for the liver—then he'll fall crying!"
Nao, always silent and precise, worked with the seven- and eight-year-old boys—Issei, Ren, and Mizuki—on weapon throwing. They were lined up in front of straw dummies at ever-increasing distances, the strong smell of metallic oil from the kunai and shuriken mingling with the damp earth. Nao demonstrated: a shuriken spinning like a deadly star, plunging into the center of the dummy twenty meters away with a dry thud. "Spin is everything," he said, his voice low but incisive. "Relaxed hand. Feel the balance." Issei tried, missing by centimeters; Nao adjusted his posture with light, almost surgical touches. Ren hit it elegantly, Mizuki hesitated but managed after the correction. Nao nodded—a rare silent compliment.
Daigo supervised the older boys—Tetsuya, Shun (Miyu's son), and Kenta (already six years old and growing fast)—exchanging blows in advanced taijutsu. Their movements were fluid, lethal, like water cutting through stone. "Defense first, attack later," he said, blocking a punch from Tetsuya with his forearm, the impact echoing like muffled thunder. The smell of their sweat was strong, metallic, mingling with the mist. Tetsuya counterattacked; Daigo dodged, calmly correcting. "Faster on the counterattack."
The entire courtyard was a symphony of effort and unity: laughter mixed with grunts, falls followed by outstretched hands to help up, admiring glances between siblings who knew that, in the end, they were all part of the same storm.
Then the environment changed.
A heavy presence, as if the very weight of the fog had taken shape. The sound of firm footsteps—a slight drag on the left leg, a scar from ancient battles—cut through the noise. The conversation ceased instantly. Even the fog seemed to recede slightly.
Isamu Akashio emerged from the shadowy passage of the main corridor.
He was a living mountain. Over six feet tall, his bluish-gray skin stretched over muscles that looked like braided steel cables, and long black hair fell like a wild, damp mane. The Kubikiribōchō, the Executioner's Blade, rested on his back like a natural extension of his body, its worn hilt and enormous blade reflecting the pale light in silvery flashes. The scar that cut across his left eye gleamed white against his dark skin, and the slight limp did nothing to diminish it—it only added weight, history, menace.
The courtyard froze. He stopped in the center, his dark eyes scanning each of us like sharp blades. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant dripping of condensation and the muffled roar of the sea in the distance.
"Very well," he said, his deep voice echoing like restrained thunder, vibrating across the damp floor and making my ribs tremble. "I've been watching your training for days. Now... let's do the evaluation."
He raised his left hand and, as if out of nowhere, a dark wooden clipboard appeared between his thick fingers. The paper attached to it was already marked with names, columns, and rows. No one saw where it had come from. Perhaps from under his coat, perhaps from some hidden pocket. It didn't matter. The gesture was clear: he was ready to judge.
"We started with resistance."
He pointed to the makeshift race track that circled the yard—two hundred meters of packed earth, mud puddles, and loose stones. "Run until I tell you to stop. Let's see who gives up first."
We lined up. Daigo in front, Rokuta right behind, me in the middle of the group, the youngest bringing up the rear. When he gave the signal—a simple nod—we set off.
The ground gave way beneath my feet, mud clinging to the soles of my shoes, the cold air cutting through my lungs like blades of ice. Daigo ran like a machine: long strides, rhythmic breathing, his black ponytail swinging like a flag. Rokuta laughed despite the effort, his leg muscles pumping like pistons. I kept pace, my short legs working overtime, the Hoshigaki blood burning in my veins like liquid fire, granting me a stamina the others didn't yet understand.
The youngest fell first. Sora, after fifteen minutes, panting, her little hands on her knees. Hajime, after twenty-two, her face red, tears mixed with sweat. Jun held on until twenty-eight, but collapsed in the mud with a groan. I continued. Sweat streamed into my eyes, burning. The salty taste on my lips mingled with the mist. My heart pounded like a war drum. When my father finally raised his hand—after forty-five minutes for the oldest—I was still standing, panting, but whole. Among the last eight.
He jotted it down on the clipboard, his eyes fixed on me for another second. "Daigo: Excellent. Rokuta: Good. Arashi... Impressive for his age."
Next, weapons were thrown.
The straw dummies were lined up—ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty meters—each marked with charcoal circles at vital points: heart, throat, liver, kidneys, spine. The strong smell of metallic oil from kunai and shuriken permeated the air, mingling with the damp straw and mud.
"Attack the vital points. As far away as you can," he ordered.
The youngest started ten meters away. Sora hit the shoulder, Hajime the chest, Jun the liver at fifteen. I was called to the middle of the group. I picked up the kunai—cold, heavy, perfect balance after months of practice. I took a deep breath. Ten meters away: heart, a dry thud, shards flying. Twenty: throat. Thirty: liver. Forty: kidneys. Fifty: I aimed at the last one, the furthest away. The kunai spun in the air, a silver star cutting through the mist. It sank into the dummy's chest… but missed the vital organs by two centimeters. The smell of wet straw rose as it trembled there.
My father nodded. "Excellent distance. Monitor your vital signs."
Rokuta hit up to forty-five, laughing. Daigo hit all five, perfectly, each strike a silent thunderclap.
Finally, taijutsu.
He paired us up by age and skill. Sora against Toma—child's play, but corrected. Hajime against Jun—exchanging punches, falling in the mud. Me against Kenta—five years old, strong, impulsive. He attacked first, a clumsy punch. I dodged and countered with an elbow to the shoulder. He fell. "Good control," my father observed.
Rokuta versus Nao — fierce, laughter mixed with grunts. Daigo versus Issei — a lethal dance, Daigo winning with surgical precision.
Finally, he gathered us all in the center of the courtyard. The fog had lifted somewhat, and the pale sun filtered through in silvery rays that illuminated the sweat on our faces. The clipboard was full.
"Final results," he announced, his deep voice breaking the silence.
"Best overall: Daigo."
"Very good."
"Like a gun: Rokta."
Muffled laughter of approval.
"Third… Arashi."
A surprised silence. Murmurs. All eyes turned to me—the youngest, four years old, smaller than everyone there, in third place.
My father looked directly at me. His dark eyes didn't smile, but there was something in them—pride, perhaps. Or calculation.
"You've improved. But don't stop. The world doesn't forgive weakness. And it's watching us."
He turned his back and walked away, the Kubikiribōchō swaying slightly on his back, its light limp echoing on the damp ground.
The courtyard remained silent for a long second.
Then Rokuta slapped me on the back—so hard it made me stumble. "Third place, you brat! How?!"
Daigo came closer and put his hand on my shoulder. "You're growing up too fast, little brother."
He not only nodded, but also showed a glint of respect in his eyes.
But I felt something different.
Pressure.
Because if I was already the third best at four years old... what would happen when my enemies realized it?
The fog thickened again, swallowing the sun.
And I knew something was about to happen.
Something that would not forgive weakness.
Not even that of a small child.
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