Whoosh!
On the slopes of Konoha's back mountain, Minato lay spread-eagled on the damp grass. His lungs burned, and his chakra was a hollow echo in his gut. Today, he hadn't settled for basic drills. He had been pushing his body through high-mobility maneuvers—flickers of movement he had "discovered" through instinct rather than instruction.
His eyelids grew heavy, the weight of exhaustion pulling him into a shallow slumber. The vision returned instantly: a woman with long, vibrant red hair. Her back was turned to him, her form a blurry silhouette against a fading light.
"Don't leave me!"
Minato bolted upright, his shout echoing through the quiet forest. His face felt damp. He reached up, touching his eye socket with a trembling fingertip, then brought that finger to his tongue.
The taste was sharp—bitter and salty.
I was crying? he thought, his heart thudding against his ribs. He couldn't remember the dream, only the suffocating sensation of loss that lingered like a bruise on his soul.
He took a deep breath, forcing his mind to settle. A ninja must be a vessel of calm, a blade that does not tremble. But this feeling—this irresistible, ancient grief—refused to be silenced.
Is it Kushina? he wondered. The hair in his dream was hers, yet the woman was older, her presence more... definitive. He remembered the "dream" of the red-clad woman in the clearing. There was a tether between them, a crimson thread he couldn't yet see.
He shook his head to clear the fog and focused on his body. What he found made him gasp.
His chakra hadn't surged in volume like it had the night of the incident, but it had recovered at an impossible rate. In the time it took for a short nap, more than half of his depleted reserves had returned.
This is impossible, he calculated. Even a Jonin would need hours of focused meditation to recover this much energy. I just... slept.
He wasn't a Hyuga or an Uchiha. He had no Kekkei Genkai—no bloodline limit—to explain this superhuman vitality. His parents were commoners, people of the soil and the market. He decided, then and there, to bury this secret deep. Until he understood the "why," the "how" was a danger he couldn't afford to share.
Minato stood up, testing his balance.
Whoosh!
Chakra flooded his legs and detonated. Minato's form dissolved into a golden blur. He reappeared twelve meters away, his landing so smooth it barely disturbed the grass. He looked back at the distance he had covered and allowed a small, triumphant smile to touch his lips.
He had mastered the Shunshin—the Body Flicker. At seven years old, he was moving with the speed of a seasoned Genin.
The following week at the Academy was a blur of routine and observation. Thanks to Mikoto's persistent "matchmaking," Minato and Kushina had grown closer, though the red-haired girl remained a whirlwind of contradictions. She was a disaster at theory—failing to grasp even the simplest concepts of chakra origins—but her physical performance was terrifying.
During endurance drills, while the rest of the class collapsed in heaps of sweat, Kushina looked as though she had just finished a light stroll. Her stamina was a bottomless well, drawing even Mikoto's admiration.
Minato noticed the ANBU shadows every day after school, but he didn't follow them. He knew his limits. He was content to watch over her within the safety of the Academy walls.
When Akasaka Yu finally returned to class, his face still pale, Minato immediately approached him to apologize.
"Minato Namikaze," Akasaka hissed, his eyes filled with a venomous, calculating spite. "This isn't over. Don't think for a second that I'll forget what you did." He didn't attack; he knew better now. But the grudge was a cold fire.
A few days later, Shirota-sensei walked into the classroom, his expression uncharacteristically sharp. The room settled into a prompt silence.
"Class," Shirota announced, "there is a change to today's schedule. We have a special guest teacher arriving to provide a unique lesson."
The students looked on with mild boredom—another lecture, they assumed. But Shirota's next words acted like a lightning strike.
"Our guest today is a direct disciple of the Third Hokage himself."
The room erupted. In an age of legends, there were no names more prestigious than those who had studied under the "Ninjutsu Professor."