The morning sun cast long shadows across the rugged streets of Iwagakure, its golden light glinting off the stone buildings. The village was alive with the rhythmic sounds of daily life—merchants calling out their wares, blacksmiths hammering steel, children laughing as they ran through narrow alleys. And among them, moving with the quiet ease of a man unconcerned with the world around him, was Renzo.
He walked without urgency, his steps measured, deliberate. His presence did not command attention, nor did it demand respect. He was simply there—an anomaly in a village that prided itself on control and order. Yet, unseen eyes followed his every movement.
The shinobi of Iwagakure were watching.
Perched atop rooftops, hidden behind market stalls, blending seamlessly with the crowd, they observed him. Their orders were clear: do not engage, do not interfere—only watch and learn. And so, they did.
Renzo knew.
He could feel their eyes, their hesitation. The subtle shift of weight as they adjusted their positions, the barely perceptible flickers of movement in his periphery. They were skilled, disciplined. But they were also afraid.
Taji came up to him and asked a question that has been nagging him since the beginning of his travels with Renzo.
"Mister, what are your powers?"
Renzo paused, glancing down at the child. He momentarily thought for sometime as said "It could anything I wield it to be. Either chakra, or a simple blade made out of wood, or even my bare hands. It depends on what you consider as power."
"Then… are you a shinobi?" The boy's voice carried the boundless curiosity of youth.
"No," Renzo repeated, kneeling so they were at eye level. "But I can teach you something."
The boy's eyes lit up. "Really? What is it? A jutsu? A secret technique?"
Renzo chuckled. "Something like that. Show me how you hold your kunai."
Eagerly, the boy went and got a wooden sword in his small hands, raising it in what he assumed was an intimidating stance. His feet were uneven, his grip too tight. It was raw, unfocused, but filled with enthusiasm.
Renzo reached out, gently adjusting the child's fingers. "Loosen your grip. If you hold it too tight, your hand will tire quickly. Strength comes from control, not force."
The boy followed his instruction, his grip relaxing slightly.
"Better. Now stand like this." Renzo shifted the child's feet, adjusting his posture into something more balanced. "Always keep your stance firm, so you don't fall even when pushed."
The Taji beamed. "Like this?"
Renzo nodded. "Exactly."
A few feet away, a pair of shinobi hidden within a shop's shadow exchanged glances.
"He's training a child," one of them murmured.
"He knows we're watching," the other replied. "And yet, he does nothing. No jutsu, no hostility. Just this."
Renzo turned his head slightly, his gaze flickering over to the shinobi's position. A silent acknowledgment. He made no further movement, but they knew.
He was aware of them.
And he did not care.
The lesson continued. Renzo guided the boy through simple motions—how to move, how to breathe, how to remain steady. It was nothing grand, nothing that would raise alarm. But those who watched could not ignore the precision of his teaching, the effortless mastery in every motion. It was not the knowledge of a mere wanderer.
It was something deeper. Something older.
Minutes passed before it reached sunset. He stopped teaching with Taji and told him to go back to the room to rest. Taji looking tired yet happy at the same time thanked him and went to the room for rest.
Renzo exhaled softly, standing once more. He looked around, feeling the weight of the silent observers. For a moment, he simply stood there, as if inviting them to step forward.
None did.
With a final glance toward the rooftops, he turned and continued walking through the village, disappearing into the crowd.
And the watchers, uncertain of what they had truly witnessed, remained in the shadows, waiting.