---
Smoke still lingered in the air days after the battle. The forests on the borders of the Land of Fire bore deep scars—blackened craters, felled trees, and streams that ran red before the rain washed them clean. For most survivors, the war moved on like a storm: brutal, unforgiving, and fast. But for Seiji, it lingered, coiled around him like mist.
He sat cross-legged on a wooden platform outside the medical barracks, his sunglasses hiding eyes that pulsed with hidden clarity. Around him, young genin talked, groaned, sparred. Seiji remained still.
He listened.
Every voice, every chakra fluctuation, every hand seal practiced in a corner of the camp—they didn't go unnoticed.
He was watching. Learning.
And no one knew.
"Oi, white-hair," someone called behind him.
Seiji turned, unbothered.
A boy about his age jogged over, sweat glistening on his brow. Brown hair cropped short, Leaf headband tilted slightly. His chakra had a mild, flickering quality—immature, but not untalented.
"The jōnin want to evaluate some of us today," the boy said, panting. "You got called up. Name's Daichi. You?"
Seiji smiled lazily, adjusting his shades. "Seiji."
Daichi raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound worried."
"I'm not."
"…Huh. Confident."
Seiji shrugged, standing and dusting off his pants. "I prefer the word 'prepared.'"
---
They gathered near a training field lined with straw dummies and target posts. A group of Leaf jōnin stood nearby, arms folded, flak jackets weathered and patched. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a trimmed beard—stepped forward.
"Genin Seiji," he called. "Step up."
Seiji complied without hesitation. The other genin watched from the sidelines, murmuring.
"Never seen that guy before…"
"He came from the Kawa Valley, right? Thought they all got wiped out."
"He wears shades. Think he's blind?"
Seiji ignored them.
The jōnin gestured to the field. "You'll demonstrate your proficiency in Clone Jutsu, Substitution, and Transformation. Then spar against another genin. Understood?"
Seiji nodded.
The jōnin raised a hand. "Begin."
---
Clone Jutsu.
He closed his eyes briefly. Already his mind broke down the process: kneading chakra, splitting it evenly, overlaying illusion atop condensed chakra shells. The average genin fumbled their distribution or mistimed the release.
Seiji's fingers moved precisely.
Poof—
Two identical clones stood beside him, solid, breathing. The jōnin's brows rose slightly.
---
Substitution Jutsu.
He stepped forward, targeted a post.
Poof—
A log replaced him just as a thrown kunai thudded into it. He appeared ten meters away, arms folded. Controlled, efficient, minimal chakra loss.
The murmurs among the genin grew louder.
---
Transformation Jutsu.
He exhaled. In a flash of smoke, he changed—into the jōnin himself, down to the faint scar beneath the left eye. The clone's chakra signature was even subtly masked. The jōnin leaned forward, inspecting.
"Dismissed."
Seiji returned to normal and bowed slightly. "Thank you."
The jōnin narrowed his eyes. "Civilian background, right?"
"That's what the records say."
"…Hm."
---
The sparring test was next. They matched him against Daichi.
The boy was fast, clearly trained in taijutsu. He circled Seiji cautiously, then lunged with a burst of speed, throwing a punch toward his ribs.
Seiji moved like flowing water. Minimal steps, graceful dodges. He didn't strike back. He didn't need to. Each movement he made was laced with analytical intent.
Daichi swung high.
Seiji ducked, stepped forward, and tapped Daichi's chest with two fingers. "Open."
Daichi staggered backward, winded. "W-What was that…?"
"Your stance has too much weight on your front foot. Easy to read," Seiji said. "Thanks for the match."
The watching jōnin exchanged glances.
---
Later that evening, Seiji sat alone at the edge of camp, by a river whose surface shimmered beneath the moonlight.
He closed his eyes.
Within the black world behind his eyelids, the Six Eyes came alive.
He saw chakra like golden threads flowing through his system. Each tenketsu point glowed faintly. He traced the paths, testing his limits, channeling chakra to his fingers, then toes, then focusing it into a coin-sized sphere.
Not a jutsu. Just control.
Just understanding.
He tried again, this time shaping it to mimic a burst. It fizzled out.
Too soon.
Again.
Better.
Again.
Perfect.
This is how he learned.
No bloodline.
No mentor.
Just observation, dissection, replication.
---
A few days later, he was assigned a team—two genin and one jōnin supervisor. His teammates were Daichi and a kunoichi named Marika, sharp-eyed and stern. Their leader was a war-hardened jōnin named Tanabe.
Their first assignment was to patrol a damaged outpost and secure its supplies. It wasn't glamorous, but it was real.
Tanabe studied Seiji quietly as they moved through the forest. The jōnin had seen too many die to overlook strange talents.
"You don't ask questions," Tanabe said one night around the campfire. "Why?"
Seiji poked the fire lazily with a stick. "Because I already watch."
Tanabe chuckled. "That so? Well, watching ain't bad. But in this world, there comes a time when you'll need to act before you understand."
Seiji didn't answer.
But his mind held the thought.
And stored it.
---
Their patrol went smoothly—until the fourth day.
They were ambushed.
Mist-nin.
Four of them. Chūnin-level, moving like phantoms. The first appeared from the fog and nearly slit Marika's throat. Daichi screamed a warning and dove in.
Tanabe barked orders. The team scattered.
Seiji stayed calm.
His vision pierced the fog. He could see the chakra cloaking the Mist-nin, the flow of their footsteps, the shimmer of their blades before they struck.
One came for him.
He sidestepped, forming seals.
Substitution.
The blade struck a stump.
From above, Seiji descended with a kunai aimed at the enemy's exposed back.
Blocked.
They clashed.
Not a taijutsu master, but Seiji had observed enough. Every strike he took in, adapted to, improved upon. His dodges became sharper. His grip more secure. His counters more precise.
In three minutes, he was pushing the Mist-nin back.
But then—another enemy joined.
Too many. Too fast.
Marika was down. Daichi was bleeding.
Tanabe was holding off two, but barely.
Seiji breathed in.
Something inside him shifted.
A ripple in his chakra pool. The Six Eyes flared.
He formed three quick seals.
Clone. Substitution. Basic Wind Release.
Not a named jutsu—but an improvised pulse of wind chakra launched his clone forward. It exploded in front of the Mist-nin, distracting them long enough for Seiji to get behind them and land two critical strikes to their pressure points.
Down.
One enemy turned, eyes wide.
"Who the hell are you?!"
Seiji didn't answer.
---
After the fight, the survivors were stabilized and extracted. Tanabe carried Marika. Daichi limped with Seiji's arm around his shoulder.
"You've got talent," Tanabe said quietly that night. "And something else. You hide it well. But it's there."
"I'm just efficient," Seiji replied, sipping water.
"Mm. Efficient shinobi don't learn mid-fight. You read that guy like a book. You adapted faster than I've seen from most jōnin."
Seiji didn't respond.
But a rare smile tugged at his lips.
He was getting stronger.
Faster.
Smarter.
---
Weeks passed.
He saw Kakashi once—at a distance. Cold eyes, too serious for his age. He watched him spar with Guy, then studied his form, his chakra.
Kakashi's Sharingan wasn't awakened yet.
Good, Seiji thought.
He didn't need rivals noticing him.
Not yet.
---
One day, while training alone, he tried something new.
He focused chakra into his palm, rotating it gently while applying wind nature to it. Not enough to harm, just enough to test.
The energy sphere sputtered, unstable.
He exhaled, shaking his head.
"Too soon."
But not forever.
Not with the Six Eyes.
He had no bloodline. No clan. No mentor.
But he had insight no one else did.
---
Seiji.
A boy from nowhere.
A ghost in the ranks.
A name that would one day be whispered with awe.
But for now, he was just a shadow.
Learning.
Watching.
Waiting.
And planning.
---