Time ceased to be an abstraction. It was no longer measured in weeks until the next "job," but in bruises on my knees, hours of meditation in cold darkness, and the slow, agonizing process of taming the energy flowing through my veins. I was five. The Kirigakure Academy would open its doors in a year. Every day until then was precious.
The plan, formulated in the silence of the night after the first blood was spilled, remained unchanged. Priorities were arranged with cold logic: Chakra Control, Physical Training, Basic Taijutsu. The reasons were simple and stubborn as stone: I had no clan, no Kekkei Genkai, and most importantly, no impressive chakra reserves. The analysis of my own energy reservoir, which I had learned to faintly sense after my father's guidance, gave a discouraging result — my reserve was... ordinary. Average for a civilian, insufficient for a shinobi who intended to survive and rise in this world.
But volume could be compensated by efficiency. Perfect chakra control meant the ability to do more with less expenditure. To shoot accurately when bullets were few.
My day was split into two parts. The first was "Akio." The son. The one who diligently learned to breathe and sit in the lotus position under his father's supervision in the mornings. The one who helped his mother in the shop after lunch, handing kunai or scrolls with seals to customers, smiling and answering their questions with naive childlike curiosity.
"Akio, carry those dried herbs carefully!" my mother would say, her voice soft but firm. She inspected the goods meticulously, her gaze catching even the slightest flaws. Yume was thorough in her work, and this meticulousness, this attention to detail, inspired in me... a strange respect. Or at least a recognition of a similar mindset, only directed at commerce rather than eliminating targets.
"All right, Mom!" I replied, trying not to drop the bundles. I moved a little clumsily, as befits a five-year-old. Pretending was not hard. Watching people, their habits, their weaknesses—that was what I did best. Here, in the shop, I saw them from another side: their small worries, joys, fears, their dependence on the shinobi who protected (and oppressed) the village.
The second part of the day began when the village fell asleep. That was my time.
Training began with meditation. Sitting still in the cold, damp air of the shed, listening only to my own breath and heartbeat. Trying to clear my mind... The past crashed in waves: faces, sounds, smells... Kill them. Push them away. Focus on the flow inside.
The first weeks were torture. A child's body could not stay still for long. Thoughts jumped around. Concentration slipped like mist through fingers. I felt chakra in fragments—a faint flicker that immediately died out. Wrong. Too much noise in my head. Analysis: In the past life, concentration was on the goal, on the process of killing. Now the goal was internal control. The method had to be different.
I changed my approach. Instead of complete clearing, I focused on one sensation. Warmth in my belly. A slight tingling in my fingers. Slowly, bit by bit, the sensation of chakra became steadier. Months passed before I could consistently feel my internal energy flow and faintly sense it in nearby living things—beetles under the boards, rats rustling in the walls.
Physical training went in parallel. The shed was cramped but allowed basic exercises. Push-ups. Three. Five. Trembling throughout the body, muscles burning. Falling face-first into the dust. Weakness. Getting up. Again. Each rise was a small victory over this pitiful child's body. Squats. Jumps. Running in place—until my breath ran out.
My body protested. Bruises didn't fade. Muscles ached so much that mornings were hard to stand. Sometimes, after an especially hard night, my head spun and my vision blurred.
"Akio, you look pale today," my father noticed at dinner, his gaze lingering on my face. He wasn't as attentive as my mother but noticed physical changes.
"Just... a slight headache," I lied, trying to look tired but not enough to raise serious suspicion. "Maybe the weather's changing."
Mother immediately came over, placing her palm on my forehead. "No fever… Maybe some mint tea?" Her brows knitted with worry.
"No need, Mom, I'm feeling better already," I hurried to say, forcing a slight smile. Their worry was... exhausting. But also useful. It distracted.
The hardest part was chakra control in practice. The leaf exercise was a joke. To stick a leaf to my forehead with chakra? A simple task that, as I recalled from the anime, was learned quite quickly. For me, the leaf kept falling. Again. And again. I tried varying chakra flow intensity—too strong and it burned the leaf, too weak and it wouldn't hold.
Calculation. Chakra amount, contact area, leaf density, even humidity in the shed. I approached it like ballistics or lock mechanics. Analyzing each failure. Chakra was sufficient, but it was "loose." No density in the flow. I needed to learn to focus it not just in a point but also give it "stickiness."
Weeks turned into months. My fingers were always a bit dirty with earth and dust from the shed. Dozens of leaves were torn or crumpled. Was I angry? No. Anger is a waste of energy. Only cold stubbornness and calculation.
The leaf began to hold. First for a second. Then two. Then shakily, but it stayed. Victory? No. Just a passed stage. Now—movement with the leaf. Walking. Running. Jumping. The leaf fell hundreds of times. Each fall was new data for analysis.
Walking on trees… That was the next level of hell. Concentrating chakra in my feet and using it like glue to walk on vertical surfaces. The first attempt ended with a hard hit when I simply bounced off the trunk. The second—I slipped my foot into the bark. The third—I slipped on moss.
I fell. A lot. And painfully. The trunk of the old tree behind the shed became my personal executioner. Bruises covered my legs up to my knees. Fatigue was chronic.
"Kagetora," I heard my mother's quiet, worried voice one evening. They thought I was asleep. "Look at his legs… All bruised. He says he just falls when trying to run... but I think he trains too hard. Are you sure you're not pushing him too much?"
There was a pause. "He… tries, Yume," my father's voice was a little tense. "I only show him basics. Meditation, breathing. Physical exercises… he does on his own. I see he's passionate." In his voice was a mix of pride and... uncertainty? "I tell him not to overdo it. Maybe we should talk to him seriously?"
"Please," my mother asked. "I'm afraid he'll hurt himself."
I lay still, listening to the conversation. Worry. Real. Hated and... useful. It meant my mask was holding. They saw a child who tried too hard, not a monster methodically preparing his body for killings.
Father talked to me. In the morning, before training. He squatted down, his face serious. "Akio. Your mom worries. I see you're tired, too. Training is good. But you have to know your limits. Don't be a hero alone, okay?"
"Okay, Dad," I answered, looking him straight in the eyes, trying to show obedience and a bit of childish shame. "I just… really want to learn. I want to be strong."
He sighed, but the same mix of pride and anxiety returned to his gaze. "You will be strong. But gradually. You have time."
I had no "gradually." I had no "time" as they understood it. I had a plan to execute.
The falls continued. Bruises didn't fade. Fatigue became my constant companion. But now the leaf held firmly even when I moved fast. I could climb two or three meters up the tree before concentration broke and I fell. Basic taijutsu movements stopped feeling ridiculous—my body began to remember, muscles gained memory.
Every morning, looking at my reflection in the dim window glass, I saw not just a five-year-old child. I saw a tool I was building. A tool with bruises, scrapes, tired eyes, but with cold determination deep inside.
Six years were approaching. The Academy. Real training would begin there. But the foundation, built on pain, mistakes, and cold calculation, was already laid. I wasn't learning everything "overnight." I was learning for months, overcoming bodily weakness and material resistance, one failure after another.
The price of excellence was high. And I was ready to pay it.