Time passed differently in Kumogakure.
The clouds didn't drift lazily across the sky like they did in stories. Here, they rested, heavy and eternal, curled over the mountains like sleeping beasts. Thunder cracked across the peaks almost daily, and even on calm mornings, the air held that faint electric tension — like the world was holding its breath.
Zuberi Kaminari was five years old now.
Or at least, his body was.
His mind — molded by another life — understood things no child should. He knew about pain, control, limitations. But the hardest lesson he had to relearn was patience.
Real growth was slow.
And shinobi growth, he was learning, required something deeper than talent or ambition.
It required silence.
The Kaminari compound wasn't large, but it was old.
Wooden beams bore the marks of centuries. The clan's insignia — a downward bolt of lightning piercing a ring of clouds — was etched above each doorway. Moss crept over the stone walkways like slow fire, and wind chimes made from chakra-tuned metal sang softly in the breeze. Every day, Zuberi would walk barefoot across the cool stone path from the main house to the shrine, accompanied by his father or aunt.
They taught him to listen.
"Lightning doesn't roar all the time," his aunt said one morning, her hair wrapped in a long indigo cloth. "It waits. It listens. Then, when the moment is right…"
She snapped her fingers, and a small bolt leapt between them, dancing up her arm and vanishing with a sharp pop.
Zuberi flinched.
"Don't chase it," she said. "Invite it."
He practiced every morning.
It started simply: holding a leaf on his forehead with chakra, balancing pebbles on his fingers, breathing slowly in and out, counting heartbeats.
But for him, it wasn't just training.
It was learning how to live in a body that hummed.
There were days where it felt like his nerves were too alive, like he was plugged into a battery that never shut off. He would twitch without warning, sparks crackling across his fingers even when he didn't want them to. Once, he shocked his younger cousin by accident. The boy cried for hours.
Zuberi didn't leave his room that day.
He sat in the dark, the tiny chakra steel training staff his uncle had carved for him lying across his lap, and whispered to himself, "Control. Not power. Control."
He could feel it even then — the danger of the gift he'd chosen.
The Lightning Body wasn't just some anime cheat code. It was real. And real meant consequences.
If he lost focus, he could hurt someone again.
Or himself.
The turning point came on a foggy afternoon.
The sky outside the Kaminari grounds was gray and dull, thunder rumbling far off, too distant to be threatening. Zuberi sat alone in the inner courtyard, his legs folded under him, palms on his knees.
He was trying something new.
He wasn't just channeling chakra.
He was trying to listen to it.
There was no one watching, no elders giving advice. Just wind. Just stillness.
And somewhere within that silence… he found it.
A hum.
Not a sound exactly — more like a presence, a low thrum beneath his skin. It followed his breath, pulsed at his fingertips, rose in the base of his spine.
It was always there.
He had just never been quiet enough to hear it before.
Zuberi opened his eyes.
He raised his hand slowly, extended his fingers…
And let go.
A single thread of lightning — thin as a hair, barely visible — arced between his index and middle finger.
It hissed.
Then vanished.
He exhaled shakily. Not from fear.
From relief.
"I'm not broken," he whispered.
That night, he showed his father.
Daisuke Kaminari didn't react with surprise. Instead, he knelt beside his son in the courtyard, rolled up his own sleeve, and summoned a bolt of lightning that danced across his knuckles.
It was bigger. Brighter. Controlled.
But not cruel.
"That's what it looks like when you've spent thirty years listening," Daisuke said quietly. "You'll get there."
Zuberi looked up at him.
"I want to learn the real techniques."
"You will."
"When?"
"When you stop rushing to ask that question," Daisuke said, smiling slightly.
Zuberi groaned. "You sound like my old sensei."
Daisuke raised an eyebrow. "Your what?"
Zuberi blinked. "I mean… uh… the one from that dream I had when I was little."
Daisuke gave a knowing smile but said nothing more.
A few weeks later, Zuberi was invited to a gathering at the academy training grounds.
It was a simple open-sky event for children born in the same year to begin basic assessments. Most were civilians or from minor clans, but a few were already showing promise.
One of them stood out.
A tall boy with dark brown skin and narrow, sleepy eyes. His arms were crossed. His hair had a streak of white in the front that defied gravity, swaying slightly in the wind.
He stood alone, bored-looking, while two boys struggled to form a basic transformation jutsu nearby.
When their eyes met, something sparked between them.
Zuberi didn't know why, but he felt it instantly — that guy is going to be important.
The boy looked back at him with a half-interested nod. Then turned away.
The name echoed from a clipboard in one of the instructors' hands.
"Darui. Son of Hachiro. Natural lightning affinity confirmed."
Zuberi blinked.
So that was Darui.
He'd remember that name for the rest of his life.
Back at the Kaminari shrine that night, Zuberi stood alone in the courtyard again.
He raised his palm.
This time, the thread of lightning came faster — a thin, steady line, dancing gently across his fingers.
It didn't hurt.
But he knew what it could do.
In time, it would shape his future.
But for now, he simply watched it, letting it flicker and fade like a candle in the wind.
He wasn't a prodigy.
He wasn't a savior.
He was a child with a storm under his skin.
And for the first time in this new life… he was at peace with that.