Six Months Later
Half a year had passed before Isan realized how much the days had carried him forward. The measure of it came unexpectedly, when the matron paused by his cot one morning and, almost as an afterthought, wished him a happy birthday. After some gentle persuasion, he had come to know that he was now eight years old.
The detail felt strange, like a fragment of another life, something that ought to have been marked with gifts or a meal but instead arrived as a passing remark from someone who barely remembered his name.
Soon after, he was enrolled in the Ninja Academy.
It felt surreal, like a dream clawed out of sand and hardship, especially considering his origins. In retrospect, the reason he had been accepted was painfully clear.
In retrospect, though, the reason why he had been accepted was explicit. Following the recent conclusion of the Third Shinobi World War, the repercussions of perpetual fighting and astronomical death rates had left the village understaffed. With casualties high and ranks depleted, the need for fresh blood had increased exponentially. Even orphans were being provided an opportunity.
They issued him the first possessions that truly belonged to him in this new world: a tan training uniform, sandals cracked at the edges, and a small satchel of worn supplies. They had been used before, patched until the fabric barely held, scuffed in ways that no polish could undo, but to Isan they were more than tools. They were proof. He had a place now, carved into the structure of the village, a place that came with obligations, expectations, and danger.
Nevertheless, their situation mirrored that of the village. Suna was not a land of plenty, like Konoha; it was survival piled in heaps of sand, silence, and sacrifice.
He still slept in the orphanage, but now he had a locker at the Academy with his name carved into it.
Isan
On his first morning, the sky stretched wide above him, painted in a harsh streaks of red and deep, burnt gold. The desert breeze carried more grit than relief, tugging at banners and stalls in the markets he passed, throwing fine veils of sand low across the rooftops until the very air seemed to shimmer.
The sun pressed down long before it had reached its height, its ferocity already near unbearable even though it was not yet mid-morning.
In the Academy courtyard, the children gathered in uneven lines. Their uniforms were ill-fitting, many patched so heavily they barely resembled the originals. Sandals slapped loosely against heels, sending up small puffs of dust.
Some children stood rigid with forced composure.
Others shifted anxiously, struggling to hide their fear.
A few broke entirely, silent tears streaking down their faces.
Isan stood slightly apart, separate even from the other orphans who clustered together for comfort.
Her blond hair was pulled into four separate and angular pigtails, each one jutting out in a sharp and dramatic fashion. The suit she wore was sleeveless and very functional, made of desert-ready equipment that suggested both a freedom of movement and a readiness for whatever lay ahead.
With her arms crossed tightly over her chest, she carried herself as though she were already in a command and leadership role. She had an undeniable air of confidence, a kind that wasn't just acquired through training but one that seemed natural and deeply rooted, as if she had been born with it.
Temari
She stood confidently already glaring at anyone, be them boys or girls, who stared too long.
Isan recognized her instantly, the hair leaving no room for doubt. Unease twisted in his stomach as he turned his gaze toward the edge of the courtyard.
A youth stood off to the side, arms crossed, with two younger children, both of them younger than Temari. The first was reserved, round-faced, some paint smudged beneath his eyes. Kankurō. The other…
The smallest one.
Red hair.
Dark-ringed and heavy-lidded eyes.
Gaara
"So, it really is this era...", Isan muttered under his breath.
"Shit."
Isan's stomach turned a little. The Fourth Shinobi War was years in the future. Naruto was still a child yelling for attention while suffering ridiculous amounts of abuse. But Gaara was already present… already highly dangerous.
He quickly withdrew his stare from the creature that would come to be called 'Gaara of the Desert'.
While he took a deep breath to steady himself, he could not help but notice that the young man accompanying Kankuro and Gaara didn't look anything like how Rasa was portrayed.
He was younger, smaller, and had none of the authoritative aura one would expect from a village leader. He positioned himself very subtly nearer to Kankuro and, at the same time, away from Gaara. Then it dawned on Isan, as though a lightbulb had switched on in his head, that the likelihood of someone such as Rasa being in attendance at such an affair was extremely low and near impossible.
What made this realization relevant was the fact that at this current point in time, Temari's father, who happened to be no other than Rasa himself, had already assumed the honorable role of the leader of their village, which also meant he was acknowledged as the Fourth Kazekage.
What was also worth taking into account was the fact that even if by some remote chance he happened to attend, Rasa's presence would not bring about the same warm and fuzzy feelings one would find in Hiruzen's presence in Konoha, where belonging and a sense of community were felt so strongly.
Rasa was a complex figure, a man whose priorities leaned heavily toward the needs of the village rather than his personal relationships, although he made a lot of mistakes. His most infamous act: The sealing of the One-Tailed Bijuu, Shukaku, within his youngest son, Gaara; followed by the tragic incident with Gaara' caretaker; these were merely a few of the mistakes and brutal decisions from Rasa that would cripple Suna even more. The death of someone renowned for being the hero of Suna, surfaced momentarily in Isan' mind.
A few weeks later
The weeks that followed stripped away any illusions of ceremony or grandeur. The Academy was not a place of gentle instruction but a place where children were pushed past their limits until some broke. The sun was merciless, burning the training grounds until the earth itself seemed to sear the soles of their feet. Sand invaded everything, filling mouths and eyes, rubbing raw at every seam of their uniforms. Blisters swelled and burst. Bruises mottled skin until every limb ached. Fatigue rooted itself in their bones until even lifting an arm became an act of will.
Their days began with the sun and ended long after it had fallen. Hours were spent in repetition: drills in throwing kunai, endless runs across sand that swallowed their steps, attempts at chakra control that left them sweating with frustration, and lectures on the history of shinobi that painted their world in blood.
Many faltered. Some collapsed in the heat, their bodies too frail for the demands. Others broke in spirit, weeping openly or refusing to rise again after a fall.
Isan was not a genius, yet he was determined. He fought and got better slowly. He was not the strongest or the fastest, those qualities were bestowed upon Temari, but he struggled and steady improvement made him stand out.
His teachers soon tagged him "disciplined" and "tactically oriented." He did not make a spectacle of himself like Temari, yet gained a silent respect.
"Focus.", the instructor barked, one afternoon, his voice sharp as the clang of steel. "Don't just feel the chakra. Command it!"
Isan sat in silence, fingers steady, trying to balance a leaf on his forehead.
Temari, two rows in front, snorted. "This is for babies.", while she effortlessly handled the present exercise with no trouble whatsoever.
On the other hand, many were struggling with the exercise, that was cold and ruthless reality.
Unlike Konoha, where legendary clans produced monsters, Sunagakure honed its strength through necessity. It was a land of scorched stone and survival.
Here, warfare was a science, long-range combat with precision tools: chakra threads, poison, puppets, wind blades. Strategies designed to outlast, to grind down enemies from a distance to conserve life by making the enemy bleed first.