The sun was merciless by the time they split into their chosen specialization paths.
At the Puppet Corps training area, students hunched over their work, fine threads of chakra glinting faintly in the light as they strained to lift the stiff wooden limbs of practice dummies. Sweat beaded on brows and slid into eyes, making their focus all the harder to maintain.
Those who managed to pass the initial test faced the instructor in mock duels, wood against wood, each puppet jerking in tight arcs, their movements stiff yet deliberate. The chakra threads connecting master to puppet stretched taut like spider silk, trembling with every shift in control.
Beyond them, the Wind Specialists wrestled with weapons far larger than their own frames. They adjusted to the weight and length of massive folding fans, learning the exact balance point before attempting the basics of their first true jutsu, Kamaitachi no Jutsu, the Sickle Weasel Technique, or, even, Ninja Art: Wind Scythe Jutsu. Even at this beginner's level, the wind it generated stirred the sand into spiraling crescents that stung bare skin.
In the shade of canvas awnings, the Medical & Poison Corps worked in cooler air, where strips of damp cloth hung overhead to filter the heat. The scent was unmistakable: the earthy dampness of crushed herbs, the bitterness of ground roots, the faint tang of metal, and a sharper undertone that clung to the back of the throat.
Their day began with treating small cuts on captured animals, wrapping clean linen over wounds with care, and grinding powders into mortars for poultices and poisons alike.
The Sealing Corps leaned over low tables littered with parchment, brushes, and shallow ink pots. The air was heavy with the smell of oil and ink, and the faint hum of active chakra tags added a subtle vibration to the space. Each student worked in near silence, precision taking priority over speed.
Out in the open yard, Taijutsu trainees faced the most punishing drills, sprints through the loose sand until legs burned, body-weight exercises under the pounding sun, and sparring matches where sweat dripped like rain and the sand grew dotted with faint stains of blood from split lips or skinned knuckles.
Inside the Medical and Poison Corps tent, Mistress Ibara's presence commanded quietness. She was a woman in her forties with hair braided tight against her scalp, eyes that missed nothing, and hands that moved with controlled certainty.
"Line up.", she called, her voice firm but not harsh. "Today, we begin with control. You've all done the leaf exercise, but here", she rested her hands flat on the table, leaning forward slightly, "precision is difference between life or death."
Her gaze swept over the line of trainees. Then she closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and opened them again with renewed sharpness. "Let's begin."
Daiana knelt beside one of the injured hares. Its back paw was wrapped in an old, stiff bandage, the fur matted beneath. She worked carefully, unwrapping it without tugging at the fur, then dipped a clean cloth into a bowl of warm, herb-infused water. The smell of it, sharp and green, rose between them. She dabbed away the crusted blood, revealing a shallow but neglected cut.
Her fingers were steady, even when the hare twitched. She applied a thin layer of salve, wrapped it in fresh linen, and tied the knot just tight enough to hold without cutting circulation.
"Good but can be better.", Ibara murmured, inspecting the work. "Remember: pressure stops bleeding, but too much slows healing."
Then came the real test, a demonstration of basic medical chakra application. Ibara pulled up her sleeve to reveal a shallow cut on her own forearm. Placing one hand over it, her chakra glowed a soft, steady green. Before their eyes, the skin knit together in moments.
"You will not heal today.", she told them. "You will only feel."
Daiana placed her palms gently over the hare's side and let her chakra flow. The sensation was startling, bones fine and fragile under the skin, the rapid pulse of a tiny heart, the quick rise and fall of its lungs. She kept the connection steady until Ibara tapped her shoulder.
"Good. You did well.", Ibara said simply.
In the Taijutsu yard, the heat was unforgiving. Sand clung to ankles, and the glare off the ground seemed to sting the eyes as much as the sweat did.
Shira crouched, toes digging into the warm grit, his body low and ready. His skin glistened, but his breathing was controlled.
"Begin!"
Three older boys came at him at once, practice kunai raised. Shira moved instinctively, sidestepping the first and driving a fist into his ribs, pivoting into the second with his shoulder slamming into the boy's gut. The third swung high; Shira ducked low and swept his leg through his opponent's stance. Sand sprayed upward as the boy crashed down.
His breath came faster, but he never broke pace. His raw strength and endurance were obvious, and his technique was improving, but still rough and unrefined. Yet it was enough to dominate his peers.
The Wind-Style grounds lay beyond the academy wall, where dunes stretched wide enough for the breeze to gather force. Here the air had weight and motion, whistling low between ridges, tugging at Temari's clothes and threatening to pull strands loose from her pigtails.
Planting her feet, she drew her practice fan from its strap. Sunlight caught on the slats, throwing narrow bands of shadow across the sand.
The instructor called the exercise: directing raw wind chakra into form. Temari swung the fan in a short, precise arc. The air rippled; sand rose in a curling crescent before falling back. Too weak, and the arc collapsed; too strong, and it scattered uselessly. She adjusted, ears tuned to the faint change in pitch that told her the chakra flow was right.
"Good." the instructor noted.
As for Isan, he began with the Puppet Corps, his control over chakra threads coming to him far quicker than most. In less than an hour, he had a practice puppet walking in smooth, precise steps, earning a rare raised eyebrow from the instructor.
It confirmed what he already suspected, he could move on quickly. His focus would soon shift toward Sealing and Taijutsu, while in his own time he would search in his memory for jutsu he could use according to his affinities. Suna's scarcity of certain jutsus of some elements was a limitation he wasn't going to accept.
In the sealing tent, it was completely quiet. Scrolls lined the shelves, brushes and inkpots neatly arranged. The faint smell of oiled paper hung in the air. Today's task: a basic storage seal. Simple in principle, difficult in execution.
Every line had to be flawless. Any tremor in the hand, any spill of chakra, and the seal would fail.
Isan worked slowly, brush gliding in deliberate arcs over parchment. When he finished, the array shimmered faintly, the mark of a primed seal. He tested it with a training kunai: one breath and a push of chakra, and the weapon vanished. Another pulse, and it reappeared in his palm.
He allowed himself the faintest smile. The basics are easy to master. The advanced seals… those will take time.
By late afternoon, the drills slowed down. From the shade of the outer wall, Baki and Mistress Ibara watched as the students dispersed. The air still shimmered from the day's heat, though the first threads of evening cool had begun to slip in.
Baki's eyes followed Shira as the boy shrugged out of his weighted vest, revealing the deep grooves it had pressed into his shoulders. The sand bore the marks of his repeated sprints, crisscrossing like scars.
"Pure taijutsu.", Baki said, arms crossed. "His chakra control is terrible, but… he'll outlast most of them before he's fifteen."
"Daiana is the opposite.", Ibara replied. "Physically unremarkable, but her mind… her precision is better than most adults I've seen. She works as though she's done it a dozen times before."
Baki gave a small nod. He was not one to dismiss a medical-nin's insight, especially not Ibara's.
The desert dusk settled heavy over the academy. Heat still bled from the sandstone walls in slow waves.
Isan wound the strap of his satchel, noting that tonight there would be no extra training with Daiana and Shira. The intensity of the year's opening weeks made it wise to rest when they could.
By the time Shira left the yard, his muscles ached like lead, but the pain was welcome, it meant progress. At the dorm arch, one of the boys from earlier stood waiting, a bruise blooming on his jaw.
"You got lucky today.", the boy said flatly.
Shira glanced at him, then at the sand between them.
"Then maybe I'll get lucky again tomorrow."
He stepped past without slowing.
Daiana left later, her hands still scented faintly of the herbal salves. The sand was cool under her feet now. Ahead, a cluster of girls from the Sealing Corps whispered, their tones sharp and deliberate. Her name caught in the breeze more than once, but she didn't turn her head.
Let them talk.
Mistress Ibara had told her she had potential. In this place, that was worth more than any whispered insult.