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Chapter 2 - chapter 3

Chapter 3 – The Weight of Stone

Morning mist clung to the mountain like a living thing. From the rooftop, I could see the entire village spread below—grey rooftops stacked in uneven layers, steam rising from the hot springs, and shinobi already moving across the cliffs like shadows with purpose.

My muscles still ached from yesterday's training. The bruises along my forearms had turned a deep purple, but I didn't mind. Pain was proof that I was moving forward.

When I arrived at the Academy, the yard was already filled with students practicing under the early sun. Dust rose in small clouds around their feet. The sensei barked instructions, his tone sharp as gravel.

"Speed and focus! Your chakra should move with your body, not against it!"

Pairs formed for sparring. I was matched with a taller boy from another clan—Rento, the kind who smirked just because he could. His strikes were fast but wild, his chakra loud and rough.

He swung first. I ducked, letting instinct guide me, letting the rhythm of my breathing carry the motion. His fist grazed my cheek, but I caught his second punch, twisting his wrist just enough to unbalance him. When I swept his legs, he hit the dirt hard.

Gasps rippled through the group.

Rento snarled and sprang up, but before he could attack again, the instructor's voice cut through the air.

"Enough."

He stepped forward, studying me with a faint frown. "Your control is precise. But precision without endurance is fragile."

I bowed slightly. "Yes, Sensei."

He gave a curt nod and moved on. Rento shot me a glare, but I ignored it. Winning a match here didn't matter—it only painted a mark on my back.

After class, I lingered behind, waiting for the others to leave. The courtyard emptied until only the faint sound of distant hammering echoed from the cliffs. I knelt, pressing my palm to the ground.

The stone was cold, dense, humming faintly with the residue of chakra that passed through the training fields each day. I could almost feel the pulse of the mountain beneath the surface, slow and unyielding.

"Earth isn't just solid," I murmured. "It listens… it holds."

I focused my chakra, pushing it into the ground. At first, nothing. Then, a faint tremor ran beneath my palm. The soil shifted slightly, responding to my intent. It wasn't much, but it was something.

If I could learn to blend Water and Earth properly, even on a small scale, I could form mud techniques—versatile, defensive, adaptable. That would be my starting point.

Back home, the courtyard smelled of dust and iron. My father, Ishiguro Daen, was at the forge, repairing a set of kunai for a jōnin squad. Sparks flickered with every strike of his hammer.

"You're late," he said without looking up.

"Stayed for extra training," I replied.

He paused briefly, then continued hammering. "Good. But don't train foolishly. A shinobi's worth is measured by how long he lasts, not how fast he burns out."

"I know."

He grunted in approval—or maybe dismissal. With him, it was hard to tell.

That night, I didn't rest immediately. Instead, I carried a bucket of water to the back garden. The air was still, cool. I dipped my hands into the bucket and focused chakra into the liquid. The surface rippled, vibrating with energy, but control slipped each time I pushed too hard.

Water resisted differently than earth—it moved, yielded, refused to be contained. I spent hours adjusting, failing, trying again. The bucket was half empty before I could make the surface still while channeling chakra through it.

It was progress, even if slow.

When I finally collapsed onto my futon, my chakra reserves were nearly empty. My vision blurred at the edges. Yet, despite exhaustion, my mind refused to rest.

Every piece of progress was another foothold in this unforgiving world. Every bruise, every ache, every moment of stillness was building something deeper—something steady.

Outside, the mountain wind howled faintly through the narrow alleys of Iwagakure.

Tomorrow, I would rise again.

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