The Uzushio Academy's Training Ground 3 was a windswept coastal bluff, its rocky soil stubbornly hosting patches of hardy grass. The air was thick with the scent of salt and the distant roar of the whirlpools. Today, it held an audience that ranged from skeptical to openly hostile.
Elder Fumito stood with his arms crossed, his single eye missing nothing. Flanking him were two other council members: Elder Yuriko, a stern woman whose life was dedicated to the purity of fuinjutsu script, and Elder Takeo, a portly man who managed the clan's logistics and finances. They were the concession, the oversight for this "radical experiment."
Before them stood twenty children, all between eight and ten years old. They were the "promising" ones, selected not for their docility, but for their potential raw talent—a double-edged sword. They were bright, proud, and restless. And in the center of their loose formation stood Uzumaki Putin, a mere ten years old, looking even younger beside some of the larger boys.
A snicker ran through the group. "He's the teacher? My little brother is bigger than him," muttered a boy with a wild shock of red hair named Daiki.
Putin ignored him. His gaze swept over the twenty faces, cataloging each expression: boredom, arrogance, curiosity, disdain. They were raw material, and he was the smith. He had sixty minutes of State time today. He would not waste a second.
"Form a line," Putin said, his voice calm but carrying an unexpected edge of command, sharpened by the first flicker of his Heaven-Defying Comprehension. He didn't need the full State for this; he was merely priming his mind.
Grudgingly, they shuffled into a ragged line.
"From this moment, you are the first cadets of the Uzushio Martial Corps. You are not here to learn how to throw a shuriken. You are here to learn how to become the foundation upon which our clan's future will be built. You will be disciplined. You will be strong. You will be unified."
Another snort. This time from a girl named Akane. "Or what? You'll give us a time-out?"
A faint, cold smile touched Putin's lips. "Or you will be removed from this program. And in the new Uzushio that is coming, there will be no place for the weak-willed at the forefront." His words were deliberate, echoing the principles of the meritocracy he envisioned. The children, accustomed to the clan's lax structure, shifted uncomfortably. The threat of exclusion, of being left behind, was a novel and potent one.
"The first lesson," Putin announced, "is not a punch or a kick. It is how to stand." He dropped into the Earth-Stance Foundation. "This is the **Fudōtai no Kamae**—the Immovable Body Stance. It is the root from which all power grows."
He spent the next thirty minutes drilling them on the stance. He corrected postures, adjusted feet, and explained the theory in simple terms: chakra as a root, sinking into the earth, drawing stability. It was tedious, unglamorous work. The children's initial boredom quickly turned to frustration and muscle fatigue.
Daiki, the loudmouth, openly rebelled. "This is stupid! We should be practicing real jutsu! My dad says the only stance that matters is the one you use to draw a sealing array!"
*Click.*
The world crystallized. Putin entered the State. He had forty-five minutes remaining. In the span of a single, hyper-aware second, he assessed Daiki. The boy's posture was aggressive, his chakra coiled tightly in his chest, a classic sign of someone who relied on explosive, short-term power. He was all output, no foundation.
"Daiki," Putin's voice was now flat, devoid of all childish inflection, resonating with an unnerving depth. "Your argument is based on a flawed premise. You equate complexity with effectiveness. A sealing array is a external tool. This," he gestured to his own stance, "is an internal fortification. Your father's seals are useless if the enemy shatters the hand that draws them."
He walked over to Daiki, his movements fluid and precise. "You store your chakra in your upper body. It makes you feel powerful, but it makes you top-heavy. A slight breeze could unbalance you. Watch."
Without any visible build-up, Putin pivoted on his left foot, his right leg sweeping out in a low, devastating arc—a technique he'd theorized but never demonstrated, the **Earth-Cutter Sweep**. It wasn't fast in a blinding sense, but it was perfectly timed and leveraged. It struck Daiki's supporting ankle just as the boy was shifting his weight to boast.
Daiki cried out and crashed to the ground, his pride landing harder than his body.
The other cadets gasped. Elder Yuriko's eyes widened slightly. Elder Takeo looked intrigued.
Putin looked down at the stunned boy. "You see? No hand signs. No grand jutsu. Just physics and chakra control. Your fuinjutsu cannot help you if you are on your back." He offered a hand. "Now. Get up. And assume the stance. Correctly this time."
The rebellion in Daiki's eyes died, replaced by a spark of shocked respect. He took the hand and got up, his stance this time far more focused.
For the remaining time, Putin used his State not to lecture, but to observe. He watched the flow of chakra in each cadet, identifying their individual blockages and tendencies. He gave micro-corrections, his instructions so pinpoint accurate they felt like revelations to the children.
"Akane, you are holding your breath on the exhale. Your chakra flow stutters. Breathe from your diaphragm, like the tides."
"Kenta, your root is shallow. Imagine your chakra is a anchor, not a feather."
By the end of the two-hour session, the twenty cadets were exhausted, dripping with sweat, but standing with a solidity they had never known before. The sneers were gone, replaced by a dawning comprehension. This was different. This was *real*.
As they were dismissed, Elder Fumito approached Putin. "A good start," he grunted. "A bit dramatic, but effective. The boy, Daiki… he is the grandson of Elder Hashima, a traditionalist. You made an enemy today."
"I identified a point of resistance and neutralized it," Putin replied, wiping sweat from his own brow. The State had expired twenty minutes ago, leaving him with a familiar, throbbing headache. "An enemy who understands your strength is more valuable than a friend who underestimates it."
Fumito gave a short, barking laugh. "You talk like a general from the history scrolls. Very well. You have your class. You have your year. Do not waste it."
***
The days bled into weeks, then months. Training Ground 3 became a crucible. Putin's teaching methodology was relentless and systematic, a reflection of the Germanic military discipline he admired.
At 0600 hours, precisely, the cadets assembled for calisthenics and endurance running—**The Iron March**—along the coast. At 0800, they practiced the Fudōtai no Kamae and the Tidal Breath meditation. At 1000, they moved to technical drills.
He introduced the next stage: the **Coiled Fist Principle**. It was the offensive counterpart to the defensive Rooting. It taught them to store potential energy in their muscles and chakra pathways, coiling it like a spring before releasing it in a single, focused point. The first technique born from this principle was the **Shōken**—the Rising Fist. A straight punch that utilized the whole body's kinetic chain, from the rooted feet, through the twisting hips, to the coiled chakra exploding from the knuckles.
They practiced on training posts. At first, their knuckles bled. Putin taught them a minor variation of the Iron Skin Technique, just for the fist, to harden the impact point momentarily. He called it **Kensō**—Fist Aegis. It was their first lesson in layered technique, one principle supporting another.
The cadets' progress was tangible. Their punches began to splinter the wooden posts. Their stamina in spars increased dramatically. They moved with a new, grounded confidence.
But Putin was not just building soldiers; he was building a system. During his State hours, he devoted himself to two parallel projects.
The first was the **Uzushio Ryu Bujutsu Manual**. He began codifying everything. Stances, breaths, strikes, blocks. Each technique was broken down into its component parts: the chakra circulation pattern, the physical movement, the mental focus. He created diagrams, progression charts, and standardized commands. It was no longer his personal teaching; it was an institutional doctrine.
The second project was broader. With Elder Fumito's grudging support, he gained access to the clan's census and resource records. During his State, he analyzed them with a cold, economic eye. The data was messy, but patterns emerged.
He saw inefficiencies everywhere. Fishing boats operated independently, leading to overfishing in some areas and neglect in others. Agriculture was primitive, relying on tradition rather than yield. The clan's craftsmen—seal-makers, weapon-smiths, carpenters—worked in isolation, with no standardization or centralized distribution.
He drafted a new set of documents, expanding on his initial ledger.
**Directive 1: The Maritime Collective.** All fishing vessels were to be registered and organized into a fleet. Catch quotas and zones would be established based on tidal patterns and fish migration, data he extrapolated from old navigational scrolls. The catch would be centrally processed, salted, and stored in newly designed, fuinjutsu-cooled warehouses he sketched plans for—primitive refrigeration seals to reduce spoilage.
**Directive 2: The Agricultural Bureau.** He proposed the terracing of the island's less rocky southern slopes. He designed simple, efficient irrigation channels based on gravitational flow. He even sketched a design for a wind-powered water pump, using concepts of sail and gear mechanics he'd comprehended during a State session focused on ancient engineering texts.
**Directive 3: The Central Arsenal.** All weapon and tool production would be standardized. A standard-grade kunai, a standard-grade brush, a standard-grade length of sealing paper. This would allow for mass production, easier repair, and streamlined logistics.
He presented these directives to Elders Fumito and Takeo. Takeo, the logistician, was initially horrified by the upfront cost and the sheer audacity of it. But as Putin walked him through the long-term calculations—increased food security, reduced waste, a reliable surplus for trade—the horror turned to fascination.
"You are talking about… controlling the entire economy of the clan," Takeo whispered, his chubby fingers tracing the diagrams for the windmill pump.
"I am talking about efficiency," Putin corrected. "Waste is a weakness. Inefficiency is a vulnerability. A strong military needs a strong economy to feed it, arm it, and fund it. They are two sides of the same blade."
Fumito watched the exchange, saying little. He was a military man, but he understood power. This boy was building a machine, piece by piece. The martial art was the engine. This… this was the fuel.
"The council will never approve the full scope," Takeo said finally, shaking his head. "But… the fishing collective. We can start there. It is the least disruptive. And if it yields a larger surplus as you predict…" He left the thought hanging.
It was another foothold.
***
Six months into the training year, Putin decided it was time for a field test. He took his twenty cadets on a long-range patrol exercise along the island's northern coast, a region of treacherous cliffs and caves often used by smugglers or, in darker times, enemy scouts.
He drilled them in formation marching, using the Tidal Breath to keep their pace even and their chakra reserves stable. He taught them to use the Fudōtai to anchor themselves against the gusting winds, making their progress silent and steady.
It was during this patrol that they stumbled upon it: a hidden cove, and within it, a small, sleek boat from the Land of Water, and two shinobi wearing Kiri forehead protectors. They were inspecting a cave, likely mapping it for a potential infiltration point.
The cadets froze, a wave of panic passing through them. They were children, facing two adult, likely chunin-level, enemy shinobi.
Putin's mind, however, did not panic. He had thirty minutes of State remaining. He engaged it.
The world slowed. He assessed the terrain: the narrow beach, the high cliffs at their back, the water to the left. The enemies: one tall and lean, with a water pouch at his hip. The other shorter, stockier, with a large scroll on his back—a possible jutsu or weapon user.
"Cadets!" Putin's voice cut through their fear, calm and authoritative. "Formation Gamma. Now."
It was a defensive formation they had drilled a hundred times. Without thinking, conditioned by months of discipline, the twenty children moved. The front line dropped into a low Fudōtai, their hands up in a unified Kensō-ready block. The second line stood behind them, hands coiled for a Shōken strike.
The two Kiri ninja turned, surprised. Then they smirked. "Uzumaki brats? Out for a picnic?" the tall one sneered, forming a hand sign. **Water Style: Water Dragon Jutsu!**
A torrent of water coalesced, roaring as it shaped into a draconic head and surged towards the cadet line. It was a jutsu designed to shatter formations and drown opponents.
"Front line, hold your root! Second line, Coiled Fist, on my mark!" Putin commanded, his voice eerily calm amidst the roaring water. "Breathe!"
The cadets, their faces pale but set, sank deeper into their stances. They pushed their chakra down, becoming part of the cliff, part of the land itself. The Tidal Breath synchronized their pulses.
The Water Dragon smashed into them.
It should have swept them away. But the line held. The water parted around the unyielding wall of their rooted bodies, crashing harmlessly to either side. The Kiri ninja's smirk vanished, replaced by shock.
"Now!" Putin shouted.
The second line unleashed their Shōken. Twenty fists, fueled by coiled chakra and months of disciplined training, shot forward in unison. They didn't aim at the ninja, who were too far. They aimed at the wall of water crashing beside them.
**BOOM.**
The simultaneous impact of twenty chakra-enhanced punches against the water created a concussive blast of spray and shockwave. It was like a small bomb going off. The blast of air and water slammed into the two Kiri shinobi, staggering them, blinding them momentarily.
It was the opening Putin needed. He hadn't moved from his position. He simply raised his hand, finger pointed like a gun. He had been developing a long-range, pinpoint technique for himself—the **Ripple Bullet**. It compressed a tiny, hyper-dense sphere of chakra at the fingertip and launched it at supersonic speed.
*Crack!*
The sound was like a whip. The bullet of chakra struck the stockier Kiri ninja in the shoulder, shattering his collarbone. He screamed and dropped to his knees.
The taller one, now terrified by the display of bizarre, non-jutsu power, grabbed his comrade and formed a Body Flicker sign, vanishing in a swirl of mist.
Silence returned to the cove, broken only by the panting of the twenty cadets. They looked at each other, then at the spot where the two adult shinobi had been. They had stood their ground. They had repelled an attack from two enemy chunin. Without a single one of them being seriously injured.
A slow cheer started, building into a roar of triumph. They had done it. The system had worked.
Akane, the once-skeptical girl, turned to Putin, her eyes shining with a new, fierce light. "Uzushio Ryu… it's real."
"It is the future," Putin replied, his State fading, the headache blooming behind his eyes. But the pain was a small price to pay. The field test was a resounding success. The cadets were no longer just students; they were believers. And soon, the entire clan would have to take notice.
The first links of the chain he was forging had been tempered in conflict. They had held. Now, it was time to add more.