(AN: Good night)( I should also say that I put these out before full edit sorry and again goodnight)
Morning came too early on purpose.
Raizo woke before the compound felt awake, before the air had warmed, before the servants' footsteps began their soft routine through the halls. The darkness outside the window was thinner than night but not yet morning—an in-between shade that made the world look like it was holding its breath.
He sat up and listened without meaning to.
Not like a skill. Not like a trick. Like a child who'd learned the safest thing in a new place was to know what moved where, and when.
The compound had its own sound. Distant water. A wooden beam settling. A far-off door hinge that complained if someone forgot to oil it. The faint crackle of a lantern being lit somewhere deeper inside.
Raizo dressed quietly.
He didn't take his time, but he didn't rush either. Rushing made noise. Rushing made mistakes. Mistakes were what adults watched for when they didn't trust you.
He tied his sandals, stood, and hesitated for half a heartbeat.
Yesterday—the yard, the sun, the teacher's eyes. The way the instructor had stared at him like Raizo was a problem that needed solving. The way the second instructor had leaned in and whispered.
The note had gone to Mito.
Mito had looked at Raizo the same way she looked at the compound's walls sometimes—like she was checking for cracks in stone.
He hated that feeling.
Not because he wanted to be trusted by strangers.
Because he didn't want to be owned by their opinions.
Raizo stepped into the hallway and followed the path he'd learned, turning corners without thinking, passing paper screens that held the faint scent of ink and old wood. The compound was quiet, but it wasn't empty. Quiet didn't mean safe. Quiet just meant you had to pay attention.
He reached the inner yard and saw Tsunade already there.
Of course she was.
She stood with her arms folded, feet planted wide, as if the ground might try to steal her balance if she didn't threaten it first. Her hair was tied back, and her expression had that hard set she wore when she decided she wasn't going to lose at anything—even breathing.
"You're late," she said immediately.
Raizo glanced toward the sky. It was still dark enough that the clouds looked like bruises.
"It's not morning," he said.
"It's training," Tsunade snapped, as if that explained everything.
Raizo didn't argue. Arguing with Tsunade was like punching a boulder and expecting it to move out of respect.
He stepped into the yard and took his place opposite her. There wasn't a line drawn, but there might as well have been. Tsunade made invisible lines just by standing.
They waited.
A minute passed. Two. The cold air bit at Raizo's fingers.
Tsunade shifted her weight, impatient.
Raizo stayed still.
Then the air changed.
Not with a sound. With pressure.
Mito appeared from the shadowed walkway like she'd been there the entire time and had simply decided to become visible now. She wore a simple robe, her hair pinned back, and her eyes were awake in a way that made Raizo feel like he'd been sleeping his whole life by comparison.
She didn't ask if they were ready.
She didn't greet them.
She looked at both of them once—one scan, quick and exact—and spoke.
"Hands," she said.
Tsunade dropped her arms, annoyed.
Raizo held his hands out.
Mito walked between them and took Raizo's wrists without softness. Her fingers were warm, firm, and unyielding. She turned his hands palm-up, then palm-down, then released him.
Then she took Tsunade's wrists and did the same.
"Good," Mito said.
Tsunade bristled anyway. "We're fine."
Mito's gaze moved to Tsunade's face like a blade finding the gap in armor. "You're loud," she said.
Tsunade's eyes flashed. "I'm not—"
Mito lifted a hand. Tsunade stopped mid-word like the air had turned into a wall.
"Your chakra is loud," Mito clarified, calm. "Not your mouth. Your chakra swings first. That is why you get baited."
Tsunade's cheeks went pink with anger. "I don't get baited."
Mito's eyes didn't change. "Yesterday you clenched your fist when someone whispered behind you."
Tsunade froze.
Raizo glanced at her without meaning to. He'd noticed her hand tighten too, but he hadn't expected Mito to call it out that plainly.
Tsunade looked away like she'd been slapped.
Mito turned to Raizo.
"And you," she said, "are quiet in the wrong way."
Raizo's chest tightened. His first instinct was to become even quieter.
Mito didn't allow it.
"You go still," she said. "You go blank. You hide inside your control. That is not restraint. That is fear wearing discipline as a mask."
Raizo's throat felt tight.
"I'm not scared," he said.
The words came out calm. They were not entirely true.
Mito watched him for a long moment, then nodded once, like she was accepting the shape of his lie without punishing him for it.
"You are not weak," she said. "But you are young."
Tsunade scoffed as if being young was an insult.
Mito ignored it.
"They will watch you now," Mito continued, voice steady, "and they will not watch the way children watch. They will watch for leverage. For a crack. For a reason to label you."
Raizo didn't move.
Tsunade's jaw tightened.
Mito stepped back and lifted a small strip of paper between two fingers.
A tag.
Not a complicated one. No swirling design, no heavy ink. Just a clean pattern—thin lines drawn with care, a small spiral at the center, and two short marks that looked almost like breathing.
Raizo recognized the shape because he'd seen it beneath his sleeve, hidden against skin.
Mito held it up so both of them could see.
"This is not power," she said. "This is a rule."
Her eyes locked on Tsunade first. "The rule is that your chakra does not move first."
Then her eyes shifted to Raizo. "The rule is that your fear does not move first."
Raizo didn't like that she'd named it.
He liked it even less that she was right.
Mito tucked the tag away and walked to the center of the yard.
"Today," she said, "you will learn how to stop at the edge."
Tsunade frowned. "Stop what?"
Mito looked at her. "Everything."
Tsunade's nostrils flared.
Raizo felt his fingers itch.
Mito's voice stayed calm. "Chakra is like water," she said. "If you do not control where it goes, it will find a crack and flood it. If you do not control when it moves, it will move when someone else wants it to."
Tsunade shifted her stance. She wanted action. She always wanted action.
Mito lifted one hand and pointed to the stone slab near the edge of the yard—the one servants used sometimes to rinse buckets. A shallow basin sat on top.
"Water," Mito said.
Raizo and Tsunade moved at the same time, each grabbing a bucket from the side. They filled the basin quickly. The water's surface trembled, then stilled.
Mito stepped beside it.
"Ripple," she ordered.
Tsunade pressed her fingers to the surface. The water rippled perfectly.
Mito didn't praise her.
Raizo pressed his fingers to the water. A clean ripple spread.
Mito didn't praise him either.
"Again," Mito said, and this time her gaze sharpened. "But do not move your hand. Only your chakra."
Tsunade blinked. "That's—"
Mito cut her off with a look.
Tsunade pressed her fingers to the surface and held them there. Her face tightened in concentration. The water trembled, then—splash.
Tsunade jerked her hand back, furious. "It slipped."
Mito's expression didn't change. "It shouted," she corrected. "You pushed too hard because you want the world to obey you."
Tsunade's fists clenched.
Mito didn't flinch.
"Try again," Mito said.
Tsunade pressed her fingers down again, holding her hand still. This time the surface trembled, then rippled. It wasn't clean. The circle warped slightly.
Tsunade gritted her teeth, but she didn't explode.
Mito's gaze moved to Raizo.
"Your turn."
Raizo set his fingers lightly on the surface and held still. He could feel his chakra behind his ribs like a tight coil. When he focused, it wanted to surge. It wanted to prove something.
He didn't want to prove anything.
He wanted control.
He gave the water a push so small it felt like a thought.
The surface trembled. A ripple formed, clean and quiet.
Tsunade glanced at him, annoyed.
Mito watched Raizo, then spoke softly. "You control the size," she said. "Now control the timing."
Raizo frowned. "Timing?"
Mito nodded once. "You will ripple when I tap."
She lifted her finger over the stone.
Tap.
Raizo rippled.
Tap.
He rippled again.
Tap—too fast.
Raizo hesitated, and the water stayed still. A half-second later he rippled.
Mito's gaze sharpened. "No."
Raizo's shoulders tightened.
Tsunade smirked like she was pleased he'd failed at something.
Mito didn't look at Tsunade.
"Again," Mito said.
Tap.
Raizo rippled.
Tap.
Ripple.
Tap—fast.
Ripple.
Tap—slow.
Ripple.
Mito changed the pattern, making it irregular, cruel. Tap-tap-slow-fast-fast-slow.
Raizo missed one. Then another.
He felt irritation flare, hot and sharp. His chakra rose in response like an animal that smelled blood.
He clenched his jaw.
Mito's voice cut through without volume. "Stop."
Raizo froze.
Mito stepped closer. She didn't touch him. She didn't need to.
"Do you feel that?" she asked.
Raizo's throat tightened. He nodded once.
"That is the edge," Mito said. "That is the moment before you lose control. That is where they will try to live."
Tsunade's eyes narrowed. "Who is 'they'?"
Mito's gaze slid to Tsunade, calm. "Anyone who wants you to make a mistake."
Tsunade's jaw tightened.
Mito returned her eyes to Raizo. "Breathe," she ordered.
Raizo inhaled.
His chest felt tight. The cold air didn't feel cold anymore. It felt like it was scraping his throat raw.
He breathed again, slower.
Mito watched him like she was watching a candle flame in wind—waiting to see if it would go out.
"Now," Mito said, "do it again."
Tap.
Ripple.
Tap-tap.
Ripple-ripple.
Slow.
Ripple.
Fast-fast.
Ripple-ripple.
Raizo's hands stayed still. His jaw stayed set. The water obeyed.
His irritation didn't vanish.
It just stopped being in charge.
Mito nodded once. "Good."
Tsunade rolled her shoulders like she wanted to hit something. "This is stupid," she muttered.
Mito looked at her. "You can call it stupid," she said. "Or you can call it survival."
Tsunade's eyes flashed. "I'm not going to die because I make a ripple wrong."
Mito's gaze stayed calm, but her voice dropped a fraction lower.
"You will die because you swing first," she said. "You will die because you let someone else choose the moment you become predictable."
Silence fell over the yard.
Even Tsunade didn't argue.
Raizo's fingers tightened slightly, then relaxed.
Mito stepped away from the basin and walked to the open space of the yard.
"Next," she said. "Stillness."
Tsunade groaned. "More stopping?"
"Yes," Mito said simply. "Because stopping is harder than moving."
Mito moved to the edge of the yard and lifted a hand. "Walk."
They walked.
"Stop," she said.
They stopped.
"Walk," she said again, and then—too quickly—"Stop."
Tsunade nearly overshot, her foot sliding an inch before she caught herself. Her cheeks flushed with anger.
Raizo stopped clean, but his shoulders tightened.
Mito's gaze flicked to him.
"Again," she said.
Walk-stop-walk-stop. Then walk-stop-stop-walk. Then walk-walk-stop. Mito changed the rhythm the way the Academy instructor had, but sharper, harder, like she didn't care if they hated it.
Tsunade's breathing got louder. Her irritation bled through her posture.
Raizo stayed quieter, but inside he felt the same irritation, the same flare of wanting to finish it, wanting to win.
Mito watched them both.
"Stop," she said, and this time she didn't mean their feet.
They froze.
Mito approached Tsunade first.
"Tsunade," she said, "your chakra is rising."
Tsunade clenched her teeth. "I'm fine."
Mito lifted a hand and pressed two fingers lightly against Tsunade's wrist. "Feel," she said.
Tsunade's eyes widened slightly, just for a moment.
Mito released her and turned to Raizo.
"And you," Mito said, "are shrinking again."
Raizo's throat tightened. "I'm not."
Mito tilted her head. "Your shoulders are trying to disappear," she said. "That is not calm. That is bracing."
Raizo hated that she saw everything.
He hated that she said it like it was normal.
Mito stepped between them.
"I am not training you to be quiet," she said. "Quiet is nothing. Quiet is just absence. I am training you to be deliberate."
Tsunade frowned. "What's the difference?"
Mito's eyes slid to Tsunade. "Quiet can be fear," she said. "Quiet can be submission. Quiet can be freezing."
Her gaze returned to Raizo. "Deliberate is choice."
Raizo's stomach tightened.
Choice.
He'd had so few choices since leaving Uzushio that the word felt unfamiliar in his mouth.
Mito stepped back again, hands folded in her sleeves.
"Now," she said, "we move."
Finally.
Tsunade's whole body seemed to lean forward, relieved.
Mito lifted her hand. "Basic forms," she said. "Slow."
Tsunade started strong. Too strong. Her punches cut the air with force that belonged in a fight, not in a lesson.
Mito's voice snapped like a whip. "Stop."
Tsunade froze, breathing hard.
Mito walked up to her and placed a hand lightly against Tsunade's shoulder.
"Your power is not the problem," Mito said. "Your impatience is."
Tsunade's eyes burned. "I can do it."
"I know you can," Mito said, and there was no softness in it. Just fact. "That is why you must learn control."
Tsunade swallowed. Her anger didn't vanish. It shifted.
Mito turned to Raizo. "You," she said, "do it faster."
Raizo blinked. "Faster?"
"Yes."
He moved.
His forms were clean, controlled. He picked up speed carefully, like he was testing the limits of the shape without breaking it.
Mito watched.
"Faster," she said again.
Raizo's chest tightened. Speed always made him feel like he was about to lose something. Like the world was slipping beneath his feet.
He did it anyway.
His arms moved quicker. His stance transitions tightened. His breath shortened.
Mito's eyes narrowed slightly. "Edge," she said softly.
Raizo felt it. The flare. The moment his chakra wanted to jump ahead of him. The moment his fear wanted to clamp down and freeze him.
He stopped himself.
Not his body.
His inside.
He breathed once. Then twice.
The forms stayed fast, but the surge didn't spill.
Mito nodded once, satisfied.
Tsunade glared at him, half annoyed, half impressed, and she hated both feelings.
"Enough," Mito said.
Tsunade and Raizo both stopped.
Mito stepped toward the wooden post at the side of the yard where training tools were kept. She pulled out a thin strip of cloth, then another. She tossed one to Raizo and one to Tsunade.
Raizo caught his.
Tsunade caught hers with too much force, like she wanted to tear it.
"Blindfold," Mito said.
Tsunade recoiled. "No."
Mito's eyes moved to her, calm and absolute. "Yes."
Tsunade's glare sharpened. "Why?"
Mito's voice stayed steady. "Because you rely on your eyes when your body is already strong," she said. "Because when you cannot see, you will learn not to panic."
Tsunade's mouth twisted. "I don't panic."
Mito didn't argue. "Tie it," she said.
Tsunade tied it hard, like she could strangle the cloth out of spite.
Raizo tied his gently.
The world went dark.
Sound sharpened.
Air moved against skin like fingers.
Raizo heard Tsunade's breathing—fast, irritated. He heard Mito's steps—quiet, measured. He heard a bird outside the compound wall.
Mito's voice came from somewhere in front of them. "Stand," she said.
They stood.
"Now," Mito said, "I will tap your shoulder. When I tap, you stop your chakra from moving."
Tsunade's voice snapped, "It already doesn't—"
Mito tapped Tsunade's shoulder.
Tsunade flinched.
Raizo heard it, a tiny sound of surprise.
Mito tapped Raizo's shoulder.
Raizo didn't flinch, but his chest tightened.
He felt his chakra rise on instinct, like a startled animal.
He pushed it down.
Mito tapped again. Faster. Irregular. Left shoulder. Right shoulder. Twice in a row. Pause. Then again.
Tsunade's breathing grew harsher. "This is—" she started.
Tap.
She cut off, swearing under her breath.
Raizo's jaw tightened. He missed one. He felt the surge. He caught it late.
Mito's voice cut through. "Again."
The drill went on until Raizo's arms ached from holding his body still and his insides started to feel raw. Until Tsunade's irritation turned into something dangerous—frustration that wanted to explode into action because action was easier.
Mito stopped without warning.
"Remove," she said.
Raizo untied the blindfold and blinked as the world returned. The sky had lightened. The yard looked the same, but the space between breaths felt different.
Tsunade ripped her blindfold off like it had insulted her bloodline.
Her eyes were bright with anger.
Mito looked at her calmly. "Speak," she said.
Tsunade's voice shook with fury. "I hate that," she said.
Mito nodded once. "Good."
Tsunade froze. "Good?"
"Yes," Mito said. "You hate it because you cannot control it yet. That means you found the weakness you refuse to admit exists."
Tsunade's hands clenched. Then unclenched. Her breathing slowed a fraction.
Mito turned to Raizo.
"And you," Mito said, "tell me the truth."
Raizo stared at her.
The truth was ugly.
The truth made him feel small.
He hated the truth.
But Mito didn't accept lies the way other adults did. She didn't get distracted. She didn't get comforted. She simply waited, calm and endless.
Raizo swallowed once.
"I don't like being watched," he admitted.
Tsunade snorted. "Nobody likes it."
Raizo glanced at her. "It feels different," he said, and his voice stayed calm, but the words came out sharper. "Like they're deciding what I am before I do anything."
Tsunade's expression shifted. Her anger faded just enough for something else to show—recognition, maybe.
Mito nodded once. "Yes," she said.
Raizo's fingers curled. "I want to make them stop," he said, then added quickly, as if he hated that he'd said it at all, "Not with words."
Tsunade's eyes lit up like she approved of that.
Mito didn't.
Mito's gaze held Raizo's, steady and deep.
"And that," she said, "is exactly why you will learn to stop at the edge."
Raizo's jaw tightened. "But if I can—"
"If you can," Mito interrupted, "you will do it when you are angry. You will do it when you are embarrassed. You will do it when you are baited."
Her eyes shifted to Tsunade. "You will do it because your pride is injured."
Then her gaze returned to Raizo. "You will do it because you want the world to be quiet."
Raizo didn't speak.
Mito's voice softened, but only slightly. Not gentle. Just precise.
"You do not get to choose whether people talk," she said. "You get to choose whether you become what they want."
Raizo's throat tightened.
Tsunade crossed her arms, frowning like she didn't like that answer.
Mito stepped forward and placed two fingers lightly against Raizo's sleeve, where the breath-anchor tag rested beneath cloth.
"This," she said, "is the beginning of your answer."
Raizo looked down at the place she touched.
It felt like a small weight. A small rule. A small promise.
Mito turned away from them and walked toward the basin again.
"Again," she said.
Tsunade groaned. "More?"
"Yes," Mito said, unbothered. "Until it becomes boring."
Tsunade scowled. "Boring is impossible."
Mito's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Then you will suffer," she said.
Raizo surprised himself.
A sound escaped him—not a laugh, not fully, but something that tried to be.
Tsunade snapped her head toward him as if he'd committed a crime.
Raizo's face went blank immediately.
Tsunade narrowed her eyes. "Did you just—"
"No," Raizo said quickly.
Tsunade stared at him for a long moment, then huffed. "Whatever," she muttered, but her shoulders loosened slightly.
Mito didn't comment.
She didn't need to.
She already knew.
They returned to the water drill. Ripple without movement. Timing without rush. Stop at the edge.
The repetition hurt in a quiet way. Not muscles, not bruises. It hurt the part of Raizo that wanted to solve things by force. It hurt the part of Tsunade that believed strength was the only language worth speaking.
And slowly, almost without either of them noticing, the hurt changed shape.
It became something steadier.
Hours later, when the sun had fully risen and the yard had warmed, Mito finally lifted her hand.
"Enough," she said.
Tsunade exhaled like she'd been holding her breath all morning.
Raizo flexed his fingers and realized they weren't shaking.
Mito looked at them both.
"Today," she said, "you learned a rule."
Tsunade wiped sweat from her brow, annoyed. "A stupid rule," she muttered automatically.
Mito ignored the insult and continued. "The rule is that you do not react first," she said. "You decide first."
Her gaze landed on Tsunade. "Strength without choice is a tantrum."
Tsunade's eyes flashed, but she didn't speak.
Mito's gaze shifted to Raizo. "Control without choice is a cage."
Raizo's chest tightened.
Mito stepped closer, voice low enough that the yard itself felt like it leaned in.
"They will keep watching," she said. "Let them."
Raizo lifted his chin slightly.
Tsunade's mouth twisted, stubborn.
Mito nodded, satisfied, and turned away.
As she walked back toward the shadowed walkway, she spoke one last time without looking back.
"Tomorrow," she said, "you will go to the Academy and you will be ordinary."
Tsunade sputtered. "Ordinary?"
Mito didn't stop. "Yes."
Raizo frowned. "Why?"
Mito's voice carried back, calm as stone. "Because ordinary is invisible," she said. "And invisible is safe until you decide it's time not to be."
Tsunade stared at the place Mito had disappeared like she wanted to fight the idea itself.
Raizo stood in the yard with his fingers still itching—not for violence, not for noise.
For the edge.
For the moment before everything spilled.
He didn't want to be a quiet boy forever.
He didn't want to be a caged boy either.
But if the village wanted to watch him, if the Academy wanted to weigh him, if strangers wanted to decide what he was—
Then fine.
They could watch.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.