The month that preceded Ren Kurosawa's entry into the Ninja Academy was, for all practical purposes, invisible to most of Konoha.
There were no announcements. No ceremonies. No witnesses. And yet, it was one of the most important periods of his life.
The training ground remained the same: an uneven clearing, uncomfortably close to the Forest of Death for any civilian's taste, yet far enough to avoid constant patrols. There, the dominant sounds were the wind cutting through the leaves, the dry impact of steel striking wood, and the steady breathing of a child who refused to train like a child.
Ren always began with the body.
There was no glamour in it. No secret techniques. No legendary methods. Only repetition.
Long runs circling the clearing, gradually increasing the distance. Slow, controlled push-ups, prioritizing posture over numbers. Deep squats, focusing on knee stability. Balance exercises atop fallen logs, maintaining his center of gravity while his body trembled.
His body was still not special.
Ren knew that better than anyone.
There were no exceptional muscles, no above-average bone density, no absurd chakra reserves. At best, he was slightly above average—something that, in this world, meant almost nothing.
But there was progress.
His breathing no longer spiraled out of control so easily.
His muscles took longer to fail.
Recovery came a little faster.
Small victories, stacked day after day.
Once his body was fully warmed, he took up the sword.
The simple metal blade still had no name. It was not legendary, nor worthy of stories. And yet, it was real. That alone made all the difference.
At first, Ren could barely maintain proper grip for long periods. His wrists ached. His forearms burned. The blade seemed to pull his arm off its ideal trajectory with every swing.
He began with the absolute basics.
Vertical cuts, from top to bottom.
Horizontal cuts, slow and deliberate, focusing on alignment.
Diagonal cuts, repeated until the body memorized the angle.
No flourishes. No excessive speed. Only precision.
As he trained, his mind inevitably returned to a name too heavy to ignore.
Sakumo Hatake.
Konoha's White Fang.
Ren had never met him, but he knew the story. He knew the details never spoken aloud.
The greatest swordsman the village had ever produced.
A ninja whose reputation crossed borders.
A man who completed missions deemed impossible.
And yet… he fell.
Not to weakness.
Not to betrayal.
But to isolation.
Sakumo had grown too strong within a system that did not tolerate power outside its political axis. Even after openly stating that he never sought the Hokage's position, his mere existence raised a dangerous question:
*What if he did?*
In Konoha, everyone understood the unspoken truth: the Hokage's hat was not won by merit alone. It was factional. Inherited. Passed from mentor to disciple, or from the disciple's disciple. A closed cycle, protected by tradition and narrative.
A man outside that circle, wielding undeniable power, was a structural threat.
Ren tightened his grip around the sword's hilt.
— *The sword wasn't what killed him…* — he thought. — *The system did.*
The lesson was not merely historical. It was a warning.
Strength without political position did not bring freedom.
It brought fear.
And fear provoked reaction.
After finishing his sword training, Ren returned to ninjutsu.
The three basic Academy techniques had become as natural as breathing. Even so, he refused to treat them as "simple."
Now, the focus was absolute efficiency.
The Illusion Clone Jutsu manifested with less chakra dispersion. The clone remained stable longer, held its form better, and required less mental strain. It would not fool an experienced jōnin, but against students or genin, it was more than sufficient.
The Transformation Jutsu had grown more refined. Ren practiced subtle alterations—height, posture, facial expression—rather than full transformations. The goal was not perfect deception, but reduced chakra cost and minimized fluctuations.
He fully understood the jutsu's greatest flaw: visible chakra.
Hyūga. Sensors. Experienced shinobi would detect it.
But flaws existed to be studied, not feared.
The Substitution Jutsu, meanwhile, was becoming conditioned reflex. Ren trained its activation under physical stress, with accelerated breathing, simulating real combat conditions. It was not perfect, but it no longer demanded conscious deliberation every time.
Then came the wind.
The Wind Palm.
A rank C jutsu, simple in theory, complex in execution.
Ren trained in isolation, focusing solely on proper chakra compression. The wind did not need to be violent. It needed to be obedient.
He tested practical applications.
Propelling a kunai at the final moment, increasing penetration.
Correcting a shuriken's trajectory mid-flight.
Delivering short-range impacts to stagger a nearby opponent.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing excessive.
Functional.
Ren understood something fundamental: the value of a jutsu lay not in spectacle, but in utility. Two shinobi could use the same technique and achieve entirely different results.
The jutsu did not define the ninja.
The mind behind it did.
Throughout the month, Ren reflected more deeply on the world around him.
Konoha was not a utopia.
It was a militarized feudal system disguised as a village.
True power was centralized.
The Will of Fire maintained cohesion.
Clans protected themselves, isolated themselves, decayed internally.
And those outside the core structures… disappeared.
Ren did not hate Konoha.
But neither did he idealize it.
He wanted to change it.
And he knew that strength alone would never be enough.
When the final day of the month arrived, Ren was exhausted.
His body ached.
His muscles were stiff.
His mind was drained.
But he was ready.
Not as a prodigy.
Not as a genius.
But as someone prepared.
On the morning before his early entry into the Academy, Ren observed the village from a higher point, feeling the wind brush against his face.
— *This is only the beginning* — he thought.
Not with naïveté.
But with clarity.
In that world, survival was not enough.
Talent was not enough.
Good intentions were not enough.
One had to learn.
To plan.
And to grow within the system… until the moment came to surpass it.
The Academy's gate stood ahead.
And Ren Kurosawa was ready to cross it.
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