---
In a small clearing near the Academy, a ring had been scratched into the packed dirt for sparring. Young students circled the boundary in a loose crowd, whispering and watching. Two teachers stood to the side—one acting as referee, the other observing in silence—while, at the center of the ring, two boys faced each other.
The blond-haired boy wore a simple shirt and shorts, his posture light, knees loose, ready to spring. The dark-haired boy stood in a loose kimono, sleeves shifting as he raised his arms in guard, black eyes fixed with an intensity that made the air feel tighter.
"Alright, you two," the instructor said. "Salute each other."
They lifted their right hands and formed the Seal of Confrontation.
"Ready…"
The blond crouched slightly, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. The boy in the kimono didn't lower himself at all—he only tightened, like a drawn bow.
"…Go!"
The kimono-clad boy moved first, dashing forward before the last syllable had properly left the teacher's mouth. In an instant he was in front of his opponent, fist driving toward his chin.
The blond ducked low, the punch grazing his hair, and swept a leg out to trip him.
The sweep landed and the kimono boy's footing vanished—but he didn't panic. As he fell, he caught his opponent by the shoulder and used the grip to pivot, rolling over him in a smooth, practiced motion.
He landed an inch from the ring's edge.
Too close.
Without wasting a heartbeat, he hauled hard on the shoulder he'd gripped, trying to drag the other boy out with him. The blond reacted with a shocking burst of agility twisting free and slipping out of his shirt so quickly it looked as though he'd vanished for a blink then springing back inside the line bare-chested.
The abandoned shirt remained in the kimono boy's fist.
A click of annoyance escaped him. He tossed the shirt aside and lifted his guard again.
They began to circle, dust scratching beneath their feet. The blond wore a calm, analytical expression, eyes flicking over his opponent's movements. The black-haired one stared with an intensity that was almost hungry.
The blond moved first this time, closing the distance in a blink.
The kimono boy answered immediately. A jab skimmed past his cheek; he slipped inside it and returned a short hook. The blond checked it with his forearm, stepped out, and snapped a kick toward the ribs. The kimono boy caught the leg at the shin for half a beat—then the blond twisted free, as if he'd already expected the grip.
The rhythm broke when the blond drove a clean strike into the kimono boy's jaw.
The impact jolted his head, and for a fraction of a second his footing lagged behind his mind. He didn't see the sweep that followed.
The next instant, he was on the ground.
He barely turned his head aside as a foot slammed down where his face had been, dirt jumping with the impact. He rolled away to create distance, but the blond stayed on him, not letting him stand. A moment later, the bare-chested boy was on top, trying to pin him flat to the dirt.
The kimono boy's fingers dug into the ground.
His fist opened.
Sand and dust snapped up into the blond's face.
The blond squeezed his eyes shut instinctively and raised his arms—just long enough for the kimono boy to seize his shoulder and drive a crushing headbutt into his nose.
Now the bare-chested boy was the one on the ground, blinking hard through pain and grit, disoriented. The dark-haired boy pounced and began to rain down punches, fast, relentless, while the blond shielded himself as best he could with his forearms.
Soon the blond's guard began to slip. His arms sagged as he weakened.
The kimono boy's eyes lit up. He drew his arm back to finish it—
The blond snapped his eyes open.
Blue. Clear. Far too clear for someone who was supposed to be dazed.
He caught the incoming punch mid-strike.
The kimono boy froze for the briefest instant, stunned and in that instant, the blond yanked the captured arm, pulled him off-balance, and twisted his hips. His feet drove into the boy's stomach.
The dark-haired boy flew.
He landed on his feet like a cat, already preparing to launch a counterattack—
"Stop!" the instructor shouted.
The boy froze and looked down at his feet.
With a strange, complicated stare, he saw the line in front of him—his toes just scratched the line.
He lay in the dirt outside the ring, chest heaving.
"Reiji is out of bounds," the teacher announced. "Minato wins!"
---
Reiji sighed, ignoring the cheers and clapping Minato received.
"Yeah, Minato!"
"Did you see his face?"
"That's what…five times in a row now?"
"Well, Reiji was pretty close this time…"
"What? In your dreams. Minato had it in the bag!"
The teacher acting as referee glanced between them, then nodded approvingly. "Good match. Minato, excellent move at the end. But you can't allow yourself to end up in that position. Be more aggressive next time. Go to the infirmary and have your nose looked at."
Minato nodded seriously, wiping at the blood under his nostrils. The teacher turned as if to continue but stopped when he saw Reiji already walking away.
"Reiji," he called, voice stern. "Do the sign of reconciliation before leaving."
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Reiji muttered, rolling his eyes. He dusted himself off as he walked back toward the ring.
The teacher's brow furrowed, but he didn't say anything only shook his head. Minato, bloody-nosed and with awkward face, offered a sheepish grin.
Reiji stopped in front of him and raised his hands without a word. Minato raised his own, and their fingers met in the simple sign.
"It was a good match," Minato said.
Reiji's eyebrow twitched. "I don't need your pity. Next time I'll win."
Minato blinked. "Eh? But I don't—"
Reiji turned away before he could finish and started to leave the ring.
Classmates brushed past Reiji to crowd around Minato, bombarding him with congratulations and questions. Minato, overwhelmed by the sudden flood of attention, could only smile awkwardly and scratch the back of his head.
Reiji watched the scene, his gaze hard to read.
"What?" a boy with short dark hair said beside him, wearing an arrogant smirk. "Jealous nobody's here to console you?"
Reiji didn't even look bothered. "Why, Enji? Do you need a flock of people around you every time you lose to me?"
The smirk slipped from Enji's face. He shrugged, trying to sound casual. "At least I've got friends who care about me."
"They care about you," Reiji replied coolly, "or they care about your father being Hokage?"
Enji's eyes darkened. "You—"
"Give it up, Enji," another boy cut in, stepping closer. The Uchiha crest stood out on his back as he patted the young Sarutobi's shoulder, side-eyeing Reiji. "Nothing good ever comes from associating with this guy."
Enji's shoulders slumped. "You're right, Arata. Come on." He threw Reiji one last bitter look before leaving with the others.
Reiji didn't follow. He headed back to the classroom alone, uninterested in the rest of the matches.
---
When the school day finally ended, students flocked toward their parents waiting at the gates. Reiji didn't slow. He passed through without looking left or right and continued into the streets of Konoha, walking with a steady, decisive pace, eyes fixed straight ahead.
People noticed him anyway. Some glanced curiously, some with recognition, others with pity. A few stepped aside as he passed, as if keeping distance was safer.
Not long after, he reached a quieter neighborhood in the north of the village where traditional houses stood in neat rows. He stopped in front of a high wall and an ornate gate leading to a carefully kept garden and a mansion beyond. Taking a breath, he stepped through.
"I'm home," Reiji called as he slid the door open.
"I'm in my study," a voice answered from deeper inside.
Reiji removed his sandals and walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing against the wooden floor in the otherwise silent house. He stopped in front of a door and knocked softly.
"Enter."
He slid the door open and stepped inside.
The first thing that caught his eye was the garden. Open panels across the room led onto a narrow terrace; beyond it were trimmed shrubs, pale stones, a small pond, and a single tree stirring gently in the breeze. Cool air drifted into the study, carrying the scent of greenery and water.
Only then did the rest of the room come into focus. Along one wall, a built-in library stretched from knee height to the ceiling, packed with worn books and carefully stacked scrolls. Near the open doorway positioned to catch the daylight sat a desk.
Behind it sat a man in his late twenties, reading a scroll in one hand. His long brown hair fell past his shoulders, slightly loose, as though he'd stopped caring when it was last tied. He was handsome in a worn, tired way.
He didn't look up right away. Reiji waited, head bowed, hands still. After what felt like too long, the man finally lifted his gaze from the scroll and settled soft brown eyes on the boy.
"Sit."
"Yes, Father." Reiji lowered himself into seiza in front of the desk.
"Tell me about your day," his father said, still reading. "How was school?"
Reiji hesitated. "It was okay. Nothing special happened."
"Wasn't it sparring class today?"
"Yes…"
"And?"
Reiji's mouth moved before he could stop himself. "So what?"
His father's eyes rose, one eyebrow lifting. "Do you not understand, or are you avoiding the question?"
Heat rose in Reiji's cheeks. "I lost," he mumbled.
"What?"
"I said I lost," he repeated, louder this time, shame tightening his throat. He refused to meet his father's eyes.
His father didn't answer immediately, letting the silence press down until it felt like weight.
"…Was it that boy you told me about?" his father asked at last. "Minato?"
"Yes."
"So you lost to an orphan."
Reiji's teeth clenched. "Minato isn't just an orphan! He's the best in the class by far!"
"That changes nothing," his father replied, disinterested.
Reiji looked up, incredulous. "What do you mean? I'm the strongest in our class if you don't count Minato. I beat the Hyūga, the Uchiha, the Sarutobi… I even beat that Senju."
His father didn't blink. "If they lose to an orphan too, they're nothing special."
Reiji opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"Even if Minato is special—maybe even a once-in-a-generation genius," his father went on, "he's still an oprhan. He doesn't have access to training like you do. He doesn't have a father guiding him every day. So what's your excuse?"
Reiji said nothing, head bowed to hide the sting in his eyes.
"It's true you beat most of your classmates, even children from important clans," his father said, voice steady. "But you're still at the start of your education. Beating them now doesn't mean they'll stop improving. Soon you'll graduate, and each of you will get a jōnin instructor. When Minato has someone guiding him personally, he'll leave you behind if you stop progressing. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Reiji whispered.
His father's gaze sharpened. "Then why did you lose?"
Reiji's fists clenched. "He tricked me."
"He read you," his father corrected. "He let you believe what you wanted to believe, like a true shinobi."
He sighed, and when he spoke again his voice was slightly gentler. "Losing isn't the problem. It can even be useful, if you learn from it. But consoling yourself by saying it can't be helped because he's the strongest right now is the wrong approach. You must think. 'Why am I still losing to him? What is he doing that I'm not? What will I try next time?' Those are the questions you should be asking."
Reiji swallowed and steadied himself. "I understand."
His father studied him one last time, then nodded. "Good. Your dinner is waiting in the kitchen. Dismissed."
Reiji bowed, rose, and left the study.
---
He ate alone, in silence, the sound of his chopsticks too loud in the empty house. The food had flavor he could tell it did but it didn't reach him today.
'Even if I beat him one day… it'll be the same.'
When he beat the others, his father only said it was normal. That it meant nothing. That arrogance was for children who wanted to die early. But when he lost when he slipped once suddenly it mattered.
'Why?'
'Why does he never praise me?'
'Does he not love me?'
The thought tried to rise higher, to become real, but something in Reiji refused to give it shape. He swallowed another mouthful without tasting it and stared at the lacquered wood until his eyes blurred.
When he was done, he cleaned his place. Then he moved through the corridors in silence and slid the doors open onto the garden.
Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of wet stone and trimmed leaves. The training area waited where it always waited: hard-packed dirt, a few posts, practice dummies. A lantern hung under the eaves, its light weak against the darkening sky.
Reiji stepped into the yard.
For a moment he just stood there, fists half-clenched.
Then his feet shifted into stance on their own.
He began to punch.
Wood thudded. The dummy rocked. He kicked low, then high, heel snapping back into guard. Again. Again. The motions had been carved into him young, hammered in until they lived under his skin. His limbs struck with a clean, violent sound that filled the quiet garden.
There had been a time when he cried when he hit. When his knuckles split and the sting made his eyes burn. When his father's voice didn't soften and the training didn't stop until the ground beneath him was speckled dark red.
Now his hands didn't cry.
Now they only went numb.
'First in my class should've been easy…'
It wasn't arrogance. Not to him. It was fact.
He had trained since he was little until his hands bled, until his lungs burned, until he learned to swallow pain like water. While other kids played at being shinobi, he had been working. Every morning. Every night. Every day.
So beating them was normal.
They were predictable soft, loud, emotional. They fought like children and thought like children. They wore their clan names like armour and called it strength.
Reiji had always seen through it.
'They're inferior.'
His fist drove into the dummy again, harder.
'So why isn't it enough?'
The answer came like a slap, bitter and immediate.
'Because he beats me.'
Not a clan heir. Not some prodigy from a famous bloodline.
A nobody.
Worse an orphan.
Minato didn't have a name people whispered with respect. He didn't have a father drilling him into the dirt. He didn't have some gift waiting in his blood.
And still every time Reiji thought victory was there, one breath away Minato slipped out of it like it didn't matter. Like Reiji's effort was something he could step around.
Calm.
As if winning wasn't a struggle at all.
Reiji's breath came faster. He struck again, then again, the rhythm turning rough, impatient. Images flashed behind his eyes Minato's calm face, that stupid friendly smile, the crowd swarming him like he was already someone worth celebrating.
Reiji tasted something bitter and realised his teeth were grinding.
'I can't accept it.'
And worse…
He pictured his father in his study with his back turned, scroll in hand, voice quiet and distant.
His stomach twisted.
'I couldn't meet his eyes.'
Not after losing again. Not after training harder than everyone else and still coming up short. Not after promising himself over and over that he would never be weak.
He wanted to hate Minato. It would be easier if he could.
But hate didn't fix the problem.
Winning did.
He stopped for half a heartbeat, chest rising and falling, and looked at his hands.
Small hands. Already marked red at the knuckles, a thin split where he'd hit wrong. Not enough to bleed much.
Not enough.
'I have no excuse.'
He struck the dummy again, and again, until the wood squeaked under the abuse. His forearms began to tremble. The numbness in his hands grew heavier, spreading upward like ice crawling across skin.
'Stronger.'
'Smarter.'
'Faster.'
He didn't need praise. He didn't need anyone's hand on his head saying, 'good job'. That was for children who could afford softness.
He needed results.
He needed to become something his father couldn't ignore.
If he became good enough, Father would have to be proud. If he became good enough, people would stop looking at him with pity stop moving aside like he was cursed, stop whispering about what happened to their family.
And if he became good enough—
'No one would ever dare to sacrifice me.'
The thought came sharp and clear, and it frightened him because it felt true.
His fist slammed into the wood one last time. Pain finally sparked bright and hot through the numbness. He welcomed it. Pain meant he was still moving.
He leaned his forehead against the dummy for a second, eyes closed, breathing hard.
Then he pushed away, wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve, and straightened.
"I'll be better," he whispered to the dark garden, to the silent house, to the father in the study who would never hear it. "Better than him. Better than all of them."
The sound of flesh hitting wood continued long into the night.
---