Sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden shafts, illuminating the wooden carvings that stood like silent sentinels around the perimeter. The wolf carving that Renjiro had been examining still rested in his hand, its wooden fur warm from his touch.
Riku approached from the edge of the clearing, his footsteps soft on the grass. He was older than Renjiro remembered—grey streaking his dark hair, lines etched around his eyes—but his posture was still straight, his gaze still sharp.
"What are you doing all the way out here?" Riku asked, stopping beside Renjiro. His tone carried a mix of curiosity and mild suspicion—the particular wariness of someone who knew that Renjiro rarely visited without a reason.
Renjiro's lips curved into a slight smile.
"Can't I just visit my former sensei?" He tilted his head, feigning offence. "Or did retirement make you dislike shinobi? Should I leave before you chase me off your property?"
Riku immediately facepalmed.
"You're the Jonin Commander now," Riku said, shaking his head. "I assumed you wouldn't have time for old men like me."
"Of course I make time for old people," Renjiro replied, his voice deadpan. "It's my way of giving back to society."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Riku snorted, and Renjiro's composure cracked, and they both laughed—a genuine, warm sound that seemed to fill the clearing, pushing back the shadows and the weight of years.
This is rare, Renjiro thought, watching Riku's face as the laughter faded. A moment where I'm not the Commander, not the seal master, not the weapon. Just me.
He noticed something then—something that had been absent for a long time. Riku was smiling. Not the tight, controlled expression he wore in public, not the polite acknowledgement of a former student's success. A genuine smile, the kind that reached his eyes and softened the hard lines of his face.
First genuine smile I've seen from him in years, Renjiro realised. Especially since Hiro's death.
The thought was heavy, carrying the weight of memory. Hiro's death had changed all of them, had cracked something in Riku that had never fully healed.
Was losing Hiro one of the reasons Riku retired? Renjiro wondered. He did not ask. Some questions were better left unasked.
"So," Riku said, breaking the comfortable silence, "what do you actually want?"
Renjiro considered the question. He could have danced around it, could have continued the banter, could have pretended that this was purely a social call. But Riku had always seen through him, had always known when he was hiding something.
"The academy graduation," Renjiro said. "New class of genin. I need to form teams and select jonin instructors."
Riku raised an eyebrow.
"And you came to me? Why not Shiba? You practically grew up under his supervision. That old schemer probably has three lists already prepared."
"Shiba is busy with Nara clan matters. And if I ask him, he'll probably hand me three scrolls and six months of paperwork."
Riku snorted.
"And you think I'll be easier?"
"I think you'll be honest."
Riku was silent for a moment. Then he turned and walked toward his workbench, a large, sturdy table covered in wood shavings and half-finished carvings. He began tidying up—sweeping the shavings aside, organising his chisels by size, moving unfinished projects to a shelf, stacking blocks of wood in neat piles.
Renjiro followed, watching the familiar movements. Riku had always been meticulous, always cared about the details, always believed that small things mattered.
"You want to know what makes a good jonin sensei," Riku said, not looking up from his work. It was not a question.
"Before I can make a list, I need to know what I'm looking for."
"And you think I know?"
"I think you were the first person who showed me what a team was supposed to be."
Riku's hands paused on a chisel. For a moment, he was still—utterly, completely still—as if Renjiro's words had struck something deep.
"That was a long time ago," he said quietly.
"It matters now more than ever."
Riku set down the chisel and turned to face Renjiro. His expression had shifted, the playful warmth replaced by something more serious, more reflective.
"Balance temperament before talent," he said. "Strong personalities matter more than strong techniques. A prodigy who can't work with others is useless. A mediocre shinobi who can hold a team together is invaluable."
Renjiro nodded, committing the words to memory.
"Every team needs an anchor," Riku continued. "Someone who keeps the others human. The emotional centre. The one who notices when someone is struggling, who mediates conflicts, who holds the group together when things fall apart."
"Like Aiko," Renjiro said.
Riku's lips curved.
"Like Aiko."
He picked up a piece of wood—a small block, rough and unfinished—and turned it over in his hands.
"Don't stack too much trauma onto one team. Broken children don't heal each other. If you put too many wounded shinobi in the same squad, they won't support each other. They'll drag each other down."
Renjiro thought of Kakashi, of the weight he carried, of the way grief had isolated him.
"I understand."
"Rivals sharpen each other," Riku said. "Pride destroys each other. There's a difference. Healthy competition pushes people to grow. Constant ego clashes tear teams apart. You need to know which jonin can handle a rival without letting ego take over."
He set down the wood block.
"Some kids need discipline. Others need somewhere to belong. Different students require different mentors. A hardass drill instructor might be exactly what one child needs—and exactly the wrong thing for another."
"How do I tell the difference?"
"You talk to them. You read their files. You trust your instincts." Riku shrugged. "There's no formula. That's why the position exists. If it were easy, anyone could do it."
Riku picked up a finished carving—a small bird, its wings spread, its beak open as if singing. He turned it over, examining it from every angle.
"Never build a squad around clan politics," he said. "Villages make this mistake constantly. They think they need to balance clan representation to give each family a fair share of influence. But team chemistry matters more than clan representation. A squad built on politics will fail. A squad built on compatibility will thrive."
Renjiro nodded slowly. He had seen examples of both—teams that worked despite their differences, and teams that crumbled despite their political advantages.
"Put one reckless child beside someone patient. Balance impulse with restraint. It's the oldest rule in the book, but it works."
Riku set down the bird carving.
"You're not assigning missions. You're shaping futures."
The words hit Renjiro like a physical blow.
Not assigning missions. Shaping futures.
"Every decision you make about team assignments will echo for years," Riku continued. "The relationships they form, the lessons they learn, the traumas they carry—all of it will be shaped by the mentors you choose. You're not just filling slots. You're building the next generation of Konoha."
He met Renjiro's gaze.
"Build squads for who they'll become, not who they are now. A shy child might grow into a leader. A brash one might learn patience. A struggling student might surprise everyone. Don't lock them into who they seem to be. Give them room to grow."
The sun had begun to lower, casting long shadows across the clearing. The wooden animals seemed to come alive in the fading light, their carved features sharp and watchful.
Renjiro had been sitting on a stump, listening, absorbing. Now he rose, his legs stiff from the cold.
"Thank you, Riku-sensei."
He bowed—not the shallow, formal bow of a Commander acknowledging a subordinate, but the deep, genuine bow of a student honoring a teacher.
"Don't thank me yet," Riku said, waving him off. "You're the one who has to make the decisions."
Renjiro straightened.
"I'll make the right ones."
"I know you will."
They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of years between them, the warmth of mutual respect.
Renjiro glanced one final time at the wolf carving—the one he had touched, the one that had reminded him of Riku's skill, of his patience, of the way he shaped wood and students alike.
Just as a teacher carves a piece of wood over years, shaping it into something beautiful, jonin instructors shape children over time. The parallel is not lost on me.
He turned and walked toward the edge of the clearing.
"Riku-sensei."
"Yes?"
"If you ever want to come back—to teach, to mentor—the position is open."
Riku was silent for a moment.
"I'll think about it."
Renjiro nodded and disappeared into the forest, leaving the clearing to the shadows and the wooden animals and the quiet wisdom of an old teacher who had shaped more lives than he would ever know.
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