Satoru limped quietly along the worn dirt path that led to his street just another road in the Hidden Leaf, nothing special, nothing fancy. His house, a modest single story building painted in cheerful shades of yellow and blue, came into view. It stood out a bit, sure, but not in a "look how rich we are" way,more like "our budget barely covered the paint, so we picked the happiest colors." It was cozy, familiar… and right now, absolutely terrifying.
He didn't want to go through the front door. Not like this. Not with a swollen cheek, bruised ribs, and the faint smell of river water clinging to him. And definitely not after getting smacked around by a bunch of random street punks not even academy kids, just bored jerks looking for someone smaller to pick on. So, naturally, he made a tactical decision worthy of a shinobi genius: he circled around to the back.
There, by the old wooden door with the loose handle, he hesitated. His fingers hovered over the knob. It wasn't just about hiding the bruises it was the weirdness of it all. He remembered being someone else. He remembered being from somewhere else. And now… now he was Satoru Gojo. Sort of. A version with no powers, no title, no epic entrance just a civilian kid with a smart mouth and a face full of regret. He sighed, slipped inside, and prayed to whatever god was listening that his parents wouldn't notice the limp. Or the dirt. Or the existential crisis.
Satoru crept through the dimly lit hallway, each careful step a silent prayer that the old wooden floor wouldn't betray him. He peeked around the corner into the living room. Empty. Perfect. If he could just reach the hallway leading to his bedroom, he'd be home free. One quick shower, a long internal monologue about how today didn't count, and he'd be back to pretending everything was under control.
Then came the voice.
"...And what, exactly, do you think you're doing?"
Satoru froze mid-step, one foot awkwardly in the air like a guilty cat caught stealing fish. Slowly, he turned his head toward the source of the voice.
Leaning against the wall near the kitchen entrance was a tall man with wild white hair, a relaxed posture, and sharp blue eyes that sparkled with amusement. Takeo Gojo, Jonin-ranked shinobi, master of subtle sarcasm, and worst possible person to run into right now.
Satoru laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head.
"Uh... just... getting some fresh air. Helps clear the head, you know?"
Takeo raised an eyebrow. "Fresh air, huh?" He took a step closer, his expression shifting from playful to concerned as his eyes swept over Satoru's face. The cuts and the bruises. His amusement evaporated.
"Satoru. What happened?"
Satoru stood frozen, caught between the urge to flee and the impossible task of explaining himself. His lips parted once... then closed. Then again. He blinked. His father's stare was steady, not angry, not yet, but piercing, patient.
Two long, painfully awkward minutes passed.
Then, finally, with all the fake confidence he could muster, Satoru straightened his back and said.
"I was... ambushed. By five chunin. Real nasty guys. Didn't even give me a chance to talk. They surrounded me." He gestured vaguely in the air, painting invisible enemies.
"The fight was brutal. For a moment... I even thought I might lose."
Takeo didn't move. His expression remained perfectly neutral, like a stone statue carved in the shape of pure disbelief.
"…Five chunin," he repeated, slowly.
"Yep," Satoru said, nodding with absolute certainty.
"One of them had a scar across his face, looked like he'd eaten three jonin for breakfast. But you know me..." He forced a grin.
"I pulled through."
Takeo pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer to survive parenthood.
Takeo remained silent, his gaze fixed on his son with an unreadable expression. For Satoru, the moment stretched into eternity. In his mind, it was obvious. He must be impressed. Proud. Maybe even emotional.
He straightened his posture slightly, bracing for a solemn pat on the head or a deep, fatherly nod of respect.
Instead, Takeo finally spoke, his voice calm.
"...If you don't want to tell me what really happened, I won't force you."
Satoru blinked. His forced smile wavered.
Takeo folded his arms and glanced toward the hallway.
"But you should clean yourself up. Treat those wounds before your mother sees you like this."
"She won't react as calmly as I did." He cast a wary look toward the ceiling, as if already imagining the incoming storm.
Satoru stood there, caught between dignity and disappointment.
"Right," he mumbled, turning toward the hallway, limping just a little.
"I'll… wash off the blood of my glorious victory."
Takeo didn't move, but muttered just loud enough to be heard, laced with dry sarcasm.
"Make sure you don't drown in the tub, hero."
Before Satoru could fully exit the room, his father spoke again, voice a little more serious now.
"Oh, and when you're done," Takeo said, turning slightly,
"come to the backyard. There's something I need to teach you."
Satoru paused mid-step. His eyes widened with a flicker of excitement. Is this it? My training arc? My power awakening?
"…Got it," he replied, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
"I can't believe this…"
Satoru muttered as he dashed toward his room, barely limping now, fueled by a mix of adrenaline and embarrassment. He snatched a change of clothes from a drawer some plain shorts and a loose shirt and made a beeline for the bathroom, hoping to get in and out before his mother returned home.
The warm water hit his bruised body, stinging at first. He flinched.
He grumbled, glaring at the tiles like they had personally offended him.
"This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to be untouchable. Infinity, Limitless. Six eyes, girls fighting over me, enemies trembling with a glance!"
He slapped water into his face, sighing hard.
"Instead I got punched. Kicked. Insulted. Bled all over the ground like… like a background character!"
He pouted, then immediately looked guilty for pouting.
"No, no! I'm Satoru Gojo! Sure, I'm not that Gojo, but the name's gotta count for something, right?"
He stared at the water spiraling down the drain.
"…Right?"
There was a long silence. Then, quieter.
"I didn't even land a second punch."
Another pause.
"…Okay, fine, but I did land the first one. That counts. That definitely counts."
He raised a wet, triumphant fist, which immediately throbbed from where he'd hit the older kid.
"Ow!"
One hour later…
The sun had dipped just a bit lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the backyard of the modest yellow-and-blue house. The air still held the warmth of the afternoon, though a gentle breeze rustled the leaves and tugged lightly at the laundry on the line.
Satoru stepped outside, hair damp and wildly pointing in every direction. His clothes were clean, but his expression was one of cautious curiosity.
"…Alright, let's see what this is about."
He muttered the words to himself, walking slowly across the backyard toward where his father stood — arms crossed, posture relaxed, but with the calm stillness of someone who could turn dangerous at any second.
Takeo Gojo looked up, one eyebrow raising ever so slightly.
"Took you long enough. I was starting to think you drowned in there."
Satoru just looked at his father for a moment. Takeo, sensing the silence, decided to change the subject.
"Well," he said casually.
"with the Ninja Academy starting for you in a week or two, I figured it's about time I teach you about chakra."
Satoru raised an eyebrow.
"Chakra?"
Takeo nodded.
"Yeah. In the shinobi world, chakra is everything. It's a kind of energy created by mixing two forces: the physical energy from your body, which you build through exercise and food, and the spiritual energy that comes from your mind, experiences, and emotions."
As Takeo spoke, Satoru rolled his eyes internally.
'Chakra, huh? Yeah, I know all about that. I've watched Naruto, like, three times. I could probably write the Wiki entry for this crap…'
Takeo continued, unaware of his son's internal monologue.
"When you combine these two, you get chakra. It's what allows us to perform jutsu, ninjutsu, genjutsu, and sometimes even taijutsu, depending on how you use it."
Satoru crossed his arms, trying to at least look like he was learning.
"So... everyone has chakra?"
"Every living being does," Takeo said.
"But not everyone knows how to use it. To do that, you need to learn how to mold it properly and control how it flows through your body."
"There's a whole network of chakra pathways inside you," he explained, drawing an imaginary line along his own body.
"Think of it like your blood vessels, but for energy. That energy flows through 361 points called tenketsu. Proper control means guiding the chakra where you need it, when you need it."
"Sounds complicated," Satoru muttered, scratching his head.
"That's why we start with simple exercises at the academy. Like placing a leaf on your forehead and keeping it there using only your chakra. Sounds dumb, but it's a core part of learning control." Takeo smirked.
"We start with the basics. Sit down, close your eyes. Try to feel the energy inside your body. Don't force it just breathe and focus."
"Sit down and close your eyes," Takeo instructed.
Satoru obeyed, folding his legs in front of him and pressing his hands gently on his knees. He shut his eyes, the late afternoon light filtering through the sliding door behind him. The air was quiet, save for the distant rustle of leaves.
A moment passed as he strained to feel something anything flowing beneath his skin. He even tried picturing all those 361 tenketsu points, the invisible pathways of energy, and took a slow, deliberate breath.
Chakra, huh? Well… pleasure to meet you, I am, Satoru Gojo!