Satoru slung his bag over one shoulder and stepped out into the sun-drenched streets of Konoha, the bell still echoing behind him as the rest of the class erupted into their usual post-lesson chatter. He didn't wait around.
No need to linger.
He'd done enough damage for one day.
With casual grace, he waved over his shoulder.
"Later, ladies."
Sakura blinked. Ino let out a small huh?. He didn't stick around to gauge their reactions. That was the trick — leave before they expect more. Keep the mystery. Let them wonder.
He turned the corner with the wind at his back and a cocky grin on his face, though something thoughtful flickered in his eyes.
If I push too much, they'll just get annoyed. Attraction is a dance, not a race.
Besides… I've got training to do.
His confidence wasn't a mask, but he knew better than to overplay his hand. He had plans. And those plans didn't involve getting labeled a creep by lunch break on week one.
So he walked off like nothing had happened, heading home with a spring in his step and a mind already shifting gears — from charm and chaos… to steel and chakra.
Because tomorrow?
Tomorrow meant shurikens.
And Satoru Gojo had zero intention of being average at either.
The academy day had barely ended, but Satoru Gojo already had a new mission.
The moment he crossed the threshold of his home, he tossed his bag to the side and shouted toward the back of the house.
"Old man! I demand immediate weaponry training!"
Takeo Gojo didn't flinch. He emerged from the kitchen with a towel over his shoulder and a skeptical look in his eyes.
"Weaponry?"
"Shurikenjutsu," Satoru clarified, striking a heroic pose.
"I must master the basics so I can outshine all the academy peasants by tomorrow."
Takeo raised an eyebrow.
"Didn't you just survive your first day? Already planning to commit war crimes?"
Satoru shrugged.
"It's called ambition."
"…Fine," the older man muttered, gesturing toward the backyard.
"We'll start with the basics. But don't think this is replacing today's actual expansion training."
"Wait, there's more?!"
"Chakra control."
Satoru flinched.
"... Knowing you, that sounds like something that involves me falling on my face repeatedly."
"You catch on quick."
They stepped into the backyard, where several tree stumps had been modified into makeshift targets. Takeo handed Satoru a small pouch.
"These are practice shuriken. Wooden, blunt, but still painful if you're stupid."
Satoru took one, inspecting it like it was a sacred relic.
"First," Takeo said, stepping back and pointing to the target.
"Stance. Arm alignment. Follow-through. Don't try to be flashy, just learn the motion."
Satoru raised an eyebrow.
"But being flashy is—"
"Try and you'll hit our neighbor's laundry."
"…Point taken."
He focused, adjusted his grip, pulled his arm back... and threw.
The shuriken flew.
Then it spun awkwardly midair, curved left like it was actively avoiding the target, and hit the fence with a clunk.
"…Was that a technique?" Takeo asked, deadpan. "The boomerang of shame?"
Satoru scowled. "It was a warm-up shot."
The next five were not much better.
But by the tenth try, Satoru was landing at least one out of three.
Takeo nodded, arms crossed. "You learn fast. You're not a prodigy, but you're no deadweight either."
Satoru beamed.
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
Takeo tossed a leaf in the air.
"Now let's see if you can stick one mid-fall."
Satoru narrowed his eyes. "That's... kinda cool."
He threw — missed — then tried again with all the flair of a stage performer mid-battle. It almost looked good. Almost.
Takeo gave a single, unimpressed clap.
"Enough. We move on."
Satoru blinked, lowering his arm.
"Already? I was just getting into the dramatic phase of my arc."
"You wanted more training. You'll get more."
The older Gojo turned without ceremony, stepping toward the tall tree that loomed at the back of their yard like a sentry of suffering.
"Time to conquer chakra."
The shift in tone was subtle — but Satoru felt it. That tree wasn't just wood and leaves anymore. It was a trial. A vertical declaration of war.
He stared up at it, then at his father's unbothered expression.
Satoru gulped.
The tree didn't flinch.
Takeo crossed his arms, staring at it like he'd personally bullied it into growing that tall.
"Alright. You'll channel your chakra to the soles of your feet and walk up the trunk. No running. No jumping. Steady flow. Keep the connection constant, or you fall."
Satoru gave him a skeptical look.
"Walk up a tree. Casual. Got it."
"Exactly. Gravity's just a suggestion."
Satoru cracked his knuckles, narrowed his eyes, and charged forward.
The moment his foot hit the bark, there was a faint thrum of chakra—too much. His sole slipped, his leg twisted, and he bounced off the base of the tree with all the grace of a sack of laundry.
"Ow."
Takeo sighed.
But as Satoru stood and tried again — then again — and again — something odd tickled at the back of Takeo's mind.
'He's syncing faster than most. Not perfect, but... he's adjusting with each failure.
The average academy brat wouldn't even notice what they were doing wrong yet. But this one—he adapts. Reflexively. Like he's done this before.'
Takeo didn't show it, of course.
He kept his arms crossed, expression unreadable, letting the silence between words say what he wouldn't.
'He's a damn prodigy. A real one. Natural control, strong chakra, a brain that actually works when he lets it.'
'But Kami help me if I ever say that out loud.'
He glanced sideways at Satoru, who had now managed a few steps up the trunk before slipping and faceplanting back down.
'His ego's already punching holes in the ozone layer. If I praise him, we're done. He'll start signing autographs in class.'
Still... Takeo's brow tensed.
'But if I don't say anything... what if he stops trying? What if he thinks he's not good enough and just gives up?'
The conflict made his jaw tighten slightly. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to be real.
Satoru stood again, brushing dirt from his knees, then looked up at the tree with a glint in his eyes that hadn't been there five minutes ago.
"Alright. This tree? It's personal now."
Takeo smirked despite himself.
'He's fine.'
Out loud, he barked.
"Less talking, more walking, Spider-Boy."
Satoru gave a mock salute.
"Yes, Sensei!"
He charged again.
This time, he got halfway up before chakra slipped and he tumbled down into a patch of grass. He groaned, staring at the sky.
"I hate nature."
Takeo leaned back against the fence.
"Nature hates you too. Now try again."
Satoru hit the ground again, breathless but determined, grass sticking to his arms and dirt smudged across one cheek. He didn't even bother groaning this time. Just sat up, stared at the tree, and mumbled:
"I'm gonna marry this tree after I conquer it."
From the back porch, the screen door creaked open.
"Satoru!" Aiko's warm voice carried over the yard.
"Lunch is ready!"
Satoru didn't even flinch. He was already back on his feet, eyes locked on the bark, muscles coiled like springs.
Aiko blinked, waiting for a reply. It didn't come.
"Takeo?" she called again.
"Shouldn't he eat before he passes out?"
Takeo didn't turn around.
"He'll eat after," he said, voice low and steady.
There was no sarcasm in it this time. No teasing edge. Just a calm finality that made even Aiko pause.
"He's close," he added, almost to himself.
Satoru dug his heel into the bark again — slower this time, chakra more focused, controlled — and took two solid steps before faltering. He didn't crash. He just dropped down onto his feet, brows furrowed, recalculating.
Aiko watched in silence for a beat longer.
Then she sighed, fond and tired.
"Don't let him starve."
Takeo smirked.
"You've seen how much ramen he can inhale. He'll live."
The door creaked shut again.
Satoru exhaled, eyes gleaming.
"She's not mad, is she?"
Takeo raised a brow.
"She might be. Depends on whether you make it to the top."
Satoru cracked his neck.
"Challenge accepted."
And once again, he ran at the tree — this time, not with arrogance, but with resolve.
And for a brief second, he almost looked like a real shinobi.
The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the backyard. The light filtered through the trees in golden beams, painting the grass with streaks of fire.
Satoru stood still at the base of the tree, chest rising and falling in rhythm, a smear of dried dirt on his cheek, his white hair disheveled and sweat-soaked. His eyes, however, were clear. Sharpened.
This time, he didn't charge.
He walked — slow, steady steps up the bark, the soles of his sandals clinging as chakra flowed calmly from his feet. One step. Two. Four. Eight. His form remained stable. Controlled. No wobble. No stumble.
And then—
He reached the branch.
Stood tall on it. Balanced. Victorious.
After the first successful attempt, the second, third, and fourth also followed perfectly. Takeo couldn't help but notice something.
Takeo crossed his arms and nodded slightly from the ground below.
'There it is…'
'Once he gets it, it clicks completely. Like flipping a switch.'
'The boy didn't just succeed — he internalized it. Mastery through instinct.
It was prodigious. Undeniably so.'
Takeo's brow furrowed as he kept his thoughts to himself.
'Still can't tell him that. Not yet. Kid's already insufferable.'
But truthfully... he felt pride.
And maybe just a little fear.
Because with talent like that — if left undisciplined — arrogance could become self-destruction.
Up above, Satoru crouched on the branch and stared down, eyes glittering in the orange light. Then his gaze shifted — unfocused for a second — and a slow grin tugged at his lips.
He stood up fully, balancing with theatrical ease.
"Old man!" he called down.
Takeo raised a brow.
"What now?"
"I wanna try something," Satoru said, practically buzzing with energy.
Takeo didn't answer right away. He just watched, cautious.
"Don't do anything stupid."
"No promises," Satoru called back with a wink. Then he turned, gaze intense, as he prepared to test whatever wild idea had just sparked in that overly confident brain of his.
Satoru didn't jump.
He didn't leap, flip, or strike a dramatic pose.
Instead, he spread his arms wide, leaned forward…
and hugged the tree.
Face, chest, stomach — every inch of his front pressed flush against the bark.
Takeo blinked.
"What are you—?"
Before the sentence could finish, Satoru moved.
Like some pale, white-haired insect, he began sliding up the tree trunk — limbs stuck to the surface, his body wriggling upwards in a disturbingly smooth glide.
Like a chakra-fueled cockroach.
"…What," Takeo said flatly.
Satoru twisted his head back mid-slide and grinned, cheek smushed against bark.
"Look, no feet!"
Takeo stared, arms slack at his sides.
"What… is the point of that?"
Satoru kept sliding, spiraling slightly around the trunk like a lazy serpent.
"Style. Intimidation. Confusion. Strategic chaos."
"You look like a very determined barnacle."
"Barnacles stick, don't they?"
Takeo opened his mouth, paused, then shut it. Because despite the absurdity, there was something unnerving about how firmly — and fluidly — Satoru moved while maintaining complete adhesion to the surface.
No wasted chakra. No disruption in flow. Just… control.
Damn it.
He's already starting to adapt chakra application to his own brand of nonsense.
Takeo rubbed his temple.
"Fine," he muttered.
"You're… creatively unhinged. But effective."
Satoru finally flipped off the trunk with a casual twist, landing with both feet in a light crouch.
He stood up, brushing a leaf off his shoulder, radiating smugness.
"Admit it. You were impressed."
Takeo gave him a long look.
"…I'm concerned."
"Same thing."