The second year hit harder than the first.
Gone were the wide-eyed whispers of new students and the baby steps of chakra theory. Now the teachers yelled louder, the drills lasted longer, and the pressure to perform had changed from silent expectation to brutal consequence. It wasn't enough to try. In Sunagakure, you either adapted or cracked.
And Isan refused to crack.
It was difficult to reconcile the boy he once was with the one who now stood under the harsh desert sun. The starving, hollow-eyed orphan was gone.
The boy who once flinched at shadows was gone. In his place stood someone lean, wiry, and cut by hours beneath the desert sun. Every movement carried discipline, each glance the patience of one who had learned to wait until the right moment to strike.
His body had filled out significantly, lean and wiry from countless hours of grueling training; he was no longer weak and frail, but finely tuned and resilient. The manner in which he carried himself bespoke a quiet strength; it was not one of arrogance or overbearing confidence, but the calm, practiced quietude of one who had mastered the precious lessons of patience, of watching, and of the art of acting only when the moment absolutely required it.
Still, his body hurt. Every day. Knees sore from deep stances taken in searing heat. At night, he would sometimes fall onto his cot, muscles spasming, and mind reliving his mistakes, frame by frame.
Temari still crushed him.
Their sparring sessions became a common and much-awaited feature in the courtyard of the school, attracting the interest of passersby. She showed incredible speed in these sessions, displaying a high degree of fluidity and a sophistication in her movements that spoke volumes about her exceptional nature.
On more than one occasion, she tossed him around like a ragdoll with ease, neatly jabbing her heel into his ribcage or sending him flying into the sand with an accuracy that defied her age.
But Isan got better at losing.
"Still standing?", Temari asked with a touch of amusement in her voice after she had successfully knocked him down for the third time that week.
"Barely.", Isan muttered, wiping his lip. "But it's enough."
She raised an eyebrow.
"We'll see about that next time."
Then came Daiana.
She approached him beneath a crumbling stone arch, where the shade provided temporary relief from the sun. Her dark eyes slitted in curiosity. Her voice was arid, husky with the native accent.
"Why do you let her beat you like that?"
Isan kept his attention on his scroll, not raising his eyes for an instant.
"I'm not letting her. I'm learning."
She sat beside him.
"You're weird. The others think so too. But… I think you're just not from here."
That made him stiffen.
"I am.", he replied quickly. "I just... see things differently."
"That's what I mean.", she said, more softly.
Even though Daiana had been training with Isan for a long time now, her improvement was a staggering one, in comparison with those like Isan and Temari.
Nevertheless, she persisted and did her utmost. She learned and listened. Together they started to create something akin to rhythm, silent sparring, growing together and unspoken trust.
She reminded him of people he once knew in his old life. There were hard, sharp edges that appeared to be hiding something much softer and significantly more gentle under the surface.
The rest of the year became a blur of repetition and grinding effort. The students didn't slack, not because of pride, but because the better you performed, the better you ate, which, also helped in sleeping better and ease the pain and fatigue.
For orphans like Isan, it was survival instead of honor on the line.
Then it happened, on a blistering afternoon, near the edge of the training fields, where the sun painted the dunes gold and even the shadows seemed to radiate heat.
The Academy arranged to hold a regional taijutsu display, which was chiefly conceived as an overall presentation of the higher sparring methods executed by the seniors, the older trainees. It was explicitly meant for the sake and learning experience of the younger members so that they could watch and learn from their seniors.
Isan was part of a small cluster of second-years, eyes scrunched up, examining the fights with surgical intensity.
That's when he noticed him.
A boy stood alone at the far edge of the fence line, beneath the crumbling stone arch that once marked the original academy entrance. He was a tall boy for his age, slender shoulders, coarse-cut grey hair, and red raw knuckles from friction. His attire was simple and sandals were cracked with use. But his eyes… they blazed.
The boy wasn't watching for fun. He was watching like he was starving.
Feeling that the boy looked like someone he knew, Isan broke away from the jostling throng around him and made a cautious approach towards the little boy, as the wind stirred up dust motes that twirled and leaped between them.
The boy, seeing Isan coming, straightened at once with a stiff stance, his fists bunching into tight balls as though steeling himself for ridicule or the brutal eventuality of being shoved aside.
"Who are you?", Isan asked, tone neutral.
The boy hesitated. His voice, when it came, was rough from disuse. "…Shira."
The name echoed through Isan's mind like a bell. He maintained his neutral expression, but inwardly, recollections inundated him.
Shira, the one denied entry here, at the Ninja Academy, yet one day strong enough to push Rock Lee to the edge in the Chūnin Exams. A genius of pure physical strength… hampered by the system that prioritized chakra over spirit and physical fitness.
Masters of Taijutsu were never to be underestimated. One only had to think of renowned names like Rock Lee and Might Guy of Konoha, or the Third and Fourth Raikage from Kumo. Though not all of them, except Rock Lee, relied solely on pure hand-to-hand combat, Taijutsu was the core that elevated their abilities into legend.
Might Guy, for instance, was one of the few capable of performing the Summoning Jutsu, but it was his ferocity in Taijutsu; particularly when opening the Eight Gates of Death that left a mark in the series and on the history. With sheer physical prowess alone and the forbidden jutsu, Eight Gates of Death, he nearly killed Madara Uchiha, a god among shinobi. A feat few could dream of.
The Raikages, father and son, clad in raw power and enhanced by Lightning Release Chakra Mode armour, moved like living thunderbolts. Unstoppable forces whose sheer force cracked mountains and shattered defences.
And there was Rock Lee, the ninja who depended on nothing else but Taijutsu. No ninjutsu and no genjutsu, yet he managed to corner a jinchūriki like Gaara in the Chūnin Exams. His speed, power, and indomitable spirit made him a symbol of what hard work could achieve in a world obsessed with bloodlines.
Taijutsu alone could not only compete, it could dominate. And Isan understood that lesson well, which was why he focused so much and spent so much of his training time on it and his physique.
"You're not enrolled?", already aware of the answer to his own query, Isan smiled inwardly as Shira definitely had the potential to be something great.
Shira gazed downwards in shame.
"They told me. that I couldn't do ninjutsu or genjutsu. That I'd fail the written portions….", then abruptly he looked up with fire burning in his eyes as he stared straight into Isan' eyes. "But I can run. I can fight. I'm stronger than they think."
"What if I trained you?", he asked simply.
Shira blinked.
"Why?"
"Because I see something in you.", Isan said. "And because someday, someone else might not."
There was a moment where they were surrounded by an intense silence. Between them, the wind wailed savagely, whipping up sand grains that twirled and leaped around their feet, even as the battle raged on and neared its dramatic conclusion.
"Okay,", he said, his voice lowered to a mere whisper that could hardly be heard.
The crowd's cheer and excitement level increased a lot as two upperclassmen, with energy and determination in them, battled hard in the distance.
Isan extended his hand, palm up.
Shira stared at it like it was a weapon… then slowly reached out.
Their hands clasped, dusty, bruised, yet firm. In the shade of a crumbling arch, they shook once.
A beginning.