The sun had barely risen, and already the training field seethed under its warmth. Sand blew languidly through the air, lodging in the eyes and lungs, covering every inch of skin in a thin film of dust.
In a quiet corner of the field, three figures worked with determination, battered and winded, but completely unabashed.
Isan was sitting cross-legged on the earth, heavily involved in a state of meditation, with one small leaf fluttering softly on his forehead, bobbing a little with each steady and methodical breath that he drew.
Shira was across from him, grunting through push-ups that made his arms quiver and his breath rasp, his knuckles wrapped tightly and red from the strain, while his shirt was drenched entirely in sweat from the rigorous physical exertion.
Daiana was kneeling beside them, a frown on her face as she wrapped a bandage around her bruised and battered hands, ministering to her wounds with concentrated determination.
Shira collapsed to one knee, dust swirling around him, and slammed his fist into the dirt.
"Damn it.", he hissed.
"Again.", Isan called out without turning his head.
Shira did not answer. He remained quiet, his jaw tense, then plunged back into action. Twisted his torso and started doing sit-ups.
Daiana leaned back and sighed, observing both of them.
"You're going to kill each other at this rate."
Noticing that no one made an effort to answer to her, she shook her head and gave them both a scowl.
"Ugh.", she grumbled, pulling the last knot on her bandage tight.
They had been doing this for weeks now. Two orphans and a reject. It had begun in a simple and easy way with Isan training Shira in secret, their sessions concealed from Academy instructors, as much as possible; since the sooner they discovered the sooner issues would arise from it.
In time, Daiana joined as well. In fact, she didn't at first because of Isan's requesting of her to do so. He thought that it was better to have the first sessions with Shira alone.
He knew better than to go to Baki and request that Shira be let into the Academy. A boy who could not do even the simplest Ninjutsu or Genjutsu? He'd be laughed out of the courtyard, and worse, Baki would start to question Isan's own discernment, losing the small amount of respect he was able to gain after all this time and effort.
Still, the thought nagged at him: how did they even know Shira couldn't use ninjutsu or genjutsu when he hadn't been taught either?
After some time reflecting, Isan came up with a few theories, but the most convincing one was simple: chakra control.
Not only was it the standard training every day at the academy, but it was also something that they had them do right before enrolling into the academy.
So, no. The only option was to train him personally.
And for that, Isan needed something special. Something tailored.
That night, after he had met Shira, for the first time, he had lain awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling of the orphanage. His mind worked through each technique and fighting style, each recollection that he could dredge up from his previous life that might be of use.
Among all the exercises and techniques that came out, one in particular stood out.
Something ideal for Shira. Something perilous yet incredibly powerful.
The Eight Gates of Death.
A forbidden art. A jutsu that forcibly opened the internal chakra gates of the body, shattering its natural restrictions. In exchange, it provided amazing bursts of power and speed, with catastrophic costs. The last gate provided the strength of a 'god', surpassing the strength of a kage, at the expense of sure death.
Not to mention that in the series he remembered that Shira employed a similar technique, although he couldn't recall it's name he was sure that it had something to do with breathing.
There was also no problem of people discovering, as it wasn't something that any ordinary person could use and master. The pain inflicted by the Eight Gates of Death was not to be taken lightly, or else, in the series, many more characters would have utilized it, rather than only a handful.
However, Shira would not make it through it now.
But he could begin to learn the foundation, the conditioning, and the pain tolerance, and, above all else, the resolve. The resolve to use this technique needed to be one of steel and unwielding.
If there was ever someone who could walk that path, it was the fire-eyed boy with scarred fists and silent fury in his soul.
When Isan explained it to him, in simple, serious terms, Shira didn't flinch.
"I want to be strong.", he'd said. "If that's the path, then I'll take it."
"But not yet.", Isan warned. "Until your body's ready, you don't touch the gates. Understand?"
Shira gave a single nod. "I'm not in a rush to die."
Then, after a long pause, he swallowed. His voice cracked slightly when he spoke again.
"No one's ever said I could be strong.", he muttered, just loud enough for Isan to hear. "No one."
His hands trembled for a second before he clenched them into fists. He blinked quickly and wiped at his face, pretending it was sweat.
Isan said nothing. He just placed a hand on Shira's shoulder.
Back to present time, Isan slightly shook his head at the memory, with how hardous the training was and the day monotonous, it felt like it happened just yesterday.
Daiana was not entirely convinced. "I don't really approve of this jutsu of yours.", she said, scraping a cloud of sand with the tip of her sandal. "Sounds like the kind of thing mad old men do when they have nothing left to lose."
Isan chuckled.
"Which is why we don't jump to the last step. We take it slow. Shira has the talent. We're just giving him a tool."
"You mean weaponizing it.", she muttered.
He didn't argue, because it was true.
Despite what she expressed in her words, Daiana dedicated herself to training just as hard, if not harder, than ever before. Every single morning and evening, without fail, she was present and ready - climbing walls, sprinting down tracks, and engaging in intense sparring sessions.
She put forth every effort to attempt to follow the training regimen that had been established by them. Although she recognized that she wasn't as fast or as strong as Shira, nor as analytical and strategic as Isan, there was one thing she possessed in abundance: a relentless determination that drove her forward.
She had something to prove as well. They all did.
One morning, as Shira was running with weighted packs, not fancy weights, but discoloured, patched bags filled with sand.
To the center, Isan and Daiana circled each other on the cracked stone.
Slowly approaching and closing the distance, the tension increased with every breath. Isan had the advantage of being taller and, subsequently, possessing the longest reach, in comparison, to Daiana; something the both of them were aware.
Daiana did not pause even for a second. Not waiting to think, she quickly moved forward, closing the gap between her and her opponent in a swift burst of remarkable speed.
The opening strike was thrown as a straight punch aimed squarely at his chin, a cunning feint intended to deceive him. But in the last possible instant, she deftly lowered her body low to the ground and swung her leg in a wide arc intended to catch him off guard.
Isan saw it coming. He hopped back, letting her leg pass under him, and countered with a quick jab toward her shoulder.
She performed an elegant twist, rolling smoothly into the area that was directly next to him, and then she rebounded swiftly, landing a precise backhand blow along his ribs.
Thwack.
He grunted, moving sideways with the impact, but did not stumble.
"Nice.", he muttered.
"I am not done.", she shot back.
She came again, this time with a series of quick punches - center mass, collarbone, temple. Isan easily blocked the first two blows, then quickly ducked under the third punch, before turning on his feet and pushing his palm hard towards her belly in an attempt to counter her.
Daiana absorbed the hit, breath hitching, and grabbed his wrist in the same motion. She tried to yank him off balance with a shoulder throw, but Isan widened his stance and spun with the momentum instead, twisting behind her.
Before she could break free, he slipped an arm across her chest and pressed his forearm lightly against her collarbone, a clean subduing hold. Not painful. Just decisive.
Daiana froze for half a second, then let out a breath and raised a hand in mock surrender.
"All right. All right."
Isan released her gently, stepping back.
In the distance, Shira finished his last sprint, shoulders rising with each gasp of air. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he stopped, fists balled, knuckles red and shaking. His chest heaved in rhythm, breath harsh but unbroken, each inhale striking like a drumbeat.
For all the fatigue, his eyes never left the two forms exchanging blows in the near distance. He moved a step forward, about to join them, when a voice cut through the heat-humming air.
"Still wasting time on that reject?"