The training ground behind the academy was quiet in the early morning, save for the steady rhythm of fists striking wood.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Daigo's knuckles met the post again, each impact sending a jolt up his forearm. The scroll Instructor Hoshino had given him lay open on a flat rock nearby, its inked diagrams illuminated by the dim light of dawn.
He had been at it since before sunrise.
The diagrams were simple stances, footwork, strikes. But each one was paired with flowing lines meant to indicate chakra movement through the body. That was the part he didn't yet understand.
On Earth, every strike came from kinetic chain ground, hips, shoulders, arm. Here, there was… something else. Shinobi didn't just punch with muscle; they punched with force drawn from within.
"Again," Daigo muttered to himself. He shifted into a low stance, pushing off the ground with his back foot, driving his hips, and letting the punch extend imagining that strange energy moving with it.
The strike landed with a duller sound than he wanted.
"Not enough," he whispered.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke his focus.
"Oi, Renzaki!"
He didn't need to turn to know the voice Genma. Of course. The boy's tone was equal parts irritation and curiosity.
"You're here early," Daigo said without stopping his strikes.
"Wanted to see what kind of weird training you're doing." Genma stepped closer, eyeing the scroll. "Hoshino gave you that? Figures. He's always got a soft spot for underdogs."
Daigo kept his expression neutral. "You want something?"
Genma smirked. "Yeah. A rematch. But not in front of the class. Right now."
Daigo paused mid-strike. "Why?"
"Because I don't like losing to some nobody who doesn't even use ninjutsu."
Daigo studied him for a moment, then stepped back from the post. "…Fine. But no complaining when you lose again."
They squared off in the open dirt, the morning light casting long shadows.
Genma's stance was sharper this time tighter guard, feet more balanced. He'd been training too.
"Ready?" Daigo asked.
Genma didn't answer, just moved.
The first exchange was fast a jab-cross from Genma, blocked and redirected by Daigo. But instead of retreating, Genma followed with a sweeping kick aimed at Daigo's calf.
Daigo hopped back just in time, feeling the rush of air. Good recovery, he thought.
He stepped in with a feint a low punch that drew Genma's guard down then snapped a hook toward his jaw. Genma slipped it cleanly and countered with a rising knee.
Daigo absorbed the knee with his forearm and pushed off, creating distance.
"You've been practicing," Daigo said.
Genma grinned. "What, you think you're the only one who trains?"
They circled, feet kicking up small puffs of dirt.
This time, Daigo moved first a short lunge into a body shot. Genma twisted, letting the punch glance off his ribs, then stepped in close with an elbow strike. The blow landed against Daigo's shoulder, sending a shock down his arm.
Daigo exhaled sharply. The boy had some power now. Chakra reinforcement, even in small bursts, made every hit count.
Genma pressed forward, sensing an opening, but Daigo wasn't about to give ground. He shifted into a low stance, sweeping his leg in a tight arc. Genma's feet were knocked together, forcing him off-balance.
Daigo followed with a palm strike to the chest not a knockout blow, but enough to send him stumbling back three steps.
They reset.
For the next minute, neither landed a decisive hit. They traded jabs, kicks, and sweeps, each testing the other.
Daigo noted something important: Genma was using more feints now, more movement patterns that didn't match standard Leaf Style. He was experimenting.
Good, Daigo thought. That's how you grow.
But experimentation had risks.
On Genma's next advance, he overextended on a right cross. Daigo caught the wrist, pivoted, and hooked his arm under Genma's shoulder in a modified judo throw. The bigger boy hit the dirt with a thud.
Daigo stepped back, letting him up.
Genma rolled to his feet, breathing hard, and after a moment, he laughed. "Alright… you're better than I thought."
"Now you know," Daigo said, turning back to his post.
But Genma lingered. "One of these days, I'll beat you. Count on it."
Daigo didn't reply. He didn't need to rivalry didn't need words.
The rest of the day was filled with academy drills, but Daigo's mind kept drifting back to that fight. Not because of the outcome, but because of what he'd felt.
Each time Genma had landed a clean hit, there was that same density power beyond muscle. That was chakra at work.
If he wanted to keep winning, he had to learn it.
That evening, he returned to the training ground alone. He unrolled the scroll again, studying the chakra diagrams more carefully. The text beneath one image caught his attention:
"Begin by sensing the weight of your strike in the soles of your feet. Let the breath guide the energy upward, through the hips, into the shoulders, and finally into the fist. Without breath, there is no flow. Without flow, there is no power."
Daigo exhaled slowly. Breath as a conduit… that he could work with.
He settled into stance again. Inhale feel the ground underfoot. Exhale drive forward.
The first few strikes felt no different. But on the sixth, there was a subtle shift the impact against the post was sharper, more resonant.
His eyes narrowed. That… might have been something.
Again.
And again.
By the time the sky turned deep orange, his arms ached and his knuckles were raw. But every few strikes, he caught that faint sensation the brief moment when the body and something else moved as one.
He didn't know if it was truly chakra control yet. But it was a start.
As he packed up to leave, he heard movement in the trees.
From the shadows, a man in standard Konoha jōnin gear stepped into the clearing. His hair was tied back, his expression unreadable.
"You hit that post like you're trying to kill it," the man said.
Daigo straightened. "…Training."
The jōnin glanced at the scroll in his hand. "Hoshino gave you that? Thought so. He gives that to the ones who can take pain."
"Who are you?"
"Doesn't matter," the man said, stepping closer. "What matters is you're doing it wrong."
Daigo's jaw tightened. "I'm listening."
The jōnin tapped his own chest. "You're thinking of power as something you push forward. Here, we pull it in first, then let it explode out. Like drawing a bow before releasing the arrow."
He stepped back into stance, demonstrated a simple punch. There was no wasted movement just a short, sharp strike that split the air with a faint crack.
"That's the difference between a punch… and a shinobi's punch."
Daigo's eyes lit with something between curiosity and hunger. "Show me again."
The jōnin smirked. "That's better. Maybe you'll survive long enough to matter."
That night, Daigo lay awake on his thin futon, replaying the jōnin's words in his mind.
Pull in first. Release second.
In the octagon, he'd mastered the art of delivering force. Here, he'd learn the art of storing it first.
And when those two arts became one…
He smiled faintly in the dark.
The world wouldn't be ready.