Renji's nights stretched long into the hours when the village slept. The backyard behind their modest home had become a battlefield of broken earth, scorched wood, and scattered puddles. Each fireball he released left blackened marks on posts, every water jet splashed mud into the corners, and the ground bore jagged spikes from his earth experiments.
Miyako watched him with quiet diligence during the evenings she was home. Her corrections were precise—his hand seals, his stance, the way his chakra flowed into the flames. "Again," she said, her voice steady. "Do not rush the fire. Respect it. It does not forgive mistakes."
Renji obeyed, his lips pressed tight, yet his mind wandered elsewhere. Fire was only a fraction of what he wanted to understand. Earth, water—they held secrets, patterns, and potential. His curiosity burned hotter than the flames he shaped.
When Miyako was away on missions, sometimes for a night, sometimes longer, Renji's experiments became bolder. Kneeling in the soil, he pressed his chakra into the ground. Early attempts produced nothing but fatigue and scraped palms. One night, he pushed too far, and a jagged pillar of earth shot up, unsteady but real. He collapsed onto the grass, laughing with disbelief. It listened to me.
Soon, he refined it. The rough, uneven spikes became sharper, more controlled, though still unstable. Each success, each failure, taught him patience.
Water proved far more temperamental. He filled a wooden basin, shaping chakra over the surface, trying to mimic the seals of fire jutsu. Time after time, the water remained stubborn. Splashes soaked him. Bowls overturned. Still, he persisted.
Then, during a stormy night, the breakthrough came. Lightning illuminated the yard, reflecting off the water as his chakra shaped it into a surging arc. The jet shot upward, crashing into the fence, spraying him with cold droplets. He grinned despite shivering. His first Surging Water Orb had taken form, fragile but undeniable.
Renji was relentless. By combining the fireball's form with water and earth, he attempted crude adaptations: water bullets that spat in arcs like fire sparks, hardened mud projectiles that cracked against the fence. Many failed, some exploded in wild steam and dirt, leaving him coughing and covered in debris. But each attempt brought him closer.
Then came the night he tried to push the boundaries further, attempting to merge two chakra natures. Fire and water. Fire and earth. His palms shook as he pushed the flows together. Sparks and steam erupted violently, the earth under his hands splitting. He was thrown back, arms scraped, skin scorched, and blood dotted the ground.
But the wound that should have taken days to heal vanished within hours. Renji stared at his arm, wide-eyed, the realization dawning that his body refused to remain broken. He touched the faint scar and whispered, "This… this is impossible."
Miyako returned at dawn. Her sharp eyes caught the redness along his arm as he tried to hide it beneath his sleeve. "Renji," she said firmly. "What happened?"
"I—I tripped while practicing fireballs," he stammered.
She reached out, lifting his sleeve despite his hesitation. The fresh scar drew a sharp intake of breath from her. Her eyes narrowed, though she quickly masked it with controlled calm.
"This wound… should have taken days," she murmured. Her voice softened only slightly. "But you're almost healed. Renji, listen carefully. No one must know of this—not the Uchiha, not the villagers, not even the Hokage. Power like this draws attention. Dangerous attention."
"Yes, Mother," he whispered, heart hammering. Excitement burned in his chest, tempered by fear.
Days turned into weeks. Renji's training intensified. Each night, he pushed his limits further—longer sequences of water bullets, higher spikes of earth, more precise fireballs. He practiced combinations quietly, testing how two elements could interact without revealing his experiments to Miyako.
The backyard became a maze of mud, dirt, and scorch marks. Splashes of water hung like jewels in the air in the early moonlight. Each failure left him exhausted, each success made him grin with silent pride. He was no longer just a boy following instructions; he was a creator, experimenting with forces few could imagine.