Salt stung his throat. Cold water pulled at his limbs, each wave crashing against him with brutal indifference. Renzo kicked, twisted, reached for air—but his arms felt too short, his body too weak.
A voice shouted from the distance. "Hang on, kid!"
Rough hands grabbed him. A sharp cough wracked his chest as he was hauled through the surf. Sand bit into his skin as the water gave way to land. He blinked hard, vision blurring between foam and sky.
"Easy now," the man said, kneeling beside him. "Breathe. You're safe."
Renzo coughed again, the taste of salt still in his mouth. "Where… am I?"
"Whale Island," the man answered. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-darkened skin and a voice like weathered driftwood. "Name's Takehi. You almost didn't make it. Are you hurt?"
Renzo tried to sit up. His muscles trembled. "No. I don't think so."
His mind reeled. There were fragments—distant roars of a crowd, the dull thud of gloves against pads, belts, tournaments, a strategy that once defined his life. But this body? Too small. Too light. No strength. He looked at his hands.
A child's hands.
"I don't remember much," Renzo said, voice flat but careful.
Takehi studied him but didn't push. "Let's get you inside. We'll talk when you're warm and fed."
He offered a hand. Renzo took it.
Takehi's home was simple—a fisherman's house near the docks, nets hung on the beams, the smell of fish and woodsmoke in the air. The island buzzed outside with daily life: gulls cawing, waves crashing, villagers calling from boat to boat.
Renzo sat quietly at the table, wrapped in a towel, sipping warm broth.
"You've got the look of someone who's seen things," Takehi said, not unkindly. "Strange for a boy your age."
"Maybe I have," Renzo said. "But it's all fog now. I only remember… fragments. A dojo. A fight. A fall. Then the sea."
"That's enough for now," Takehi said.
And just like that, the questioning ended.
The days passed.
Renzo stayed near the docks at first, watching the boats, helping where he could. Takehi taught him to knot ropes, clean fish, haul gear. But it was the forest that called to him.
He started training in secret.
His body felt awkward, limbs too light, but his mind remembered the rhythm—footwork drills, breathing patterns, how to keep centerline, how to fall and roll and strike. He adapted the old forms to this new frame.
Takehi caught him one morning, shadowboxing near the treeline.
"You move like someone taught you."
"I think they did," Renzo replied, pausing. "It's just… muscle memory."
Takehi nodded once. "Keep your balance. But don't hurt yourself chasing ghosts."
Renzo didn't answer. But inside, he knew—this wasn't about ghosts. It was about surviving.
By the end of the week, Renzo had carved a path into the forest.
He mapped tree lines in his head, used fallen logs for balance drills, sprinted up slopes with ragged breath. He tested his kicks on bark, his punches on air. Every day, his control improved. Zetsu came naturally—shutting out the world, silencing breath.
He wasn't ready to use aura yet, not like Jack would teach him years later. But the instinct was there.
And every night, after washing off dirt and sweat, he'd lie on the beach, staring up at the stars.
This wasn't a second chance.
It was a challenge.
Renzo didn't know who or what had brought him here. But he would master this body, this world, this life.
And no one would ever know the truth he carried inside.