The rhythm of the ocean became background noise. Renzo stood at the edge of Takehi's yard, barefoot, staring at a piece of driftwood half-buried in the sand. He crouched low, balanced his weight, and breathed in slowly.
His body resisted every movement.
The posture was familiar. His old instructors had drilled it into him a thousand times. But that body—taller, leaner, precise—was gone. This one was still a child's, awkward and stiff.
Still, he moved.
A palm strike into the air. A pivot. A tight exhale.
His breath came rougher than he liked. The sea air burned his lungs a little less each day.
"You're out early," Takehi called from the porch, hauling nets. "Again."
Renzo turned but didn't straighten from his stance. "Morning training."
Takehi chuckled. "Morning, noon, and night, seems like. What are you trying to do, punch the air into submission?"
"No," Renzo replied. "Just making sure I don't forget how to breathe."
The man studied him a moment, then nodded and left him to it.
Whale Island was simple—but not dull. Renzo walked the docks in the mornings, helped clean fish when Takehi let him, and listened more than he spoke. The locals didn't press too hard. They assumed he was some orphan washed in by fate.
He kept it that way.
In the afternoons, when no one was looking, he disappeared into the forest.
The forest was alive. Crickets chirped. Leaves whispered. Birds darted through branches.
It became his dojo.
He ran laps around the trees, balanced across fallen trunks, and practiced falling without sound. His form was sloppy, but his mind sharpened. Every day, his control improved. Every hour alone was another grain of strength earned.
Zetsu came first.
He didn't have a name for it yet, not really. Jack would teach him years later. But his instincts remembered how to silence breath, how to become smaller than a shadow.
At first, he could only hold it for seconds. Then minutes.
He used it to avoid the foxbear one afternoon. It passed within arm's reach and didn't even sniff.
That night, Takehi noticed the fresh scratch on Renzo's forearm. "Foxbear?"
Renzo nodded. "Didn't see me."
"You're lucky. Those things are mean in the spring."
"I was quieter than the wind."
Takehi raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Weeks passed.
Renzo kept his routine simple: chores, silence, training. His body toughened. He stopped flinching when falling. He stopped panting after runs. He started smiling more when he hit his targets clean.
But he never showed off.
Jack's voice didn't exist yet—but something inside whispered the same philosophy:
Gratitude. Discipline. Restraint.
One evening, Renzo climbed a tall rock overlooking the sea. He sat, legs crossed, and watched the sun slip behind the water. The waves lapped quietly against the cliffs.
"I'm here," he whispered to no one. "So I might as well make it count."
He closed his eyes.
Let his breath go still.
Let the wind pass through him like he wasn't even there.
The forest below hushed. A foxbear padded through, ears twitching. It paused, sniffed the air, then moved on.
Renzo stayed still until long after it was gone.
He opened his eyes.
"Step one," he said softly. "Control the breath."
Tomorrow, he would begin again.