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Chapter: Shadows Beneath the Surface
Kirito's days fell into a rhythm — one that looked ordinary from the outside but was anything but.
At the academy, he sat at his desk like every other student, yawning through lectures and stumbling just enough in sparring to remain unremarkable. In truth, the Kirito that listened to sensei drone about chakra molding was a clone, a perfect replica that absorbed the monotony.
The real Kirito lived elsewhere.
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That first week after mastering water walking, Kaito waved him over after class.
"Come on, Kirito! Let's hit the training field. I've been practicing shuriken throws — I bet I can hit three targets at once now!" Kaito's grin was wide, eager.
Hana stood beside him, quiet as usual but watching with expectant eyes.
Kirito forced a smile. "Sorry, guys. I need to go somewhere ."
Kaito groaned, throwing up his hands. "Again? You're always busy!"
"I'll come next time," Kirito lied smoothly. "I promise."
He didn't look back when their shoulders sagged. The disappointment stung, but not enough to break his resolve.
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At the pond, the water shimmered with fading sunlight. Kirito stepped lightly onto the surface, chakra coursing to his soles. For a heartbeat he stood still, perfectly balanced. Then he took a running step, then another. The water rippled beneath him but held.
"Better," he muttered.
He crouched, launched himself forward — and landed smoothly, feet kissing the surface without sinking. Triumph sparked in his chest. For once, the jutsu didn't feel like a borrowed technique from a scroll. It was his.
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The real battle was with the Shadow Clone Jutsu.
Each evening, the clearing echoed with sharp breaths and the thud of knees hitting dirt. Kirito's fingers flashed through the seals — Ram, Snake, Tiger — and with a shout, he released his chakra. Smoke erupted.
When it cleared, the clone that stood before him flickered, its face warped, its body unstable. A second later, it popped out of existence.
"Damn it," he hissed, collapsing onto the grass. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. The drain left his limbs trembling.
Night after night, he tried again. Dozens of failures. Hundreds. Until—
One evening, the smoke cleared, and a boy identical to him stood steady, eyes sharp, chakra flow smooth. The clone raised an eyebrow.
"About time," it said with his own voice.
Kirito laughed weakly. "Shut up." But relief surged through him. He had done it.
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With mastery came opportunity.
The next morning, as the bell rang at the academy, a clone shuffled dutifully into class. Meanwhile, the true Kirito slipped away beneath a Transformation Jutsu, vanishing into the forest.
There, training grew darker. The scrolls he had uncovered spoke of concealment arts — how to compress chakra until even a sensor could not detect it. Kirito experimented for hours, sweat dripping as he forced his chakra inward, muting its presence until it was a faint whisper.
One evening, a jonin in a high-collared jacket walked the path near his training ground. Panic struck. Instinctively, Kirito folded his chakra in on itself.
The jonin passed within ten steps, eyes forward, never once glancing his way.
When the man disappeared down the road, Kirito released his breath. His heart pounded with exhilaration. It worked. He didn't even see me.
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Caution gave way to boldness.
Weeks later, under the veil of concealment, Kirito slipped into a weapons shop at night. Kunai, shuriken, a coil of ninja wire, explosive tags — he gathered them in silence. His hand lingered on a sword of fine steel. He took it, too.
The next day, whispers of the theft buzzed through the village. Teams of shinobi scoured alleys and rooftops. Kirito stayed in his apartment, a clone handling classes, his real self cloaked in stillness. Two weeks passed before the search dwindled.
By then, the sword felt like an extension of his arm.
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Time flowed. A year slipped past, classmates failing one after another, unable to awaken chakra. Even Kaito and Hana were sent home. Kirito stood among the few who remained. Outwardly ordinary. Inwardly transformed.
He now commanded four shadow clones at once, each assigned a task: weapons, concealment and chakra threads, elemental training, and the daunting study of the Rasengan.
The original Kirito honed his taijutsu, body moving with sharp precision. But at school he masked it all, pulling his strikes, fumbling his footwork.
A whisper passed through the classroom one day:
"Did you hear? Itachi Uchiha is graduating. At seven."
The name made Kirito's stomach twist. He bowed his head, expression neutral. Inside, his thoughts hardened.
Avoid him at all costs.
And so the years continued — Kirito, the quiet, forgettable boy.
And Kirito, the hidden shadow sharpening his blades beneath the surface.
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