Yoru sat cross-legged in the corner of the yard, far enough from the chaos that the other kids barely noticed him. The other kids were tearing around, shrieking, smacking each other with sticks. He didn't care.
He had already played enough pretend with them in guise of training his physical stats. Today he had something else on his mind.
Chakra.
He'd read about it. Watched videos. Poured over forums. Arguments online, fan theories, anime clips. A kind of energy that bent the rules, broke physics, rewrote logic. Walk on trees, breathe fire, summon creatures the size of buildings. All flashy, all dramatic. Fun to imagine, less fun to actually try.
He knew the theory. He understood the words. But knowing didn't mean doing.
Step one, the very basics, clicked in his mind: chakra wasn't magic. It was energy, and energy was balance. Two kinds, two halves. Physical, the body, the muscles, blood, breath. Spiritual, the mind and soul, the memories and willpower packed into a lifetime.
On paper, he had an advantage. A toddler frame with decades of memory shoved inside. A lifetime's worth of experience and thought, compressed into a body still learning to crawl properly. If souls had weight, the orphanage floorboards would have sagged the moment he was born.
But balance mattered. His body, frail and underfed, was the bottleneck. Arms like wet noodles. Legs that trembled after a single jump. His little frame wasn't just weak, it was a liability.
"Figures," he muttered.
So, the plan: step one wasn't controlling chakra. Step one was fixing the body.
He started small. Push-ups, three, arms shaking like wet paper. Sit-ups, five, stomach screaming. Squats, seven, thighs on fire. Every breath he drew felt shallow, weak, embarrassingly quick. And still he repeated it, careful not to push so hard that the matron would find him and say, "You're making yourself sick."
Three days in, another problem became obvious. Food. Or rather, the lack of it. Gruel. Stale rice. Watery soup. Enough to survive, not enough to train. Muscles need fuel. Recovery needs calories. Energy can't come from air. He had none of it.
He lay on his thin futon, staring at the ceiling. "I'm trying to grow crops without fertilizer. Brilliant," he muttered.
The next morning, the smell of cooking broth drifted through the orphanage. His stomach growled, betraying him. He'd need more than this to train. Running on porridge alone wouldn't unlock chakra. Simple math, even for a three-year-old.
So he tried the kitchen. Tugged at the sleeve of one of the older women stirring a pot.
"Can I help?" he asked, careful to sound innocent, his puppy eyes skill unleashed upon them.
"You? Help?" The woman raised an eyebrow. "You'd just get underfoot. Go play with the others."
Puppy eyes were not very effective.
So, Yoru added quickly, "I can… wash vegetables. Or scrub pots. Or… taste things. Quality control."
That earned a few chuckles, but no permission. Children didn't belong in kitchens. End of discussion.
Yoru didn't deny it. That was the point.
'Malnutrition is a debuff', he thought sourly. 'I can't unlock chakra if my body has no fuel. Every shōnen hero gets protein and rice balls. Me? Gruel. My stats are already nerfed before the game even starts.'
Then, a savior appeared in the form of a broad-shouldered man with flour on his apron. "Let him stay. You know the recruiters are coming. If he's going to be a shinobi, he'll need more than bones and gruel to hold a kunai. Better he gets extra now than collapses during training."
The other women frowned but didn't argue. Yoru kept his grin to himself. He didn't have to sneak food if someone justified it.
That night, while scrubbing bowls twice his size, he was "accidentally" handed scraps, extra bread crusts, a few beans, even a sliver of dried fish. Not much, but noticeable. Enough to make a difference.
He ate deliberately, like it was part of his training. Protein for muscles. Carbs for stamina. Salt for recovery. Every bite was an investment, a small deposit into a bank of strength he needed to survive the Academy. Other kids saw chores. Yoru saw an investment in muscle and survival, a foundation for something bigger.
His body responded. Push-ups climbed past five. Sit-ups, ten. Squats, fifteen. Breathing got easier. Small gains, but steady. He wasn't leaping over rooftops yet, but he could crawl through exhaustion without feeling like he'd die.
Then one evening, after another punishing set of squats, sweat dripping down his forehead, he paused. Sat, focusing on breath, on body. The warmth he sometimes imagined in his chest now moved, tangible and alive. A current down his arms when he willed it. A faint hum under his skin, pins and needles.
Not strong. Not dramatic. Not enough to ignite a leaf or crack stone. But it was real.
"…Finally," he whispered, voice low.
The first taste of chakra. Nothing more. But knowing it existed was everything. You could train it now. Shape it. Use it.
...
Visitors were rare these days. So when a figure appeared at the gate, robes crisp, headband catching the sunlight, the yard froze.
The matron rushed forward, worry etched deep. "Isn't this too early? They're only four, five-"
"No," the recruiter said, calm, measured, but carrying weight.
Even Yoru straightened up at the sternness of his voice. "The Third Ninja War is coming. Waiting will kill them. They must learn now. Chakra, taijutsu, survival. Skills decide who lives."
Yoru tilted his head.
Kakashi attended the academy at four, graduating at five. Harsh times bend the rules. Now it made sense.
"Children of age! Four, five, six! Step forward!" the recruiter shouted. "Those ready for Academy training, come now!"
The yard stilled. Nervous laughter, hesitant steps, clinging hands. Fear and curiosity tangled together, pushing kids into line. Tiny legs stumbled; little hands reached for support.
Yoru observed, cataloged. Who trembled, who rushed, who resisted. Data. Useful information. Always useful.
Then he stood. Not first, not last. Just another face in the crowd, unnoticed. Right where he wanted.
It's starting.
...
Thanks for reading~