Chakra.
Everything in this world boiled down to it. The power system, the lifeline, the thing that decided whether you survived or not.
To grow stronger, you needed two things: capacity and control.
Capacity was simple enough. How much chakra your body could hold and produce. Most people's reserves grew as they aged, shaped by their health, their spirit, and, if they were lucky, the bloodline they'd been born into.
Yoru had none of that luxury. No special heritage, no kekkei genkai tucked up his sleeve.
Of course, having the meta knowledge, he also knew other ways, like Tailed Beast, Sage mode, inner gates, etc.
But those were pipe dreams for him.
Becoming a Jinchūriki? Forget it. That was the kind of gamble you didn't walk away from unless the gods were feeling generous. Yoru remembered how Gaara could throw around sand like it was nothing, could blanket entire forests in a heartbeat. The sheer chakra behind that was something even seasoned jōnin couldn't keep up with. That wasn't just strength. That was a monster living in your chest.
And Sage Mode? Also off the table. Three holy places, three contracts, three ways to get eaten alive if you didn't measure up. Even Jiraiya, one of the Sannin, couldn't master it fully. Yoru wasn't about to delude himself. Not yet. Maybe never.
So, the only thing left for him was the basics. The honest, boring grind. Strengthening his body. Sharpening his mind. Learning to pull every drop of chakra out of himself and then learning how not to waste it.
The Akimichi were proof that raw physicality could turn into overwhelming power. Choji could scarf down a bag of chips and then bulldoze through an army if he wanted to. Yoru didn't have their clan techniques, but he could build his body. He already had been.
Which meant the next step wasn't about capacity, it was control.
That's why he was here.
...
The morning air was still cool when Yoru slipped into the woods. Mist clung low across the ferns, dew dripping from spiderwebs. His kit was simple: a pouch of stones, a stub of candle, and a coil of thin string.
Chakra was about flow. Balance. Precision. The Academy had its classics, leaf balancing, tree climbing, water-walking. Yoru knew them, but he wanted more. Variations. Angles. A dozen ways to push the same skill until it fractured into something useful.
And thankfully, being a transmigrator, knowledge was one thing he never lacked. After all, chakra had a lot in common with other power systems, and he had devoured enough literature to find something useful
He began simple.
Leaf Drill.
He pressed a maple leaf to his forehead. Chakra held it there. Easy.
Moving was harder. Jog, crouch, roll. Sweat dripped down his neck. The leaf didn't fall.
"Control means flow under distraction," he muttered. "If I can sprint without losing it, I can fight without losing focus."
Pebble Hovering.
Three stones, palms up. First one floated. Second, okay. Third wobbled, almost fell. Damn. Hands shaking, he adjusted. All three hovered together. Not perfect. Not graceful. But it worked.
Water Step.
Shoes off. Mud squished under his toes. He pushed chakra to his feet, skimming the shallows. Step one. Step two. Step three, still good. Step four, splash. Ankles wet, mud squelching. Reset, try again.
Every step a tiny calculation. Too little chakra, he sank. Too much, he skipped.
Candle Flame.
A stub of wax on a flat stone. Cross-legged, chakra to his fingertips. The flame flickered. Too much, it died. Too little, it ignored him. Hours passed, his focus stretched. Precision over force.
Thread Control.
A pebble tied to a string. Pulse chakra through it, making it twitch, whip, arc. He drove it through hoops made from bent branches. Not ninjutsu, not yet. But close to a puppet user's finesse. Every tug tested focus.
By midday, his shirt stuck to his back, sweat and dirt streaked his legs, muscles burning.
Leaf for constancy. Pebbles for division. Water for adaptability. Candle for subtlety. Thread for application.
Not exercises. A map. A way forward.
"It seems being an otaku does have its advantages," Yoru muttered, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
...
The academy courtyard buzzed with motion. Students ran in lines, sparred in pairs, and darted between practice posts.
It had been about a week since the start of the academy year.
Yoru scanned the scene from the sidelines. Clan kids moved with confidence. Civilians and orphans fumbled, their efforts clumsy but honest.
When he had nothing to do, he usually observed them. Try to learn skills, understand them. Moreover, it wasn't just about taijutsu either; it was understanding people, predicting behavior, exploiting openings, and learning faster than anyone else.
'Mind games would probably become essential.' Yoru thought, 'I can only practice to embrace, adapt and overcome.'
The instructor's call snapped him out of thought.
"Asuma. Yoru. Pair up."
A ripple of attention swept through the courtyard.
Asuma Sarutobi, son of the Hokage, strolled forward with the ease of someone who'd never had to doubt his place. His grin was cocky, not malicious, but dismissive, like he already knew the outcome. His stance radiated confidence: chin lifted, shoulders relaxed, every step balanced.
Yoru tilted his head slightly, studying him. 'Refined, yes. Fluid, yes. But arrogance dulls awareness. He's not focuing on me, but those of clans. Might be my chance.'
"Begin!"
Asuma stepped in first, not rushing. A testing jab, sharp but casual. His eyes glimmered with mischief, or maybe just arrogance. Yoru slipped sideways, minimal effort, measuring the rhythm.
'Opening gambit, controlled distance test. Doesn't commit. Means he wants to toy with me before finishing it.' Yoru thought as he controlled his stance.
"Come on," Asuma said, smirk widening, "don't freeze up now."
Yoru didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he slid forward, a quick jab to the ribs. Controlled, deliberate, not meant to hurt, meant to probe.
It landed. A clean touch.
Asuma blinked in faint surprise before grinning wider. "Oh? Not bad."
The crowd murmured. A civilian orphan landing a strike on the Hokage's son wasn't nothing.
Asuma adjusted, his next steps sharper, combos flowing faster. A jab high, a sweep low, a hook toward Yoru's ribs. His rhythm had changed, more focused, less lazy. Yoru blocked one, slipped past another, absorbed a third with a grunt. He flicked a counter to Asuma's shoulder, then another graze to his forearm.
'Pattern shift: casual to serious. Testing over, now he's leaning into muscle memory. Guard opens for half-seconds after each sweep. Exploit timing, not strength.' Yoru kept his eye open for any surprise attack.
Asuma chuckled. "You're stubborn. I like that." His grin thinned just a fraction.
Yoru's lips curved faintly. Got under your skin.
He darted in again, trying to slip past Asuma's guard, only to find the gap closing faster this time. Asuma's body reacted without thought, honed reflexes snapping into place. Yoru barely registered the blur before a controlled strike staggered him back, and then Asuma's foot hooked his balance.
The mat slammed into Yoru's back. Breath left him in a rush.
The instructor clapped once. "Point to Asuma."
Asuma leaned down, voice low. "You've got eyes. Quick feet. But you'll need more than scratches to win." His tone was confident, almost approving, but still tinged with superiority.
Yoru stared up at the sky, chest heaving, mind replaying the exchange frame by frame.
Asuma was trained by the best of the best in taijutsu. This gap was not something that could be overcome by mere observation. His body was well nourished, compared to Yoru.
Of course, those were just excuses.
Yoru sighed, quickly calming down his thoughts.
He sat up slowly, jaw tightening. Loss wasn't the problem. Losing without learning, that was failure. And today, he had learned plenty.
He'd landed a blow.
Next time, it would be more than one.
...
Thanks for reading~