The bruise on Yoru's jaw throbbed every time he spoke, a dull reminder of Asuma's fist. He rolled it carefully with his hand as the instructor dismissed the class.
Losing wasn't surprising. Asuma had the Hokage's resources, clan training, a head start in taijutsu fundamentals. Yoru had… well, nothing much except one or two videos about fighting lessons.
Still, it wasn't useless. Every punch, every stumble told him something. Asuma's stance was wide, his punches heavy but committed. Yoru had slipped a few in, clumsy but true, and that was enough to map out the gap.
He didn't need to be born with perfect form. He just needed someone to grind his body into the right shape.
That's when he noticed him.
A blur of green, pounding around the dirt track long after class was dismissed. Bushy hair bouncing, sweat flying in arcs, breath tearing from his lungs like each inhale might break him.
Might Guy. Not yet the legendary jōnin. Just a boy hammering at a locked door, desperate to be let inside. in the current timeline, he had not yet successfully molded his chakra.
Yoru leaned against the fence, watching him circle. "You know, most people would've given up by now," he called.
Gai stumbled but didn't stop. "Youth… does not surrender!" he bellowed between breaths.
Yoru's lips twitched. "Sure. But the academy might, if you keep passing out in the dirt before the gates open."
That earned him a sharp glance, wide eyes burning with something between challenge and desperation. Gai slowed, jogging to a halt a few feet away, sweat dripping from his chin.
"Who are you?"
"Yoru," he said simply. Then, after a pause: "I'm in Section Two. Lost to the Hokage's kid today. So I figure, if I'm going to get good at taijutsu, I might as well learn from someone insane enough to run himself into the ground every morning."
Gai blinked.
Then, to Yoru's mild amusement, grinned wide, teeth flashing. "Then you recognize the Flames of Youth!"
"More like the fumes of overtraining," Yoru deadpanned. "But yeah, sure. Flames."
He studied Gai, taking in every detail, the raw effort, the cracked hands, the legs trembling but still holding. No technique, no polish, but willpower distilled into muscle.
Yoru's meta-awareness filled in the rest.
This boy would become one of the strongest taijutsu users alive. Not because of talent, but because he refused to stop.
And that was exactly the kind of foundation Yoru needed.
"Listen," Yoru said, stepping closer, voice low. "You're going to get into the academy. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But the fact that you're still here, running while everyone else is at dinner? That's the kind of thing they can't ignore forever. You're too stubborn to fail."
Gai's eyes widened, the grin softening into something more honest. "You… you believe that?"
"Believe it? I've seen it." Yoru smirked faintly, tapping his temple. "Trust me. One day, they'll regret not letting you in sooner."
Gai stared at him like he'd just been handed a prophecy. Then, with a laugh that shook his chest, he slapped Yoru on the shoulder, too hard, making him stumble.
"Then we will train together! From this day forth, Yoru, we will push each other toward the springtime of our youth!"
Yoru steadied himself, jaw aching, shoulder stinging, and sighed. "Great. Springtime of youth, just what I need."
Still, inside, he allowed himself a small flicker of satisfaction. Losing to Asuma wasn't the end. It was the start. He'd found his way forward for now.
And it was running circles with Might Guy.
...
Instructor Shirakawa.
The academy quieted after the last bell, children scattering in noisy clusters. Shirakawa remained behind to straighten his desk until he realized one boy hadn't left.
Yoru.
The boy stood near the door, not shifting from foot to foot, not staring at the floor. Just waiting for something.
Shirakawa raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
Yoru stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Instructor Shirakawa, may I use the school's kunai and shuriken after class? I don't have any of my own to practice with."
The request was delivered plainly, without shame. Not a trace of the wheedling tone most children used when they wanted something.
Shirakawa studied him. "And you'll take care of them properly? No rust, no dents?"
"Yes, sir."
The boy's eyes didn't waver. He meant it. Shirakawa let out a small breath, unlocked the supply cabinet, and handed him a set. "Very well. Come."
The practice yard was empty except for the two of them. Yoru took position before the straw targets, a kunai held in his small hand. His grip was… wrong, but not disastrously so.
He threw.
The weapon spun once, twice, and struck with the blade, not the handle, sinking into the edge of the target. A respectable first hit.
Most academy students scattered throws like blindfolded children tossing pebbles. Yoru adjusted his stance, as if pondering the result, and threw again. This one landed closer to the centre. The third even more so..
Shirakawa leaned against the fence, arms folded. That wasn't just luck. That was an aim for someone who had practiced.
"Stop."
Yoru froze mid-motion. Shirakawa approached, tugged his elbow down, shifted his feet. "Your power bleeds off when your shoulder rides high. Relax. Guide the kunai, don't strangle it."
He threw once to demonstrate, the kunai whistling through the air, sinking clean into the bullseye.
The boy's eyes narrowed, not in awe, but in calculation. Then he copied the movement. The throw wasn't perfect, but it was startlingly close. Too close for a beginner.
Shirakawa hid his surprise beneath a neutral expression. "Again."
Again, the boy threw, correcting faster than most genin recruits ever managed. Within minutes, his grouping tightened, the weapons clustering in a ragged circle near the target's center. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his breathing was steady, his focus unbroken.
"It seems you have practiced before?" Shirakawa asked the kid.
"Yeah. I used pebbles." Yoru spoke between breaths. "I figured it would be helpful when throwing a real kunai."
There it was, that subtle spark that marked the difference between ordinary students and something more. Willingness to train more. Do more.
The sun dipped lower, painting the yard gold. Yoru's shirt clung to him with sweat, his arm trembling from repetition, yet his eyes never lost their sharpness. His last throw struck just shy of dead center.
Shirakawa gathered the weapons, weighing them in his hand. He didn't praise aloud; such things inflated heads too quickly. But inwardly, he acknowledged what he'd seen.
Not just diligence. Talent.
And talent paired with that stubborn work ethic… that was worth noting.
"Enough for today," Shirakawa said, masking his thoughts with practiced calm. "Clean the blades before you return them. Tomorrow, we'll check your form again."
The boy nodded, simple as ever.
As Shirakawa watched him carry the weapons off, he found himself unsettled. Not in a bad way, more the way a veteran soldier felt watching the first glint of steel in an untested recruit.
A boy like Yoru could either burn out or burn brighter than all the rest.
And Shirakawa wasn't sure yet which it would be.
...
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