The morning of Ryu's third birthday dawned crisp and clear, the sky a flawless canvas of pale blue. There were no presents wrapped in bright paper, no cake waiting on the kitchen table. The gift he was to receive today was one of knowledge, a key to a world far more dangerous and exhilarating than any toy. He had been vibrating with a quiet, intense anticipation since sunrise, a feeling that was a stark contrast to the somber tenderness in his parents' eyes.
They led him to a small, secluded clearing behind their home, a patch of earth worn smooth by time and shaded by a large, ancient-looking oak tree. The air was cool and smelled of damp soil and dewy leaves. Kizashi sat cross-legged on the ground, his usual boisterous energy subdued into a profound seriousness. Mebuki stood a few paces behind, her arms crossed, her expression a fragile mixture of pride and heart-wrenching worry.
"Alright, Ryu," Kizashi began, his voice a low, gentle rumble. He patted the ground in front of him. "Come, sit."
Ryu obeyed, his small body mimicking his father's posture. He looked into his father's eyes and saw not the goofy man who told terrible jokes, but a shinobi, however briefly his career had been.
"Today, we keep our promise," Kizashi continued, his gaze unwavering. "We will teach you about chakra. But first, you must understand what it is. It's not magic, son. It is life." He held up his hands. "Every living thing has it. It flows through you right now, like blood in your veins, but you can't see it or feel it yet."
Kizashi pressed one hand to his chest and the other to his forehead. "Chakra is born from two energies. The first is Physical Energy." He tapped his chest. "It is drawn from every single one of the countless cells in your body. It is your stamina, your vitality, your raw life force. The second," he tapped his forehead, "is Spiritual Energy. This comes from your mind. Your consciousness, your will, your experience. It is the energy of your soul."
Ryu listened, absorbing every word not as a child hearing a fantastic story, but as a student reviewing a vital lesson. He knew the theory, but hearing it from his father, seeing the earnest conviction in his eyes, made it real in a way no book ever could.
"To create chakra," Kizashi said, bringing his hands together and interlocking his fingers, "you must draw on both energies at once. You must mold them together inside you. Think of it like mixing blue paint and yellow paint to make green. Separately, they are just blue and yellow. But when you combine them, you create something new, something powerful."
"It has to be a perfect balance, Ryu-chan," Mebuki added, her voice soft but firm as she knelt beside her husband. "Too much physical energy, and you'll exhaust yourself to the point of collapse. Too much spiritual energy, and you won't be able to manifest anything real. It is a delicate, personal balance."
"Close your eyes," Kizashi instructed. "Don't think about the world around you. Don't listen to the birds or feel the wind. Go inside yourself. Search for a warmth deep in your stomach. That is where your energy sleeps. Find it… and will it to awaken."
Ryu closed his eyes, the world dissolving into a red-tinged darkness behind his eyelids. He followed his father's instructions, pushing away all distractions. His mind, the mind of Blake, was accustomed to focus, but this was different. He wasn't solving a problem; he was searching for a feeling. For long minutes, there was nothing. Just the rhythmic beat of his own tiny heart. He felt a flicker of frustration, the adult part of him impatient with this childish ineptitude. Patience, he told himself. You are three. It isn't supposed to be easy.
He let go of the frustration and just… reached. He imagined a warm, sleeping core inside him. He pictured the energy in every muscle fiber, every bone, every drop of blood, and the energy of his memories, his resolve, his very consciousness. He envisioned them flowing towards that central point, a blue river and a yellow river converging.
And then he felt it.
It started as a faint tingle, a barely-there warmth just below his navel. It was like the first hint of sun on a cold morning. He focused on it, nurtured it. The warmth grew, spreading through his torso in gentle, pulsing waves. A soft, blue-white light bloomed behind his eyelids, and he felt a hum of power, a vibrant, living energy that was uniquely his. It filled him with a sense of vitality so profound it was almost overwhelming.
He opened his eyes, a gasp escaping his lips. His parents were watching him, their faces etched with awe.
"You did it," Mebuki whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.
Kizashi's serious facade broke, a massive, proud grin splitting his face. "Incredible… On your first try…" He shook his head in disbelief before his expression sobered again. "Feeling it is one thing, Ryu. Controlling it is another."
He plucked a leaf from a low-hanging branch of the oak tree. "This is your first real lesson." He placed the leaf on his forehead, where it stuck fast as if glued. "Chakra control. The art of releasing a precise, constant flow of energy. Too little, and the leaf falls. Too much,"—he flared his chakra, and the leaf was blasted a foot into the air—"and you push it away. You must find the perfect, gentle stream."
He handed a leaf to Ryu. With a newfound confidence, Ryu focused, trying to replicate the feeling. He channeled a sliver of his newly awakened energy up to his forehead and pressed the leaf to his skin. It immediately fell to his lap. He tried again, focusing harder. This time, the leaf fluttered for a second before sliding off. On his third try, he overcompensated, and the leaf shot off his head like a flicked coin.
Frustration pricked at him again, but he looked at his parents' patient smiles. This was the work. This was the grind.
For the rest of the morning, they moved from chakra theory to the foundation of all shinobi arts: taijutsu.
"Chakra is a powerful tool, but your body is your most fundamental weapon," Kizashi explained, standing in the center of the clearing. "Without a strong foundation, all the chakra in the world is useless."
He demonstrated the basic academy stance: feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, one arm forward and one back, body coiled like a spring. "Your center of gravity must be low. You must be balanced, ready to move in any direction at a moment's notice."
Ryu tried to copy him. It was a disaster. His legs were too short, his torso too round, his sense of balance still developing. He wobbled, his arms feeling like lead weights. Kizashi was a gentle but demanding instructor. He would physically adjust Ryu's feet, press down on his shoulders to lower his stance, and tap his back to remind him to keep it straight. It was grueling. Every muscle in his small body screamed in protest. The sun climbed higher, and sweat beaded on his brow, plastering his pink hair to his forehead.
"Again," Kizashi would say, his voice kind but unyielding.
"Lower," Mebuki would murmur, correcting his form.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Kizashi clapped his hands. "Alright. Let's see what you've learned. A light spar. Just to feel the flow of combat."
Ryu's heart hammered with a mix of fear and excitement. Kizashi stood opposite him, a relaxed smile on his face. "Come on, son. Show me what you've got."
Ryu fell into the stance, his body aching. He drew on his memories of countless anime fights, of logic and strategy. His father was bigger, stronger, faster. A direct attack was foolish. He needed to be quick, to use his small size to his advantage.
He darted forward, aiming a clumsy punch at his father's knee. Kizashi didn't even seem to move. He simply shifted his weight, and Ryu's fist sailed through empty air, throwing him off balance. He stumbled, catching himself just before he fell.
"Good idea, bad execution," Kizashi commented calmly. "You left yourself wide open. Try again."
Ryu growled in frustration. He circled his father, looking for an opening. He feinted left, then darted right, his small legs pumping. He threw a kick, putting all his meager strength into it. Kizashi simply raised his hand and caught Ryu's ankle in his palm, his grip gentle but utterly immovable.
"You're fast, but your movements are too big. Every step is a telegraph," Kizashi said, releasing him.
Ryu was panting, his lungs burning. This was infuriating. His mind knew what to do, but his body was a clumsy, weak prison. He channeled his frustration into one last, desperate rush, screaming a wordless cry as he charged.
He saw his father's hand moving, but it was too slow to be a block, too gentle to be a strike. Before Ryu could even register it, two of Kizashi's fingers tapped him lightly on the forehead. The force was negligible, but it stopped him dead in his tracks. He stood there, frozen, his attack completely nullified.
It was the same gesture Itachi would one day use with Sasuke. A gesture of love, of dominance, of the vast, unbridgeable gulf between them.
Defeated, Ryu dropped his arms, his shoulders slumping. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
Kizashi knelt, his expression softening. He pulled his son into a hug, his large frame enveloping Ryu completely. "You did so well," he whispered into his son's hair. "I am so, so proud of you, Ryu."
Mebuki joined the hug, her arms wrapping around both of them. "Your determination is incredible," she murmured, her cheek pressed against his. "Never lose that."
Held in the warm, loving embrace of the family he had dreamed of for a lifetime, Ryu's frustration melted away, replaced by a deep, burning resolve. He was weak. He was clumsy. He was just a child. But this was only his first day. And he had a lifetime to get stronger.