Ryu's fourth birthday was not a grand affair, but the warmth within the Haruno home could have rivaled the sun. Mebuki had spent the morning baking a fluffy, strawberry-filled cake, and the sweet aroma clung to every corner of the house. Simple paper streamers hung from the ceiling, and a small pile of awkwardly wrapped gifts sat on the table.
For Ryu, the celebration was a cherished, sun-drenched pause in his otherwise storm-filled life of training. He sat at the head of the small table, a paper crown slightly askew on his pink hair, a genuine, childish smile gracing his face.
Hana arrived like a miniature typhoon, her two ninken puppies, the Haimaru Brothers, yapping at her heels. She slammed a crudely wrapped package on the table. "Happy birthday, Ryu! I got you something awesome!" she declared. Inside was a set of weighted training wristbands. "So you can keep up!" she added with a toothy grin.
Itachi's arrival was the complete opposite. He entered with a quiet grace, bowing politely to Kizashi and Mebuki before presenting Ryu with a small, perfectly wrapped box. His gift was a single, flawlessly balanced kunai, its steel gleaming. "A shinobi must be familiar with the weight of their tools," he said, his voice soft and serious. "Happy birthday, Ryu."
The party was a picture of simple joy. Kizashi made a fool of himself trying to juggle oranges, Mebuki served slices of cake so large they threatened to topple over, and Hana challenged everyone, including her puppies, to arm-wrestling matches. Through it all, Ryu and Itachi watched with a shared, quiet amusement, a bond of understanding passing between the two old souls in young bodies. Seeing his son laugh so freely, surrounded by friends, was a gift to Kizashi and Mebuki that outweighed any other.
That pleasant peace, however, was a prelude to a new and brutal reality. In the park a few days later, the dynamic of their spars shattered.
"Alright, Ryu! Let's go!" Hana yelled, dropping into her familiar Inuzuka stance. But this time, something was different. A faint shimmer of blue chakra enveloped her. "Beast Human Clone!" she barked. In an instant, one of her ninken transformed, its body reshaping into a perfect, feral copy of Hana.
Ryu's eyes widened. He now faced two Hanas, both moving with the same predatory speed.
Before he could react, Itachi, standing opposite him, formed a rapid series of hand signs. "Fire Style: Great Fireball Jutsu!" He inhaled deeply and expelled a small, controlled sphere of fire that shot past Ryu's head and slammed into a distant boulder, blackening the stone with a loud hiss. It wasn't an attack, but a demonstration—a declaration of a new level of combat.
The spar began. It was no longer a contest of taijutsu; it was a desperate struggle for survival. Ryu's practiced blocks and counters were useless. He would dodge an attack from the real Hana only to be tackled from the side by her ninken clone. He would close in on Itachi, only for the Uchiha to dissolve into a puff of smoke—a simple Clone Jutsu—while the real one appeared behind him for a gentle but firm tap that signified a finishing blow.
No matter how many times he was knocked into the dirt, his body aching and his lungs screaming for air, he would get back up. He'd wipe the blood from his lip, his emerald eyes burning with a ferocious, unyielding light.
"Maybe we should stop, Ryu," Itachi said, his voice laced with concern as Ryu staggered to his feet for the tenth time.
"No," Ryu rasped, spitting out a fleck of dirt. He settled back into his stance, his small body trembling with exhaustion but his will an unbreakable fortress. "Again."
Hana and Itachi exchanged a look. They saw his raw, terrifying determination and understood. This wasn't just a game for him. It was everything.
That defeat became the furnace that forged his new training regimen. He became a man possessed. He would sit under the old oak tree for hours on end, a single leaf held delicately between his fingers. He poured his wind-natured chakra into it, trying to sharpen it, to make it cut. The leaf would tremble, sometimes gaining a razor-sharp edge for a fleeting moment, but it wouldn't split. His frustration was a physical thing, a knot in his stomach. When the mental strain became too much, he would go to the park, seeking the clarity of combat, using his spars with Hana and Itachi to reset his mind.
His life became a blur of activity. In the mornings, he helped his parents. Their small business involved collecting specific medicinal herbs from the forest, a task that sharpened his senses and stamina. Back home, he would spend hours with a mortar and pestle, his small arms aching as he ground the dried plants into fine powders. They paid him a small amount for his work, and every coin was saved with a singular purpose.
With a pouch full of change, he walked into the village's main ninja supply store. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow at the four-year-old standing before his counter.
"I'd like to purchase a set of basic gravity seals," Ryu said, his voice clear and steady.
After a moment of stunned silence, the shopkeeper complied. Ryu, using the knowledge from his past life, started slow. He applied the seals to his ankles and wrists, setting them to a barely-there weight. It was just enough to create a constant, dull ache, a reminder of his weakness and a catalyst for his growth.
In the seclusion of his room, he practiced the three Academy Jutsu. His first attempts at the Transformation Jutsu resulted in a warped, lopsided version of his father. His initial Clone Jutsu produced pale, ghost-like illusions that flickered and died within seconds. But after two weeks of relentless practice, he achieved a breakthrough. His transformations became flawless. His clones were solid and believable. Now, his goal was refinement. He would practice the hand seals until they were a blur, then try to perform the jutsu with only one hand, and finally, with no seals at all, just a focused pulse of chakra.
His final test of basic chakra control was tree climbing. He stood at the base of the oak tree that had witnessed so many of his frustrations. Recalling his parents' lessons, he focused a constant, steady stream of chakra to the soles of his feet and took a step onto the vertical trunk. His foot stuck. He took another. His chakra output wavered, and he slipped, catching himself with his hands.
But his control, honed by hours with the leaf and the river, was now on another level. Within three days, the initial awkwardness was gone. He could sprint up the side of the tree as if it were flat ground. He would spend hours at the very top, sometimes standing on a single foot, his balance perfect, his chakra flow as natural as breathing. He would look out over the tiled roofs of Konoha, the Hokage monument a stoic promise in the distance, and feel not pride, but a quiet, simmering resolve. He was still behind. He had to work harder. The weight on his shoulders felt far heavier than the seals on his limbs.