The first thing Kenshi Katori became aware of was the scent of pine and damp earth. The second was the cold, absolute certainty that this was not his room, not his bed—perhaps not even his world.
He sat up slowly, the thin blanket sliding from his waist. Sunlight, too bright and too clean, streamed through the window of the small, bare room. Beside his futon rested a single object both foreign and intimately familiar: a bokken. Its wooden grain was worn smooth in exactly the places his calloused hands would grip it. Memories—his, yet not his—flooded in like a tidal wave.
He was Kenshi Katori, grandson of a samurai who abandoned the Iron Nation and sought refuge in the Village Hidden in the Leaves. A grandfather who rejected shinobi ninjutsu, pouring every breath of his life into teaching the Katori family's sword. The old man was gone now. All that remained was the dojo-like home, a legacy of steel, and a grandson who could split a falling leaf mid-air but couldn't produce a single shadow clone.
He had lived as a loner. The memories confirmed it. While other children played, he trained. While they formed friendships, he sharpened his instincts—sometimes blindfolded for days until the world existed only through sound, scent, and the whisper of air. He had mastered the basics of the Katori style to their peak, earning the advanced scrolls—scrolls that still felt like cliffs yet to be climbed.
A tight knot formed in his stomach.
Today was the day. The Ninja Academy awaited.
He dressed with practiced ease and slung the bokken across his back. He didn't need to speak for people to know he was different. A sword user in a village of jutsu.
The walk to the Academy overwhelmed his senses. The bright Uchiha fans, shinobi flickering through alleys with the Body Flicker Technique, the pulse of life that seemed almost too vivid. He felt the chakra inside him—a disciplined pool. His grandfather had taught him to use it only to strengthen his body. Here, chakra was everything.
He knew the three basic Academy jutsu. He had drilled them until muscle and memory blended. Not because he wanted to be a shinobi, but because he needed to understand the mechanics behind them.
The Academy doors slid open. The familiar hum of chatter greeted him. He took his usual seat at the back—not out of habit, but because it gave him the best vantage point.
He scanned the classroom. Jiraiya was already exaggerating some wild story. Orochimaru devoured a scroll in near silence. Tsunade shone among a group of girls who hung onto her every word.
He didn't know what they were discussing. He didn't care.
From what I remember, he thought, I'm top-tier in taijutsu. Ninjutsu flawless. Shurikenjutsu above average. Solid top ten. And looks… not terrible either. So where's my cliché fanclub?
His reflection stared back at him, unimpressed.
The door slid open sharply. A stern-faced chunin entered, his expression permanently set into a deep furrow.
Instructor Sato.
Kenshi recognized him instantly. The name surfaced naturally from his inherited memories.
"Silence," Sato barked. The room fell quiet. "Your final Academy year begins today. Graduation is nine months away. Some of you have the talent to graduate early… yet here you still sit."
His gaze lingered on the Senju and Uchiha heirs. Confident. Collected. Dangerous.
So it's true, Kenshi thought. Some already have chunin-level strength. The gap… is wider than I expected.
Morning lessons passed quickly—chakra theory, village strategy, history. Kenshi listened carefully, mapping every detail to the meta-knowledge he carried.
In the afternoon, they moved to the training grounds. During shuriken practice, Kenshi's throws were precise and efficient—no wasted motion, no flair. The clan heirs displayed ricochets, spins, and complex throws.
They had artistry. He had reliability.
By four o'clock, class ended. Kenshi walked home alone to the quiet outskirts. His grandfather's house felt more like a dojo than a home—clean, disciplined, silent. Another property he owned on the business side of the village provided steady income. His savings were close to a million ryo. Money wasn't a problem.
After eating, he stepped into the sand-covered training yard, bokken in hand.
The weight was perfect.
He fell into the first stance of the Katori style, and his body flowed on instinct. A dance he had performed ten thousand times. The air sliced around him as he moved through the katas—low sweeps, tight guards, fluid cuts. Eventually, he tied a cloth around his eyes, letting the wind and the rustle of leaves guide him.
When he finally stopped, covered in sweat, a rare smile touched his lips.
Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.
Later that night, his mind turned toward the future. He had an advantage no one else here did: knowledge of what would come.
Chakra control, he thought. That's the true foundation for everything.
Memories of the original timeline stirred. He had already mastered Leaf Concentration training back when it was first taught at the Academy. So the next step was clear.
Wall-walking.
Tree climbing with chakra. The real beginning of advanced control.
He looked at his hands.
Sword training would never stop. That was him—his identity, his pride, his edge.
But now…
Now he would also climb walls.
And then mountains.