Over the following month, time ceased to be something clearly perceptible. Days were no longer measured by sunrise and sunset, but by the fatigue accumulating in his muscles, the persistent pain in his fingers, and the increasingly familiar sensation of chakra flowing beneath his skin.
The clearing became routine.
He arrived early, almost always before the village truly awakened, when the air was still cold and silence remained intact. The first exercise of the day never changed: chakra control. The leaf on the forehead was only the beginning. As the weeks passed, he progressed to more difficult surfaces—leaves on the palms of his hands, then on his feet, walking slowly over uneven ground without letting them fall. After that, he tested stability in motion, running in a straight line, then in curves, feeling every micro-variation of his internal flow.
At first, the chakra still leaked.
It oscillated.
It responded with delay.
But something changed with repetition.
His body began to learn patterns. Small adjustments started happening without conscious thought. What once demanded absolute focus now allowed minor lapses in attention without immediate collapse. It wasn't mastery—not yet—but it was real progress.
Ninjutsu training occupied most of his afternoons. The Academy Clone stopped being a purely theoretical concept and became a constant field of experimentation. He wasn't seeking quantity. He was seeking consistency.
At the beginning of the month, he could barely form an unstable silhouette for a second. By the middle of the period, the clones began appearing complete, though still too translucent, with proportional flaws or facial distortions. Sometimes the clone blinked out of sync. Other times, it smiled when he did not.
Every mistake was analyzed.
Too much chakra caused distortion.
Too little chakra created "empty" areas.
Mental instability resulted in trembling.
He began repeating the hand seals even outside actual jutsu execution, conditioning his body to the patterns. Tiger for focus. Monkey for adaptability. Ram for visualization. He performed them slowly, then faster, until his fingers moved almost on their own.
By the end of the third week, he managed to maintain a stable clone for nearly a full minute.
It was only an illusion.
But to him, it was concrete proof that the method worked.
Mornings and late afternoons were reserved for the body. Running around the clearing and along less-used village paths strengthened his endurance. At first, he needed to stop frequently to catch his breath. By the end of the month, his pace became steadier. He still wasn't fast, but he was no longer fragile.
Push-ups, squats, and improvised exercises using logs and stones formed calluses on his hands and deep soreness in his muscles. His body was still far from special, but it was no longer average through neglect. It was being shaped, little by little, by discipline.
Throwing practice was the most frustrating of all.
The wooden shuriken he had carved himself lacked ideal balance. Some pulled too far to the left, others lost rotation midair. Still, he persisted. He marked targets on tree trunks, started close, and gradually increased the distance. Improvised kunai required more strength and precision and often missed the target entirely.
But the mistakes decreased.
His arm learned the weight.
His wrist learned the right moment.
His eyes began to anticipate the trajectory.
By the end of the month, he could hit the target with reasonable consistency at short range. He wasn't a natural thrower, but he was no longer dangerous only to himself.
During this period, he also wandered through the village whenever he needed supplies or simply to clear his mind. On more than one occasion, he tried to find the legendary Konoha ramen—the one that would one day become almost an institution.
He searched stalls.
Small restaurants.
Busy alleys.
Nothing.
That could only mean one thing: the business hadn't started yet. Perhaps the man who would create it was still just an ordinary civilian. Maybe he hadn't even thought about it. Or perhaps that symbol simply wasn't needed yet in this era.
Amid these walks, a curious thought began surfacing more frequently. Hagoromo had influenced the world in countless ways. It wouldn't be impossible for some earthly representation, some silent observer of his will, to still walk among ordinary people, simply watching the flow of chakra and humanity.
It was just a theory.
But in that world, ancient theories had an unfortunate habit of being real.
There was also an incident that etched itself deeply into his memory.
One day, while crossing a more secluded street, he saw a scene from afar that made him stop immediately. A tall man with white hair was running with an expression of pure desperation. Behind him, a blonde woman advanced with firm steps and an aura of violence so dense it seemed to distort the air.
Jiraiya.
And Tsunade.
Even at a distance, there was no doubt. He didn't need to hear a single word to understand the reason for the chase. Jiraiya's "research" was already infamous.
That was enough to carve a permanent reminder into his mind.
Never try anything like that.
Never draw that kind of attention.
And above all, keep a safe distance from the two of them.
Some forces in that world didn't need to be confronted.
It was enough to respect them… and survive.
A few days later, upon returning home after training, he was surprised by a firm knock on the door. A village official, wearing simple attire and bearing Konoha's symbol, waited outside.
"Monthly subsidy," he said, handing over a small envelope.
The amount was low.
Enough only for basic food and simple necessities. Weapons, scrolls, and training materials remained absurdly expensive. That made one truth painfully clear.
— *Being a ninja is expensive… and so is surviving.*
After the official left, he counted the money calmly and began thinking seriously about the future.
Relying solely on the subsidy was not viable.
That's when plans began to form.
The first was simple: food.
He carried recipes from another world in his mind. Cheap dishes, quick to prepare, easy to produce, and satisfying for people who spent their days working or training. A small restaurant. Nothing flashy. Something discreet and functional.
If ramen didn't exist yet… there was room.
The second plan was more ambitious and aligned with his true talent.
Fūinjutsu.
Storage seals. Explosive tags. Simple sealing scrolls—extremely useful and highly profitable. He knew this kind of product moved large sums of money among ninja who preferred ready-made solutions.
Learning fūinjutsu would require absurd control, extreme precision, and deep theoretical understanding.
Exactly where he excelled.
— *If I can't be a monster on the battlefield… I can be indispensable outside of it.*
Steady income meant independence.
It meant not relying on dangerous missions too early.
It meant time to grow.
When he returned to the clearing that afternoon, he created a clone in front of him. The illusion appeared stable, proportional, unmoving.
He observed it in silence.
His body still wasn't talented.
His chakra still wasn't abundant.
The path ahead was still long.
But now, there was something solid.
A foundation.
A method.
And a real plan to survive and grow.
And in that world, that already placed him ahead of most.