Three years old. The age crept in like the persistent mist of Kirigakure, enveloping me with a chill that seeped into my bones, a constant reminder of how small and vulnerable I still was in this unforgiving world. My body had grown—my legs steadier, carrying me across the compound's stone floors with fewer stumbles, my hands more nimble, capable of grasping objects with a precision that hinted at the potential within. But as the days blurred into weeks after my third birthday—a lively yet simple celebration where the mothers gathered in the main hall, their laughter echoing off the damp walls as they presented a cake adorned with berries from Yori's garden, and my half-siblings crowded around, cheering as I "blew" out the lanterns with their help—I felt an urgency ignite inside me like a spark on dry tinder. The compound, once a safe haven of observation, now felt like a cage. Whispers of village unrest filtered through the adults' conversations—missions gone wrong, rival clans stirring—and I knew I couldn't afford to lag behind. My secret chakra training had given me a foundation, but it was time to build on it. And unexpectedly, my mother—sweet, gentle Maluso, with her warm smiles and soothing lullabies—became the unexpected forge for my growth, her lessons in reading and writing sharpening not just my hand, but my mind as well.
It all began a few days after my birthday, in the quiet morning hours when the mist outside was thickest, turning the world into a gray blur. I was in our small quarters, "playing" on the floor with a stick, scratching idle lines into the thin layer of dirt that always seemed to accumulate on the stone tiles despite my mother's constant sweeping. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and damp earth, a constant companion in Kirigakure. My mother sat nearby, mending a tunic with precise stitches, her red hair tied back in a loose knot that let a few strands frame her face. She watched me for a moment, her expressive eyes softening as they always did, but there was a new glint there—determined, unyielding. "Arashi," she called, her voice like a gentle wave lapping at the shore, "come sit with me, my little storm."
I toddled over, feigning the innocent curiosity of a child while my mind raced ahead, wondering what this was about. She unrolled a small scroll on the low table, revealing blank rice paper that gleamed faintly in the lantern light, and placed a brush beside it, dipping it in a shallow dish of watery ink. The smell was sharp, metallic, mixing with the ever-present humidity. "It's time you learned to read and write," she said, her tone warm yet firm. "You're growing fast, and in this village, knowledge is as important as strength." At three? In my past life, kids that age were scribbling with crayons on walls, not handling brushes with intent. But this was Kirigakure—a place where childhood was short, and preparation for the ninja life started early, especially in a clan like ours, where every skill could mean survival.
She demonstrated the first stroke, her hand moving with graceful precision, the brush gliding across the paper to form a simple hiragana character: "a." The ink spread evenly, black against white, a perfect curve. "Like this," she said, guiding my tiny hand over hers. "Smooth, even pressure. No hesitation." I mimicked, my fingers wrapping around the brush, feeling its balance. The stroke came out wobbly, ink pooling unevenly. She shook her head, not harshly, but with that same unyielding glint. "Again. Calligraphy must be perfect. A ninja's hand never trembles."
That was the start of her rigorous lessons. My mother, whom I'd always seen as the epitome of kindness—the one who soothed scraped knees with herbal pastes and lulled me to sleep with tales of distant seas—revealed a side I never imagined. Sweet and tranquil outside those sessions, she transformed into a taskmaster within them. Every morning, after a simple breakfast of rice and fish, she'd clear the table and set up the scroll, ink, and brush. "Sit straight, Arashi," she'd command, her voice steady as she adjusted my posture. "Calligraphy is discipline. It trains the mind as much as the hand." She'd demonstrate each character—hiragana first, then katakana—her strokes flawless, like art in motion. When I tried, she'd watch intently. If a line wavered, too thick or thin, she'd make me wipe it clean with a damp cloth and start over. "No, not like that. See how the ink bleeds? Control the flow. Again."
I never expected this from her. Maluso, with her gentle hugs and patient stories, rigid as forged steel. It puzzled me at first—how could someone so sweet be so strict? But as the weeks turned to months, I understood. She was the "foreigner," the tenth wife, always under a veil of subtle suspicion from the village. Her kindness was her armor, but beneath it lay a core of iron, honed by whatever hardships she'd endured before arriving here. She pushed me because she knew the world wouldn't coddle me. "You're special, Arashi," she'd whisper during rare breaks, her hand resting on my head, her touch softening. "But special things need polishing to shine." The sessions weren't just about letters; they built focus, patience, precision—skills that mirrored my secret chakra training. My fingers cramped, ink stained my skin like battle scars, but each perfect stroke felt like a victory. She praised sparingly—"Better. That's closer"—but when she did, it fueled me more than any sweet.
Amid these lessons, my chakra practice evolved in parallel, becoming more complex as my control grew. At three, sticking leaves for minutes felt too basic; I needed challenges that mimicked real-world demands—endurance under movement, control amid distraction. So, I escalated: keep a leaf stuck all day, but hidden. Not on the forehead or hand, where it could be seen—inside my clothes, pressed against the skin of my chest or belly, under the loose blouse children wore. It sounded deceptively simple, but the first attempts were disasters. I'd affix one against my skin before "waking," channeling a steady trickle of chakra as I pretended to stir. But daily life disrupted it—toddling across the room, "playing" in the courtyard, even laughing at a sibling's joke caused fluctuations, and the leaf would loosen, falling inside my clothes or slipping to the ground. Frustrating, like trying to hold water in cupped hands. My chakra, still influenced by the raw Hoshigaki power, surged with every step or emotion. I adjusted: visualize a constant, low loop, like a battery on trickle charge. Mornings in the common room, "drawing" with sticks while mothers chatted, I'd feel it slip and refocus subtly, without halting play. Hard at first—distractions everywhere: the clatter of dishes, the scent of brewing tea, siblings' shouts. But persistence paid. After weeks of failures—leaves dropping during meals or naps—I held it through lunch. By mid-year, all day, even during afternoon "naps" where I'd secretly practice circulation.
Satisfaction bloomed like a rare flower in the mist, but I pushed further. Leaves were light, forgiving; I needed resistance, something to force finer control. Stones. Small pebbles from the garden's edge, smooth but weighted, gathered during "play" when Yori wasn't looking. The first try was a failure—the pebble clattered off immediately, chakra insufficient for the mass. Balance was crucial: more energy to hold, but without overflow that could exhaust me or cause visible strain. I practiced nights, starting on my hand. Visualize stronger suction, like a magnet pulling iron. Fingers ached from the mental strain, pebbles tumbling to the floor with mocking clinks. But after days of adjustment—calibrating the flow like tuning a circuit—I stuck one for seconds, then minutes. Transferred to the body: hidden under the blouse, pressed against the skin. The weight pulled harder, demanding constant adjustment. By year's end, a pebble all day, hidden, unnoticed amid the chaos.
Family wove through this. Brothers trained rigorously; Daigo, genin, shared mission stories. "First pay," he announced one evening, handing coins to mothers. "For us." Pride filled the room; his contribution eased burdens. We practiced calligraphy together—younger ones like Kenta scribbling beside me, mothers guiding. "Look, Arashi!" they'd exclaim, showing messy lines. I'd "help," demonstrating subtly.
At four, my birthday overflowed with praise. "So talented!" mothers cooed over my neat characters. "His calligraphy is beautiful—such steady hands for his age!" "Smart boy, speaking full sentences, reading simple words already." I basked in it, but my mind was on the stones, the chakra humming within. This was growth. This was power.
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