Six months later.
Physical fitness test.
A twenty-kilogram weighted long-distance run, with the start and finish lines at the same spot in the training ground.
As the starting signal sounded, a dozen figures dashed out. The sound of their footsteps was chaotic, and soon, the distance between them began to grow.
Shinji ran in the lead, his pace as steady as a tireless machine.
By the second lap, he had lapped the second-place runner by half a lap. By the third lap, the gap had widened to a full lap.
When he crossed the finish line, he stopped, his breathing steady, only a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Around him, some were panting, others were bent over with hands on their knees; some looked at him, their eyes changed.
He was no longer the orphan who was once "so ordinary you couldn't pick him out of a crowd."
... One year later.
Combat practice.
His opponent was a senior two grades above Shinji, known for his taijutsu and having reached the top eight in last year's school-wide competition.
It was said he had even killed a fellow student.
The two stood in the center of the training ground, with the watching students forming a semicircle, waiting to see how long this "rebellion against a superior" would last.
The instructor waved his hand: "Begin."
The senior struck first, a punch aimed straight at his face, fast and vicious.
Shinji sidestepped and raised his hand to block.
First move.
The moment their arms touched, he slid his step, using the momentum to grab the senior's wrist with his other hand and twist it in reverse.
Second move.
As the senior felt the pain and lost his balance, Shinji surged forward, a Kunai sliding from his sleeve into his palm, pressing against the senior's throat.
Third move.
The whole process was so fast that the onlookers didn't even react. Some were still whispering, mouths half-open, words left unspoken.
The instructor was silent for a long time, his gaze falling on Shinji, then on the restrained senior.
Then he looked down and wrote an "S" on his clipboard.
... Two years later.
Chakra capacity test.
All students of the same grade stood in a line, pressing their hands one by one onto the specially made test paper.
The paper was made of special material that would glow when exposed to Chakra; the intensity and duration of the light corresponded directly to the amount of Chakra.
One after another, the paper lit up with a faint blue light.
Low, medium, barely passing.
Most people's light flashed for only a second before fading, like sparks burning out briefly.
It was Shinji's turn.
He stepped forward and placed his hand on it.
In that instant, the paper erupted with a blinding light. It was so blue it turned white, bright as if a fire had ignited out of thin air.
The light was so piercing that the surrounding students subconsciously squinted; some raised their hands to shield their eyes, others took a half-step back.
The light lasted for a full five seconds before slowly fading.
The whole place was silent.
The instructor stared at the value shown on the test paper, remaining silent for a long time.
The number far exceeded the normal range for students of that grade, even exceeding most Genin he had ever seen.
A student nearby muttered: "Is... is this the amount of Chakra a Genin should have?"
No one answered him, because everyone was thinking the same question.
What kind of monster is this orphan from the slums?
... Three years later.
School-wide competition.
Shinji swept through the competition.
In the first match, his opponent lasted eight moves against him.
The second match, five moves.
The third match, three moves.
In the semifinals, the student who was called a "genius" last year lasted less than two minutes against Shinji before a Kunai was pressed against his lower back, leaving him unable to move.
On the day of the finals, the training ground was packed with people.
Shinji stood in the center of the field, facing a senior a year above him, known for his rich combat experience.
They looked at each other, and the instructor raised his hand, preparing to announce the start.
The student opposite stared at Shinji, at his hands hanging by his sides, at his eyes as calm as a deep pool.
Then, the moment the instructor's hand fell, he raised his own.
"I forfeit."
The crowd was in an uproar. Some were confused, some dissatisfied, some whispered about "cowardice."
But the student didn't explain; he just put away his Kunai and turned to leave.
Only he knew that in that instant, the moment Shinji finished his hand seals, a sense of oppression had washed over him.
That feeling wasn't killing intent, nor was it hostility, but something heavier, like an abyss staring at him.
At that moment, he realized clearly: if he kept fighting, he would die.
... Time quickly arrived at the year of graduation.
The ranks were full of graduates, each with a different expression on their face. Some were expectant, some anxious, some relieved.
The instructor stood in front of the ranks, holding a list, reading out each person's graduation evaluation and assignment one by one.
Name after name was read out.
It was Shinji's turn.
The instructor paused. The pause was very brief, so short that others could barely notice, but Shinji caught it.
The instructor looked up, his gaze falling on him, on the boy who had come out of the slums.
Then he looked down and read:
"Shinji, overall grade: top of the grade. Chakra capacity far exceeds the standard for his age, and combat capability has reached the level of a Chunin."
He paused, then added:
"He is the strongest graduate I have ever seen at this school."
Low whispers arose in the ranks, like ripples on water stirred by the wind.
People whispered to each other, their gazes sweeping over Shinji and then looking away.
Some stared at him, their eyes filled with unreadable emotions.
Envy, jealousy, or defiance.
But no one spoke out to argue. Because everyone had seen how Shinji trained.
The training that started in the early hours of the morning:
Before the sky was bright, his figure was already standing on the training ground, throwing Kunai at the wooden stake, over and over again, until the morning mist dissipated.
The combat practice that only ended when it was dark:
Opponent after opponent was swapped in; he was knocked down and got back up, and once up, he continued to charge.
Until the last person had left the field, he would collect his Kunai alone and walk into the twilight.
Those days of sweating profusely against the wooden stake:
Sweat would stream down his back, soaking his clothes and creating a small dark stain on the ground beneath his feet.
They saw it in their eyes and kept it in their hearts. This person's strength was bought with his life.
"Hmm."
Shinji nodded, his face expressionless, just lowering his eyes slightly, his gaze falling on the ground in front of him, as if he were listening to something that had nothing to do with him.
His Sage Body allowed him to push his body to the limit without hesitation, letting every training session go to the absolute extreme without worrying about lingering hidden injuries.
But those sweats, those blisters, those moments of repeatedly falling and getting back up, were all things he had walked through step by step himself.
No one had walked them for him.
At this moment, his peripheral vision swept to the other end of the ranks.
There stood a girl with tea-brown hair.
Mei Terumī.
His future target for assistance and betrayal. This future great leader of the Hidden Mist Village was currently standing at the very edge, with a small empty circle around her.
No one stood next to her, as if an invisible boundary separated her from those around her.
She kept her head down, eyes lowered, as quiet as a plant growing in a corner, neither ostentatious nor eye-catching, nor interacting with anyone.