Spring was nearly over. In a secluded clearing on the village outskirts, a boy with hair slowly turning from brown to white trained in silence—every night, sometimes at dawn—refining his shurikenjutsu and taijutsu without the Reality Stone. By day, he used only basic Academy techniques: leaf concentration for chakra control, repetition for form. By night, his experiments with the stone gave him another breakthrough—he managed to create a spectral tutor construct to guide and correct him. He tested himself with stolen practice weapons, retrieving them before sunrise. His goal: build real skill beneath the illusion of sudden talent.
He still met Mr. Tetsuo each morning and evening—brief, warm exchanges.
"Keep it up, Shorai," the caretaker would say. "You're becoming more open. More focused. You'll be a great shinobi."
The day of sparring arrived.
The taijutsu instructor gathered the class. "For two weeks, you've trained. Now, you'll test yourselves—face to face. This is Traditional Shinobi Sparring. You will learn to apply theory under pressure. But remember: this is training, not battle."
He scanned the students. "Pair up—boys with boys, girls with girls."
Shorai turned to Sasuke. "Mind if we team up?"
"Sure." Sasuke gave him a glance.
Naruto was left behind, scowling.
"Listen carefully," the instructor said. "You will begin and end on my command. One attacks, one defends. Use only Academy forms—no clan techniques. No harmful strikes, no counters. This is about control. Start slow. Increase rhythm—but not speed. Understood?"
He nodded. "Ready. Seal of Confrontation."
Shorai and Sasuke faced each other, right hands raised, fingers forming the half-seal.
"I've come to face you in battle," they said in unison.
"Begin!"
"Sasuke, I'll attack first," Shorai said.
He took the basic stance and threw a slow left punch. Blocked. A right punch—blocked. Then leg sweeps. The instructor moved among them, correcting form:
"Higher guard!"
"Sakura, protect your face!"
"Naruto, keep your stance!"
"Stop! Switch roles. Begin!"
Sasuke attacked.
Shorai, having trained against his clone, recognized the rhythm. He deflected the first punch—clumsily. Then the next—less so. Block. Side-step. Redirect.
Sasuke increased speed, adding complexity. Shorai kept pace, calm, focused.
Their intensity drew eyes.
"Sasuke! Shorai! Slow down! I said simple attacks!"
They blinked—back to reality. Both smiled, but differently: Sasuke, smug; Shorai, knowing.
"And… stop!" The instructor called a break.
Shorai exhaled, feigning fatigue. "W-when… did you start training, Sasuke? If this was real… I wouldn't have lasted."
"Since I was five. My father. My brother… sometimes." A hint of pride, a flicker of longing.
"No wonder. And your style—holding back, then striking hard?"
Sasuke's brow rose. He noticed the core principle.
"Hn. That's why my clan is one of the two founding pillars. We are among the strongest."
"Can't argue with that," Shorai said, walking off to drink—leaving Sasuke quietly pleased.
After the break, they switched partners. But from that day, something shifted. Sasuke regarded Shorai differently—still aloof, but less distant. In taijutsu and shurikenjutsu, they became a quiet duo—serious, focused. The class noticed. Girls glanced, though most still watched Sasuke.
Naruto tried to compete, but was dismissed. Iruka saw it—and began speaking with him. Shorai noticed.
Months passed.
They studied history, arithmetic, and calligraphy—alongside meditation and physical training. Shorai excelled in all but calligraphy, which he began practicing after classes.
This is a foundation—for fuinjutsu, if I ever have a chance. He told himself.
Naruto didn't understand. "Why waste time on something so boring?" he groaned.
But Shorai knew: every brushstroke was a step towards power.
On a quiet afternoon break, a hush rippled through the left side of the classroom as two girls whispered fiercely. Then, with sudden resolve, Ino stood.
"I'll do it!"
She walked toward the window seat in the second row—right where Shorai sat, chin propped on his hand, gaze drifting outside.
"E-ehm… Shorai-kun?"
He turned, surprised. "Yes? Ino Yamanaka, right?"
"You remembered!" Her voice cracked slightly, flustered. "Just… Ino is fine." Sasuke glanced over, and she nearly forgot her purpose.
"I, uh… Could you help me with something from yesterday's lesson? Pretty please?"
"Of course. Show me."
She opened her notebook to a tangled arithmetic problem. Shorai studied it, then explained it simply—once, clearly. Her eyes lit up.
"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" she squealed, dashing back to Sakura, who had been watching with narrowed eyes. The two erupted into rapid, excited bickering.
From that moment, Shorai became the class's quiet mentor. Students began seeking him out—Sakura for history, Chōji for theory, Ino for this-and-that. Sasuke only observed quietly but listened. Naruto remained the exception—no matter how patiently Shorai explained, the lessons slipped through like sand.
Yet the entire class admired Shorai: his lack of arrogance, his calm patience, his ability to make the complex feel simple. He was approachable, serious when needed, and never showed off. His unusual appearance—hair slowly turning white, sharp turquoise eyes—only added to the quiet aura of mystery.
By late July, the first semester neared its end. Iruka announced assessments—final checks on taijutsu, shurikenjutsu, and academics. Shorai trained hard, refined what he'd learned in secret, keeping the Reality Stone dormant. He didn't need it now. Not fully.
Shorai didn't fully know it. But he had a hunch—from the way Iruka sometimes paused when calling his name, or how his pen lingered on his notes a second too long. There was an interest brewing. Quiet, careful. The kind a teacher gives to a student who doesn't just learn—but sees.