Summer passed in silence. The village healed, and Shorai trained—harder than ever. By the time the cicadas faded and the leaves began to turn, he stood at the Academy gates once more.
Nothing out of the ordinary—the days followed the same rhythm: physical exercises, taijutsu sparring, and team 'games', followed by theory, history, politics, and philosophy, alongside ninjutsu practice.
When the second semester was nearing its end, excitement buzzed through the Academy. The promise of jutsu had deepened the class's focus. Shorai and Sakura had emerged as the leaders in theory, while Shino's quiet brilliance surfaced in unexpected moments. Sasuke remained unmatched in shurikenjutsu and taijutsu—but now, a shift had taken root.
Draw after draw.
Sparring after sparring.
No matter how hard Sasuke trained, Shorai kept pace. Not with flashy moves, but with precision, timing, and an uncanny ability to anticipate.
It frustrated him.
Iruka noticed. The repeated stalemates between the two boys stood out—especially under his direct supervision. The taijutsu classes had evolved: form drills were now paired with sparring, team scenarios, and tactical games. Yet every time Shorai and Sasuke faced off, the result was the same.
A draw.
Iruka said nothing. But his gaze lingered.
The class dynamics had shifted too. A new group had formed—Naruto, Kiba, Chōji, and Shikamaru—loud, chaotic, always testing limits.
One afternoon, after the final bell, Iruka called out.
"Shorai. Stay behind."
The class stilled. Naruto froze mid-step, eyes wide.
Did he get in trouble? Did I?
In the quiet classroom, Shorai sat across from Iruka. The sun slanted through the windows, dust swirling in golden beams.
Iruka opened a book, then closed it. He smiled—warm, but searching.
"Shorai… I've wanted to talk to you for a while. You're… remarkable. For an orphan, without family support, you've pushed yourself further than most. If you keep this up, I might start calling you a genius—clan or not."
Shorai's expression remained solemn.
"Sensei…" he began, fists tightening. "Ever since I can remember… I believed strength was everything. Knowledge. Chakra. Physical power. That's what you need to survive. To protect yourself."
He paused, eyes dropping.
"But I was wrong. I lacked something Mr. Tetsuo taught me—something deeper."
Iruka leaned forward, listening.
"Strength… can come from those close to you. Comrades. Friends. People you can rely on."
Shorai looked up—his gaze landing on the portrait of the Third Hokage.
Iruka's breath caught.
Silence stretched.
Then, softly: "I know."
Shorai blinked. "You… do?"
"I've been watching you. I spoke with Tetsuo-san. He signed your library permit. Spoke highly of you."
Iruka leaned on his hands, forming a loose snake seal. "The second year is almost over. Have you learned any of the three jutsu?"
Shorai nodded. "I'm a man of my word, sensei. I train whenever I can. The Academy—and you—taught me that a shinobi must be prepared. And I believe you can never be overprepared when survival is at stake. That's why understanding the basics—truly understanding them—is essential."
Iruka's expression cycled—pride, admiration, disbelief.
"If only there were more like you…" He sighed, glancing at the Third's portrait. "The Will of Fire burns strong in you."
Then, quietly: "Have you thought about the future? After graduation?"
Here it comes, Shorai thought.
"I've thought about it a lot," he said, frowning. "I have three goals."
"Oh?" Iruka raised a brow. "And what are they?"
Shorai's voice was steady. "First… to attain a strength beyond any Hokage. I've read about the Sage of Six Paths—the one who founded ninjutsu, brought peace, changed the world. Only someone of that level can truly stop war, end suffering."
Iruka's eyes widened. "The Sage… that's just legend. The First Hokage achieved peace too."
"But Madara challenged him," Shorai countered. "Legends don't endure unless they're real. I believe the Sage existed."
Iruka hesitated. "Such power… it can corrupt."
"I know," Shorai said. "But I won't stand at the top alone. I'll have people I trust—people who'll stand with me. That's how I'll prove I'm not a threat. Actions matter."
Iruka stared. A 7-year-old, speaking with the resolve of a veteran.
"And the other two goals?"
"To travel the world. Meet people. See cultures. Experience life."
He paused.
"And… to be surrounded by people who respect me. People I can love. People I can call family."
For a moment, Iruka thought he was speaking to a grown man.
"I… wish you all the best," he said, voice thick. "I'll look forward to seeing the shinobi you become."
"Thank you, sensei."
Shorai left the classroom.
Outside, Sasuke trained alone—punching a post, sweat glistening.
Shorai paused.
Then shook his head.
There was no time to waste. The goal was announced—words are meant to be kept.
He turned toward home.
That night, under the cover of darkness, Shorai activated the Reality Stone.
First, chakra control: he trained on water and tree walking, adding weights to test chakra efficiency. Each step was measured, every slip corrected.
Next, Academy jutsu: Henge and Bunshin—now near-instant, requiring only subtle hand movements.
Then, chakra emission and shape transformation: he explored the Shunshin no Jutsu, focusing on explosive bursts of chakra from his limbs for rapid acceleration. Afterward, he honed his control—thinning his chakra into a scalpel at his fingertips, then stretching it into fine threads. Slowly, he gained mastery—cutting bark, lifting pebbles, testing tension, striking the dummy with chakra-coated fists.
He trained until exhaustion, then meditated, grounding the progress.
"I need control over form. I'm starting to make progress in maintaining multiple reality warps at once—but not there yet."
He trained until his fingers trembled.
Finally, meditation—calming the storm within.