The world was still drowned in indigo when Takeo slid open Satoru's door. In his hands, a wooden bucket sloshed with water so cold it smoked in the predawn chill. Satoru lay tangled in thin blankets, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes, lips curved in what might've been a smirk. Dreaming of victory, no doubt.
Takeo didn't hesitate.
*Splash.*
The water hit like a thousand icy needles. Satoru shot upright with a gasp that turned into a choked yelp, hair plastered white against his skull, pajamas clinging like a second skin.
"*What the—?!"
he sputtered, thrashing.
"Is this assassination?! I'm your son! Your only heir!"
Takeo set the empty bucket down with a thunk. His voice cut through the dripping silence, colder than the water.
"Shinobi Rule Zero," he stated.
"Dawn waits for no one. Especially not self-proclaimed legends."
He tossed a coarse, gray training gi at Satoru's head. It landed with a wet *plop*.
"Up. The dirt's waiting for its breakfast."
Satoru glared, water dripping from his nose. He pushed sodden hair back with trembling fingers, trying to salvage dignity. "A true Honored One," he declared, voice shaking only partly from cold, "awakens with the *sun's* grace! Not… not *bucket-based ambush tactics*!"
Takeo's eyebrow inched upward.
"Honored One, huh?"
He turned toward the hallway, already walking away.
"Tell that to the mud. It's expecting you in five minutes. Don't keep it hungry."
The door slid shut, leaving Satoru shivering, furious, and utterly dethroned from his dreamscape palaces. He stared at the soaked futon, the puddle on the floorboards, the rough gi mocking him.
Outside, the first sliver of sun bled crimson over the horizon.
Somewhere, a rooster crowed.
Satoru Gojo, future undisputed legend, sneezed.
godhood, he thought bitterly, peeling off sopping pajamas, apparently starts with hypothermia.
Takeo stood silhouetted against the bleeding dawn, arms crossed. "Before formal training," his voice cut through the chill, "I see what raw material I'm working with." He nodded at Satoru. "Show me what you have."
Satoru's chest swelled.
'Finally!' A month of Taekwondo classes in his past life surged through his memory—crisp white dobok,
the instructor's shouts of "Kyorugi!", the satisfying smack of a padded kick. He dropped into what he *remembered* as a flawless front stance, fists raised with theatrical flair.
"Behold!" he announced.
"The Honored stri—"
Takeo moved.
No warning. No shift in posture. Just a blur of gray fabric
then Satoru's back hit dirt.
*Thud.*
Sky. Hard-packed earth. The *crack* of his own teeth snapping shut.
A familiar taste flooded his mouth—copper, soil, and the bitter tang of deja vu. This wasn't the first time he'd eaten ground.
Takeo's shadow fell over him.
"Hn. 'Raw material' needs refinement." He nudged Satoru's ribs with his sandal.
"Get up. Lesson One starts now: Dirt is your new sensei. Listen to it."
Satoru spat mud. The Taekwondo dreams dissolved like sugar in rain.
Satoru spat out a clump of dirt, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and pushed himself up with a grunt. His arms trembled. His pride ached. But something in his eyes had shifted—a flicker of defiance, reckless and bright.
He dusted himself off (pointlessly), planted his feet, and pointed at Takeo like an overdramatic stage actor.
"Right then!" he declared.
"Lesson one: dirt may be my sensei, but I'm the honored student!"
Without waiting, he charged.
No plan. No technique. Just raw determination and a slightly wobbly punch aimed dead center at his father's chest.
Takeo blinked, impressed despite himself.
The kid was fast.
Not good, but fast.
He sidestepped at the last moment, letting Satoru's punch slice through empty air. With one fluid motion, he pivoted and swept Satoru's legs from under him.
*Thump.*
Back to the dirt. Face-first. Again.
Satoru groaned.
Takeo stood over him, arms crossed.
"Better," he said simply.
"You didn't freeze. That's something."
He nudged Satoru with his foot.
"Still telegraphed your move like a love letter. But progress is progress."
Face still in the dirt, Satoru mumbled,
"Predict this—you're a sadist with sandals."
Takeo chuckled under his breath, just once.
"And you're a leaf-brained fool who needs to guard his left."
"Flattery won't save you," Satoru said, rolling onto his back with dramatic exhaustion.
The sky above him was turning from pink to gold. Birds chirped like they hadn't just witnessed his humiliation.
Despite everything—his bruises, his aching pride, the soil in his ears—Satoru found himself smiling.
This was pain. This was progress.
And maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something big.
The sun crept higher, casting longer shadows as the morning wore on. And with every inch it climbed, Satoru fell—over, and over, and over again.
Sometimes face-first. Sometimes shoulder-first. Once, in a tragic feat of misjudged footwork, head-first into the clothesline pole.
"Footwork, Satoru!"
"I'm trying! My feet have their own agenda!"
Takeo remained calm throughout. A statue of silent judgment, occasionally laced with dry sarcasm.
"That kick had the spirit of a drunken goose."
"It almost hit you!"
"Almost only counts in horseshoes and explosive tags."
By the second hour, Satoru was panting, his gi stained with dirt, grass, and probably a little shame. He'd swung, missed, fallen, and gotten up so many times the ground was starting to feel like home.
By the third hour, he'd managed to land a glancing blow against Takeo's hip.
"Ha!" Satoru cried, dancing back like a champion. "Did you see that? I touched you!"
Takeo raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"I've been letting the mosquitoes bite me too. Should I praise them too?"
By the fourth hour, Satoru was a wobbling, barely upright heap of sweat and stubbornness.
His punches had lost all technique, reduced to wild flails. His dodges were less "evasive maneuver" and more "accidental collapse at the right moment." But he kept coming. Kept moving. Kept falling and rising again, cursing the dirt, his father, and the cruel betrayal of gravity.
Finally, just as the sun perched high above them—hot, merciless, and judgmental—Takeo held up a hand.
"That's enough," he said.
Satoru dropped to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. He flopped onto his back, arms splayed.
"Dead. I'm dead. This is what death feels like. Dirt and heat and shame."
Takeo leaned over him, casting a long shadow.
"Not bad for a first session," he said, and though his tone remained dry, there was a glint of approval in his eyes.
Satoru cracked one eye open.
"You're not gonna throw a kunai at me and yell 'just kidding, one more round!' right?"
Takeo shrugged. "Tempting."
Satoru groaned.
"I hate dirt. I hate fists. I hate you."
"You'll thank me when you win your first spar at the Academy."
"I'll thank you if I survive this one."
Takeo chuckled quietly and offered a hand.
"Come on, honored mud-monster. Let's get you some lunch."
Satoru took the hand and stumbled to his feet, every bone protesting.
"Better be legendary lunch."
"It's rice and pickled daikon."
"...This village is cruel."
They walked back toward the house, Satoru limping slightly, grinning despite the pain.
And behind them, the training ground bore the proof of the morning's war—footprints, scuff marks, and one lonely sandal Satoru had lost around hour two.
As they reached the front steps, Satoru dragging his feet and his pride behind him, Takeo spoke without turning his head.
"You're expected back outside at five sharp for physical conditioning."
Satoru groaned.
"Why are you like this?"
"And after lunch," Takeo continued, ignoring him,
"we'll start chakra control exercises. You'll need both stamina and precision if you want to do more than just fall artistically."
They slid open the door, stepping into the familiar, cool interior of their home. Or rather, Takeo stepped inside.
Satoru, blissfully unaware of the danger he was about to unleash, stumbled forward—mud-caked, grass-stained, and trailing little flecks of dirt with every movement of his worn sandals.
Takeo froze.
His instincts flared like alarm bells in his skull. Centuries of ancestral dread flooded his nervous system.
No chakra signature. No incoming kunai. No enemy.
Something worse.
He turned his head slowly. Eyes wide.
There stood Satoru—filthy, disheveled, blissfully inside—leaving a trail of desecration across the pristine wooden floor. His soggy sandal slapped against the wood with a squish. A muddy footprint bloomed behind it like a crime scene.
Takeo's gaze darted toward the kitchen door.
It was sliding open.
Aiko Gojo stepped out, radiant as always, a gentle smile on her face… until her eyes dropped to the carnage on the floor.
In that instant, time slowed.
Takeo made a decision born of pure, unfiltered survival instinct.
He brought his hands together in a blur.
*Poof.*
The shunshin no jutsu activated.
And he vanished.
Gone. Dust in the wind. Like a myth. Like a coward.
Satoru blinked, still standing there in the hallway.
"...Dad?"
And then—
"SATORU!!!"
His mother's voice tore through the house like a paper bomb detonation. Birds outside scattered. Somewhere, a neighbor's cat hissed and ran.
Satoru slowly turned to face her, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment.
His voice came out small.
"I—I can explain—"
"You marched through the house like a warlord of filth!" Aiko's eyes burned with righteous fury. "You brought the battlefield into my living room!"
From the ceiling above, a faint plop of water fell. Another drip from his hair. Another insult.
Satoru bowed his head in defeat.
"... The way of the ninja is a lonely path."