Two weeks. That was all it took to begin shedding the skin of his former self.
Ash trained relentlessly from the moment he woke until his body collapsed each night. Push-ups, squats, balance drills, shadowboxing basic exercises, perhaps, but done with unyielding focus. He pushed his body through limits it never thought to surpass. Bruises decorated his arms like war paint, his breath often shallow, his muscles sore but he smiled through it all. His body, once frail and sluggish, now radiated vitality. His face, once neglected, had regained its brilliance skin clearer, jawline sharper, posture like tempered steel.
The mirror no longer reflected the weak heir of the Aragon family. It reflected something sharper, leaner hungrier.
In secret, he also trained with the gift he had brought from his previous life: the Sharingan. Both eyes now housed the three-tomoe version, burning a subtle crimson beneath his eyelids. He practiced activating it swiftly, then deactivating just as fast to avoid attention. At night, under dim lights, he would watch himself in the mirror those eyes… they looked almost sad, as if carrying centuries of grief and rage. And yet, within that sadness… a promise.
The reflex chamber provided by the academy for new entries became his testing ground.
He faced a dozen mechanical arms programmed to move unpredictably, simulating real combat. Most students would last mere seconds. But Ash, with his Sharingan, danced.
The world slowed. The twitch of a spring, the slight vibration before release he saw it all in near stillness. He moved between strikes with surgical precision, evading blows by millimeters, his breathing calm, movements fluid.
He began watching recorded martial arts tapes too old archived duels from world champions, stored in the academy's database. He'd mimic their footwork, their breathing rhythm, and with the Sharingan activated, replicate their techniques perfectly after just one viewing. Spinning kicks, advanced parries, chain throws he could learn it all. Slowly but surely, Ash was building an arsenal far beyond any beginner.
Yet he told no one.
When the day finally came to enter the academy, Ash walked with quiet confidence through its towering gates. Students bustled everywhere, wearing uniforms marked with their class rankings. Some laughed, others practiced light sparring in courtyards. All around, strength dictated hierarchy.
He was greeted by an instructor who led him toward Class B's main building. The corridor echoed with his steps as heads turned to watch the newcomer. Ash's uniform was crisp, his dark hair swept aside just enough to show part of his striking face. There was a natural elegance in his gait, almost princely but his eyes were cold, unreadable.
When the classroom doors opened, conversations halted.
"Everyone," the teacher announced, "this is Ash Aragon. He's been reassigned to Class B as a transfer. Treat him well."
Gasps. Murmurs. Whispers spread like fire.
"Wait… Aragon? Wasn't he the weak one?"
"No way he looks completely different…"
"He still won't last in Class B."
Ash scanned the room. Familiar faces. Four of them sat near the back goons of Rai, the fifth-ranked student in Class A. They smirked.
And then he saw her. Lina.
Once his childhood friend, now more of a memory than anything else. She looked surprised her eyes wide with confusion. Their gaze met briefly. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something, but stopped herself.
He walked to the front of the class and turned around to face everyone.
His expression remained calm. "I know what some of you are thinking. That I'm just the same weakling you remember."
The classroom fell dead silent.
With the faintest effort, his eyes flared. The crimson rings of the three-tomoe Sharingan spun to life just for a second. But that second was enough.
A few students gasped, their bodies stiffened, and a chill swept across the room. The weight behind those eyes wasn't normal. It was rage, sorrow, a depth that made even the strong instinctively recoil.
"I won't be in Class B for long," Ash finished simply. Then walked to his seat.
For a moment, no one spoke. Even the four goons exchanged uneasy glances.
Ash's presence had changed something in that room. No one could yet name it. But they all felt it.