The morning air of Konoha was crisp, laced with the faint scent of dew and wood smoke from the chimneys. The streets bustled with merchants unloading their carts, shinobi hurrying across rooftops, and the occasional patrol passing by. For the newly arrived stranger in town, it was overwhelming in scale and rhythm but not unfamiliar.
Shiro took it all in silently, his MMA-trained mind cataloging movement and posture. Every shinobi that passed had a center of gravity slightly different from a civilian looser hips, a subtle forward lean. They walked as if every step could transition into a strike or dodge.
They're not just soldiers. Every step, every motion, is combat-ready.
He tightened the cloth around his makeshift training gloves. It had been three days since the Hokage granted him provisional residency and access to Konoha's public training grounds three days of adjusting to a world where chakra, not oxygen intake or muscle conditioning, was the foundation of power.
But Shiro didn't intend to start by forcing chakra control into his body. That was unknown territory. His advantage lay in what he already knew years of cross-training in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai, Greco-Roman wrestling, Taekwondo, Sambo, and more. If he could blend those with the physical techniques of this world, he might stand on equal footing with shinobi who'd trained since childhood.
The problem was finding those techniques.
The training field wasn't large just a flat, dusty expanse with a scattering of wooden dummies, target posts, and sparring rings. A group of academy students occupied the far corner, practicing kunai throws under an instructor's watchful gaze. Another section was claimed by chūnin in flak jackets, drilling taijutsu forms at speeds that blurred their limbs.
Shiro's eyes locked onto them. Their movement was tight, explosive different from any striking art back in his old world. He recognized elements of kickboxing footwork, but the upper body torque reminded him of Kyokushin karate. The hand positioning? More like Wing Chun, but heavier on offense than defense.
The name slipped from a passing genin's mouth: Strong Fist style.
He filed it away. That was Rock Lee's and Might Guy's signature form in the anime he'd once watched except here, it wasn't a story. Strong Fist was reality. And if he remembered right, mastering it was the prerequisite to even think about the Eight Gates.
Eight Gates Hachimon Tonkou wasn't just about raw speed and power. It was the pinnacle of pure physical training in this world. No jutsu casting. No genjutsu illusions. Only muscle, bone, and willpower pushed beyond natural limits.
That's my first long-term goal, Shiro decided. But to get there, I need the fundamentals of Strong Fist and whatever else I can fuse with it.
"Hey! You're not from around here, are you?"
Shiro turned. A boy about his age maybe fifteen stood with hands on hips, kunai in one hand, sweat beading on his brow. His Konoha headband was tied loosely around his neck.
"I'm new," Shiro replied, keeping his tone neutral.
"You fight?" the boy asked, scanning Shiro's wrapped fists.
"A little," Shiro said, understating the fact that he had dismantled professional fighters in cages for years.
The boy grinned. "Good. I need a sparring partner. Everyone else here's scared to fight me after I busted Kenji's nose last week."
Shiro stepped into the sparring circle. "No weapons."
"Fine by me."
The boy lunged without ceremony, leading with a straight punch aimed at Shiro's chin. His speed was impressive definitely faster than any normal human in Shiro's old world but his stance was a hair too wide. Shiro sidestepped, hooked the incoming arm, and used the momentum to pivot into a shoulder throw.
The boy hit the dirt with a thud, rolling back to his feet almost instantly. "What was that? That's not Strong Fist!"
"Wrestling," Shiro answered simply.
They clashed again. This time, the boy used a low sweeping kick, forcing Shiro to hop back. Shiro countered with a snapping front kick to the torso Muay Thai style but pulled the impact just short.
The exchange drew attention. Several chūnin paused their drills to watch. Even the academy instructor glanced over.
By the fifth exchange, the boy was breathing hard. Shiro wasn't.
"Name's Daichi," the boy said, extending a hand. "You fight weird. But I like it."
Shiro clasped it. "Shiro. I'm looking to learn Strong Fist."
Daichi's eyes lit up. "Then you came to the right guy. My brother trains under a jōnin who knows it. I can introduce you if you teach me some of your… whatever that throw was."
Shiro allowed the faintest of smiles. "Deal."
That night, Shiro sat cross-legged in his small apartment, a candle flickering in the corner. His muscles ached not from the fight, but from spending the day mimicking the Strong Fist drills he'd observed.
He jotted in the notebook he'd bought from the market:
Strong Fist: linear strikes, full commitment to offense, maximum power generation through hip torque.
Weakness: predictable patterns against unorthodox counters.
Potential merges: Muay Thai elbows and clinch, BJJ ground control, Sambo leg locks.
His path was clear. He would build a style this world had never seen one that blended every physical art he had mastered in life with the most brutal taijutsu techniques of the shinobi world.
Tomorrow, Daichi would take him to meet this jōnin. Shiro didn't intend to waste the opportunity.
If Strong Fist was his starting point… then Hachimon Tonkou was just the beginning.