Morning came with the academy's courtyard buzzing with activity. Students paired off for sparring, kunai practice, and chakra exercises. Kai stood at the edge, watching intently as others balanced leaves on their foreheads, concentrating on keeping them in place with chakra alone.
He tried the exercise countless times already—each attempt ending the same way: the leaf slipping off after only seconds.
"Focus," the instructor barked as he passed. "Your mind must be as sharp as your will. A distracted shinobi is a dead one."
Kai pressed the leaf to his forehead, closing his eyes. He inhaled, then exhaled slowly. He pictured the flow of energy inside him, like rivers branching through his body. But every time he tried to grasp it, the flow slipped from his control, scattering like sparks in the wind.
The leaf fluttered down again.
Frustration gnawed at him. Around him, some students laughed quietly at his struggle. But instead of lashing out, Kai clenched his fists, forcing himself to remember the ember he'd felt last night—the determination to master the storm.
When class ended, Kai didn't leave. Instead, he stayed behind, staring at the fallen leaves littering the training ground. Hours passed. The sun sank lower. Still, he trained. Still, he failed.
By dusk, his chakra reserves were drained, his forehead aching from the strain. Yet something was different this time.
As he sat cross-legged, exhaustion pulling at his body, a faint tingling spread across his fingertips. A sharp crackle filled the silence—a tiny spark leaping between his index and thumb before vanishing.
Kai's eyes widened. His heart raced.
It was small. Weak. Unstable. But it was lightning.