"Your son is... unusual, Yamamoto-san." The doctor's words hung in the air. I'd made a mistake. A one-year-old shouldn't be able to speak in full sentences or demonstrate problem-solving skills of a five-year-old. My parents looked terrified. I'd exposed myself too early.
It had been a routine checkup at the village clinic, something my mother insisted on to make sure I was developing properly. The doctor, a middle-aged civilian physician, had started with standard tests. Can he track objects with his eyes? Yes. Can he respond to his name? Yes. Can he say a few words?
That's where I messed up.
The doctor had held up a ball. "Can you say 'ball,' Kenji-kun?"
I'd been tired, mentally exhausted from a night of chakra training, and I hadn't been thinking. "Ball," I'd said clearly. Then, because my sleep-deprived brain wasn't filtering properly, I'd added, "Red ball. Want to play."
The doctor's eyes had widened. "That's... remarkable. Yamamoto-san, does he speak like this often?"
My mother, bless her, had looked proud rather than concerned. "He's always been advanced. He started speaking at eight months."
The tests had continued, each one revealing more than I'd intended. Object permanence? I solved the puzzle immediately. Shape sorting? Done in seconds. Following complex instructions? No problem.
By the end, the doctor had been staring at me like I was some kind of medical curiosity.
"Your son has exceptional cognitive development," he'd said carefully. "Far beyond normal parameters. I'd like to refer you to a specialist, perhaps someone at the hospital who works with... gifted children."
That's when I saw the concern on my parents' faces. In a world of ninja, being "gifted" meant potentially drawing attention. And attention, as any civilian parent knew, could be dangerous.
On the walk home, my father had been quiet. My mother kept glancing at me with a mixture of pride and worry.
That evening, I overheard their conversation.
"What if the ninja take interest in him?" my mother whispered.
"Then we'll deal with it," my father replied, but his voice was tight. "If Kenji has potential, it could be a good thing. He could have opportunities we never had."
"Or they could take him away. Put him in those programs. I've heard stories, Tomio."
Root. She was worried about Root, though she didn't know the name. But rumors of Danzo's organization must have circulated, even if civilians didn't know the details.
I felt sick with guilt. I'd been so focused on my own training, my own goals, that I hadn't considered how my advancement would affect them.
I needed to be more careful.
Over the next few months, I deliberately slowed my visible progress. I still spoke well, but I made childish grammatical errors. I pretended to struggle with tasks I could easily complete. I acted more like a bright toddler rather than an adult mind in a child's body.
It was frustrating, maintaining the charade, but necessary.
Meanwhile, my real training continued in secret.
[AGE: 18 Months]
[CHAKRA CAPACITY: 11.2]
[CHAKRA CONTROL: 8.5]
[QUEST COMPLETE: "Foundation Building - Part 1"]
[REWARD: 100 Fate Points]
[TOTAL FP: 107]
My chakra had surpassed the first threshold. I could feel it now, constantly present—a warm energy I could call upon with just a thought. My control was still terrible by ninja standards, but for a toddler, it was unprecedented.
I practiced at night, in the privacy of my room. Simple exercises: moving chakra to different parts of my body, holding it steady, releasing it gradually. The System tracked my progress with clinical precision.
[TRAINING SESSION COMPLETE]
[CHAKRA CONTROL: +0.2]
[FATE POINTS EARNED: +3]
Slow. Gradual. But compounding.
I also began physical conditioning in earnest. I'd learned to walk at eleven months, and by eighteen months, I had better balance and coordination than most three-year-olds. I practiced when my parents weren't watching—moving silently across rooms, climbing furniture, developing the muscle memory that would later translate to ninja skills.
My father noticed my physical aptitude during one of his woodworking sessions. I'd been watching him carve, fascinated by the precise movements of his hands. He'd smiled and offered me a small, child-safe piece of wood and a blunt tool.
"Want to try, Kenji?"
I did. And I discovered that my enhanced dexterity translated well. Within an hour, I'd carved a crude but recognizable shape—a bird, wings spread.
My father had stared at it in silence for a long moment.
"You have good hands," he'd finally said, his voice strange. "Steady. Precise. Like a surgeon... or a ninja."
I'd looked up at him, and I saw the conflict in his eyes. Pride in my talent. Fear of what it might mean.
"Papa," I'd said carefully, reverting to simple speech patterns, "I want to make you proud."
He'd pulled me into a hug, and I'd felt him trembling slightly. "You already do, son. You already do."
Time passed in a blur of secret training and careful social management.
[AGE: 2 Years]
[CHAKRA CAPACITY: 18.7]
[CHAKRA CONTROL: 15.3]
I'd begun playing with other children in the neighborhood, civilian kids who'd eventually attend the Academy with me. I needed to build relationships early, establish myself as likeable and trustworthy.
Rina was the daughter of a merchant family, a clever girl with sharp eyes and an entrepreneurial spirit even at age two. We played simple games, but I could already see the intelligence that would serve her well.
Daichi was the son of a restaurant owner, a boisterous boy who loved physical games. He'd be strong, I knew—civilian-born ninja often had tremendous determination.
I planted seeds with both of them. "When we're older, we should all become ninja together," I'd say casually. "We could be a team."
"Ninja?" Rina had wrinkled her nose. "My papa says ninja life is dangerous."
"But they protect everyone," I'd countered. "They're heroes."
"I want to be a ninja!" Daichi had announced. "I'll be the strongest!"
I'd smiled. "Then we'll all get strong together."
Simple conversations, but they established expectations. When the time came, they'd follow my lead.
[AGE: 3 Years]
[CHAKRA CAPACITY: 25.1]
[CHAKRA CONTROL: 22.8]
I was approaching the levels of a young Academy student, and I hadn't even enrolled yet. The System continued to reward my diligence.
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: "Persistent Training"]
[REWARD: 50 FP]
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: "Chakra Adept (Child)"]
[REWARD: 100 FP]
[TOTAL FP: 847]
I'd been accumulating points steadily. Small quest completions, training rewards, occasional achievements. I was saving for something specific—the E-Rank Jutsu Bundle in the shop.
But I needed more than raw numbers. I needed technique. I needed knowledge.
My mother's sewing became an unexpected training opportunity. She taught me basic stitching, and I used it to develop fine motor control. Every precise movement of the needle was practice for hand seals, for weapons handling, for the thousand small skills that separated good ninja from great ones.
My father's carpentry was even better. He taught me measurements, angles, structural integrity. Ninja skills weren't just about fighting—they included trap-making, fortification, analysis. The engineering knowledge would be invaluable.
All the while, I watched ninja pass through our district. I memorized their movements, their bearing, their habits. I studied them like exam subjects.
And I waited.
[AGE: 3 Years, 11 Months]
I was approaching four years old. In one year, I'd be eligible for early Academy enrollment if I demonstrated sufficient ability. The pieces were falling into place.
Then, one evening, everything changed.
I'd been practicing in the backyard, thinking I was alone. It was late—well past bedtime—but I'd snuck out to work on my chakra control. I was attempting to channel chakra to my hands, a precursor to the leaf-sticking exercise Hiruzen's book had described.
The chakra flickered around my fingers, visible only because I'd learned to concentrate it to unusual density. It glowed faintly blue in the darkness.
Then I felt it—a presence. A pressure on my awareness that hadn't been there moments before.
I froze.
Standing on our fence, silhouetted by moonlight, was a figure in an ANBU mask. The porcelain gleamed white, decorated with simple markings. A bird design. They wore standard ANBU armor, and even from twenty feet away, I could feel the intensity of their focus.
My heart stopped. How long had they been watching? How much had they seen?
The masked ninja tilted their head, studying me with unsettling stillness.
Then they vanished in a swirl of leaves—the Shunshin technique executed so quickly I barely tracked it.
I stood there alone in my backyard, a four-year-old civilian child who'd just been caught performing chakra control exercises in the middle of the night.
That night, I couldn't sleep. The System notification glowed ominously:
[WARNING: You have been marked by Konoha Intelligence Division]
[OBSERVATION STATUS: Active]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: Prepare for contact]
They knew. Someone in ANBU now knew I existed, knew I was abnormal.
The question was: who would they report to?
Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Hokage, who believed in nurturing young talent?
Or Shimura Danzo, who collected gifted children like weapons?