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Six months had passed since Yugiri-sensei had laid down the rules on that first day.
Six months of sweat, bruises, and the constant, whistling wind that served as the village's anthem.
The initial nervous energy of the children had been hammered and forged into something new. Yugiri-sensei had been true to her word. Her class was not a collection of individuals; it was a unit.
The Kumo ideology was on full display every single day. There was no "prodigy" table in the cafeteria. The children who excelled at shurikenjutsu were paired with those who couldn't hit the broad side of a mountain peak, not as a punishment, but as a duty. The fast runners would finish their laps and then run back to pace the slower ones, shouting encouragement (or, in Karui's case, friendly insults) until they too crossed the line.
The "prodigies" learned patience and leadership, and the "strugglers" learned resilience, their confidence strengthened by the fact that their peers refused to leave them behind. It was a brutal, exhausting, and strangely heartwarming system. It was pure Kumogakure: we all climb the mountain together, or we all fall.
These six months had been the foundation.
Their days were a grueling cycle. Mornings began before the sun, with physical training. They ran the thousands of stone steps carved into the mountain's side, their small lungs burning in the high-altitude air. They did push-ups on their knuckles on the cold stone plazas, held wall-sits until their legs vibrated, and engaged in endurance drills that were designed to find their breaking point and then push them past it. This was the Kumo way. A shinobi's body was a weapon, and they would forge it in stone and lightning.
After that came the basics of the shinobi arts.
Shurikenjutsu was a core focus. They learned the proper grip, the snap of the wrist. But this was Kumo, and "good enough" was a failing grade. It wasn't just about hitting the target; it was about hitting it with force. "A kunai that sticks in the wood is a warning," Yugiri-sensei would bark, pacing the line. "A kunai that shatters the wood is a kill. Throw with your intent!"
Taijutsu was next. They spent weeks just on stances, on balance, on how to throw a proper punch that started from the heel and exploded on impact. They learned to take a hit, to roll with it, and to get back up, every single time.
And then, there was the classroom work. History.
They did not just learn about the past; they learned the weight of it. They learned of the endless wars, but most importantly, they learned of the figures who defined their village.
They learned about the Third Raikage, A. His name was spoken with a reverence that bordered on worship. The children sat in rapt attention as Yugiri-sensei recounted his final, legendary stand.
"The Third was the strongest Raikage in history," she told them, her voice low and serious. "He possessed a body of pure steel, his Lightning Release Armour so perfect he was considered invincible. But his body was not his strongest weapon. His will was."
She told them of the battle, decades ago, where he and his comrades, including his son, the future Fourth Raikage, were encircled by an army of ten thousand Iwagakure shinobi. They were exhausted, low on chakra, and hopelessly outnumbered. There was no escape.
"So, the Third Raikage made a choice," Yugiri-sensei said, her eyes sweeping the room. "He turned to his shinobi and told them to run. And he... he stayed. One man. He stood alone against ten thousand."
The children's eyes were wide. Even Raiden leaned forward.
"For three days and three nights," she continued, "the Third Raikage fought. He held that pass alone, a one-man storm of lightning and raw power. He did not let a single enemy shinobi pass. When his comrades were finally safe, miles away... he finally fell, having bought their lives with his own. He did not die in defeat. He died as a shield. That... that is the will of a Kumo shinobi. You protect your comrades. You never back down. No mission is bigger than your comrades."
They then learned of their current Raikage, the Fourth, A. The son who had been saved by the Third. He was the very embodiment of his father's power and will. He was a man of terrifying speed and overwhelming strength, his Lightning Release Armour a near-impenetrable defense, and his "Liger Bomb" a finishing move that could shatter the very earth. He was the village's ultimate spear.
And then, there was the village's hero, Killer B.
The children adored him. He was the perfect Jinchūriki of the Eight-Tails, a man who had befriended the monster within. He was A's brother, the "ultimate partner," and the village's unwavering guardian.
His seven-sword style was a dance of chaotic, unpredictable lethality, and his constant, often terrible, rap was a sign of his complete and total mastery.
In Kumo, Jinchūriki were not feared or ostracized; they were celebrated.
They were the village's ultimate protectors.
They also learned of Yugito Nii, the Jinchūriki of the Two-Tails. She was a kunoichi of immense grace and power, another pillar of the village's strength. Having two perfect, respected Jinchūriki was a source of immense pride for the village.
This was the legacy the children were inheriting. A legacy of sacrifice, of overwhelming power, and of unbreakable camaraderie.
This foundation was put to the test in their one-on-one taijutsu spars. And it was here that the personalities of Raiden and his friends truly began to shine.
Sparring matches with Karui were loud, fast, and brutal. She was all offense. The moment Yugiri-sensei said "Begin!" Karui was a red-haired blur, charging in with a storm of punches and kicks. Her form was sloppy, but her ferocity was unmatched.
She didn't care about getting hit; she only cared about hitting back, harder.
Omoi was her polar opposite. His spars were painful to watch. He would spend the entire match backpedaling, his lollipop somehow still in his mouth, muttering a constant stream of anxieties. "Oh, man, she's going to kick... No, no, it's a feint, she's going to punch... But what if I block the punch and then she kicks? I'll be wide open! Maybe I should just forfeit? No, Yugiri-sensei will yell at me. Okay, okay, just dodge..."
He was a defensive overthinker, waiting for a "perfect" opening that his opponent rarely gave him.
Samui, on the other hand, was pure, cold logic.
She was a counter-striker. She would stand perfectly still. Her opponent would charge, and Samui would wait. She'd wait until the last possible nanosecond, dodging the punch or kick by a mere millimeter. The opponent, having over-extended, would be off balance for a fraction of a second. And in that fraction, Samui would strike once to a nerve cluster or a joint. No wasted energy. No emotion. Just cold, brutal efficiency.
And then there was Raiden.
His spars were... terrifying.
He stood across from a boy twice his size, one of the larger students in the class. "Begin!" Yugiri-sensei called.
The large boy charged, letting out a yell, his right fist ready to strike. Raiden didn't move. His golden-yellow eyes, which seemed to almost glow in the indoor training hall, watched.
'Heel on the right foot digs in,' Raiden's mind processed in a blur of real-time thought. 'Left shoulder is tensed, pulling back. He's telegraphing a full-power right hook. Amateur. He's relying on his weight.'
The punch came. Just as Raiden predicted, it was a wide, sloppy haymaker(A type of punch). 'Too slow.'
Raiden ducked under the swinging arm. He didn't just dodge; he moved inside his opponent's guard. The boy's momentum carried him forward, his arm now uselessly behind Raiden.
'He's over-extended. His center of balance is compromised. His left side, from ribs to kidney, is completely exposed.'
Raiden's small hand, already glowing with the faintest shimmer of chakra, a natural, instinctive control that baffled his teacher, snapped forward. It wasn't a punch. It was a palm strike, striking the boy's exposed floating ribs with a sharp, sickening thwack.
The boy's air left him in a single, explosive whoosh. He collapsed to his knees, gasping like a fish. The fight was over in three seconds.
It was this: a blend of raw, Uzumaki power and a cold, analytical precision. He mapped out his fights as they happened, his mind a supercomputer of predictive analysis, all backed by a body that was already faster, stronger, and more durable than any of his peers.
Yugiri-sensei watched him with a complex expression, a mix of pride and a faint shock.
This brought them to the present day. Six months of training had bonded Raiden, Karui, Samui, and Omoi into an inseparable team. They were sitting on a high-altitude balcony, their legs dangling over a drop that would mean certain death for any normal civilian.
"I'm telling you," Omoi moaned, rubbing his shoulder. "That last drill was unnecessary. Why do we need to do backwards cartwheels up the stairs? When will we ever use that? What if the enemy attacks while I'm mid-cartwheel? I'd be a goner!"
"You'd be a goner anyway 'cause you'd be too busy deciding which way to fall," Karui retorted, playfully shoving him. "It's for agility, idiot."
"Yeah, well, my agile shoulder is now dislocated," Omoi grumbled.
"It's not dislocated, it's just sore," Samui sighed, staring out at the sea of clouds below.
"You guys are just sore 'cause I beat you all in the run again," Raiden said, leaning back on his hands with a smug grin.
Karui's eye twitched. "Only because you didn't fall on your face this time, 'White Uzumaki'."
"Just call me Raiden, you jealous, slow-poke," he shot back.
Before Karui could launch herself at him, the deep gong of the bell echoed across the mountain. They scrambled to their feet and headed to class.
Yugiri-sensei was already there, waiting. The moment they entered, the room went silent. Their discipline was now second nature.
"Good morning, class," she said. "For six months, you have trained your bodies and your minds. You have learned the foundations of taijutsu and shurikenjutsu. Today, you take the next step."
A buzz of excitement filled the room.
"A shinobi's greatest weapon is their mind. Their second is their body. But a third can be a tool. An extension of your own will. Some of you may prefer to focus solely on taijutsu, like the Raikage-sama. That is a noble and difficult path. But for others, a weapon is a more natural fit. Today, we will be going to the village armory. You will each be allowed to choose one weapon type. This will be the weapon you will train with, master, and carry with you for the rest of your careers, or at least till you outgrow it, or find a better one. Choose wisely."
The class erupted. Boys were shouting about giant axes, girls were debating the merits of kunai versus senbon. Omoi's eyes were wide.
"Seven swords... seven swords... here I come..."
The Kumo armory was not a store. It was a vault. Dug deep into the mountain, it was a massive, cavernous stone room that smelled of cold metal, weapon oil, and grindstone dust. Racks upon racks of deadly, functional, and decidedly un-flashy weapons filled the space. There were spears, heavy-duty kunai, crates of senbon, spiked knuckles, giant battle-axes, and, of course, swords.
The children, awestruck, fanned out.
Raiden saw his friends separate. Karui, unsurprisingly, made a beeline for the katanas. She picked one up, tested its weight, and gave it a sharp, whistling swing. A wide, dangerous grin split her face. She grabbed a standard, functional katana with a simple dark red hilt.
Omoi was right behind her. He was vibrating with excitement.
"B-sama, B-sama, B-sama..." he muttered, before spotting a rack of oversized cleavers. He staggered over and tried to lift one, his arms shaking, and nearly dropped it on his foot. The grizzled old Chūnin acting as armorer barked, "Put that down, you fool! You'll take your eye out! What are you, a Killer B fanboy?"
"He's the greatest!" Omoi protested. "He has seven swords!"
"And you," the armorer grunted, "will have one. Standard-issue katana. You have to master that first to get more. And stop drooling on the merchandise."
Omoi, his dreams crushed, dejectedly picked up a standard katana, muttering about how his "true potential" was being buried.
Samui, meanwhile, ignored the swords completely. She walked to the far wall, where racks of specialized projectiles were kept. She picked up several different kunai, testing their weight and balance in her hand. She finally settled on a set of kunai that were slightly heavier and thicker than the standard issue. Yugiri-sensei, watching her, nodded in approval.
"Good choice, Samui. Why those?"
"I prefer to fight at mid-distance," Samui stated simply. "More options. These have the weight to be effective as both a projectile and a melee weapon. It's logical."
Raiden, however, was just... looking. He walked past the axes, the spears, the flails. None of them felt right. His style wasn't about brute force like Karui's. It wasn't about anxiety-fueled defense like Omoi's. It was about speed, precision, and overwhelming, analytical offense.
He needed a weapon that was as fast and precise as his mind.
He found it in a corner, on a rack by itself. It was a katana, but it was... different. The scabbard was a polished, stark white, smooth as bone. He pulled it from the rack. The hilt was wrapped in a matching brilliant white ito-cord, over black, diamond-patterned rayskin. It was simple, elegant, and had a dangerous, lethal feel to it. (THE SWORD FROM THE COVER PIC)
He drew the blade just an inch. The steel was flawless, gleaming in the low light of the armory.
'Kenjutsu,' he thought, a memory surfacing. His mother, Akane practicing in their small apartment's courtyard. Her movements were fluid, graceful, and devastatingly fast, a style she'd called the "Whirlpool's dance."
'Mom is a Kenjutsu master. She could teach me.'
He slid the blade back into the scabbard with a satisfying click. He strapped it to his left hip. It felt balanced. It felt right.
He smirked. 'Plus... it looks good with my hair.'
The four friends met back at the armory entrance, their new tools in hand. "A sword, huh?" Karui said, nodding at Raiden's hip. "Good choice." Omoi just sighed, staring at his own standard-issue blade. "It's just one. How am I supposed to be a 'Jinchūriki-in-training' with one stupid sword? This is a disaster. I'm going to be so unprepared."
Samui looked at Raiden's choice, her analytical gaze taking in the white hilt and scabbard against his white tunic and hair. "The color coordination looks nice, Raiden."
Karui grinned. "She's right. That white hilt and handle really go with your hair."
Raiden stopped. He placed a hand on the hilt of his new sword, and with his other, he theatrically flicked his long white hair back over his shoulder.
"Please," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance, "I know I look cool. It was the only choice."
A collective, unified groan rose from his three friends.
"Uggggg," Karui, Omoi, and Samui moaned in perfect unison. "There he goes again."
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