The morning sun hung lazily over the Hidden Flame Village, dripping gold over rooftops that still smelled faintly of smoke and morning porridge. Somewhere beneath that sky, a boy with messy crimson-tipped hair stood alone in the empty Academy courtyard, staring at his hands as if they'd betrayed him.
Ren Urazaki, sixteen years old, future hero of nothing, had failed his graduation exam… again.
Around him, chalk dust still hung in the air from where students had practiced hand seals. The field smelled like grass, sweat, and crushed pride.
Ren sighed. Alright, Ren. Round five. That's only four more failures than anyone else. Totally fine. You're just… special.
He threw a few seals together, closed his eyes, and concentrated. "C'mon, c'mon, Clone Technique—"
A puff of smoke erupted in front of him. When it cleared, a lumpy, deflated version of himself lay face-down on the ground, drooling faintly.
Silence.
Then, from the doorway, his instructor pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ren… that's not even breathing."
Ren rubbed the back of his head, laughing awkwardly. "Hey, progress! Last time it didn't have lungs."
"Go home, Urazaki."
And just like that, the last candidate walked off the field, leaving the "great hope of the Urazaki bloodline" alone with his failure.
Urazaki bloodline, he thought bitterly. What bloodline? Half of me's probably from some guy who tripped into an Uzumaki at a festival.
He kicked the dirt, dust rising like smoke around his sandals. "Why can't I use chakra properly? Mom, Dad… whoever you were… couldn't you have left me something other than this stupid red hair and freakish stamina?"
His voice faded into the wind. The only answer was the distant creak of wooden training posts.
Ren's stomach growled loudly enough to scare a bird off a nearby fence.
"…Guess even failure's hungry."
He started walking toward the food stalls. Kids in new headbands passed him on the road, laughing, bumping shoulders, showing off their shiny forehead protectors. One of them waved at him sympathetically. Another whispered behind his back, "That's the taijutsu loser. The one who writes poems instead of passing exams."
Ren didn't turn around. If words could win fights, I'd already be Hokage… or, uh, whatever we call that here. Flame Lord? Man, this world really is a knock-off version of that ninja manga I read once.
He smiled despite himself. Figures. I can't even get reincarnated into an original setting.
Halfway through his fifth dumpling, something strange happened.
A whisper, faint but metallic, echoed inside his head.
[System initializing…][Analyzing user potential…][Detected high life-force, low control efficiency.][User confirmed: Ren Urazaki.]
Ren froze, dumpling halfway to his mouth. "Uh… hello?"
[Welcome, host. Talent assessment beginning.][Rolling for innate abilities.]
A spinning wheel of light flickered in front of his eyes. He stumbled back, almost choking. The villagers around him didn't seem to notice.
[Ding! Drawing complete.][You have acquired talents: Iron Fist Soul (Red), Hot-Blooded Youth (Black).]
Ren blinked. "…What, no consolation prize? Maybe 'Can't-Do-Jutsu Enthusiast'?"
Descriptions followed:
[Iron Fist Soul: Your fists are extensions of your spirit. With every strike made in conviction, your power grows. Red rank: Genius level once in a hundred.][Hot-Blooded Youth: Your heart burns with relentless courage. You inspire others by sheer presence. Black rank: Ultra rare.]
He stood there in stunned silence, mouth slightly open, dumpling sauce dripping onto his shirt.
Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
"Fists and hot blood, huh? Guess I'm the main character of a sports anime now."
He clenched his hands experimentally. Warmth flooded through his arms, pulsing with his heartbeat. Every nerve hummed, every muscle felt awake for the first time in years.
He threw a lazy punch into the air. A shockwave cracked across the stall awning, scattering napkins.
The vendor stared. "Kid, are you—"
"Training!" Ren yelled, bolting out of the food stand before he could be charged for damages.
By the time the sun touched the rooftops, Ren had found his way to the old riverbank outside the village. The sky burned orange; the air smelled like wet grass and steel.
He rolled up his sleeves, took a stance, and started punching.
One. Two. Three.
Each strike drove air before it, snapping his wrist bones like firecrackers. Sweat darkened his shirt, breath tearing out of his lungs.
[Iron Fist Soul activated.][Body adapting: Muscular fiber reinforcement +12%.]
Ren stopped, panting. Did that just say my muscles got stronger? I— I'm literally leveling up for sweating! Finally, a system that understands me!
He looked at his bruised hands and laughed weakly. "Guess I don't need flashy jutsu. My fists are plenty loud."
As the light dimmed, he sat down by the river, exhausted but grinning. Fireflies drifted between reeds, glowing like tiny chakra sparks.
For the first time in his life, failure didn't feel like the end. It felt like a starting line.
He looked up at the sunset and whispered, "I don't care if I can't mold chakra. I'll still protect everyone I can reach… with these fists."
The wind caught his words and carried them across the water.
[Mission established: Path of the Iron Fist.][Objective: Train, grow stronger, and defend the people worth protecting.]
Ren smiled, lying back on the grass. "Heh. Finally, a quest I can punch my way through."
The stars blinked awake one by one, and for a moment, the whole world felt like it was holding its breath, waiting to see what this stubborn, half-Urazaki boy would do next.
He closed his eyes, laughter fading into the hum of the night.
Tomorrow, he decided, he'd start running at sunrise—and this time, he wouldn't stop.