The morning after my fourth birthday dawned like any other in Kirigakure—shrouded in a dense veil of fog that stifled the world, the air heavy with the smell of salt and damp earth, the cold seeping through the stone walls of the compound like an unwelcome guest. I had fallen asleep the previous night with a feeling of contentment, the echoes of laughter from the celebration still resonating in my ears, the taste of the sweet cake lingering on my tongue. The mothers had outdone themselves, their warm embraces enveloping me like a protective cocoon, their voices a chorus of praise for my "beautiful handwriting" and "clever words." My half-brothers crowded around me, their energy contagious, the older ones, like Daigo, lifting me with strong arms that smelled of sweat from their training, while the younger ones, like Kenta, tugged at my sleeve, chattering excitedly. It had been a day of belonging, a rare warmth in this cold world, but as I lay in my small bed, the soft, worn blanket against my skin, I couldn't shake the undercurrent of expectation. I was four years old now—old enough, in this clan, to begin to glimpse the path ahead. Little did I know how abruptly it would begin.
The sun had barely broken through the mist, casting a pale, ghostly light through the narrow window, when I felt—a sudden, sharp tug on my foot. My body shuddered, dragged from the bed in a swift movement, the blanket flying off like discarded skin, the cold air rushing in and biting at my exposed arms and legs. I gasped, my heart pounding against my ribs like that of a trapped bird, the world spinning as I was pulled upward. The room spun for a moment, the familiar scents of damp stone and my mother's herbal teas mingling with something new—iron and sweat, heavy and intimidating. Blinking rapidly to shake off the sleepiness, I looked up, and up, and up.
It was him. My father, Isamu Akashio, towering over me like a living mountain, his figure blocking the dim light, casting a long shadow that swallowed the room. Over six feet tall, he was a colossus, his blue-gray skin stretched over muscles bulging like tangled ropes, veins visibly pulsing as he crossed his arms. His long black hair cascaded down his back like a wild, untamed mane, dark as night, and the giant sword strapped to his back—a massive blade, wider than my torso, its edge gleaming faintly even in the dim light, the worn leather hilt evoking countless battles—seemed almost an extension of his body, its weight tilting his posture slightly forward. His black eyes, deep and unfathomable as the abyss, stared at me without a hint of gentleness, his serrated teeth hidden behind lips pressed into a thin line. The air around him felt heavier, laden with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. This was the first time he'd woken me like this, the first time his enormous hand had gripped me so firmly. My stomach churned, a knot of fear and excitement tightening around me, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts that blurred the cold air.
"Get up, Arashi," he grunted, his voice a deep murmur like thunder echoing across distant hills, reverberating in the small room and vibrating in my chest. "Today begins."
I jumped up, the cold stone floor cutting my bare soles like tiny needles, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. The room was still dark, the fog outside pressing against the window like a living thing, and the only sound was my panting breath and the distant dripping of water on the walls. He didn't wait for me to fully wake up; his enormous hand grabbed my arm again, swallowing my forearm whole, his grip firm but not painful, like being held in a vise of flesh and bone. He dragged me out of the room, my feet barely able to keep up with him, the damp air of the corridor clinging to my skin like a second layer, the smell of salt and iron growing stronger as we moved. The complex was silent, still asleep, the only light coming from weak lanterns flickering in the corridors, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. My mind raced—what was happening? Was it punishment? Or something more? Fear bubbled up, but beneath it was a spark of curiosity, of determination. Now I was Arashi, not Erick, and whatever this was, I would face it.
We stepped out onto the outer courtyard, the mist swirling around us like curious spirits, the cold air nipping at my face and arms, sending shivers down my spine. The ground was smooth with dew, my feet slipping slightly as he pulled me along, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the fog. He led me to a training area I had never set foot in before—a secluded field behind the main complex, surrounded by high walls covered in slimy moss, the uneven ground dotted with sharp stones and puddles of mud that reflected the grey sky like hazy mirrors. The air there was sharper, colder, carrying the faint scent of old sweat and blood, a warning that this place was for serious business. There was no one else around; just us, the giant and the boy, the mist closing in like a curtain, isolating us from the world.
He released me abruptly, and I stumbled, regaining my balance as he crossed his arms again, his muscles contracting like taut steel cables. The sword on his back cast a long, sinister shadow on the damp floor, and his dark eyes stared down at me, assessing, judging. I felt tiny under that gaze, my heart racing, the cold piercing my bones, making me shiver despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. The mist clung to my skin, forming droplets like sweat, and the distant sound of water dripping on the walls heightened the tension, like the ticking of a clock.
"You are from the Akashio clan," he began, his hoarse voice cutting through the silence like a blade through flesh. "A clan I created. I am the patriarch, Isamu Akashio. I was a bastard of the Hoshigaki clan, the son of a geisha and a father I never knew, but whose blood runs strong in me—and in you. In the wars I fought, in the battles I won, I earned the Mizukage's recognition. He granted me the honor of founding my own clan. The Akashio clan exists thanks to me, and you are part of it. Our family... it's perhaps the most important thing we have. I didn't have one, but I created this one. The Hoshigaki blood makes us strong, makes us grow fast, gives us resilient muscles and joints that support. But you have something more. Something that makes you different."
He paused, his eyes half-closed, the mist swirling around his imposing figure like smoke from a bonfire. I felt a shiver run down my spine—not just from the cold, but from the weight of his words. Something more. Could it be my mother's blood? The mysterious vitality she emanated, her red hair and indomitable spirit? But he gave no further details, and I dared not ask; his expression was a wall, inflexible and intimidating. The air seemed thicker, the smell of damp earth rising as a fine drizzle began, drops hitting the ground like small drums.
"Your training begins today," he continued, his voice low but resonant, vibrating through the mist. "Your brothers have proven themselves to be of great value. Daigo graduated from the academy at age 11, when the normal age is 13. The others can follow a similar path. I expect no less from you. Show what you are capable of."
The training began with a warm-up, the drizzle making the ground slippery, my feet sinking slightly into the mud with each movement. He showed me how to stretch—arms extended above my head, the cold air cutting my exposed skin, muscles protesting with a sharp pain at first, but gradually warming up, the stretch pulling like the strings of a bow. "Feel the body awaken," he grunted, demonstrating with his colossal frame, his movements surprisingly flexible for his size, the sword on his back moving slightly with a metallic clinking sound. I imitated him, the scent of damp earth rising as I leaned forward, my heart racing with the effort, the mist forming in droplets on my skin like sweat before the real sweat began.
Then, push-ups—knees on the ground for me, the cold, rough earth against my palms, grains clinging to my skin. "Push the ground like it's the enemy," he said, his voice hoarse. My arms trembled as I lowered and raised myself, the burning sensation spreading through my shoulders like fire, but I persisted, each repetition sending a wave of determination through my body. The drizzle mingled with my sweat, trickling down my back in icy rivulets. Then I ran in circles across the field, my feet splashing in puddles, mud splattering my legs, the air cutting through my lungs like blades of ice, each breath sharp and labored. "Faster! The enemy won't wait," he shouted, his presence looming like a storm cloud. Pull-ups on the fixed bar, which he adjusted to my height—my hands slipping on the wet metal, fingers aching, muscles screaming as I pulled myself up, the effort pulling at every fiber, but I held on, subtly drawing on chakra, a warm inner flow that eased the fatigue, though I kept it a secret.
As I struggled, he explained, his voice cutting through my gasping breath, "The Hoshigaki body grows faster. The muscles develop earlier, the joints stiffen sooner. You will feel pain, but pain is a teacher. Overcome it." The words hit me like blows, the cold wind whipping my face, the mist clinging to my hair, making it heavy.
After the warm-up, my body already aching, came the test of endurance. "Run until I tell you to stop," he ordered, arms crossed, eyes fixed like those of a predator on its prey. I ran—the field was a blur around me, the fog swirling in eddies, my lungs burning with each gasping breath, my legs feeling like lead as the hours dragged on. The filtered sun punished the mist, warming my skin but mixing with the drizzle, creating a sticky dampness. Sweat dripped down my face, stung my eyes, the smell of my own effort—salt and exhaustion—invaded my nostrils. He timed everything, a pocket watch in his enormous hand, his expression unchanging, a statue in the fog. Hours passed—without a break for water, thirst growing like fire in my throat, no food, my stomach rumbling like a caged beast, writhing with hunger. "Hold on tight. This tests your essence," he said, his voice firm amidst my uneven breathing.
When I could barely lift my feet, the world spinning, the mud clinging to my soles like hands trying to pull me down, the kata began. "Now, the basics of the Mist," he said, positioning himself, his enormous form casting a shadow that engulfed me. The kata was direct, brutal—no frills, just efficient violence. He demonstrated: a closed fist piercing the air with a whistle, the sound as sharp as a whip crack, a leg sweeping the ground like a scythe cutting grass. "Our style is simple. No pirouettes like those red eyes of Konoha or the Hyuga clan's fussiness, just touching and caressing. You don't caress. You break bones, tear muscles, attack vital points. Strong, fast. The enemy doesn't get up."
I mimicked the movements, my exhausted body protesting with every action, my muscles trembling like stretched ropes, but my mind focused, absorbing every form. The air howled with my blows, sweat flying in arcs across my skin, the smell of exertion mingling with the earthy mist. He corrected relentlessly: "Lower. Attack the liver," his voice a bark, his hand adjusting my posture with a firm, almost painful, but precise touch. I learned quickly—the kata imprinting itself on my muscle memory like ink on paper, the chakra subtly assisting, a warm flow stabilizing my trembling limbs, though I kept it hidden, the energy vibrating beneath my skin like a secret fire.
The day ended with the sun setting, the gray sky plunging into twilight, the air growing colder, cutting my sweaty skin like needles. I was exhausted—my muscles trembling uncontrollably, my vision blurred at the edges, hunger a roaring beast in my stomach, thirst burning my throat. "Enough," he finally said, his voice cutting through the haze of exhaustion. He picked me up as if I weighed nothing, the world swaying as he carried me back, the mist dissipating around his imposing form, the smell of his sweat—iron and salt—strong and overwhelming. I lay on the bed, the soft, cozy blanket against my aching skin, the room swirling as darkness enveloped me, sleep washing over me like a wave.
[Switch to the father's thoughts]
Isamu watched the boy fall into a deep sleep, his small chest rising and falling with irregular, exhausted breaths, the flashlight casting shadows on his sweat-covered face. Arashi was different—profoundly different. He had assimilated the kata faster than any of his siblings at that age, his movements fluid and instinctive, as if the forms had been etched into his bones since birth. His stamina was impressive; the stopwatch in Isamu's hand didn't lie. The boy endured the entire day, without food to give him energy, without water to quench his thirst, without breaks to alleviate the relentless effort—unlike the others, who succumbed sooner under the same test. Was it the Hoshigaki blood running stronger within him, thickening his muscles, strengthening his resolve? Or the contribution of his mother, that hidden Uzumaki vitality mixing in, creating something more potent? Isamu didn't know and, frankly, didn't care. Explanations were for scholars and the weak; In the mist, what mattered were the results. That boy was superior to his brothers, a level above, with a fire in his eyes that promised greatness. A future pillar for the Akashio clan, someone who could elevate them all. As he walked away, the weight of the sword on his back a familiar comfort, Isamu allowed a rare, jagged smile. The bastard's legacy was secured.
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