The morning after my first training session arrived shrouded in the same dense, persistent fog that never quite dissipated from Kirigakure. The air felt heavier than usual, pressing against the stone walls of my small room like a living, cold, damp, and relentless being. I awoke to the dull, persistent ache that had settled in every muscle overnight, a deep pain that radiated from my shoulders down my spine, arms, and even my legs. It was the kind of pain that made even breathing feel like an effort—each inhale pulling at my sensitive ribs, each exhale reminding me how much my abdomen had been strained the day before. My eyelids were heavy; the ceiling above me was a blurry gray slab, the dim light filtering through the narrow window barely enough to distinguish the cracks in the stone. The smell of dampness permeated everything—damp earth, ancient stone, the faint trace of medicinal herbs my mother must have rubbed on my skin while I slept. My body felt strange, as if it belonged to someone else who had overexerted themselves and paid the price.
I tried to turn around, and a sharp groan escaped before I could stop it. The sound echoed off the walls, small and pathetic in the silence. My arms protested the movement, the muscles screaming as if they'd been stretched on a sawhorse. My legs were worse—stiff, heavy, with the kind of pain that made me question if I'd ever walk normally again. "Damn it," I whispered to the ceiling, the word tasting bitter on my dry tongue. "I haven't felt this broken since the army... since those damned marches in the desert, when the sun cooked us alive and the sand seeped into every crack, every wound." Back then, pain was a constant companion, something you learned to live with or you broke. Here, in this tiny body, it was overwhelming, raw, almost childlike in its intensity. But I was still me inside—Erick, the man who had survived worse. So I breathed deeply, slowly and deliberately, forcing my limbs to obey.
"Arashi, my little storm," my mother's voice sounded again, soft as a lullaby, but with the quiet urgency she reserved for mornings like this. She was already there, kneeling beside the bed, her fiery red hair catching the dim light like embers in the dark room. The aroma of herbal tea followed her—ginger and mint, warm and comforting. Her hand rested lightly on my forehead, her cold fingers brushing my hair away from my face. "You were so strong yesterday. But today is another day. Your father is waiting. First breakfast, then the field."
I nodded, swallowing the groan that threatened to escape. She helped me sit upright, her gentle yet firm touch guiding my movements as she had when I was still learning to walk. The blanket fell away, and the cold air hit my chest, sending shivers down my spine. She handed me a simple tunic, its rough fabric brushing against my bruised skin as I put it on. "Take a deep breath," she said softly. "The pain means you're growing. Let it teach you." Her eyes met mine—soft, but with that steel beneath that I was beginning to recognize. She knew what she was asking. She knew what the clan demanded.
The walk to the communal kitchen seemed longer than it should have been. Each step sent new jolts through my legs, the cold stone floor biting my bare feet. The hallway was dark, lanterns flickering faintly, shadows dancing on the walls. The air was thick with moisture, clinging to my skin, making my tunic feel heavy. My mother's hand remained on my back, supporting me as I stumbled. Voices came from the front—muffled laughter, the clinking of bowls, the low murmur of siblings already awake. The smell of rice and grilled fish grew stronger, warm and inviting against the cold.
We entered the kitchen and the heat hit me like a wave. The room teemed with movement—mothers moving between the stoves and tables, steam rising in fragrant clouds, the air thick with the aroma of hot rice, salted fish, and herbal tea. My brothers were scattered around the long wooden table, some still half asleep, others already helping themselves to food. Daigo sat at the head of the table, his broad shoulders filling the space, his dark tunic slightly crumpled from the previous day. He looked up as I entered, a slow smile spreading across his face. "There he is—the zombie's back." Laughter echoed through the group. Rokuta leaned back, arms crossed, with a mocking grin. "We thought you were dead, little shark. You looked like one when Dad dragged you back last night." Kenta, the smallest, shifted to make room, his eyes wide with wonder. "You lasted all day! I saw you from the wall. You didn't even cry."
I managed a weak smile, sitting on the bench next to Kenta. The wood was hard against my aching thighs, but the warmth of the room enveloped me, easing the tension somewhat. My mother placed a bowl in front of me—steaming rice, glistening fish, a cup of tea beside it. "Eat slowly," she said. "Your body needs fuel." I took a bite; the rice warm and comforting, the fish salty and flavorful. The tea burned my tongue at first, but soon soothed the irritation in my throat. Conversation flowed around me—Daigo reminiscing about the best moments of yesterday, Rokuta teasing Kenta about his failed push-ups, the younger ones asking questions about their father's sword. It was chaotic, noisy, familiar. For a moment, the pain lessened, replaced by the warmth of belonging to that place.
After breakfast, our mothers helped us put on our workout clothes—dark tunics made of sturdy fabric, shorts for greater mobility, and wrist and ankle ties. "This is better than that mess from yesterday," my mother said, adjusting mine, the cool fabric against my aching skin. "It doesn't tear easily, and now it's standard for everyone." I nodded, feeling the light fabric, made for movement. The siblings gathered in the courtyard, the cool morning air mingling with the faint scent of damp earth, the mist swirling like veils.
We arrived at the training field—the same place, high walls covered in moss, the muddy ground reflecting the gray sky. My father was already there, arms crossed, pocket watch in hand, notebook in his pocket. His dark eyes examined us. "Begin the warm-up."
The brothers obeyed, extending their arms, the air cut by synchronized breathing. I joined them, my body protesting—the muscles in my back stretching like taut ropes, the cold cutting through exposed skin, the smell of sweat beginning to mingle with the dampness. Daigo led, his movements fluid. Rokuta beside me: "This again? My arm still hurts." But stretched out, beads of sweat forming. I persisted, the familiar pain, like back in my army days.
Push-ups—knees on the ground for the younger ones, cold, damp earth in their palms. "Push as if the ground were the enemy." Their arms burned, each repetition sending waves of heat, sweat dripping onto the mud. Perfect Daigo. Kenta struggled, but managed to stand up. His father timed it and wrote it down.
Running—feet splashing mud, the air cutting his lungs. "Faster!" His legs ached, but he sped up, the wind drying his sweat. Rokuta laughed: "Don't fall, Arashi!" His father counted the laps.
Bars—cold metal in the palms of my hands, muscles burning as I climbed. "Climb like your life depends on it." I trembled, but I climbed, the tension pulling at the fibers. Daigo effortlessly. I matched the older rhythm, the pain a muffled roar.
Isamu Akashio stood at the edge of the training field, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the muddy ground, the mist swirling around his legs like obedient spirits. The air was crisp, sharp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint salty touch of the nearby sea. His black eyes, sharp as kunai, scanned his sons as they completed their final set of pull-ups, their panting breaths blurring the cool morning air. The field was a familiar sight—high, moss-covered walls, puddles reflecting the gray sky like broken mirrors, the ground turned to mud beneath their feet. He had watched the entire training session with absolute focus, his pocket watch marking the time in one hand, his worn notebook in the other, his pen scribbling notes on each boy's performance. Daigo, the oldest at eleven, led as always, his muscles contracting and uncoiling with the precision of a compressed spring, smooth, effortless repetitions, his time improved by three seconds compared to last week. Nine-year-old Rokuta grumbled during the exercise but persisted, his face red with effort, repetitions rising from 12 to 15. Five-year-old Kenta struggled but persevered, his little arms trembling, managing 8 repetitions—a good start. And Arashi… the four-year-old surprised him again. The boy kept pace with the older and younger boys, his small body straining but not giving in, repetitions at 10, endurance beyond what Isamu expected after yesterday's intense solo training. The stopwatch didn't lie; Arashi's times were superior for his age, his form impeccable despite the evident pain in his expression.
As soon as the last bar jingled and the boys fell to the ground, Isamu put his watch in his pocket, his voice echoing like distant thunder. "That's enough. Good job." The boys straightened up, chests heaving, sweat dripping down their foreheads despite the cold, the air thick with the smell of effort and mud. He called the younger ones forward—Kenta, Haruto, Toma, and Arashi—while gesturing to Daigo. "Daigo, teach the newcomers how to awaken their chakra. Guide them to feel the flow. Those who already possess it, follow me."
Daigo nodded, his expression serious as he knelt before the youngest, his voice low and firm. "Sit down, take a deep breath. Close your eyes and seek warmth within yourselves, like a river in your very core." The younger boys obeyed, sitting cross-legged on the damp ground, the cold mud against their trousers, their faces furrowed in concentration. Isamu turned, walking toward the lake at the edge of the field, the older boys—Nao, Shun—following him silently, their steps sinking into the mud. The lake was small, its surface rippling gently beneath the mist, the water dark and inviting, a perfect place for what was to come. He didn't look back at first, his mind already focused on the exercise, but something pulled him—a sensation of movement greater than usual. He glanced over his shoulder and his dark eyes widened slightly in surprise.
Arashi was there, his small body determined, following the older group, his face impassive in quiet resolve. Isamu stopped, the mist dissipating around his imposing figure, his sword moving lightly on his back with a metallic clinking sound. "You too?" he asked, his voice low with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. Arashi nodded, his voice small but firm: "Yes, father, I awakened my chakra."
Isamu's heart leaped, a rare crack in his stoic facade. Few children his age awakened chakra on their own—most needed guidance, months of meditation, or academy instructors. He crouched down, his enormous figure towering like a mountain, his eyes level with the boy's. "Show me," he said, his voice hoarse but curious. Arashi closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and Isamu felt it—the subtle, warm blossoming of chakra at the boy's core, weak but real. A unique talent. "Few children your age awaken chakra on their own," Isamu said, rising, his voice carrying a tone of approval he rarely displayed. "Come with us."
He led the group to the edge of the lake, the water gently lapping at the muddy shore, the mist hanging above like a veil, the air cooler there, carrying the faint scent of seaweed and salt. The boys gathered around, eyes wide with expectation, the youngest of the group who had awakened watching from afar as Daigo continued his lesson. Isamu faced them, arms crossed, his presence dominating the space. "The exercise I'm teaching you is the one we use most here in the Village Hidden in the Mist," he began, his voice deep and resonant, echoing softly off the walls. "Other countries use a different version—leaves or paper—but ours is always better. Water is fluid, unpredictable. It teaches control and strength at the same time."
He walked to the lake, mud clinging to his sandals, and plunged one of his enormous arms into the water. The surface pulsed, rippling magically as if alive, waves swirling in circles. The boys leaned in, holding their breath, the air tense with wonder. As he withdrew his arm, a colossal amount of water rose with him—larger than his body, a huge globe shimmering in the mist, heavy and stable. He lifted it above his head with one hand, as if it weighed nothing, the surface of the sphere rippling but maintaining its shape. Inside, carp swam lazily, their scales glistening in the dim light, trapped in the mass of water. The boys gaped, eyes wide, whispers of astonishment filling the air. "How...?" Shun murmured, his face pale. Nao stared, mesmerized. The globe hovered, the water crystal clear, the fish swimming like living jewels.
Isamu lowered the water slowly, which returned to the lake with a gentle splash, the air rippling with the release. "This exercise focuses on the control and strength of your chakra," he explained, his voice firm. "You train the suction to pull the water and the shaping to hold it together. Dip your hand in, create a suction—like a propeller, sucking the water while shaping the chakra around it to prevent it from escaping. It molds itself into a sphere. The more water you pull and hold, the better your control will be."
The boys nodded, their eyes still wide from the demonstration. They lined up on the edge of the lake, the water cold and dark, the mist refreshing their skin. Daigo was first, dipping his hand in, the surface pulsing slightly, pulling up a reasonable amount—a sphere the size of a fist, steady but trembling. "Good," said Isamu, timing it. Rokuta was next, his suction smaller, a bubble the size of a marble, which fell after a few seconds. "Practice suction," advised Isamu. Nao managed a small sphere, holding it for a minute. The younger ones struggled—Kenta's hand came out with clinging droplets, falling immediately. Haruto managed a few drops, but no shape.
It was Arashi's turn. Isamu watched intently, thinking: Awakening at four years old is one thing, but mastering control is another. The boy plunged his small hand in, the water pulsing slightly. As he pulled, a good amount came out—a drop filling his palm, steady, heavy, but contained, the surface rippling but not breaking. Isamu's eyes narrowed in admiration. "That's impressive," he said, his voice low, showing genuine surprise. "I've never seen a child so talented with chakra control." The brothers stared at him, Shun whistling: "The little shark is a monster." Arashi held his hand, the cool, fresh water in his palm, his face focused, the achievement a mixture of triumph and effort.
The day continued with attempts, the sun rising, the mist dissipating slightly, the air warming with the effort. The brothers failed repeatedly, the water splashing, the frustration growing—Shun cursing, Kenta almost in tears. Isamu corrected: "Focus on the propeller—suck and mold." Arashi improved, his droplet growing a little, holding longer. By the end of the day, Arashi was the only one with a small sphere covering his palm, starting with droplets but progressing rapidly. The others made minimal progress.
The day ended with low sun, thickening fog, and colder air. Exhausted, with aching muscles and gnawing hunger, my father dismissed me. I staggered back to the inviting bed, and sleep embraced me.
[Thoughts of the Father]
Isamu watched Arashi stagger backward, collapsing. An exceptional boy—physique on par with his eldest, superior chakra control. The stopwatch showed: stamina beyond his years, swift kata. But awakening chakra at four years old... and the power of water, a good amount on the first day. Months for academy children; Arashi did it as if it were nothing. A unique, supernatural talent. Hoshigaki blood? Or Uzumaki on his mother's side? It didn't matter—the results did. Superior son, pillar of the clan. Pride stirred, rare as clear skies in the Mist.
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