The morning air bit at Maruboshi's skin as he stepped onto the training field, the kind of cold that clung to the lungs and made every breath feel sharp. Dawn hadn't fully broken yet; the sky was still a muted gray, the sun only a suggestion behind the clouds. He'd come early, well before Masaru was supposed to arrive.
But someone was already there.
A sharp thwack echoed across the clearing. Then another. And another.
Maruboshi slowed his steps, eyes narrowing as he approached the edge of the field. Steam curled upward in thin wisps, rising from a small figure moving in the center of the clearing. Masaru's kimono clung to him, soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead. Every exhale came out as a fogged burst of heat.
He was running so hot his sweat was burning off of him.
Maruboshi stopped in the shadows of a tree, instinctively quieting his presence. Interrupting a moment like this would be a mistake. He'd seen it time and time again, in war, in training, even during study. This was something that he couldn't even teach, not even the Sannin could. This was something internal, no amount of teaching could cause this.
Masaru's fists snapped out in tight arcs, striking the wooden post with a rhythm that was almost musical. His stance was rigid but correct. His transitions were sharp, not graceful, but undeniably right. His weight shifted at the proper times. His guard rose and fell with instinctive timing.
He wasn't flailing or guessing, he was fighting.
Maruboshi watched closely, and without meaning to, his mind filled in the missing half of the dance — a simple opponent, nothing more than an imagined Academy-level sparring partner, the extent of Masaru's imagination.
Masaru slipped under an imaginary jab, twisting to preform an uppercut, only this was a feint. He took a half-step back and punished a supposed mistake.
It wasn't smooth or refined, but it was definitely an improvement.
And it was new.
Maruboshi's brows drew together. Something was different about the boy's movements — a life in them that hadn't been there yesterday. A purpose. A direction. A spark.
He hesitated only a moment before drawing a slow breath and channeling chakra into his eyes. The world sharpened, the air thickening with faint threads of energy. It was a dangerous technique, one he rarely used — it required an absorbident amount of chakra to be able to see outside chakra sources, and it didn't even work at range.
Not to mention how careful one has to be not to explode their eyes. As such, it was almost never seen in battle except for those with true dojutsu, which were meant to handle that kind of chakra pressure.
But for this moment, it was worth it.
Masaru's chakra was flowing on its own. Instead of the two energies resting in their respective spots as it was for civilians, his chakra had finally begun to merge on its own, a constant flow from energy to chakra and back to energy.
One of the first steps of every shinobi. The threshold he'd been struggling to cross.
Maruboshi exhaled softly.
He's finally doing it.
Masaru's foot slid across the ground, his hips turning as he drove a punch forward. His breathing was heavy now, ragged at the edges. His shoulders trembled. His movements were still sharp, but the fatigue was creeping in — the kind that led to pulled muscles, twisted joints, or worse.
Maruboshi's chest tightened with a quiet, private thought.
'If only he put this much effort into making friends… Rage can push you forward, but it can't hold you up forever, young Masaru.'
Masaru stepped in for another strike — and his knee buckled slightly.
That was enough.
Maruboshi moved.
He appeared in front of the boy in a blur of motion, catching Masaru's fist mid-swing. The impact vibrated up his arm, absorbed against his titanous strength.
Masaru froze.
His eyes, sharp and burning with a singular focus, locked onto Maruboshi's. For a moment, he didn't move.
Then, slowly — painfully slowly — the fire in his gaze softened. His shoulders sagged. His clenched jaw loosened. His arm unwound from the tension that had been coiled through it.
His stance relaxed, and his hands fell to his knees as he started to pant breathlessly.
"Good," he said quietly, voice steady and warm in the cold morning air. "That's enough for today."
Masaru swallowed, chest rising and falling as the steam around him began to fade. He didn't speak — he couldn't yet — but he nodded once, a small, exhausted gesture.
Maruboshi released his hand and stepped back, giving the boy space to breathe.
He's changing, the old man thought. And he doesn't even realize it.
But beneath that thought was another, softer one.
I hope he finds something — or someone — to fight for besides his own anger.
"Now come and help me prepare breakfast. It seems today's lesson will be about theory." He spoke amuzedly.
The morning sun finally crested the horizon, casting a pale light across the field as Masaru stood there, sweat cooling on his skin, breath steadying, eyes clearer than they'd been in weeks.
A boy on the edge of becoming something more.