The month passed quickly.
Too quickly for those watching from the outside, slow and meticulous for the one who truly lived it.
Ren did not try to stand out immediately. He did not draw attention to himself. He did not argue with instructors or compete beyond what was necessary. He simply executed.
Every day, he attended the Academy's regular classes like any other student. Chakra theory, ninja history, tactical fundamentals, writing, applied calculations. He paid attention, took notes, corrected small conceptual errors in his own materials, and memorized everything with quiet efficiency.
But the real work began afterward.
The Konoha Library was not an impressive place at first glance. There were no secret scrolls or forbidden techniques. Control over meaningful ninjutsu was strict, as it should be. Any jutsu worthy of the name remained under the direct supervision of the Hokage or the clans.
Still, Ren found exactly what he was looking for.
Theoretical books.
Reports from old missions. Analyses of jutsu failures. Studies on chakra flow, fine control, and energy efficiency. Basic manuals of common ninjutsu—weak, utilitarian techniques, often ignored by experienced ninjas.
Descriptions of jutsu without actually teaching the jutsu itself. Explanations of why certain techniques failed. Notes on excessive chakra consumption, instability of form, imbalance between Yin and Yang.
Ren did not copy techniques. He extracted patterns.
While others sought direct power, he built a foundation.
In physical training, he followed the Academy's program only in appearance.
On the first day he decided to increase the load, he tied cloth bags filled with sand to his ankles without any real reference for his limits. The idea seemed simple. The result was not.
In the first few minutes, his body responded. Then came the pain. A strange weight in his joints, irregular breathing, the ground seeming farther away with every step. Ren tried to continue, convinced it was just adaptation.
It was not.
The fall was bad.
He woke up in the village hospital with his legs wrapped in bandages, muscles locked in spasms, and a persistent pain that basic recovery chakra could not ease. The medic was direct, and the instructor even more so.
Training beyond his limits without supervision. Placing excessive load on a developing body. Ignoring clear signs of exhaustion.
Ren listened to everything in silence.
He did not argue. He did not justify himself.
The scolding was not unfair.
After that, the method changed.
The weights remained—but progressively. Less sand. Weekly adjustments. Careful observation of posture, stride, and breathing. He began to run, jump, and train movement with absolute attention to how his body responded.
He still had no access to professional seal-made equipment, but that stopped mattering. The mistake had taught him something more valuable than any tool: limits were not obstacles—they were parameters.
In marksmanship training, he maintained the Academy's standard routine but added difficulty on his own. He built a simple, rustic system of ropes and pulleys, using reused wood and stakes driven into the ground.
Nothing automatic. Nothing sophisticated.
The targets moved sideways, changed rhythm, stopped unpredictably. Sometimes fast. Sometimes slow. Sometimes erratic. Ren adjusted everything manually, creating patterns he himself did not fully memorize.
At first, he missed a lot.
Then, less.
By the end of the month, the hits came not from reflex, but from reading movement.
Sword training began in the most basic way possible. No advanced styles, no elaborate kata, no impressive names.
Only fundamental strikes.
Vertical cut. Horizontal cut. Diagonal cut. Thrust.
Repeated until posture stopped being something he thought about and became natural. Grip, wrist alignment, weight transfer, return to guard. Each mistake was corrected in the next movement.
The sword was not an extension of ego. It was a tool. And tools demanded respect.
By the end of the month, nothing about him seemed extraordinary.
He was not the strongest.
He was not the fastest.
He was not the most eye-catching.
But something had changed.
His chakra flowed with less waste.
His movements had less hesitation.
His mind shifted naturally between absolute focus and cold analysis.
When evaluations began again, the results made that clear.
In theory, he was consistent.
In fundamentals, nearly flawless.
In physical conditioning, the progress was evident.
In precision, he was above average.
Ren did not celebrate.
The mission was not yet over.
But now, for the first time since that notice had appeared before his eyes, he knew:
Being first was no longer a distant possibility.
It was only a matter of time.