A month had passed since that second day of training, and the world around me seemed the same—the eternal mist of Kirigakure enveloping everything, the stone walls of the complex cold and damp to the touch, the distant sound of waves crashing against the village cliffs, the constant smell of salt and damp earth in the air. But I was no longer the same. My body had changed in ways that still surprised me, as if someone had replaced its internal components with something more resilient, sharper. The training had become routine, a relentless machine that began at dawn and only ended when the sun set on the horizon, the mist thickening like a blanket over the field. My father oversaw the first few weeks, his presence imposing like a mountain, his dark eyes watching every movement, every drop of sweat, every tremor of exhaustion. But after a few days, he passed the daily command to his direct subordinate, a Chunin named Kazuo—a thin, scarred man with piercing eyes that seemed to see through flesh, short gray hair at his temples despite his young age, and a voice that cut through the air like a kunai. Kazuo was loyal to my father like a shadow, a pure-blooded Hoshigaki, and he pushed us with the same cruel intensity. "Train as if the enemy were behind you," he would say, his breath forming mist in the frigid morning air, "because one day, he will be." And he wasn't lying.
The training field was the same—the high walls covered in moss that seemed alive, the muddy ground that clung to sandals and sucked at feet, the puddles reflecting the gray sky like broken mirrors. Kazuo lined us up every morning, the younger ones like me, Kenta, Haruto, and Toma in front, the older ones—Rokuta, Nao, Shun—behind, and Daigo always beside us, serving as a model, his body already showing the strength of a genin in training. "Begin," he ordered, and the day began.
The kata was the first ritual, the basic style of the Mist that my father taught me—direct strikes, attacks on vital points, no frills, no wasted movements. At the beginning of the month, my movements were clumsy, my little arms swinging with effort, the air humming weakly with each punch, my legs faltering in sweeping strikes. Mud clung to my feet, the cold air burned my lungs, the smell of wet earth rose with every step. Kazuo corrected me mercilessly: "Lower, Arashi! Hit the liver, not the air!" I sweated despite the pain, my robe sticking to my skin, the fabric rubbing against sore spots. But the days passed, and something changed. My punches became more precise, the sound cutting through the mist with more intensity, my sweeping strikes firmer, balance coming naturally. By the second week, I could already keep up with Kenta, who was a year older, his movements still a little sloppy. On the third run, I surpassed Haruto, six years younger, my fastest, cleanest kata. At the end of the month, during a group training session, I realized: I was faster than Toma and Kenta, my strikes stronger than Haruto's. The air vibrated with my punches, the mud was no longer an obstacle, but a platform. "Why am I surpassing them?" I wondered, in the middle of a sweep, my leg cutting through the air with a sharp sound. They had started training before me, but I was catching up—no, surpassing. That's when I understood: chakra. It wasn't just for jutsu; it passively nourished my body, strengthening muscles, bones, tendons, making me grow and recover at a superhuman rate. No active techniques, no conscious activation—just the constant flow, the supernatural energy coursing through my veins, feeding me from within. The Hoshigaki blood, mixed with what my mother had inherited from the Uzumaki clan, was an explosive cocktail—raw power and infinite vitality. My brothers also had it, but in me, it seemed more concentrated, more intense, like a storm brewing inside a bottle.
Physical conditioning was the true test of endurance, and my progress there was even more remarkable. In the beginning, push-ups were torture—knees on the ground, the damp, cold earth against my palms, grains sticking to my skin like cruel reminders of my weakness. I could manage a few repetitions, my arms burning like fire, sweat dripping into my eyes, causing a sharp sting. Kazuo would shout, "Strength! The enemy doesn't care if you're tired." My breath was ragged, the air cutting through my lungs like blades of ice, the smell of exertion—salt and fatigue—growing stronger and stronger. But, week after week, that changed. By the middle of the month, I could already support my knees on the ground, doing full push-ups on the balls of my feet, the hard ground beneath my palms, my muscles contracting with renewed strength. The pain was still there, a dull roar, but I persevered, the repetitions increasing from 5 to 20, then to 30, 40, 50. The air vibrated with each rise and fall, my body adapting, the chakra passively nourishing my muscles, repairing microscopic injuries overnight, increasing muscle density. "How am I doing this?" I thought during a set, arms moving, sweat flying. A child my age shouldn't be able to endure this, but the chakra made it possible—strengthening me from within, like a constant, invisible fuel.
Chakra control was the third pillar, and my progress there was explosive. Kazuo supervised, but the water exercises, from that second day onward, became a daily ritual. At the edge of the lake, the water cold and dark, the mist hovering above like a veil. I plunged my hand in, the shock of the cold numbing my fingers, visualizing the propeller—the suction pulling, the chakra shaping. At first, I managed drops, the cool, fresh water in the palm of my hand, but falling after a few seconds. Kazuo advised: "Concentrate the suction, shape more firmly." The brothers struggled—Kenta could barely manage drops, Haruto only small amounts. But I improved, the drop growing, lasting longer. By the end of the month, a small sphere covered my palm, stable, heavy, but firm, the surface rippling but not breaking. "Why me?" I thought, holding it, the weight of the water a satisfying pressure. The chakra nourished everything — control became easier because my body was prepared, the Hoshigaki + Uzumaki blood a perfect storm.
At the end of the month, during a solo kata session at dusk, with the fog thickening, the air growing colder, and the field empty, I took stock. My punches cut through the air with a whistle, firm movements, precise form. I was faster than Kenta, stronger than Haruto, my movements surpassing theirs despite the initial advantage. The chakra, the blood—that was the difference. Passive power, making me evolve at a rate that seemed supernatural. I was ready for more.
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