The first rays of sunlight barely penetrated the dense fog outside, turning the world into a grey mist where shapes blurred and sounds were muffled. I woke before sunrise, my body already accustomed to the first hours after a month of relentless training. The air in the room was cold and damp, carrying the faint scent of sea salt and the lingering aroma of the previous night's celebration—grilled fish and sake. My brothers were still asleep, their breaths calm in the shared room, Rokuta's occasional snoring breaking the silence. I dressed silently, putting on my training tunic, the fabric still a little stiff from drying overnight. My muscles ached—a good kind of ache, the kind that reminds me of progress—but I ignored it. Today was about something else.
The corridors of the complex were empty, the stone floor cold beneath my sandals, the lanterns from the previous night burning weakly, casting trembling shadows that danced like ghosts. Fog seeped through the cracks, making the air heavy, almost palpable. My father's office was at the end of the main corridor, a room I had only glimpsed before. The door was heavy, reinforced with iron bands that evoked security and secrecy. I knocked once, the sound muffled and absorbed by the wood. No answer. I knocked again, harder, my knuckles burning against the cold surface. Still nothing. Frowning, I hesitated, then pushed the door. The hinges creaked softly, like a whisper in the silence.
The office was larger than I had expected, a cavernous space that felt like stepping into a war museum. The air was thick with the smell of polished steel, aged parchment, and a faint metallic odor that I recognized as old blood—perhaps from weapons not entirely clean. Weapons lined the walls: kunai of varying lengths, some with curved blades for throwing, others straight for close combat; shuriken with serrated edges that gleamed ominously under the dim light of a single lantern; swords in sheaths, each unique—some thin for speed, others wide for power. Shelves creaked under the weight of scrolls, yellowed and tightly rolled, labeled in my father's impeccable handwriting: "Water Style Jutsu," "Clan History," "Enemy Information." The floor was dark wood, worn from years of walking, and in the center stood a huge black desk, filled with maps, an inkwell, and a brush still damp with paint.
My eyes were immediately drawn to the wall behind the table. There, hanging like a sentinel, was my father's sword—the Kubikiribōchō. I'd seen it in passing before, strapped to his back during matches or returns, but never this close, never motionless. The blade was enormous, easily as tall as me, its edge chipped and scarred from hundreds of battles. The hilt was covered in worn leather, stained dark from use. I knew this sword—from memories of my past life, from Naruto canon. The Decapitating Knife, once wielded by Zabuza Momochi, the Demon of the Hidden Mist. It was legendary, a weapon that regenerated with the blood of its enemies, absorbing their life force to repair cracks and sharpen the edge. The metal was infused with chakra-conducting properties, allowing it to channel energy as an extension of the wielder's body. I took a step forward, mesmerized. The blade seemed to vibrate slightly, a vibration I could feel in my chest. How did it work? The mechanics—the blood absorption, the self-repair, the chakra flow—were an enigma my engineer's mind from another life longed to unravel. I reached out, my fingers inches from the handle, imagining taking it apart, studying the inner workings, the runes or seals that made it "magical." A feeling I hadn't experienced since my reincarnation: pure, burning curiosity.
As I continued examining the room, my gaze lingered on other marvels. Armor hung from supports—samurai-style plates, battered and scarred, some with faint red stains that looked like dried blood; threads, perhaps chakra-infused threads for enhancement. Then, in a corner, something strange: what appeared to be a mannequin, wooden and articulated, dressed in tattered cloth. I approached, driven by curiosity. Up close, it wasn't a mannequin. It was a puppet—a marionette, like those used by the puppeteers of Sunagakure. The joints were intricate, hidden compartments suggesting weapons or poisons. I reached out to touch it—"Stop."
The voice was deep, hoarse, coming from the shadows near the window. I froze, my hand in the air, my heart racing. My father stepped into the light, his imposing figure filling the space, his eyes black and indecipherable as the abyss.
"Don't touch it. It may still be poisoned by the ninja who owned it."
I took two steps back, my adrenaline pumping. "Where did you get that?"
My father walked around the table, his heavy footsteps on the wooden floor, the air shifting with his presence. He sat in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and leaned back, his fingers interlaced. "From a mission. One of the most important for the Mizukage. I took this as a souvenir. The rest went to our ninja scientists—they're trying to reverse-engineer the technology. But they haven't gotten anywhere yet." His eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you want here?"
I straightened up, facing him without hesitation. "I came to ask your permission to begin learning jutsu. To use my chakra in a more practical way."
The silence stretched on, the only sound being that of distant waves. My father opened a drawer and took out a parchment sealed with wax. He handed it to me without saying a word. I unrolled it carefully, my eyes scanning the contents: detailed diagrams of chakra flow, instructions on adhesion—climbing trees, wall walking, gripping surfaces. Complex formulas, notes on balance, control, common pitfalls. A flood of questions inundated my mind—how to adjust to body size, and what if the chakra overflows?
Before I could speak, my father said, "No. You need to prove that you can learn from just this scroll. This is a test. If you master it, I will teach you jutsus even before you enter the academy."
I rolled up the parchment again, bowed deeply—the Eastern respect deeply rooted in this world—and said firmly, "I will do it." Turning, I left the office, the door closing softly behind me, my mind already racing through the diagrams.
From the father's point of view, as soon as the door clicked shut, Isamu leaned back even further in his chair, a small, skeptical smile playing on his lips. "So young and so impatient. Let's see if he stays that way after trying this technique." He didn't believe the boy would succeed—it was too advanced for a four-year-old. But there was something in those eyes... a fire he recognized. Perhaps.
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