The week that followed my father's challenge unfolded like a hazy dream trapped in the mists of Kirigakure—days merging into one another in a relentless rhythm of sweat, frustration, and those fleeting moments of triumph that made the pain worthwhile. The scroll became my constant companion, kept in my robe pocket during the day and placed under my pillow at night, its presence a silent reminder of the test I needed to pass. I moved through the daily life of the compound like a shadow, still part of the chaos of my large family, but with my mind always somewhat elsewhere, poring over the helix diagrams, mentally calculating chakra flows even while eating or training. The twenty-six siblings, the ten mothers, the ever-vigilant father—everything continued around me, but I felt a subtle shift, as if the scroll had drawn a line between me and them. I was still Arashi, the youngest, the one they mocked and protected, but now I carried a secret purpose, a private war against gravity and my own limitations.
Every morning began the same way, a ritual as predictable as the tide. I would wake to the faint gray light filtering through the blinds, my body jolting me from sleep before the first birdsong even broke through the mist. The shared dormitory was a tangle of limbs and blankets, the air thick with the mixture of sweaty aromas from sleep, herbal ointments for the previous night's aches and pains, and the light sea breeze that permeated everything. Kenta stirred first, kicking the blanket aside with a grumpy sigh, his little feet thumping on the mattress as he rubbed his eyes. Haruto grumbled about being hungry, his voice hoarse with sleep, while Toma turned dramatically, burying his face in the pillow as if denying the arrival of the day. Rokuta, always the last, grumbled from his spot: "Why does the sun hate us?", pulling the blanket over his head until one of the mothers came to drag him out.
Daigo had usually already left, his sleeping mat neatly folded, the air around his spot still warm from his body. As the oldest genin, he had his own routine—missions or advanced training that took him far away before dawn. I envied him a little, his quiet confidence, but it also motivated me. If he could wake up early and push himself, so could I.
I dressed in the dim light, the cool fabric of my tunic gliding over my skin, still carrying the faint smoky scent of drying by the fireplace the night before. My muscles ached from the previous day's exertions—a deep, throbbing reminder of falls and struggles—but it was a pain I welcomed, a sign that my body was adapting, growing. The parchment went into the pocket of my tunic, its weight exerting a comforting pressure against my chest.
Breakfast was a whirlwind of noise and heat in the main hall. The mothers moved like a well-oiled machine—my mother, with her vibrant red hair tied back, stirring pots of miso soup that filled the air with flavorful steam; Daigo's mother slicing fresh fish with precise cuts, the knife gleaming in the lantern light; Rokuta's mother scolding the younger ones for taking their food too early. The aromas mingled: salty miso, grilled fish, steamed rice, the earthy touch of vegetables harvested from our small garden. "Eat everything, Arashi," my mother would say, her voice soft but firm, as she added more rice to my bowl, her eyes fixed on the scroll in my pocket. She didn't ask, but I saw the question in her gaze, silent pride mixed with concern. "You need strength for whatever your father has asked you to do."
The brothers were noisier than usual. Kenta and Haruto fought over the last piece of fish, their little hands grabbing each other until Toma intervened with a laugh. Rokuta teased me as always, his mouth full: "What's that bulge in your shirt, little brother? Hiding sweets again?" Shun chuckled, Nao rolled her eyes, but Daigo—when he was around—gave me a small nod with a serious expression. "Ignore them. Concentrate." It was his way of saying he understood. The meal was chaotic, full of simultaneous conversations—mothers telling stories of the babies' latest mischief, brothers boasting about their training feats—but it calmed me down. In those moments, I was just part of the family, not the boy with a secret test.
Then came the morning physical training. Kazuo waited on the field, his scarred face impassive, the mist swirling around his slender figure like smoke. We lined up—me with the younger ones, Rokuta and the others in the middle, Daigo in front. Push-ups until our arms burned, squats that made our thighs tremble, runs in the mist where each breath felt like inhaling water. Then came the katas, the mist dissipating with each punch and kick, the air whistling. My body moved through everything with increasing ease, but my mind wandered to the scroll. Each repetition was fuel for the afternoon. Each pain, a preview of what was to come.
As soon as the midday meal was over—rice, soup, pickled vegetables, the flavors still lingering on my tongue—and Kazuo dismissed us with a brief wave, I disappeared into the forest.
The path became my ritual: escaping while the others dispersed to rest or play, the mist welcoming me like an old friend. The oak waited every day, its massive trunk rising like a stern judge who had witnessed too many failures and remained impassive. The clearing had transformed in my mind into a private dojo, the ground marked by my footprints, the air thick with the scent of trampled grass and sweat. The mist was my only audience, swirling indifferently as I settled against the rock, unrolling the parchment for the first hour. I reread each line, each diagram, each warning, the parchment becoming familiar under my fingers, stained with earth and sweat. Thoughts raced: how to refine the propeller? Adjust it to the grooves in the bark? The theory deepened each time, but the difficulties seemed ever greater.
The first day had been brutal—a cycle of slips, cracks, and falls that left me bruised and frustrated, the angle mocking me with its relentless force. The second was worse, fatigue accumulating, each failure a blow to my resolve, dark thoughts of doubt: Was I ready? Could I really do this? On the third day, I ran headlong into a wall. I tried a new tactic: running toward the tree to gain momentum, three quick steps on flat ground, leaping high. The first foot touched the ground, chakra pulsing—heel, arch, ball of the foot, toes. The second followed. I climbed quickly, controlling the path, but halfway up, the spiral faltered. I slipped. I fell. A sharp pain shot through my ankles as I landed awkwardly, the impact shaking my bones. No luck. Gravity won again.
Sitting there, massaging my aching legs, a memory from my past life resurfaced—a fanfic I had read, one that stuck with me because of its clever plot twists: Naruto: The Outsider's Determination. In it, the protagonist faced the same dilemma and switched to training on the ground. Not on flat surfaces, but inclined ones, building the sensation gradually. Like learning to do knee push-ups before full push-ups. Suddenly, it all made sense. The body needed to learn the helix without the terror of total verticality. The sole of the foot needed to adhere in sections—first the heel for stability, then the arch for balance, the ball of the foot for propulsion, and finally the toes to release the weight—before facing the weight at ninety degrees.
That afternoon, I changed my approach.
I found a nearby slope—gentle, grassy, with the perfect incline to feel the force. I climbed slowly, focusing on the contact of my sole with the ground. Heel on the ground: chakra pulse lowers, establishing grip. Arch of the foot: increase flow for balance. Sole of the foot: impulse for propulsion. Toes: release gently. The helix formed weakly at first, flickering like a dying flame. When my foot slipped, I stopped, knelt, and analyzed. Too much force in the toes—the heel lifted prematurely. Too much force in the heel—the toes didn't engage. Hours passed on that slope, going up and down, the sun setting, the mist turning golden. My calves ached, but the flow softened.
On the fourth day, a steeper climb—a rocky outcrop with a natural ramp, a hard and unforgiving surface. The angle demanded more, gravity pulling more forcefully. I repeated: heel, arch, sole of the foot, toes. My calves burned like fire, my balance wavered on the uneven stones, but the helix felt natural. Less thought, more instinct. A continuous wave. I felt the connection—the entire sole adhering as one, the force of gravity weakening even on the incline.
On the fifth day, back at the oak tree. The attempts still failed—slips, cracks—but differently. Shorter falls, slower slips. The chakra adapted, flexing with the texture of the bark, pulsing with the rhythm of the heart. Six steps. Seven. A moment of weightlessness—then the fall. Closer. Thoughts swirled: the difficulties were the teachers. Each fall, a lesson in micromanagement, the only one, a map of pressure points.
On the sixth day, the revelation. I ran toward the tree—three steps, momentum building, leap. First foot high, chakra explosion: heel, arch, ball of foot, toes. The second followed, the propeller locking into place. I moved. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. The bark held. The suction held. Ninety degrees felt… natural. The tree pulling me in.
Then slide.
I didn't fall much. I stayed in the middle of the slide, palms hitting the trunk, chakra ablaze—grip in my hands now, instinctive. I hung there, breathing heavily, sweat dripping. I looked up. I decided. I understood: the exercise, the movements, the positioning of the feet—correct toes, soles for climbing. The only thing to strengthen: the muscles to endure it.
I climbed again. Faster. Determined. Perfect helix, firm steps. I reached the top, sweating, ankles burning like fire, tendons screaming with effort. I felt the necessary strength in every fiber of my body.
Sitting on a branch, legs dangling, mist below like a sea. A distant, hidden complex. A wave of peace enveloped me. Proud father. But I—proud of myself.
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