I wrapped the white bandages around my hands slowly, methodically, the rough fabric rasping against my callused skin like sandpaper on wood. The material was crisp and clean, smelling faintly of the herbal salve Mother had soaked it in—a mix of sharp mint and earthy camphor that stung my nostrils with each inhale. I pulled the strip tight around my knuckles, feeling the pressure build, compressing the joints until they ached just enough to remind me they were there. Testing it, I flexed my fingers, the bandages creaking softly as they stretched and settled, the white turning slightly gray from the damp mist that clung to everything in this godforsaken village. The air was heavy, cold, tasting of salt from the nearby sea, the kind of humidity that seeped into your bones and made every movement feel weighted, deliberate.
As I tied off the final knot, my mind wandered, as it often did in these quiet moments before the storm. How strange this life had become. Just four years in this body, and already I could leap over four meters in a single bound—impossible in my past life, where even the greatest athletes strained for half that. I could run faster than Usain Bolt, the lightning-fast sprinter from Earth who clocked 9.58 seconds in the 100 meters, hitting speeds over 37 kilometers per hour. Me? A child? I could outpace that now, my small legs blurring in sprints that left the wind howling in my ears. And strength—lifting weights that would crush an adult from my old world, my muscles coiling like steel cables under this grayish-blue skin. It was entering the supernatural phase, wasn't it? Chakra wasn't just energy; it was evolution, pushing the human body beyond its limits into something more. Something monstrous. I clenched my fist, the bandage tightening with a soft snap, and felt the power thrumming beneath—raw, untamed, waiting to be unleashed.
But power alone is meaningless.
That was the truth I was beginning to understand, the lesson that seeped into me like the mist into my clothes. In my past life, strength was measured in medals, records, money. Here, strength is survival. And survival has no honor code. Ninjas are not samurai. We do not duel under the sun with blades drawn in perfect symmetry. We strike from the shadows, we poison wells, we slit throats in the dark, we throw dirt in eyes if it means living another day. Honor is a luxury for the dead. The living adapt. The living cheat. The living win by any means necessary.
That is the philosophy of the shinobi.
I turned, my sandals scraping against the wet stone of the patio, the sound echoing faintly in the enclosed space. This was our training ground, the four of us: Daigo, Rokuta, Nao, and me. The patio was a square of hard-packed earth surrounded by the compound's stone walls, scarred from years of spars—gouges from kunai throws, charred spots from errant jutsu, puddles of mud that never fully dried in Kirigakure's eternal dampness. The mist hung low today, swirling like smoke from a dying fire, carrying the distant roar of waves crashing against the cliffs below the village. The air smelled of wet rock and faint smoke from the kitchen hearths, where the mothers prepared breakfast, their voices a muffled hum through the walls.
Daigo stood in the center, waiting. My eldest brother, the genin, the one who carried Father's shadow like a cloak. At eleven, he was already tall for his age, his gray-blue skin stretched taut over muscles honed by real missions, his black hair tied back in a simple ponytail that swayed slightly in the breeze. His eyes—dark, unreadable abysses like Father's—locked onto mine as I approached. Rokuta, the second eldest at nine, lounged against the wall to the side, arms crossed, a grin splitting his face to reveal those serrated teeth that marked us all as Hoshigaki blood. He was the judge today, his explosive energy contained for once, though I could see the twitch in his fingers, eager for action. Nao, seven and quieter, sat cross-legged nearby, observing with that analytical gaze, his reserved nature hiding a mind sharper than any blade.
Daigo stood in the center, waiting. My eldest brother, the genin, the one who carried Father's shadow like a cloak. At eleven, he was already tall for his age, his gray-blue skin stretched taut over muscles honed by real missions, his black hair tied back in a simple ponytail that swayed slightly in the breeze. His eyes—dark, unreadable abysses like Father's—locked onto mine as I approached. Rokuta, the second eldest at nine, lounged against the wall to the side, arms crossed, a grin splitting his face to reveal those serrated teeth that marked us all as Hoshigaki blood. He was the judge today, his explosive energy contained for once, though I could see the twitch in his fingers, eager for action. Nao, seven and quieter, sat cross-legged nearby, observing with that analytical gaze, his reserved nature hiding a mind sharper than any blade.
We met in the middle, the ground cool and slick underfoot, small puddles reflecting our distorted figures like warped mirrors. The mist coiled around our ankles, cold tendrils that made my skin prickle. Daigo and I stood face to face—or rather, face to chest, given his height advantage. The air between us felt charged, heavy with unspoken challenge, the salty breeze tugging at our tunics. He didn't speak at first, just stared, his presence like a wall—unmoving, unbreakable. I mirrored him, bandaged hands flexing at my sides, the fabric whispering with the motion.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and steady, cutting through the mist like a kunai through fog. "Ready, little brother? Show me what you've learned."
I nodded, the wordless agreement hanging between us. Rokuta pushed off the wall, stepping forward with a dramatic flourish, his sandals slapping against the wet stone. "Alright, you two! No jutsu, no weapons, just hands and feet. First to yield or hit the ground loses. No rules beyond that. Ninjas don't cry about fair play."
Nao remained seated, his voice calm as he added, "Keep it controlled. We don't need Mother coming out here with the salve again."
The mist seemed to thicken around us, muffling the distant sounds of the compound waking—the clatter of pots in the kitchen, the soft cries of the babies, Yumi or Taro perhaps. It was just us now, in this bubble of fog and tension. I dropped into stance, feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced on the balls of my feet, the ground yielding slightly under my toes. Daigo mirrored me, but casually, arms loose at his sides, no tension in his frame. It irked me—like he didn't see me as a threat.
I lunged first, a straightforward punch aimed at his midsection, my bandaged fist cutting through the air with a whoosh, the mist parting in its wake. The move was fast, powered by the supernatural strength I'd been pondering moments ago, my arm extending like a coiled spring released. But Daigo didn't move. His hand snapped up at the last second, palm open, catching my fist with a smack that echoed like a slap on water. The impact jarred up my arm, vibrations rattling my elbow, but he absorbed it effortlessly, his fingers closing around my knuckles like iron clamps. The pressure was immense, squeezing just enough to make my bones creak, the bandage compressing under his grip.
I pulled back, shaking out my hand, the sting lingering like fire under the skin. "Not bad," Daigo said, his voice even, no mockery, just fact. "But predictable."
Frustration flickered in my chest, hot and sharp. I circled him, feet sliding through the mud with soft squelches, testing angles. The mist clung to my skin, cold beads forming on my arms, dripping down like sweat before the real exertion began. I feinted left—a quick jab that whistled past his ear—then followed with a low sweep kick, my leg whipping through the air, aiming to hook his ankle and pull him off balance. The move was low, dirty almost, the mud splashing up in an arc as my shin cut low. But again, he didn't budge. His foot lifted just enough to avoid the sweep, then stomped down, pinning my leg mid-motion with a thud that sent shockwaves up my thigh. The ground trembled slightly under the force, mud squelching between his sandal and my shin, the cold slime seeping through my pants.
Pain bloomed, bright and immediate, but I twisted free, rolling back to create distance, my breath coming in short puffs that fogged the air. The mist tasted saltier now, mixed with the metallic tang of effort on my tongue. "Come on, fight back," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than him. He was toying with me, defending without effort, like my attacks were child's play.
I pressed again, launching into a series of rapid punches—left hook to the jaw, right cross to the ribs, uppercut to the chin. Each strike was fueled by that supernatural edge, my fists blurring, the air hissing with the speed. The bandages whispered with each extension, the fabric stretching taut. The first hook glanced off his raised forearm, the impact like hitting a stone wall, numbness spreading up my arm. The cross he blocked with an open palm, the smack loud in the quiet yard, his skin unyielding. The uppercut—he leaned back just enough, my knuckles grazing his chin, close enough to feel the stubble rasp against the bandage.
Nothing landed clean.
Frustration built, a boiling heat in my gut that made my breaths ragged, the mist cooling my flushed face but doing nothing to quench the fire inside. How was he so still? Like a statue carved from the cliffs themselves. I needed to make him move, to crack that impassive facade. I dropped low, coiling like a spring, then exploded upward in a spinning back kick, my body twisting mid-air, the world blurring in a whirl of gray mist and stone walls. The kick aimed for his head, my heel cutting through the air with a sharp whoosh, powered by legs that could outrun legends from my past life.
He ducked—barely, his hair ruffling from the wind of the strike—but didn't counter. Just straightened, eyes calm, as if I'd done nothing more than wave a hand.
"Damn it," I thought, landing with a splash in a puddle, water spraying up cold against my calves. "He's not even trying. Like my best is nothing to him."
I charged again, feinting a punch to draw his guard up, then dropping for a leg sweep combined with an elbow strike to the knee. The sweep connected—sort of—my shin slamming into his calf with a meaty thud, but it was like kicking a tree trunk. No give. The elbow glanced off, his knee shifting just enough to deflect, the impact jarring my arm up to the shoulder, bones vibrating.
Still, he didn't move from his spot.
The frustration turned to anger now, a red haze at the edges of my vision, my breaths coming hot and fast, steaming in the cold air. I needed to break through. I unleashed a flurry—punch, punch, knee strike, spinning elbow. Each one faster than the last, my body a blur, the mist swirling in eddies from the motion. The knee strike he blocked with his thigh, the impact like hitting iron, numbness spreading up my leg. The elbow—he caught my arm mid-spin, fingers locking around my forearm like a vice, squeezing until the bandage dug into my skin.
I twisted free, panting, sweat stinging my eyes, the salty taste on my lips mixing with the mist's brine. "Why aren't you fighting back?" I snapped, voice rough from exertion.
Daigo's eyes narrowed slightly, the first crack in his calm. "Because you haven't made me yet."
That did it.
I crouched low, gathering power in my legs, the muscles coiling like springs, the ground squelching under my toes. As I did, my hand dipped subtly, fingers scraping the mud, scooping a handful of wet earth, cold and gritty, hiding it in my palm. I exploded forward, feinting a straight punch to his face—my fist cutting the air with a hiss. He raised his guard, as expected.
That's when I opened my hand, flinging the mud straight into his eyes, the wet dirt splattering across his face with a slap, grains sticking to his skin, blinding him momentarily.
He recoiled, just a fraction, hands coming up to wipe his eyes—guard open.
I struck.
A low kick to the groin, my shin driving upward with all the force I could muster, connecting with a sickening thud that vibrated up my leg. Daigo doubled over, breath escaping in a sharp grunt, his body curling instinctively.
Now!
I followed with a knee to the face, my leg rocketing up, aiming for his chin, the motion powered by that supernatural strength—faster, harder than any child should be.
But he was ready.
Even bent, even blinded, his hand shot out, fingers clamping around my knee like steel jaws, the grip crushing, pain exploding as he squeezed. I froze, mid-motion, our eyes locking—his clear now, the mud smeared but ineffective against a genin like him.
He looked at me—not angry, not disappointed. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that reached his eyes, proud.
"Good," he said, voice low and approving. "Dirty. Ruthless. That's how we survive."
Then he punched.
A single, straight shot to my stomach, his fist driving like a hammer, the impact hitting like a cannonball. Air exploded from my lungs in a whoosh, pain blooming hot and deep, radiating out in waves that made my vision blur. My body lifted off the ground, flying backward through the air, the mist whipping past my face in cold streaks, the world tilting wildly.
I slammed into the door of the house—the wooden frame shuddering with the force, splinters digging into my back through the tunic. For a moment, I stuck there, body pressed against the door like a rag doll pinned by an invisible hand, the wood creaking under the pressure. Then gravity won, and I slid down slowly, like a wet sock peeling off a wall, my back scraping against the rough grain, legs buckling as I hit the ground in a heap.
The world spun. Pain throbbed in my gut, sharp and nauseating, each breath a struggle, the air tasting of blood and salt. The mist cooled my flushed skin, but did nothing for the fire inside.
Rokuta's voice cut through the haze, laughing with genuine admiration. "Damn! That was beautiful, little brother! Mud in the eyes—classic! I thought you were gonna pull it off!"
Nao was quieter, closer now, his footsteps soft as he approached. "You almost had him. Almost."
Daigo walked over slowly, his presence looming as he extended a hand. Mud still clung to his face in streaks, but he wore it like a badge. "You fought dirty," he said, pulling me up with a grip that was firm but not punishing. "I responded in kind. That's how it works. Ninjas don't cry about honor. We survive. You made me move. That's progress."
I took his hand, letting him pull me up, the grip steadying me as the pain subsided slowly, my Hoshigaki blood already knitting the damage, a warm tingle spreading through my abdomen. "Yeah," I muttered, wiping mud from my face, the grit crunching between my teeth. "But you still ended it with one hit."
Daigo's smile widened, just a little. "Next time, make it two. Or three. Keep fighting like that—dirty, smart, no hesitation—and one day you'll be the one throwing me into the wall."
Rokuta clapped me on the back, hard enough to make me wince. "That's the spirit! Father would be proud. Hell, I'm proud. You got guts, squirt."
Nao nodded, a rare flicker of respect in his eyes. "You surprised him. That's not easy."
I stood there, bandaged hands throbbing, mud drying on my skin in gritty patches, the mist swirling around us like applause. The pain was sharp, but beneath it—pride. I'd made him move. I'd forced a reaction.
And next time...
Next time, I'd do more.
Advance chapters: https://www.patreon.com/cw/pararaio