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The clearing near the Academy had been marked by repetition. Countless feet had worn the grass thin, exposing patches of packed earth where students trained day after day.
A rough circle had been scratched into the dirt to form a sparring ring, its boundary uneven but clearly understood.
Around it, a loose crowd of children gathered, their murmurs rising and falling as they speculated on the outcome. Two instructors stood nearby—one attentive, ready to intervene, the other silent, observing with a sharper eye.
At the center of the ring, Reiji faced his opponent.
He stood upright, shoulders relaxed, arms hanging loosely at his sides. His weight rested slightly forward, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to shift in any direction. Across from him, the other boy adopted a lower stance—knees bent, posture light.
His blue eyes remained fixed on Reiji, sharp and focused, tracking even the smallest adjustment in posture.
"Salute," the instructor ordered.
Reiji raised his hand without looking away, forming the Seal of Confrontation. His opponent mirrored the gesture instantly.
"Ready…"
Reiji felt the tension in the air shift. He noted the other boy's stance, the slight bounce in his footing, the looseness in his shoulders.
"…Go!"
Reiji moved first.
He pushed off his back foot the instant the signal ended, closing the gap in a direct line. His fist drove forward toward the other boy's chin, hips turning through the strike to carry his weight behind it.
The blond slipped under it.
His head dipped just enough for the punch to skim past, and his weight shifted immediately into a counter. His leg swept low, aiming to take Reiji's footing out from under him.
Reiji felt the shift too late to avoid it entirely. His balance vanished as his stance collapsed but he did not resist the fall. Instead, he followed it.
His hand shot out, catching the other boy's shoulder as his body tilted. Using the grip as an anchor, he twisted his hips mid-fall, redirecting his momentum. The ground rushed up, but he rolled through it smoothly, his body passing over the blond's shoulder in a controlled pivot.
He landed near the edge of the ring.
The line scraped into the dirt was inches from his heel.
Reiji didn't hesitate. His grip tightened, and he pulled sharply, trying to drag his opponent across the boundary with him. If he went out, he would take him along.
The response was immediate.
The blond twisted violently, slipping his shoulder free. His shirt tore loose in the motion, fabric left behind in Reiji's grip as the boy slipped out of it completely. For a fraction of a second, his body vanished from Reiji's grasp—then reappeared inside the ring, already resetting his footing.
Reiji straightened slowly, the discarded shirt hanging from his hand.
A faint click of irritation escaped him.
He let it fall.
They circled.
The blond moved first this time.
He closed the distance in a burst of speed, feet barely making a sound against the dirt. His strike came straight, efficient, aimed to force a reaction.
Reiji slipped inside it.
A jab passed his cheek by a hair's breadth. He stepped through the opening and drove a short hook toward the ribs, hips snapping into the motion. The blow was checked mid-path, forearm intercepting with a dull impact that sent a faint jolt through his arm.
The counter came instantly.
A kick snapped toward his side.
Reiji caught it.
The blond rotated sharply, pulling his leg back before Reiji could capitalize. He disengaged cleanly, resetting his stance without overcommitting.
The rhythm shifted.
Then—
A strike slipped through.
Reiji's head snapped slightly to the side as the blow landed against his jaw. Not enough to stagger him fully—but enough.
His footing lagged behind his awareness.
He didn't see the sweep.
The ground rose up beneath him.
Reiji hit the dirt hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. He barely turned his head in time to avoid the follow-up strike, a foot slamming down where his face had been. The impact drove dust upward in a sharp burst.
He rolled trying to create space but the blond stayed on him.
Reiji tried to rise, but weight dropped onto him, forcing him back down. Hands pressed, body angled to pin him, cutting off his movement before he could fully recover.
Reiji's fingers dug into the dirt.
His hand closed.
He moved.
A sharp flick of his wrist sent a spray of sand upward, dust snapping into the blond's face at close range. The reaction was immediate—eyes shut, guard rising instinctively.
That was enough.
Reiji surged forward.
His hand seized the boy's shoulder, pulling him down just as his head snapped forward. The headbutt landed clean against the nose, the impact dull and heavy. He felt the resistance give, the shift in balance as the other boy dropped back.
Now the position reversed.
Reiji moved on top immediately, not giving space, his fists driving downward in rapid succession. Each strike forced the blond to defend, arms rising to shield his face and torso. The impacts thudded against forearms, but the pressure mounted.
Faster, relentless, Reiji pressed the advantage without hesitation, his strikes falling in a tight, controlled rhythm as he watched for the smallest crack in his opponent's defense. The guard began to weaken under the pressure. The blond's arms sagged by a fraction, his breathing turning uneven, just enough to expose an opening.
'There.'
Reiji drew his arm back, hips coiling to drive the finishing blow—
And stopped.
The eyes staring up at him were clear. Sharp. Focused.
Not dazed. Not even close.
Too late, Reiji understood.
His punch dropped—
And was caught mid-strike.
The blond's hand closed around his wrist mid-motion, grip tightening instantly. For a fraction of a second, Reiji's mind registered the mistake.
Then he was pulled.
His balance shifted violently as the other boy twisted his hips beneath him. The movement was sharp, practiced. Reiji's center of gravity tipped forward—
And both feet slammed into his stomach.
The force launched him backward.
Reiji hit the ground, air leaving his lungs in a harsh exhale as he rolled through the impact. He pushed himself up immediately, feet finding the ground in a smooth recovery.
Attack—
"Stop!"
The voice cut through the clearing.
Reiji halted.
His body stilled mid-motion, instinct pulling him out of the attack before it fully formed. He looked down.
The line.
His toes rested just beyond it.
The boundary scratched into the dirt seemed almost insignificant now—yet it decided everything.
Reiji lay back slowly, chest rising and falling as he stared up at the sky.
"…Out of bounds," the instructor announced. "Minato wins."
Reiji exhaled once, steadying his breathing, the dust settling slowly around him.
'So that's how it is.'
***
Reiji let out a slow breath as he stepped out of the ring, dust clinging faintly to his clothes and skin. His ribs ached dully from the earlier impact, and there was still a faint tightness in his jaw where the strike had landed clean.
Around him, the clearing came back to life.
"Yeah, Minato!"
"Did you see that?"
"That's what—five times in a row now?"
"Well… Reiji was pretty close this time…"
"What? No way. Minato had it the whole time."
The voices blurred together, rising over the soft scrape of sandals shifting across dirt as students moved toward the center. Reiji ignored them, rolling his shoulders once to loosen the stiffness settling into his muscles. His breathing had already steadied, his mind replaying the final exchange with quiet precision.
'Too early'
He had committed before confirming.
The teacher acting as referee stepped forward, eyes moving between the two boys before settling on Minato. "Good match," he said with a firm nod. "That last reversal was well timed. But don't rely on it. If you let yourself get pinned like that again, you won't always recover. Be more aggressive."
Minato straightened slightly despite the blood still running faintly beneath his nose. "Yes, sensei."
"Go to the infirmary after this," the instructor added. "Get that looked at."
Minato nodded again, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.
The teacher turned, ready to move on—then paused.
Reiji was already walking away.
"Reiji," he called, voice sharper now. "Sign of reconciliation before leaving."
Reiji exhaled through his nose, more out of habit than annoyance, and slowed his steps. "Yeah, yeah. I know."
He turned back, brushing dirt from his sleeve as he crossed the ring again.
Minato waited for him, posture a little awkward now that the tension of the match had passed. Up close, the damage was clearer—the slight swelling around his nose, the faint stiffness in the way he held his shoulders.
Reiji stopped in front of him and raised his hands without a word.
Minato mirrored the gesture, their fingers meeting briefly in the practiced seal.
"It was a good match," Minato said, offering a small, genuine smile despite everything.
Reiji's eyebrow twitched.
"I don't need your pity," he replied flatly. "Next time I'll win."
Minato blinked, clearly thrown off. "Eh? But I don't—"
Reiji had already turned away.
The conversation ended as quickly as it had begun.
By the time he stepped out of the ring again, the space around Minato had filled. Classmates crowded in, voices overlapping as they congratulated him, asked questions, replayed the fight in exaggerated detail. Minato laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his head, trying to respond to all of them at once.
Reiji paused at the edge of the clearing.
He watched.
Not the crowd—the way Minato stood within it. Relaxed, a little embarrassed, but comfortable. Natural.
A different kind of strength.
"What?" a voice cut in from his side.
Reiji didn't turn immediately. He already recognized the tone.
"Jealous?" the boy continued, a smirk in his voice. "No one's here to console you?"
Reiji glanced sideways.
Enji stood there with his usual easy arrogance, arms loose at his sides, chin tilted just slightly upward.
Reiji's expression didn't change.
"Why, Enji?" he replied calmly. "Do you need a crowd every time you lose to me?"
The smirk faltered.
For a fraction of a second, Enji's posture stiffened before he forced a shrug, trying to recover the moment. "At least I've got people who care about me."
Reiji tilted his head slightly, studying him with quiet interest.
"They care about you," he said evenly, "or about your father being Hokage?"
The shift was immediate.
Enji's eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as his weight shifted forward, just enough to suggest he might step closer.
"You—"
"Drop it, Enji."
The interruption came from behind him.
Another boy stepped forward, the Uchiha crest visible on his back as he rested a hand on Enji's shoulder. His gaze slid toward Reiji briefly, sharp and dismissive.
"Nothing good comes from dealing with him."
Reiji met his eyes for a second, expression unreadable, then looked away first—as if the exchange hadn't been worth holding.
Enji exhaled sharply, the tension leaving his shoulders in a frustrated drop. "Yeah… you're right."
He shot Reiji one last look—resentment, irritation, something unspoken—before turning away.
"Come on."
They left together, their footsteps fading into the broader noise of the training ground.
Reiji didn't follow.
He turned in the opposite direction, heading back toward the Academy building. The sounds of the next match being called rose behind him, voices carrying across the field, but he didn't slow.
The dirt path felt firmer here, less disturbed. His steps were steady, measured.
Behind him, the crowd cheered again.
Reiji didn't look back.
***
When the school day finally ended, students flocked toward their parents waiting at the gates. Reiji didn't slow. He passed through without looking left or right and continued into the streets of Konoha, walking with a steady, decisive pace, eyes fixed straight ahead.
People noticed him anyway. Some glanced curiously, some with recognition, others with pity. A few stepped aside as he passed, as if keeping distance was safer.
Not long after, he reached a quieter neighborhood in the north of the village where traditional houses stood in neat rows. He stopped in front of a high wall and an ornate gate leading to a carefully kept garden and a mansion beyond. Taking a breath, he stepped through.
"I'm home," Reiji called as he slid the door open.
"I'm in my study," a voice answered from deeper inside.
Reiji removed his sandals and walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing against the wooden floor in the otherwise silent house. He stopped in front of a door and knocked softly.
"Enter."
He slid the door open and stepped inside.
The first thing that caught his eye was the garden. Open panels across the room led onto a narrow terrace; beyond it were trimmed shrubs, pale stones, a small pond, and a single tree stirring gently in the breeze. Cool air drifted into the study, carrying the scent of greenery and water.
Only then did the rest of the room come into focus. Along one wall, a built-in library stretched from knee height to the ceiling, packed with worn books and carefully stacked scrolls. Near the open doorway positioned to catch the daylight sat a desk.
Behind it sat a man in his late twenties, reading a scroll in one hand. His long brown hair fell past his shoulders, slightly loose, as though he'd stopped caring when it was last tied. He was handsome in a worn, tired way.
He didn't look up right away. Reiji waited, head bowed, hands still. After what felt like too long, the man finally lifted his gaze from the scroll and settled soft brown eyes on the boy.
Reiji stepped forward and stopped at the proper distance, lowering his head. He waited.
Seconds passed.
Only the faint rustle of the garden and the soft shift of paper broke the silence. Reiji kept his posture still, hands resting at his sides, gaze lowered. He knew better than to speak first.
At last, his father's eyes lifted.
"Sit."
"Yes, Father."
Reiji lowered himself into seiza in front of the desk, knees settling against the tatami, back straight despite the lingering tension in his body from earlier. He could still feel the echo of the fight—tightness in his abdomen, a dull ache in his jaw—but he kept it contained.
"Tell me about your day," his father said, his gaze already drifting back to the scroll. "How was school?"
Reiji hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"It was okay," he said. "Nothing special happened."
His father didn't react immediately. The scroll shifted slightly in his hand.
"Wasn't it sparring class today?"
Reiji's fingers pressed lightly against his knees. "Yes."
"And?"
The answer came out before he could temper it.
"So what?"
His father's eyes lifted again, one brow arching slightly.
"Do you not understand the question," he asked evenly, "or are you avoiding it?"
Heat rose to Reiji's face before he could stop it. He looked down.
"I lost," he muttered.
"What?"
"I said I lost," Reiji repeated, louder this time, the words tight in his throat. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor.
Silence followed.
It stretched, slow and deliberate, pressing down until it felt heavier than any strike he'd taken earlier. Reiji's shoulders remained still, but his jaw tightened as he waited.
"…Was it that boy you told me about?" his father asked at last. "Minato?"
"Yes."
"So you lost to an orphan."
Reiji's head snapped up.
"Minato isn't just an orphan," he said, sharper than he intended. "He's the best in the class. By far."
"That changes nothing," his father replied, the words flat, almost dismissive.
Reiji stared at him, disbelief flickering across his face. "What do you mean? I'm the strongest in the class if you don't count him. I beat the Hyūga, the Uchiha, the Sarutobi… I even beat that Senju."
His father didn't blink.
"If they lose to an orphan as well," he said calmly, "then they're nothing special either."
The words landed cleanly.
Reiji opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The argument he'd prepared in his head dissolved before it formed.
"Even if Minato is exceptional," his father continued, voice steady, "even if he's a once-in-a-generation talent… he's still an orphan. He doesn't have structured training. He doesn't have someone correcting his mistakes every day."
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"So what's your excuse?"
Reiji's hands tightened against his knees. He lowered his head again, the sting behind his eyes coming without warning. He focused on his breathing, keeping it steady.
"It's true you're ahead of your classmates right now," his father went on. "You've beaten children from prominent clans. But you're still at the beginning. That gap won't stay the same."
Reiji listened, silent.
"You'll graduate. You'll be assigned to teams. You'll each receive a jōnin instructor. When that happens, Minato will have guidance. If you stagnate, he will surpass you completely."
A brief pause.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes," Reiji said quietly.
His father's eyes remained on him.
"Then why did you lose?"
Reiji's fists clenched.
"He tricked me."
"He read you," his father corrected immediately. "He let you believe what you wanted to believe. That's what shinobi do."
Reiji swallowed, the words settling heavier than before.
His father exhaled softly, and when he spoke again, the edge in his tone eased slightly.
"Losing isn't the problem," he said. "It can be useful, if you approach it correctly. But telling yourself it can't be helped because he's the strongest is a mistake."
Reiji forced himself to look up.
"You should be asking better questions," his father continued. "Why am I still losing to him? What patterns am I missing? What will I do differently next time?"
Reiji nodded slowly, the earlier frustration shifting into something sharper, more focused.
"I understand."
His father studied him for a moment longer, then gave a small, satisfied nod.
"Good."
He set the scroll aside.
"Your dinner is in the kitchen. Dismissed."
Reiji bowed, hands pressing lightly against the tatami, then rose to his feet. The movement felt controlled, deliberate—more so than before. Without another word, he turned and stepped out of the study, sliding the door closed behind him as the quiet of the house settled back into place.
***
He ate alone.
The meal was well prepared—he could tell from habit alone—but the taste barely registered. He chewed, swallowed, and moved on without thinking about it, his mind replaying something else entirely.
'Even if I beat him one day… it'll be the same.'
His gaze rested on the table, unfocused. When he won, it meant nothing. That was normal. Expected. The bare minimum. But when he lost—when he slipped once—it became something that mattered.
'Why ?'
The question lingered, heavy and unwelcome.
'Why does he never praise me?'
His grip tightened slightly around the chopsticks.
'Does he not love me?'
The thought surfaced too clearly. For a moment it pushed upward, threatening to settle into something real—but Reiji shut it down before it could take shape. He swallowed another mouthful without tasting it, eyes fixed on the polished surface of the table until the reflection blurred.
When he finished, he cleaned his place in silence. The routine was automatic—movements precise, controlled, leaving no trace behind. Then he stood, crossed the corridor, and slid the doors open to the garden.
Cool air rushed in immediately, brushing against his skin and carrying the scent of damp stone and trimmed leaves. Outside, the training space waited exactly as it always did. Hard-packed dirt. A few wooden posts worn smooth from repeated impact. Practice dummies set at fixed distances. A lantern hung under the eaves, its dim light already struggling against the encroaching dark.
Reiji stepped out.
For a moment, he didn't move. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling slightly as if testing something unseen
Then his feet shifted.
His fist drove forward.
The impact landed with a dull, solid thud against the wooden dummy. The post rocked slightly, the vibration traveling up his arm into his shoulder. He pulled back immediately, pivoting through his hips as his foot slid across the dirt. A low kick followed—sharp, controlled—striking the base of the dummy before snapping back into guard. Then a high kick, heel cutting through the air before stopping just short of overextension.
Again.
The rhythm built quickly. Punch. Reset. Step. Strike. The motions flowed into one another without pause, each movement feeding the next. His feet adjusted constantly, sliding over the ground, maintaining balance as his weight shifted from one side to the other. His breathing fell into a steady pattern, exhale on impact, inhale on recovery.
The sounds filled the garden.
Wood. Flesh. Air.
There had been a time when it sounded different.
When his knuckles split under the repeated strikes and the sting forced tears into his eyes. When the pain made his movements hesitate for half a second too long. When his father's voice didn't soften, didn't pause, didn't allow him to stop until the ground beneath him was marked dark.
Now the pain was different.
Duller.
Distant.
His hands didn't cry anymore.
They just went numb.
'First in my class should've been easy…'
The thought came without pride.
It wasn't arrogance.
He had trained longer. Harder. More consistently. While the others played at being shinobi, he had been drilled into the ground, day after day. His body had been shaped for this. His reflexes honed. His instincts sharpened.
So beating them—
Normal.
His fist struck again, harder this time. The dummy creaked faintly under the impact.
They were predictable. Their movements telegraphed. Their emotions obvious. They fought like children and thought like children, relying on names and expectations as if those alone carried weight.
Reiji had never been fooled by it.
'They're inferior.'
Another strike. His knuckles hit slightly off-center this time, sending a sharper jolt through his hand.
'So why isn't it enough?'
The answer came immediately.
Clear. Unavoidable.
'Because he beats me.'
His next strike came faster.
Harder.
Not a clan heir. Not someone with a name people respected. Not someone raised the way he had been.
Minato had none of it.
No structured training. No constant correction. No pressure carved into him from the moment he could stand.
And still—
Every time Reiji got close, every time he thought he had it—
Minato slipped away.
Like it wasn't even difficult.
Reiji's breathing sharpened slightly. His rhythm grew tighter, less fluid. He struck again and again, each movement carrying a little more force than before, a little less restraint. The image of that calm expression surfaced uninvited—the easy smile, the way the crowd gathered around him without hesitation.
Reiji's jaw tightened.
'I can't accept it.'
His foot drove into the dummy with a sharp crack, the recoil forcing him to adjust his stance to keep balance.
And beneath that—
Another thought.
Quieter.
He saw his father again. Sitting in the study. Not looking at him.
His stomach twisted.
'I couldn't meet his eyes.'
Not after losing. Not after everything he had done to make sure he wouldn't. Not after convincing himself that effort alone would be enough.
For a moment, something sharp and bitter pushed upward—anger, maybe. It would have been easier to turn it outward. To blame Minato. To resent him.
But that didn't solve anything.
Reiji knew that.
Winning did.
He slowed for half a second, just enough to feel the strain in his arms, the tremor starting to build in his forearms. Then he resumed.
He glanced at his hands between strikes.
Small.
Already marked.
The skin across his knuckles was reddened, a thin split forming where he'd hit at the wrong angle. Not deep enough to matter. Not enough to stop him.
'I have no excuse.'
He drove his fist forward again. The dummy shifted under the impact, wood creaking faintly.
Again.
Again.
The rhythm returned, harsher now. Less controlled. His forearms began to shake more noticeably, the accumulated strain catching up to him. The numbness spread further, dulling the edges of sensation.
'Stronger.'
A kick snapped upward.
'Smarter.'
A pivot, a strike.
'Faster.'
He didn't need praise. That was irrelevant. Words didn't change outcomes. Approval didn't win fights.
Results did.
He needed to become something undeniable. Something that couldn't be dismissed, couldn't be overlooked, couldn't be ignored no matter how little his father chose to say.
If he reached that point—
Then it would matter.
Then it would have to matter.
If he became strong enough, the looks would stop. The distance people kept would disappear. The whispers—about him, about his family—would fade into nothing.
And if he became strong enough—
'No one would ever dare to sacrifice me.'
The thought came sharp enough to cut.
For a moment, it unsettled him. Not because it was new—but because it felt true.
His fist slammed into the dummy one last time.
This time the pain came back.
Bright. Clear. Cutting through the numbness like a spark.
He welcomed it.
Pain meant he was still pushing. Still moving forward.
Reiji leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against the rough wood. His breathing came heavier now, shoulders rising and falling as he forced air back into his lungs. Sweat ran down the side of his face, cooling quickly in the night air.
He stayed like that for a second.
Then he pushed away.
He wiped his face with his sleeve, straightened his posture, and reset his stance.
"I'll be better," he said quietly.
The words didn't carry far. The garden absorbed them. The house remained silent.
"Better than him. Better than all of them."
Because it wasn't just about winning anymore.
It wasn't about pride.
It wasn't even about Minato.
Reiji stepped back into stance.
'If I'm not strong enough…'
His fist drove forward again.
'Then I'll be the one who gets chosen.'
The impact cracked through the quiet.
And this time—
He didn't stop.