Pale moonlight seeped through the cracked blinds. Shorai stirred—back stiff, limbs numb. He sat up slowly, wincing as his muscles protested. The clock glowed in the dark: 10:00 PM.
"Wait—what day is it?" He scrambled to his feet, disoriented.
In the dim kitchen, he rummaged through the old, rust-speckled fridge, pulling out stale bread and a dented can of beans. Orphan rations. The village's monthly stipend barely covered food, let alone kunai or scrolls, so he hoarded as much as he could. He ate in silence, then stepped outside.
"Well, look who finally crawled out," Mr. Tetsuo said from the doorway, cigarette dangling from his lips. "Sun's just rising. You training or hibernating?"
Shorai rubbed his neck. "Overdid it. Heh. What's the date?"
"Tuesday, February 3rd." Tetsuo studied him. "You alright? You look like a ghost."
"Just hit my limit yesterday. I'm fine." He grinned. "Went to the library. Read a whole stack of books—for free! Didn't even know we could go there."
Tetsuo raised a brow. "Since when are you a scholar? How'd you get in?"
"A guy at the front desk gave me a permit. Turns out… reading's exhausting." He scratched his head. "Passed out halfway home. And—uh—they said I need your signature for next time."
Tetsuo exhaled a slow plume of smoke. "If you promise not to burn yourself out again… I'll sign it." He stubbed the cigarette, scribbled his name, and handed back the slip.
Shorai clutched it like a Scroll of Seals. "Thank you."
As he turned, Tetsuo called after him, "Kid—shinobi don't walk alone. Friends matter. Cooperation isn't weakness. It's survival."
Shorai hesitated. He instantly understood what the caretaker meant. "I… think I get it."
"Good. Now go. And don't wander at night. Uchiha officers don't take kindly to orphans wandering near their compound at night."
Across the training ground, figures moved under the streetlights—black cloaks, red fans on their backs.
"Right. Just needed the permit. Thanks again."
"Uh-huh. Good night."
Back in his room, Shorai's eyes gleamed.
For the next month, his days followed a strict rhythm: stamina drills at dawn, chakra control exercises by midday, then the library. He studied obsessively—history, medical theory, chakra pathways—while monitoring his own mind, pacing himself to avoid collapse.
"History and medicine—done. Research is still much to cover." He leaned back, smug. "Understanding tenketsu and chakra flow? Complex. But if I train and master the physical side… perhaps I could develop a pressure-point style—not Gentle Fist, but something close. Imagine that."
He closed his eyes, replaying Tobirama's theories from memory. The mental strain was real—but now, only a full day of study left him drowsy, not broken.
"Calling Tobirama a revolutionary undersells it. His work reshaped ninjutsu itself." He yawned. "Good thing I've drilled chakra sensing. It's the foundation for no-seal techniques."
He did a final set of push-ups, meditated briefly, then tested the ingot's energy—carefully—before collapsing into bed.
Tomorrow was Academy day.
And Shorai was ready.