The next morning brought the familiar sting of wind and sand.
Inside the academy's open-air training ground, over thirty new students sat cross-legged in the dirt. Sunada Shun stood in the center of the formation, his voice carrying clearly over the howling wind.
"Chakra is the fusion of your physical and spiritual energies," the instructor explained, his tone strictly business. "Focus your minds. Feel the dormant energy within your cells and pull it to the center of your body."
Sengoku closed his eyes and pushed all distracting thoughts aside. Around him, the faint sounds of struggle echoed—Yotaka Arashi grunting from overexertion, and the restless shifting of several civilian-born children who couldn't sit still. Only Akasuna Yumi remained perfectly serene, her breathing already falling into a steady, meditative rhythm.
Time crawled by.
A thin layer of sweat coated Sengoku's forehead, yet his core remained frustratingly hollow. Occasionally, he would catch the faintest whisper of movement within his body, but the sensation slipped through his mental grasp like dry sand between fingers.
"Not feeling it is normal for beginners," Sunada said, pacing slowly between the rows of students. "Maintain your focus."
During the short break, the training ground buzzed with excited whispers. One boy eagerly waved his hands, claiming he felt a hot current in his stomach, only to be immediately mocked by another student who pointed out he had been snoring five minutes ago.
Yotaka Arashi slid over to Sengoku. "How about you? I think I felt a little something, but I can't hold onto it."
"Nothing yet," Sengoku replied truthfully, shaking his head.
In the corner, Akasuna Yumi sat alone, quietly drawing patterns in the dirt. A few clan children hovered around her, eagerly discussing extraction theories, but she offered only polite, minimal nods in response.
The afternoon session was even more grueling. Despite his relentless attempts, Sengoku gained nothing but a dull, throbbing headache. When Sunada walked past, the instructor didn't even pause, his indifferent gaze sweeping right over Sengoku's silent struggle.
By the time classes ended, only five students had successfully extracted chakra. Three were from established shinobi clans. The most impressive was Yumi, who held a faint, flickering blue light at her fingertips, a quiet testament to her overwhelming natural talent.
"We continue tomorrow," Sunada announced flatly. "Those who failed are expected to practice on their own time."
Sengoku quickly packed his tool bag, intent on heading straight to the physical conditioning logs. Before he could clear the doorway, three figures blocked his path.
The leader was Saburo, a boy from a minor ninja clan, flanked by two eager lackeys.
"Hey, Sengoku." Saburo crossed his arms, a condescending smirk plastered across his face. "You're always sitting by yourself. It's kind of pathetic. Tell you what—why don't you follow me? You just run my errands, carry my gear, and I'll look out for you. How about it?"
Sengoku barely looked at him. His mind was entirely consumed by the mechanics of chakra extraction. Schoolyard politics were a pointless waste of calories. "Not interested," he said, stepping sideways to bypass the trio. "I have training to do."
Saburo's smirk vanished. He shot his arm out, barring Sengoku's path. "I'm offering you a favor, you little rat," Saburo sneered, leaning in close. "You're a nobody civilian with garbage talent. Who do you think you are to act so arrogant?"
Sengoku stopped and looked up. His dark eyes were completely deadpan. "Find someone else. I'm busy."
The utter lack of intimidation in Sengoku's voice ignited Saburo's temper. "Fine! You've got guts, I'll give you that." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. "Let's see how long you survive in this academy on your own."
Saburo violently slammed his shoulder into Sengoku's chest as he pushed past, his lackeys sneering as they followed.
Sengoku stumbled back a half-step, regaining his balance. He watched them leave, his fists silently clenching. He noted the physical impact, calculated the hostility, and logged Saburo as a potential obstacle. Yet, as he turned and walked toward the training ground, he realized something chilling.
He felt absolutely no anger.
A normal child would be terrified. A proud adult in a child's body would be humiliated or enraged. But Sengoku felt nothing but that familiar, eerie void in his soul. The transmigration had undeniably severed his connection to intense human emotion.
He walked straight to a weathered sandbag hanging from a wooden frame. Taking a deep breath, he drove his fist into the heavy canvas.
Thud.
He struck it again, and again. It wasn't a release of frustration; it was a mechanical execution of duty. His logic was absolute: his body lacked talent, so his physical stamina and technique needed extreme refinement. It was the only way to survive. Despite the burning in his muscles and the rapid heaving of his chest, the adrenaline that usually accompanied such exertion was entirely absent, muffled by the invisible barrier over his emotions.
He punched until his knuckles bruised and his arms went numb. Then, he moved to the targets, throwing kunai until dusk swallowed the sun. When darkness fell, he ran laps until his legs felt like lead.
After choking down his ration bars in his quiet stone house, Sengoku sat cross-legged under the dim light of his oil lamp. He meditated late into the night, desperately trying to catch the elusive flow of chakra, until sheer exhaustion forced him into an unceremonious sleep.
---
The second week of the academy arrived in a blur of sweat and failure.
Seven full days into the chakra extraction course, Sengoku was still at square one. More than ten students had now successfully formed their chakra. During breaks, the training ground was filled with the joyous laughter of children showing off brief sparks of blue light to their peers. Arashi had asked about his progress again, but Sengoku could only stare at his empty palms and shake his head.
He continued his brutal routine. He arrived before dawn to train his body under Sunada's indifferent watch, pushed through the daily classes, and stayed late into the night.
But during the daytime meditation sessions, something began to change. Sengoku could finally feel the energy. It was no longer a fleeting phantom, but a distinct, warm current pooling in his core. Physical stamina and mental focus intertwined, spiraling together to form chakra.
Yet, every single time the energy reached the absolute precipice of formation, it vanished. It didn't just dissipate naturally—it felt as though something deep inside his body was abruptly swallowing it whole.
"You're close," Sunada remarked one afternoon, pausing briefly beside Sengoku. "You can feel the threshold, but you can't grasp it. A common bottleneck. Keep pushing."
By the third week, over two-thirds of the class could reliably extract chakra. Sengoku was left in the bottom tier alongside seven other struggling students. He could sense the energy, guide it through his meridians, and bring it to the very edge of manifestation, only for it to be inexplicably devoured at the last second.
Refusing to accept defeat, Sengoku added an extra hour of pure meditation to his nightly routine.
On Friday evening, Sunada closed his attendance ledger. "Next week, we will conduct chakra nature testing," he announced, his gaze briefly lingering on the stragglers. "Some of you are progressing slower than others, but you are still within acceptable parameters."
As the other students excitedly filed out of the academy, Sengoku remained seated in the dirt. He closed his eyes and initiated the fusion process once more.
The physical and spiritual energies collided. The warm current surged. The invisible force inside him immediately latched onto the forming chakra, attempting to swallow it. But this time, Sengoku noticed a subtle shift. The rate of dissipation had slowed. Whatever was eating his chakra was taking longer to consume it, as if it were finally getting full.
The energy lingered for a fraction of a second longer before fading into nothingness.
Sengoku opened his eyes. Three weeks of agonizing meditation hadn't been a waste. He was adapting. The drain was slowing down. He knew with absolute certainty that he was only one step away from breaking through.
Standing up, he walked over to the old sandbag. He threw a punch, the canvas groaning under the heavy impact. Even without chakra, the difference in his body was undeniable. Fueled by three weeks of proper academy rations and relentless physical conditioning, his raw strength and stamina had grown significantly.
He was far stronger than he had been on his first day. It was only a matter of time.