The training ground baked under the midday sun.
The morning's academic classes were held in a sandstone classroom, where Sunada Shun droned endlessly about standard failure-reporting protocols. Sengoku sat near the window, spending most of his time meticulously copying the notes, fully engaged in the theory.
The afternoon taijutsu session proceeded regardless of the oppressive heat. Sunada stood at the edge of the marked combat ring. "Pair up. Free sparring. Basic taijutsu only. No ninja tools, no ninjutsu. Begin."
The students quickly scrambled to find their friends. Sengoku was considering approaching Yotaka Arashi when a voice called out.
"Sengoku. You want to spar?"
It was Araki Ryo, the spiky-haired boy whose taijutsu scores were among the highest in the class.
Sengoku nodded. "Sure."
The two stepped into the sand ring and bowed slightly, raising their arms into basic fighting stances. Sunada stood outside the circle like a stone statue, his indifferent gaze sweeping over the various pairs.
"Ha!" Araki shouted, lunging forward with the explosive energy typical of his age. He aimed a vicious straight punch directly at Sengoku's face.
Before, Sengoku would have awkwardly crossed his arms to block or scrambled backward in a panic. But now, his mind processed the incoming strike with startling clarity. He registered the slight shift in Araki's shoulders, the pivot of his lead foot.
Sengoku smoothly slid to the side. The movement wasn't beautiful, but it was incredibly precise, letting the punch sail mere inches past his nose. Before Araki could pull his arm back, Sengoku formed a fist and drove a quick, sharp strike into the inside of the boy's wrist.
"Guh!" Araki grunted as a jolt of numbness shot up his arm. He stepped back, his eyes widening in surprise. "Your reaction time got way faster!"
Araki immediately adapted, sweeping a leg low across the sand, aiming for Sengoku's ankles.
Sengoku hopped backward, leaving clear drag marks in the dirt. He realized with cold clarity that his physical attributes hadn't improved magically; he still possessed the raw strength and speed of an undernourished civilian child. But his cognitive processing—his ability to judge distance, read intent, and time his reactions—had improved drastically.
For the rest of the spar, Sengoku remained entirely on the defensive. Araki's raw strength and speed were undeniably superior, forcing Sengoku to retreat under a flurry of aggressive strikes. Yet, unlike his first days at the academy, Sengoku was no longer a helpless punching bag. He parried, deflected, and dodged. Occasionally, when Araki overextended, Sengoku would snap a quick counter-strike into a vulnerable joint.
When Sunada finally called, "Halt," both boys stepped back, chest heaving, completely coated in sand and sweat.
Araki wiped his forehead, looking at Sengoku with a newfound sliver of respect. "You've been training like crazy lately, haven't you?"
Sengoku simply nodded, catching his breath. "Just putting in the time."
Once the session ended, Sunada dismissed the class. Most of the students immediately scattered, eager to escape the heat. Sengoku, exhausted from the intense sparring, quietly packed his tool bag, preparing for his usual solo evening routine at the isolated training wall.
He didn't make it far.
As he turned a corner in one of the academy's stone corridors, three figures blocked his path. Saburo and his two lackeys.
"Well, well. If it isn't our genius, Sengoku," Saburo sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. "You were going pretty hard against Araki out there. What, did you find yourself a protector?"
Sengoku stopped. His face remained an emotionless mask, but his mind raced, instantly evaluating the situation. 'Three opponents. Narrow terrain. Stamina depleted from sparring.' He had expected retaliation, just not this quickly.
One of the lackeys stepped forward. "Too bad Araki and Arashi aren't here right now. Be smart. Apologize to Saburo, agree to run our errands, and we won't beat you too badly today."
Sengoku didn't respond. His eyes tracked the exact position of their feet and shoulders.
"Looks like he needs to be taught a lesson," Saburo snarled, his patience snapping. "Grab him!"
The two lackeys lunged forward, reaching for Sengoku's arms. At the exact moment they extended their hands, Sengoku took a sharp half-step backward, letting their momentum carry them past him. Exploiting Saburo's position slightly further back, Sengoku ducked low, attempting to slip through the small gap beside the wall.
"You're not going anywhere!" Saburo reacted quickly, throwing a heavy kick toward Sengoku's chest.
Anticipating the strike, Sengoku shifted his weight mid-crouch and threw himself toward the corridor's stone pillar.
Smash!
Saburo's boot slammed violently against the stone where Sengoku's head had been a second before.
Sengoku was entirely reliant on predictive reading. He couldn't outrun them, so he used the terrain and the narrow confines to limit their angles of attack, dodging by the slimmest margins possible. But the mental and physical toll was immense. Under the relentless three-on-one assault, he finally slipped.
A heavy fist slammed into his back. A sharp, burning pain shot up his spine, sending him stumbling forward.
"Got him!" one of the lackeys yelled, wrapping his arms around Sengoku's right shoulder.
Sengoku's left hand instantly dropped to his pouch, his fingers wrapping around the cold iron handle of a real kunai. He prepared to drive the hilt into the boy's ribs.
"Stop right there!"
A sharp, authoritative voice echoed down the corridor. A Chunin instructor had rounded the corner, his eyes narrowed dangerously.
Saburo and his lackeys froze, panic washing over their faces.
"Did you forget the academy rules against unsanctioned brawling?" the Chunin demanded, walking toward them. "Do you want to be expelled? Get out of here!"
Terrified of the consequences, Saburo shot Sengoku a venomous glare before sprinting away, his lackeys hot on his heels.
The Chunin briefly glanced at Sengoku, who was still leaning against the pillar, before turning and continuing his patrol without a word.
Sengoku stayed pinned against the stone, gasping for air. The brief skirmish had drained him mentally far more than physically. His back throbbed intensely. After checking his body and confirming nothing was broken, he pushed himself off the wall.
He didn't go home.
The encounter cemented a chilling truth: in a place like Sunagakure, words meant nothing. Power was the only currency that mattered. And he was still desperately poor.
He walked straight to the training grounds and immediately approached the heavy sandbags. He began a ruthless assault, striking repeatedly, specifically targeting the areas that corresponded to a human throat and heart.
Half an hour later, his knuckles bruised, he moved to the vertical sandstone wall.
Taking a deep breath, he calmed his racing thoughts. He focused entirely on the soles of his feet. A steady layer of pale-blue chakra gathered beneath his sandals—much denser and more stable than a week prior.
'Press. Adhere.'
He stepped onto the vertical wall. The chakra clamped down, locking his foot in place against gravity. He raised his other foot. He began to walk upward. Compared to the clumsy, immediate falls of his first attempts, he was notably more stable today.
He climbed until he slipped, fell to the sand, rested, and climbed again.
It was dull, agonizing, and repetitive.
He didn't stop until his chakra reserves were completely hollowed out and his leg muscles spasmed uncontrollably. He dropped from the wall one last time, hitting the soft sand with a heavy thud.
Dragging himself back to his dark, silent stone house, he downed a massive cup of water before collapsing onto the floor.
Once his breathing leveled out, he forced himself up into a lotus position to replenish his chakra. The extreme physical exhaustion, coupled with his enhanced intellect, made the extraction process incredibly smooth. As the warm energy refilled his meridians, the sharp aches in his body began to dull.
Opening his eyes, Sengoku raised his right hand, pressing his index and middle fingers together.
A faint blue thread of chakra, barely thicker than a strand of hair, sprouted from his fingertips. Shaping chakra into a fine line required an entirely different caliber of focus than plastering it to the bottom of his feet. It demanded absolute, pinpoint precision.
The thread wavered violently in the air, rippling and twisting. Before he could attempt to manipulate it, it shattered.
Poof.
The thread dissipated into tiny motes of light.
Sengoku didn't blink. He drew a breath and tried again.
Poof.
Shattered again.
Under the flickering light of his oil lamp, Sengoku repeated the process hundreds of times. With every failure, his enhanced mind calculated the micro-fluctuations in his chakra output, adjusting, refining, and perfecting.
Only when his head felt like it was splitting open did he finally stop. He unrolled the scroll for Basic Puppet Crafting and Maintenance.
The parchment detailed intricate diagrams of joints, gears, and structural joints. It explained the necessity of using specific, chakra-conductive wood imported from the Land of Fire rather than standard steel. The schematics were incredibly dense, but Sengoku studied every line and margin note, burning the basic mechanics into his memory.
When the oil lamp finally guttered and died, Sengoku rolled up the scroll.
He lay down on his hard bed. Every fiber of his body screamed in protest, but his mind remained sharply focused. Tomorrow, he would train harder. Tomorrow, Saburo would likely try again.
As the sound of the wind whipping against his window blurred into white noise, Sengoku fell into a deep sleep.