For the past few months, his daily routine remained etched in stone. He woke before dawn, slipping out into the freezing morning air to reach the isolated training ground. First came the laps, then punishing physical conditioning against the wooden dummies, and finally, shurikenjutsu. He repeated the same motions tens of thousands of times until muscle memory took over completely.
Classroom sessions offered no respite from the monotony. Sunada Shun, with his scarred face and unyielding demeanor, delivered lectures like mission briefings. He recited shinobi codes and tactical doctrines word for word. To Sunada, right and wrong were absolutes. He offered no praise for correct answers and no reprimands for incorrect ones—only cold, standard corrections. In the instructor's eyes, the students were merely defective tools requiring calibration.
After academy hours, Sengoku would return to his secluded training ground. To his mild surprise, Saburo and his lackeys had not made another appearance, granting him uninterrupted focus.
He always started with wall-climbing exercises, pushing his body until his stamina scraped the bottom. Then, he transitioned to chakra threads. The pale-blue line at his fingertip, which used to shatter after a grueling five seconds, could now hold steady for ten. It was a massive leap in stability, carved out through sheer, agonizing repetition.
Evenings in his stone house followed a similar rhythm. Under the dim light of his oil lamp, he would eat a simple ration, rest briefly, and unroll Basic Puppet Crafting and Maintenance. The scroll's edges were now heavily frayed, its diagrams and annotations entirely memorized. Once finished reading, he would draw out the broken puppet joint, forcing his chakra into its microscopic, jammed pathways to refine his control.
To break the isolation, he occasionally visited the Wind Market. He would buy basic maintenance tools or linger by the scrap stalls. Sometimes, he bumped into Yotaka Arashi, quietly listening as the boy excitedly babbled about his latest scavenged trap components.
Time slipped by in a blur. Sengoku only realized the year was drawing to a close when he noticed the lengthening shadow of the dead tree near his training ground and the thick, white plumes of his own breath in the morning air.
On the final morning of the year, the training ground was completely deserted. The other students were home, enjoying the holiday break. Only the bitter winter wind swept across the empty dirt, carrying biting grains of sand.
Sengoku completed his morning regimen regardless. His fingers were stiff and numb from the cold, but he forced himself to finish the final set of kunai throws. Seeing the black iron buried perfectly in the bullseye, he allowed his exhausted body to relax. His stamina was entirely spent.
Packing away his tools, he turned his steps toward the central market instead of heading home.
The main streets were far livelier than usual, buzzing with villagers preparing for the New Year celebrations. The stalls displayed a rare selection of fresh vegetables. Though the prices were painfully inflated, Sengoku gritted his teeth and bought some. He also picked out a cut of fresh animal meat, a small bag of rice, and used his very last coins on a jar of chili sauce.
Back at his stone house, smoke rose from his chimney for the first time in months. Drawing on memories from his past life, Sengoku set out to make a rich, braised meat dish. He washed the rice, cubed the meat, and carefully cleaned the vegetables. The spices were incredibly limited, but compared to his usual dry rations, this was a feast. As the savory aroma filled the small room, a wave of nostalgia for his old world washed over him, momentarily blurring the harsh reality of Sunagakure.
He sat at his small table and quietly savored the painstakingly prepared meal.
As night fell, a swell of cheerful noise drifted from the village's central plaza. Sengoku pushed his window open, spotting the warm glow of massive bonfires and string lights. After a brief hesitation, he grabbed his thick coat and stepped out into the cold.
The plaza was packed. Children chased each other through the crowd, while adults huddled around the roaring fires, sharing stories and laughter. The scent of roasted flatbread and spiced tea hung heavy in the air.
Sengoku found an inconspicuous corner in the shadows and sat down, simply watching the vibrant scene. Sunagakure was rarely this bright, rarely this warm. Even the eternal, howling winds seemed to soften for the night.
As midnight approached, the excitement reached its peak. The bonfires crackled, sending clouds of embers into the dark sky. Suddenly, a series of piercing shrieks tore through the air. Brilliant streaks of light shot upward, exploding into massive, multi-colored blooms overhead.
They were imported fireworks from the Land of Fire. An immense luxury, each shell cost more than a high-grade ninja weapon—a price far beyond what any commoner could afford. The villagers craned their necks, gasping in awe at the rare spectacle.
Sengoku tilted his head back, watching the dazzling, foreign lights reflect in his dark eyes before quickly fading to ash. He stayed until the last colorful explosion dissipated. As the cold night deepened, the crowd finally began to scatter in small groups.
Returning to his quiet stone house, he lit the oil lamp one last time. He spent a few minutes pushing his chakra into the broken joint, grounding his mind in the familiar, stubborn resistance.
Finally, he blew out the flame and lay down on his cold bed. Through the stone walls, he could still hear the faint, lingering echoes of distant laughter. Sengoku closed his eyes, his slow, steady breathing the only sound in the dark room.
The year quietly drew to a close in the peaceful silence.