[4457 Words]
Yasu had to know more.
It began as a curiosity, as all things did.
At first, he watched shinobi with the detached interest of someone studying something strange and distant—wild animals behind glass. Their movements were deliberate, their forms honed with a precision that bordered on unnatural. It wasn't just speed or strength. There was something more, something deeper Yasu couldn't yet put words to. But even with this budding understanding, he quickly realised that not all shinobi were the same.
There was one, in particular.
He didn't know the man's name—had never heard him speak or lingered close enough to catch more than glimpses. The shinobi wasn't someone Yasu saw often. He would vanish for days, weeks even, and just as Yasu began to wonder if he'd imagined him altogether, there he was.
It was the way he moved that first caught Yasu's attention. The shinobi's steps were silent, blending into the world as if he belonged to it. His presence seemed to vanish into thin air, so seamless that Yasu sometimes wondered if he'd imagined seeing him at all.
It didn't make sense. None of it did. But Yasu couldn't deny the strange feeling he got at times.
Feel. That was the only word Yasu could think of.
He had spent so long studying people's movements that they'd started to seem predictable. The children stomped through the streets, the merchants bellowed their wares, and even shinobi had a rhythm to their steps. But this man? He moved beyond sound or pattern, leaving only a faint whisper of presence in his wake.
Even the shinobi he'd watched before had a rhythm to their steps, a pulse of movement that Yasu could track, almost hear, even when they tried to move in silence. He wasn't sure how he knew. He just did—like a whisper brushing against the edges of his mind.
But this man? This shinobi didn't just move differently. He felt different.
It was in the silence that followed him. In the way others didn't seem to see him—how their gazes slid past him as though he were nothing more than a shadow on the wall.
He followed him. Quietly. Carefully.
It was harder than Yasu expected, harder than following any of the others. The man's route was always the same—through the main streets of the village and up toward the administrative building where the Tsuchikage's office sits. Yasu never dared to follow him inside, stopping instead at the outer steps or a nearby alley where he could linger unseen. Even then, he often found himself wondering how the shinobi had slipped past him, how he'd vanished just out of reach.
One afternoon, Yasu caught sight of him again.
Craggy cliffs loomed in the distance, their jagged edges cutting sharply against the pale afternoon sky. Warm rays of sunlight painted the grey and reddish-brown hues of the surrounding rock with a fleeting golden glow.
It was an ordinary day in the stony heart of his village.
Yasu had been aimlessly observing a merchant shouting about his fresh vegetables when he felt it—a shift, subtle but unmistakable. He turned his head, and there the man was, just at the edge of his vision.
He followed.
The shinobi moved calmly, weaving through the crowd with precision, as if he predicted their every step. Yasu followed at a distance, his eyes fixed on the man's back. That strange hum stirred again—not awe, not fear, but quiet respect, the kind born from witnessing something beyond you.
Yasu's feet carried him through narrow streets and wider avenues, over cobblestone paths that seemed to stretch longer than he remembered. All the while, the shinobi ahead moved with a steady, unbroken pace. He didn't turn back or hesitate, yet something in his movements felt deliberate—too deliberate.
'His movements remind me of the precision required on the battlefield— No wasted moves, no hesitation. Just intent.'
He knows. The realization hit Yasu like a weight. This wasn't ignorance—it was allowance. Yasu's steps grew softer, his breath steady. Trap or test, one thing was clear: recklessness wasn't an option.
And still, he didn't stop.
Then something changed.
The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible. The market grew quieter, the merchants' shouts muffled as if behind stone walls. The scents and sounds of life faded, leaving only silence.
Yasu's steps slowed.
He turned his head, grey eyes sweeping across the street. Where once there had been life, there was now emptiness. The stalls were still there, their goods untouched, but the merchants were gone. The children, the women carrying baskets, the old men haggling over fish—all of them had vanished, as though wiped clean from the world.
Yasu's heart thundered.
What is this? He turned back—the shinobi was gone. Scanning the empty streets, his pulse quickened. That silence, that emptiness—it screamed of danger, just as it had in his past life.
The air grew heavy, the kind of silence that precedes a trap. His breath caught, and his instincts screamed at him to retreat, but he was rooted in place, as if his next move had already been decided.
He looked back to where the shinobi had been just moments before. The man was gone. Yasu's breath caught, and he quickly scanned the empty streets again, his pulse quickening. His senses screamed at him, the way they had in his past life when things felt wrong—when silence meant an ambush, when emptiness meant danger.
And yet, this was different. This wasn't danger. This was… testing. Watching.
"You've noticed, haven't you?"
The voice came from behind him. Low. Calm.
Yasu spun around, his eyes wide. The shinobi stood a few paces away, his dark clothes blending into the muted shadows of the empty street. His face was partially concealed by a high collar, leaving only his eyes visible—sharp, dark, and unreadable.
The shinobi tilted his head, dark eyes narrowing as if measuring Yasu. "You're observant for someone so young," the shinobi said, his voice steady. "Most wouldn't have noticed at all."
Yasu swallowed, holding the man's gaze. The shinobi knew he'd been followed. Yet there was no anger, no threat—only curiosity.
"Why are you following me?" the man asked finally.
Yasu hesitated, lips tightening. He considered lying but thought better of it. The man's sharp presence reminded him of a predator—watchful, deliberate, waiting.
"I wanted to understand," Yasu said finally, his voice steady despite the hammering in his chest.
The shinobi didn't flinch, his gaze unrelenting. "Understand what?"
"How you move," Yasu replied quietly. "How you're different from the others. It's… difficult to explain. But it's there. I could feel it."
A flicker of something passed through the man's eyes. Surprise? Curiosity? Whatever it was, it vanished before Yasu could pin it down.
The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate. Yasu held the man's gaze, unflinching, even as his mind turned over possibilities like a chessboard midgame.
Finally, the man spoke. "And what did you learn?"
Yasu frowned, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. "Not enough."
The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the man's lips, hidden beneath his collar. He stepped closer, his movement so smooth it seemed to dissolve into the air. Yasu instinctively shifted his weight, ready to retreat—but he didn't move.
"You're not afraid," the shinobi murmured.
Yasu blinked, caught off guard. His heart was pounding, his muscles coiled tight, and his instincts screamed at him to flee. But fear? No, that wasn't it. What he felt was sharper, keener—a hum beneath his skin, like a blade drawn just shy of the cut.
Not awe. Not fear. But focus.
He met the man's gaze head-on, his grey eyes like tempered steel.
The man studied him, and Yasu could feel it—that same deliberate attention he'd sensed earlier. Then, just as slowly, the shinobi stepped back, his movements controlled and precise, as if every step was part of a strategy.
"You're strange," the man said, his voice as steady. "For a child."
Yasu didn't respond. Words felt unnecessary, out of place.
And then, without warning, the man was gone. One moment he was there; the next, the space he'd occupied felt unnaturally empty.
The shinobi gave no warning. No signal. One moment, he was there. The next, he was gone. Yasu's breath caught. His gaze darted around, searching for the shadow that had disappeared like smoke. The street was still empty, but now it felt empty in a way it hadn't before.
He was gone. No sound. No flicker of movement.
Yasu's hands curled into fists at his sides. His mind replayed everything he'd seen, everything he'd felt. Not just his movements, but his presence. His stillness.
No wasted motion. No wasted breath.
The noise of the market returned like a flood, merchants calling, carts rattling over stone, the low murmur of villagers bartering and haggling. It was too loud, too sudden, after that still, heavy quiet. Yasu flinched, blinking as he looked around.
The world had moved on without him. Children ran down the street. Old men argued over the price of fish. Life returned, as if nothing had changed. But Yasu knew something had.
Yasu clenched his fists tighter, eyes still scanning the crowd as if he might spot that shadow again. But the shinobi had vanished as easily as breath on glass.
He knew then, as sure as he knew his own name—that man had measured him.
.
.
.
The morning was cold, the kind of chill that seeped into your skin and settled in your bones. Yasu crouched beside a stream, his breath puffing faint clouds into the crisp air. The water moved sluggishly, clear enough to reflect the pale blue sky and the bare, twisting branches overhead. He dipped his fingers in it, flinching at the icy bite before pulling his hand back and shaking off the droplets.
A scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, its frayed ends fluttering in the light breeze. It wasn't much against the cold, but it was enough to keep him comfortable. His hair, unruly as always, fell into his eyes, and he brushed it back with an absent hand as he stared into the water.
Yesterday's encounter played in his mind.
It wasn't fear that lingered from the memory—it was something sharper, hungrier.
Yasu clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he watched the stream flow over smooth stones.
He wanted to grow. To understand. To be.
Power wasn't the goal in itself—at least, not just power. It was what came with it: control, freedom, the ability to carve his path. He thought of the way the man moved, his presence so sharp and precise it felt like the world bent around him. Yasu wanted that. Not the man's strength, but the understanding behind it—the knowledge that made such skill possible.
He pressed his palms together, rubbing them for warmth as his breath fogged the air. His walks were always the same: quiet, reflective, a way to prepare himself for the day ahead. Today was no different, at least outwardly. But inside, something had shifted.
He didn't just want to grow stronger. He wanted to be ready. For anything. For anyone.
And if he was honest with himself, he craved the thrill of it—the sharp, exhilarating pulse of standing on the edge of danger, of being in the thick of it. The battlefield, chaotic and unforgiving, was where every move mattered, where the smallest misstep could decide everything. It was terrifying, yes, but it was alive. It demanded focus, clarity, and precision, and Yasu found himself drawn to that challenge.
Control wasn't just about surviving; it was about thriving in that chaos. About commanding it.
The cold breeze picked up, rustling the sparse grass and tugging at his scarf. Yasu pulled it tighter around his neck, his expression calm, but his mind was anything but.
Then, it came again—that subtle hum beneath his skin. Faint, yet distinct.
Yasu stilled, his breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he turned, his grey eyes scanning the tree line behind him. The forest was quiet, the skeletal branches of winter trees shifting gently in the breeze. There was nothing there.
But he was sure.
The feeling slipped away as quickly as it had come, leaving him hollowed out, uneasy. He clenched his fists, his knuckles pale against the cold, and rose to his feet. The scarf around his neck felt heavier, tighter, as if the air itself had changed.
Even without that feeling, he knew when he was being watched—or at least, he liked to think so. The sensation had been so vivid, so certain, but now it was gone. His gaze lingered on the tree line, only for a moment more.
Was it his imagination? No. It couldn't be. He'd felt it too clearly, like the weight of eyes boring into him. But there was nothing.
Yasu exhaled through his nose, forcing his shoulders to relax. He turned back toward the stream, though his thoughts remained unsettled. The encounter from yesterday, this feeling now—it was like the universe was reminding him of how much he still didn't know.
He didn't like that, either.
...
Yasu's boots crunched softly against the frosted earth as he walked, his scarf trailing lightly in the breeze. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden thud.
He stopped, his eyes narrowing as he glanced toward the sound. Not far off, a boy—seven or eight, from what Yasu could guess—stood with a shuriken in his hand. His unruly brown hair stuck out in uneven tufts, as though hastily combed through with his fingers, and his cheeks were flushed red from the cold. One of the small, star-shaped weapons was embedded in a tree trunk several paces away, another lay on the ground at the base of the tree he was aiming at, and three more rested in his grip.
Yasu stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, his grey eyes quietly observing. The boy hadn't noticed him yet.
The boy exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air, and stepped back. Yasu's gaze sharpened as he noted the way the boy moved—calculated but still rough, like he was mimicking something he'd seen but hadn't yet mastered.
The boy raised his arm and threw. The first shuriken flew, striking the tree with a dull thunk. He threw the second, and it veered slightly, grazing the bark before falling to the ground. The third followed, spinning unevenly before landing several feet short of its target.
Yasu watched the boy's hand clench into a fist, his frustration plain. He kicked a loose stone on the ground, sending it skittering toward the stream before muttering something under his breath. The boy sighed heavily and walked toward the tree to retrieve his weapons.
It wasn't until he crouched to pick up the fallen shuriken that his eyes flicked up—and froze.
Yasu stood a few paces away, his hands still tucked casually into his pockets, his head tilted slightly as he met the boy's startled gaze. His expression was neutral, unreadable, though his grey eyes seemed to hold an edge of quiet curiosity.
"You're throwing faster than you can control." Yasu said at last, his voice even.
The boy blinked, caught off guard by the comment. His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced at the shuriken in his hand and back at Yasu.
"You think so?" the boy muttered, sceptical.
Yasu shrugged, stepping closer with an air of casual confidence. "Throwing too fast messes with your aim," he said, his gaze flicking to the tree and then to the shuriken embedded in its bark. "If you can't control your speed, you'll keep missing."
The boy's expression tightened, clearly debating whether to be annoyed or take the advice. He shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing at Yasu. "What would you know about it?"
Yasu tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Not much," he admitted, his tone light but edged with curiosity. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to try."
The boy hesitated, clearly unsure whether to laugh or take him seriously. He looked Yasu up and down, sizing him up. "You?" he said, the scepticism thick in his voice. "You're what, four? Maybe? You don't look much older than that."
Yasu then responded, "And you're, what, seven or eight?" he shot back, folding his arms. "What difference is there, really?"
The boy blinked, thrown by the sarcasm. He opened his mouth to retort but shut it again, visibly reconsidering. After a moment, he gave a reluctant shrug and held out one of the shuriken.
"Fine," he said, though the doubt lingered in his tone. "Let's see what you've got, kid."
Yasu reached out and took the shuriken, its cold surface biting against his fingers. It was lighter than he expected, the metal smooth but unpolished, with faint scratches that hinted at repeated use. The design was simple, with a hole in the middle that gave it a balance he hadn't anticipated. He turned it over in his hand, his thumb brushing over the sharp prongs.
It was nothing like the combat knives he'd trained with in his past life. Those had been straightforward—one sharp edge, one purpose. He knew their weight, their balance, and the exact flick of his wrist needed to make them land precisely where he wanted. This, though? Four pointed ends, evenly spaced, like a miniature star forged from steel. It felt alien and yet faintly familiar.
He flexed his fingers around it, adjusting his grip. The balance was strange—not as back-heavy as a knife, but with a certain symmetry that made it feel almost weightless in his palm. He frowned slightly, the edge of his thumb pressing into one prong as he let the shuriken settle into his hand.
Taking a step back, he raised his arm. His movements were slow and deliberate, his mind analysing every detail—the tension in his wrist, the tilt of the weapon, the distance to the target. He exhaled, letting the air cloud faintly in the cold, and then moved.
The motion was fluid but not perfect. He flicked his wrist, sending the shuriken spinning into the air, the faint whistle of metal cutting through the stillness. It struck the tree, embedding itself with a muted thunk—off-centre, but not far from the other marks.
Yasu stared at it, his hand still midair. His muscles felt the echo of the throw, different from what he knew. Throwing a knife was about guiding the blade, letting its weight do the work. This required a different control entirely—balancing the spin and the force evenly, letting the star-shaped edges find their mark.
"It's… odd," he said quietly, more to himself than to the boy. He flexed his fingers, feeling the faint pull in his wrist where the motion had been slightly off.
The boy tilted his head, watching Yasu with slight curiosity. "You've done this before," he said, but it wasn't a question.
Yasu shook his head, his gaze fixed on the shuriken lodged in the tree. "Not with these," he admitted, his voice calm. "But something close."
The boy frowned, still sceptical, but didn't interrupt. Yasu stepped closer, his boots crunching softly against the frozen ground. He plucked the shuriken from the bark, feeling its weight again as he turned it over in his hand.
Four prongs. Balanced. Symmetrical. So unlike the knives he'd once trusted. But not so far removed, either.
He stepped back into place, adjusted his grip, and threw again. This time, the shuriken spun straighter, embedding itself closer to the centre. The sound was sharper, cleaner, and Yasu let a small, satisfied hum escape him.
The boy crossed his arms, his lips pressing into a thin line. "You're weird," he muttered, though there was a faint flicker of respect in his voice.
"I'm Taro," he said added. He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing as if trying to read Yasu's intent. "What about you?"
"Yasu," came the calm reply. He tugged his scarf a little tighter, the cold biting at his neck.
Taro gave a slight nod, glancing once more at the shuriken in the tree before folding his arms. He was clearly debating something, but Yasu didn't give him the chance to linger in silence.
"You're in the academy, right?" Yasu asked, his tone curious but casual.
Taro blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Yeah. Second year."
Yasu tilted his head, a thoughtful hum escaping his lips. His gaze shifted briefly to the boy's hands, where he still held a couple of shuriken, then back to Taro's face. "Do you have the books they give you?"
"The books?" Taro repeated, his brow furrowing. "Why?"
Yasu's lips quirked in a faint smile, though his grey eyes remained sharp, calculating. "I'm curious," he admitted, his tone unflinchingly honest. "You learn about jutsu, strategy, history… all the things they expect shinobi to know, right? I want to see how it's taught. What they expect you to understand."
Taro's expression shifted, his scepticism melting slightly into something closer to understanding. He didn't respond immediately, though, his gaze flickering over Yasu as if weighing his sincerity.
"I'm not in the academy yet," Yasu added, watching Taro carefully. "But I will be. And I don't want to waste time catching up."
Taro studied him for another long moment before shrugging, his posture relaxing slightly. "I've got the books at home," he said, though his voice carried a note of hesitation. "They're not that interesting, though. Just rules and basics, mostly."
"Basics are important," Yasu countered simply, his gaze steady. "You can't build anything strong without a foundation."
Taro blinked, clearly not expecting such an answer. He shifted on his feet, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. "You talk like an old man," he muttered, though there was no bite in his words.
Yasu shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Maybe. But can I see them?"
Taro hesitated for a heartbeat longer before nodding. "Alright. I guess it wouldn't hurt."
Yasu nodded in return, his mind already turning over the possibilities. If the academy books could give him even a glimpse of what he was missing—what he needed to learn—then they were worth examining. Every detail mattered, and he intended to make use of all of it.
.
.
.
They met every morning. It had become routine—a brief calm before Taro headed to the academy, while Yasu occupied himself in his own quiet way.
This morning was no different. The two of them were perched on a grassy hillside, the land sloping gently toward the distant outlines of Iwagakure. The cool morning air carried the earthy scent of dew, and the faint rustle of leaves filled the spaces between their silence.
Taro was a blur of movement as he practiced his strikes against the trunk of a weathered tree, his breath sharp and rhythmic. Yasu, on the other hand, was seated on a flat rock nearby, a book open in his lap. His sharp blue eyes darted over the pages, absorbing the words with quiet intensity.
The book, Foundations of Nations, bore the marks of age—its corners frayed, its spine cracked. It was the kind of book that invited reflection, and Yasu's brow furrowed slightly as he read about the formation of the Five Great Nations.
Taro's voice interrupted the quiet, his tone curious. "What's that one about?"
Yasu didn't look up immediately. He turned a page with deliberate care, his expression thoughtful. "The founding of the hidden villages," he said finally, his voice calm but distant. "How each nation came to be what it is."
Taro paused mid-strike, leaning on the tree for a moment as he caught his breath. "Iwagakure's in there, right? What's it say about us?"
Yasu glanced at him, then closed the book, resting it lightly on his knees. "It says the First Tsuchikage believed in unity. Strength through unity, to be exact. That we're like the stone—unyielding, unbroken, eternal."
Taro grinned, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "That sounds about right. Sensei's always saying we're the strongest because of the land we come from. Mountains and stone—it's part of us."
Yasu's lips curved faintly, though it wasn't quite a smile. "Is that what you think? That strength is in the land?"
"Isn't it?" Taro tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "The First built this village to last forever. That's why he made us strong—to protect it. To protect each other."
Yasu's gaze drifted to the horizon, his expression unreadable. "Strength through unity," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's a powerful idea. But…" He trailed off, the word hanging in the air like an unspoken question.
"But what?" Taro pressed, sitting down in the grass across from him.
Yasu was quiet for a long moment, his fingers brushing the edge of the book absentmindedly. "But even stone erodes," he said finally. "Time, pressure… it all breaks eventually. The First told us a story to unite us. A strong story. But does that make it eternal?"
Taro frowned, clearly unsettled. "You're saying he was wrong?"
"No." Yasu shook his head, his tone even. "I'm saying that strength—real strength—might not be in the stone or the land. It might be in the stories we choose to believe. But even those have limits."
Taro scratched his head, visibly trying to wrap his mind around the thought. "So… if people stop believing, then what? Everything falls apart?"
"Maybe," Yasu replied, his voice soft. "Or maybe something new takes its place. Something stronger—or weaker. It depends on the people, I suppose."
The breeze stirred between them, carrying with it the faint sounds of the waking village. Taro leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky. "You think too much," he said finally, though there was no malice in his tone.
Yasu chuckled quietly, closing the book and tucking it under his arm. "I get that a lot."
Taro grinned faintly, shaking his head. "And you're weird, you know."
"I've been called worse," Yasu replied, standing and brushing the dirt from his clothes. His sharp eyes flicked toward Taro, and for a moment, his expression softened—almost imperceptibly.
Taro looked up at him, still curious. "Do you ever believe what you're saying?"
Yasu's gaze shifted back to the horizon, his voice low. "Sometimes. But sometimes, saying it out loud is the only way to figure out if it's worth believing."
With that, he turned and started down the hill, his figure cutting a quiet path through the early morning light. Taro stayed behind, watching him go, a faint crease of thought on his brow.
"Strength in stories…" he muttered, more to himself than to anyone. Then he sighed, brushing the grass from his hands as he stood. "Yup. Definitely weird."