Three years had passed since Tomura's life took a dramatic turn under the guidance of Old Man Yamamoto. The once-scrawny, aimless boy had grown into a disciplined and powerful young man. Day after day, Yamamoto honed his body and mind, teaching him not only the art of combat but also the importance of strategy, patience, and focus. The dojo became a second home, and the old man became more than just a mentor—he became a father figure.
But no amount of training could prepare Tomura for the bombshell Yamamoto dropped one evening.
"Tomura," Yamamoto said, his voice calm but firm as they sat together in the dojo's main hall. "Your training here has reached its end."
Tomura's chopsticks froze midway to his mouth. He blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly. "What? Why?"
"Because there is nothing more I can teach you," Yamamoto replied, his eyes gleaming with both pride and sorrow. "You are ready for the next stage of your journey. It is time for you to leave."
Tomura's heart sank. "Leave? But where would I go?"
Yamamoto's expression grew serious. "To Tokyo. There, you will join the Hand clan."
The words hung in the air like a storm cloud. Tomura knew of the Hand. They were assassins, feared and respected throughout the world. But they were also shrouded in mystery and infamy.
"Why would I join them?" Tomura asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"Because they will teach you what I cannot," Yamamoto said. "The Hand are masters of the shadows. They will push you to your limits and beyond. If you wish to truly master your potential, you must learn from them."
Tomura looked down, his mind racing. He didn't want to leave the dojo, the one place where he felt safe, where he belonged. But deep down, he knew Yamamoto was right. His training here was complete.
"When do I leave?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Tomorrow morning," Yamamoto said. "A private plane will take you to their base."
The rest of the evening passed in silence. Tomura lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling. Memories of his time with Yamamoto flooded his mind—the gruelling training sessions, the lessons in discipline, the moments of quiet camaraderie. He didn't want to say goodbye, but he knew he had no choice.
The next morning, Yamamoto walked him to the waiting car. The old man's steps were steady, his face unreadable. As they reached the car, he placed a hand on Tomura's shoulder.
"Remember what I've taught you," Yamamoto said. "No matter where you go, my lessons will guide you."
Tomura nodded, his throat tight. "Thank you… for everything."
With that, he climbed into the car. As it drove away, he looked back, watching Yamamoto grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared from view.
The flight to Tokyo was uneventful, but Tomura couldn't shake the unease gnawing at him. When the plane landed, he was met by a Hand ninja who escorted him to their base—a massive, fortress-like compound hidden in the outskirts of the city. Its high walls and guarded gates exuded an air of secrecy and danger.
Inside, he was greeted by a group of children around his age. They all looked tough, their eyes sharp and calculating. These were no ordinary kids. They were warriors in the making.
One boy stepped forward, a grin on his face. He had short silver hair and an easy confidence about him.
"Name's Kurogiri," he said, extending a hand. "You must be the new guy."
"Tomura," he replied, shaking Kurogiri's hand.
Kurogiri's grin widened. "So, you trained under Old Man Yamamoto, huh? That makes you hot stuff around here."
Tomura smirked. "Something like that. What about you?"
"League of Assassins," Kurogiri said. "Exchange student. Gift of 'friendship' or something like that. But don't worry, I'm no pushover."
The two boys quickly hit it off, swapping stories about their training and backgrounds. Tomura found Kurogiri's laid-back attitude refreshing, a stark contrast to the intensity of the Hand's environment.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a Hand ninja. "Line up," he barked.
The children quickly formed a line. The ninja's gaze swept over them before he spoke. "From this moment forward, you are part of the Hand. You will train together, fight together, and live together. Your survival depends on your ability to work as a unit."
He continued, "You will each be paired with a partner who will be your roommate and ally. Learn to trust them. Your life may one day depend on it."
The ninja led them into a sterile, brightly lit room. One by one, they were called forward to have their blood drawn. Tomura winced as the needle pierced his skin but remained silent.
Next, they were each given a black mask that covered their necks up to their noses. The ninja explained that the mask was a symbol of their new identity as shadows of the Hand.
Finally, they were branded with the Hand's emblem, a tattoo inked into their arms. The pain was sharp and searing, but Tomura bit back a scream, refusing to show weakness. When it was done, he stared at the tattoo, the black ink stark against his pale skin. It was a mark of his new life, a reminder of the path he had chosen.
Afterward, the ninja led them to their sleeping quarters—a series of small, Spartan rooms. Tomura and Kurogiri were paired together, much to their relief.
As they settled into their new room, Kurogiri glanced at Tomura. "Looks like we're stuck with each other, huh?"
Tomura smirked. "Could be worse."
The two boys shared a quiet laugh before turning in for the night. As Tomura lay in the darkness, the events of the day played through his mind. He missed the dojo, missed Yamamoto, but he knew there was no turning back. This was his new life, and he would face it with the same determination that had carried him through his training.
For better or worse, the shadows of the Hand clan would now be his home.