Naruto : The Return of Senju

The first rays of sunlight barely touched the ground as I stood alongside my grandfather in a small, quiet training ground within the Senju compound. It was nothing grand—just dirt, grass, a couple of logs meant for throwing practice, and a few scattered trees. But it served its purpose.

This was where I would begin my transformation.

Grandfather stood beside me, his posture straight and unwavering. The early morning chill brushed against my skin, but I barely registered it. My mind was focused on the path ahead.

"I know you're motivated to become a shinobi," Grandfather said, his tone even and firm. "But you must understand, Arashi, that most children start training at the academy when they're five. You've missed that starting point."

I absorbed his words without reaction, already aware of this fact. Being a year behind might have been concerning to a child, but I wasn't one to be rattled by arbitrary benchmarks. I knew where I stood. I knew what had to be done.

Rather than respond immediately, I took a measured breath before replying, "Then I will make up for lost time."

Grandfather studied me for a moment, as if weighing something in his mind. Then, he gave a small nod. "Now that you've made your decision, we'll begin with the basics. I will be strict with you. A shinobi must first train both body and mind. Without that foundation, nothing else matters."

"I understand."

"Good." He gestured toward the field. "We'll start with physical training. Ten laps around the ground. No shortcuts. This isn't just about endurance—it's about discipline. Now, go."

I moved without hesitation. The morning air filled my lungs as my feet struck the dirt, each step calculated and measured. I controlled my breathing, ensuring my pace remained steady.

At first, the laps felt manageable. Then, the burn set in. My muscles protested, my lungs worked harder, and my legs grew heavier. I noted each discomfort, acknowledged them, and pushed forward. Pain was simply a signal, not a command.

Stopping was not an option. That was not how progress was made.

By the time I finished the last lap, sweat clung to my skin, and my chest rose and fell in deep, controlled breaths. I stood still, regaining my composure as I met my grandfather's gaze.

His expression remained unreadable, but he gave a small nod. "Good. But this is just the beginning. Now, we move to physical exercises. Push-ups, sit-ups, squats. Repetition is key. Strength alone is not enough—you must learn control. Your body must become an extension of your will. Do you understand?"

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and responded evenly, "Yes, Grandfather."

Without another word, I dropped to the ground and began my push-ups.

The exercises were grueling, but that was expected. My arms trembled, my legs burned, and my muscles screamed in protest. But I continued. I understood the value of repetition—of deliberate effort. This wasn't about proving myself. It was about progress.

After an untold number of sets, my body finally reached its limit. I lay back on the dirt, inhaling deeply as my heartbeat gradually steadied. Above me, Grandfather watched, his face impassive as ever.

"You've done well," he said at last. "But now, we move on to the next part of training."

I sat up, slow and deliberate, taking only the time necessary to ensure control over my movements. "What's next?"

"Before breakfast, you will meditate." Grandfather lowered himself onto the ground, crossing his legs. "Your mind is as important as your body, Arashi. A shinobi's mind must be clear, focused, and calm. In this world, distractions can cost you everything. To hone your chakra, to sharpen your senses, your mind must be in harmony with your body."

I adjusted my posture and mirrored him. This, at least, was familiar.

Closing my eyes, I focused on my breathing.

The first few moments were spent cataloging distractions. The dull ache in my muscles. The faint rustling of leaves. The distant sounds of the village beginning to stir. All irrelevant.

But my mind did not quiet immediately. It was not mere noise that I had to filter out—it was thought.

I observed my own mind as an outsider might. Fleeting images surfaced—courtrooms filled with tense anticipation, stacks of legal documents piled high on my desk, the weight of every case, every verdict, every choice I had once made. The long nights of preparation, the quiet victories, the bitter losses.

And then, the end.

The moment of death. The final, fleeting realization that my time had run out, only to awaken in this world—a place where laws held less power than the strength of one's fists.

None of it was unexpected, but all of it had to be set aside.

Emotions were acknowledged, then dismissed. Concerns were identified, then categorized. Thought by thought, layer by layer, I stripped away the unnecessary, until only breath remained.

In. Out. In. Out.

Time passed. When I finally opened my eyes, Grandfather was watching.

"Good," he said. "This is only the beginning, but it's a start. Meditation will help you center yourself, control your chakra, and manage your emotions. It is just as important as any jutsu you'll learn."

I gave a slight nod. The soreness in my body was still present, but it was an afterthought. My mind had sharpened. It was as if I had drawn a blade across rough stone, refining its edge.

"Now," Grandfather said, standing, "it's time for breakfast."

I rose smoothly, rolling my shoulders to loosen them as we began walking back to the house. This was only the beginning.

But I already knew that.

And I had every intention of seeing it through.