Chapter 85: Beginning of the Second Year at the Ninja Academy
Time flows like sand slipping through fingers. Unbeknownst to them, a month has passed since the new school year began at the Sunagakure Ninja Academy.
Second year, early semester. The desert sun never gives a break; it heats the ground and sky with a determination as fierce as the teachers training them.
The sky is almost always a flawless blue, clouds nearly invisible, and the desert wind carries fine dust that dances wildly between the stone buildings and sand-covered streets.
The village of Sunagakure does not offer much in terms of natural comfort. There are no shady trees or soft grass to lie on, like in Konoha, which he has only seen through memories from his previous world.
Here, harshness is the fundamental law. Even the academy building itself—made of dark brown stone with walls that reflect heat—stands like a fortress that stifles laziness and weakness.
The first month is filled with stamina and speed training. Every morning, before the sun fully rises, the students gather in the open field, standing in two long lines.
Desert dust gathers around their feet, and when the instructor blows the whistle, they begin to run. There is no shadow of trees to save them from the heat.
Their breaths are heavy, their bodies shivering from the extreme fluctuating temperatures—cold in the morning, burning hot afterward.
Souta, with steady breath and focused eyes, keeps running. Not fast, but steady. Souta knows this training is not about speed, but endurance.
It takes time to build a body and stamina that can withstand long missions or enemy pursuits in the desert.
Step by step, Souta reminds himself: this is not his old world. This is the world of shinobi. And in the world of shinobi, strength is everything.
The next training is basic chakra control. One of the first methods: sticking a leaf to the forehead by flowing chakra steadily and consistently.
The students stand with serious expressions, one by one given a dry leaf—a rare leaf brought from somewhere in the village, as Sunagakure does not have many trees.
Souta knows that every leaf that falls due to failure to stick means one opportunity lost.
But for Souta, this is not a new exercise. He had learned this technique long before the teachers explained chakra theory.
Even in the first school year, when Souta first realized he was trapped in the body of a small child with the same name in this world, he had already begun trying to learn how to channel chakra.
Now, Souta can stick the leaf to his forehead without hesitation, without wavering. And when the teachers nod in approval, Souta simply bows his head flat. He does not need applause. What Souta needs is only a tangible increase in strength.
Of course, attention begins to gather. Some students start talking about Souta—the orphan who, for some reason, is far more skilled than they are.
Disparaging voices can be heard during lunch, during breaks, even while waiting for drinking water. There is a lingering sense of dislike among some of them. And finally, on a dusty afternoon, that envy turns into action.
Three senior students ambush Souta as he and Pakura are heading to their part-time job—a Puppet Arts Performance Theater, where Souta and Pakura sometimes help clean equipment or set up the stage.
A quiet little alley becomes the ambush site. One of them kicks a small stone towards Souta, as if inviting him.
Souta does not speak. His gaze is flat, yet his eyes are assessing—footsteps, hand positions, the opponent's breath. When the first punch is thrown, Souta easily dodges. Then he quickly counters the attack.
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Chapter 86: But Souta?
Souta responded without a hint of doubt. A punch to the stomach, a knee to the thigh, a kick to the chest.
The blows were hard enough to make one of them fall and roll, groaning while holding their stomach.
The other two followed shortly after. They didn't understand. They thought Souta was just an orphan without a background. But Souta—Souta was someone who had lived twice. They didn't know how small the world of children was compared to the world of death that Souta had already seen.
Since that incident, no one dared to bother Souta anymore. Now, Souta had become something of a small myth. People whispered quietly when Souta walked by, but none dared to look directly into Souta's eyes.
The first four months passed like that. Days felt like carving engravings on hard stone—slowly, with effort, but forming true strength.
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Entering the fifth month, a new lesson began: Walking on walls using chakra. The students looked nervous.
Many failed, slipping and tumbling down. But Souta? He stepped onto the wall like someone returning home.
Souta's feet adhered perfectly, his body balanced. He even stood on the wall for five seconds just to make sure everyone saw.
The teachers began to take him more seriously. There were discussions in the teacher's room that Souta didn't hear or know about, but he felt it from the increasingly watchful gazes directed at him.
Then came the basic Taijutsu lesson: techniques for defense and attack. This was when Souta truly shone. He welcomed the lesson like a starving person finding hot food.
Souta followed every movement of the instructor with keen interest—observing how the soles of the feet should land, how elbows could become weapons, how dodging wasn't about retreating, but about reading the opponent's intent.
When practicing with other students, Souta didn't mess around. Some kids complained that Souta was too serious, too harsh. But the instructor remained silent. In the world of ninjas, there was no such thing as 'too serious.'
The training for throwing kunai and shuriken came next. For Souta, it was like precision science. He memorized the angles of throws, the weight of the weapons, even the direction of the wind.
Souta knew that throwing weapons weren't just accessories—they could be a matter of life or death. In practice, Souta's kunai always hit the target. Not always in the center, but enough to kill. That was what mattered.
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The next four months were filled with increasingly brutal physical training: push-ups on hot sand, sit-ups while holding stones, running laps with a sack of sand on his back.
Here, many began to give up. Some fainted. Some asked to go home due to injuries. But Souta remained. His steps were steady, his body driven not just by strength, but by the desire to survive.
Basic Genjutsu lessons were finally introduced—the art of illusion, techniques for distorting perception, infiltrating the enemy's mind and diverting it from reality.
For Souta, this was the most abstract lesson… yet also the most inspiring. He sat cross-legged among the other students, his eyes fixed on his teacher, as if wanting to absorb every word.
Genjutsu wasn't about physical strength. It wasn't about hand speed either. It was about controlling the mind. And for Souta—whose mind had been shattered repeatedly by fear, loss, and loneliness since being stranded in this world—the war within his head was nothing new.
Souta knew how terrifying it was when reality began to blur, when shadows became real and voices from the past whispered in his ears.
He had once woken from a nightmare, clutching his own throat, gasping for breath, and drenched in sweat. Genjutsu was not just a theory. It was a reflection of something Souta had experienced, and that made this lesson feel closer… more personal.
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