Flyers went up across the village—crisp paper tacked to market posts and training-yard gates with the thunk of kunai: Konoha Academy — Autumn Intake. Kids clustered to point and brag. Renga folded one into his sleeve and walked home with his head loud.
He was excited. He was also scared.
He still wasn't sure where in the timeline he'd landed, but from the way jonin spoke in low voices—and from words he wasn't meant to overhear: border incidents, mobilization, Ame stirring—the Third Great Ninja War felt close enough to taste. That meant he had to grow fast. Seals, drills, anything his parents could teach. A stray thought even drifted to Kushina: an Uzumaki body could carry a heavy burden. But another, sharper thought cut it down—that burden already had a name and a heartbeat, and wishing for it was not a plan.
He shut his door and stared at the flyer until the ink seemed to pulse with his breathing.
"Renga?" Akane's voice came from the hall. "You've been in here all day. Is something wrong?"
He sat up. Maybe honesty would buy him time—and training. "Mom… I'm concerned about the future."
Akane slid the shōji open and crossed to the bed. Surprise flickered—what five-year-old said concerned about the future?—then she softened and sat beside him.
"What part of the future?" she asked lightly. "Afraid you won't find someone as beautiful as your mother? I'll search the entire world for a perfect match if I must."
Renga snorted despite himself. "No. I heard you and Dad talking… about war." The word came out small.
Akane's smile thinned. Silence held for a heartbeat.
"It's only talk for now," she said gently. "Nothing is certain. And even if it came, your father and I would protect you with our lives."
"I know." He looked at the flyer. "But I don't want to be cargo you have to carry. I want to be… useful. Strong enough to not make it harder."
That landed. Akane leaned back, weighing him with a new measure. "All right," she said at last. "Then we make a plan. Power isn't a wish; it's work arranged in the right order—just like a seal."
Renga looked up. "What kind of plan?"
Akane tapped the Academy flyer on his desk. "We'll up your training."
She held the paper a beat, then set it down. "The Academy teaches the minimum it must. It won't help you thrive. Clan children get extra lessons—Uzumaki included. You'll be no different. Your father and I will give you the tools to flourish."
Renga met her eyes, jaw set. Exactly what I hoped for.
Akane smiled at that look. "Come. I want to show you something."
They stepped into the clearing behind the house. Akane stopped a few paces away, wind tugging at her hair.
"Your father and I built a technique," she said. "Original. We meant to wait. But you're serious—and time isn't slow—so you'll learn it now."
Renga's mind raced. Rasengan? Chidori? Space-time? A monstrous Uzumaki seal? His pulse hopped.
"Watch carefully," Akane said.
She flashed a short Earth-Release hand-seal sequence at an easy pace he could follow, then called, "Earth Release: Mud Bullet."
[ding]
A small bullet of packed mud spat from her lips, slapped a nearby trunk, and left a shallow dent—slow enough that any half-awake genin could sidestep.
Something in the corner of Renga's vision ticked brighter and faded before he could focus on it.
Akane glanced back. "Did you see how weak that was?"
Renga wasn't sure whether to flatter or be honest, so he only nodded.
She chuckled. "Don't worry. That wasn't the technique."
Her hands blurred again—same chain, but this time she ended on a strange seal: her index and middle fingers crossed in an X.
"Earth Release: Mud Bullet."
[ding]
The bullet leapt. It was twice the size, twice the speed, and it punched through the tree's heartwood to chip a boulder behind it, spiderwebbing the rock with cracks.
Renga's mouth fell open. "What—did you just pour more chakra into it?"
Akane shook her head, amused. "No. I used more on the first cast."
He blinked. "But you only added… that weird seal."
"Exactly." She held up the crossed fingers again. "This is our family's Cross-Weave Seal. It doesn't add element or nature. It binds a thin thread of your chakra to the next technique you perform and amplifies. No glow. No sound. If your rhythm breaks, it fizzles—and you still lose the thread. If your form is sloppy, it just makes sloppy bigger."
A tiny tremor skittered through Renga's wrist when he copied the X. He steadied his breath; the tremor vanished. The cost was small—but real.
"A silent amplifier," he said.
"A quiet helper," she corrected. "Rules matter." She ticked them off:
• "One technique per weave; after it fires, the thread dissolves."
• "Short window—a few breaths—between the seal and the technique."
• "No stacking on the same target during that window; a second Cross-Weave overwrites the first and is consumed."
• "It can't change the nature of a jutsu, only tune it."
• "Big chakra—beasts, sage work, A-rank blasts—mostly resist. You get control, not miracles."
She tapped her chest. "Self-cast by default." She tapped his wrist. "With a touch, you can bind it to an ally or tool. Later."
Renga exhaled, grinning despite himself. "What's it called?"
Akane glanced toward the house, as if hearing Renjiro's voice. "Resonant Thread Technique—we just call it Cross-Weave." She folded his small hands, guiding his fingers into the X. "Index over middle. Relax the wrist. Breathe in for four, out for four. No show. No flourish."
He held the seal. The air felt ordinary. That made it better.
Renga's mind wouldn't let go. If the technique could buff ninjutsu, why stop there? Could it lace genjutsu with more bite, make taijutsu sharper, steady chakra control, even accelerate seal-weaving?
"Dinner," Akane said, catching his sleeve and steering him inside before the thought spiral could finish.
Steam and sesame pulled him into the present for an hour. Later, the house went quiet—crickets outside, the soft click of cooling pipes. Renga lay on his back, gazing at the ceiling, mind drifting back to coils, seals, edges—
System booting…
Please wait…
A pale blue pane bloomed into his vision like moonlight on glass. A progress bar crawled forward.
[■□□□□□□□] 11%
[ding]
Renga's breath hitched. Awe first—then the gears in his head started turning.
"System?" he whispered. "Could this be…?"
He reached up; his finger slid through the light as if it were fog.
[■■■□□□□□□] 33%
A tiny MAIL icon pulsed in the corner.
"Open," he said.
Nothing.
He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the icon—intent like a seal stroke set just right. "Open."
[ding] The envelope flipped with a neat little fwip, unfolding a message.
⸻
To Evan—no, to Renga.
If you can see this, the gift I left has awakened. Think of it as an heirloom, not a leash: your spiralLens, refit and tempered. I won't intrude. This is yours now—use it as you choose.
—The one you met in the white room
⸻
Renga exhaled slowly, pulse steadying. Not panic. Measure, test, learn.
The message folded away on thought alone. New faint glyphs surfaced: STATUS, MODULES, LOGS, HELP—features of a blade still in its scabbard.
He tried a sequence: focus first, voice second. "Status."
[ding]
A slim overlay appeared:
• Chakra Map: Calibrating… [■□□□□□□□] 9%
• Background capture: Recent techniques detected — Earth Release (Mud Bullet) ×2. Passive logs enabled until calibration completes.
So it listens to thought and voice—intent leads, voice confirms. Good.
A smaller tooltip flickered at the top edge:
Tip: Voice compels; intent refines. Pair both for precision.
Renga's mouth tilted. He wasn't as far behind as he'd feared.
He rolled the shoulders of his mind against the system, feeling for give like a shinobi testing guard on a new tantō. The MAIL icon pinged again—one last line sliding into place:
No surveillance. No backdoor. Grow well. [ding]
Awe settled into a clean, keen focus.
"All right, spiralLens," he said, gaze locking the STATUS icon while his intent pressed like a seal stroke. "Let's see what you can do." [ding]