Jerry woke before dawn.
Not because of habit.
Because his body asked him to.
The sensation was subtle—an awareness rather than a demand. No alarm. No external prompt. Just the quiet understanding that remaining in bed would now be… inefficient.
He opened his eyes.
The room was dark, the mansion still asleep. Outside, the world had not yet decided to begin its noise.
Jerry lay still for a moment, breathing evenly, letting the last traces of sleep dissolve. His thoughts were clear. Not sharp—clear. Like a surface wiped clean after years of clutter.
He sat up.
Today was not about answers.
It was about foundations.
The training room had been his father's idea.
Not a gym in the conventional sense, but a space designed for adaptability. Reinforced floors. Adjustable gravity panels hidden beneath the surface. Walls capable of absorbing impact without rebounding force. Environmental controls that could simulate heat, cold, altitude, and resistance.
At the time, Jerry had assumed it was meant for security training.
Now, he understood something deeper.
This room was meant for growth without spectacle.
He stood barefoot at the center, dressed simply. No weights. No equipment. No technology.
Just his body.
Just his will.
Jerry closed his eyes.
Start where everyone starts.
That had been the unspoken rule of the academy. He opened the scrolls from the Library door in his mind and used the ones which would be used by Academy instructors to help the first year joinees.
No jutsu.
No shortcuts.
No bloodline reliance.
Only control.
He began with stance.
Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. Spine aligned. Weight evenly distributed.
He held the position.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Muscles protested—not violently, but insistently. The temptation to adjust, to compensate, whispered quietly at the edges of his awareness.
He ignored it.
This wasn't about comfort.
It was about obedience.
When his body trembled, he breathed.
When sweat formed, he let it.
When discomfort sharpened, he acknowledged it without responding.
At thirty minutes, he shifted.
Not because he had to—but because the lesson had been learned.
Control precedes strength.
Next came movement.
Slow, deliberate steps across the room. Forward. Backward. Sideways. Diagonal.
Each step measured.
Each transition smooth.
He focused on balance—on how his weight transferred, how his muscles engaged in sequence rather than chaos.
The academy had drilled this endlessly.
Students complained.
They wanted techniques. Flash. Results.
But the instructors had known better.
Jerry knew better.
He repeated the movements for over an hour, adjusting subtly each time. Eliminating wasted motion. Refining efficiency.
By the end, his breathing had deepened. His heartbeat steadied.
Only then did he sit.
Cross-legged.
Hands resting on his knees.
And felt inward.
Chakra.
It was there.
Not roaring. Not surging.
Present.
Dormant.
Like a lake untouched by wind.
Jerry didn't try to draw it out.
Didn't shape it.
Didn't command it.
He simply observed.
In the academy, chakra control had begun not with manipulation—but with awareness.
Students learned to feel it before they ever touched it.
Jerry followed the same rule.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
Time lost meaning.
He became aware of subtle currents—how chakra flowed naturally through pathways that mirrored his nervous system. How emotion affected its rhythm. How stillness stabilized it.
His bloodlines stirred faintly, like distant echoes.
He ignored them.
Later.
Today was not for inheritance.
It was for discipline.
By mid-morning, his body was warm, his focus sharpened.
He moved to physical conditioning.
Push-ups.
Slow. Controlled. Perfect form.
Each repetition executed with intention rather than count.
Squats.
Planks.
Lunges.
Core stabilization drills the academy had favored—not for strength alone, but for endurance and balance.
He did not rush.
He did not exhaust himself.
He stopped before strain became damage.
That alone marked the difference between who he had been—and who he was becoming.
Alfred observed from the doorway.
He did not interrupt.
Did not comment.
Did not offer water until Jerry paused on his own.
"Your form is improving," Alfred said calmly.
Jerry took the glass, drinking slowly. "I haven't done this before."
"You have," Alfred replied. "Just not like this."
Jerry nodded.
That was true.
Before, everything had been a race.
Now, it was a process.
After a short rest, Jerry moved to fine control exercises.
The academy had used simple objects.
Leaves.
Paper.
Water.
Jerry used coins.
He placed one on the floor before him.
Focused.
And directed the smallest possible thread of chakra—not to lift it, not to move it, but to touch it.
The coin vibrated faintly.
Jerry stopped.
Again.
The same exercise.
Again.
And again.
Hundreds of attempts.
Failures far outnumbered successes.
That was acceptable.
Progress measured itself in patience.
By late afternoon, the coin lifted—barely a millimeter—before dropping.
Jerry smiled.
Not in triumph.
In approval.
The sun dipped low.
Jerry ended the session.
Not because he was tired.
Because the lesson was complete.
He showered, ate lightly, and returned to the training room as dusk settled.
This time, he did not move.
He stood.
Centered.
And let the day settle into memory.
The academy training had not been glamorous.
But it had been essential.
Without it, nothing else mattered.
Night fell.
Jerry returned to his room, but sleep did not come immediately.
Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed.
Closed his eyes.
And stepped inward.
The mindscape greeted him with quiet certainty.
Stone beneath his feet.
Endless dark beyond.
The Sannin doors and the mystery door stood as before.
Closed.
Unmoving.
He did not approach them.
Instead, he felt the spheres.
They hovered at the edge of perception, leaking faintly, steadily.
Not demanding.
Not overwhelming.
Each one a promise deferred.
Each leaking their powers and traits to him and mixing with his blood.
Jerry acknowledged them.
Then turned away.
Foundations first.
He opened his eyes.
Later that night, lying in bed, Jerry reviewed the day.
No power spikes.
No breakthroughs.
No revelations.
And yet—
It felt right.
For the first time since awakening, he had not been reacting.
He had been building.
Tomorrow, he would repeat it.
And the day after.
And the one after that.
Because strength that lasted was not seized.
It was constructed.
Layer by layer.
Breath by breath.
In silence.