CHAPTER 3: SEEDS OF RECOVERY

Morning arrived with a chill in the air, and the orphanage's hollow corridors seemed to amplify every sound. I woke to the faint shuffle of feet and the hushed murmurs of children who were used to rising early. The battered roof creaked overhead. For one disoriented moment, I didn't know if I was hearing the groan of wooden beams or imagined echoes from the shadowy place I had come from. Either way, I quickly pushed myself upright.

My head still throbbed, though less than the day before. A dull ache beneath the bandage on my temple was a persistent reminder that I'd nearly been crushed during the Nine-Tails' rampage. I wondered absently how powers like mine—this Kinetic Control—could have changed that outcome if I'd known how to use it in time.

As I shifted my legs over the side of the bunk, the floorboards squeaked beneath me. Damaged or not, the orphanage was more comfortable than the medical tent. Warm, stale air tinged with the scent of disinfectant filled the room. Two other children, one boy and one girl, shared this space with me, though they barely glanced in my direction. One was sitting cross-legged, bandaging her own ankle with an admirable display of focus. The other, presumably older, was rummaging through a worn dresser in search of a spare shirt.

I forced myself to stand, ignoring the knots in my muscles. The window shutters rattled slightly in the morning breeze. Part of me wanted to test my power, even in this cramped room—just to see if I could detect the vibrations of footsteps out in the hall, or pick up the swirl of air near the window. But it was risky to experiment with watchers so close. Given the secrecy I needed, I couldn't risk a misstep that might blow open my hidden ability.

The matron's voice suddenly wafted in from downstairs, muffled yet carrying a note of urgency. "If you can walk, line up in the courtyard. There's water for washing hands and faces. We have to check on you all before breakfast!"

That was my cue to avoid appearing suspiciously withdrawn. I followed the other two out into the corridor. It was lined with more bunk rooms, some doors ajar, others closed. The building itself creaked in places, and the smell of singed wood grew stronger as we moved toward a scorched patch on the stairs—a visible scar from the Nine-Tails' destructive onslaught. At least these injuries to the building were fixable. The same couldn't be said for those who never made it out of the rubble.

Outside, the courtyard was in a half-ruined state—part of the surrounding fence had collapsed, and a corner of the playground had been scorched black. Still, the sky overhead was a clearer blue than the day before. Grey wisps of smoke trailed from distant rooftops, proof that small fires persisted in some corners of the village. But in the orphanage yard, a row of battered wooden buckets brimming with water awaited. The matron—her hair pinned back in a strict knot—moved down the line of orphans, checking for fevers or coughing fits.

I waited my turn, letting my gaze roam. Everywhere I looked, children had bruises or fresh bandages, but some tried to chat lightheartedly anyway—talking about ninjas they'd seen or theories about who sealed the monster fox. Their voices occasionally wavered, as though they wanted to cling to a semblance of normalcy, but tragedy weighed on them. I recognized a few faces from the boy's memories: acquaintances from the Academy. They offered timid waves, and I responded with a brief smile to maintain appearances.

When the matron finally reached me, her hands were gentle but firm as she touched my forehead. "Your temperature seems stable," she said, relief flickering across her weary face. "Rest if you need to, but you look better than yesterday."

I gave a small nod, mumbling thanks. The boy's memories told me that she'd been a constant caretaker in his life, always fussing over each orphan like they were her own. The mild warmth in her eyes unsettled me in a way I didn't fully understand. Perhaps a ghost of the boy's affection lingered. Either way, I bowed my head and moved on.

"Breakfast is in the main hall," the matron called out to everyone. "We don't have much, but we'll do what we can. Stay together. The ninjas might come by later to help us fix the outer fence."

That set off a small ripple of excitement from some orphans. "Maybe we can watch them do jutsu!" one little girl breathed, her eyes shining. Another nodded, regret creeping into his tone. "I wish I'd gotten my genin band before all this." They were absorbed in talk of ninjas—who was strongest, how the hidden village would rebuild, whether the Hokage was truly gone. I feigned a vague, grim interest, my mind turning over the possibilities for me.

I passed through the double doors of the orphanage's main hall. Rows of low tables were set up, many patched with scraps of wood. Volunteers had laid out simple porridge and bits of pickled vegetables. My stomach growled, reminding me that despite my cunning or cynicism, I still had normal human needs. So I took a seat among the other kids, ignoring some of their curious glances. They probably expected me to be more talkative or friendly. The boy whose body I'd taken over had never been shy—he had joked and chatted about jutsu practice whenever he could.

Right now, though, I had too many concerns swirling in my head. I forced down a spoonful of bland porridge, half-listening to the chatter around me. Bits of conversation drifted past:

"…They said the Academy's front yard is destroyed."

"…Hiruzen-sama might become Hokage again."

"…One caretaker told me the Fourth used some sealing jutsu on the Nine-Tails. Is that even possible…?"

These half-heard comments formed a blurry tapestry of the village's upheaval. If Hiruzen Sarutobi—the Third Hokage—was stepping up in place of the Fourth, that would restore some measure of continuity and calm. But from what the boy's memories hinted, the Third was older now. Leading a battered village in crisis wouldn't be simple. Perhaps certain factions or clans would vie for influence in the aftermath. There might be power struggles and internal shifts. All of that could distract people from noticing someone like me.

As I finished my meal, I noticed a caretaker speaking quietly with an academy teacher near the door. Their conversation was low-voiced, but I leaned forward, trying to hear snatches of it. Words like "roster" and "placement" came through. Then, more distinctly: "Within a week or two, we'll gather them. The mission desk is too swamped, but they still want to confirm which students are ready."

A new wave of interest moved through me. Were they planning to re-test students and figure out who could officially become genin? That had been the boy's goal—he was just on the cusp of graduation. It might be a chance for me to legitimately obtain rank in this village. A ninja rank would offer resources, potential missions, more freedom to roam the village… and better opportunities to secretly develop my Kinetic Control. Of course, I'd have to act carefully to avoid revealing my real nature.

I returned my empty bowl and drifted back into the courtyard. A few orphans were playing a subdued game of tag near the broken fence. Their laughter, though soft, echoed with surprising clarity in my ears. Once again, that sense of motion in the environment teased the edges of my awareness. The gentle stamp of half a dozen feet chasing each other on battered ground—each footfall a vibration. I resisted the urge to "pull" that energy toward me, but I began paying more attention to how these vibrations overlapped. Some were heavier steps, others lighter. If I let my mind go still, I could map them out like ripples in a pond.

"Hey—are you joining us?"

The call came from a lanky boy around my age wearing a bandage on his cheek. He held a battered wooden kunai, likely from the Academy's practice set. In the boy's memories, I recognized him as Ito, a classmate who used to team up during taijutsu drills. The real me had no interest in such casual games, but I caught myself giving a friendly nod. I had to keep up the image at least.

"Maybe later," I said, offering a faint smile. "I'm still a bit dizzy."

"Sure thing," Ito replied, then jogged off to rejoin the chase, the wooden kunai waving in the air.

I watched them for a moment, stepping into a patch of sunshine that warmed the battered stone under my sandals. This courtyard wasn't large, but I spied a small corner behind a leaning shed where no one seemed to be looking. If I were bold, I could attempt some basic test of my ability there—provided no caretaker turned up. The morning was still young, and the staff was busy distributing food or cleaning up the orphanage interior.

Sensing a small window of opportunity, I moved casually around the edge of the yard. A few kids spared me passing glances, but none followed. Keeping my expression calm, I slipped behind the shed. It had partially collapsed at one corner; old gardening tools and rakes spilled out. Weeds poked through cracks in the foundation. A rickety wooden overhang cast a dim shadow, just enough to hide me from the main courtyard.

My heart thudded faster, a mix of excitement and caution. Kneeling in a dry patch of dirt, I placed one palm against the ground as I had before. Only now, I focused on the faint tremors of chasing footsteps a few yards away. My breath slowed, and I reached inward for that intangible sense of "pull." The day before, I'd only brushed against it. This time, I deliberately tried to draw the slightest fraction of that momentum into myself.

For a second, I felt a ghostly humming in my fingertips. Goosebumps pricked on my arms. The deeper I leaned into that intangible connection, the more aware I became of each vibration pattern: six sets of feet, each pounding in quick intervals. They collided with the ground, elevating dust and sending minuscule shocks through the soil. Carefully, I tried to siphon a trickle of that motion toward me, like dipping a spoon into a flowing stream.

A twinge of energy crackled up my arm. My heart thumped harder in response, as if my body was protesting. For an instant, it felt good—like a spark surging through my arm, filling me with a slight rush. But the moment I tried to contain it, a stabbing pulse hammered behind my eyes. The microburst of momentum fizzled in a wave of discomfort. I gasped, ripping my hand away from the dirt.

Too much, too fast. Even though I only attempted a small draw, the process was more complicated than I'd guessed. It felt like trying to hold lightning in a paper cup. My head swam, and the bruise on my temple pulsed with fresh pain. Grimacing, I breathed hard and wiped a thin sheen of sweat off my brow.

All right, lesson learned. Without deeper training, even a tiny dose was risky, especially while I was still banged up. This was an advanced skill, evidently. I recalled the warnings that had come with Kinetic Control: an overload could explode from within, injuring me or worse. That single flicker of momentum was a warning sign. Maybe if I built up gradually, layer by layer, I could manage it more safely.

Eventually, I steadied my breathing. Footsteps continued out in the courtyard as the children played. No one had noticed me trembling behind the shed—thankfully. I could pass my short absence off as a moment of dizziness if I had to. Honestly, that wouldn't even be a lie. My ribs ached in renewed protest, so I pressed a hand to my side, trying to calm the twinge.

Clutching the shed's cracked wooden frame, I rose slowly. If I lingered too long, someone might come looking. Straightening my posture, I rolled my shoulders back and forced my face into a neutral expression. The last thing I needed was an over-concerned caretaker fussing again.

Collecting myself, I circled back around the shed toward the courtyard's open space. Ito and a few others ran past, fresh sweat gleaming on their brows. Some carried toy weapons or old practice kunai. Despite the gloom in the village, they'd managed to find a spark of childhood in this rubble. I wasn't quite sure whether to admire or pity them.

Scanning the yard, I noticed an academy instructor—at least, that was what the boy's memories told me. He stood by the fence, conferring with the matron. Judging by their tight postures and serious expressions, they were discussing more than a casual morning greeting. The moment felt tense. My best guess was they were coordinating the next steps for us "academy orphans" who had no families to claim us. I decided not to approach. Instead, I contented myself with observing from a safe distance.

Taking a seat on a half-toppled bench, I exhaled and tried to quell the dull ache in my head. While it was tempting to brood over my failed experiment, I reminded myself that simply surviving these next weeks was crucial. Step by step, I'd push the boundaries of my Kinetic Control carefully, outside the watchful eyes of the orphanage staff. In a place like Konoha, secrets were abundant. Could I conceal my gift from the rest of the village? Yes—if I moved methodically. And if I managed to pass the next academy tests, I'd gain a measure of freedom to train alone or on missions. That might be exactly what I needed.

A sharp clang sounded in the distance, maybe a hammer striking a bracket, and the children's game paused as they spun around to see who was making noise. My heart didn't skip a beat. Instead, I felt a thread of adrenaline, as if my senses were growing sharper in response. Maybe that was me getting used to the presence of motion all around. Even so, I was a long way from being able to harness it reliably. For now, I'd keep my ambitions hidden behind polite smiles.

The teacher by the fence wrapped up his talk with the matron and walked off with purposeful strides. She turned to address a group of orphans, telling them about some chores that needed doing—gathering broken planks, tidying the yard so it was safer to walk around. I figured it was only a matter of time before she roped me in as well, given that my condition had improved. Putting on a compliant mask was easy enough.

Sure enough, moments later, her gaze fell on me. "If you're feeling up to it," she began, stepping closer, "please help us gather splintered wood near the fence line. We're trying to clear any hazards before nightfall. Also, some of the railings might be salvageable."

"Of course," I said with a small nod. Truthfully, menial labor did not thrill me, but retaining the staff's goodwill was essential for staying off the radar. Outright refusing might raise questions about my "personality change."

I rose, ignoring the slight twinge in my side, and ambled over to the fence line. Several other orphans were already sifting through piles of debris. A handful of older kids tried to sort out beams that still looked sturdy, while the younger ones stacked loose planks in a corner. The charred remains of a once-sturdy fence post jutted from the ground like a broken tooth. Holding my breath against the smell of burnt wood, I bent down to pick up scattered shards.

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As I worked, I tuned in to the ambient movement around me—from the scuff of shoes on gravel to the small grunt whenever someone lifted a heavier piece. Each slight motion felt like a shift in the air, one I could almost sense if I let my focus drift. However, I dared not attempt to absorb any more of that energy after my mishap behind the shed. Still, simply being aware of it stoked my curiosity.

Not long after, one of the older orphans motioned me over. "Hey, can you hold this beam steady?" He pointed to a half-splintered plank lying across a cracked piece of masonry.

I moved in, bracing the plank with my shoulder. Even that slight exertion made me grit my teeth. My battered ribs protested, but I forced them to obey as the other boy wrenched the plank free. With a harsh crack, it snapped into two smaller fragments. A few splinters skittered into the dirt. I suppressed a hiss of pain as the jolt vibrated through my bruised bones. Annoying. I was reminded yet again how battered my body still was.

We repeated this tedious process for the next hour or so, gradually tidying a section of the courtyard. Luckily, no caretaker hovered too close, so I didn't have to keep forcing friendly conversation. They likely assumed I was being helpful in a quiet, diligent way—perfectly in line with how the boy used to act, only with less chatter. The others occasionally exchanged simple words with me, but they were too busy or too numb from recent tragedies to notice subtle changes in my behavior. Which suited me just fine.

Eventually, the matron called us back in, announcing that the instructor from earlier would meet with us after lunch. Apparently, he wanted to discuss the Academy's plans for the orphan students, especially those close to graduation. My adrenaline stirred. If I still intended to become a genin, I'd need a plan to pass the final exam. The boy's memory told me he was capable enough to manage the basics, but I was hardly in top condition. Doing Substitution Jutsu or Transformation Jutsu while half broken might be tough. Could I manage it on short notice?

It was a risk, but I couldn't afford to lose the advantage of a ninja rank. That single article of status would open countless doors for me—an official license to carry weapons, a say in low-level missions, a place in the hierarchy. If further training with Kinetic Control needed secluded fields or specialized resources, I'd have an easier time accessing them as a genin than a random orphan. So I made the decision right there: do whatever it takes to earn that headband.

We trickled back inside, returning to the dining hall for a midday meal of flatbread and thin stew. Mismatched bowls clinked. Tension lingered in the air—some orphans were anxious, some still rattled from the horrors of the past few days. My table was relatively quiet. The older boy who'd snapped planks with me sat down opposite, chewing in silence. I briefly considered whether forging alliances with any of them might be useful. For now, I saw little purpose in that. Better to keep them at arm's length.

Lunch ended quickly. Right on cue, the academy instructor appeared in the hallway and beckoned four of us—myself included—to follow him into a smaller, still-functional classroom. It must have once been used for the orphanage's basic lessons on reading and math, since a cracked chalkboard lined the far wall and a few battered desks remained crammed together. We filed in, and the instructor closed the door behind us with a gentle click.

He wore standard navy-blue shinobi fatigues, though his left knee was wrapped in a thick brace, and his movements were stiff. Deep lines of fatigue cut across his brow. Nonetheless, he mustered a measured smile for us. I noticed a small swirl of relief in the others' expressions. They recognized him as one of the nicer teachers at the Academy, the type who offered guidance on chakra control without scolding.

"The four of you were among those preparing to graduate soon," he said, voice kept calm. "You've been through… well, I can't pretend to know what you've witnessed firsthand. But the Academy administration would still like to figure out how we can help you complete your studies."

He paused, sliding his gaze from one student to another. When it fell on me, I tried not to let any flicker of cynicism show. I cocked my head with a cautious nod, inwardly calculating.

He continued, "We don't have a proper building at the moment. Most of the Academy's lower floors are badly damaged. But we might be able to set up a temporary space in one of the older training grounds for lessons and final evaluations. The main question is your readiness. All of you have injuries."

A girl with a bandaged shoulder piped up."I can still do basic jutsu," she said quietly, trying to sound confident. "I've been practicing the Clone Jutsu whenever I can."

Her statement lingered in the air. She looked pale, as though she might topple over if a sudden breeze hit. Yet there was a spark of determination in her eyes—one shared by nearly everyone in this cramped room. The instructor's mouth twitched toward something that could have been approval, but the lines of worry remained on his brow.

"That's admirable," he replied softly. "And precisely why we're here. We want to ensure none of you lose your momentum during this downtime."

His gaze swept across the remaining three of us, pausing on me for a fraction longer, perhaps noting the bandage at my temple. Subconsciously, I straightened, trying not to reveal any inner conflict. This teacher's gentle tone belied the seriousness of the situation: the village was in ruins, and we were would-be shinobi with uncertain futures.

He cleared his throat. "All four of you were on the cusp of becoming genin. That's not something we want to neglect, no matter how dire things look. The Academy will coordinate a final exam schedule soon—likely in two weeks, assuming repairs and resources align. Until then, you'll be listed as provisional graduates. You won't have your headbands or placement on a genin team, but you can keep practicing."

Another boy in the group—tall, wiry, his arm in a sling—spoke up with a shaky voice, "Two weeks? Sensei, half the training fields are… gone. And the rest are full of debris or used as shelters. How will we even train?"

A fair question. My own thoughts echoed it: the entire village was short on safe, open spaces, let alone instructors or resources. We'd be lucky to find a tiny corner to rehearse Clone or Transformation Techniques without stumbling over rescue workers.

The teacher nodded, understanding. "You're right; conditions are difficult. But your teachers and a few available chunin volunteers will do what we can to clear one small training ground. It won't be what you're used to, but at least you'll have a place to keep your skills from fading." Then he lowered his voice, warmth creeping into his tone. "I know you're injured or… shaken. No one expects you to be at your best. But if you can show enough proficiency in the basics, you'll move forward as shinobi. We can't stall the entire graduation cycle indefinitely."

A hush followed his words. The girl with the bandaged shoulder nodded seriously, biting her lip. The tall boy looked down, flexing the fingers of his uninjured hand. Meanwhile, the fourth student—a slight, nervous-looking kid—fidgeted with the edge of a desk. Perhaps he was wondering if his injuries would ruin any chance at passing.

I, on the other hand, was measuring the situation from two angles: first, how to keep up an appearance consistent with the boy whose body I occupied, and second, how to secure that official genin rank for myself. My own injuries still stung, but I had enough knowledge from the Academy portion of the boy's memories to muddle through the standard jutsu demonstrations. The bigger question was: could I manage them in my current battered state? And if so, were there any ways to quietly incorporate or test my Kinetic Control without revealing it?

The teacher must have noticed the tension because he raised a placating hand. "We aren't going to rush any of you. Even if the exam is two weeks from now, we'll work with the orphanage staff to let you recover. We'll also do check-ins for your physical and mental health. These are not normal times—no one imagines it's easy."

His words caused an odd ripple in me: a faint sense of gratitude from the boy's side, and a more calculating acceptance from my own. Support was helpful, but too much attention might become a danger if my secrets slipped out. I forced what I hoped looked like a grateful nod.

He took a slow breath. "The plan is for me—and possibly another instructor—to come by the orphanage in a day or two. We'll see how you're doing with basic ninjutsu. Just… simple demonstrations, nothing serious. Think of it as a checkup. After that, we'll pick a training ground so you can practice. Understand?"

Each of us murmured agreement, unease mingling with relief. Even having so little structure was still something to cling to in the wreckage. The older boy rubbed his sling as though imagining how to toss a kunai with one arm partly immobilized. The bandaged-shoulder girl stood straighter, a spark in her eyes like she might begin training the moment she left this room.

The teacher made a few more notes on a small scroll. Then he rolled it up carefully. "That's all for now. You can return to your chores or rest. If any of you feel your injuries worsening, tell the medics. Don't push yourselves to the point of collapse. We'll adapt if we must."

He dismissed us with a gentle wave. One by one, we trickled out of the cramped classroom. The hallway outside was dim; the single overhead light flickered uncertainly. I noticed the cracked plaster on the ceiling, evidence of quake-like damage from the Nine-Tails. The corridor led to the orphanage's main staircase, which opened back into the dining hall.

We emerged, each wearing different degrees of thoughtful frowns. The boy with the sling let out a tense sigh. "Two weeks… guess we'll just do our best." He looked over at the girl. "Wanna review Clone Jutsu together later?"

"Sure," she replied, her tone subdued but trying for optimism. "I'm not letting a busted shoulder beat me."

They ambled off, presumably to do more chores or rest. The timid younger student also scurried away, likely needing time alone to process. That left me standing near the foot of the stairs, mind churning. So, a potential checkup in a couple of days. If I had to demonstrate jutsu to keep up appearances, I'd need to ensure I could do them reliably, even in my weakened condition. The basic Academy jutsu weren't overly demanding, but I needed practice to reacquaint myself with the muscle memory the boy had built. And I had to do it before the teacher's next visit, or else risk stumbling under pressure.

My ribs still complained, reminding me not to overestimate my stamina. As I weighed my options, a caretaker bustled past with an armload of folded blankets. She paused when she saw me, setting her burden on a nearby table. "Oh, there you are. We could use your help hauling a few supplies—just some small boxes from the old storage room upstairs. Think you're up for it?"

I dipped my head. "Yes, ma'am," I said, keeping my voice polite. Internally, I decided this chore might be a good excuse to explore more of the building in peace. The caretaker pointed me toward a narrow set of stairs leading to the attic-like storage area, which was apparently half-burnt but still accessible.

I made my way up the creaking steps into a cramped space that smelled of dust and old books. Sunlight slipped through a hole in the roof, illuminating drifting particles in the air. I looked around. Broken crates lined one side, and a stack of battered uniforms or blankets sat along the other. Several old boxes stacked haphazardly waited for me to carry them downstairs.

My side twinged, reminding me that heavy lifting was not my ally right now. With a grimace, I approached a box near the top of the stack and tested its weight. Not too bad. Carefully, I hoisted it into my arms. As I did, something shifted inside with a soft rattle—like wooden objects bumping together. Possibly more battered tools or spare tableware.

Going slowly, I turned to descend. The floorboards under my feet groaned, and that sense of precariousness made my pulse quicken. If the boards gave way, it'd be a nightmare, especially in my weakened state. My trembling arms clutched the box. Step by step, I returned to the corridor below, set the box by the caretaker's station, and heaved a quiet sigh of relief. Between the leftover injuries and the weight of chores like this, I wouldn't have much free time to practice ninjutsu or test Kinetic Control.

But I refused to let that deter me. If I was going to hold onto—and pass—the final exam in two weeks, I'd have to get creative. Maybe once these chores were done, I could slip away for an hour, find a secluded corner, and refresh my hands-on feel for the Clone or Substitution Technique. The biggest challenge would be avoiding suspicion. My entire strategy depended on blending in.

I trudged back upstairs for the next load. At the top step, warm daylight from that roof hole poured across the attic floor, revealing swirling motes of dust. The place looked so different from the medical tent only a couple of days before. Yet in its own way, it was an echo of the same tragedy—wounded, toiling to maintain some semblance of normalcy. Again, a faint glimmer of the boy's old feelings nudged at me, that desire to see the orphanage healthy and the kids safe. I brushed it aside, focusing on the small tasks that would keep me in the caretakers' good graces.

By the time I'd ferried a few boxes to the main floor, my ribs throbbed a warning. I decided that was enough for one morning. The caretaker waved me away with a concerned frown, likely sensing my fatigue. "Go rest," she said, a note of sympathy in her voice. "We don't want you aggravating any injuries."

I nodded, offering a brief murmur of thanks. Shuffling down the hall, I aimed for the bunk room I shared with two others. It was empty when I got there—no surprise. Most children, no matter how bruised, were either trying to help around the orphanage or gather in the courtyard for a sense of normal life.

Stepping in, I closed the door gently behind me. The quiet was a relief after the bustle of chores. Immediately, my thoughts turned to jutsu practice. But practicing inside the orphanage was a terrible plan—the floors and walls were fragile, and any slip-up might alarm someone. On the other hand, sneaking outside carried its own risks: kids or staff might catch me mid-technique, and I wasn't sure how stable I'd be physically. A single surge of chakra might leave me gasping, given my battered condition.

Still, I could revisit the boy's memories of forming the hand seals, mentally run through the steps. Sitting cross-legged on my bunk, I tried to concentrate. The Academy's "Big Three" basics were:

To perform the Clone Jutsu, begin by forming the Ram → Snake → Tiger hand seals in sequence. As you do, focus on molding your chakra—not to create a physical form, but to craft an illusion. The clones produced by this technique have no substance; they cannot attack or interact with the world, but they serve as effective decoys. A well-trained shinobi can make their clones move fluidly and appear indistinguishable from the original, tricking opponents into wasting attacks on mere illusions.

Substitution Jutsu: an instantaneous swap with nearby objects, but it required quick synergy between hand seals and chakra flow.

The boy had always been decently skilled at Substitution—till that final attempt went wrong under the falling debris. Even now, I could feel the phantom weight of that collapsing roof in his memory, how panic disrupted his chakra flow. A shiver ran through me, part pain, part old dread. But I forced it down. If I didn't push past that fear, I wouldn't be able to pass any exam.

Rubbing my temples, I tried to recall the correct sequence for Substitution: first, gather chakra to your core, sense a suitable target (like a log or an equivalent object), then form the Ram seal, followed by Boar, then Tiger, or was it Boar, then Ram, then Tiger? My head ached with the conflicting recollections—exams from the past, an instructor demonstrating the sequence on a practice field, other students mixing it up. Maybe I should confirm the details in a real practice session soon.

I exhaled sharply, annoyance welling up. The boy's memories were thorough yet jumbled by the trauma that ended his life. I needed a stable environment to piece them together. Right now, my body wanted rest, and my mind screamed for caution.

Pushing to my feet, I limped over to the window. Outside, I saw the faint glint of midday sun drifting higher, casting elongated shadows. A small crowd of kids had formed in the courtyard, some giggling and whispering. A caretaker was distributing half-broken brooms for them. The day felt alive, in a battered, uneasy way. Another wave of longing tugged at me—part mine, part leftover from the boy. This was a second chance at life, after all, and even a cynic like me couldn't deny the small comfort of seeing the world adapt and move forward.

Still, the path I had chosen—or been thrown into—wouldn't be some uplifting tale of heroic perseverance. I wasn't the type to wave a banner for the Will of Fire or vow to protect every comrade at the cost of my own life. But I could play that role convincingly. Maybe over time, I'd carve out a spot in the hierarchy that allowed me to train on my own terms, harnessing Kinetic Control without raising suspicion.

The caretaker's distant voice carried up through the open window. She was urging children to help a volunteer ninja who'd arrived with more building supplies. My chance of sneaking off for private training was slim right now; eyes were everywhere. So, with an annoyed sigh, I stepped back from the window, returning to my bunk.

Fine. Let them see me as just another wounded orphan. I'd let the day's chores pass, do what was asked, and wait for a quieter opportunity. Then, perhaps, I'd slip away to a deserted street or a half-collapsed alley after dark. For the moment, I needed to trust that two weeks would be enough to regain enough control over basic ninjutsu to fool the exam. Even if I had to grit my teeth through every seal.

Crossing my arms, I leaned against the bunk's rough frame, half-lost in thought. Already, the faint waves of energy from outside—the footsteps, the clomp of dropping planks—beckoned to me like a tide I could sense but not yet ride. If I were unstoppable, I'd harness that swirling motion and stand out as a prodigy. But standing out was dangerous. So, I would methodically build up my skill in secret, letting these seeds of recovery grow without drawing attention. And when the time came, I'd be ready to claim my place as a genin of the Hidden Leaf… on my terms.

For now, I only had to be patient.