CHAPTER 4: PRACTICE BEFORE DAWN

Night descended with a muted hush. The usual rustles and murmurs of the orphanage quieted until only the creaking beams and distant patrolling footsteps remained. I lay awake on my bunk, half-tempted to give in to sleep, half-determined to seize a rare opportunity. My fellow roommates breathed softly, one snoring in uneven intervals, the other occasionally coughing. Their presence reminded me that slipping out unseen would require caution.

At last, I pulled myself upright. The dull sting in my ribs persisted, but a day’s rest had lessened the sharpest pains. Easing my feet onto the floor, I tested my balance. Not great, but workable. I glanced at the window: starlight glimmered beyond the battered shutters, hinting that a few hours still remained before first light. My pulse quickened in anticipation.

If I was ever going to practice jutsu without an audience, this was the time. Without second-guessing, I moved slowly across the room. Each step caused the old floorboards to groan, so I paused after every shuffle, waiting to see if the other two stirred. They didn’t. One let out a short sigh and rolled over. With a cautious push, I opened the door just wide enough to slip into the corridor.

The dimly lit corridor felt colder at night. No lamps burned here, leaving only the watery moonlight filtering through cracks in the damaged roof. I steadied my breathing, conscious of how every shift of my weight might echo. Earlier that day, I’d memorized a rough path down to the first floor: it involved a side stairwell that rarely saw traffic, especially at this hour.

My ribs twinged as I navigated those steps, but I forced myself to remain steady. One overstep, one loud squeak, and a worried caretaker might appear, insistent on scolding me back to bed. My mind raced with excuses in case I got spotted: a sudden thirst, a late-night stroll for fresh air… None were terribly convincing in a village still reeling from catastrophe.

At the bottom, a short hallway led past the laundry room. There, wide cupboards held various supplies—brooms, spare blankets, battered futons. The corridor ended at a stout wooden door that opened into the orphanage’s side yard. My heart thumped. If I managed to slip through that door, I’d have only the open sky and the remains of the fence to worry about.

Carefully, I set a hand on the doorknob and tested it. Unlocked. A surge of relief washed through me. I listened hard for any movement on the other side. Nothing. Easing the door open, I stepped into the crisp night air.

A faint moonlight illuminated the yard, revealing scattered debris and partially repaired sections of fence. The caretaker and volunteers had spent hours hammering boards in place, but the result still looked haphazard. I saw no sign of watchers or orphans about. The chill breeze carried the smoky scent of the village’s lingering fires.

I took a moment to let my eyes adjust. Broken planks and scraps of rubble dotted the ground, forming a hazard course of sorts. Beyond the yard lay the flickering silhouettes of ruined rooftops. It was eerily quiet, save for an occasional distant clang or bark from a watch station.

Before I could second-guess, I moved deeper into the yard, searching for a patch of level ground. My original plan was modest: run through the Academy’s Big Three jutsu with minimal chakra. Even partial attempts would help me re-familiarize myself with the correct hand seals. If my battered body couldn’t manage illusions or transformations quietly, I’d at least confirm the motion.

A few paces beyond the fence line, I spotted a half-collapsed wooden shelf that must have once stored gardening tools. Its shadow formed a shield against any casual glance from the orphanage windows. I slipped behind it, mouth dry with tension. If an insomniac caretaker happened to look outside, all they’d see was an empty patch of yard.

I inhaled, commanding my heartbeat to steady. Memories of the boy’s training hovered in my mind. Over the years, he’d repeated these jutsu hundreds of times, though rarely at night and certainly not under these desperate circumstances. Pressing my palms together, I let an old reflex guide me:

—RAM → SNAKE → TIGER—

Those were the Clone Jutsu seals. I moved slowly, mindful that forcing too much chakra could cause me to cough or, worse, spark a visible glow. The first attempt felt shaky. My bruised body trembled, still unaccustomed to controlling chakra flows after such trauma. Closing my eyes, I pictured the intangible energy swirling in my center.

Nothing. No flicker of illusions. I sighed, standing still for a moment. My fault—I’d grown too tense in the moment. The slightest mental slip in controlling chakra was enough to snuff out the effect. Summoning illusions required a calm mind, a stable sense of self. Instead, I was half-worried about watchers, half-concerned about my injuries, and fully aware I was an intruder in the boy’s life.

Quietly, I repeated the sequence again, letting out a long, steadying breath:

RAM—SNAKE—TIGER.

This time, I coaxed the chakra to flow gently from my gut through my arms. A faint tingle danced along my fingers. Opening my eyes, I spotted the vaguest shimmer to my left—a vaguely person-shaped blur for a split second, before it flickered out. My heart lifted. It was imperfect, but it was something.

I tried again, biting my lip against the ache in my side. On the third attempt, a flicker of a transparent figure popped into being a few feet away—then collapsed like a pricked bubble. That was enough for me to confirm I still had the basics, even if my stamina was abysmal.

But too many attempts in quick succession would drain me. I couldn’t afford to faint here, alone, behind a rickety shelf. Determined not to push too far, I relaxed my arms, letting my breath even out.

Next, I considered the Transformation Jutsu. A hush in my mind recalled the standard approach: form the correct seals, visualize the target form in detail, and mold chakra to alter one’s outward appearance. Typically, the Academy taught you to transform into an instructor or a well-known figure as proof of skill. My plan was simpler—just replicate one of the orphans I often saw around the yard.

Try it.

I steeled myself, shaping the Ram → Tiger → Boar seals. Pain flickered in my chest—maybe from overexertion. I forced chakra to envelop my skin. A gentle swirl of energy made my body feel light, almost intangible. Then, like a sheet snapping in the wind, the entire swirl broke. My chest jerked, forcing me to clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle a cough.

So much for that. My battered condition wasn’t ready for moderate transformations. Gasping, I pressed my forehead against a cool plank, waiting for the dizziness to fade. Probably better to skip this jutsu for now, at least until I’d recovered more.

I scanned the yard carefully, eyes drifting toward the orphanage windows. No suspicious silhouettes. The last thing I wanted was a caretaker or another orphan raising alarm. Yet the strain in my lungs was a red flag: continuing in this state was begging for trouble.

Just as I turned to head back inside, a stray thought teased me. What about Substitution? In a real crisis, Substitution was often the difference between life and death. The boy had known it well enough to attempt it under falling rubble. Even a partial success might save me if I ever got cornered.

But the penalty for failure loomed in my memory. Substitution demanded precise synergy—identify the target object, shape the appropriate sequence (Ram → Boar → Tiger, if the boy’s memory served me), then flood chakra in an instant to swap positions without leaving a clue. If I messed up out here, I could easily face-plant into splinters. Or worse, alert half the orphanage with the sound of collapsing debris.

I weighed the risk. The longer I lingered in the yard, the greater the chance of discovery. My entire body felt wrung out from a mere handful of attempts. And yet, the knowledge that the exam approached in two weeks gnawed at me.

One attempt. I’d do just one Substitution to confirm muscle memory.

A quick scan revealed a suitable target in the shadows nearby: a piece of broken fence post, roughly child-sized if you squinted. Perfect for a partial swap. I exhaled, forming the Ram seal in front of my chest. The next seals came slower than I'd like: Boar… Tiger… each igniting a small surge of chakra in turn.

Focus, I told myself. Anchor the ephemeral link between me and that wooden post.

The rush came faster than I expected—a sudden swirl in my gut. For an instant, I sensed the piece of wood occupying the same mental space as me. I forced my will into that electric moment, trying to capture the sensation I’d practiced so many times in the boy’s old classes.

A sharp pop rang out, echoing uncomfortably loud in the night. I stumbled forward, barely keeping upright. The fence post… wasn’t exactly where I ended up. In fact, I shifted only a couple of feet from my starting point. The chunk of wood lay on its side, suggesting the half-formed jutsu had flung it away from its resting place.

Unsteady, I grabbed at the shelf for support. The pounding in my chest soared. That had been half a success—my body felt the partial shift, but the final link snapped, leaving me awkwardly off-balance. If anyone had heard the pop, I'd have to move quickly.

But no hurried footsteps came. No caretaker’s voice demanding explanations. Maybe the wind or the distance muffled the sound enough for it to go unnoticed.

That was all I dared tonight. My swirling pulse threatened to tilt me sideways. Forcing slow breaths, I nodded to myself in silent acceptance. My battered form needed rest more than a flimsy sense of victory.

I started back toward the orphanage door, returning it to a near-closed position behind me. The corridors were just as dark and lonely as before. At least that meant no one was up. I crept back to my bunk room, counting each step as though it were a jutsu lesson in stealth. By the time I slipped inside, breath ragged, my forehead glistened with sweat.

The other children remained deep in slumber, blankets tangled around them. Carefully, I inched onto my bed, swallowing a hiss of pain when my ribs protested. Closing my eyes, I let the exhaustion wash over me, ignoring the faint throb in my chest. At the very least, I’d managed a few steps closer to reclaiming my jutsu.

Despite my late-night escapade, I woke up near dawn, greeted by soft gray light filtering beneath the shutters. My side burned in dull agony, and my head swam with leftover fatigue. If not for the tug of survival instincts, I might have slept until midday. But chores and a fragile standing in the orphanage left no room for laziness.

I sat up slowly, ignoring the inward protests of my bruises. The other two bunkmates were already gone, leaving behind disheveled blankets. No surprise—they likely woke early to help with the day’s assigned tasks. The matron would be checking on everyone soon, so I forced my legs to move.

Downstairs, the morning atmosphere was subdued yet busy. Volunteers passed out small rice balls and lukewarm tea. Children scurried around, groggy but functional. I made a point to line up quickly, accepting my breakfast with no complaints. The caretaker from the previous day was stationed at the door, calling out instructions:

“Fence repair crew, come here! We’ll split you into two groups. Let’s keep working on those broken boards along the eastern alley.”

Her gaze landed on me, and I gave a small acknowledgement. Immediately, the caretaker scribbled my name on a list. Just as I suspected, I’d be hauling or hammering again. My body hardly felt up to it, but if I refused, someone might question my sudden change in temperament or start suspecting me of slacking.

I followed a half-dozen orphans out into the courtyard. The leftover gloom of night still hung in the corners, but enough sun broke through the smoke-stained sky to outline the day’s tasks. With a sigh, I joined the line forming near a toolbox crammed with nails, hammers, and wooden slats.

Ito appeared among them, waving in mild greeting. “They roped you into fence duty too, huh?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Guess we get to be carpenters again.”

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He chuckled in a subdued way. “At least we’ll have an easier time than the older ones hauling crates around. My arms still ache from yesterday.”

We dragged ourselves to the eastern alley, stepping over piles of broken tiles. Sure enough, the fence here was in shambles. Charred remnants suggested it took a direct hit from some chunk of debris during the Nine-Tails’ onslaught. Splintered boards, bent nails, and a half-toppled post awaited us. The caretaker assigned each of us a role: hammer nails to secure loose planks, measure new boards for missing sections, or drag debris out of the path so people could walk safely.

I ended up hauling a modest stack of new planks from a supply cart to the fence line, making multiple short trips. Each time, my muscles complained. Each time, I grit my teeth and pressed on. Working under the caretaker’s watchful eye, I had to preserve the illusion of normalcy.

Ease up, I told myself. No point in aggravating those injuries. Yet, if I slowed too much, I’d look suspicious.

Occasionally, my head pounded with leftover strain from last night’s attempts at jutsu. At least the caretaker was too busy to notice my sidelong winces. By midday, we’d secured several panels of new fence boards. I hammered a few nails while Ito measured angles, his face scrunched in concentration. Other orphans carefully stacked scrap wood for potential reuse.

STRAY RUMORS AND OLD WORRIES

During a brief break, I sat with Ito on a sturdier section of fence, catching my breath. A battered canteen made its rounds, and I took a small sip of lukewarm water. The caretaker stood by a fallen plank, conferring with a volunteer shinobi about something that sounded like supply routes.

After a thoughtful pause, Ito spoke in a hushed voice, “Seems like the Academy teachers plan to clean up Training Ground Six for us. Heard one caretaker say it’s still mostly intact.”

“Training Ground Six…” My memory of the boy’s was hazy but vaguely positive. It was a mid-sized field dotted with a few wooden targets and a shallow stream for water practice. Not as advanced as the big clan training fields, but decent.

“Yeah,” he continued. “Might be a good place to brush up on the three basic jutsu. At least until we’re strong enough for real practice again.” There was a note of sadness in his tone, probably a reflection of how daily life had changed from optimism to mere survival.

I only gave a grunt in response, scanning the half-rebuilt fence line. As much as I disliked small talk, I recognized the potential advantage of joining them—if official training resumed, I could practice freely. It would also reduce the need for clandestine midnight forays.

But that would mean forging alliances, or at least appearing cooperative. Under normal circumstances, free training sounds great. Under complicated, half-dead circumstances, it’s a recipe for unexpected slip-ups if I try to harness Kinetic Control in front of others.

From further down the alley, we heard a clatter: a pair of younger orphans, ages maybe eight or nine, accidentally knocked over a loose fence board. The caretaker jumped in, scolding them in a gentle but firm tone. I used that distraction to push myself off the fence, gritting my teeth at the wave of pain in my side.

Back to work. If I kept busy, I'd have fewer questions to answer.

Later that afternoon, just as we’d piled the last of the debris in a corner, I caught sight of an Academy instructor approaching the orphanage yard. My pulse picked up. The man wasn’t the same teacher we’d met in that small classroom—this one was taller, older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a worn flak jacket. His eyes scanned the partially repaired area, and from the set of his jaw, he didn’t appear impressed.

“Please gather the older orphans,” he told a caretaker. “I’m here on behalf of the Academy to check on readiness. We’re short-handed, so consider this an informal day-one progress report.”

The caretaker gave a quick nod, then hurried off, presumably to call all potential graduates. My chest tightened—so soon? I’d only had a single night to attempt any jutsu. Worse, my side still screamed with every pivot.

Sure enough, within minutes, the caretaker had assembled four or five of us in the courtyard, including Ito and the bandaged-shoulder girl I’d seen before. She looked apprehensive, hands trembling at her sides. Another boy came hobbling in with a brace on his leg.

The instructor’s gaze flicked over us. “I’ll make this quick,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. “We need a sense of where your basics stand, so we’ll do a lightweight demonstration. No heavy transformations, just half-effort illusions or, if you’re up for it, a single Substitution.”

My throat went dry. He was basically describing exactly what I’d attempted last night—only I was even more exhausted now. But refusing would draw suspicion, so I forced a shallow nod of acceptance.

He lined us up along a relatively clear stretch of courtyard. “We’ll start with Clone Jutsu. Everyone, one at a time, produce as many clones as you can, or just do a partial if your injuries are severe.”

The bandaged-shoulder girl stepped forward first, gulping air. She formed Ram → Snake → Tiger with shaky arms. A wisp of chakra shimmered around her feet, and she squeezed out two barely formed illusions. They flickered and vanished, but that earned a tiny nod from the instructor, Ito went next. He did respectably better, producing three translucent doubles that lasted for a moment before wavering out of existence. He stumbled slightly, then managed a shaky grin. A flicker of pride sparkled in his eyes, quickly overshadowed by fatigue. The instructor noted something on his clipboard and invited the next orphan to step up.

When it was finally my turn, my heart thumped with a familiar anxiety. Even though I’d tested the Clone Jutsu in secret just a few hours before, I wasn’t brimming with confidence. My side still ached, and my reserves felt drained. Still, I had to muster enough focus to avoid looking overly weak or suspicious.

I formed the seals—Ram, Snake, Tiger—one after another, inhaling as I tried to mold my chakra steadily. A trembling current fizzed down my arms, coaxed by the techniques the orphan had drilled into his muscles over years of Academy practice. In my mind’s eye, I pictured a second version of me stepping forward, if only briefly.

A faint shimmer glowed a few feet away, taking on my outline. This time, the illusion snapped into existence for a precious half-second. Static flickered over its surface, and then it collapsed into wisps of chakra that dissolved in the air. My knees weakened under the strain, but I held myself upright. The instructor’s expression remained neutral as he made another mark on his notes.

“That’s enough,” he said, waving me aside. “Good attempt.”

I exhaled, relieved. It wasn’t perfect, but I’d shown I could do it. The rest of the group followed suit—some conjured clones that flickered longer, others failed completely, sinking to a knee in frustration. By the end, nearly everyone was panting or clutching at an injury.

“Transformation next,” the instructor announced tersely. “If you need to opt out due to injuries, do so. Just tell me—don’t collapse trying.”

The bandaged-shoulder girl bit her lip; she tried anyway. Rapid hand seals, a visible strain on her face, and then a wavering transformation flickered around her. It made her look vaguely like one of the orphanage caretakers—briefly. She coughed, breaking the jutsu. The instructor nodded, allowing her to step back without judgment.

Ito’s transformation attempt wasn’t much better—he formed partial seals, wincing as he reached for the Boar sign. A faint glow enveloped him, shifting his hair color for the space of a heartbeat. Then it died away. Still, it was enough proof to show that he recalled the technique. The instructor offered no reprimand, only another quiet note on his board.

I debated whether to bother trying the Transformation Jutsu. The throbbing along my temple and the dull ache in my ribs reminded me how my earlier attempt last night had almost left me coughing on the ground. But if I just stood there and refused, that would raise more questions. Summoning a brittle resolve, I forced my hands into Ram, Tiger, Boar. My chest clenched as I tried to mold chakra, remembering the boy’s old lessons: visualize a simple target, keep the flow minimal.

A sudden wave of dizziness struck me. I’d overestimated my stamina. My vision blurred, and for a second, I thought I might pass out. Desperately, I aborted the technique mid-flow, letting the half-formed chakra dissipate before it tore at my lungs. The best I managed was making my fingertips shimmer with a faint distortion.

“That’s it,” I croaked, clamping a hand over my mouth to stifle a cough. “Sorry.”

The instructor regarded me steadily. Then, surprisingly, he placed a firm but not unkind hand on my shoulder. “Don’t strain yourself further,” he said, leaning in so only I could hear. “You’ve proven enough. Pushing now might set you back.”

I nodded mutely, stepping aside. The rest of the orphans finished their meager demonstrations. Most transformations fizzled in partial illusions—nobody seemed capable of a full shift. Even so, the instructor didn’t look disappointed. He simply gathered us together.

“Listen,” he said, addressing the group in a calm but firm voice. “We know these are not normal times. Many of you are injured. Still, the Academy wants an idea of what you remember and how long you’ll need to recover. Once you’re able, we’ll resume some kind of training schedule. Think of these exercises as a pulse check, not a final verdict.”

He paused, glancing around at our tired faces, braces, and bandages. “Don’t beat yourselves up if you can’t fully execute a technique right now. Rest, do light practice, and let your bodies heal. If you push too hard, you risk permanent injury.”

At his words, a subdued relief slipped over the group. The bandaged-shoulder girl’s tense posture eased, and Ito let out a shaky breath. Even I felt a measure of relief. No immediate condemnation, no forced retest. We had time—two weeks, at least—to nurse our wounds and try to regain what we’d lost.

“Finally, Substitution,” the instructor announced. “It’s optional. If anyone still wants to show me, we can move over to that broken bench for a test. Otherwise, you’re dismissed.”

A faint groan rippled among the orphans. Some turned to leave at once, their heads drooping in exhaustion and relief. Ito lingered, hesitating. I caught his eye, and he grimaced like he might try Substitution again, but then a spike of pain in his leg made him think better of it. Sighing, he shook his head. “Not today,” he murmured.

I glanced over at the instructor, half-expecting him to urge me to try. But that earlier brush with near-collapse had drained my courage. Remembering my near stumble behind the shed last night, I, too, remained silent. In truth, we’d both tested Substitution at the prior day’s impromptu session. That should be more than enough proof.

The instructor gave a short nod, satisfied. “Then go rest. We’ll notify the matron when training ground repairs are ready for your group. Until then, take it one step at a time.”

With that, he turned and headed for an older caretaker who seemed to be waiting with more questions. We orphans dispersed, a cluster of stiff, bruised kids trickling off in different directions. The bandaged-shoulder girl walked away, face pinched, as though she planned to curl up somewhere private. Ito caught up to me, wearing a rueful half-smile.

“Well, we survived another test,” he said, trying for levity. “If all the Academy final exams are this easy, maybe we’ll pass with flying colors.”

I couldn’t help a dry huff of laughter, ignoring the spike of pain in my side. “Yeah. Let’s hope future trials don’t involve hauling fence boards and wading through rubble right beforehand.”

He snorted, rubbing his bandaged cheek. “I’d take a normal training day over this any time.” Then his smile flickered, replaced by seriousness. “Anyway, rest up. Maybe in a day or two, if our bodies don’t fall apart, we can work on the Clone or Substitution somewhere quiet. Just to get the repetition back.”

I bobbed my head, unsure if I’d actually seek him out. “Sure. Let’s see how things go.”

Shortly after, we parted ways. I stayed in the courtyard, leaning against a broken post for support, letting the last traces of adrenaline seep out of my body. My mouth felt parched; I’d need water soon. A few younger kids skirted around me, chasing each other with a half-broken ball. Their thin laughter jarred against the gloom, a timid sign of normal life pushing through devastation.

Through a gap in the fence, I spotted the silhouettes of collapsed rooftops and the remains of snapped tree limbs. It was hard to fathom how the Nine-Tails had caused such wanton destruction in a single night. Even the horizon, tinged red by a distant sun, seemed stained with lingering smoke. And yet Konoha’s people pressed on—repairing fences, distributing meals, planning Academy checkups. A small part of me grudgingly admired that perseverance. Most of me, however, remained focused on survival, keeping my secrets, and scraping together enough skill to pass the genin exam.

My side seized with a fresh jab of pain. I gritted my teeth, pulling away from the post. Clearly, my body was tapped out for the day. Following the caretaker’s instructions, I trudged to the main hall to retrieve water and maybe find a corner to rest. Inside, the place was slightly quieter than before. Most orphans had been sent to handle chores or were upstairs resting. Only a lone volunteer was tidying crates by the entrance.

She gestured at a row of neatly stacked cups beside a water barrel and gave me a polite nod. “Help yourself,” she said, voice calm. “We’re running low on fresh food, but more supply runs are coming soon, or so they say.”

I filled a cup, gulping down the lukewarm water. It tasted faintly of metal, but it was enough to soothe my parched throat. The volunteer watched me with mild curiosity, perhaps noting my bandages or drained expression. I offered no explanation, and she didn’t pry.

Finally, I made my way back through a side corridor, ducking into a storage closet that had been partially cleared of debris. I’d discovered it earlier while carrying supplies. Now, it was surprisingly empty, used mainly for broken tools. It offered a moment of peace away from prying eyes.

I sank to the floor, leaning my back against a dusty wall, careful not to aggravate my ribs. My head spun with exhaustion, a mix of last night’s secret training and today’s forced demonstration. The faint smell of wood rot filled the tiny space, but I welcomed the silence. It wasn’t comfortable, but at least I could breathe without someone yammering in my ear or expecting me to hoist another load of scrap wood.

Letting my eyes drift shut, I turned inward, sifting through the swirling confusion of memories—mine and the boy’s. I pictured those half-formed clones, the flicker of transformation that never truly stuck, and the partial Substitution that threatened to wrench my body apart. All of them were stepping stones. If I gave myself time, practice, and space, I could improve. The final exam was still close, but not impossibly so.

Then there was Kinetic Control, the hidden trump card beyond these standard jutsu. If I managed to integrate it discreetly—imagine a Substitution boosted by redirected momentum, or illusions combined with a sudden burst of forced speed—I could rewrite every advantage in this world. But that day was still distant. My near-overload behind the shed proved I had to tread carefully.

Gradually, the day’s fatigue lulled me into a light doze. In my half-sleep, I dreamt of swirling darkness beyond an immense gate, the faint murmur of voices from a realm no living soul should visit. Flashes of my midnight training glimmered in the black; illusions formed and broke like waves. A quiet whisper—part annoyance, part longing—welled up, asking how I might twist destiny to my favor. But the dream offered no clarity, only more questions.

Time slipped by, unmeasured. Perhaps minutes. Perhaps an hour. At last, a muffled voice in the corridor stirred me. A caretaker’s brisk footsteps shuffled past, calling for help with reorganizing the medical kit. Dawn had long gone, and midday was looming. My rest, fleeting though it was, would have to be enough.

Pushing to my feet, I forced my body to comply. I had to maintain the orphan’s façade—help with chores as though I still cared for the Will of Fire, nod politely to the staff, keep up cordial terms with Ito and the others. Beneath that mask, I’d continue plotting my path: healing, refining jutsu, and one day unleashing the momentum-manipulating power hidden in my core.

That was the only way, in a world still trembling from the rampage of a monster, to protect my one true priority—my second chance.