Takuma stared at the result of his graduation examination's second attempt with his lips pressed into a white line. The red FAIL stamped on the paper glared at him— a sign of his ineptitude. Despite putting his life into training for the second attempt, he had yet again gained a second FAIL mark.

Takuma brought his hands to rub his eyes which had dark bags developing under them. He straightened his back and flexed his muscles, hoping it would relieve some of the stiffness, but all he got was pain. These days the only time he was comfortable was in his bed at night; even letting the back of chairs take his weight felt like sitting on hard stone.

He sighed. There wasn't a single person beside him who hadn't already passed at least one of the two attempts, thus securing their Leaf headband on graduation. Only his lonesome self remained. A terrifying position to be in. It felt like he was sailing in a small wooden boat in the deep ocean with a roaring storm causing natural disasters around him, just for him.

He felt sympathy for Uzumaki Naruto for being held back from passing because he couldn't perform one academy three— Bunshin no Jutsu (Clone Jutsu) for the whiskered blonde and Kawarimi no Jutsu (Substitution Jutsu) for him. Even when his late-night slogs of studying at his table had paid off as a passing grade on the pen-and-paper test— even when the taijutsu invigilator remark on his result had gone from 'slow, weak and unskilled' to 'needs urgent improvement'— even when his viva-voce had gone satisfyingly well (thank god for the absence of the kimono-clad bald old man)— he was still declared a failure because he couldn't perform a useless jutsu.

At the same time, he felt envious and even resentful toward Rock Lee, who had been promoted to genin without being able to do even one of the academy three because he caught the eye of a jonin. Were his own efforts any less strenuous than Rock Lee's? Was he not also pushing himself to the limit every day, pulling himself thin between studying, practicing chakra, learning jutsu, sharpening his close combat skills, and the tens of little things Maruboshi deemed every shinobi should know. Why did Rock Lee get to pass while the blade of a dead-end hovered above his neck?

Takuma folded the half-page and stored it on his person. Looking at the result only made him feel worse— he didn't have the time to feel worse; there was only one more month till the last attempt and the graduation itself.

He pushed everything he was feeling down and took out a chunky brass square padlock and a basic lockpicking kit wrapped in age-worn leather that was falling apart everywhere. Maruboshi had given him one of his old lockpicking sets so that he could practice cracking locks.

He breathed out and forced himself to calm down to focus on the lock in front of him. Maruboshi apparently had an extensive collection of locks he had collected through the years to familiarize himself with the types of locks he could encounter on missions. Maruboshi gave him locks as assignments to figure out and successfully open them, then the lock would be exchanged, and the cycle would continue.

"Oye, Takuma. You failed again, you dumbass."

Takuma had just put the tension tool into the key core when he heard the sneering voice of Hiji mocking him. Takuma wasn't surprised— annoyed, yes, but not surprised as Hiji had done the same when he had failed the first time. The Inuzuka mutt had paraded the fact that Takuma had failed in his face for a week before getting bored. Hiji was easily the most annoying person Takuma had met in both lives, and he genuinely thought the world would be a better place without him barking in everyone's ears, causing noise pollution.

Now, Hiji was back again. Takuma gripped the old yet sturdy pick and continued on with his silent shtick. If he was being honest, things had gotten much easier than before because Hiji was definitely on the ADHD spectrum— quite easy to get distracted. And after months of meeting the stone-cold wall that he was, Hiji had begun to lose interest, and when he did turn his rabid attention toward him, it didn't last long.

Today, he just hoped Hiji would go away quicker. He was too tired for Inuzuka's crap. From his peripheral vision, Takuma caught Hiji clicking his tongue and turning toward friends. Takuma hid a smile as he dipped his head closer to the lock. Now, it was only time before Hiji left him alone—

"Hiji, are you bothering Takuma again?"

Takuma jammed the rake pick into the back of the key core.

It was Okubo Momoe, the genius girl. The girl had a seemingly overflowing sense of justice, coming to the aid of those who could use her help, willingly providing it whenever needed.

'She thinks you're weak,' said a voice in the back of Takuma's head, making his eye twitch. Being considered weak was an unpleasant thought, and Takuma was no different.

"Didn't I already tell you to stop?" Momoe glared at Hiji with her arms crossed.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," said Hiji, making a face at Momoe. "This got boring; let's go somewhere else," he led his friends away, clearly avoiding Momoe.

Takuma gave a sincere nod of thanks to Momoe. She had been a lot of help in dissuading Hiji's annoyance since her presence made him walk away like just now. He then went back to his lockpicking.

"What are you doing there, Takuma?" Momoe asked, curiously peering over the lock in Takuma's hands. "A lock... lockpicking?" she said when she saw the tools in his hands.

Takuma nodded tiredly.

"Why would you learn that?" she asked.

"Uhm... what?" Takuma titled his head. He assumed that since Momoe was the genius girl, she would already know how to pick a lock. He was half-expecting her to help him with how to pick the lock. He asked: "You don't know how to pick a lock?"

Momoe arched her brows. "Should I?" she asked.

He assumed yes. Maruboshi had said that unlocking locks was essential if a shinobi expected to be stealthy on his mission. Every building had doors, and most doors had locks— especially the important ones. It didn't have to be doors; storage containers with complex locks and safety systems had to be picked as any attempt to break the outer container could damage the merchandise inside, or so Maruboshi had said.

"So you don't know how to pick a lock?" he asked again to confirm— that couldn't be; even he could pick poorly made locks; his classmates should know at least that, if not more.

Momoe shook her head.

Takuma was baffled. He couldn't wrap his head around it. Maruboshi had insisted that lock picking was a critical skill in a shinobi's arsenal and that he needed to start learning it as soon as possible so he could be experienced when the time came to use it on the field. And it made complete sense to him: what if he was on an infiltration mission and had to keep his presence hidden— busting down doors from their frames wasn't the way to do it. Why wouldn't a shinobi learn to lockpick?

It had to be important, or why else would Maruboshi ask him to devote time to practice lockpicking when he knew how vital the graduation test was.

"Do you want to learn?" Takuma offered. He thought if he showed her the bare basics, he could use the opportunity to ask her some questions in return. An equivalent exchange, he considered fair.

"No, it's fine," Momoe said. One of Momoe's friends called her, and Momoe turned to leave only to briefly turn back to Takuma to say, "You shouldn't waste your time on such things," she narrowed her eyes at the lock and picking tools. "You've failed twice; the next attempt is your last chance. You should really concentrate on more important things." She left after saying that.

Takuma was taken aback. He looked down at his tools, and the two FAIL results flashed through his mind. A seemingly all-knowing veteran shinobi and a genius girl who could do everything. Takuma shook his head off unnecessary thoughts and went back to lockpicking.

It was probably for the better she refused; he didn't think he had the energy to hold a conversation with someone.

It was going to be okay... he had a month... he was going to pass.

Takuma gripped his tools harder.

———

.

The moon had pulled the dark curtain over the sky, and the wintry winds brought down the cold shower of snow upon the village hidden in the leaves. The village was as cold in winter as it was hot in summer. People had already laden themselves in heavy wool clothing to keep warm, and the streets were emptier than in warm springs.

In a training ground on the village's periphery, a figure dressed in a shirt and shorts stood in front of a thick wooden post. The sturdy post was being tortured by kicks from the figure, who relentlessly, one at a time, drilled the front of his foot into the wood. A steady rhythm sounded in the mum night as a thin layer of snow covered the grass.

Takuma brought down his leg and waited for half a second before kicking the wooden post again. His open-toed shinobi sandals had seen better days as he rammed his foot into the same spot that turned white from the dark bark stripped away from the continuous kicking. But Takuma didn't care. He watched the spot in the wood, and then he watched his foot kicking the spot. And he repeated.

He didn't know what time it was. He didn't care.

Every man, woman, child, shinobi or not, genius or dead last, was given the same time in a day, no more. There wasn't nearly enough time in the day; he could only squeeze out the time he was given.

With every kick, a splatter of water would twist out from every part of his body in motion. Some of it was the water from the falling snow, more of it was his own sweat.

He wanted to stop; he really did. Every nerve in his body felt taut and burning. But keeping his mind on training was the only way to not think about the fact that tomorrow was the last day of the academy. And the day after that was the third and final attempt at the graduation exam.

It was strange. He had been in the foreign world for nearly a year, and he could remember every single day of that year— yet time had passed too quickly. It truly felt that it was only earlier this day when he had found himself in a stranger's body, in a room full of strangers. Time had slipped through his fingers like loose sand.

Why hadn't he trained harder? If he had only been training like he had been in the past month for the entire time, maybe it would've not come to this. Takuma felt his stomach twist into a knot, and his heart paced faster, not because of his physical exertion but of the crossroads he was standing at. He hadn't trained enough for this, he thought as his kick landed a little higher than the target, and a piece of bark splintered.

He raised his leg to kick the post again but found the leg betraying him. He fell down onto snowed on grass and felt a spikey cold against his burning body. He stared at the sky. He was hungry but too tired to muster any energy to eat anything, and an empty stomach wasn't enough to keep him awake— he wanted to sleep in the training ground, buried by the snow.

But he couldn't. Takuma stood up and dragged his body away from the battered post that had taken all of his fears. He had given the last year of his life to this— he was going to see it through, no matter what the result.