The Academy was nothing like the rigorous arcane training halls Renkai had once known. In his previous life, knowledge had been earned through relentless study, complex formulas, and years of refining magic. Here, however, the foundation of power wasn’t mystical incantations or spell matrices—it was chakra.

And in chakra, control was everything.

For the first few weeks, Renkai had deliberately held back, blending in just enough to be seen as talented, but not unnatural. Now that he had solidified himself as a promising student, it was time to start standing out—just enough to gain access to more knowledge and resources.

The Academy’s training curriculum was split into three primary areas. Taijutsu – Hand-to-hand combat and physical conditioning. Ninjutsu – Chakra-based techniques, mainly focused on the basic three: Clone Jutsu, Transformation, and Substitution. Shinobi Fundamentals – Strategy, tactics, stealth, and survival.

Renkai wasn’t worried about two of the three.

Taijutsu, however, remained his weakness. After all, he had been a mage, and an exceptionally powerful one at that. In his past life, he had filled his role perfectly—obliterating enemies from long range while sipping wine.

The first few weeks at the Academy were slow but grueling. For many students, the transition from being civilians to future shinobi was overwhelming. The daily schedule was strict, filled with long hours of repetitive drills meant to build foundational strength and discipline.

For Renkai, it was a necessary process. He wasn’t aiming to be the strongest right away. He was aiming to master the fundamentals first.

Every morning began with physical conditioning—running laps around the Academy training field, followed by stamina exercises. Renkai struggled at first. His malnourished body from childhood left him physically weaker than many of his classmates. However, he quickly realized that efficiency was his greatest tool. Instead of trying to match others in raw endurance, he learned to regulate his breathing, preserving energy while maintaining a steady pace. His performance remained underwhelming—as expected.

During sparring sessions, civilian-born students were often pitted against each other, as they would be quickly overwhelmed by the clan children. Renkai avoided brute force exchanges. He studied his opponents. He observed their stances, the way they shifted their weight before striking, and the slight telegraphs that gave away their movements. While others were reckless, throwing wild punches, he focused on minimal movements, dodging at the last second and countering with precision.

His analytical approach made him difficult to pin down, and though he was physically weaker, his growing efficiency and unpredictability kept him from falling behind.

A month into training, the instructors intensified their focus on kunai and shuriken throwing.

It quickly became Renkai’s specialty.

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While most students struggled with the mechanics—grip, aim, release—he found himself adapting with ease. His past life as a mage had trained his mind to process trajectories like complex calculations. Distance? Adjusted for wind. Angle? A flick of the wrist. Trajectory? Calculated easily.

Unlike the other students, who relied on strength, he relied on technique. He practiced for hours after class, throwing kunai over and over, perfecting each motion until it was second nature. After all, this had been his first nature in his past life as a projectile mage.

One afternoon, an instructor took notice. "You have a good eye for precision," he commented, watching as Renkai landed every kunai within inches of the target. "But precision alone won’t always save you in battle. You’ll need adaptability."

Renkai took the words to heart. Precision was his greatest asset, but adaptability would be his key to survival.

Sparring became a regular event in the Academy. Each session forced students into direct combat, testing their ability to react under pressure. While others viewed it as a simple way to improve their strength, Renkai saw it as something far more important—a way to gather data.

Whenever he faced an opponent, he treated it like a puzzle—analyzing their movement patterns, their preferred attack methods, the way they responded to feints. Some were aggressive, relying on raw power. Others were more patient but predictable. Renkai never relied on brute strength. Instead, he focused on positioning, timing, and deception.

Each fight was a learning experience. The more he fought, the more he refined his ability to read opponents. He began using subtle footwork tricks, making it seem like he was leaving an opening before countering. He learned how to manipulate enemy expectations, using brief hesitations to bait attacks before dodging at the last second.

It wasn’t about winning—it was about understanding how to control a fight.

Renkai’s greatest breakthrough came from a single realization—chakra was not just energy. It was a tool that could be shaped and controlled.

In his previous life, magic had always required delicate precision, shaping raw energy into structured spells. Chakra felt different—it was more fluid, but it still followed rules. The key was finding a structure that worked for him.

That was when he considered threads.

Threads were versatile, capable of being used in multiple ways—an idea that drew a grim smile to his face.

If chakra could be shaped, then why not form it into something thin and precise? Something that could extend his reach without needing physical strength?

Given his specialization in lightning-infused projectiles in his past life, he found himself instinctively drawn to the way chakra flowed—fast, sharp, and conductive. His early chakra control experiments showed that his chakra threads carried subtle electric currents, giving his manipulation a slight stunning property when he exerted more power.

At first, his attempts were unstable. The threads were weak, snapping under the slightest pressure. He struggled to attach them properly and could barely manipulate a single kunai. It jerked in the air unpredictably, requiring constant focus just to keep it stable.

But he kept practicing. Each night, instead of wasting time socializing or indulging in the children’s laughable attempts at provoking him, he trained. He refined his control, shaping the thread stronger, more durable, and more responsive to his intent. He experimented with different lengths, tensions, and chakra expenditures to improve its stability.

After weeks of refinement, he could finally reliably move a single kunai. The control wasn’t perfect—his movements were slow, and quick adjustments were difficult—but it was progress.

Renkai’s training was accelerating. His name was being noticed. Takeda Genji, his Academy instructor, was watching him closely.

Some students feared him. Others admired him.

And though he was not yet the strongest, he was undoubtedly the most unpredictable.

But this was only the beginning.