The days at the Academy started to blend into a routine: wake up, train, study, train some more, and return to the orphanage. It was predictable, efficient, and, to some degree, comfortable.
But life wasn't just the Academy. The village had a rhythm of its own, and as I settled in, I found myself taking note of everything around me.
The laughter of children chasing each other through the streets, the rhythmic hammering of blacksmiths shaping steel, the sizzle of food stalls lining the market.
The village was alive, and if you paid attention, you could see the pulse of its economy, who held power, who depended on whom, and, most importantly, where opportunity lay.
I had always known that the shinobi world wasn't my end goal. The Academy was a stepping stone, a tool, but not the foundation of my future.
That future lay in something far more stable: Business. But before I could establish anything, I needed to understand how Konoha's economy truly functioned.
So, while my classmates played, trained, and daydreamed about glory, I observed.
I listened.
I learned.
…
The orphanage woke up before the sun with the quiet rustling of blankets, soft groans of children reluctant to leave the warmth of their futons, and the distant clatter of caretakers preparing breakfast.
I got up like always before making my bed with practiced ease. Across the room, Daichi was still half-asleep, blinking blearily as he yawned.
"Five more minutes," he muttered.
"You said that yesterday," I pointed out, grabbing my neatly folded clothes from the small wooden chest beside my bed.
"And I meant it yesterday too," he shot back, though he finally swung his legs over the side of his futon, stretching his arms with a grunt.
Despite the early hour, there was a warmth to these moments. Some of the younger kids were already up, playing with makeshift toys or whispering excitedly about whatever nonsense their six-year-old brains had conjured up overnight.
Aiko was carefully tying her obi in front of the cracked mirror by the window. She caught my eye and raised an eyebrow.
"Academy students shouldn't be moving so slow," she teased, lips curving into a smirk.
Daichi groaned again. "Why is everyone so loud in the morning?"
I shook my head, tying my own sash before heading out to the main hall.
The orphanage, while not unpleasant, wasn't exactly a place of luxury. We woke up early, no exceptions. The caretakers made sure of that.
Breakfast was simple, rice, miso soup, and grilled fish when we were lucky. Today was a plain day, just rice and soup, but no one complained. Food was food.
At the table, I noticed Yuki, a quiet girl who rarely spoke during meals, carefully scooping extra rice into her bowl, her hands moving quickly, as if afraid someone would stop her. No one did.
I knew why.
Some of the younger kids didn't eat as much as they should, often leaving leftovers. The caretakers discouraged waste, and Yuki had learned that if she was subtle enough, she could take those extra portions without drawing attention.
It wasn't just hunger.
It was survival instinct.
I didn't say anything, just noted it.
The orphanage was safe, but it had its own rules, unspoken but deeply understood.
…
Academy life was, for the most part, predictable.
Mornings were filled with theory, history, math, and chakra studies. Exceedingly boring, but necessary. Afternoons were for physical training, taijutsu drills, and basic chakra control.
Sparring had already begun, and it was clear who had experience and who didn't.
Ren Hyūga moved with a precision that set him apart but I wasn't surprised. He was a fucking Hyūga. It'd be weird if he moved sloppily.
Each of his strikes was measured, his footwork fluid, his posture unwavering. He didn't boast, nor did he need to, his skill spoke for itself.
Each movement carried the unmistakable refinement of structured training outside the Academy, a discipline ingrained far beyond what the instructors had taught us so far.
Others were less controlled.
Daichi, for example, still had trouble balancing his power with precision. He was strong, but wasted energy in unnecessary movements.
Then there was Haru, a nervous boy who flinched every time an instructor corrected his stance. He wasn't weak, but he lacked confidence, and it showed in the way his punches hesitated mid-air.
I kept my own progress steady, good enough to be recognized, but not enough to stand out. I had no reason to rush.
The real lessons weren't in the Academy's curriculum.
They were in the village itself.
Despite my initial expectations, the Academy wasn't all about punching and memorizing history.
Sure, there were lectures, drills, and endless repetition, but there were also moments of genuine amusement.
Like how one kid accidentally set his sleeve on fire during a chakra exercise and had to be put out by a panicked instructor.
Or the way some students would doze off during theory lessons, only to snap awake when Matsuda-sensei slammed a book onto their desk.
Then there were the group assignments, small projects meant to build teamwork.
The latest one had us sketching out basic village maps, marking key locations like the Hokage Tower, the training grounds, and the various clan compounds.
"Why do we have to do this?" one boy complained. "We already live here."
"Because half of you get lost outside the main street," Matsuda-sensei deadpanned.
He wasn't wrong.
Navigating the village wasn't something most kids thought about. But for me, this was useful.
I paid extra attention to the layout, noting how businesses were grouped together, where the wealthier districts were, and where the most foot traffic seemed to be.
After all, if I wanted to build something for myself, I needed to know the terrain.
…
After classes, while some students raced home or went to play, I took my time walking through Konoha.
Every district had a different energy.
The market streets were loud, full of merchants calling out their wares, stalls packed with fresh produce, spices, and handmade goods. Customers haggled, arguing over prices, while shopkeepers balanced between keeping business afloat and not being cheated out of their profits.
In contrast, the shinobi supply stores were quiet but efficient. They didn't need to advertise. Their customers knew what they needed, walked in, bought it, and left.
The blacksmiths were different.
Weapons were an investment, and buyers often spent time inspecting kunai and shuriken, checking their weight and balance. The blacksmiths took pride in their work, some even demonstrating the sharpness of their blades by slicing through bamboo stalks in one clean stroke.
Then there were the tea houses and restaurants, places that catered to both civilians and shinobi alike. Some were small and homely, while others had a more refined atmosphere, meant for high-ranking officials or wealthy patrons.
I paid attention to how money moved.
Who spent the most? Who barely scraped by? Which businesses thrived, and which ones struggled?
Patterns emerged.
Shinobi spent money in bursts, after missions, when they had extra cash, but between assignments, they were frugal. Merchants thrived on consistency. Wealth wasn't in large transactions, but in repeat customers.
Most importantly, I noted which businesses were family-run and which were independent.
There was opportunity in that.
Not yet, but eventually.
…
By the time I returned to the orphanage, the younger kids were already in bed, their soft breathing filling the dimly lit room.
Daichi was sitting by the window, watching the street outside.
"You're always walking around after class," he commented without looking at me.
I sat on my futon, stretching my legs. "Yeah."
"You thinking about something?"
I glanced at him. His tone was casual, but there was curiosity in his eyes.
"I'm just paying attention," I admitted.
Daichi snorted. "To what?"
"Everything."
He hummed, clearly unconvinced, but didn't push further. Instead, he flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
"...Do you ever think about what happens after this?" he asked suddenly.
I knew what he meant. The orphanage, the Academy, all of it.
Not everyone would become a shinobi.
Not everyone wanted to.
"Yeah," I said simply.
Daichi sighed, covering his eyes with one arm. "Sometimes, I think about opening a ramen shop."
I raised an eyebrow. "You can't even cook."
"Doesn't mean I can't hire someone who can," he shot back, smirking.
I huffed a quiet laugh.
That's true.
For all his laziness, Daichi had a point. Not everyone had to follow the expected path.
And neither did I.
I laid back, staring at the wooden ceiling.
The village had already shown me everything I needed to know.
Now, it was just a matter of time.
…
The remainder of the academic year was a steady progression of learning, adapting, and refining what I had already built before entering the Academy.
At the start, it became obvious that clan children had a significant advantage, especially in taijutsu. Their movements were ingrained, practiced at home under the guidance of experienced family members.
The Hyūga, like Ren, had their own formal style, smooth and precise, while others, like the Inuzuka, fought with a wild, almost instinctual aggression.
The Uchiha, though none were in my class, were known for their natural talent, but even those from lesser-known families had techniques and habits passed down to them.
I lacked that.
My form was solid but lacked the refinement that came from years of structured training.
My biggest weakness was predictability. I had drilled my movements too rigidly, and against someone like Ren, who could read attacks, that made me easy to counter.
The guy's strikes were brutally hurtful and I even considered approaching him to learn the secret behind such hurtful palms but I quickly stowed away the thought.
The Hyūga were not a friendly clan and I didn't want to appear like some weakling.
Though I did entertain the idea of using palms instead of fists for attack. There was this unique elegance to it which stuck with me.
Over time, I worked on adjusting. I started incorporating feints, breaking the rhythm of my attacks, and experimenting with movement outside of what the Academy taught.
Incorporating fists and palms into my attacks proved difficult, considering the muscle memory I had already built.
At first, switching between the two felt awkward, the flow of movements disrupted by my hesitation.
My fingers ached from improper strikes, and my palm strikes lacked the sharpness of a true practitioner. But I was nothing if not persistent.
I wouldn't say I had mastered it by the end of the year, but I was far less stiff than when I started.
My stamina was above average, which was to be expected considering my personal training, but my strength, especially in comparison to clan kids, was nothing special.
Physical conditioning was a slow process, though, and by the end of the year, I had made noticeable improvements.
Chakra control was another key focus.
Most students struggled with the basics, especially those with larger reserves, but I had a methodical approach to training.
Leaf exercises, breathing control, and refining the smallest applications of chakra had all become second nature to me. I wasn't the best, but I was certainly ahead of most of my classmates in terms of efficiency.
By the time we reached the latter half of the year, I decided to push myself further. Tree climbing was already something I had a decent grasp on, so I moved on to water walking.
It was a different challenge altogether.
Unlike the steady surface of a tree, water was unpredictable, shifting beneath my feet the moment I applied too much or too little chakra. Back ok the stream beside the academy, my first few attempts were humiliating.
One second I was standing, the next I was knee-deep in the pond behind the orphanage, spluttering as the other kids laughed.
Still, I didn't let it discourage me.
I approached it with the same mindset I had used for tree climbing, start small, focus on adjusting to the feel of chakra on an unstable surface. The trick wasn't just balancing chakra flow but adapting it in real time.
The chakra I pushed to my feet either dispersed too fast or remained too rigid, unable to respond to the water's natural movement. No matter how much I tried to focus, I kept ending up in the orphanage pond, soaking wet and irritated.
But failure wasn't new to me—it was just another part of the process.
I changed my approach. Instead of brute-forcing my chakra into place, I started slow, just like I had with tree climbing.
First, I stood in ankle-deep water, focusing on keeping my feet steady against the ripples. Then I moved to my knees, then my waist, gradually training myself to sense the moment my chakra faltered.
By mid-year, I could stand on water for a solid thirty seconds before slipping.
By the time the final months rolled around, I was able to walk across a pond, slowly, carefully, but I could do it.
My chakra reserves weren't huge compared to clan-born students, but they weren't small either. I had enough to maintain a steady flow for about ten minutes before I started to tire.
Compared to before I entered the Academy, my control had improved drastically.
The difference was clear, not only could I mold my chakra more efficiently, but I also understood its behavior better. I could fine-tune how much I used, adapt it to different surfaces, and even recover mid-step if my concentration wavered.
More than anything, I was starting to see my own potential, and for the first time since joining the Academy, I felt like I was genuinely moving forward.
By the end of the year, I could stay on the water for a short while before my control wavered. More importantly, I had developed a better understanding of how my chakra worked in response to external forces.
I didn't have massive reserves like some others, but I could make the most of what I had.
Academics were an afterthought.
Years of self-study made history, arithmetic, and general knowledge easy to grasp.
What truly held my interest was the Academy's library, particularly texts on village fuinjutsu and economics.
I wasn't aiming to be a scholar, I was mapping Konoha's financial landscape.
Who controlled the major supply lines? How did mission payouts affect the market? Which businesses held the most influence? I didn't have the resources to act yet, but when the time came, I'd be prepared.
Socially, I maintained a balance, distant but not unapproachable and by the year's end, I wasn't the strongest or the fastest, but I was undeniably better than before. And that was enough.
_-_-_-_-_-
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