The golden petals of the Hana no Sakura trees danced gently through the morning breeze, shimmering beneath the rising sun that bathed Hanagakure—the Village Hidden in Bloom—in soft amber light.
High atop a marble veranda, overlooking terraced gardens and rows of disciplined courtyards, a boy stood still as a statue. He was only five years old, yet his posture was unnaturally composed. His silken dark-green kimono rustled faintly, embroidered with silver ivy patterns—the emblem of the Morinaka clan.
He was Shisui Morinaka, the sole heir of Masaki Morinaka, Daimyō of the Land of Flowers.
From the balcony of the Morinaka Palace, he watched a squadron of ninja sparring in the training yards below—sweeping kicks, shadowy clones, and elemental flashes of fire and water. His pale grey eyes reflected them not with childish awe, but with the calm of one who had already resolved himself.
"I want to be one of them," Shisui said, his voice clear and light, yet disturbingly firm for a child. "I want to become a Shinobi."
Behind him, a man cloaked in crimson silk robes stepped forward with slow, deliberate steps. Masaki Morinaka, Shisui's father, a man of authority and elegance, gazed down at his son. His expression held neither surprise nor resistance—only quiet understanding.
"You're still a child, Shisui," Masaki said. "You could choose an easier path. Life as a prince can be gentle, beautiful—like the petals that fall without pain."
Shisui turned to face him. His voice did not waver. "But flowers that only bloom in comfort are easily broken by storms."
Masaki's eyes narrowed slightly, impressed—and perhaps troubled. The boy spoke with wisdom beyond his years. A gift, yes… but also a burden.
"I've already arranged everything," Masaki finally said. "Seven mentors will arrive today—masters of ninjutsu, taijutsu, genjutsu, sealing, survival, beastcraft, and theory. You'll train every day under them. There will be no distractions, no excuses."
"I understand, Father."
Shisui bowed politely, a movement so precise it could have been rehearsed by a royal court dancer. Masaki watched him for a moment longer, then turned away.
As the Daimyō's footsteps faded into the palace halls, Shisui looked back to the gardens, to the sparring ninja.
He clenched his small fist.
"I will not fail."
A gust of wind swept through the terrace, and a single blossom fell into his open palm.
He stared at it, then tucked it into his sleeve.
It was time.
The flower had chosen the blade.