Six months had passed. Half a year of unbroken routine.
The seasons turned once again, bringing the winter to Konohagakure. The Third Shinobi World War was officially drawing to a close. The whispers among the caretakers changed from panicked rumors of border collapses to relieved discussions of an armistice being signed with Iwagakure. Minato Namikaze's name was spoken with a reverence bordering on the religious.
I ignored the geopolitical shifts. My universe was restricted to the orphanage, the trek to Training Ground 14, and the dense perimeter of the forest.
My body had adapted to the demands efficiently. The snares I had built from the ninja wire were a success. I caught wood pigeons, forest quails, and occasionally, a fat hare. The constant influx of protein was necessary.
I was no longer the frail toddler that had woken up paralyzed in a futon. While still small for my age, my body had dense, highly conditioned tissue. My tendons felt strong from katas and my footsteps on the creaking floorboards of the orphanage were now effortlessly silent.
But as my fourth birthday approached, I hit another plateau.
I could only push body conditioning so far before my experience became the bottleneck. I needed resistance, I needed weight, and I needed sparring partners. But engaging in those without raising suspicion was impossible.
I thought about trying to locate a clan compound to observe their prodigies, but I quickly killed that idea. These places were heavily segregated, guarded by their internal forces. A nameless orphan loitering around their headquarters would be intercepted and interrogated within minutes.
If my physical progression was temporarily capped by my environment, it was time to shift my focus elsewhere.
It was time to master my chakra control.
I sat cross-legged in the shade of a massive tree at the edge of the training ground. The afternoon sun was timid due to the season's change, and the forest remained cool.
In my lap rested a single, vibrant green leaf I had plucked from a branch.
In the anime, the Leaf Concentration Practice was treated as a basic, almost trivial exercise assigned to fresh Academy students to build focus. But viewed in reality, the mechanics behind it were very complex, especially to someone like me, who had no one instructing them.
How does a leaf stick to a human forehead without sap or adhesive?
I asked myself this question for some time. It wasn't magic. Chakra was a tangible energy. If it was expelled through the tenketsu on the surface of the skin, it could interact with the physical world. I hypothesized that sticking the leaf required two simultaneous actions. First, you had to expel a continuous thin layer of chakra from the pores. Second, you had to maintain a localized, counter-clockwise rotation of that expelled energy to create a low-pressure zone, like a tiny vacuum, between the skin and the surface of the leaf.
If the chakra output was too low, the vacuum wouldn't form, and gravity would pull the leaf down. If the output was too high, the force would repel the leaf.
It required an unbroken, calibrated trickle of energy. For a child with underdeveloped reserves, it was an exercise in endurance. For someone like me, possessing a massive amount of spiritual energy but physical coils that unbalanced the proportion between the two energies that comprised chakra, it was an exercise that showed my current restraint.
I picked up the leaf, feeling the smooth texture of its surface. I raised it to my forehead, pressing it flat against the skin just above the bridge of my nose.
I closed my eyes, tuning out the chirping of the cicadas. I found the dense, heavy pool of chakra in my chest. I didn't need to force it to spin anymore, the counter-clockwise rotation had become a subconscious habit.
I separated a fraction of the energy, a mere drop from the pool. I guided it upward, threading it through my coils, directly where I needed it to be used.
I focused on the skin of my forehead. Open the tenketsu. Expel the rotation.
Whoosh.
A sudden, sharp burst of heat flared on my forehead. The leaf was violently blasted off my skin, fluttering wildly through the air before landing in the dirt.
I opened my eyes and sighed, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow.
Too much pressure. I hadn't created a vacuum, but, instead, an exhaust pipe. My spiritual energy was so dense that even the smallest fraction I could separate was too potent for the delicate control required.
I leaned forward, retrieved the leaf, and brushed the dirt from its surface.
I placed it back on my forehead. I closed my eyes again.
This time, I didn't push the chakra. I visualized the energy as a viscous liquid. I allowed it to slowly seep upward, fighting the urge to rush. I channeled it into my forehead, focusing on the rotation. Spin. Create the vacuum. Hold.
I felt the warmth against my skin. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my hand away.
A second passed. Then two.
The leaf slid down my nose and fell into my lap.
Better. I hadn't blown it away, but the vacuum was too weak. The rotation faltered the moment I removed the support from my hand.
I repeated the process. Over and over again.
The sun began its descent. My head throbbed, a symptom of chakra exhaustion. The mental strain of managing the flow of energy was far more exhausting than hunting.
But as I placed the leaf on my forehead for the hundredth time, something clicked.
The flow stabilized. The counter-clockwise spin locked into a perfect rhythm just above my skin. I removed my hand.
The leaf did not fall.
I sat perfectly still, my breathing shallow. I could feel the faint chakra acting as a bind between my skin and the plant. If my mind wandered to the aching in my back, the leaf would fall. If my heart rate spiked, the leaf would be blown away.
I held it for one minute, then the chakra sputtered, and the leaf dropped.
I caught it in my palm, a genuine sense of accomplishment washing over me. It was not that much, but it was a small victory in the grand scheme of things.
I leaned back against the bark of the tree, looking up at the darkening sky.
If the basic application of chakra control allowed for the manipulation of surface tension and vacuums, the limits of shape manipulation were exciting. I let my mind wander, indulging in the application of what I had discovered.
If I could project a vacuum to hold a leaf, could I eventually project a concentrated thread of chakra from my fingertips to manipulate larger objects? The puppet of Sunagakure operated on that principle. They used chakra strings not just to move wooden joints, but to anchor themselves and mess with enemies.
And beyond shape manipulation lay one of my goals: Nature Transformation.
I didn't know what my elemental affinity was. Without the specialized chakra-inductive paper, testing it was impossible for a four-year-old.
I let my wandering thoughts away. In my past life I had obsessed about elemental combinations and their application in this world, but it still wasn't time to be thinking about this. After all, my affinities were still unknown to me.
I had to focus on the immediate, tangible steps.
I picked up the leaf from my lap.
Sitting still and holding the leaf was the baseline. Now, I needed to introduce variables.
I pressed the leaf to my forehead, engaged the chakra rotation, and established the vacuum. The leaf stuck firmly.
Slowly, fighting the urge to tense my neck, I pushed myself up from my seated position. The shift in my center of gravity caused a small stutter in my chakra manipulation. The leaf fluttered, the edge peeling slightly from my skin. I instantly dialed back the pressure, stabilizing the spin.
I stood at full height. The leaf remained anchored.
I took a slow, deliberate step forward. The impact of my heel striking the dirt sent a shockwave to my body. The leaf held.
I began to walk.
I paced the perimeter of the training ground. Every step required active concentration. I was learning to split my cognitive focus, allocating just enough concentration to my movements to walk, while dedicating the vast majority of my spiritual energy to maintaining the flow of chakra to my forehead.
The leaf fell after forty seconds. I continued.
By the time evening was almost showing up, my reserves were entirely depleted. The headache had escalated to a sharp migraine, and my limbs felt heavy. The leaf detached, spiraling to the grass.
I didn't try to catch it like before. I had pushed my coils to their limits for today.
I retrieved my hidden kunai and the remaining ninja wire from the brush, tucking them against my stomach again. As I began the long, silent trek back to the orphanage, my mind was already planning tomorrow's schedule.
In the morning, I would try sticking two leaves.
The progress was slow and devoid of glory. But as the more cheerful crowd of Konoha packed the streets in late afternoon, I knew I was on the right path. It was a testament that the war was winding down.
The timeline was moving. Minato, who would soon become the Fourth Hokage, was likely preparing for his inauguration. The clock was ticking down to the night Kurama would be unleashed.
I couldn't stop it. But when, one year later, the beast roared, I would not be helpless. I could run away with more might than anyone!