Chapter 37: A Step Toward the Academy
The morning sun peeked through the thin paper shutters of Ren's temporary room, casting golden lines across the wooden floor. He stirred beneath his blanket, groaning slightly as he sat up. His body ached from the previous day's training, and the memory of the fight with the academy trainee still stung, both physically and emotionally. But today was different. Today, he had something to prove—not to others, but to himself.
The air felt quiet, almost reverent, as if the village itself was holding its breath. Ren took a deep breath and closed his eyes, slipping into the familiar meditation posture he'd practiced for weeks. Hands resting gently on his knees, back straight, he focused inward.
The chakra points in his body responded like a ripple across a still pond. The seven chakra points from his old world, the meditation routine, the gentle mental check-ins—it all felt like habit now. But this morning, something was different. As he sank deeper into the silence of his mind, a flood of sounds slowly crept in.
The flapping of birds' wings. The scuttling of insects under the floorboards. The quiet shuffles of people two streets over.
Ren flinched. He hadn't meant to listen—but the sounds came anyway, flooding his awareness like an overflowing dam. He tried to push it down, to control it, but that only made it worse.
"It's like my ears have minds of their own," he thought, gritting his teeth.
He remembered last night—how the noise had built to a crescendo that left him unconscious. He'd only just barely begun to understand this new sense. If he didn't learn to manage it, it would break him before it helped him.
He steadied his breathing.
"Juro said chakra should flow naturally. But that doesn't mean I can't guide it," he reasoned.
He stopped trying to block the sounds. Instead, he welcomed them—acknowledging each one but not giving it power. A footstep? Let it pass. A whisper? Let it fade. He narrowed his focus, choosing instead to concentrate on a single sound—the rhythmic chirping of a cricket near the window.
He breathed with it. In. Out. In. Out.
The background noise began to dim. The ringing in his ears eased. The pain in his head receded.
It clicked.
He wasn't supposed to stop the river of sound. He was supposed to learn where to dip his hands in.
He opened his eyes. The world remained full of noise, but for the first time, it didn't feel deafening. It felt like choice.
Ren stood, slowly, adjusting the fit of his shirt and brushing his fingers through his tangled hair. He slung his old, worn bag over his shoulder, stuffing it with the essentials he still had: a water canteen, a broken kunai, a roll of bandages, and his small notebook where he wrote his training observations.
With that, he stepped outside.
The village was alive in a way that felt different from the camp. There were market stalls being set up, young genin darting through the streets with messenger scrolls, and the clang of metal from a distant forge. Konoha buzzed with the energy of its people.
Ren's path took him along a shaded road leading toward the outer edge of the Academy District. Kids—some younger than him, others slightly older—rushed past in groups, laughing, trading cards, talking about sensei and jutsus and sparring matches.
He kept his head down.
"I'll catch up to them soon."
At the gate to the Academy's courtyard, a chunin guard was stationed. The man glanced at Ren's dusty clothes and ragged bag with mild curiosity.
"Morning. You lost, kid?" he asked, not unkindly.
Ren shook his head. "No, I was wondering… is it possible to observe the academy? Or speak with someone about joining?"
The chunin raised a brow. "You're not enrolled?"
"I just arrived in the village a week ago. With the refugees."
The chunin's expression softened slightly at the word. "Right. You one of the ones Juro vouched for?"
Ren nodded.
The man sighed and glanced back at the building. "Alright. Can't promise anything, but head around to the east wing and ask for Assistant Instructor Minari. She handles special cases."
Ren bowed slightly. "Thank you."
He didn't rush. As he walked, he looked at the training field from a distance. Rows of students practiced shuriken throwing, while others sparred under the eye of a jonin instructor. The air was filled with energy, mistakes, and corrections. Real training. Real progress.
"This is where I need to be," Ren thought.
He reached the east wing, knocked politely, and waited. A woman in her mid-thirties opened the door. Her brown hair was tied in a neat bun, and her expression was firm but not unkind.
"Yes?"
"My name is Ren. I'm here to ask about joining the Academy."
She crossed her arms. "You with the war refugees?"
He nodded.
She studied him for a moment. "You don't look like a troublemaker."
"I'm not."
"Why do you want to be a shinobi?"
Ren hesitated. He could give her a hundred half-truths. But only one answer mattered.
"Because I want to protect people… and because I'm too weak right now to do that."
She looked at him longer this time. "Most kids say they want to be heroes."
"I just want to stop losing the people I care about."
There was a silence. Then she nodded once.
"I'll speak to the Hokage's office and see if there's room. Come back tomorrow morning."
Ren bowed again, trying not to smile too widely.
"Thank you, Minari-sensei."
As he stepped outside again, the sunlight felt warmer. The weight on his shoulders hadn't disappeared—but for the first time, he'd chosen a direction. He wasn't drifting anymore.
He was walking forward.
Toward something real.
Toward something better.
- - -
The night had passed with barely any rest.
Ren sat on the rooftop, legs tucked under him, the village lights below flickering like lazy fireflies. His ears still ached faintly from the overwhelming flood of sound earlier. Now, he sat perfectly still, not meditating, but listening. Trying.
He took a slow breath.
Focus.
The wind brushed against his cheeks, whispering between the rooftops. He let that sound be his anchor. Slowly, other noises crept in—murmurs of a couple arguing softly down the street, the rhythmic snore of someone sleeping with their window open, the creak of wood in a building settling.
His jaw clenched.
Too much…
He exhaled sharply, pulling back. Not physically—there was nothing to grab—but mentally, spiritually. Like gripping the edge of a thread and gently pulling, drawing it inward. He tried again, focusing on just one sound: a lantern swaying in the wind near the academy's outer wall.
It clicked.
A subtle tightening of chakra around the ears, not like a gate slamming shut, but a curtain being drawn. He blinked.
The voices vanished. The rustle of the village dulled into nothing but ambiance. He could still hear—but only what was close. Only what he allowed.
"I… did it," Ren whispered.
No headache. No pressure. Just peace.
He hadn't forcibly suppressed the power—he had let it become a tool, a muscle to be flexed or relaxed. Like Juro said: chakra should flow naturally. But Ren had learned something new.
Control isn't the same as suppression.
That was the missing piece. Shinobi didn't let chakra run wild—they shaped it. Molded it with precision. The fire jutsu weren't just about willing flame into existence—they were about exact, purposeful direction. It wasn't chaos. It was mastery.
That's what he'd been lacking.
Smiling faintly, Ren stood up. His body was still sore from training and the previous fight, but something inside him felt lighter. Ready.
---
Morning came fast.
Ren skipped breakfast, his excitement dulling his hunger. He washed, dressed, and adjusted the makeshift wraps around his arms. His shirt was faded, and his pants were patched near the knee—but it didn't matter. He made his way through the village with purpose.
A few people recognized him from the refugee group and nodded politely. Others barely glanced. But Ren wasn't here to be noticed. He was here to change everything.
When he reached the Hokage Tower, the receptionist raised an eyebrow.
"You again?"
"I want to apply for the ninja academy," Ren said. "Formally."
The chunin leaned forward slightly. "Didn't think you'd be back so soon."
"I've been training every day. I'm ready."
"Got a sponsor?"
Ren paused. "No. Not officially."
The chunin gave a long sigh. "Then you'll have to take the physical aptitude test and a preliminary chakra assessment. Can't just let anyone in because they want to be a shinobi."
"I understand."
Another pause. Then the chunin muttered, "You're lucky the Hokage's office has been reviewing new civilian applicants. They've been keeping an eye on those showing promise."
He flipped through a drawer, then handed Ren a parchment. "Training Field 6. Two days from now. Sunrise. Bring gear. And be ready to sweat."
Ren accepted it with both hands. "Thank you."
As he turned to leave, the chunin added, "Kid—what's your reason? Why do you want to be a shinobi?"
Ren hesitated.
He remembered the faces of Taro and Aki. The sound of dying breaths. The weight of not being strong enough to save them. He remembered Juro's bloodied shoulder as he shielded him from a jonin's final strike.
"I don't want to lose more people," Ren said quietly. "And I don't want to stay weak in a world like this."
The chunin watched him go in silence.
---
Ren walked down the street slowly, turning toward his usual training spot. His hands tightened into fists at his sides. This was real. No more hiding behind excuses or half-hearted efforts.
He had a week.
No—less.
He would make every hour count.
First, he thought, physical strength. Taijutsu.
He pulled out a notepad he'd found in the refugee supply room and jotted down a rough plan.
Morning: Stretching, sprints, tree climbing with chakra
Midday: Taijutsu drills—stances, dodging, footwork
Afternoon: Chakra control exercises (leaf and water walk)
Evening: Rest and sound control practice
Night: Meditation and chakra pathway tracing
He glanced at the last line and smiled. Even now, part of him was still clinging to his old world—where plans, study, and strategy could solve anything. But here, every second mattered in a different way.
This wasn't about grades. This was about survival. Strength. Purpose.
He slipped the notebook away and looked up at the sky.
The academy was within reach.