Satoru stood in the backyard at dawn, fists clenched, eyes blazing with delusional grandeur. The morning mist curled around his ankles like a loyal servant. Today was the day. The day he—Satoru Gojo, future undisputed legend —would bend chakra to his will. No more flickers. No more doubts.
He raised a hand dramatically toward the rising sun.
"Chakra and Control?" he declared, voice echoing with faux divinity.
"I. Am. The Honored—"
"Kid."
Takeo's voice shattered the moment like a kunai through paper. He leaned against the doorway, munching an apple.
"Save the monologues for when you can actually feel your chakra. Now sit. We're meditating."
Satoru deflated.
"...You ruin everything."
Takeo tossed the apple core into the bushes.
"That's my job, *Honored One*. Now breathe. And try not to lose your focus."
The sudden shift from Satoru's grand fantasy to harsh reality left the backyard heavier than before. As Satoru reluctantly lowered himself to the grass, the morning's hopeful mist now felt like a damp shroud.
The backyard felt too quiet. Satoru sat cross-legged, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched on his knees. Sweat trickled down his temple, mixing with the dried blood Takeo hadn't commented on. Inside his mind, a mantra played on loop. 'Chakra is energy. Energy is power. Power is freedom. Freedom is… mine.'
But his body? Ached. His ribs throbbed. His knuckles stung. And the only "energy" he felt was the angry buzz of humiliation.
Across from him, Takeo leaned against the laundry pole, arms folded. His voice cut through the silence, dry as sand.
"You're holding your breath. Like a kid diving into a pond for the first time."
Satoru's eyes snapped open. "I'm concentrating!"
"Concentrating on what? Suffocating?" Takeo pushed off the pole and crouched before him. "Chakra isn't a weapon you yank from your gut. It's a river. You don't fight it—you let it flow."
Satoru glared. "I know how it works! Physical energy plus spiritual energy, tenketsu points, molding—"
"And yet," Takeo interrupted, tapping Satoru's trembling fist.
"your hands are colder than a winter stream."
He sighed, the sound heavy with something Satoru couldn't name—not anger, not disappointment. Something… tired.
"You think I wanted to wait this long to teach you? That I enjoyed watching you stumble blind?"
Satoru stayed silent.
Takeo's gaze drifted toward the house—toward the unseen bills, the mended tools, the worn blue paint. "B-rank missions buy new clothes. C-rank puts food on the table. There's no time for… lessons." His voice hardened.
"Until now. Because that Academy will eat you alive if you walk in like *this*." He gestured at Satoru's bruised face.
Satoru flinched. The words stung worse than the kicks.
"Now," Takeo said, standing.
"Stop trying to *force* the world to bow. Just breathe."
Satoru shut his eyes again. This time, he didn't chase the energy. He listened. To the wind. To his own heartbeat. To the dull ache of his body.
And then—a flicker. A tiny, almost imaginary warmth uncurling in his palms. Like sunlight on skin after a long winter.
His breath hitched. Was it…?
Before he could grasp it, it vanished.
He opened his eyes, frustrated, ready to snap—but found Takeo watching him, a ghost of approval in his sharp blue eyes.
"…Told you," Satoru mumbled, defiant. "I felt it."
Takeo snorted. "Sure you did, hero." But he turned away, hiding a faint smile.
"Dinner's in an hour. Try not to bleed on the tofu."
Three days later...
Three days had passed since that phantom warmth flickered in Satoru's palms—three days of stubborn meditation, gritted teeth, and Takeo's infuriatingly calm voice repeating. "Breathe. Don't force it."
Now, under the late afternoon sun, Satoru stood perfectly still in the backyard. A single leaf rested on his forehead, its edges trembling like a frightened bird. Sweat beaded along his hairline, but he didn't blink.
'Focus,' he commanded himself.
'Channel the energy. Be the Honored Leaf-Holder. The Unshakable—'
A stray thought slithered in—'What if someone saw me like this? Pathetic, balancing foliage like a circus act…'
The leaf shuddered.
'No!' He slammed his mental walls up.
'Power is focus. Focus is control. Control is—'
"Satoru-kun! Dinner's ready!"
His mother's voice sliced through the air—bright, sudden, and utterly devastating.
The leaf tumbled.
It drifted in a slow, mocking spiral past his nose, landed toeside-up on his sandal, and lay there like a green, grinning insult.
Satoru stared at it. Then at the kitchen window where his mother's silhouette hovered. Then back at the leaf.
"...Stupid leaf," he muttered, kicking it into the radish patch. "Stupid wind. Stupid... dinner."
He stomped toward the house, shoulders hunched in defeat. Three days. Three days of aching knees and empty palms. And for what? A leaf on his face and tofu on the table.
The path to godhood, it seemed, was paved with wilted vegetables.
Satoru stomped into the house, still radiating wounded pride and leaf-related betrayal. The cozy interior smelled of miso soup and simmered vegetables—a stark contrast to the storm brewing at the dinner table.
There, hands planted firmly on her hips, stood **Aiko Gojo**. Her sharp eyes, the color of dark amber, pinned Satoru the moment he slid the door open. Wild chestnut hair framed a face that might've been called pretty if not for the ferocious scowl twisting her features. She wore a simple indigo apron over her kimono, but it looked less like domestic wear and more like battle armor.
"Look at you!" she snapped, voice like cracking timber. "Dirt in your hair, sweat stains down your back, and that leaf *still* stuck to your forehead! Were you raised by badgers?"
Satoru opened his mouth—
"Don't you dare talk back!" Aiko cut him off, jabbing a wooden spoon toward his face.
"Training? Training is for daylight! Not until sunset while dinner grows cold! And you smell like a wet boar rolled in radish patch!"
Takeo sat calmly at the low table, sipping tea. His eyes flickered between wife and son, a silent spectator to the typhoon.
"But I was *this close* to mastering leaf control—" Satoru tried, peeling the offending leaf from his skin.
Aiko's spoon slammed onto the table.
"*This close* to sleeping outside with the actual badgers, boy! Bath. Now. Or I'll scrub you raw myself!"
Takeo cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him.
Under Aiko's fiery gaze, he set down his cup with deliberate calm.
"Listen to your mother, Satoru," he said, voice smooth but firm.
"No more training tonight."
Satoru's shoulders slumped—
"Because," Takeo continued, a sly edge creeping into his tone,
"tomorrow at dawn…" He paused, meeting his son's widening eyes.
"...we begin taijutsu."
Aiko huffed, crossing her arms.
"Taijutsu! More bruises! More stink! Why must men turn everything into combat?"
But Satoru wasn't listening. His earlier defeat evaporated like morning dew. Taijutsu. Real combat training. Fists, not leaves.
He shot toward the bath like a kunai released from its sheath, yelling over his shoulder.
"Yes! Finally! I'll be the Honored in Hand-to-Hand—"
Aiko's wooden spoon whistled through the air, thumping harmlessly against the doorframe he'd just dodged past.
"WASH BEHIND YOUR EARS!" she bellowed.
Takeo hid his smile behind another sip of tea. The path to godhood.
It seemed, now included dodging flying kitchenware.
Satoru slid the bathroom door shut, leaning against it with a huff. The steam from the bath already fogged the small room, but nothing could blur the memory of his mother's fury. 'Wet boar rolled in radish patch'. The insult bounced around his skull, sharper than any kunai.
He peeled off his filthy clothes, wincing as fabric tugged at the fading bruises on his ribs. The mirror showed a boy far from godhood—dirt-streaked cheeks, hair plastered with sweat and leaf fragments, and a stubborn scrape across his shoulder.
'*Master of the leaf*, huh?' he mocked himself, sinking into the hot water.
'More like master of *falling* leaves.'
But then—Takeo's promise echoed.
'Tomorrow at dawn... taijutsu'.
Satoru's eyes lit up. He punched the water, sending waves sloshing over the tub's edge.
'Real combat! No more stupid leaves! Just fists and speed and—'
His fantasy erupted.
*Him*, a blur of white hair, dodging blows like wind through bamboo.
*Takeo*, wide-eyed and impressed as Satoru landed a flawless roundhouse kick.
One or two girls watching from the shadows, breathless at his prowess.
"The Honored Hand-to-Hand Combatant!" he whispered dramatically to the soap bubbles.
Reality tugged back. His bruised ribs throbbed in the heat. That older boy's punch flashed in his memory—the *crack* of knuckle on bone, the dizzying fall.
'...I'll need better dodging,' he admitted, tracing a bruise.
'Maybe then I won't end up eating dirt.'
Outside, his mother's voice sliced through the door:
"Don't use all the hot water, radish-roller!"
Satoru dunked his head underwater to muffle a groan.