The sun slanted through the open windows of the kennel compound, strips of light spilling across the dirt-packed yard and rows of elevated platforms where young ninken barked, tussled, and ran drills. Torao crouched near the fence, elbows on knees, eyes sharp. Masao stood a few paces away, clapping encouragement to the pups.
One of the larger dogs leapt from one platform to the next—a full-body coil and launch, graceful as a thrown blade. Torao's eyes narrowed.
"Did you see that?" he asked Masao.
The younger boy grinned. "Good jump, huh? That's Shiba. He's got hops."
Torao didn't answer. His mind wasn't on the jump's flair. It was on the physics. On how Shiba had landed with a force that should've bent bone or shredded muscle. But he didn't even stumble. Not even a shake in the landing.
The platform wobbled. Shiba barked, tail high, proud.
That isn't tendon. That's not muscle memory. That's something else.
A blur passed in the corner of Torao's vision—an Inuzuka teen, maybe sixteen, racing along the wall's edge above the compound. His sandals barely made a sound as he bounded across a set of rooftops, launching into a flip over the final fence.
No human biomechanics should allow for that kind of acceleration. Not without external assistance.
"Masao," Torao said slowly, "do you know how they do that? The dogs. And the older kids?"
Masao blinked. "Do what?"
Torao tilted his head toward the running track. "Move like that. Run like that. Land like that."
Masao scratched behind his ear. "Oh. Chakra, probably. Dunno. Mama says some people are just fast."
Chakra.
He'd heard the word tossed around. Usually in training contexts. Or in arguments about jutsu.
But what was it, exactly? It wasn't adrenaline. It wasn't just breath control or muscle training. Torao knew those intimately.
No. Chakra was something else.
---
That night, at dinner, he brought it up.
"Mom," he said, after the table had quieted and Masao had started on seconds, "can I ask something?"
His mother glanced at him with mild amusement. "Since when do you ask permission?"
"Today. New leaf."
She snorted. "Alright, shoot."
He leaned forward. "How does chakra work?"
Silence fell over the table for a moment. Masao stopped chewing. Even Takuma looked up from his sake.
His mother put her chopsticks down.
"That's a big question," she said. "But alright. At the simplest level? Chakra is energy. It's made from your physical stamina and your mental focus. Think of it like fuel. Everyone has it. Some more than others."
Torao nodded slowly. "So even animals have it?"
She shrugged. "Some. Most ninken do. They've been trained and bred to use it. But not all animals. And even if they have it, doesn't mean they can do anything with it. Same with people. Most civilians never train in it."
She went on. "Chakra lets you do things you couldn't otherwise do. Run faster, jump higher. Control elements, if you're trained. Heal. Fight. It's the core of all shinobi techniques."
Torao looked down at his hands.
"Can you show me?"
She chuckled. "What, you want me to breathe fire across the table?"
"Not fire. Just... something simple."
She stood, moved to the far wall, and calmly walked up it.
Torao stared, eyes wide.
Not a stumble. Not a strain. She simply defied gravity.
"Basic surface-walking technique," she said over her shoulder. "Good for tree training. Or avoiding puddles."
He burned the image into memory.
---
Later that night, by candlelight, he sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, a scroll unrolled across his lap. Blank. Waiting.
He breathed in. Out. Closed his eyes.
His mother had said to focus on breath. Heart. Body.
So he did.
He breathed.
He counted.
He waited.
Nothing.
No spark. No tingling. No rush.
Just breath. And heartbeat. And silence.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The candle flickered.
He picked up his brush and wrote a single note:
Result: null. Observation: chakra not immediately accessible. Recommendation: continue stimulus and technique exploration.
And beneath that:
What good is all this knowledge if I can't even use it?
---
The next morning, he returned to the kennels.
The master—an older man named Gorou—was tending to one of the pups, a small tan runt with a limping front leg. Torao watched from behind the fence as Gorou laid a glowing green hand over the limb.
The pup gave a soft whine, then calmed.
Green light pulsed softly around Gorou's fingers.
A healing jutsu.
So chakra could reorganize damaged tissue. Accelerate recovery. That wasn't adrenaline. That wasn't regeneration. That was something deeper.
Command-based cellular response, he wrote later. External chakra initiates restructured healing. Possible implications for internal blueprint modification.
He underlined it twice.
---
That night, he didn't try to meditate.
Instead, he watched the candle.
He thought of the dogs and the boy who ran along walls. Of his mother's perfect control. Of Gorou's healing jutsu.
All of them used chakra to push their limits.
He didn't want to push. He wanted to reshape.
That was the difference.
That was his angle.
He turned back to his scroll.
And began drawing—not the bat yet. Not the frog.
Just muscle. Bone. A frame.
Soon.
Very soon.