Ken trained in silence.

  Not the kind of silence that came from stillness—but the kind born of obsession. Of motion repeated until it burned. Until the noise of the world couldn’t reach him anymore.

  He stood in the riverbed north of Konoha at dawn, waist-deep in freezing water. Shirt off. Sword resting on a rock nearby. Arms coated in chakra film.

  He moved through water-style forms, slow and smooth.

  Suiton: Mizurappa.A cone of water hissed out of his mouth.

  Suiton: Suiben.He condensed a whip of fluid, swinging it across stones.

  Suiton: Suigeki.A piercing shot from his fingertip struck through a reed stalk like a needle.

  Each one cost less chakra now.

  Each one required less thought.

  By midday, he was already running wind-style drills on the training hill. Clone after clone sparred him, each trying to predict his next strike.

  They never did.

  Fūton: Shōtotsu Kaze.Fūton: Daitoppa.Fūton: Kaze Uchi.

  Short-range. Mid-range. Precision bursts.

  The clones burst apart one by one in clouds of smoke.

  He stood alone again.

  And then—he opened his eyes.

  His Sharingan activated mid-stride. Not in fear. Not in battle.

  In control.

  He pivoted through his form again, but this time—with full visual tracking. Every leaf. Every shimmer of chakra. Every arc of wind slicing through the air.

  He merged them all.

  Water, wind, and vision.

  From the ridge above, Daen watched, arms folded, cigarette burning low.

  “Guess we’re doing this,” he muttered.

  He dropped into the field behind Ken. “Sparring. Full contact. Let’s go.”

  Ken turned, bde already in hand.

  Daen didn’t draw.

  Not yet.

  “First rule,” Daen said, “I hit you, you learn. Second rule—I will hit you.”

  Then he blurred forward.

  Ken was ready.

  They cshed, wind tearing leaves from nearby trees. Ken dodged low, Sharingan predicting the first two strikes, but Daen shifted instantly—spinning and nding a palm-strike against Ken’s ribs.

  Ken slid back, coughing once.

  “Good,” Daen said. “Now move like it hurts.”

  Ken vanished and reappeared behind Daen, wind ced through his palm. Daen ducked, elbowed Ken’s leg, then flipped and caught his sword arm.

  Ken twisted free—barely.

  They went for ten minutes.

  No words.

  Just movement. Grit. And sweat in the dirt.

  When it ended, Ken was bruised and breathing hard.

  But standing.

  Daen cpped him on the shoulder.

  “You’re getting harder to hit.”

  Ken nodded. “Not hard enough.”

  “Yet.”

  Later that evening, Kakashi visited the outdoor training ground near the Third District, where Guy was doing one-handed push-ups—screaming about youth, sweat, and eternal energy.

  Kakashi appeared behind him like a ghost.

  “You’re loud.”

  Guy grinned, mid-handstand. “And you are te!”

  Kakashi handed him a mission slip, but Guy barely gnced at it.

  “What brings you here really, my eternal rival?”

  “There’s a kid,” Kakashi said. “Uchiha. But not cn-bound.”

  Guy flipped upright, blinking. “I heard about the duel. You mean that one?”

  “He trains with weights. Runs full drills before sunrise. Doesn’t show off. Just improves. Quietly.”

  Guy’s eyes lit up.

  “Interesting.”

  Kakashi nodded once. “He’s going to outgrow all of us if he keeps it up.”

  Then he flickered away.

  Three days ter, as Ken trained solo again—this time dragging boulders uphill while chakra reinforced his spine—Guy appeared at the top of the slope, hands on hips, smiling wide.

  “You there! Dark-eyed youth with eyes like tempered steel!”

  Ken looked up, blinking. “...What?”

  “I am Maito Guy! Jonin! Master of strength, sweat, and spirit!”

  Ken stood, exhaled slowly. “I know who you are.”

  “Excellent!” Guy beamed. “Then let us begin our first training session of fate!”

  Ken raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t agree to anything.”

  “Then deny me with effort!” Guy struck a ridiculous pose. “Run the hill with double the weight! Or are you not a man of challenge?”

  Ken stared at him for a moment.

  Then picked up an extra boulder.

  Guy grinned. “I like you.”

  After their impromptu “session,” Ken returned to the library.

  It had become a second home—rows of scrolls, dust, and silence.

  He wasn’t looking for jutsu this time.

  He pulled a worn bingo book from the restricted shelf and flipped through it slowly.

  Elite Missing-nin. High-value Targets. A-rank and above.

  He read through their listed abilities, techniques, combat history. One had mastery over poisons. Another used shadow genjutsu from the Land of Rivers. One S-rank shinobi from the Land of Lightning could control electric fields with no seals at all.

  Ken read until he understood something critical:

  They weren’t stronger because of how much they knew.

  They were stronger because of how they made the basics lethal.

  He took notes—style efficiency, elemental usage, body reinforcement, chakra economy. No wasted movement. No fshy tricks.

  Then, tucked between sealing scrolls, he found something else.

  A beginner’s guide to fuinjutsu.

  He opened it casually. Inside were notes on:

  Binding seals

  Storage tags

  Explosion formus

  Field markers for tracking

  He flipped to the section on chakra suppression tags and read it twice.

  Then he copied the marking diagram onto a bnk slip.

  Not because he wanted to use it yet.

  But because tools were tactics—and Ken wanted to own every tool.

  That night, back in his apartment, he sat beside his sword, Sharingan active, scrolls open around him.

  He studied his own movements.

  Critiqued his strikes.

  Marked his limitations.

  He didn’t want to be a prodigy.

  He wanted to be prepared.

  And slowly, the line between boy and legend blurred a little more.