Chapter: Bunny Dreams, Battle Scars, and the Rise of Clan Song
The day ended on a note so sweet, it could've put a lullaby to shame. My family—my family—was laughing again. Smiling like the sun was back in our sky after years of clouds. It was the kind of moment I used to think only happened in dreams. You know, the kind you wake up from too soon.
But this time, I didn't wake up.
Mom's smile had warmth again. Not that tired, cracked version she used to wear like armor. And the twins? Jae Hyung and Jae Som were running around the backyard like caffeinated puppies, fighting imaginary dragons and probably plotting to turn the couch into their next trampoline arena.
And me? For once, I wasn't the kid watching from the sidelines—I was the one leading this.
We'd been broken after Dad died. We'd hit rock bottom so hard we practically left a crater. But here we were—still standing. And I wasn't some scared kid anymore. I was Lee, the new head of the Song family. I didn't ask for the title. I didn't really want it. But someone had to step up.
So I did.
Just like Master Charles had done for me.
I started by pulling myself together—training every day, eating better, focusing on strength instead of just survival. Then I brought my family along for the ride. First Mom, then the twins. Not because I wanted to turn them into fighters or build a mini-army (okay, maybe a tiny bit), but because I wanted them to be strong. Not just in muscle. In heart. In spirit.
Every morning started with a jog. A little workout. Some stretching, martial arts drills, an obstacle course that made even the neighbors peek out and whisper. They weren't drills to make champions—they were rituals to make us whole.
Pain resistance was part of it, too. I didn't love sparring with my own family, but I needed them to understand one simple truth: getting hit isn't the end. It's just the beginning. Martial arts, life—it all falls apart if you can't take a punch and keep going.
Turns out, they were naturals.
The twins were scary smart—like, top-of-the-class, probably-going-to-own-the-stock-market-by-ten level smart. And Mom? She didn't just bounce back. She leveled up. Her body was healthier than ever, and her energy lit up the house.
As for me, well... I'm still growing. Literally. I've already passed my old height, and I'm not done yet. Maybe I'll hit 190 cm. Maybe I'll finally stop bumping my head on low doors. My body's getting leaner, stronger. Faster. Like it was built for this path.
But something else was growing, too.
A dream.
An old one. Buried under pain and survival instincts. But it was still there, flickering like embers in a firepit.
The dream to build a clan.
Not just any clan. A taijutsu clan. A family that proves the power of the human body, that shows we don't need flashy powers or energy beams or magic weapons to stand tall. Just discipline. Grit. And a whole lot of sweat.
It wasn't just my dream. It started with my master. He believed in the same thing—that martial arts, real ones, built something greater than fists and trophies. They built people. Families. Legacies.
We were going to build it together.
But... that story ended too soon.
Now it's my turn.
I've given my family a good life. I reached that destination. But this isn't the end of the road. Not by a long shot.
It's time to chase the next dream.
It's time to build the Song Clan.
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I once saw a guy punch a mountain so hard it bowed to him like it owed him money.
That guy was Naruto Uzumaki.
Clad in gold, glowing like some kind of sunshine demigod, he stood alone on the battlefield—just him and about a thousand monsters with too many limbs and bad attitudes. A single move. One. That's all it took to erase what would've wiped out half our forces.
I should've been in awe. I should've thrown flowers or at least slow-clapped.
Instead, I just squinted and thought, He's still not using the clones right.
I know. Crazy, right?
Naruto was technically a rival of mine. Emphasis on "technically," because it's hard to rival someone who can bend energy into arms, wings, swords—or heck, probably a dinner plate if he wanted. His chakra wasn't just power—it was will. It moved how he wanted, when he wanted. No extra limbs required. No rules obeyed.
People used to call him an idiot. I didn't. Idiots don't invent a whole new fighting style at age fifteen just because no one else had done it. Idiots don't evolve that style over three years to match high-level jōnin, then keep pushing it until it outgrew even them.
I fought him once.
Well, more like five times.
Each fight was chaos wrapped in unpredictability. Fighting him felt like trying to win a game of chess where every piece was alive and hated you. Clones came at me from every angle, like a hyperactive octopus with a vendetta. I'd block one strike and catch three more in the gut. The worst part? They were linked. Every punch, kick, feint—it wasn't random. It was a concert. And I was the only one not invited to rehearsal.
We always tied.
Mostly because I had better base stats. Sorry, Naruto.
But then he unlocked Sage Mode.
That's when things stopped being a game.
He could predict everything. Every movement I made. My feints didn't work. My speed meant nothing. He just stood there, eerily still, and knew. And then came the golden cloak with chakra hands and freaky reactions, and suddenly I was the one getting tied up in midair and suplexed by what felt like a flying bear.
I remember thinking, If he combined this with Gentle Fist...
That thought still haunts me.
Imagine a strike you can't dodge. A hit that bypasses armor, blocks, even chakra barriers—and goes straight to your internal organs like a ninja tax auditor. Combine that with perfect reaction speed, spatial awareness, and the ability to attack from any angle?
That's the fighting style I want.
No, scratch that.
That's the fighting style I'll create.
I'd take my body's raw power, mix it with Hyūga precision, and blend in Naruto's chaos. Predictive reflexes. Field control. Zero blind spots. A fighting style that adapts mid-battle and turns every part of the body—and every inch of space—into a weapon.
Funny thing is… I used to think Naruto would be the one to make it first.
He had the tools. The power. The genius buried under that ridiculous grin.
So why didn't he?
Why wasn't he using shadow clones to train like I did? Why didn't he break through his own limits? Why did we lose people in the war when one guy had the strength to stop it all?
I know it's not fair to ask that. I know blaming him won't bring anyone back.
But sometimes... I still do.
Not just him. Jiraiya. Kakashi. The people who taught him. The ones who should've pushed him harder. Smarter.
My master never held back the truth. He shoved it in my face with a fist and a speech about youthful effort. But they? They let Naruto drift. They let his potential stagnate.
And yeah, maybe if I'd been smarter back then... more perceptive...
Maybe none of this would've happened.
These thoughts—they sneak up on me. Wrap around my mind when the world's quiet. Mix in with dreams of a better fighting style. A better world.
And that's when I wake up.
No alarm. Don't need one.
My body knows the time like it knows the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Five A.M.
Time to train.
Because if no one else will build the future I dreamed of, then I guess it's up to me.
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Five A.M.
The world outside was dark, cold, and quiet—perfect for ninjas, serial killers, and my family's workout time.
I sat up the moment my internal training clock kicked me in the brain. No alarm needed. Alarms were for people who needed to be told what time it was. My body knew. It screamed, "GET UP! TRAINING WAITS FOR NO MAN!" Which, honestly, should be on a T-shirt.
The moment I opened the door, the rest of the house began to stir. The Song Household Morning Routine had begun.
Everyone moved with the speed of caffeine-fueled hummingbirds. Quick face washes, a few warm-up stretches, and then straight to the kitchen with Mom to prepare a mini-breakfast. Just enough fuel to keep us alive through the madness that was our workout.
Five minutes later, we were out the door and jogging around the neighborhood like a cheerful, slightly terrifying cult of fitness enthusiasts.
My younger siblings kept up for about two kilometers before their legs went full spaghetti. That was okay—they were still kids. They found a bench and started stretching, all grins and determination. I didn't want to push them too hard. No muscle training yet. I wasn't about to stunt their growth just to turn them into mini bodybuilders. Right now, it was all about functionality. Strength. Speed. Movement. No shortcuts.
Mom finished five kilometers with her usual grace—seriously, the woman moved like she had wires pulling her from the heavens. She dove right into her martial arts drills like a boss. We had posters in the basement training room just in case anyone forgot the forms, though honestly, forgetting them would be the equivalent of forgetting your own name. Not happening.
Our basement training room wasn't fancy—no glowing chakra chambers or battle robots—but it had the basics: a couple mats, a punching dummy, weights, and enough space to sweat properly. We didn't need more than that.
Once my siblings retired for the day and Mom shifted to cooldown stretches, I kicked into second gear.
I sprinted ahead, legs pounding the pavement, breath sharp and steady. Cold air nipped at my skin, but my body burned. Literally. I was dressed in my standard gear—shorts, white t-shirt, and a headband to catch the Niagara Falls-level sweat coming out of me.
Twenty kilometers. Every day.
And while I ran, I visualized every fight I'd ever had.
Punch. Duck. Counter. Feint. Kick.
Every combo drilled so deep into my bones, I could probably fight in my sleep. I probably had.
Afterward, I'd meditate. Close my eyes and face off against imaginary foes in my mindscape dojo. The battles were real in every way that mattered. Each move had to make sense—had to be something I could do in the real world. If not, it was garbage. My brain was my sparring partner now.
In our old neighborhood, I used to pass this grumpy old man every morning. He'd wave like I was part of some secret running club. Here? New place, new streets. No grumpy old man. Just a single boy my age jogging the other way.
One glance and I could tell—above-average build. Not a trained fighter. His feet didn't carry the weight like someone who's danced with death before. His gait was too light, untrained. He wasn't part of our world.
Still...
There was something in his eyes.
Fire.
Burning, stubborn, youth.
Not the kind you could fake. The kind that screamed "I want to be better" even when your legs are giving out and your lungs feel like they've been replaced by a pair of broken bagpipes.
I didn't say anything. Just kept running.
But I saw him again twenty minutes later, slumped on a bench in the park, chest heaving like he'd run from a dozen angry ducks. He poured water over his head and looked like he might pass out or ascend to a higher plane.
I sat beside him.
"Good morning," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with my headband. "I'm Song Jae Gu. Just moved here yesterday. If you don't mind me asking—what are you running for? I'm always happy to meet fellow warriors. Maybe we could help each other."
He didn't answer right away, which was smart. Always breathe first, then talk. He sat there, catching his breath, dripping like a busted faucet.
I noticed the damage right away. Scraped knees. Bruised arms. One eye swollen just enough to say, "Hey, I've been punched recently."
He'd been in fights.
Not the tournament kind. The real kind.
And just like that, my interest went from curious to this might be something.