The party went off without a hitch—if anything, it turned out even better than expected. The atmosphere shifted into something more vibrant and joyous when Hiruzen arrived, accompanied by his wife and their son. Their presence brought a sense of ease, as if everything was right with the world, at least for that night.
Nawaki stayed well into the evening, laughing and mingling, his energy as infectious as ever. I watched him from across the room, glad to see him enjoying himself so freely. It felt like the first time in weeks that things were just... simple.
The next day, something small but meaningful happened. Nawaki showed up wearing the bracelet I had given him. Not just that day—every day since. It clung to his wrist like it belonged there, as natural as breathing. I've yet to see him take it off.
Whenever someone at the academy noticed and asked about it, he'd just grin, flash a cheeky smile in my direction, and say nothing more. That silence said everything.
Time slipped by in an easy rhythm after that. Weeks passed without incident, nothing dramatic, nothing pressing. Just the slow, comforting pulse of routine. November turned to December, and then both months vanished in a blink.
Christmas wasn't really celebrated here, but I still found a reason to give Nawaki a gift to mark the new year. He accepted it with that familiar lopsided smile, the kind that always made me feel like I'd done something right.
The gift? A small tin of [All-Blue Salt]—a rare seasoning with a taste that, according to legend, came from the convergence of all the world's oceans. To my surprise, both Nawaki and his sister became hooked on it.
I sometimes forget how much sway culinary quality holds, especially when [One Piece] is involved. Food in that world is practically a religious experience.
Maybe it's time I revisited their crossover with [Toriko]—there's always something new to learn when passion and flavor collide.
By mid-February, the snow that had blanketed the village from December to January had finally melted. The ground was still damp in places, but the air had warmed, signaling the quiet approach of spring. That day, we gathered in the academy courtyard, the sky open and pale above us.
Harima-sensei stood at the front, a familiar figure in the late morning light. He cleared his throat and spoke with a tone that carried weight.
"Today, we begin your foundations of becoming a true ninja."
His words landed like a spark on dry kindling. I watched the expressions of my classmates shift—some eyes wide with anticipation, others tense with resolve. Something had changed. We were no longer just students in training. The journey ahead was real now, tangible.
"You've waited patiently for this moment," Harima continued, pacing slowly before us. "Now, it's time to test your worth. The foundation you lay today will decide the shape of your legend tomorrow."
His voice carried power—not in volume, but in certainty. It wasn't a speech. It was a declaration.
"Our first lesson: Endurance."
He turned slightly, gesturing behind him.
"That field over there? You'll run it. Over and over, until your legs give out. If you're too tired to continue, you'll stand beside me until we're done. No shame in that—but understand your limit, and then remember it. Because a shinobi must break it."
We nodded, almost in unison, and began walking toward the track. The excitement was palpable, a silent tension thrumming in the air. I caught sight of Nawaki among the crowd—he shot me a confident grin, that familiar spark in his eyes. I returned a thumbs-up. No words were needed. We understood each other.
By the time everyone lined up at the starting point, Harima raised a hand.
"Everyone ready? START!"
______________________________________________________________
Harima Shundo.
51 years old. Elite Jōnin. War veteran. Father. Husband.
Officially retired. Unofficially, still the sharpest blade in Konoha's shadow.
He had earned his reputation in the First Ninja War—not for raw power, but for precision. For silence. A master of interrogation, eclipsed only by the most skilled of the Yamanaka. Most civilians didn't know his name. That was the point.
Now, on orders from the Third Hokage, he had one final task. Quiet. Passive. Observation only.
But the subject?
Senju Nawaki.
Grandson of the First Hokage. Nephew of the Second. Brother to the princess of Konoha. A bloodline laced with legacy.
Harima had seen his kind before—Uchiha, Hyuga, even the Nara. Gifted, proud, often insufferable. Fugaku Uchiha, in particular, had nearly broken several academy instructors. Harima was glad someone else had drawn that lot.
He expected Nawaki to be the same.
He was wrong.
Nawaki was different. Grounded. Open. Like someone had taken the effort to raise him right.
That someone?
Kiyu Gunto.
No clan. No noble ties. No skeletons in his file. Clean. But Harima had learned long ago—clean didn't mean ordinary.
Kiyu's grades were exceptional—second only to Minato Namikaze. But it was the extracurriculars that stood out. Every two weeks, like clockwork, he trained alone in a different area. No standard drills. No recognizable forms. Whatever he was doing, it worked.
So well, in fact, that even Nawaki had started joining him.
Which was why today's endurance test wasn't going to end like Harima had originally planned.
The students began to drop, one by one, collapsing into the grass beside him—faces flushed, chests heaving. Harima watched silently, taking notes. Civilian-born students tapped out first, as expected. Then the clan heirs, slowly and stubbornly.
At the 30-minute mark, only three remained.
Minato. Nawaki. Kiyu.
Minato looked rough—skin slick with sweat, breathing shallow and desperate. But his gaze remained locked on the other two. That drive to be more—to match or exceed—burned in him like wildfire.
Harima admired that. Even as Minato stumbled.
Finally, Harima blew his whistle.
Thweeeeet!
"That's enough! The three of you are exempt from this drill tomorrow. Rest up. We continue at dawn!"
A collective sigh rippled through the field. Harima turned, marking notes on his clipboard, though his real attention stayed fixed on the boys.
Minato looked ready to collapse. But Nawaki and Kiyu?
They looked bored.
"Man, I was expecting something harder," Nawaki muttered as they walked off, hands folded behind his head. "Is this a test, or recess?"
"I think we're just... ahead of the curve," Kiyu replied, voice even.
"We are the curve," Nawaki said with a grin, casting a smug glance at their gasping classmates sprawled like discarded dolls across the field.
Kiyu didn't answer right away. He looked up at the sky, where clouds ambled past like they had nowhere urgent to be. "Maybe. But the curve makes us a target."
Nawaki sighed. "Always the overthinker."
"Someone has to be."
Their boots squelched in the soft earth as they walked toward the gates. Behind them, scattered laughter mixed with exhausted groans. Harima stood off to the side, expression unreadable, eyes locked on the pair.
"Senju and Gunto," he murmured, barely audible. "One born for greatness. The other... choosing it."