The sun over Kumogakure filtered down through pale, scattered clouds, turning the dust-choked alleys into glowing veins of gold.
Ryoma stood at the edge of the Academy's sparring circle, hands balled into fists at his sides. His classmates shouted, threw punches, and practiced half-learned chakra control exercises. A few of the older students—likely in their final year—were beginning to learn surface-walking, clinging to the walls of the courtyard with shaky feet.
He mimicked their motions in his mind. Counted their steps. Matched their stances. Never joined in.
Not because he was ignored—Kumogakure didn't waste potential. Clan-born or civilian, every student was given a fair shot. But Ryoma had to work harder than most. His chakra reserves were shallow, his control unrefined. His parents weren't shinobi, and while they supported him, they couldn't guide him.
Still, he watched. Memorized. Practiced in secret.
The bell rang. Class dismissed.
Ryoma slipped past the older students and began walking home. His feet dragged along the stone-lined path toward the residential quarter where his family's tiny curio stall sat nestled between a laundry shop and an abandoned weapons forge. The stall was mostly a glorified tarp and table setup, filled with cracked teacups, broken trinkets, and the occasional real antique his father managed to scavenge from estate sales or clearance lots.
His mother waved at him as he approached, already knelt beside a customer bartering over a rusted incense burner. He offered her a nod, then ducked behind the curtain at the back of the tent and sat with his legs crossed.
He didn't mind the quiet. It gave him time to think.
He needed something. Not a shortcut. Not a secret jutsu. Just a direction. A way forward. Everyone else had clan legacies, mentors, bloodline techniques. He didn't. Just a trickle of chakra, and a stubborn refusal to fall behind.
It was during the market's final hour—when the sun had dipped low and merchants were packing up—that he saw the box.
It sat half-buried beneath a folding table, surrounded by mildewed scroll tubes and cracked ceramic jars. A rectangular shape, dull black plastic, dust-coated, with a thick cord wrapped twice around its middle.
Ryoma crouched. Pulled it out. He had no idea what it was.
A man behind the table—older, not ancient, dressed like a factory clerk—looked up from tying down a tarp. "Found something, kid?"
Ryoma held up the box. "What's this?"
The man squinted. "Dunno. Electronics or something. Junk drawer stuff. You want it? Take it."
"For free?"
"Sure. Doesn't work anyway."
Ryoma tucked it under his arm.
---
He assembled it that night.
The black box opened like a clamshell. Inside was a flat, gray rectangle with a slot up top and two ports in front—alongside a worn controller shaped like a smile. Nestled beside it was a cracked plastic screen. The whole set was heavier than it looked, with no plug, no switch, no scroll of instructions. Just... waiting.
He sat in the middle of his room, the screen balanced on his knees, and touched the center of the console's faceplate with the tips of both hands.
He pushed chakra into it.
At first, nothing.
Then—a spark.
The box throbbed once beneath his palms. The screen lit up with a flicker, gray at first, then pixelated color. A jingle rang out. Simple. Cheerful.
Super Mario World.
Ryoma blinked.
He had no idea how to play. No one he knew had ever seen something like this. But the console worked, and that alone made it feel important. He picked up the controller, hesitated for a breath, then hit Start.
The game was absurdly colorful. A little mustached man bounced across clouds and hills, stomping on turtles and dodging lava. The controls were stiff and awkward at first—Ryoma died five times before he could clear the first stage.
He didn't give up. Not after the effort it took just to get the thing working.
Instead, he played late into the night, growing more frustrated with each restart. He had no memory of game mechanics. No tricks. No cheats. No chakra tricks to lean on. It was just trial and error.
By the time he passed the first castle and saved his progress, Ryoma's thumbs ached and his eyes felt like sand.
But he smiled.
There were seven worlds left. He wasn't fast. But he would get there.