"Zeri-sensei!"
The trio rushed to their teacher's side, panic and urgency written across their faces as they scrambled to tend to his injuries.
Unfortunately, none of them had any real medical training.
"Maemon, are you wrapping those bandages or hog-tying a pig?!"
"Meri, now isn't the time to tie your knots like decorative butterflies!"
"Renjiro—what did I do to offend you?!"
"Nothing that I recall."
"Then why are you wrapping the bandage around my neck? Are you trying to kill me?!"
"…"
By the time they finished, Zeri couldn't tell what had been more life-threatening—his encounter with the Mist-nin or the so-called first aid from his team. At least the enemy hadn't tried to strangle him mid-treatment.
Despite the chaos, a weary but genuine smile appeared on his face: "Team Zeri... I have to say, you've exceeded every expectation."
He gestured for them to sit, allowing a rare moment of praise.
Their accomplishment was no small feat. All three had just graduated from the Ninja Academy. They had no field experience, no real combat exposure—and yet, against all odds, they had defeated three experienced enemy shinobi. Fighters raised in the brutal ways of the Blood Mist, and they'd done it head-on.
Their performance wasn't just admirable. It was extraordinary.
And yet, his students took the compliment with surprising composure. Meri maintained her usual cool demeanor. Maemon simply nodded. Renjiro gave a shrug, as if brushing the praise aside.
Zeri watched them, quietly impressed in his heart: "Perhaps… I've stumbled upon some real talent." Their calm, focused expressions gave him hope for what they could become.
But the moment passed, and Zeri's face turned serious. From behind his back, he pulled out a tightly bound cloth parcel, its fabric was stained with blood.
"Team Zeri." He said, placing it gently before them: "There's a more urgent task now. You must escort this back to camp—quickly and safely."
The instant the bundle touched the ground, the three recognized its importance.
"Battlefield intelligence!" Renjiro realized instantly.
Even without opening it, every ninja knew what it was. In times of war, information like this—especially carried by a Chūnin—could shift the tide of an entire campaign. It had to reach command, and failure was not an option.
"I can't go on with my current situation." Zeri said in low and exhausted voice as he looked at the trio: "This mission… now belongs to you."
"Understood!" the three answered in unison. Their casual expressions were gone, replaced by razor-sharp focus.
Zeri nodded with satisfaction: "Then move out."
Without wasting a second, the group launched into motion, the seriousness of their new mission started driving them forward.
---
Surprisingly, the journey back to camp was uneventful, no ambushes or pursuit. The forest remained still, and the shadows held no threats.
Only three of them actually walked into the camp on their own.
The moment Team Zeri entered the perimeter of the Konoha camp, they were spotted by hidden sentries.
Swiftly and efficiently, Zeri was taken away for emergency medical attention and debriefing, while Renjiro, Meri, and Maemon were escorted to the command post.
There, a new directive awaited them.
In light of their outstanding performance—and Zeri's current condition—the higher-ups decided on a temporary reassignment. Team Zeri was exempted from further frontline duties. Instead, the trio would remain within the safety of the camp to assist with internal operations until their leader recovered.
It was, of course, a logistical decision. The truth was simple: there were too many odd jobs that needed doing, and too few hands to do them. The command needed warm bodies, and Team Zeri had proven capable—even if barely out of the academy.
Still, none of the three objected. In fact, they were quietly relieved.
After the brutal trial of real combat, each of them had come to recognize just how far they still had to go. Their teamwork had been tested, and though they'd succeeded, they had all seen the cracks. Time to reflect and improve was exactly what they needed.
After a day of rest, the team members received their assignments.
Meri, with her steady hands and sharp attention to detail, was sent to assist in the field hospital.
Maemon, always lingering around the mess tent anyway, was predictably assigned to the kitchen—much to his own delight.
Renjiro, however, made a different choice, he volunteered for the job nobody wanted: hauling water and chopping firewood.
It wasn't out of humility. Nor was it about discipline. His reasoning was practical—deliberate, and perfect for his next training stage.
---
Renjiro had never seen the entire Naruto anime, but he'd seen enough to remember the fundamentals.
He knew there were ways to enhance his abilities that didn't require bloodshed—methods rooted in discipline, control, and technique. Two in particular came to mind: Tree Climbing and Water Walking.
Both were chakra control exercises. And in the shinobi world, chakra control was everything.
Superior chakra control didn't just conserve energy—it unlocked mastery. Ninjutsu, Genjutsu, medical techniques, even stealth operations all demanded precise manipulation of chakra, and without it, a shinobi's potential would always be capped.
Power without control is just waste!
Renjiro understood this. He needed to refine his foundation before chasing greater strength. And what better way to begin than the old-fashioned way—through repetition, balance, and physical labor?
Chopping wood, and carrying water mission would provide him with good environment to train himself.
---
Renjiro made the most of his assignments.
While gathering firewood, he practiced Tree Climbing. When fetching water, he trained in Water Walking. What began as menial chores quickly became an integrated part of his training routine.
At first, he held onto a hopeful theory—maybe his high mental power meant better chakra control?
Reality answered that question with brutal honesty, mental strength was not the same as chakra control.
"If I want to get stronger." Renjiro muttered to himself: "I need to start from the basics."
He took a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and charged toward a tall tree: "Here I come."
With chakra flowing to his feet, he launched upward—only to be flung backward a few meters before crashing to the ground.
Bang!
He tumbled twice across the dirt, groaning.
On the second attempt two, he climbed even higher… and fell even harder.
Bang!
By the third attempt, he decided that brain trauma wasn't part of the training. He wasn't a masochist, after all. So, he padded the tree's base with a thick cushion of leaves and branches.
Still, he wasn't alone in this effort.
Dragging himself up with a grunt, he muttered: "Arkain… you've logged all my previous attempts, right?"
[Beep—Recorded and Stored.]
"Perfect. Now I want you to filter out the correct chakra output patterns to help me master Tree Climbing. Build a real-time model to guide me through it."
[Beep! Mission Established… Simulation Initiated. Correction Syncing in Progress…]
With that, Renjiro resumed his training—this time with the full analytical support of Arkain, the biomechanical assistant embedded in his system.
What followed was a drastic shift in his progress.
Every time he used too much or too little chakra, Arkain pinged him with exact feedback. Deviations were logged, flagged, and instantly corrected. Every step became data. Every fall, a lesson. His movements were no longer guesswork—became measured, refined, efficient.
Arkain's real-time simulations and adaptive modeling accelerated his development far beyond normal genin standards.
Within a single week, Renjiro had not only mastered Tree Climbing, but also achieved stable Water Walking—gliding calmly across the surface of the shallow pond in the training area like it was solid ground.
By then, his chakra control had reached the level of a fully trained Chūnin.
---
But Renjiro didn't stop there.
Having completed the basic chakra control exercises, he found himself restless again—eager to grow, to get stronger. After surviving a real life-and-death battle, he had changed in ways that weren't immediately visible on the surface.
Internally, though, something had shifted, he no longer saw this world as a dream or a glitch in reality. It wasn't a trap or some passing illusion, it was reality, his new reality.
He was no longer the awkward, shut-in nerd from the modern world. He was Renjiro—a genin of Konoha, a shinobi living in an age of war.
Death, he now understood, could arrive at any moment. One misstep, one moment of carelessness—even the strong could fall. Every mission was a gamble, every breath on the battlefield was a privilege and blessing.
What disturbed him most, however, was the knowledge that things wouldn't settle even if this war ended. He knew the history of this world too well.
Peace—when it came—would only be temporary. The real chaos was still years away. In less than two decades, the world would be thrown into a storm by Uchiha Madara, with powers far beyond what he currently comprehended.
In short, this was a world designed to kill the weak, and Renjiro was determined not to be one of them.
With a grim sense of clarity, he cast aside any remaining laziness or escapist fantasies. Survival would require strength—nothing else. And if he wanted to live long enough to see tomorrow, he had to earn that strength himself.
Unfortunately… that's where the problem started.
"What should I do now?" Setting beneath a tree with his arms crossed, Renjiro muttered.
He'd tried thinking of advanced techniques, forbidden jutsu, even obscure ninja paths. But nothing concrete came to mind. He had no clan secrets. No inherited dojutsu. No genius teacher whispering forbidden knowledge in his ear.
"Ahh!" He let out a long sigh filled with frustration.
The world of Naruto... it really is ruled by bloodlines.
Looking across the major players of this world, it was hard to find anyone truly strong who hadn't come from some famous lineage. The Uchiha, the Hyuga, the Senju… even many of the feared rogue ninjas hailed from once-powerful clans.
"This world... really does favor the privileged." Renjiro said quietly, leaning back against the tree.
Of course, there were rare exceptions—outliers like the Fourth Hokage or Orochimaru. Civilian-born, yet they had risen to prominence.
But even they hadn't done it entirely alone. Minato Namikaze, the Fourth Hokage, had been trained by none other than Jiraiya of the Legendary Sannin. Orochimaru's mentor was the Third Hokage himself. Talent was one thing, opportunity… that was another.
Their "humble origins" came with powerful guidance.
Renjiro looked up through the tree canopy, narrowing his eyes as a breeze rustled the leaves above.
He had no powerful teacher, no bloodline, no especial secret jutsu.
The Shinobi World, Renjiro realized, was perhaps the most unforgiving place for ordinary people.
It was a world designed by bloodlines, for bloodlines.
Clan secrets. Kekkei Genkai. Hidden arts passed from generation to generation. The elite held the keys to power, while civilian-born shinobi were expected to survive on scraps—or die trying.
Aside from a few rare exceptions, the system was mercilessly clear. If you weren't born with a legacy, you'd have to create your own. But how many ever managed that?
No one handed out advanced jutsu to nobodies. No one offered mentorship to background-less orphans—unless they displayed overwhelming talent at the Academy, and Renjiro… hadn't.
Even now, Arkain's analysis of the Lightning Style: Thunder Ball jutsu had stalled for days. Not because the AI was flawed, but because it lacked data—technical scrolls, reference materials, and chakra formulae it could compare against.
Without the right input, even the most powerful processor hits a wall.
Renjiro knew this wasn't Arkain's failure—it was his own lack of resources. Without proper access to clan libraries or advanced jutsu databases, Arkain's deduction capacity was limited. Power required knowledge, and knowledge was hoarded.
As for improving by doing missions?
Possible—but only if the mission was significant enough to matter. High-risk, high-reward assignments sometimes led to new techniques or specialized training—if the village believed you were worth investing in. But for most genin, the mission rewards were clearly stated… and paid in plain green ryo.
No secret scrolls, no good jutsu, just coins and paperwork.
"I could try to latch onto someone powerful..." He muttered, briefly entertaining the idea. But the thought died quickly, crushed by bitter laughter.
He had no clan. No impressive grades. No famous relatives. Why would any powerful shinobi spare him more than a passing glance?
When he stripped away the fantasies and traced every thread back to its root, only one truth remained, he can only rely on himself.
But that didn't mean he was alone.
"…Thank god I have you, Arkain." Renjiro said softly, gazing up at the shifting sunlight through the treetops.
Without Central's intervention—without Arkain—he would've died back on that blood-soaked battlefield. Killed by a Mist-nin on his first mission, forgotten before he ever left a mark.
Now, though still weak, he had direction, he has his own aid, and more importantly a strong will to survive.
His journey had only just begun.