Reversing the Pendulum

Chapter 1: A New Generation

In the beginning, there was unbearable pain.

He traced the touch of translucent skin under novice, inexperienced fingers, prodding, examining carefully in every crevice—every sliver the tightly wrapped attire allowed. He would only touch sections that were willingly exposed, for even he knew to respect to privacy of those deceased. The epidermis of the elder man was cooling steadily and continuing to do so as he caught his breath, attempting to rationalize the next course of action.

Only there wasn't any possible contemplation, any alternative he could conjure in the feeble aspects of a naïve, arcane psyche.

As loud screams were flung haphazardly, hate brandished towards the sky soon eclipsed by the rapid agglomeration of clouds, fingers trembled, wrapping loosely around dilapidated cloth. Irrevocably, he concluded this must be what crying feels like as the relentless pummeling of raindrops intertwined with the saltiness of his own tears. It blanketed the dirt grounds of the village, causing many to flee to the warmth and safety of their own homes, his despairing supplication falling upon deaf ears, drowned out as the forsaken, superior heavens mocked him with an even louder ridicule.

Cold and growing colder, he employed his best endeavors to shield the much larger body with his frail one, shivering as the downpour drenched his form to its innermost core.

The burning of the skies became agonizing.

In a frantic effort, he shifted his gaze to the shops, which by now were drawn shut, villagers either oblivious or choosing the more painless of the latter to avoid offering assistance and direct confrontation. Their presence wasn't wanted, they assumed. Their help would go ineffective. Families watched the spectacle through the thin fissures of their shelters, where filtered light cascaded out onto the evacuated streets.

"Ojii-sama! Ojii-sama! Ronin-ojii-sama!" Feverish eyes vivid with turbulence and anguish reacted to the slightest movement in his peripheral vision, turning to set upon a boy no more than one year younger than himself amidst the company of a man much older, distinguishably related. Heterochromatic eyes burned his vision at the sight of the younger male turning his head to meet the faltering implorations, the right a deep crimson while the left bore an encompassment of vibrant emerald shades.

His reverie was shattered instantaneously as the older figure shielded the child's vision with an umbrella, admonishing him with unheard reprimands as they sauntered down the opposite direction, fingers pressed almost urgently to the younger's back as if in an attempt to mask the cruel reality from virtuous eyes.

"Ojii-sama… Ojii…sama…" A single purposeful choke clawed its way up his throat, yet remained tightly lodged in the passage of his airway. The blood of innocence singed the dark expanses above, wielded by the shape of one that had succumbed to loss beneath. The action provided nothing to warm the unyielding drops pelting the exposed pieces of his writhing physique.

"Don't leave me, Ojii-sama… Ojii-sama… Ronin-ojii-sama…"

An older male shut the memory from his mind three years later, cursing in retrospect at the brief moment of distraction, thus allowing his opponent to gain the upper hand. Sidestepping to the left, he avoided an assault that would have collided with his face had he not taken the initiative. Evading the rapid secondary counter, he lowered his body to shift his foot forward, sweeping it across to connect with the ankle of his adversary and effectively displacing his body onto the grass. Without sparing as much as a brief pause, he disappeared and reappeared on the back of the younger male, and within a matter of moves, he shifted the other's arm behind to his vertebrae, effectively ceasing any struggle of the latter to dislodge the older boy. There they stayed in a neatly arranged compromise of positions—breaths hasty and heartbeats rushed until their bodies stopped shaking and their respiration somewhat regressed to a normal rate.

The younger of the two was the first to rouse himself, unceremoniously pushing his senior off as he took an inventory of his injuries, each one applied nothing less than with a callous and ruthless manner; despite the severity of the contusions on his arms and the bruises across his face, by now swelling tenfold, he showed no evidence of the discoloration being a bother, much less the damage that would have unquestionably caused hemorrhage. Though not sustaining as much harm, the sparse amount of injuries marring the elder youth's extremities elicited a mixed reaction of grimacing and discomfort.

"It is tomorrow, isn't it?" the former questioned, feeling a sense of superiority as he met the other male's accusing stare. "Yukio-senpai." The last remnants of formality felt superfluous, though he added it mockingly if anything less.

"Address me with respect, Yotōmushi. You're my junior, and I will not accept such impudence." The respective male's response was given bitterly, his set of livid orbs set critically on the expressionless other before he veered his attention to the visible damage of capillaries protruding on pallid flesh. "How is the swelling? Does it hurt?"

A pregnant silence was drawn out as the younger figure opened his mouth to speak, not fathoming the inquiry. His eyes averted to the leaf covering above. "No… Not at all."

Yukio drew upon a crooked, foreign sort of smile. "Of course not, Yotōmushi."

"Yotōmushi, Yotōmushi," he repeated contemptuously, regaining his poise. "By tomorrow, we will be equals. Wouldn't you say we're a bit past the notion of degrading epithets?" The iridescent sun scorched its rays through the canopy of leaves, illuminating the younger as if marking his words, throwing out its last desperate flames while being swallowed by the grim skyline.

"If you've been attempting to prove yourself as my equal, you've been failing spectacularly."

The erected dusky red facility casted an extensive, elongated silhouette against the sand of the anterior school grounds, stretching to the notable trees at the outlying edge with one specifically identified by the forlorn swing attached to its branch. Prominent at the front entrance emblazoned a bold kanji; within the walls, the sizeable building comprised of several classrooms notable in their extent. Particularly, copious numbers of the Jōnin and Anbu were frequently sighted circulating from the upper level of the Hokage office to the front entrance as well as to outlying districts of the concentrated village. Rumors propagated through selective Chūnin that a recent slaughter had occurred at the hamlet's remote borders, accounting for the great convention of the elite, though they themselves could not verify the validity of the proposed allegations.

Yukio assumed a sly, sardonic smile across thin lips as he took his designated seat next to the window at the front of the classroom, reminiscing the stiff feeling of occupying a wooden bench. His classmates slowly filtered into the other seats ordered alphabetically, gradually elevating the overall noise level and ruckus. If anyone had taken a note of his attendance, they didn't visibly portray it. After all, he couldn't say he'd familiarized himself with anyone during being present, much less outside of the Academy when absent.

The mellifluous note of their Academy instructor's voice emerged from the entrance, quickly quelling the effervescent commotion in the classroom only a few moments ago. He hadn't been able to identify her, which he attributed to the Hokage having installed a new Chūnin during his nonappearance.

"Students," she began, performing a complete speculation of the pupils who'd all chosen a specific place to wear their forehead protectors, "as you all know, today is the day of your graduation." She momentarily acquired a makeshift pause, noticing one face she hadn't witnessed for a year while another whom she hadn't recognized at all.

"As of today, you are all ninja. In order to get here, it's no secret that you've faced many difficult trials, but only by confronting those hardships were you able to see me here congratulating you today. However, now you are only Genin, low-leveled ninja, and the problems and struggles to come will be far more difficult. Do not become overconfident as the world is listless with shinobi, countless who are more experienced and stronger than you! The real danger has only begun, and by wearing these forehead protectors, the leaf symbol signifies your indisputable loyalty and commitment to this village. From now on, you are ninja and will carry out tasks to represent this village and maintain its glory in the shinobi world.

"All Genin will be assembled into a three-man cell, all of which will be under the supervision of a Jōnin leader. Your higher authority will be your instructor, therefore being the one to provide you all of your orders within and out of missions. The squads are set up by an insight into each individual's strengths and weaknesses in order to complement the collective team."

As the impassive Academy instructor announced the series of names, interest had slowly been drained from those not addressed, while emotions ranging from ire and antipathy to casual pleasantries of introduction disseminated throughout the vicinity of young, newly appointed ninja. She would've remarked the comedic ongoing and execution of the situation had some of the fresh, irate teammates not threatened and baited the others into an amassed competition, one she quickly dispersed with a trace of irritation before resuming the roster:

"Team Four: Hamano Riku, Kairaishi Yukio, and Shinsui Atasuke."

Upon hearing Yukio's name, the title of the student with the supposedly prolonged absence, a subtle tumult instigated in the classroom amongst students conversing with their adjacent neighbors at the mentioning, either astonished or unfamiliar with the reference.

Neglecting to attend to the abrupt interruption, the instructor continued until she reached the last squad on her list. With a conclusive action of slapping the stack of papers onto her podium, she gave a final gesture of dismissal. "That's it for the groups. The Jōnin instructors will meet you this afternoon. Till then, meeting adjourned!"

A Chūnin messenger located his target as the tall figure emerging from the alleyway route he'd used as a shortcut. The former sprinted up to the man at utmost swiftness, mentally preparing himself with reverence laced in a firm, regarding tone. He was familiar with the male as the latter had established a delicate, notorious reputation within the ranks of village ninja, working predominantly in offhanded occupations from the resident bathing houses to the interrogation units. Officially, he was labeled as a Jōnin instructor at the contemporary age of twenty-four, even if the division in itself didn't seem appropriate. Despite the certification and assumed title, he had yet to pass a squad, even after fulfilling the role for close to three years.

The higher-ranked male paid no attention to the Chūnin's carefully crafted remarks as he seized the scroll, albeit with a countenance of impatience and vexation. He unfurled it quickly, perceiving it as a summons from the Hokage to all the Jōnin instructors on standby, mentally swearing a surplus of expletives as he observed the order issued in regards to the recent Genin squads. He recalled the last cell, seemingly just a week ago, that he'd failed irrefutably without so much as a hint of remorse as they were left crying while returning to the Academy.

He offered a nod as a sign of gratitude towards the Chūnin's delivery, before an elbow went immediately to mask his mouth, hiding the violent coughs racking his frame. He was able to register features of the face, however—perhaps it was an old member of his year's rookie Genin (the male certainly seemed old enough), or it could've been a younger sibling of a former peer. He dejectedly shelved the musing, directing himself to the current predicament at hand upon entering the Hokage office.

He wasn't alone, for at least a half dozen other Jōnin awaited their selection. He was the last one at the end of the procession, standing languidly and attempting to restrain the minor quakes of his body behind a head of white strands he realized was the latest addition to their group of Jōnin trainers. In sequence, each individual obtained their latest yield of potential teammates before he was the last one standing in front of the Hokage.

The older man analyzed his sick face, and at a momentary glance, he was able to reveal the expressions concealed beneath the pretense of a disinterested malady—so full of fire and simmering rage remaining unquenched after the duration of many years. The Hokage took a deep breath before exhaling the smoke from his pipe, only to spur another prickling itch at the Jōnin's thorax.

"Try not to traumatize them too badly, Tsuyoshi," he commented with veiled concern, handing the last solitary file to the man. The Jōnin leader instinctually reached for the offending item, but was instantly rebuffed, the folder snatched away. "Tsuyoshi," the Sandaime repeated, openly displaying unease, "you've yet to pass one group as you approach three years in this department. Though this was my recommendation, if being a Jōnin sensei is not suitable to accommodate your tastes, I can transfer you to another division."

He was sorely tempted to agree, but he instead cursed himself and Hiruzen, partially for the latter's analytical abilities, but mostly for the ease of others to read him. He grunted as an ambiguous sign, not wanting to submit himself under the knowing inspection of the wiser man, and grabbed a hold of the papers. Instantly, he felt older, aged about double his time as though under the begrudging weight of obligation, a lifeless reluctance.

"Perhaps this year's bunch will prove surprising."

He doesn't believe a word of it.

The opening of the paper doors after the first Jōnin leaders' entrances had alerted the remaining Genin of the arrival of a newcomer, expectedly watching the threshold with zealous grins and avid sneers. In an instant, coughing filled the classroom, earning replaced faces of alarm and confusion. With an unidentifiable voice emerging from the hallway, hoarse and monotonous, the tenor beckoned the spoken to in an almost reproaching manner: "Team Four, I will meet you at the training grounds in one hour." A noticeable pause was inserted, replaced by more coughing. "Do not be late."

"That's what I said…but it seems one of you didn't adhere to my warning." The Jōnin sensei gave a disapproving rebuke with a click of his tongue, sitting on a large wooden crate while carrying on his convulsion of muted noises. Upon closer inspection, the two present Genin observed the slightest changes surfacing from the container, occasionally tilting it to the left or right in a frenzy of movements before assuming a diminutive intermission and continuing the previous repetition of actions; the slits had been closed and the lid sealed shut, leaving the inner contents unknown.

Is he okay? The female member's shifted to the side, readjusting the sleeves of her wear in an almost wonted fashion. Besides that, what's…in that box?

The other Genin smiled cynically, staring at their displeased instructor with a bit more interest than discovering the actual fillings of the case. Seems like this guy should be in a hospital rather than teaching.

Despite his infamous status as the village's leading choleric sensei, even as common knowledge among Academy graduates, the new Genin didn't discover his appearance to be as intimidating as they'd originally anticipated—though it was to say that his actual form only slightly failed in reaching their expectations.

He was a fit and relatively tall shinobi, accompanied by a head of spiky hair with an ash brown hue pulled back into a low ponytail nearing his scapula. His eyes were a pale bronze, narrow, only to be exemplified by the peculiar marker beneath—an area pigmented red which the Genin could only assume to be through the use of something analogous to face-paint. While bangs fell between his eyes with the sides framing his face, the left strand noticeably longer, the upper half of his hair landed onto a pair of goggles with red lens, asymmetrically skewed slightly to the right.

Akin to every other Jōnin, his upper body was dressed in the customary flak jacket above a black outfit, the ends of his sleeves rolled up. While his left forearm sported bandages, his right contrastingly wore black-lined mesh armor. At his lower abdomen hung a white sash, the hitai-ate attached at his waistline.

The new graduates attempted to compose themselves, though failed miserably. Between staring at the unusual features on their unbalanced sensei suffering perpetual tremors, who apparently prioritized disproportionality above all else, to the box of mysterious subjects beneath him to waiting resentfully for their last teammate, they couldn't decide which was worse.

"While we entertain the product of tardiness generated by this insubordinate misfit…let's get productive, shall we? Introductions…are in order." At the inquiring looks of the Genin, he stifled a grumble of obscenities between coughing into his sleeve, muttering spitefully at the obliviousness of the younger generations. "It's time to work out the details of this…partnership, you could say, though I utilize that term very loosely. I'd like to emphasize the separation between us…in case you could not have ascertained that yourself. Truthfully, I hold doubts that your inferior, little minds could process anything of this gravity.

"I never intended to be a babysitter nor am I particularly overjoyed at the notion of being assigned to incompetent brats…but I am your commander, so orders from me are carried out with absolute willingness and obligation. Of the twenty-seven graduates, only nine will be chosen to become Genin…while those remaining will be returned to the Academy. Therefore, using simple math, the failure rate is over 66 per cent. Don't let it come as a surprise if I'm not pushing for your promotion. With those statistics compounded against you…I can't say it'd be shocking if you two are amongst the dropouts, Genin."

Feeling a little stronger than she actually felt, the female team member of the squad pronounced clearly: "Hamano Riku."

"…Pardon?" Taken aback, the older man relocated his absent gaze from the sky to the small ten-year old girl sitting in front of him, giving the close impression of surprise.

Of the two, she was taller, though not by a great quantity. Her most discernible trait was her light platinum blonde hair extending only to her shoulders while the tresses at the right were gathered to form a side ponytail, resting against the upper section of her head. Exposed through the bangs at her forehead, her amber irises radiated with a combination of confidence, yet covert fear.

In terms of attire, the Konoha forehead protector at her neck, she was dressed in a tan sleeveless jacket while long sleeves of a pastel yellow appeared at her arms with black stripes in the middle of the sleeves stretching vertically; dark shorts stopped at her knees, showcasing scratches and abrasions, as well as recent instances of bleeding—whether or not it was her intention.

"My name is Hamano Riku. I understand I am a Genin and a kunoichi, but these are designations, not names. I wouldn't refer to you as Jōnin or ninja, Sensei." She bit her lip, feeling the latter part of her argument vaguely contradicting her contention.

"Very well…Riku." His voice was cold and apathetic, but she figured it was better reasoning with him to respect their insubstantial amount of dignity rather than allow him to degrade what was left of it.

His golden eyes moved to the smaller boy who matched his glance with a look of satirical amusement, perhaps at his chronic infirmity, making the Jōnin somewhat keen in cleaning the portrayal of arrogance from the disdainful irises, pigmented with luminous flecks of ice blue. They resembled the barren skies and the arctic winds as though they'd been personified with character, sheltered beneath inky black locks and framed by chin-length strands of hair against stark ivory skin. Indelible dark circles were blatant beneath his eyes, alluding to the implication of prolonged insomnia.

The front concentrated the spikes of his hair to the left side of his head as if windswept, while the back of his head remained consistent with the pattern down his neck, although done in a rather tamer fashion. Aside from the attributes that would attract one's attention directly to the messy styling of his hair or the epitomized frost in his eyes, the only other uniqueness of his apparel stemmed from the dark red scarf draped around his neck, the two separate ends extending down his back and approaching the posterior aspect of his knees. The remaining garments consisted of a simple navy shirt with cuffed black pants and bandages bound around his shins; the plate of his hitai-ate was sewn onto his left upper-sleeve.

"And you?"

"Kairaishi Yukio—I graduated from the Academy at age seven though was put on a temporary hiatus due to no teams having been available." The sarcastic, condescending mirth danced amidst his narrow lips, prominent and mischievous in his irises.

"Boastful, aren't you?" the older male retorted, smashing his hands together with a cracking sound. He was familiar with the child at the current age of nine, having been briefed before on the graduate's situation, though he still found his patience wearing thin as he regarded the misplaced superiority insufferable. "No matter. By the time this exercise is completed…you'll be amongst those sniveling as they are shamefully sent back."

"Don't make promises you can't ensure, Sensei."

"Don't patronize me, Genin."

Yukio turned to face his ailing instructor, only to find that he'd left his station atop the wooden crate. Strange, he mused, before the appearance of ninja shoes appeared in his line of vision. Before he could react, a gloved hand twisted his shirtfront, lifting him onto his feet, while the other of the pair joined its accomplice, connecting deep into the side of his face and resonating a clamorous cacophony of his cheekbone splitting into the clearing.

The younger Genin was dropped brusquely onto the grass, groaning as the pain exploded into his head. He'd never been exceptionally remarkable in the degree of pain tolerance, especially when his proved to be below average at best.

His condition…made me underestimate his strength…!

Riku glanced over to the wincing body of her incapacitated teammate, molding chakra to examine how badly the damage had been sustained. The swelling was immediate, and infusing the contusion with her chakra, her attempt only managed to lessen the pain, if only by a little. He didn't possess enough energy to protest.

"It's only a fracture, luckily." She received a grunt of muffled agony as affirmation. Rotating her head to locate their sensei, Riku discovered him situated once more on the box, resuming his post and covering his mouth. "That was unnecessary." Her accusation expended a tone bordering indignant. Her marginal knowledge in medical ninjutsu unofficially bound her with a reluctant duty of tending to the injured. Still, she didn't like using more chakra than required.

"Hello, my name is Kinshō Tsuyoshi, appointed leader of Team Four, and I am a certified bastard in the department of being an asshole. I was attempting to make it subtle…but frankly, I'm afraid I don't give a damn concerning your opinion of me." He gave a jeering, caustic smirk before dodging the attack launched behind him, sensing the attacker's chakra before the strike managed to hit.

Unfortunately, the wooden case he'd been sitting on had not been as privileged, smashing open under the force of the weapon. A distressful, almost excruciating, squeal could be heard emitting from the container as it spilled out what was inside, followed by other disturbing imitations of the same screaming.

Of the graduates, the stranger was the tallest by a modest few inches. In his clan's standard, traditional clothing, he was dressed in a long navy robe ending meager inches before his knees while a pasty undergarment—a shitagi—was visible underneath, held closed with a white obi at his waist. His lower half revealed a pair of white pants with bandages around his shins. As opposed to the conventional utility of ninja shoes, though appealing to the clan's customs, waraji were donned at his feet, the fastened surfaces of straw sandals pressing lightly against the dirt territory.

Removing glided irises from the weapon the Academy graduate handled, Tsuyoshi scanned the child's upper profile, denoting the hair arbitrarily tamed with various spikes projecting from his skull, tinged with a faint blue; the bangs framing his alabaster skin were slightly beyond chin-length, whereas the back of his mane extended to the verge of his shoulders. Beneath his bangs, the village headband rested against his forehead while atypical irises of a pale silver color with an additional ring near the outer edge remained stanch and steadfast.

The new arrival exhaled a steady breath, settling the end of his weapon on the ground and disengaging his fighting stance. In the sun, the rays lustrously brightened the clan insignia embroidered on both sleeves of the kimono—a black wisp with a blemish of white at the bottom and a black dot inside was characteristic of the crest while two smaller white wisps were on either side of the emblem, as if the icons were forming a koi and its fins; a copy of the character with inverted colors appeared at the opposite end with the reverse position, creating a parallel pattern.

Aside from the initial surprise, it was bizarre to see an individual engage combat carrying such a heavy weapon. It consisted of a single-edged blade while a smaller spike protruded from the opposite end of the shortened pole, the only obvious modification in comparison to the established polearm aside from its compromised length. The blade was deeply curved somewhat thicker in width than an average naginata, insinuating its exclusive aim to be solely useful for sweeping cuts. Upon thorough investigation, the long shaft sported a distinctive metal ring at its middle, a glaring contrast on the wood.

"Shinsui Atasuke. Apologies for my delay. I would express regret for that last gesture, but the tension was so palpable, I couldn't resist." He forged a strange sort of smile, wiping the stained edge on the verdant pasture.

A member from the Shinsui clan… Tsuyoshi briefly entertained the idea of disabling the former as he did his other male student, but quickly terminated the prospect, reflecting that his new opponent most like had a much higher scale of endurance. He felt himself slowly slipping into a deceptively aloof stance, taking in the uninterested visage of the one in front.

"You're finally here." He managed a soft chuckle, followed by subdued rackets from his throat. "However, you actually came at me with killing intent, so I'll exchange the sense of well-deserved acknowledgement to exempting your being late." He produced a flippant gesticulation, waving his fingers. "Now that the final member has appeared, I believe we've concluded all the appropriate formalities. I'll enlighten you all with your exercise." From the shrieking at his feet, he grabbed the mammal by its head, holding out the hoard of white albino fur for the young Genin to inspect.

"Normally, the other Jōnin leaders would suggest their students to rest up…in order to prepare for their forthcoming obstacles and imminent failure on the next day. You, however, received the misfortune of securing a spot on my team; therefore, no such luxury will be granted." The rabbit continued to squirm in his increasingly tight grasp, making the Genin themselves grow uneasy.

Riku was the first to speak, feeling renewed courage after tending to her squad member. Yukio mustered up enough strength despite nurturing the raw bruise, provisionally numb with anesthetics that he knew would later abate and incite a rekindled flame at his cheek once the training was over.

"…What will we have to do?"

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, everyone. This is a story I've been composing for a while now, and I've just recently decided to post it on here. If it gets enough attention, I'll post more soon. I've always wanted to write a story centering on original characters, but seeing as how there are a lot of plots concerning the next generation, I thought I'd write one on the past generation.

Ojii-sama - Ojii is used as a reference to "grandfather", while the honorific -sama is used to address a very respected person.
Yotōmushi - Yotōmushi basically translates to cutworm or armyworm, which is the nickname Yukio gives to his friend.
shitagi - An article of Atasuke's clothing, it's simply an undergarment worn beneath a kimono or samurai armor.
obi - An article of Atasuke's clothing, it's a sash for traditional Japanese dress, such as for kimono outfits.
waraji - An article of Atasuke's clothing, these are sandals made of straw worn by the samurai class and foot soldiers.