3rd POV

The next day, Ryuichi stood proudly in front of the Hokage, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he gazed at the Konoha headband in his hands. The metal plate, emblazoned with the symbol of the Hidden Leaf, reflected the morning sunlight. A small smile played on his lips, unable to fully contain the sense of accomplishment swelling inside him.

"Take good care of it, Ryuichi," one of the instructors standing beside the Hokage advised, his tone gentle but serious.

"I will," Ryuichi responded, his voice steady, though his eyes never left the headband. The weight of it in his hands seemed to symbolize something more than just a rite of passage—it was a symbol of his growth, the next step in his journey as a shinobi.

The Hokage cleared his throat, shifting the moment from personal pride to the responsibilities ahead. "Now, for the important matters," the Hokage said, his gaze warm but authoritative. "You'll be placed in the genin reserves for now, Ryuichi. It may take a couple of years before we find a permanent team for you."

Ryuichi blinked in surprise, but quickly nodded in understanding. "Understood, Hokage-sama. Will I be required to take missions in the meantime?" he asked, his tone respectful but eager to know more about what lay ahead.

"For the time being," the Hokage replied, "I want you to focus solely on your training. Hone your skills, master what you've learned so far, and push your limits. When the time comes for missions, you'll be better prepared than most, and you'll reap the benefits of the effort you put in now."

Ryuichi straightened, the weight of the Hokage's words settling in. "I understand, Hokage-sama," he replied earnestly, his voice filled with determination. He clutched the headband a little tighter, realizing that while he wasn't yet part of an active team, the path ahead was clear—training, discipline, and patience would be his focus until he was ready for the battlefield.

-{0}-

Ryuichi's pov (1 month later)

It had been a month since I'd officially become a genin, and I'd made sure to brag about it to Kakashi and Fuyumi. Kakashi, of course, had been his usual smug self, offering nothing but an eye-roll and a lazy "congratulations," while Fuyumi remained largely uninterested. Despite her lack of enthusiasm for my boasting, she had kept her promise to drop by the Uchiha compound regularly for sparring sessions.

Fuyumi was far from a taijutsu prodigy, that much was clear. Her fighting style was raw, wild, almost like a brawler with no specific form or technique. It was rough around the edges but undeniably effective in its unpredictability. Still, she had begun to refine it slowly, learning the basics of taijutsu from me to better control her attacks. The sharp contrast between her fighting style and her quiet, stoic personality was striking. Fuyumi rarely expressed emotion, and while she had warmed up to me over time, our conversations were usually limited to shinobi-related topics—taijutsu, ninjutsu, and occasionally training strategies. But, in a way, that suited us just fine.

One thing Fuyumi did ask for more frequently was help with her ninjutsu. Her chakra control was, to put it mildly, disastrous. It wasn't that she lacked potential—far from it. The problem seemed to be that she had too much chakra, so much that she struggled to control it properly. When she attempted the leaf exercise, she consistently used too much chakra, blowing the leaf off her forehead entirely. But I could tell she was close to getting it; her progress, though slow, was steady.

In return for my help with ninjutsu and taijutsu, Fuyumi offered to help me with calligraphy. Honestly, I knew she felt guilty about only receiving my teachings without offering anything in return, I agreed. Fuyumi was a natural when it came to calligraphy and sealing techniques. In fact, she was so skilled that it became frustrating for her to comprehend how I could make mistakes when writing calligraphy. Her strokes were fluid, precise, and perfect every time, while I was still struggling with the basics.

She was such a prodigy in fuinjutsu that Kushina started teaching her advanced techniques, like creating sealing scrolls. Meanwhile, I was still stuck practicing the fundamentals of calligraphy. Kushina had tried to console me, telling me that most people take at least a year before they're ready for actual fuinjutsu, but it stung a little nonetheless. Seeing Fuyumi excel while I lagged behind, even though I knew I had my own strengths, was hard to swallow at times.

On the brighter side, my training with Tsunade-sama was progressing exceptionally well. Tsunade, as it turned out, was not just any shinobi but a member of the legendary Sannin. While the other two members of her group were still active in the world, Tsunade had apparently chosen a different path, leaving behind her days on the battlefield. Her decision to stop fighting didn't bother me. I figured that, like everyone, she had her own struggles and demons to deal with. I was just grateful that she had the time to teach me.

Under Tsunade's guidance, I had mastered the water-walking exercise within an hour, which even surprised me. The control required for it came to me naturally, and it was exhilarating to feel the chakra flow perfectly balanced beneath my feet as I walked on the lake's surface. After that, Tsunade bombarded me with a week's worth of intense theory lessons on human anatomy. It was dry, dense information, but I knew it was essential. Once she was satisfied that I'd absorbed the necessary knowledge, she began teaching me the Mystical Palm Technique.

The Mystical Palm was a medical ninjutsu used to heal wounds, but it was far more versatile than that. With the right control, it could also be used in surgery, allowing for precise incisions and immediate healing. Mastering this technique was like learning to wield life and death in the palm of your hand, and I was slowly beginning to appreciate its complexity.

As for combat, my progress with the Great Fireball Jutsu was equally promising. I could now produce a fireball that was about three-quarters the size of my father's when I used only two hand seals. When I used all of the hand seals, the fireball would surpass my father's in size. I'd set myself a new goal—to perform the Great Fireball Jutsu at my father's level, using only two hand seals. When I told him this, he laughed, his hand ruffling my hair affectionately.

"You know, I'm known throughout the village as a formidable user of Fire Release jutsu," he said, though his voice carried a note of humility. "But when your five-year-old son tells you he's going to surpass your signature jutsu, it's... well, humbling."

Now, I found myself facing a far less glamorous task. I stood in front of a massive fish, its belly cut open for practice, trying to carefully sew it back together. Tsunade-sama watched over me, her sharp eyes observing every stitch I made. The fish was an unwilling patient, but for now, it was a stand-in for the real surgeries I might have to perform one day.

As I focused on the delicate task, the fish's exposed muscles and organs were far more intricate than I'd initially thought. Each stitch had to be perfect—not just to mend the wound, but to ensure the creature's survival after the surgery. My hands moved slowly, carefully guiding the thread through the torn flesh. The fish's gills fluttered faintly, still alive despite the invasive procedure.

"Not bad, but you need to be quicker," Tsunade-sama commented, her arms crossed as she observed me with a critical eye. "In a real situation, hesitation could mean life or death."

I gritted my teeth, pushing aside the pressure that mounted with each of her critiques. Despite the nerves that threatened to cloud my focus, I steadied my breath and worked more swiftly, my chakra flowing into the thread to ensure a smooth healing process. I could feel the energy from my fingertips connecting with the fish, guiding it to mend as I pulled the last stitch through.

"Good control on the chakra flow," Tsunade remarked, leaning in slightly to observe my work up close. "But remember, you're not just sewing. You need to ensure that the muscles align properly beneath the surface, or the wound won't heal correctly."

I nodded, adjusting the needle's trajectory to account for the underlying tissue. Sweat beaded at my temple as I focused on the final touches. After a few more tense moments, I tied off the stitch and stepped back, releasing a breath I didn't realize I had been holding.

Tsunade gave a small nod of approval, stepping forward to inspect the wound. She prodded the stitches gently with her fingers, then smiled. "You've got the basics down. For a first real attempt, this is excellent. I've seen genin butcher easier tasks."

Tsunade stood watching me carefully, her gaze carrying a weight I couldn't quite ignore. "You know, the offer still stands for you to leave the village," she said, her voice soft yet firm, as though she expected me to consider it seriously this time.

I looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. "And you know I can't just leave my family behind, right, Tsunade-sama?" I replied, half-joking, but also resolute. Leaving my family was out of the question, no matter what she said.

Tsunade let out a deep sigh, her usual confidence momentarily wavering. "You know it would be a waste to see a young kid like you sacrifice his life for this village," she murmured, her voice tinged with bitterness. "After all, that's what this village does to kids like you—it gives them early ends."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and filled with pain. I could tell this wasn't just some idle warning; there was a history behind it, something personal. I looked at her, my expression softening. "I feel like something has troubled you deeply in the past, Tsunade-sama," I said, my concern genuine.

She closed her eyes for a moment, as though she was reliving something too painful to speak of. When she opened them again, her usually strong and commanding presence was laced with sorrow. "Everything I held dear was taken away by this village," she began, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "My family, my lover... they sacrificed their lives for this... this village," she said, tears glistening in her eyes as they welled up.

I remained silent, feeling the weight of her grief. I had known about her losses, of course. Everyone did. But hearing it directly from her, with such raw emotion, it hit differently. She wasn't just talking about the past; she was warning me about my future.

"You, Ryuichi," Tsunade continued, her gaze softening as she looked at me. "You remind me of my grandfather, the way you interact with chakra. The moment I saw you work with it, I was reminded of him. I don't want to see you waste your potential… or your life."

I could hear the plea in her voice, her hope that I might take her words to heart and abandon the village, just as she had. She didn't want me to suffer the same fate as those she had lost.

I chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood. "You all keep comparing me to the First Hokage... You know, if you keep saying stuff like that, it's going to go to my head," I joked, but it didn't have the effect I intended. Tsunade's eyes narrowed, her concern for me deepening.

"You're a good person, Ryuichi. And your genius shouldn't be wasted here," she said, her tone unwavering.

I looked up at the sky for a moment, watching as the evening sun cast its warm glow across the horizon. It was a beautiful sky, peaceful and serene, a contrast to the tension in the conversation. "Tsunade-sama… this village—what does it mean to you?" I asked quietly, my gaze still fixed on the sky.

Her response came instantly, almost harsh in its certainty. "It's a place that took everyone I loved away from me."

I nodded, understanding her pain, but my heart told me something different. "But this is the place where my loved ones reside," I said softly, turning to look at her. "I don't know exactly what happened in your past, Tsunade-sama, but I don't want to live a life where I just run away because there's a chance the world might take them from me. Instead, I want to be strong enough to protect them."

Tsunade's expression softened, her usual stern demeanor cracking slightly as she listened. I could tell that, even if she didn't agree, she understood.

"You might call me naive," I continued, "to think I could protect everyone I care about. But what's the point of living if I don't even try? I know I'll lose people. I know it'll be hard. But as long as I have enough love to give, I'll keep fighting for those I care about. I'll stand up again, no matter how many times life knocks me down."

Tsunade's eyes flickered with a hint of sadness as I spoke. She wasn't looking at me as a shinobi anymore; she was looking at me as someone who was making a choice she had once been forced to make herself.

"And maybe…" I paused, feeling a bit embarrassed but pushing forward anyway. "Maybe you can be one of them too—someone I'll fight for," I said, my voice quieter now, but filled with conviction. "So please, help me. Help me become someone who can protect the people I love. Help me become someone who can protect you."

For a moment, Tsunade just stared at me, her eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, her gaze softened even more, and for the first time, I saw something in her eyes that wasn't anger or grief. It was... hope.

She stood up, brushing off her robes as though to shake off the emotion. "I see..." she said quietly. "Well, let's end today's lesson here."

She turned to leave, walking towards the exit. But just before she performed her teleportation jutsu, I caught the faintest glimpse of a small smile on her face. It was fleeting, but it was there.

And with that, she vanished, leaving me standing alone, the weight of our conversation still hanging in the air. But for the first time, I felt like I had reached her—not just as a student, but as someone who understood her pain.

As I stared at the place where she had stood moments ago, I made a silent vow: I would get stronger. Not just for myself, but for everyone I loved—and yes, maybe even for Tsunade

3rd person POV

In a quiet village nestled between mountains and endless rice fields, there lived a girl named Mai. The fields shimmered in the sunlight, each grain of rice heavy with the promise of life. The villagers called the land a blessing, where the sky always seemed blue and the air was filled with the sweet scent of rice and jasmine. For most of her childhood, Mai believed her home was a paradise, a place where everyone smiled, and laughter was as common as the wind rustling through the fields.

Her mother, Aika, was the heart of that paradise for her. Aika had eyes like soft brown earth after the rain, and a voice that could soothe any sorrow. She would take Mai's small hands in hers and sing to her as they walked through the rice paddies, pointing out the dragonflies dancing on the breeze, the frogs croaking by the streams. To Mai, her mother was the brightest star in her world, and she thought their lives were perfect.

But paradise has its shadows.

Her father, Daisuke, was the chief of the village. He was a tall, stern man, feared by everyone, even the elders. Mai never quite understood why people spoke to him with lowered eyes or why her mother grew so quiet when he came home at night. She didn't know what power he held over them, over her. She only knew that when he was near, her mother's hands stopped trembling only when she was holding Mai close, as though protecting her from something Mai couldn't yet see.

As Mai grew older, she began to sense the cracks in her world. She overheard whispers, snatches of conversations that would stop when she entered the room. Words like rape and forced lingered in the air like a foul odor. She didn't understand them, not at first. But then, one evening, when she was only six, she heard the truth.

Aika had once been young and full of hope, the joy of the village, before Daisuke had set his eyes on her. He had taken her one night, when no one could hear her screams, and when Aika sought justice, the village turned its back. They made her marry him, telling her it was for the sake of peace, for the village's reputation. No one cared about her pain. They only cared that Daisuke, their powerful chief, stayed satisfied, kept quiet.

To Mai, the words felt like a slap. Her mother had suffered every single day, had sacrificed her spirit, just to protect her child, just to survive in a village that had betrayed her. The paradise Mai thought she lived in was a prison for Aika. And Mai? She was the living reminder of the violation that had destroyed her mother's life.

One night, not long after Mai had learned the truth, her mother sat with her by the light of a flickering lantern. Aika's smile was there, but it was brittle, her eyes swollen with unshed tears. In her hands, she held a small pouch of seeds. She pressed them into Mai's palms, her hands trembling slightly.

"These are special seeds," Aika whispered, her voice breaking. "When you plant them, a beautiful flower will grow. And when it blooms... I will come back to you. I promise."

The words seemed strange to Mai, like a story told to soothe a restless child. But she held the pouch tightly, her fingers clutching it as if it were her mother's heart.

That night, Aika kissed her daughter for the last time and disappeared into the darkness.

When Daisuke woke the next morning to find his wife gone, his rage shook the house. He stormed through the village, tearing through doors, dragging people from their homes, demanding to know where she had gone. No one had seen her. No one dared help her. But Daisuke knew she wouldn't go far. Aika had no place in this world, no safe haven.

In his madness, Daisuke found her by the forest, the same forest where they had once walked as strangers, long before he had torn her life apart. Aika had been trying to run, trying to find a place where she could escape, but there was nowhere left. He caught her, his hands bruising her wrists as he dragged her back to the village. She fought him, her eyes wild with the desperation of a caged animal finally breaking free. But Daisuke's fury was uncontrollable.

It was on that same day that war broke out between Kumo and Konoha. The village, once untouched by conflict, became a battleground. Soldiers clashed, swords sang through the air, and the rice fields, once so golden, were soaked with blood.

But Mai? Mai only cared about her mother. She hid in the fields, her small body curled up beneath the swaying stalks of rice, her heart pounding in her chest. She could hear the sounds of her father's wrath, the sharp cracks of violence, the cruel insults he spat at her mother as he dragged her across the ground. And then, finally, the sickening silence.

When the sun rose again, Mai found her mother beneath the old oak tree at the edge of the forest. Aika's body lay twisted, her face battered, her eyes closed forever. She looked so small, so fragile, as if she could crumble into the earth and disappear with the morning mist.

Mai knelt beside her, her tiny hands shaking as she reached for her mother's cold fingers. Tears blurred her vision, but her mother's words echoed in her ears: "When the flowers bloom, I will come back." She clutched the seeds her mother had given her as though they were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. She wanted to scream, to beg her mother to wake up, but all that came out were soft, broken sobs.

The war raged on around her, the village a blur of fire and chaos, but none of it mattered to Mai. She planted the seeds in the earth, right beside her mother's grave, and every day she returned to water them with tears that never seemed to stop. She waited for the flowers to grow, for the miracle her mother had promised. She waited for the day Aika would return, for the day she would no longer be alone.

But the seeds did not sprout.

The war consumed everything. The village was burned to the ground, the rice fields trampled under the feet of soldiers who cared nothing for the lives they destroyed. Daisuke fell in the violence, his death unnoticed, his body left among the ruins of a land he had ruled with cruelty and fear.

And Mai? She stayed in the ashes of what was once her home, kneeling by her mother's grave, watching the soil where the flowers should have bloomed. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and still, nothing grew.

The seeds had been nothing more than a final comfort, a lie Aika had told her daughter to give her hope when there was none left.

Alone in the charred remains of her world, Mai sat by the earth, clutching the empty promise of a flower that would never bloom, waiting for a mother who would never come back.

=chapter end=