3RD POV

Raiden sat across from Mai in the dim light of his small cabin. The fire in the hearth crackled faintly, casting flickering shadows on the rough wooden walls. Mai clutched a piece of bread in her hands, nibbling at it hesitantly, her posture hunched as if she wanted to disappear into the chair she sat in.

"You need to eat more than that," Raiden remarked, his voice low but carrying the weight of his usual bluntness. "You're wasting away."

Mai glanced at him, then back down at the bread. "I'm fine," she murmured, though the hollow tone of her voice betrayed her words. She took another small bite, her eyes fixed on the fire as if avoiding his gaze entirely.

Raiden sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "You're not fine, kid. And you're not fooling anyone by pretending you are. If you keep going like this, you won't last."

His words hung in the air like smoke, suffocating in their blunt truth. Mai didn't respond. She simply kept nibbling at the bread, her movements mechanical, as though even this small act of sustenance was a task she barely had the will to complete.

Raiden leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look," he began, his tone softer now, "I know you've had it rough. I'm not going to pretend I understand everything you've been through. But I'll tell you this—if you want things to change, you need to start fighting for yourself."

Mai blinked at him, startled by his words. "Fighting?" she repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. "What's the point? I'm not like you. I'm not strong."

Raiden smirked faintly, though there was little humor in it. "You think I've always been strong?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of challenge. "Do you think I was born like this?"

Mai frowned, glancing at him hesitantly. "Weren't you?"

"No," Raiden said firmly. "I've been weak. Weaker than you could imagine. But I didn't let it stop me. I kept going, no matter how many times I fell." He straightened up, his expression hardening. "And that's what you need to do. Starting tomorrow, I'm training you."

Mai blinked at him, her bread forgotten. "Training me? But I'm—"

"Weak?" he interrupted, his tone sharp. "That's why you need training. You don't think you can change, but I know you can. The only question is whether you're willing to try."

She looked away, her hands tightening around the bread. The thought of training, of pushing herself to do something she already believed was impossible, filled her with a gnawing anxiety. But beneath that fear, a small ember of curiosity flickered. Could he really help her change?

Raiden stood, his towering presence casting a long shadow over her. "Be outside at sunrise," he said. "If you're not, we'll forget this conversation ever happened."

Mai didn't respond. She didn't trust herself to.

The morning air was crisp and sharp, biting at Mai's skin as she stepped into the clearing outside the cabin. The sun had barely risen, its pale light casting long shadows across the forest. Raiden was already there, standing with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

"You're late," he said simply, though there was no real anger in his tone.

"I didn't know what to bring," Mai admitted, her voice small. She glanced down at her empty hands, suddenly feeling foolish.

Raiden sighed, shaking his head. "You didn't need to bring anything. Just yourself." He gestured to the clearing around them. "This is where we'll start. Now, let's begin."

The training started with the basics. Raiden had her run laps around the clearing, her small frame struggling to keep pace as her breath grew ragged and her legs burned. After that came the stances—simple but precise positions meant to build balance and discipline. Mai stumbled constantly, her movements unsteady and awkward.

"Again," Raiden said after every mistake, his tone firm but not unkind.

By the time they moved on to striking drills, Mai was already exhausted. She stood before the makeshift training dummy Raiden had constructed—a crude figure made of wood and straw—and threw weak, uncoordinated punches that barely made the dummy move.

"Focus," Raiden instructed, standing beside her. "Your punches are all over the place. Tighten your stance and aim for the center."

Mai tried to follow his guidance, but her strikes remained feeble, her movements sluggish. After several failed attempts, she dropped her hands and stepped back, her shoulders slumping.

"I can't do this," she muttered, her voice thick with frustration. "I'm too tired. I'm too weak."

Raiden approached her, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He crouched down in front of her, his gray eyes meeting hers. "You're tired because you're not used to this," he said calmly. "And you're weak because you've never had the chance to be strong. But that doesn't mean you can't change."

Mai shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. "It feels impossible."

Raiden reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm but steady. "Listen to me," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Power—real power—doesn't come to those who are born strong or fast or smart. It comes to those who refuse to stop, no matter how many times they fall."

She looked at him, his words cutting through her despair. "But what if I fail?"

"Then you fail," Raiden said bluntly. "And you get back up. Again and again, until you stop failing. That's the only way you'll ever get stronger."

Mai swallowed hard, his words settling in her chest like a weight. Slowly, she nodded, her small fists clenching at her sides. "I'll try," she said softly. "I don't know if I can, but I'll try."

Raiden stood, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Good. That's all I ask."

Mai's training under Raiden was relentless. Each day began at sunrise and ended long after the sun had set. The physical toll was immense—her muscles ached constantly, her hands were bruised and calloused, and her body screamed for rest. But Raiden never let her quit.

"You've got more in you," he'd say whenever she faltered. "Keep going."

Her progress was painfully slow. She stumbled during drills, her punches landed weakly against the training dummy, and her balance remained precarious. Each failure weighed heavily on her, feeding the doubt that lingered in the back of her mind.

"I'm hopeless," she muttered one evening as they sat by the fire. Her hands were bandaged from the day's training, and her shoulders sagged with exhaustion. "I'll never be like you."

Raiden didn't respond immediately. He stared into the flames, his expression unreadable. "Do you know why I'm doing this?" he asked finally.

Mai frowned, looking up at him. "I don't know. Pity, maybe?"

Raiden snorted. "Pity has nothing to do with it," he said, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. "I'm doing this because you remind me of someone I used to know—a kid who was small and scared, but who refused to give up. That kid turned out stronger than anyone expected."

Mai tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Who?"

Raiden's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Me."

The days began to blur together for Mai. Each morning was a blur of cold air, muscle strain, and relentless drills. Raiden pushed her harder than she thought she could bear, each day a test of endurance and willpower. Yet, despite her doubts, despite the constant pain and exhaustion, she found herself showing up every morning, standing in the clearing, ready to try again.

Raiden was always there, unwavering, watching her with an intensity that she couldn't quite understand. He never let her give up, never let her settle for anything less than the best she could give. And with each failure, there was a small piece of her that wanted to prove him right—to show him she could be better.

Still, the frustration never fully subsided. Mai struggled to keep up. Her body, worn down by years of neglect, fought back against every command. Her punches remained weak, her legs often gave out from under her, and her breathing became more ragged with each passing day.

One afternoon, after an especially grueling series of drills, Mai found herself lying flat on her back in the dirt, staring up at the overcast sky, her chest heaving with the effort to catch her breath.

"I can't do this anymore," she muttered, the words a whisper against the roar of her inner frustration. "I'm not strong enough. No matter how hard I try, it's never enough."

Raiden stood nearby, his silhouette framed by the gray sky, watching her. His face was unreadable, as it always was, but his eyes were intense, as if calculating something behind his gaze. He said nothing for a long moment, letting the silence stretch between them like a physical weight.

Finally, he crouched beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder in a gesture that was both firm and reassuring. "You're right," he said, his voice low. "You're not strong enough. Not yet."

Mai's heart sank at his words. She had hoped for something different, something encouraging, but Raiden's bluntness didn't leave room for false hope. She looked away from him, her throat tightening.

"But that's why you keep training," he continued, his voice steady. "Because strength doesn't come in an instant. It comes from the choices you make when everything hurts, when every part of you screams to stop. It's not about how strong you are now—it's about how much you're willing to endure to become stronger."

Mai's eyes flickered up at him, a sense of clarity slowly emerging from the fog of doubt clouding her mind. She had always believed that strength was something you were born with. Something innate that could not be forged. But Raiden's words, simple as they were, struck at something deeper in her. Strength wasn't a gift—it was a choice.

"I've told you before," Raiden added, his tone a little softer, "strength comes to those who keep going when everyone else stops. Power is about resilience. Endurance."

Mai sat up, her hands bracing against the ground, the dirt sticking to her palms as she slowly pushed herself to her feet. Her knees trembled, and her body begged for rest, but she refused to listen. For the first time since she had started training, Mai felt something shift inside of her. A flicker of determination, no matter how small.

"I'll keep going," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "Even if it hurts. Even if I fail."

Raiden's gaze softened just a fraction, but his voice remained resolute. "Good. That's the spirit."

As the days passed, Mai's progress was slow but undeniable. She began to notice small improvements—her punches had more force, her stances more solid. Her endurance increased, though it still paled in comparison to Raiden's. Still, the improvement was enough to push her forward, enough to give her a reason to keep going.

But as the training intensified, so did the emotional toll. Raiden was not an easy mentor. He did not show mercy, nor did he offer praise freely. He was a man hardened by years of conflict and regret, and he had no time for self-doubt. Mai knew he was doing this for her, but she also knew that he wanted results—and he would not stop until she gave them.

Some nights, as she lay in her cot, Mai wondered if she was really cut out for this. She thought about the seeds her mother had given her, the promise that they would grow, that her mother would return when they did. But those seeds never sprouted. Maybe, Mai thought bitterly, she wasn't meant to be strong. Maybe she was just meant to be forgotten, a ghost wandering through a world that didn't care.

Yet, when she looked at Raiden, she saw something in him that she didn't know she could have. He had fought for everything he had, despite his own doubts, despite the pain. She didn't understand why he cared so much, why he was willing to put so much into her—someone so broken.

One evening, as Raiden pushed her through another round of grueling exercises, Mai's frustration boiled over.

"I'm not you!" she shouted, her voice raw with emotion. "I can't do what you do! I'm not strong! I never was! Why are you doing this to me?"

Raiden stopped, his gaze piercing as he watched her. His silence was heavier than anything he could have said.

"I'm doing this because I see you," he said finally. His voice was quiet, but there was an undeniable edge to it. "I see that you're broken. I see your weaknesses, your fear, your doubt. And I know that you're not the only one who's ever felt that way. I've been there."

Mai's breath hitched. "But I'm not like you. I don't know how to—"

"I don't want you to be like me," Raiden interrupted, his voice steady but sharp. "I want you to be stronger than I was. I want you to learn what I had to learn the hard way."

Mai stood still, trying to hold back tears. The words Raiden spoke weren't soft, they weren't comforting—but they were real. And for the first time, Mai felt something inside her stir, something deeper than her usual self-doubt.

"I'll never be as strong as you," she whispered, her voice cracking. "But I want to try. I want to be more than this. I want to survive."

Raiden nodded, his face softening just a little. "That's enough," he said quietly. "That's all I need from you."

The weeks continued to pass, and though Mai's progress was slow, it was steady. She learned to focus her energy, to center her movements, and to think beyond her immediate physical limits. Though still far from strong, she began to develop a quiet confidence in herself that she had never known before.

And all the while, Raiden watched her, pushing her to her limits and beyond. His words became less frequent, but they carried more weight with each one.

One evening, as they sat around the fire, Raiden asked her something that caught her off guard.

"You ever think about what you want, Mai?" His voice was casual, but there was a depth to the question that made her pause.

She thought for a moment. "I used to want to be strong," she said quietly. "I wanted to be someone people could rely on. Someone who wasn't afraid. But now... I just want to survive. I want to keep going, no matter what."

Raiden's expression softened, just for a moment. He leaned back, gazing into the fire. "That's enough," he said finally, his voice almost too soft to hear. "That's all any of us can ask for."

For the first time in a long time, Mai felt a strange warmth settle inside her. The man who had saved her, trained her, and pushed her to the brink had become something more than just a mentor. He had become a kind of anchor for her—a reminder that strength wasn't something you were born with. It was something you chose.

But even with that realization, Mai knew she still had a long way to go. The road ahead was still uncertain, and the weight of her past remained. But she also knew something else, something she hadn't known before: she wasn't alone. Not anymore.

Raiden had shown her how to fight. But more than that, he had shown her how to keep going, even when everything inside her begged her to stop.

And that, Mai realized, was the greatest strength of all.

-{0}-

3RD POV

Ryuichi was drenched in sweat, his body trembling as he forced himself to complete yet another push-up. His arms burned, the sharp ache radiating through his shoulders as he struggled to rise again. He'd long since lost count, but his mind, restless and sharp, refused to let him stop.

"I can't rest," he whispered through gritted teeth. His voice barely rose above a whisper, as if he was afraid that speaking too loudly would let the dread in his heart take form.

Ever since the visions started becoming reality, Ryuichi had been consumed by a relentless sense of urgency. The scenes of Konoha burning under the Nine-Tails' attack haunted him day and night. His father, Fugaku, had once said that the Sharingan reflected the heart of the user. If that were true, Ryuichi felt his heart must be fractured—scarred by fear, determination, and the crushing weight of responsibility.

Kushimaru was only the beginning. I wasn't strong enough then. If not for sheer luck, Haru and Fuyumi might not have made it. The Nine-Tails? That's an enemy on an entirely different level. I need to be ready. I need to be stronger.

Ryuichi wasn't entirely alone in his struggle. Tsunade had been a constant presence in his life for years, and their relationship was more than just teacher and student. She had chosen to stay in Konoha largely because of him, drawn by his quiet but fierce determination to learn. He reminded her of herself in her younger years, before the tragedies of her own past had driven her to the brink of abandoning her home.

"Ryuichi," Tsunade's voice rang out sharply one afternoon as he collapsed onto the grass after hours of intense training. "What the hell are you doing, pushing yourself like this? You're not a machine."

"I need to get stronger, Sensei," Ryuichi muttered, struggling to sit up. "I can't afford to waste any time."

Tsunade knelt in front of him, her amber eyes narrowing. "And what good is strength if you tear yourself apart before you get there? You've got talent, Ryuichi, but talent means nothing if you burn out before you reach your potential."

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Come on. We're going back to the hospital. You're working with me today, whether you like it or not."

Despite his protests, Ryuichi followed Tsunade back to the hospital, where she began their latest lesson in medical ninjutsu. Over the years, Ryuichi had developed a deep respect for her teachings, mastering foundational techniques and even advanced chakra control exercises. But lately, he found himself drawn to a particular concept: the idea of using medical ninjutsu for combat.

"Medical ninjutsu is about precision," Tsunade explained as they worked on repairing a patient's damaged muscle tissue. "It's about understanding the human body in ways most shinobi never bother to learn. And yes, if you're skilled enough, you can use that knowledge offensively. But don't lose sight of what this art is really for, Ryuichi."

"I understand, Sensei," he replied, though his mind was already racing with possibilities.

In the evenings, after completing Tsunade's assignments, Ryuichi practiced integrating medical techniques into his fighting style. He experimented with pressure points and vital areas, refining his precision strikes to incapacitate opponents quickly.

As the months dragged on, Ryuichi's obsession with training began to take a toll on his relationships. Haru and Fuyumi noticed the change immediately. Ryuichi, once the glue that held their team together, had grown distant. He rarely joined them for meals or sparring matches, and when he did, his mind always seemed elsewhere.

"Ryuichi, let's go grab some dango after training," Haru suggested one afternoon, his grin faltering slightly when Ryuichi shook his head.

"I can't. I've got more work to do," Ryuichi replied curtly, already walking away.

Haru watched him leave, frustration flickering across his face. "What's with him lately?" he muttered to Fuyumi.

Fuyumi, ever observant, had already noticed the signs. Ryuichi's jitteriness, the way his eyes darted around as if searching for unseen threats, the tense set of his shoulders—all of it pointed to someone carrying a heavy burden.

"He's hiding something," Fuyumi said quietly. "But he won't talk to us about it. Not yet."

By the seventh month, Ryuichi's relentless training had left him physically stronger than ever, but emotionally, he was unraveling. The weight of his visions, the fear of failing to protect those he cared about, and the isolation he imposed on himself all came crashing down one evening when Fuyumi confronted him.

She found him at the edge of the training grounds, practicing his Fireball Jutsu against a line of wooden targets. His flames burned hotter than ever, leaving charred craters in the earth, but the wild look in his eyes told Fuyumi that something was wrong.

"Ryuichi," she called, her voice firm.

He didn't respond, releasing another fireball with a sharp exhale.

"Ryuichi!" Fuyumi shouted, stepping into his line of sight.

He froze, his Sharingan flickering to life as he turned to face her. "Fuyumi? What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" she repeated, her tone incredulous. "What are you doing? You've been shutting us out for months! Haru and I are supposed to be your teammates, but you won't even talk to us!"

"I'm fine," Ryuichi said quickly, looking away. "I just… have a lot to work on."

Fuyumi crossed her arms, her stoic façade cracking as anger seeped into her voice. "Don't give me that excuse. We're your friends, Ryuichi! Why won't you let us help you?"

"I don't need help!" Ryuichi snapped, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his true feelings.

"Then what do you need?" Fuyumi demanded, stepping closer. "What are you so afraid of?"

Ryuichi clenched his fists, his gaze dropping to the ground. For a moment, he considered telling her everything—the visions, the Nine-Tails, his fears of losing everything he held dear. But the words caught in his throat.

"I can't," he whispered. "I just… I can't."

Fuyumi's expression softened, but her voice was tinged with sadness. "Ryuichi… whatever it is, you don't have to face it alone. You've always been there for us. Let us be there for you."

"I'll tell you someday," Ryuichi said finally, his voice barely audible. "I promise."

Fuyumi stared at him for a long moment before nodding. "You better keep that promise," she said quietly.

= Chapter End =