Chapter 8 — The Weekend
The week had passed quickly after the dinner at the Sarutobi house. Studying, training, books. But today was the day Kiyemi had been waiting for since the beginning of the month.
A day off. A full one. Her day. And hers alone.
She didn't go to the Academy field, nor did she stay at the usual training grounds. Instead, early in the morning, throwing on a gray cloak and pulling the hood over her head, she headed toward the village center.
The streets were noisy, as always on weekends—children tugging their parents toward the shops, merchants shouting in the distance, someone playing a flute. But Kiyemi moved through the crowd with certainty, like a shadow.
She stopped at a small shinobi shop. Behind the counter sat an elderly merchant with a patch over his left eye. He didn't smile but gave her a nod when he saw the girl.
"Chakra nature paper," she said calmly. "And a scroll on basic fūinjutsu. No illustrations. Just formulas."
He raised an eyebrow, scanning her from head to toe in disbelief.
"The Academy teaching that already?"
"No," she replied shortly. "I'm studying on my own."
He simply grunted. A few minutes later, she stepped out of the shop with her purchases in her bag.
But she didn't leave the market just yet.
She headed deeper into the alleyways, past stalls with shuriken, leather gear, cheap armor, until she reached a narrower weapons shop—one that didn't advertise itself loudly. Inside, on the wall, hung blades of all kinds. Spears. Knives. Swords.
She stopped in front of a rack of katana. Functional. Balanced. Plain.
"I want this one," she said, pointing at a modest blade with a black hilt and no engraving.
"Expensive taste for a little girl," the shopkeeper said.
"I'm not here to talk."
He shrugged. She handed him her savings. He wrapped the sword in cloth, tied it, and handed it over with one nod.
Kiyemi left without another word.
She went straight toward the northern outskirts—where the real forest began. Where there was no noise. Where she could breathe.
The inner forest was quiet, cool, slightly damp with morning dew. Sunlight filtered through the foliage, leaving golden patches on the ground.
She found a familiar tree with a smooth trunk, kicked off her shoes, and placed her hands on the bark.
"Chakra control. Step by step. No surges, no wobbles."
The first step—immediate fall. A dull thud against the ground. Pause. Climb again.
The second—chakra slipped. Third—too much. Fourth—held.
She didn't curse. Didn't get angry. Just tried again and again. Her body told her how to breathe, how to tense her fingers, how to shift her weight.
An hour later, she stood three meters up, leaning against the tree.
"Good. Next."
The pond in the center of the forest was clean and still, like a mirror. She stepped to the edge, focused chakra into the soles of her feet. Stepped forward.
Instant splash. Water burned her skin with icy touch.
Second attempt. A little better.
Third. Fourth. Fifth. She continued, silently, precisely, like a machine. No frustration.
Only on the seventh—six steady steps. Then back into the water.
She surfaced, brushed wet strands from her face, and for the first time that morning—smiled slightly.
"Good," she said quietly to herself. "If it's hard, that means I'm heading in the right direction."
Soon she returned to the tree. Pulled out a sealed envelope and removed the paper. Crouched, placing her palm on it.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Chakra ran through the sheet.
It first crackled, then one half burned into gray ash. The other half—cleanly, almost perfectly—split in two.
Kiyemi watched in silence.
"Fire and wind," she whispered. "Aggression. Pressure. Sharpness. This… is a blade's combination."
She wasn't surprised. She'd felt it even before the paper. But now—it was official.
Late in the evening, as the sun leaned toward the horizon, she returned home. The house was quiet. Only the creak of floorboards and the occasional drip from the windowsill.
She sat on the tatami. Unrolled the scroll she had found a few days ago in an old drawer marked with her family's crest.
At the edge of the scroll—a woman's signature: Minazuki Yuri.
Kiyemi's fingers ran over the symbols.
Chakra formulas. Distribution seals. Theory of containment.
She didn't understand everything. But much—yes. This wasn't something basic. The scroll didn't explain how to hide a kunai or bind an opponent. It explained mechanics.
Fūin as language. Fūin as control. A symbol as a gate. A formula as a wall.
The girl's eyes lit up, as if a lamp had flicked on inside them.
"She wasn't just a kunoichi. She understood… more. Much more."
She pulled out a second scroll—blank. Prepared ink. And began copying the symbols. Carefully. Slowly. Not like a child drawing squiggles.
Like a scientist. Like a technician. Like a shinobi.
Then she reached for the wrapped bundle.
The katana.
She placed it beside her, unwrapped it. Unrolled a second scroll—one with dried ink, old paper, but legible diagrams and written drills.
It was her father's. Sword practice routines. Forms. Stances. Notes on timing and counters.
She mimicked the stances, slowly at first. Adjusting her grip. Testing weight and balance. The blade was heavier than she expected, but not unmanageable.
Step. Turn. Draw. Cut.
Again.
And again.
Until the air seemed to hum with motion.
Night. The soft glow of a lamp illuminated the room. On her lap lay another scroll—now marked with rough seals. The ink was slightly smudged.
Kiyemi looked out the window, where a pale moon hung over the village.
She was thinking.
I know how it all ends. I know who will become the enemy. Who will die. Who will betray. But I have no right to toy with others' lives. I'm not a god. Not even a hero. I'm just… a soldier. In the past. And in the future.
She recalled Kakashi's face—cold, grim. A face that would become even lonelier.
She remembered Asuma—kind, honest, unable to hide his feelings. He would die… But maybe not this time.
The Hokage—tired, yet sharp-eyed. His path was nearly over. But he was still watching. Still hoping.
"I'll intervene where I can. But first… I have to become strong. So strong that no one can break me. Not Danzo. Not the Uchiha. Not any enemy."
She lowered her brush and finished the first symbol on a new formula.
When the hour passed midnight, Kiyemi stood. Rolled up the scrolls, carefully packed away the ink. Wrapped her hands in fresh bandages. Stepped up to the mirror.
Her amber eyes stared straight ahead—without hesitation.
I'm not a shinobi. Not yet.But I'm no child anymore.I'm a weapon.And I'll choose whose hands I end up in.