The air behind the Konoha Academy carried a crispness to it - cool shade cast by the tall trees mingled with the gentle scent of grass and worn wood from the old training dummies set along the field’s edge. It was quieter here, removed from the hum of the village streets and the echo of Academy lectures. A familiar sort of quiet Shun had always liked, up until recently when the streets fell a different, eerie quiet due to the virus. Thankfully, due to his comrades efforts, life was beginning to slowly fill the streets again. There was still much to repair and rebuild, but with time, Konoha would overcome.
Near one of the old training posts, Shun stood alone, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, exposing forearms faintly marked by chakra practice. His hands moved through a steady sequence of hand signs - each seal pressed together with care, each breath controlled and measured. Frost began to bloom across his skin, fine as threads of spun glass, before breaking off and weaving through the air. Ice chakra flowed outward, curling like silver ribbon toward the target. It twisted once, then twice, before hardening mid-flight into a delicate arc of frozen needles. They struck the post with a soft crackle, embedding perfectly - sharp and exact - just deep enough to shake the frost from the bark without shattering on impact.
His brow drew down in faint concentration, but he said nothing. No exhale of satisfaction. No words of praise. Just a slow release of chakra as the technique dissolved into the air once more.
Without pause, Shun stepped forward, drawing a pair of dulled training kunai from his belt. He slid into a short melee pattern, his footwork precise on the uneven earth. His movements flowed with quiet confidence - like water finding its course - each step measured, each slash pulled back just short of full force. He wasn’t attacking, not really. He was refining. Testing his angles. Watching the way his shoulders shifted. Correcting imperfections he had allowed to become habit. To anyone watching, it might’ve looked like a dance: silent, fluid, exacting.
It had been a week since he met her - the stranger from distant lands with sharp eyes and steadier composure. A week since he offered to show her the Academy grounds and, one day, test his blade against hers. He hadn’t forgotten her words, or the way something in her gaze had lingered, as if she saw more in him than he did. It stuck with him. Pressed against the inside of his thoughts even now.
One week. Not long. But long enough to show a sliver of improvement - his throws had tightened, his chakra flow more responsive - but still, he felt the gnawing edge of insufficiency. Danger never waited. And he knew better than to believe peace lasted.
There’s still more I can do.
There has to be.
He exhaled sharply, turning into another slash.
I have to overcome this.
I need to focus.
His strikes came a little faster now - not reckless, but urgent. Not for show. Not for praise. For preparation. For the next time he’d have to fight. For the people he couldn’t afford to fail.
Near one of the old training posts, Shun stood alone, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, exposing forearms faintly marked by chakra practice. His hands moved through a steady sequence of hand signs - each seal pressed together with care, each breath controlled and measured. Frost began to bloom across his skin, fine as threads of spun glass, before breaking off and weaving through the air. Ice chakra flowed outward, curling like silver ribbon toward the target. It twisted once, then twice, before hardening mid-flight into a delicate arc of frozen needles. They struck the post with a soft crackle, embedding perfectly - sharp and exact - just deep enough to shake the frost from the bark without shattering on impact.
His brow drew down in faint concentration, but he said nothing. No exhale of satisfaction. No words of praise. Just a slow release of chakra as the technique dissolved into the air once more.
Without pause, Shun stepped forward, drawing a pair of dulled training kunai from his belt. He slid into a short melee pattern, his footwork precise on the uneven earth. His movements flowed with quiet confidence - like water finding its course - each step measured, each slash pulled back just short of full force. He wasn’t attacking, not really. He was refining. Testing his angles. Watching the way his shoulders shifted. Correcting imperfections he had allowed to become habit. To anyone watching, it might’ve looked like a dance: silent, fluid, exacting.
It had been a week since he met her - the stranger from distant lands with sharp eyes and steadier composure. A week since he offered to show her the Academy grounds and, one day, test his blade against hers. He hadn’t forgotten her words, or the way something in her gaze had lingered, as if she saw more in him than he did. It stuck with him. Pressed against the inside of his thoughts even now.
One week. Not long. But long enough to show a sliver of improvement - his throws had tightened, his chakra flow more responsive - but still, he felt the gnawing edge of insufficiency. Danger never waited. And he knew better than to believe peace lasted.
There’s still more I can do.
There has to be.
He exhaled sharply, turning into another slash.
I have to overcome this.
I need to focus.
His strikes came a little faster now - not reckless, but urgent. Not for show. Not for praise. For preparation. For the next time he’d have to fight. For the people he couldn’t afford to fail.