The Aurora Eruditio was a masterpiece of order, a three-story pagoda that stood as a defiant middle finger to the passage of time and the scars of training. To Masaru Renji, the cleanliness was the most unsettling part. It was polished, clinical, and entirely foreign. Back home, things had a habit of staying broken; here, even the air felt curated.
He looked toward the mountain peaks of Kumogakure, pondering the invisible weight of the Raikage. People spoke of the leader as the sun around which the Land of Lightning orbited, yet to Renji, she was just another ghost in a land of legends. How great can a person be if you only ever see their minions? he wondered. But his skepticism was a luxury he couldn't afford to indulge. He wasn't here to critique the architecture or the politics. He was here for her. The memory of his mother being taken was a jagged shard in his mind, one he sharpened daily. He wasn't naive, he knew that a boy with empty pockets and untrained hands stood no chance of finding someone the world had stolen. To gain power, he had to enter the belly of the beast. He had to become a shinobi.
It was a bitter irony. His mother had often reminisced about his father’s formative years within these very walls, her voice filled with a warmth Renji couldn't quite share. To him, the Academy was a factory that turned children into weapons for the frontlines. If that was the price of admission to find his mother, he would pay it. He would play the loyal student, the humble recruit, or whatever other mask the instructors required.His only real edge was a temperamental connection to the earth beneath his feet. He could make the ground groan and shift, grinding stone into fine sand, but it was a fickle gift. It paled in comparison to the raw, terrifying power he’d felt the day he fractured the legs of those men. That day, he hadn't just moved the earth, he had broken it.
Since that day, his power had felt muted. He had not been able to produce enough force to bind a person’s limbs or cause any real harm. It was a frustrating contrast to the violence he had once unleashed. Yet, as his physical strength seemed to stagnate, his internal awareness shifted. His third eye was opening with newfound clarity. The static and diffraction that once clouded his spiritual vision were smoothing out, allowing him to sense the distinct heat and weight of the energies surrounding him. He could feel a change taking root deep within his bones. It was no longer just about potential. There was a raw, growing storm inside of him that felt increasingly difficult to contain. He realized that if he did not become stronger soon, he would lose the ability to control the very power he was trying to cultivate.
Checking his posture, he thought back to the letter he’d sent, penned by an old woman he’d commissioned to make him sound "proper."
WC: 600
[MFT]
He looked toward the mountain peaks of Kumogakure, pondering the invisible weight of the Raikage. People spoke of the leader as the sun around which the Land of Lightning orbited, yet to Renji, she was just another ghost in a land of legends. How great can a person be if you only ever see their minions? he wondered. But his skepticism was a luxury he couldn't afford to indulge. He wasn't here to critique the architecture or the politics. He was here for her. The memory of his mother being taken was a jagged shard in his mind, one he sharpened daily. He wasn't naive, he knew that a boy with empty pockets and untrained hands stood no chance of finding someone the world had stolen. To gain power, he had to enter the belly of the beast. He had to become a shinobi.
It was a bitter irony. His mother had often reminisced about his father’s formative years within these very walls, her voice filled with a warmth Renji couldn't quite share. To him, the Academy was a factory that turned children into weapons for the frontlines. If that was the price of admission to find his mother, he would pay it. He would play the loyal student, the humble recruit, or whatever other mask the instructors required.His only real edge was a temperamental connection to the earth beneath his feet. He could make the ground groan and shift, grinding stone into fine sand, but it was a fickle gift. It paled in comparison to the raw, terrifying power he’d felt the day he fractured the legs of those men. That day, he hadn't just moved the earth, he had broken it.
Since that day, his power had felt muted. He had not been able to produce enough force to bind a person’s limbs or cause any real harm. It was a frustrating contrast to the violence he had once unleashed. Yet, as his physical strength seemed to stagnate, his internal awareness shifted. His third eye was opening with newfound clarity. The static and diffraction that once clouded his spiritual vision were smoothing out, allowing him to sense the distinct heat and weight of the energies surrounding him. He could feel a change taking root deep within his bones. It was no longer just about potential. There was a raw, growing storm inside of him that felt increasingly difficult to contain. He realized that if he did not become stronger soon, he would lose the ability to control the very power he was trying to cultivate.
Checking his posture, he thought back to the letter he’d sent, penned by an old woman he’d commissioned to make him sound "proper."
The words felt like a foreign language on his tongue, yet as he sat on a wooden bench, drifting into memories of Daku and the others who had looked after him, a rare, genuine smile tugged at his lips. He was a boy built on secrets and sand, waiting for a path to reveal itself in the dark clouds.
WC: 600
[MFT]
