Naruto : The Return of Senju

I made my way into the training ground alongside Grandfather, my posture relaxed but my mind alert. The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt-packed floor. The faint scent of earth lingered in the air, and the distant chatter of merchants drifted from the village streets. The training ground felt isolated—a space set apart for discipline and focus.

Grandfather's steps were slow but deliberate, his presence filling the space like a silent warning. His sharp gaze cut through me—expectant, measuring. No words of greeting—just a nod, like a judge acknowledging a trial's start., his presence commanding without the need for words. He didn't greet me—he never wasted breath on formalities. Instead, he gave a small nod before speaking.

"We'll begin with ninja tools and taijutsu," he said. His tone was calm, steady—a man who had passed down knowledge for decades."Master the basics first," Grandfather said, his tone firm. "Or you won't live long enough to master anything else."

I nodded, absorbing his words without reacting outwardly. This was expected. In my past life as a lawyer, arguments were won through preparation, not emotion. The same applied here. This was a long-term investment—knowledge I would hone, refine, and use to my advantage.

Grandfather gestured toward a mat in front of us, where a neatly arranged set of weapons awaited. Kunai, shuriken, and a few scrolls lay before me—tools of war, instruments of efficiency.

"These are standard for all shinobi," Grandfather said, picking up a kunai with practiced ease. He rotated it between his fingers, letting the blade catch the sunlight. "A kunai. Simple, versatile. It can be thrown, used in close combat, or serve as a cutting tool."

I crouched down, picking up a kunai for myself. The moment I grasped the handle, I processed the weight immediately.

Lighter than a standard combat knife. Balanced. Designed for speed, not brute force.

"It's lighter than I expected," I remarked, flipping it in my palm with measured precision.

Grandfather gave a nod. "A common misconception. Many assume weight determines effectiveness. A shinobi's tools aren't about power. They are about precision, speed, and control."

He gestured toward the shuriken, their sharp edges gleaming under the sun. "Shuriken are meant for long-range attacks. However, without proper aim and understanding of distance, they are ineffective."

I studied the weapons, already calculating their use cases in battle. Kunai for mid-range combat and adaptability. Shuriken for long-range attacks and distractions. Neither could be relied upon without accuracy.

"How does one decide when to use them?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral. "What determines whether I engage in taijutsu or use projectiles?"

A rare smirk touched Grandfather's lips—brief but present. "That is something you will learn in time. But remember—ninja tools are not weapons. They are extensions of yourself. A shinobi who throws kunai without intent is already dead. Strategy determines survival."

His answer was expected. There was no singular rule, only adaptability. That was fine. Adaptability is a lawyer's greatest weapon.

I tightened my grip on the kunai, feeling the cool steel against my skin. This knowledge would serve me well.

After introducing the weapons, Grandfather moved into practical application.

"Before you can use them in combat, you must first hit stationary targets with precision," he instructed, stepping forward to set up several wooden targets at varying distances.

I observed the placement of the targets. Different distances. Different angles.

A test of accuracy and control. Simple enough.

I adjusted my stance, taking my time to analyze my grip. If I had one chance, how would I approach this?

I adjusted my grip slightly, accounting for the wind. My fingers flexed as I exhaled slowly, recalling the way my previous kunai had veered off course. Aim low. Let the arc carry it upward.

It sliced through the air, hitting the target—but not at the center. Off by an inch.

Not bad, but not perfect.

For a moment, Grandfather's eyes lingered on the target. The corner of his mouth twitched—barely a smile, but enough. Approval, however small, was still earned.

I didn't react, nor did I allow frustration to cloud my judgment. Mistakes are meant to be analyzed, not felt.

Grandfather gave a slight nod. "Good. Again."

Without hesitation, I adjusted my grip and threw another. Then another.

For the next hour, I refined my aim, correcting my posture, memorizing the angles. The repetition wasn't just physical—it was mental conditioning. Each throw added to a growing database of calculations.

By the end of the session, my fingers were slightly numb from gripping the weapons, but my accuracy had improved significantly.

Grandfather stepped forward, adjusting my stance with a light tap to my elbow. "Better. Precision takes time, but repetition builds certainty."

I inclined my head in acknowledgment. This was the foundation.