Ren did not aspire to become a hero. He had no dream of protecting the village or standing at the top of the world. His goal was quieter. Deeper. More hidden. He observed, analyzed, and delved into the essence.
The morning began before dawn. Before the first rays of the sun pierced the gray sky, he was already leaving the house. His steps were silent, his movements restrained. He did not seek to show endurance or strength. Everything was measured. The body was a tool. It could not be broken; it needed to be shaped.
Light stretching. A short run to the river and back — only thirty minutes, no more. Twenty push-ups. Some squats. One set of crunches. All done with full concentration. He didn't rush or push himself. What mattered more was the sense of balance, breathing, control. Learning to feel how the muscles work. Where the strain was. Where the weak link lay.
On the way back, he listened to the village waking up. It was not the voices that mattered — but the pauses between them. The uneven footsteps of shinobi. The grinding of the shutter in the weapons shop. The cry of a child — thin but a sharp indicator of worry in the family. All this formed a map. The map meant survival.
After a shower and a modest breakfast, he headed to the Academy. He was not in a hurry. He arrived earlier than the others. He circled the building. Memorized the shadows. Where to hide. Where the sound of footsteps faded, and where it echoed off the walls. This was important.
By the time the students filled the halls with noise, he was already sitting at his desk. In his usual spot — the third row by the window. From there, he had a good view of both the classroom and the courtyard.
Several days had passed since the start of classes. During that time, Ren managed to understand a lot. He managed to get into the flow of information. He was not among the best in physical training, but in theory, he began to pull ahead quickly. Not because he chased praise — but because he knew: information is a weapon.
Lessons went according to schedule. History of the villages. Great clans. Battles of the past. Nature of chakra. Basics of strategy. Sometimes the teacher asked difficult questions to see who thought more broadly. Ren didn't always answer, but when he spoke — he spoke precisely. No fluff. It made an impression.
Other students began to notice him. Some with interest, some with caution. Kakashi — still silent, but his gaze slid over Ren more often. Obito tried to befriend him but ran into a polite wall. Rin tried a couple of times to involve him in conversation — in vain. Guy, as always, exploded with energy, ignoring refusals. Kurenai watched. Ren felt her gaze on him like a needle. Asuma still kept his distance.
But that was exactly what Ren needed. He became a reflection. Not his own, but theirs. He read them. Listened. Chose how to move. How to speak. To whom to smile — and when to remain silent.
After the main day, he stayed in the classroom. Jon-sensei had already gotten used to it. At first, he was restrainedly surprised, then accepted it as a matter of course. Their lessons passed in silence. Conversation — only to the point. No unnecessary words. The teacher gave more than he had to. Stories about clans from the inside. Analysis of unofficial tactics. Cases from battlefields that weren't in the books. Mistakes that aren't forgiven.
Ren listened. Memorized. In the evening, returning home, he took out his scrolls and redrew what he had heard. He made diagrams: who fought whom, on whose side, where the cracks were, who betrayed and who survived. He sought patterns. Sought weaknesses.
Some evenings he devoted to chakra analysis. Not practical — theoretical. Understanding how it is distributed. How it affects the body. Where the nodes are, how they could be overloaded. He found hints in books. The teacher sometimes confirmed or denied his guesses. From this, he built his understanding of power — the power of others.
On the fourth day, Jon-sensei asked a counter question for the first time:
— Why is theory so important to you, Ren? The others want to learn to fight. You — to read.
Ren did not look away:
— Because I don't intend to fight head-on. I intend to win before the fight even begins.
There was silence. The teacher looked at him for a long time. Then just nodded:
— A mature answer. But the path is difficult.
Ren said nothing. He knew.
In the evenings, he also returned to his morning training. Added a little — a few seconds to the plank, one or two extra push-ups. He tracked his body's reaction. Fatigue. Pulse. He knew that haste would lead to injury. He was not a foolish hero breaking himself for some phantom strength. He was a predator. Patient.
One day, he noticed Kakashi stayed longer than usual on the training yard. He was practicing throws and dodges. Alone. Without words. Ren didn't approach. He just watched from the second-floor window. Memorized rhythm, angles, breathing. Looked for weaknesses — and found a couple. Even in Kakashi.
It was all part of the game. But he did not play. He built himself. Without noise. Without a name.
While other kids argued over who would become Hokage, he was learning how Hokage are controlled — through fear, through influence, through shadows.