It's been a week since my birthday.
Since I got my kunai.
Since Papa and Mama said I'd start my training.
And man… it's way harder than I thought it'd be.
Every morning, I get up at 7 sharp.
The sun's barely peeking through my window when I open my eyes. I stretch real big and yawn super loud, even though I'm still sleepy.
My arms and legs are usually sore from the day before, but I push the blankets off anyway and hop out of bed.
I wash my face, brush my teeth, and put on the black training clothes Papa gave me. They're a little loose, but I like how cool I look in them.
When I walk into the kitchen, Mama's already there.
She always makes breakfast before I wake up. Today it's rice, miso soup, and grilled fish. The fish smells amazing.
"Morning," I say, rubbing my eyes.
"Good morning, sweetie," she says with a smile. "Eat up before your father starts yelling that you're late."
I giggle. "He doesn't yell."
She raises her eyebrow. "Not yet."
By 8:00, I'm outside in the training yard. The air is cold, and the grass still has little water drops on it. Papa is already waiting, arms crossed.
"You ready?" he asks.
I nod, even though my stomach feels like it's flipping.
"Ten laps around the village. Let's go."
My smile fades.
Ten.
Again.
We've done this every morning since training started, and it's always the worst part. The village isn't huge, but it's not small either. The dirt path goes through the trees, around houses, and back again.
The first lap is okay.
The second one, I start breathing heavy.
By lap five, my legs feel like they're filled with rocks.
By lap ten… I'm dragging my feet, gasping, arms limp.
Papa stays behind me the whole time. He doesn't yell or get mad, but every time I slow down, he says the same thing:
"Push a little more. You're almost stronger than yesterday."
It always makes me move again.
When we finally stop, I fall straight to the ground, sweating and panting.
Papa squats next to me and hands me a water bottle.
"Good job. Five minutes rest. Then we move on."
I groan. "Already?"
He just grins.
Next, it's boulder time.
Papa picks a bunch of round ones from near the edge of the woods and lines them up in a row.
"Carry each one from this tree to that one," he says, pointing about twenty steps away. "Do it until you can't move."
I look at the boulders.
They look at me.
I sigh.
Then I start lifting.
The first one's not too bad. I wrap my arms around it, wobble to the tree, and drop it.
The second one makes my back hurt.
By the fifth one, I can barely breathe.
I fall down twice. My arms shake like jelly.
But I keep going. Papa helps me stand up each time. He doesn't say much, just watches with those serious eyes.
At 3 o'clock, he finally says, "That's enough."
I fall over again, this time on purpose.
My arms feel like noodles. My legs feel like wood. My back feels like it's made of bricks.
Papa laughs a little and helps me up.
"Come on. Time for lunch."
We go inside and Mama has food waiting.
Cold noodles, warm soup, and a big bowl of steamed vegetables. I eat so fast I get the hiccups.
Mama pats my back. "Slow down, tiger."
"I'm starving," I say between bites. "We did ten laps again."
She laughs. "Sounds like someone's getting stronger."
I smile, even though I'm still chewing.
After lunch, we go back out.
Now it's time for taijutsu.
Not just any taijutsu. Papa is teaching me something called Interceptor Fist.
He says it's an Uchiha style. That it's not about just being fast or strong—it's about reading your opponent. Catching them right before they hit you.
"Timing. Eyes. Control," he says, over and over. "You wait… then strike before they land their move."
It's tricky.
He shows me the stance: feet steady, knees loose, hands relaxed but ready.
Then we go through the forms.
Block to the left. Slide step. Quick jab. Parry. Turn your hips. Strike back.
Over and over again.
My feet stumble sometimes. My arms get too stiff. Papa stops me and gently adjusts my shoulders or hips.
"Don't just move," he says. "Feel where they'll be."
It's hard.
But I like it.
From 6 to 7, we spar.
Papa lets me try the moves I just learned.
Sometimes, he even attacks slow on purpose so I can try to stop him.
But I still haven't landed a clean hit.
Not yet.
I came really close today, though.
He threw a low punch and I dodged it and almost tagged his side… but he twisted and blocked it with his elbow.
"Closer," he said, with a grin.
My chest puffed up a little. "I'll get you tomorrow."
"We'll see."
After sparring, we sit cross-legged on the ground.
This part is called meditation.
Papa says the Interceptor Fist only works if my mind is calm—like water.
So we breathe. Just breathe.
In.
Out.
The sun's going down now. It paints the sky orange and purple.
The stream behind the house makes soft sounds. My muscles still ache, but my brain feels… still.
I like this part too.
At 8, we go back inside.
Mama already has the bath ready. Steam comes up from the water. I sink in with a big "aaahhh."
Papa chuckles from the other side. "Feels good, huh?"
I nod. "Best part of the day."
Mama laughs while sitting on the edge with her feet in the water.
"You say that every night," she says.
"Cuz it's true every night," I say.
After the bath, Mama dries my hair and helps me into my pajamas. I sit at the table and eat dinner slowly this time—rice, stew, and pickled veggies.
I tell her about everything.
"The boulders were so heavy," I say. "I dropped one on my toe!"
"Are you okay?" she asks, worried.
I nod. "I didn't cry. Promise."
"Strong boy," she says, kissing my cheek.
Papa tells her I almost landed a hit during sparring, and Mama claps for me.
"You'll get him next time," she says.
I smile real big. "Yeah. Just wait."
At 9, it's bedtime.
I crawl into my bed, my body tired but my heart full.
Papa walks in and tucks me in.
"You did good today," he says.
"Thanks, Papa."
He walks to the door.
"Tomorrow, we do it again."
"Okay," I say, yawning.
Mama waves from the hallway. "Goodnight, sweetheart."
"Night night."
I close my eyes, feeling warm, sore, and happy all at once.
Training is hard.
But I'm getting stronger.
One day at a time.