Chapter 3: The Foundation of a Ninja
The lie was simple, elegant, and just plausible enough to work. Minato, with Edgeshot's guidance, explained to his parents that in light of his sudden Quirk manifestation, the school had enrolled him in a "Specialized Quirk Aptitude and Counseling Program" run by a licensed professional. It was designed for late-bloomers and those with unique abilities. The program, he explained, would run for several hours after school each day.
His father, ever the pragmatist, nodded in approval. "Excellent. A structured environment is the best way to understand and control this. Be diligent." His mother, though still anxious, was relieved that her son would be under professional supervision rather than experimenting on his own. Natsumi just thought it was cool that her big brother had "hero homework."
The reality was far more grueling than any homework.
Every day, the moment the final school bell rang, Minato would head to a discreet side street where a black, unmarked car would be waiting. Inside was one of Edgeshot's sidekicks, a silent woman named Shizuka, whose Quirk allowed her to perfectly muffle sound within a given area. Their drives to a secluded, private training ground owned by Edgeshot's agency were always held in complete silence, a transitional period that helped Minato clear his mind of the school day and prepare for the ordeal to come.
For the first month, Minato didn't use his Quirk once. Edgeshot was adamant.
"A Quirk is a tool," the Ninja Hero stated on their first day, as Minato stood panting in the middle of a vast, empty dojo. "Giving a priceless, razor-sharp sword to a man who cannot stand firmly is a recipe for disaster. He will cut himself before he ever strikes an enemy. You, Minato, must first learn to stand."
And so, the training began. It was a brutal education in the fundamentals of being a ninja, a discipline that valued the body and mind as the primary weapons. The days blurred into a cycle of sweat and exhaustion. His mornings were spent on academics, his afternoons and evenings on remaking himself from the ground up.
His physical conditioning was relentless. He ran for kilometers through the forest surrounding the dojo until his lungs burned like embers. He did push-ups until his arms trembled uncontrollably, then did more. He performed agility drills, leaping between posts, balancing on narrow beams, and scaling walls until his muscles screamed in protest. Edgeshot was an unyielding taskmaster, offering no praise, only quiet correction. "Your footwork is clumsy. Your breathing is ragged. Control it."
Then came the lessons in stealth. Minato learned to walk without making a sound, to control the rhythm of his breathing so it became inaudible, to use shadows as a second skin. He spent hours practicing infiltration, tasked with retrieving a small bell from the center of the dojo without Edgeshot, who sat meditating, detecting him. He failed for weeks. Every time he got close, a quiet voice would echo in the room, "I see you, Minato," and he would have to start again.
Finally, there was the training of the mind. Edgeshot taught him to be aware, to broaden his senses beyond mere sight. "A true shinobi feels the shift in the air, the vibration in the floor, the intent of his opponent," he would say during long meditation sessions. "Your world is too narrow. You look, but you do not see."
Minato learned to sit in the forest, close his eyes, and simply listen—to the rustle of a single leaf, the chatter of distant birds, the hum of insects. He learned to feel the direction of the wind and the subtle changes in temperature. His mind, once a place of calm academic thought, was being honed into a weapon of perception.
He would catch brief glimpses of his mentor's other life. Edgeshot would sometimes pause their training to take a call, his voice shifting to one of command as he directed the operations of his Hero Agency, The Lurkers. He would dispatch sidekicks, analyze reports, and coordinate patrols with the cool efficiency of a master strategist. Then he would hang up, turn back to Minato, and his focus would be absolute once more. Witnessing this duality, Minato began to understand that a Pro Hero was more than just a fighter; they were a leader, a protector, and a pillar of society. It was a heavy burden.
One evening, after nearly two months of this torturous foundation-building, Minato finally succeeded. He moved across the dojo floor like a ghost, his feet silent, his breathing perfectly controlled. He reached the bell, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal without making a sound.
As he stood up, bell in hand, Edgeshot's eyes opened. He didn't look surprised, merely observant.
"Good," the hero said, the single word carrying more weight than a thousand compliments. He rose to his feet with fluid grace. "Your vessel is prepared. It is no longer a leaking cup, but a sturdy bowl, ready to be filled."
He looked at Minato, a new intensity in his gaze. "Tomorrow, we hunt for the storm within."
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