The hot summer sun beat down on Konoha, unrelenting. Most villagers took shelter where they could—behind awnings, under trees, inside tea shops—and the Academy students weren't much different.
At the edge of the residential district, half-hidden by tall grass and crooked fence posts, sat the old building the home two anomalies . Weathered wood groaned in the heat, and its lonely porch sagged under the weight of two figures.
One wore a slightly oversized white gi with pink-red trim. His bowlcut had grown shaggy around the edges, fringe damp with sweat. Beside him sat a taller teen, olive-toned, his posture lazy, brown hair falling onto his forehead and catching the sun. The golden haze in his hazel eyes shimmered with the light.
"The sun is truly passionate today," Lee said in that strangely formal way of his. He hadn't even met Might Guy yet, but he already carried that same bizarre spark—like his soul was dipped in molten youth.
"It's been overdue," Ravi replied, squinting at the sky. "Summer started weeks ago." He groaned and leaned back on his hands. "You still wanna spar? Honestly, it's too damn hot."
"Ravi! Time does not wait for us! We must train!"
"Yeah, yeah…" Ravi muttered, dragging himself upright. His thoughts were still a melting mess, sticking to the inside of his skull like old honey. Wonder if Milo's holding up alright, he mused as he rolled his shoulders. He was pretty devastated about getting pushed down a year… even though, technically, that's where he should've started. Still. His pride took a real hit, even if he tried to plate it over like he didn't care.
What's he even up to right now?
Lee and Ravi took their places opposite each other in the dust, sweat already clinging to their brows. Lee stood tall in the Academy's standard taijutsu stance—open, earnest, textbook perfect. Ravi's stance was something else entirely. It bled intention—sharp like a fencing lunge, but fluid, ready. More kenjutsu than kata. His wooden sword stood upright before him, like a gate between him and the world.
Dust lifted beneath their feet, warm and slow in the heat. Ravi shifted first—always the one to test distance. He stepped forward, blade low, eyes focused. Lee mirrored him with an almost eerie stillness, arms raised in the Academy's orthodox taijutsu stance. No chakra tricks, no flashy jutsu. Just raw form and muscle memory.
Lee moved first. A forward rush, fast for someone his size, footwork simple but effective. A textbook high jab was met with the flat of Ravi's wooden blade, deflecting to the side. Ravi stepped into the open angle, delivering a low sweep—but Lee leapt, body flipping with the kind of flexibility that didn't make sense for a kid still technically in training.
He's almost perfected it, Ravi thought mid-motion. That style. The basic one. Because that's all he has.
Ravi's style was built differently—close-range, adaptive, based on observation and theory he'd obsessed over back in their old world. His footwork was rooted in MMA or rather boxing and fencing , his strikes calculated and compact, designed for maximum control.
And yet, Lee held his ground.
They traded strikes in bursts—Ravi striking with the blade, Lee blocking, dodging, slipping just out of reach. Ravi ducked a spinning backfist and retaliated with a clean jab of the wooden blade toward Lee's side—
And that's when it happened.
Lee didn't dodge. He stepped into it.
Took the hit against his shoulder and twisted, grabbing Ravi's wrist with both hands. He spun low, pulling Ravi forward and upward, the wooden sword tearing from his grip as Lee flipped him forward with reckless force. Ravi landed on his back, blinking up at the sky, disarmed.
"The hell was that," Ravi breathed out, more impressed than annoyed. His ribs ached.
Lee grinned, eyes bright and slightly off-kilter. "The fire of youth burns brightest when pressed! Even if it means pain!"
Ravi sat up with a wince, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay… yeah. You're insane."
He wasn't wrong. There was something in Lee's eyes—not just enthusiasm, but fervor. Like he believed in this so hard, it burned through hesitation. All the users of the Eight Gates had to be like this, Ravi realized. That tiny bit unhinged. How else could someone accept a technique that tore your body apart just to go faster?
Ravi pushed up and rolled his shoulder. "Alright then."
They clashed again. No blades. Just fists.
Ravi's style was tighter now. Elbows, knees, pivots—all fluid. Lee danced around it with instinctual rhythm, his strikes wide and powerful, meant to batter down defense. Ravi weaved through, jabbing ribs, slipping past kicks. But Lee didn't fall behind—he got louder. Bolder. As if every clean hit only made him more alive.
They broke apart, breathing heavy. No winner. No point chasing one.
Wordlessly, Ravi stooped to pick up the dropped wooden blade.
They stared at each other across the lazy stretch of sunlit grass—sweat dripping, chests heaving—and, at the same time, tossed the weapons through the air.
Each caught the other's tool.
Grins flickered into being.
Nothing more needed saying.
*****
Milo walked with his shoulders hunched, hood pulled halfway over his head despite the heat. The sun was brutal today, the kind of sharp, white heat that made his clothes stick to his back and thoughts cling like sweat.
He didn't care.
Every sound—the chatter of kids reunited after break, the distant hammer of a blacksmith, the lazy chirp of summer insects—only made his mood worse. They were all so... settled. Like they belonged here. Like none of them had ever been told they weren't enough, or that they had to start over. Again.
"Dropping me down a year…" he muttered under his breath, lips tugging at a sneer. "Technically where I should've been," he mocked, parroting the Hokage's aide. "Technically, I should've burned the place down."
The alley he turned into was narrow and shadowed, lined with weeds and old signs with faded ink. It felt like a good place to disappear for a while.
Reaching into his side pouch, Milo fished out a thin paper roll—tightly packed, rough around the edges, but carefully crafted. His fingers moved with the ease of habit. He struck a match on the wall's rough plaster and lit the tip.
The smell wasn't like tobacco. It was sharper, more herbal. Almost sweet beneath the bitterness. It caught in his throat at first—still unfamiliar—but it did the job. His nerves stopped buzzing quite so loudly.
He exhaled, watching the smoke curl upward.
He'd made these himself. A mix of herbs he'd gathered with Ravi. Some were common—restorative stuff he'd seen sold by roadside vendors. Others? Less so. A few chakra-rich plants supposedly used by clans to help their kids get in sync with their energy earlier. Nothing too dramatic. No miracle cures. Just things that worked—slowly, quietly.
None of that had come from the Academy. They didn't teach things like this. And the Naruto wiki dump on his phone hadn't helped either. No guide for "chakra-friendly smoke blends" or "apothecary hacks for chakra-deficient weirdos." He'd had to scrounge through dusty old scrolls at the public libraries, cross-reference formulas, memorize leaf shapes and root diagrams. And then, of course, practice mixing at home—burnt fingers and all.
He took another drag, breathing deep. The heat of the smoke pressed against his lungs and melted some of the ache off his chest.
Still… the knot in his gut hadn't gone anywhere.
Milo sighed and glanced up.
Only then did he realize how quiet it had gotten.
The street was wider now, lined with high walls. Traditional, but somber. Unpainted wood and old tile, rooftops curling upward like watching eyes. The windows were dark, the homes too still.
He blinked, squinting past the haze of his own smoke.
The sign beside the entrance gate was chipped but clear.
Uchiha District.
Milo froze.
"…Oh," he muttered.
The ash fell off the tip of his cigarette.
Of all the damn places to end up.