Another year has passed.

I sit cross-legged in the center of my dimly lit room, eyes closed, breath steady.

Two familiar chakras approach the door. Tiger and Boar. Operatives of Root. I've seen them often enough to recognize their presence without opening my eyes. Their movements are disciplined, deliberate.

The door cracked open. Heavy footsteps enter the room. One of them moves forward. A brief shift in the air. Hig leg raises. A kick-fast, but not lethal-drives towards my stomach.

Did they observe my ceiling push-ups?

I have time to react. My muscle tense and my chakra raises instinctively. I consider my options. I could surpress most of the impact by chakra enhancing my abdominal muscles but they will definetly observe it. I have to let the hit make contact without any resistance.

But why are they hitting me? I haven't done anything to deserve punishment nor did i received an order that i didn't obey. I assume they want to implement a state of fear and activate my survival instinct for something that will happen later.

I let my body relax. The impact is sharp. Pain erupts through my abdomen. My body folds, doubling over. My vision blurs, bile raises in my throat. Warm vomit splashes onto the cold stone floor. This is disguisting. My fingers press against the ground as I steady myself.

Another strike follows- a fist colliding with my ribs. My body slams into the wall, the shock rippling through my bones, but i make no sound. Another kick to my side. My body jerks but i remain limp.

2 bruised ribs and probably internal bleeding.

I wipe the blood from my lips and push myself up. Tiger and Boar exchange a glance. Should we continue?

A moment later, one of them speaks.

"Follow us."

I step forward without hesitation. The three of us leave the room, moving through the dimly lit corridors. My ribs ache, but my posture remains straight. I start enhanching them with chakra.

We arrive at a cell. The scent of mold, rusted metal and dried blood thickens the air. A place meant for confinement. Torture.

I take in the surroundings. Rusted chains bolted into stone. Bloodstains-old and new. The walls damp with moisture, the floor uneven.

A slow deliberate tapping echoes through the room. A cane striking against the cold ground. Danzo enters. Behind him, two operatives drag a prisoner into the cell.

I can see where this is going.

The man is in his late thirties or early forties. Once muscular, now reduced to a weakened state by starvation and prolonged suffering. His left eye is swollen shut, his lip split and bleeding. His robes are torn, his fingers trembling despite his attempt to steady himself. The scent of sweat, urine and blood clings to him.

His gaze shifts between Danzo and me, confusion flickering in his battered expression.

Danzo steps forwards, his voice calm. Indifferent.

"In this world, you either kill or be killed."

The prisioner flinches but says nothing.

Danzo's gaze turns to me. Cold. Unblinking.

"Kill him."

The purpose of the previous beating was to activate the "kill or be killed" survival instinct. If the kid thinks about not following the order, the active feeling of pain from his body would remind him of the consequences.

I step forward without hesitation. There is no need to ask why. No need to question.

The prisioner looks at me now. His body tenses, his breathing shallow. He opens his mouth to speak, but it is already to late.

Tiger hand me a kunai. I weight it in my hand. A traditional knife has a pointed tip and a curved edge, optimized for slashing. A kunai, in contrast, is thicker, designed for piercing and throwing. It's short blade limits cutting efficiency, but it's versatility compensates.

I grip the weapon, the cool metal pressing against my skin. This metal is not normal, chakra enhancing proprieties perhaps? I should research later.

The prisioner can only release a sound.

"Wai-"

The blade slices across his throat. A wet gurgling sound escapes his lips as blood spills, splattering onto my hands and face. His body spasm. Fingers twitch. A futile grasp at nothing. His knees buckle, collapsing onto the floor. His life drains away, polling beneath him.

I do not look away.

I watch until the body stops moving. The first one.

Silence.

Danzo steps forward. A brief flicker of something crosses his face. Surprise. Satisfaction.

Tiger and Boar remain silent but their muscles stiffen.

Danzo's lips curl slightly, something resembling approval surfacing.

I met his gaze. Expresionless.

"Excellent, Kiyotaka."

Did he just praise me? Well, this settles it, he is definetly not my original father reincarnated.

-----

The air is cold, heavy with the metallic tang of old steel and damp stone. A vast chamber stretches before me, its high ceiling a mockery of space. It should feel open, yet it suffocates. The rows of dim, flickering lights cast pale shadows over the figures standing in silence.

Thirty children.

I step into the line without hesitation, falling into place among them. They do not react. Their expressions are hollow, their bodies rigid, trained into stillness. No one speaks. No one moves unnecessarily. The only sound is the faint, rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the distance.

I assume they are orphans picked up from the village streets.

Danzo has gathered them for the same purpose. Tools to be forged. Blades to be sharpened. Weapons to be wielded.

The line before me blurs. A memory flickers.

White walls. Cold floors. A line of children, standing just as still. I remember the sterile scent, the hum of overhead lights, the suffocating stillness.

Same mission. Different worlds.

"From this day forward, you will train together. You will fight together. And you will die together if necessary."

The voice is sharp, precise, and devoid of warmth. A Root instructor stands before us, clad in black, his face hidden behind a blank porcelain mask.

"Failure is unacceptable. Hesitation is weakness. Weakness will be punished. Do not think. Do not feel. Do not question. You exist only to obey."

I glance at the children around me.

A small, pale boy with short black hair stands a few feet away. His dark eyes are empty, devoid of expression. But his fingers twitch-just slightly-as if eager to move. A sign of impulse. Instinct restrained.

Next to him, another boy, slightly taller, similar in appearance but with sharper eyes. There is something different in his gaze. A quiet arrogance. Not defiant, not foolish, but certain. He already believes himself superior to the rest.

Eighteen other boys. Small. Frail. Their faces are blank slates, their identities erased. They do not fidget. They do not react.

Nine girls. Their hair is cropped short, their bodies thin. They do not look at each other. They do not even blink more than necessary. Their eyes are dull, as if they have already accepted their fate.

They are broken.

Soon enough they will all learn one by one the truth of this world.

Winning is everything.

"Run."

The word cuts throw the silence like a blade.

A door hisses open, revealing a vast, circular training ground beyond it. The cold aritifical lighting bareky reaches the far edges, leaving portions shrouded in shadow. Wooden poles rise unevenly from the dirt, stone walls stand in random formations, trenches filled with murky water line the outskirts. It is not a track--it is an obstacle course designed to break the body, to teach endurance.

For half a second, no one moves.

Then the first child bolts.

Like a ripple in still water, the hesitation shatters, and the others break into a sprint. Their bare feet slam against the dirt, bodies pushing forward with desperation.

I run.

Not the fastest, not the slowest. Just enough to remain unnoticed. I want to analyze the system before i make any plan.

The taller boy surges ahead, forcing his way past others. He shoves a smaller child aside without hesitation. His pace is reckless, every movement driven by force rather than precision.

The pale boy is different. His movements are more calculated. His anxiety slips up sometimes, but he tried to control himself and keeps his pace steady. He will last longer than most.

The rest struggle. Their stamina depletes quickly, their pace faltering as their untrained bodies begin to betray them. They gasp for air. Legs tremble.

The instructors do not allow weakness.

One by one, children collapses. This looks familliar. They fall to their knees, lungs burning. The black-clad operatives move in instantly, stricking with precision. A boot to the ribs. A fist slamming into a shoulder. A knee driven into a stomach. No words. No hesitation. The massage is clear-get up, or be beaten until you do.

I do not stop.

I keep moving, steady and relentless. My breathing remains controlled. My pace unwavering. As hours pass, more and more children stumble, forced back to their feet through violence.

The taller boy eventually falls, he tries to get back before the instructor can punish him but it's to late, his face connect to the masked man foot. He is send a few meters away. He slowly gets up and starts to run again. He is more used to it than the rest. I assume he is at least 2 years older than us.

By the time the instructors finally call for a halt, the others are drenched in sweat, their bodies trembling.

I should be the same.

I slow my breath deliberatly. Let my shoulders rise and fall just slightly heavier than before. When the nearest instructor steps towards me, his fist already moving, I prepare.

The strike comes fast-aimed at my face.

I reinforce the muscles in my jaw with chakra, clenching them tight. At the last second, I turn my head with the impact. To anyone watching, it appears the strike connected fully. My head snaps to the side, my body sways just slightly-but i remain standing.

After a few more hours or training. The instructor voice cuts through the air.

"Pair up and fight."

The instructors gesture to the dirt-covered center of the room. Pair up. Engage.

I step forward.

Before i can scan the others, movement enters my vision.

The taller boy.

I analyze his chakra. His chakra capacity seems to be around 5000 Ch, i can't precisely state his chakra efficiency but from the way he enhanced his muscles while running i can deduce that he is around 50% chakra efficiency aswell.

As a comparison, by constantly using all the chakra until exhaustion, i increased my chakra capacity to nearly 33000 Ch. My chakra efficiency is also getting better, reaching 91%.

He walks towards me with purpose, his sharp eyes gleaming in the dim light. He does not ask if I will fight him. He has already decided.

The moment the fight begins, he moves. A direct strike-aimed at my chest.

I step aside.

The boys's smirk widens. He shifts his stance, his mucles coilling like a spring. He attacks again, this time a kick-aimed at my ribs.

I lean just enough to let it pass. The wind from his stance brushes against my side. His balance shifts immedieately, a feint, followed by a second strike, a hand slicing towards my throat.

I have no reason to lose this fight.

His movemts are skilled, he can probably defeat any other kid, but he choosed the wrong opponent.

The second his foot leaves the ground and his hand starts moving towards my throat, my arm extends. My fingertips press into the soft tissue of his throat. If this was a life or death fight, he would be dead.

His body recoils instinctively, staggering back. His smirk vanishes. His eyes widen-not in pain but in disbelief.

I do not give him time to recover. A sharp kick hits his knee. Using the momentum, i raise my elbow and strike his jaw.

His body crumples.

I step back, indifferent.

The boy lies in the dirt his hands clenched into fists, his eyes locked onto me.

I met his gaze. "What is your name?"

"I... don't have one."

I see it then. Root doesn't allow names. They want to strip the identity away and force loyalty through lack of identity.

A flawed approach. A tool without a name is incomplete. Identity crises will arise sooner or later.

Did Danzo give me a name just because I am his son? If he would plan to use me just as another Root disposable tool, he should not let personal feelings affect it.

The only explanation is that my role in Danzo's plans is more special than the rest.

I turn away, stepping past the boy as the instructors move to separate the pairs. The others are bloodied, bruised. Some still struggle to rise. But they will.

By nightfall, this room is filled with quiet sound of exhausted breathing. Bodies collapsed onto the cold floor, sleep taking them instantly.

I close my eyes. If i want to advance faster into this world i need to get outside of this walls. Even if the price for it will be the life of the other kids.