Spiralling Sand

Kiraku woke up to another day of no news of him being put in a squad. Although that was disappointing to bear, it comes with the silver lining of more time for him to improve himself and learn new Jutsu. The defeat was still fresh in his mind, having been absolutely demolished by the Jinjuriki. Yet that was not his worst defeat; There was also the stabber, who was nothing more than a glorified 6-year old with a wooden toy. He had to get his shit straight. The fact that his bloodline has now been awaked was a boon, yet it meant nothing if he had nothing but a weak body and academy jutsu fight to fight his battles. With the Chunin exams approaching he had to forge himself into a stronger shinobi. He had the pride of the clan to uphold after all.

He had shamed his family once already but he was still alive. And as long as he drew breath, he knew that had to bring honour to his clan; which although sounded extremely cool and dramatic; as far as he knew, that was only himself in Sunagakure, which made the reality far less so. He had implemented some minute changes to his life; like a more meat-heavy diet, spending more time in the training halls left to him by his parents; both reading the scrolls and doing physical training. Yet the results were too slow. He needed to feel stronger. Faster. Better. Now.

Even if Kiraku was given infinite time to practice for the Chunin exams, he was an impatient person, always opting for the fastest way; even if it was the hardest and most harsh.

He found himself looking in the mirror, that was in front of his bed. A slouching dishevelled figure sat in an even more dishevelled room. He looked back at him in dismay, his eyes filled with contempt. He was still in his boxers, fresh out of bed. His limbs barely had any muscle of them, his ribs lining his chest. He shook his head in disappointment and got up to get dressed. He lazily put on his usual floral shirt, stained with yesterday's food. He pulled up a pair knee-length Bermuda pants that lay in cobble next to them, slow stretching his limbs as he got dressed.

“A Shinobi needed a strong foundation to improve and that foundation was his body”, the words of his parents echoed in his mind. The words of the dead shaped his life far more than those of the living.

He knew a bit of Taijutsu that his parents had taught him when they still lived, yet recent circumstances showed that was far from enough. His blood carried strong chakra and fire burned brightly, strong enough to manifest brightly in his Katon Jutsu; that was something that could never be achieved by no amount of training. Yet, if there was one thing his parents made sure to teach him, it was: “Whatever your blood is, it will not matter if it is pooled under you.” He silently mouthed the words, filling him with the sad determination of the memory of his progenitors.

At that moment he was thrown off memory lane and into reality by the grumbling of his stomach. He made a hearty breakfast consisting of multiple courses of egg sandwiches, lined with strips of meat and wolfed them down.

As Kiraku walked the halls lined with scrolls. He sometimes wondered if his parents had planned that they would leave him an orphan. They contained writings that taught the way of shinobi in great detail, be it Jutsu to ways on how to resist interrogation; everything that he needed to train himself to greatness. His house was by no means small yet a large portion of it was underground, dedicated to storing such scrolls.

Many of the scrolls were suspiciously blank, their covers branded solely with the Sharingan, each of various tomoes. Some even had strange shapes in the centre of the Sharingan, instead of the tomoes, all weirdly hypnotic. Still, he had far more than enough to work with and so he did not put too much thought into what the eldritch symbols meant or what purpose of the empty pages was.

He had spent the last days reading about the fundamentals of ninjutsu and chakra, elementary concepts of every academy in the shinobi lands, to refresh his memory. From the other scrolls, he had spied at with curiosity, they all went into extreme detail that most times confused him, so he set on refreshing his basics to not end up accidentally burning the house with a wayward Katon jutsu. Even these “basics” were too complex beyond what he remembered being taught a few years ago and he soon found himself immersed in the teachings of bygone ancestors, each writing the same teachings yet in different styles.

Some proposed meditation after training yet others wrote it had to be done the first thing after waking up. Yet even in their discrepancy, they offered insight that made Kiraku think in ways he never did before.

His mind was still swimming with the concepts he read as he began his daily run across Sunagakure, jumping from street to cling up to the windowless walls, the act slowly becoming something more routine and mundane for his body. The utilization of basic jutsu has become second nature to him, as the writings of half a dozen Shinobi from all different eras had said; all agreeing on its importance. The Sharingan made find holds in the mostly barren buildings easier yet his chakra system couldn't handle the stress of the unrefined dojutsu easily and so he had trained himself to rely upon his raw reflexes, his eyes only flaring crimson when he found himself in danger.

They had become as natural as his real eyes and both mind and body adapted to their prowess.

Yet, every moment he spent with the Sharingan active, the more it felt normal, natural. It felt right. Initially, when his blood had just awakened, every time he used them, the pain would surge through his head; as if his eyes were two flaming coals. His vision would be misty and unfocused, before sharpening into the fine details. It was more of a hindrance than an asset, easily getting himself killed if he activated them at the wrong time, as he had learned in first-hand experience.

Yet now, it came naturally, a surge of raw power that gave him insight on the things around him. No longer that insight was limited to his surrounding but now also to himself; His body was adapting to its prowess too, no longer feeling sluggish or disconnected. His movements had become precise and through routine training, even throwing multiple shurikens simultaneously with accuracy become a feat that came with ease.

He stopped on the edge of the roof; the edges of his boots sending sand in the alley down below. He let down the hood of his cloak, the wind run through his hair, a long mane of charcoal. Below low him lay Sunagakure no Sato, shades of topaz as far as the eye could see. His ancestors, His progenitors, countless clansman had died in service for this village and so he would; yet why? That question lay on his mind. What has the village given him? People steel looked at him queerly when he walked among them, he had no friends of any kind and he had to fend for himself ever since he was just a boy.

People walked and bustle in the sand-swept streets, living on with their lives; uncaring of the lives that passed so they could do so. For the first time in his life, Kiraku questioned why was he doing all of this. Why had his parents gone to their grave knowingly, only to have their names etched in stone and be forgotten by the many?

He always assumed that this is what he was meant to do, that it was the right thing. But why? Was it because his parents told him so? Would they have told him the same if they knew their fate? The wind roared in his ears, his cloak flapping as the hard sand hit his bare face. If it wasn't for the passive chakra in his feet, a stray burst of strong winds might have easily sent the contemplating Uchiha down to his untimely death, ending his reign of terror amongst bathhouses.

He furrowed his brow and thought, yet no answer came. Maybe it was for the money? Being a shinobi did pay, as long as there was demand for missions. Or maybe respect? His life would be easier if he did not have to hide in trees to "enjoy the company of women".  Maybe there was a greater purpose that he did not yet understand? My parents were no fools nor were generations of the Uchiha past.

He dug around in the back at the back of his cloak, pulling out two kunai. He pulled up his cowl, pushing these thoughts away before taking a deep breath. Nothing cleared the mind like a bit of danger. One of the scrolls he had read was that in case that a shinobi should find himself able to use chakra to climb a surface, he should train himself in climbing with nothing more than sheer speed and mundane tools. He took a couple of steps back, charged and leap into the abyss.

He slammed against the sheer wall of the building in front, chakra spreading through his hands and feet as they purchased for grip, yet he fought the instinct. He planted a kunai in the soft clay, sending a jolt of pain through his arm. He lost grip of the other kunai, sending it clattering down below. Any thoughts on why he was a shinobi had cleared his mind and the matter of not falling to his doom had taken its place.

His hand was wrapped tightly around the steel handle of the kunai, yet sweat made the grip unstable. Every movement that Kiraku made, weakened the Kunai's grip in the sand and the roaring winds made staying still nigh impossible. He fumbled blindly in his weapon pouch for another kunai yet he could not work the latch to open without risking to spill all its contents down below. He found himself unsure what to do, yet waiting for the kunai to give out was no option. Thinking back on what he read, his mind rocked over the countless passages he learned by near memory. Yet surprisingly, none were written with a shinobi hanging on a wall by a kunai in mind. Even the option to plant himself with chakra against the wall was now an option no longer viable, even if he decided that this little exercise was far too dangerous to try.

Was this his end? A foolish end for a foolish shinobi?

The Kunai gave a jolt, twisting out at an angle. TIme was not on the young Uchiha's side. The teachings of his ancestors were not going to save him this time; He needed to improvise, His eyes turned crimson, the tomoe taking shape around his iris. Taking a deep breath; he gripped the kunai with both hands. The steel gave out under the weight, it's blade sliding out of the clay. At the same instant, Kiraku planted his foot against the wall and pushed upwards, the fall delayed for just a second. His free hand found the latch of the weapon pouch and ripped it open, wrapping itself around the second piece of steel. The wall in front of him began to rise and in a split second, he dug both kunaI into the wall and planted his feet against the wall, halting the fall once more.

Even if he was a hundred miles away from home, he always had his eyes to rely on.

He kept repeating the same motion over and over, steadily climbing up the wall until he was a few meters until the wall become a roof. His enhanced reflexes had made the unorthodox way up work flawlessly yet the drain on his system could not be denied. Giving one last push up, he landed on top of the roof; the sun's rays finally falling upon him once more. He sat down as he basked in its rays, catching his breath. Now that was as stupid as birdwatching behind a sheet of glass.

It was then he noticed the woman staring at him with an agape mouth, her face frozen in confusion and terror; a wooden basket in front of her filled with water and a wrung cloth in her hands.

As a man who was heavily experienced in knowing when it was time to get going; Kiraku was gone before the poor woman had any time to do anything. Out of breath, dishevelled and caked with sand; he made his way back to his home. He might not have found the reason why he was a shinobi but he sure as hell did a good run today. His limbs ached with pain, his palms sore and chafed and every step he took sent pain flaring through his whole body. He wished he could make the way back across the roofs yet in his tired state he was only inviting himself to a long way down. He had enough adrenaline for today, anyways. Some light reading will do.

He dumped himself onto one of the pillows he had set in the training room as soon as he reached his home; not even bothering to disrobe, his mind as tired as his body. He had nearly lulled himself into a comfortable sleep when a thought crossed his mind. He slowly got up, his body protesting and aching and made way to the lone mirror that lay near the weapon rack. His eyes were still shining crimson, their gleam eclipsed by the twin tomoes that lay around his iris.