Chapter 39: The Shadow Path

Chapter 39: The Shadow Path

The building stood in the shadow of the village wall—small, old, and forgotten. There was no signboard above its door, no symbol to mark its purpose. Ren stood before it with a quiet frown, clutching the small slip of paper the Academy receptionist had handed him earlier that morning.

"Genin Reserve Corps - Report Immediately."

He had expected to walk into the Academy, to sit in a classroom, to work through the steps toward becoming a shinobi. Instead, he had been rerouted. The receptionist hadn't even looked him in the eye.

"Go ask your guardian," she'd said flatly.

But Ren hadn't asked Juro. He hadn't needed to. The answer was already obvious.

Politics.

The name Uchiha had given him shelter, but it had also made him a target. He wasn't blind. He could connect the dots. This wasn't about him being unfit for the Academy—he had shown more growth in weeks than some did in months. This was about a message. A warning. Perhaps even a punishment.

And there was only one man in the village who would do that in silence and call it order.

Danzo.

Ren didn't know how the old war hawk had found out. But he didn't need to know how. He only needed to know one thing: Danzo had moved a single piece on the board, and everything else had shifted.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The inside smelled of old sweat and dust. A few flickering lights hung above cracked tiles. A group of children stood in loose formation across the room, ranging in age from nine to twelve. None of them wore standard uniforms. Most had second-hand clothes. One girl's shoes didn't even match.

They turned to look at him. Some with blank faces. Others with smirks.

A man in a faded flak jacket—grizzled, scarred, and missing three fingers on his left hand—stepped forward. His eyes dragged over Ren like a butcher assessing weak meat.

"Name."

"Ren," he replied, straightening.

"You're late."

"I wasn't told—"

"I don't care. Get in line."

Ren obeyed, moving into place beside a thin boy with a black eye and bruises on both arms.

"Welcome to the corps," the man barked. "You're here because the village doesn't know what to do with you yet. You're not Academy material. You're not ready for the front lines. You're nothing."

A few kids flinched. One snorted.

"But if you survive this place, you might get a chance to be something. So for now—run."

They ran. For two hours, they ran.

The room had no windows, only a training ground out back. The sun burned above them like a silent observer. The instructor shouted commands while sitting under the shade.

Ren's lungs burned. His legs ached. He had only begun physical training recently—three weeks ago, maybe less. His muscles were still learning what pain meant.

When the running ended, they moved to taijutsu drills. Partnered spars. One of the older boys—a tall kid with a shaved head and quick fists—volunteered to go against him.

Ren barely blocked the first strike. The second sent him reeling. The third knocked the wind out of his lungs.

The boy grinned. "You're soft. Academy brat."

Ren's vision spun. He pushed off the ground, fists raised, only to be knocked down again. Dirt filled his mouth.

Laughter echoed from the other kids.

Some part of him whispered to stay down. That this wasn't fair. That he didn't belong here.

But another voice—familiar, quiet, firm—echoed from memory.

"You don't have to be strong right away," Juro had once said. "You only have to keep standing. That's where it begins."

Ren stood again.

He lost the spar, but he stood.

---

By the time the day ended, he could barely walk home. His arms were numb. His knuckles bled. He had eaten nothing since morning.

He arrived at Juro's house just after sunset. The house was quiet. A lantern flickered by the entryway.

Juro was seated inside, sipping tea. He looked up as Ren entered, eyes unreadable.

"You didn't ask me this morning."

Ren dropped his bag by the door. "Would it have changed anything?"

A pause.

"No."

"Then I saved us both the trouble."

He went to his room. His muscles trembled with each movement. He collapsed onto the floor beside his bedroll, not even bothering to wash the dirt from his face.

His thoughts spiraled.

The corps wasn't a training program. It was a cage. A place to keep the unwanted, the inconvenient, the overlooked. A political dumping ground.

Why?

Why had Danzo targeted him?

And then it clicked.

It wasn't about him.

It was about the Uchiha.

Juro had vouched for him. That alone might have been enough. Ren's presence could be used as leverage—"proof" that the Uchiha were interfering in village affairs, breaking the silent agreement that protected their younger members from conscription.

Danzo didn't need a reason. He just needed an excuse.

Ren clenched his fists.

They were using him as a pawn.

He had come to this world with nothing. No bloodline. No legacy. Only a faint memory of another life and the stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, he could make something better.

But this world didn't care about hopes.

It only cared about power.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the wooden ceiling.

"I can't trust anybody," he whispered to himself.

There were too many ways to control someone. Pressure. Guilt. Loyalty. Threats. Promises.

He couldn't afford to be naïve anymore.

Not here.

Not in this village.

And as sleep finally crept toward him like a shadow, he made a quiet promise to himself:

He would survive.

Not out of spite. Not out of vengeance.

But because surviving was the first step to changing the rules of the game.

He would learn.

He would grow.

And one day, he would rise.

Even from the shadows.

- - -

The training ground designated for the Genin Corps was tucked away behind a warehouse and surrounded by cracked walls and wild grass. It didn't look like a place where shinobi trained—it looked like where forgotten things were left to rot.

Ren stood silently beside four others, all of them looking equally uncertain. None of them wore the standard ninja flak jackets. One had patches on his shirt, another a faded forehead protector dangling loosely from his neck. These weren't bright-eyed academy graduates. They were misfits.

And they were waiting.

The gate creaked open.

A tall man with short, cropped hair and a sharp jawline stepped in. He wore a Chunin vest and a bandaged arm that looked like it hadn't been treated properly in weeks. His expression was flat, tired, and unimpressed.

"Line up," he said, voice dry and disinterested. "I'm Yuji. I'll be your squad leader, or whatever they're calling it now."

Ren watched the others shuffle into formation, clearly just as unsure of this man as they were of each other. Yuji looked over them like someone checking tools he didn't ask for.

"I don't know why you're here. Frankly, I don't care," Yuji continued. "You're not Academy genin, so don't expect the same treatment. This is Genin Corps. That means labor, patrols, and if you live long enough, maybe—maybe—you'll be worth sending to a real squad."

Someone muttered a curse under their breath. Yuji didn't react.

"We do things different here. No hand-holding. You're expected to learn on the job. You'll be helping villagers, carrying supplies, digging trenches, and if something goes down, you hold until reinforcements come. That's it. That's your role."

Ren said nothing, but inside, a small flame of resistance flickered. This wasn't what he wanted. This wasn't what he worked toward.

But it was what he had.

Yuji paced before them slowly. "Before we begin, I want to know what I'm dealing with. You, redhead," he pointed at a girl with short hair and an aggressive stance, "name and skill."

"Riku. I can throw a kunai through a leaf at twenty meters."

Yuji nodded.

"You," he said, pointing to Ren.

"Ren. I've been training in chakra control. My taijutsu's weak."

Yuji raised an eyebrow. "Honest. That's rare. You'll either die first or last."

There was an awkward pause. No one laughed. Yuji turned and gestured toward the weapon rack—sparse and rusted.

"Pair up. Spar. I want to see how bad it is."

Ren paired up with a broad-shouldered boy who grinned like this was a game.

They faced each other in the ring of cracked stone. Ren took a stance—not textbook, but stable. His opponent didn't bother with form. He just rushed.

Ren tried to deflect but took a blow to the ribs. He gasped and stumbled back. Another punch grazed his cheek.

"Faster than I thought," Ren muttered.

He reached for chakra, tried to steady his breath, but his timing was off. His movements were unrefined, his strikes predictable. Twenty-some days of training wasn't enough. Not for this.

The next hit sent him to the ground. His back hit the dirt. He grunted.

Yuji called the match with a tired voice. "Switch."

Ren stood up slowly, wiping blood from his lip. The boy he fought smirked as he walked away. Two girls watching near the fence giggled.

He ignored them.

Yuji didn't say anything about the loss. He didn't even look at Ren.

After another round of sparring, they were dismissed for the day.

Ren sat beneath a broken post, watching the sun lower between the rooftops. His body ached, but the pain wasn't what ate at him.

It was the silence.

He wasn't good enough.

Not yet.

But he had time.

He reached for a notebook he carried with him and opened to a blank page. He began to write:

Training Plan

Taijutsu: Daily drills, one hour minimum

Chakra control: Tree walking, leaf exercises

Physical training: Push-ups, squats, running

Observation: Watch others, learn patterns

He tapped the page with the pen.

And figure out what Danzo wants.

That name had rooted in his mind like a parasite. He knew. He knew it was Danzo who pushed him into this corps. Because of Juro. Because of the Uchiha name.

And it wasn't just about him. It was about power, influence, leverage.

Danzo didn't care who got hurt as long as his pieces moved forward.

If you want to control someone, you don't need to touch them, Ren thought. You just need to control what they fear.

He closed the notebook and looked up at the sky, its colors bleeding into twilight.

Just then, a figure stepped into the broken archway of the training ground. Not Yuji. Not any of the Genin Corps.

A tall silhouette.

Watching.

Waiting.

Ren stood slowly, every sense alert.

"Who's there?" he asked.

The figure didn't reply.

Ren's grip tightened around his kunai as the sun dipped behind the clouds, casting the yard into shadow.

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