Chapter 4: The Scent of Blood, The Promise of Power
Two years. Two years had trickled by like sand through Kenji's fingers, each grain a meticulously planned moment of feigned mediocrity and clandestine growth. He was nine now, a little taller, a little leaner, but his eyes, those unremarkable brown orbs, held a depth of chilling awareness that no child should possess. The academy had progressed, the lessons growing more demanding, the childish rivalries solidifying into more serious, if still immature, competition.
Today, the air in Training Ground Seven crackled with anticipation. It was team sparring day. Not the simple one-on-one bouts of their earlier years, but coordinated three-person cell engagements. Names were being drawn. Kenji, as always, hoped for an unremarkable team, one that would neither excel spectacularly nor fail miserably.
Jiraiya, predictably, was already boasting about how his team would dominate, his voice carrying across the clearing. Orochimaru stood apart, his pale skin almost luminous in the dappled sunlight, his gaze fixed on the instructors with an unnerving intensity. Tsunade was stretching, her movements already displaying a burgeoning power and grace, her blonde pigtails whipping through the air. Her chakra control, Kenji noted with detached interest, had improved significantly. The raw Senju vitality was still there, but it was less wild, more focused, though her temper remained a readily available spark.
Kenji was paired with two civilian-born classmates, both earnest but unremarkable in their abilities – perfect cover. Their opponents were a slightly more competent trio, one of whom was a Hyuga branch family member, his Byakugan already passively scanning their team.
The mock battle was a flurry of hesitant attacks, clumsy evasions, and shouted, often contradictory, instructions. Kenji moved with deliberate slowness, "struggling" to dodge, his kunai throws intentionally wide. He allowed himself to be "cornered" once, only to be "saved" by a surprisingly well-aimed shuriken from one of his teammates. He made sure to offer a grateful, slightly breathless nod.
From his carefully manufactured position of near-incompetence, he observed. Jiraiya's team was a chaotic whirlwind, relying on his surprisingly unorthodox movements and brute force, which sometimes worked through sheer unpredictability. Orochimaru's cell was a stark contrast – efficient, almost silent, his teammates moving with a precision that clearly stemmed from his cold, calculated direction. He didn't just fight; he dissected his opponents' movements, exploiting a poorly guarded flank here, a moment of hesitation there.
Tsunade's team was formidable. Her strength was already becoming apparent; a poorly blocked punch from her sent a boy from an opposing team sprawling, his arm clearly aching. She was learning to channel her chakra into her strikes, albeit crudely. Her healing potential, however, was not yet evident in these spars.
Kenji's team, as expected, lost. Not humiliatingly, but decisively. He made sure to look suitably disappointed, panting for breath. Hiroto-sensei offered some generic encouragement about teamwork and perseverance.
Later that week, an opportunity of a different nature presented itself. Whispers had been circulating through the lower echelons of the village – a small merchant caravan, overdue on the route from a nearby town, was feared lost. Not a major incident, barely a ripple in Konoha's daily life, but enough to pique Kenji's interest. Such routes often passed through forested, unpatrolled areas.
Under the cloak of a moonless night, Kenji slipped away from the orphanage. His senses, sharpened by his unique constitution and the subtle absorption of various animal essences over the past two years – heightened senses of smell from a stray dog, improved night vision from an owl, the silent tread of a feral cat – guided him through the darkness. He moved like a wraith, far faster and more silently than any academy student should be capable of.
He found the site miles from the village, guided by the faint, lingering scent of blood and fear that no ordinary nose would have detected from such a distance. It wasn't a pretty sight. Bandits, judging by the crude weaponry left behind and the ransacked state of the two wagons. Three merchants lay dead, their bodies already cooling. The bandits were long gone.
Kenji felt no pity, no disgust. Only a cold, analytical curiosity. These were not shinobi. Their life forces would be… mundane. But their bodies, their physical structures, perhaps held something of minor use. More importantly, it was an opportunity to practice his abilities on human subjects without immediate risk of discovery.
One by one, in the oppressive silence of the forest, he worked. The decomposition was swift, almost elegant now. He was learning to isolate specific tissues, to understand the intricate biological pathways. He extracted the essences, filtering them through his being. As expected, there were no remarkable Kekkei Genkai. However, he did absorb a general robustness from one of the merchants, a man who had clearly been physically strong in life, and a slight, almost negligible enhancement to his stamina from another. Minor gains, but gains nonetheless. More importantly, the process itself was a refinement. He was understanding the subtle differences in human biological energy, the unique signatures of each individual.
He left no trace, not even a disturbed leaf. The site looked as if wild animals had found the bodies, which they inevitably would. By morning, any evidence of his passing would be gone.
Back at the academy the following day, Tsunade was in a particularly foul mood. She'd evidently struggled with a complex chakra molding exercise – creating a stable water vortex in the palm of her hand – and her frustration was palpable. She sat alone during the break, angrily kicking at the dirt.
Kenji, seizing a carefully calculated moment, approached her. He didn't offer platitudes or empty encouragement. Instead, he sat down a short distance away, seemingly engrossed in whittling a piece of wood with a blunted kunai – a common pastime for less studious children.
After a few minutes of silence, he spoke, his voice low and even, not looking directly at her. "Sometimes… when water won't do what you want in the rice paddies… you don't force it. You guide it. Make the channels smooth. Small changes."
Tsunade stopped kicking. She glanced at him, suspicion warring with curiosity in her eyes. "What do you know about rice paddies? Or chakra?" The implication was clear: you're just an orphan, and not a particularly bright one at that.
Kenji shrugged, still focused on his whittling. "Grew up around folks who worked the land before the orphanage. Water has its own flow. Force it too hard, it just splashes everywhere, makes a mess. Same with… anything, I guess." He didn't mention chakra directly again. He made it sound like a piece of simple, homespun wisdom.
He didn't wait for a reply. He finished his crude carving of a bird, pocketed it, and ambled off, leaving Tsunade to her thoughts. He had offered no direct solution to her chakra problem, just an analogy, something that might, or might not, resonate. He had shown no special knowledge, just a touch of unexpected, rustic insight. It was another small, innocuous seed.
That night, Kenji lay on his cot, feeling the subtle, almost imperceptible thrum of the absorbed energies settling within him. The enhanced robustness was a welcome addition, a slight hardening of his physical shell. He was building himself, piece by piece, in the darkness.
He thought of the future. The Uchiha clan massacre. The death of the Third Hokage. The Akatsuki. So many opportunities for… acquisition. The Sharingan, the Mokuton if he could ever find a way to access Hashirama's cells discreetly… The possibilities were intoxicating. His knowledge of the plot was his greatest weapon, and his unique ability, the key to unlocking true power.
The path ahead was long and stained with the promise of blood. But Kenji was patient. He was a hunter, and the most dangerous prey required the most meticulous stalks. The slight increase in his physical resilience was just another step, a silent testament to the ruthless efficiency that lay hidden beneath his carefully constructed mask of mediocrity. The scent of those merchants, their life force, however faint, was a reminder: power wasn't given, it was taken, extracted from the very marrow of the world. And he was becoming exceptionally good at taking.