The morning dew still lingered in the air, and the sun had already begun to assault the pupils' eyes, nearly blinding them if not for the safety of the academy building. The classroom, 3-A, buzzed with excited chatter, the energy of friends catching up as though they hadn't seen each other in years, when in reality, they'd only been apart for a few hours. After academy hours, some voices yawned in tiredness, still struggling to wake, but a few students sat attentive. One such student was Rock Lee, who had always dreamed of becoming a strong, skilled ninja. Yet, fate had dealt him a cruel hand—the inability to use chakra, a condition that made him fall behind. He was faced with a wall that felt insurmountable.
However, that didn't matter to Lee. He would climb past it. For him, that meant putting in more effort than anyone else. That was his way—his ninja way. Yet, to mock him further, his luck had placed him in the same class as the Hyuga genius, a branch member named Neji. Lee could handle competing against the others; they had something he lacked, but at least he could catch up. Neji, however, his talent was beyond anything Lee could imagine. Still, Lee dreamed of surpassing him, standing equal to him. He wanted to be a ninja, and that's why he always arrived early to practice his taijutsu, ready for the morning lessons, waiting for their sensei's arrival.
Just as expected, the doors to the class slid open, and Iwana Akame, their Chunin sensei, entered. According to legislation introduced by Hiruzen-sama, all Chunin were required to serve at least six months of public service, and most chose to teach at the academy.
Accompanying the one-eyed shinobi were two kids around Lee's age. One was fairly tall—probably the tallest in the class at 5'3"—slightly taller than Neji and some other students. He had hazel eyes, a healthy complexion, and an olive-toned skin. The other was a shorter boy, with unsettling red eyes, an eerie, frantic expression, and a pale, sickly appearance.
"Alright, get in your seats. Today we have two new students. Please introduce yourselves."
"Hello, my name's Ravi, and this is my brother Milo. We're both new to the shinobi world in a way, so we hope you'll treat us well," the taller boy said, giving a small bow.
"Yes, yes, take good care of them," Akame-sensei added. "These two are... special cases. They lack chakra, so be careful and don't go overboard in sparring."
The class erupted into muffled whispers.
"Why did they even apply this late?"
"Yeah, they don't even have chakra."
*****
The day unfolded as Milo had expected. Being chakra-less made them a target, but he hadn't expected to be in the same year as Rock Lee. At least he wouldn't be alone in this supposed torment. More importantly, this could work in his favor. He lacked power, but he had the chance to build rapport with Lee—his potential was endless.
The class began with shinobi history. Since he and Ravi had entered midway through the year, the lessons were far into the curriculum. Most of the discussion revolved around the Second Great Ninja War. After that, they moved into shinobi etiquette, a class that focused on proper conduct, relations between nations, and a mixture of politics, social etiquette, and propaganda—par for the course in a nation that raised child soldiers. Midday came, and after lunch, they had a few more classes focusing on math, science, and other subjects—all with a shinobi twist. There was also a special curriculum course that all pupils could pick, with most choosing Genjutsu. After all, it was the most dangerous, and despite the academy only teaching basic defense and Genjutsu escapes, it was crucial for survival.
Finally, the class Milo had been dreading: taijutsu—or rather, sparring. Ravi was allowed to use a small training sword, but Milo knew that it wouldn't be enough to make up for the lack of chakra.Ravi was talent incarnate—grace honed by grit. In their past world, he'd reached a decent level of mastery on his own, fueled by observation, mimicry, and relentless introspection. His swordsmanship was a personal amalgamation of real-world eastern practices—Kenjutsu mixed with Kendo, hints of Bojutsu fused into a style that wove sword and staff together. His preferred weapon was an odachi—far too long and impractical by most standards, but Ravi made it work. Somehow, he always made things work.
Milo, lost in thought, barely noticed that Akame-sensei had already selected the first sparring pair—Neji Hyuga and someone completely forgettable. Some background character who'd never make a ripple in the story. But even that nobody could wreck Milo in a fight.
Eventually, the matchups rolled on. It was his turn.
Milo stood stiff as his name was called. He'd chosen to use a weapon—two short wooden batons—figuring it'd level the playing field. His opponent, however, was also permitted a weapon… not that he'd need one.
Across from him stood Muchi Akimichi—average height, stocky, his messy brown hair stuck up in strange directions like permanent bedhead. He bore an arrogant grin, the kind that made Milo's skin crawl. The kind of smirk that said you're nothing before even throwing a punch. His sheer bulk was imposing—he looked less like a kid and more like a bipedal boar, half-asleep but ready to trample.
Muchi took a half-hearted boxing stance, arms low and loose. It wasn't a guard. It was a taunt.
Milo's eyes narrowed. "I'm not letting that slide," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He raised his batons, mimicking a stance he'd seen in an old cartoon—Nightwing from Batman. It looked cool, at least. But the stance was unstable, and Milo knew it. He wasn't a fighter. He was smart. But brains only got you so far when fists were flying.
Muchi's weight shifted forward, coiled for a lunge. Still grinning.
They had already exchanged the seal of confrontation. All they needed now was the signal.
"Begin!" barked Akame-sensei.
Muchi charged like a freight train.
His arms crossed into a wide guard, meant to look defensive but untrained. Mocking. Milo barely dodged, his body moving more from panic than precision. The batons trembled in his grip. His right foot stayed rooted, timing the shift of weight perfectly—catching Muchi's leading foot mid-step and using it to trip him up.
Muchi stumbled—off balance. Milo's body twisted on instinct, swinging both batons with all the strength he could muster.
Crack!
The hit landed across Muchi's upper shoulder—clean, loud, and hard enough that the whole class winced.
But it didn't drop him.
Instead, Muchi's eyes narrowed, grin gone. His body absorbed the blow, twisting with it like a sack of muscle and fury. One of his thick arms lashed out and struck Milo across the torso—like getting hit by a battering ram.
Thud.
Milo was sent sprawling, the air driven clean from his lungs as he crashed onto the mat. His batons rolled from his grip, clattering somewhere behind him.
He couldn't breathe.
Muchi stood over him, still grinning, but now it was more animal than arrogant.
Akame-sensei called the match. "Enough. Muchi wins."
Milo coughed, dragging himself to a sit, one hand clutching his ribs. Nothing felt broken, but his pride had taken a hit far deeper than bone. The class didn't laugh, not aloud—but he could hear it in the quiet, see it in their eyes.
He wasn't a fighter.
But he had observed something. Muchi's guard, his posture, how he shifted weight. He could learn from this.
And beside the crowd, Ravi stood—expression unreadable, red eyes glowing beneath his fringe. Not worried. Just watching.
He believed in Milo.
And that alone… kept Milo upright.
When Ravi stepped onto the mat, the room didn't quiet out of awe—it hushed with doubt.
He was the tallest in class by far, standing at 5'3", his lean frame casting a long shadow under the flickering academy lights. His skin had a healthy olive tone, and his expression, as always, was unreadable—calm and detached, like none of this truly mattered to him. And maybe it didn't. Maybe this was just another test in a long list of trials he'd already passed by himself.
He adjusted the training sword slung across his back—nothing more than a basic bokken, but in Ravi's grip, it looked like something ancient and sacred.
"Let's see what the tall guy's got," someone muttered from the back.
Akame-sensei didn't even introduce the match. He just nodded, and Ravi's opponent—Banto, a cocky bruiser.
Though in the grand scheme of the world he was yet again another nobody —stepped forward, cracking his knuckles with a grin.
"You new? You don't look like a shinobi."
Ravi didn't answer.
Banto scoffed. "Fine. I'll make sure you don't forget me."
Milo sat tense on the sidelines, still rubbing the dull throb in his ribs from his own loss earlier. He watched Ravi closely, shoulders tight.
He knew Ravi was strong—self-taught, observant, precise—but this was different. These kids were trained. They'd grown up in a system meant to shape them into weapons. Ravi had grown up with books, instinct, and trial-by-fire.
And still, Milo believed in him.
Akame-sensei raised his hand.
"Begin."
Banto rushed forward with all the subtlety of a stampede.
Ravi didn't flinch. He stepped aside at the last second, just enough to let Banto's wild swing pass through empty space. With one fluid motion, Ravi brought the bokken up and tapped the side of Banto's ribs. Not hard. Not flashy. Just a statement.
I'm here. I saw it. I could've hurt you.
Banto snarled and turned, faster this time, throwing a backhand.
Ravi ducked under it, pivoted on his back foot, and swept the bokken in a clean horizontal line—striking Banto's thigh.
Tap. Precision. Intent.
By now, the class was watching in total silence.
Milo felt his breath catch.
Ravi wasn't using power. He wasn't using speed. He was just reading. Every move Banto made, Ravi anticipated—slipping around hits, letting momentum betray his opponent, and punishing every opening with ruthless efficiency.
Not once did Ravi waste a movement.
Not once did he show off.
And then, when Banto charged for the last time, Ravi spun inward—inside the swing—and drove the bokken up into Banto's chest with a sharp, controlled thud.
Banto hit the ground, coughing.
Ravi stood still, breathing steady, sword resting lightly against his shoulder.
Akame-sensei didn't speak, but his one visible eye narrowed—maybe in surprise. Maybe approval.
Ravi bowed.
Lee blinked beside Milo, then leaned over, stunned. "That was… amazing."
Milo nodded, pride swelling up in his chest, warm and grounding. "He taught himself everything. The sword. The footwork. All of it."
Lee's eyes sparkled. "He's like a real master."
"Yeah," Milo whispered. "He is."
And for all the bruises Milo had taken earlier, they didn't matter now. Because Ravi had walked into a room full of trained shinobi and earned their respect with nothing but will and self-made skill.
Not by blood.
Not by chakra.
Just Ravi.
His brother.