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At the Academy
The Academy days were warm and lighthearted—chalk dust in the air, laughter in the halls, and the smell of bentos at lunch. At six years old, the students of the Hidden Leaf Village were still children, despite the headbands they would one day wear.
He sat with his class, his small hands folded on the desk as the instructor went on about the founding of the Hidden Leaf. He already knew most of this—not because he had read it here, but because he remembered the tale being told in animation, long ago, on a glowing screen from another life.
But he listened.
Attentive. Patient. Never drawing attention to himself.
He could answer most questions if he wanted. But he answered just enough to remain above average, not exceptional. He wasn't here to shine.
He was here to learn what they learned.
Kushina hadn't joined yet. Mikoto sat three rows ahead. Beside him, young Shikaku Nara often dozed off mid-lesson, mumbling things about "troublesome charts." And nearby, Inoichi Yamanaka and a giggling girl who might be Sakura Haruno's future mother whispered often during weapons lectures.
There were sparring drills—basic taijutsu forms, running laps, throwing practice. Timoshi moved well enough but rarely won the bouts. His chakra was still limited. His muscles still small. His fists lacked weight. But his form? Impeccable.
And no one knew how hard he trained when no one was watching.
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In the Shadows
At night, Timoshi's world changed.
His training as the mysterious vigilante—the second self—deepened. In the corners of the woods, away from all prying eyes, he practiced with his unique Shadow Clones. Not the standard clones others would learn. His were different.
They could share memory instantly, without the need to pop and vanish. It had taken a toll on his chakra at first, but over time, he learned how to split just enough to keep his body steady and his mind alive.
His clones sparred with each other, adapted their styles, recorded ideas, then reintegrated that knowledge into his mind like puzzle pieces snapping into place.
Most of his time was spent on subtle skills—taijutsu, stealth, seal writing, medicine.
But it was his long-range substitution technique that became his obsession.
Linking his Flying Thunder God formula to a clone half a mile away, he spent weeks working out the calculations. He used tree sap, smoke trails, paper tags, and animal paths to place his markers without being traced.
And one night… it worked.
He blinked—and was no longer under the waterfall where he trained. He was in a field, beside a clone, panting, chest aching. But laughing. Wildly.
He collapsed on his back, watching the stars, and whispered, "It works."
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Whispers of Root
And then came Root.
The scroll he had stolen weeks ago still haunted his mind. Who was "D"? What were they transferring? What were they building?
Root, as he would soon learn, wasn't an open name. Not yet. It was something muttered under breath, something ANBU didn't speak of even when drunk. But it existed. That much was clear.
So he started asking.
Not in a suspicious way. He asked like a child would.
"Why are some shinobi not on the mission board?" he asked his father during tea one day.
His father—quiet, composed, a shinobi from a lesser-known Earth-style clan—paused only briefly.
"There are special missions," he said simply. "Not everyone talks about those."
"Oh," Timoshi replied, "Like ANBU?"
His mother, a proud Uchiha with a strong heart, added, "Even the ANBU don't know everything."
He dropped the subject there. But he took notes.
Another time, while watching older shinobi spar, he asked an Uchiha cousin, "What's the mark with the three dots? I saw it on a practice scroll."
The cousin blinked. "Don't play with that," he said too quickly. "It's not a mark you use. It's… nothing."
"Looks cool," Timoshi said with a smile, already knowing that "nothing" was very much something.
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A Growing Curiosity
The more he asked, the more he sensed it: Root wasn't a name known openly yet—but it was building, like a mold growing beneath untouched wood.
There were too many shinobi without records. Too many scrolls unmarked. Too many missions assigned by no one the teachers could name.
Timoshi didn't want war.
He didn't want enemies.
But he wanted truth.
And if there was something being hidden—something growing in the dark—then maybe his second self could one day shine a light on it.
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Closing Scene
At home, his younger siblings fought over toys. His mother hummed a lullaby as she cooked. His father mended a torn sleeve in the corner, eyes gentle.
Timoshi sat beside the open window, drawing seal formulas on parchment with a fine brush, using ink he mixed himself. Outside, fireflies danced under the moonlight. He smiled softly.
Though his heart was that of a man, he loved this moment as a child.
Safe. Curious. Growing.
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