The village had barely awakened when two small shadows darted across the rooftops.
Without a word, they moved toward their target.
Gazing at the Senju compound, one of them transformed—and Tsunade appeared.
The guard didn't think much of it.
Nawaki's main residence was located not too far from the others, yet not too close either.
As the heir, he enjoyed certain privileges and luxuries.
The voluptuous figure approached the house and entered.
The moment the door closed, Nawaki's eyes snapped open.
With a sharp gaze, he gripped his kunai and melted into the shadows of his home.
He moved silently along the perimeter, then froze when he saw the light in his sister's room still on.
Did my older sister return? But she didn't even tell me…
He peeked inside—and his nose bled. His face paled.
His sister was naked… and it looked like she had a younger brother with her.
Nawaki's mind short-circuited. He didn't feel deceived… just uninformed.
Then, he made a noise.
The figure inside turned toward the door—and lunged forward with terrifying speed.
Horrified, Nawaki ran.
For thirty straight minutes, he sprinted in desperation, convinced that if caught, he'd become a woman by the end of the day.
Before he knew it, he was led into a darkened field—open, barren, with nowhere to hide.
He stopped in the middle, his expression resolute.
"Sis, I didn't mean to! I swear on my new imperial brother, I won't tell anyone!"
Tsunade's footsteps drew closer until she stood before him.
Nawaki gulped and stepped back.
Then—his vision twisted. He was falling. All he could see was the sky.
Suddenly, his sister morphed into a small monkey, peering down at him as he plummeted.
Nawaki's mind raced. Assassination? That seemed the most likely scenario.
Then he hit the bottom—but the ground was cushioned.
And then… an unholy stench erupted like an enraged dragon.
The foulness took shape—miniature dragons of pure odor—assaulting him relentlessly.
Stunned, he muttered, "Bear feces… mixed with rotten ramen… and gastric juice from a corpse."
Worst of all, he said it with precision, as if he were some reincarnated biochemist.
The pit was deep. Escape was impossible. He tried every jutsu, every ninjutsu.
He came so close to freedom—but each time he fell back, the stench-dragons attacked. A weaker mind would've fainted, vomiting weeks' worth of meals.
Nawaki sat in defeat.
He had been reckless. He had let fiction cloud his judgment. His fear of his sister's wrath had overridden logic. And now, years of meticulous training meant nothing.
Lost in thought, he barely noticed the two figures appearing above the pit.
They tossed down black flowers—a final farewell. A symbol that the "target" had died. That the mission was over. That continuing was pointless.
Because despite his efforts… in the end, he had failed.
Nawaki had never taken studies seriously. He had tried to improve, but months couldn't undo years of neglect. He understood now.
His attackers were young—not even genin. In a real fight, he would've crushed them.
But this wasn't about strength.
It was about strategy. About the theory he had always dismissed as pointless.
And now, the thought of going back to study… humiliated him.
But what was more humiliating?
"Hey, you think it's true that the great Emperor Nawaki was bullied as a kid for being dumb?"
Nawaki sighed.
With a single hand seal, he vanished into the earth. He could've done this from the start—but his own limitations had held him back.
Asuma and Midori nodded.
From this day forward… Senpai Nawaki would awaken to the truth of the world.
The pit still haunted him.
Not the physical pit—though the memory of that abominable stench still made his stomach churn—but the pit of his own inadequacy.
Nawaki Senju, heir to one of the most revered clans in Konoha, had been outmaneuvered by children.
Not in strength. Not in skill.
But in strategy.
And that was worse.
The Senju library was vast, filled with scrolls older than the village itself. Dust danced in the dim light as Nawaki stood before the towering shelves, fists clenched.
"Where do I even start?"
He grabbed the first scroll he saw—"Fundamentals of Tactical Warfare"—and unrolled it.
Three hours later, his head throbbed.
The words blurred. The concepts tangled. He had never struggled like this in taijutsu or kenjutsu. But this?
This was a different kind of battle.
And he was losing.
A week passed.
Dark circles framed his eyes. Empty ramen cups littered his desk.
He had memorized formations, analyzed historical battles, even forced himself to read "The Art of Deception"—a subject he once mocked as "coward's tactics."
But it wasn't enough.
"I need help."
The admission burned his throat.
Asking for aid meant admitting weakness. And for a Senju, weakness was shame.
But the alternative—stagnation—was worse.
He sought out the elders first.
Jiraiya was… unhelpful.
"Kid, if you want strategy, go play shogi with Shikaku. Or better yet, sneak into an onsen and—"
Nawaki left before he heard the rest.
"Took you long enough."
But even she had no patience for theory. "Stop thinking. Start doing."
Frustration gnawed at him.
Until he remembered him.
---
Senju Hayato was a relic.
A retired jonin who had trained Hashirama's disciples. Now, he tended a small garden, his back bent with age.
Nawaki found him pruning bonsai trees.
"Sensei."
The old man didn't turn. "You reek of desperation."
"I need to learn."
"Why now?"
"Because I was a fool."
Hayato's shears paused. Then, with a sigh:
"Finally. Some honesty."
---
Hayato's training was merciless.
Dawn till dusk, Nawaki drilled:
Battlefield psychology ("Predict the enemy's fear before they feel it.")
Resource management ("A kunai unused is a kunai wasted.")
Deception ("The best lie? The one they tell themselves.")
Each lesson carved away his arrogance.
Some nights, he collapsed mid-sentence, scrolls pillowing his head.
But he didn't stop.
Couldn't.
A month in, he snapped.
"What's the point?! No amount of theory will make me stronger!"
Hayato didn't flinch. Just sipped his tea.
"Strength without direction is a storm without wind. Destructive… but empty."
Nawaki glared. "Poetry won't win wars."
"No. But this will."
Hayato slid forward a single scroll—"Hashirama's Lost Stratagems."
Nawaki's breath caught.
The First Hokage's personal tactics.
Hashirama hadn't just fought. He outthought.
Every battle, every alliance—calculated.
Nawaki traced the faded ink, heart pounding.
"He… planned this far ahead?"
Hayato chuckled. "The 'God of Shinobi' didn't rely on power alone. He studied."
The truth struck like a kunai:
Hashirama hadn't been born invincible.
He had become it.
When Asuma and Midori ambushed him again, they expected the same reckless prey.
They found a predator.
Nawaki countered every trap, predicted every feint.
Midori gaped as he dismantled her poison wires. "Since when do you—?!"
"Since I stopped being an idiot."
Asuma grinned. "Took you long enough, Senju."
For the first time, Nawaki grinned back.
That night, he returned to Hayato's garden.
"What now?"
The old man eyed him. "Now? You keep learning."
Nawaki nodded.
For the heir of the Senju, failure was no longer an option.
Only growth.