Chapter 14 – "The Teacher's Past"
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"Too slow, Ren! Again!"
Juro-sensei's voice cracked across the training field like a whip. Ren gritted his teeth, muscles burning as he reset his stance. The mid-morning sun hung heavy overhead, and the dust kicked up from sparring drills clung to everyone's skin. Sweat trickled into his eyes, but he didn't blink.
Juro moved down the line, barking corrections at the orphans like a war general. "Mina, your guard's too high. You want to get your face smashed in?"
She glared but adjusted her hands.
"Kenta, I said pivot, not prance. You're not dancing at a festival."
Kenta muttered something under his breath that made Taro snort.
"He hates us," someone whispered. Ren didn't catch who, but the tone was familiar. Tired. Bitter. The kind of voice that belonged to someone who'd been yelled at too many times and couldn't take it anymore.
"Bet he wanted real soldiers, not us rejects."
Ren didn't join in. He was too focused on the way Juro moved—slowly, always favoring his left leg. His right foot dragged slightly in the dirt with each step. There was a rhythm to it. Limp-step, limp-step, pause. His left hand was always close to his hip, as if instinctively guarding a sword that wasn't there anymore.
The training continued. The drills were repetitive, designed to drill stances into muscle memory, not skill into style. Juro corrected them with military sharpness, giving praise only when it slipped by accident.
By the time the session ended, Ren was panting, hands on his knees.
Taro dropped beside him. "One of these days, I'm gonna collapse and he's still gonna tell me I'm standing wrong."
Mina shrugged, sipping water from a shared jug. "Maybe if you stopped fighting like a wounded squirrel."
Ren didn't respond. His eyes followed Juro as the man limped toward the tents. There was something there—something unspoken.
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That evening, Ren couldn't sleep. The tent was warm with the body heat of too many kids packed into one space. Taro snored lightly on one side; Mina had her back turned on the other.
Ren slipped out quietly.
He didn't know what he was looking for. Maybe just space to breathe. Maybe answers.
He wandered toward the edges of the camp, near the supply sheds. As he rounded the back of one tent, he froze.
Voices.
He crouched low, hidden behind stacked crates. Two men sat on overturned boxes, talking in low tones. One was a tall medic Ren didn't recognize. The other—Juro.
"…you could've been back in Konoha by now," the medic said.
Juro's voice was quieter than Ren had ever heard it. "Can't stomach the idea. All that peace. The war's not done, not in here." He tapped his chest.
"You still blame yourself?"
A pause.
"They were just kids. My genin team. Bright-eyed idiots. I should've pulled out sooner, but I thought we could handle it. I was wrong."
Ren's breath caught.
"I thought maybe, if I trained these orphans right, at least a few might make it. Live longer. Long enough to choose something better."
The medic didn't reply for a while. "You act like a drill sergeant. They think you hate them."
Juro gave a tired chuckle. "Good. Better they hate me now than love me dead later."
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Ren didn't sleep that night.
He lay on his thin mat, staring up at the canvas ceiling of the tent, Juro's words echoing in his ears. Just kids. I thought we could handle it.
The next morning, training resumed as usual. The drills were rough. Taro took a tumble during a sparring bout and hit his shoulder hard. Juro was there instantly—not coddling, but pulling him to his feet with a barked, "You think enemies wait while you cry?"
But he adjusted the next drill. Gave Taro a different partner. Told him to do stationary formwork instead of sparring. No explanation. Just a grunt.
Later, Mina tripped during footwork practice. Juro's hand shot out just in time to steady her—not kindly, but fast. Then came the shout: "Eyes forward! You want a kunai in your back?!"
Ren watched carefully. Again and again, Juro stepped in—not obviously, never with comfort—but just in time.
And then, when Ren hesitated during a mold-and-release drill, his chakra flickering out halfway, Juro passed by and said without stopping:
"Focus your breathing. You've got control. Use it."
No insult. No sarcasm. Just that.
It hit harder than any praise.
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That night, after dinner, Ren sat with his notebook under the crooked tree. He opened it to a blank page and scrawled a single sentence:
"He doesn't hate us."
Then he started a new entry:
Observation: Juro-sensei
Injured leg (old wound?)
Protects kids subtly
Lost his team during the war
Wants us to live longer than they did
Conclusion: He trains us hard because he doesn't want to lose anyone else.
Ren closed the notebook and tucked it away.
The next day, after drills, Juro dismissed them with the usual grunt. As Ren walked past, he paused, bowed a little deeper than normal.
"Thank you, sensei."
Juro didn't look at him. "Eyes forward. Don't waste time."
But there was a brief nod before he turned away.
Ren smiled.
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They still called him a grouch. They still muttered under their breath when the training got tough. But Ren watched more closely now.
When Kenta got shin splints, Juro changed the obstacle course. When Mina broke her sandal strap, he tossed her a spare pair without a word. When Taro came to training limping one morning, Juro made everyone do seated form drills for an hour—"because your posture's all garbage," he said.
Harsh. Brutal. Gruff.
But never cruel.
Ren didn't tell anyone what he heard. Not even Taro.
Some truths weren't for sharing. Not yet.
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End of Chapter 14