Reborn as a Yamanaka Genius

Chapter 37: The Art of Slowing Down



The weeks moved like a pregnant sloth-slow, heavy, and oddly stifling.

My parents meant it when they said I needed to rest. They yanked me out of school for three whole weeks and, to drive the point home, refused to let me send a shadow clone in my place.

Instead, I spent my days painting canvases until my fingers smelled faintly of ink and pigments, pruning our garden, tuning my instruments, and helping Mom prepare for the grand opening of her flower shop. I tested new recipes, too, tweaking flavors until they felt right.

When Shikaku dropped by, I played shogi with him while Dad and Choza hovered on the sidelines, snacking on whatever I'd whipped up that day.

I never won a single match against him-not yet, anyway. But after countless games, I noticed subtle changes.

He occasionally paused longer, his gaze narrowing as if my moves required a second thought. A tiny wrinkle formed above his left brow now and then.

I took those little details as victories of their own. Maybe soon, I'd surprise him. Maybe one day I'd wipe that unreadable Nara smirk right off his face.

Yeah. I was sure that would feel quite good.

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Shisui visited often, delivering my missed homework and checking up on me.

It was odd how quickly we bonded-one month, maybe less-but our friendship felt... solid.

He tried to play coy about it, but I caught him smiling and joking more openly these days. Dare I say he might consider me his... best friend? I chuckled at the thought.

Even though I was mentally decades older than him, we got along quite well.

Without training to occupy us, I showed Shisui how to paint delicate strokes across a blank canvas, how to coax melodies from a piano, and how to play the violin.

He watched with his Sharingan-his eyes whirring like tiny red cameras recording every flick of my wrist.

After a few attempts, he could match the skill of someone who had worked at it for years. Of course, he was nowhere near my level; I had the talent of a literal God.

Painting didn't hold his interest for long; music did, though-especially the violin. He said its voice soothed him, moved him.

I didn't ask him to define it; some feelings don't have words.

I was having one specially made for his-our-birthday coming up. Which, fun fact, was on the same day-October 19th.

When my parents learned about it, their eyes met in that subtle, "we're using Whisper to talk secretly" look.

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Then came an unexpected knock at our door: Shizune.

We'd only known each other for a few days, barely enough time to form any real bond, yet here she was, standing in our entryway, insisting she couldn't let a five-year-old fall behind in class.

As if missing some lectures could slow me down-I had the entire curriculum stored in my Mind Palace-but I let her in anyway. I had no reason not to.

She seemed sincere, if a bit stiff. Perhaps nervous. I'm sure my antics from the other day didn't help.

I made dinner because that's what I did these days-cooked, painted, and listened to distant laughter from my parents as they bustled around while Dad was here and away from the war.

Shizune took one bite and burst into tears.

It had become a normal occurrence-people crying after they ate my food for the first time- so I thought nothing of it and let her weep in peace as she devoured the entire plate.

Shisui, leaning against the wall, raised an eyebrow at me as if to say, "You made her cry?" I shrugged, sending [Just like you?] He rolled his eyes at that.

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Shizune caught on quickly that Shisui and I were different-advanced, so to speak.

Instead of getting defensive or jealous, she quickly began bouncing around medical knowledge and asking questions about medical theory, chakra circulation, and tissue regeneration.

I answered while dabbing my brush into paint, shaping delicate petals on canvas. Shisui played the violin in the background, practicing a piece I had taught him the other day.

We slipped into a comfortable routine, the three of us-acquaintances turned friends. It was nice-a good change of pace.

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The elders filtered in over the following weeks, dropping by one after another.

There were no surprise visits to drag me into sparring, no lectures disguised as lessons. They just came, shared a few words, maybe sipped tea or snagged a to-go plate, then left. Lady Tsunade and Daiki never came.

When I asked about him, Dad explained that he wasn't allowed near me anymore-neither as a trainer nor as a guest. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised.

From my perspective, I was an adult trapped in a child's body, but to my parents and the clan, I was still their five-year-old heir. In their eyes, Daiki hadn't just pushed me too far; he'd crossed a line, inflicting wounds that shouldn't have been possible-physical and otherwise. My parents made it clear that, first, it wasn't his or anyone else's place, but even if he decided to step in, Daiki should have spoken to me; he should have taught me with words rather than broken ribs and an almost shattered mind.

They wouldn't tolerate unnecessary harm to their child (to their heir), no matter who delivered it. If I had been a normal five-year-old, I might have ended up traumatized-just

like Kiburi.

Which, at the time, I had justified my actions towards him on some twisted level: Kiburi had attacked first, and I was only defending myself and my clan. But I knew what I was doing-I, an adult mentally, had egged on a ten-year-old to strike me first so I could teach him a lesson -by decapitation.

Deep down, I viewed him as inconsequential. A side character. Just an NPC-someone who didn't fully register as real.

I had been living in this world with the subconscious notion that everyone I met was part of a script, pieces on a board with a predetermined path-one I could engage with or not.

Even though I was physically here-feeling the air, tasting the food, building relationships- I still carried a lingering detachment, a faint but persistent whisper that these people weren't truly "people," just fragments of a story I knew too well.

The people around me were real-painfully, beautifully real.

This was their world, too.

I would carry that lesson forward, never again letting my old-world detachment justify my

distance.

Losing Daiki, a skilled instructor, stung, but my parents promised to find me another teacher. A better teacher.

They wanted the best for me, and I believed them. After all, if these quiet weeks taught me anything, it was that life held more than relentless training.

There were meals shared with friends, laughter echoing through hallways, gentle music in the background, and the subtle comfort of knowing I wasn't alone.

Though those slow days tested my patience and made me restless at times, I couldn't deny

the warmth settling in my chest.

Maybe stopping wasn't a weakness; perhaps it was just another kind of strength.