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Today was the day of the festival—one he had promised Daichi and Shisui he would attend, even though the thought of skipping crossed his mind more than once. But in the end, Haruto didn't skip. He created a clone to handle the tasks that weighed more heavily on his mind—his body enhancement and the refinement of Thunder Arc. The beauty of his two-minds ability allowed him to divide his focus while still attending the festival as a "normal kid," or as close as he could get.

He stood in front of the mirror, his gaze drifting toward the faded photograph on his dresser—his parents. The parents of this world. It was always a strange feeling to look at them, to see their faces so clearly, yet to know nothing about them. In his old life, he had memories of his parents—he remembered the sound of their voices, the way they smiled, the warmth of their embrace. But here, these faces were both familiar and foreign.

The photograph captured a moment of simplicity and quiet pride. His mother, Yuki, had a gentle but confident air about her. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, framing a face that was both soft and strong. Her eyes—striking and dark—held an intensity that Haruto had inherited. It was their shape, the slight tilt at the corners and the way they gleamed with a quiet, steady determination, that was so distinctly hers. Every time he looked in the mirror, he could see her eyes reflected in his own. They were one of the few features he had inherited from her.

His father, Ren, stood beside her, his arm resting casually around her shoulder. He was young, likely no older than Haruto was now when the picture was taken, and had that same mischievous smile that Haruto sometimes caught himself wearing when he was around Daichi or Shisui. Ren's hair, short and unruly, always seemed as though he had just run a hand through it, giving him a relaxed, almost carefree appearance. But his posture, even in the photograph, betrayed the skilled shinobi beneath that casual demeanor—solid, ready, his hitai-ate gleaming in the sunlight. There was a quiet strength in the way Ren held himself, a calm assurance that Haruto longed to embody.

It was strange. He had no memories of them, yet every time he looked at this picture, he felt a connection—like their presence was woven into him, even if he had never known them. Haruto ran his thumb over the edge of the photo, feeling the worn texture beneath his fingertips. They were strangers, yet they were a part of him. And as distant as they seemed, there was comfort in knowing where he came from, in the way their faces shaped his reflection.

Turning his gaze back to the mirror, Haruto studied himself. He was only ten, still very much a boy in appearance. His frame was slim and wiry, a result of his rigorous training, though he lacked the bulk that would come with age and the inevitable onset of puberty. His dark hair fell in messy strands over his brow, much like his father's, though his features were sharper, more angular. His pale skin was unmarked, free from the scars that would likely come with time, but his eyes—his mother's eyes—reflected something beyond his years. There was a seriousness to them, a weight that not many children his age carried. And yet, beneath that, there was still a glimmer of youth, of a boy who hadn't fully stepped into the responsibilities of the shinobi world.

He wasn't tall, not yet, but his body was toned from the endless hours he poured into training. His muscles, though small, were defined, a testament to the work he put in every day. Haruto sighed softly, pulling his gaze away from the mirror and turning toward the clothes laid out on his bed.

He had promised Daichi he'd show up to the festival dressed like a "normal kid" for once, not like a shinobi ready for battle. Begrudgingly, Haruto had chosen something simple but presentable: a dark gray tunic, sleek and fitted, with reinforced stitching along the seams to give it a subtle durability. It was lightweight—perfect for ease of movement—but sturdy enough to withstand wear. The high collar added a touch of style without being overtly tactical.

He paired the tunic with black pants made from a flexible yet durable material, designed to move with him without tearing or wearing down. They weren't his usual shinobi attire, but they were practical enough for any situation, should something arise. He decided to forgo his usual sandals, opting instead for a pair of regular shoes that didn't scream "ninja." They were simple, functional, and didn't draw unnecessary attention.

Haruto finished the look with a pair of black fingerless gloves, not because he needed them for the festival, but because they felt like a piece of him—a reminder that, while he was trying to look normal, he was anything but. The gloves were subtle, a small nod to his life as a shinobi, but they added just the right amount of edge.

He stood back, looking at himself in the mirror. The outfit wasn't flashy, but It was functional, with a touch of style that suited him perfectly. It felt strange to be dressed like this, but he would indulge Daichi's request for today. At least for a few hours, he could play the part of a regular kid.

But deep down, as he adjusted the collar of his tunic one last time, Haruto knew that no matter how he dressed, no matter how normal he tried to appear, he was always a shinobi.