"Today we're going to the village market," Father announced as he adjusted the straps on his mission pouch. "You're old enough now to see more of Iwagakure than just our compound."
I bounced excitedly on my toes, clutching the small cloth bag Mom had given me for carrying purchases. At four years old, I'd watched the village from the compound walls countless times, seen the smoke rising from distant buildings and people moving like ants along the stone streets. But I'd never actually walked those streets myself.
"Remember what we discussed," Mom said, kneeling to check my clothes one final time. Her amber eyes were serious but warm. "Stay close to Father, be polite to everyone, and don't touch anything in the shops without asking first."
"I remember, Mom," I said solemnly, though my heart was racing with anticipation.
The compound gates felt different when we walked through them together, Father's steady presence beside me as we headed down the winding path that led to Iwagakure proper. The morning air was crisp with mountain freshness, and I could hear the distant sounds of village life echoing off the canyon walls.
"The village has many different kinds of people," Father explained as we walked. "Shinobi families like ours, but also merchants, craftsmen, farmers, and others who make the village work. Everyone has their role."
The path curved around a massive stone outcropping, and suddenly the village spread out below us like something from a storybook. Buildings carved directly into the cliff faces rose in terraced levels, connected by bridges and walkways that seemed to float in the air. Smoke rose from countless chimneys, and I could see people moving everywhere, going about their daily business.
"It's huge!" I breathed, stopping in my tracks to stare.
"Iwagakure is one of the Five Great Shinobi Villages," Father said with obvious pride. "Home to thousands of people, protected by these natural stone walls and the strength of our shinobi."
As we descended the main path, the buildings grew larger and more detailed. I could see shops with colorful awnings, people carrying baskets and bundles, children running through side streets. The sounds grew louder too, voices calling to each other, the ring of hammers on metal, wheels creaking on stone.
"Look, Father!" I pointed excitedly at a group of kids about my age chasing each other around a small plaza. "Are those shinobi children too?"
"Some might be," he said, watching them play. "Others are probably children of merchants or craftsmen. In the village, everyone mingles together."
The market district was a revelation of sights, sounds, and smells I'd never experienced. Vendors called out their wares from stalls packed with colorful goods. The air was filled with the scent of cooking food, fresh bread, and spices I couldn't identify. People haggled good-naturedly over prices, and children darted between the adult customers with practiced ease.
"Ryuusei!" a cheerful voice called out as we entered the main market square. "Bringing the little one for his first village tour?"
A middle-aged woman with weathered hands and a kind smile approached us. She wore the practical clothes of a merchant, but her posture suggested she was someone Father knew well.
"Good morning, Tanaka-san," Father replied with a respectful bow. "Yes, Tetsuya is finally old enough to see the wider village. Tetsuya, this is Tanaka-san. She runs one of the best vegetable stalls in the market."
I bowed politely as Mom had taught me. "Good morning, Tanaka-san."
"Such a well-mannered boy!" she beamed, reaching into her stall to select a perfect red apple. "Here you go, young man. On the house for your first market visit."
"Thank you!" I said, accepting the apple carefully. It was bigger and redder than any apple I'd seen before, and when I bit into it, the juice ran down my chin.
"Her family has been selling vegetables here for three generations," Father explained as we continued through the market. "They supply fresh produce to many of the shinobi families, including ours."
We stopped at several more stalls, a baker whose bread smelled like heaven, a metalworker who knew Mom's reputation and asked Father to give her his regards, and a textile merchant who sold the cloth Mom used for some of our family's clothes. Each vendor treated Father with respect and genuine warmth, and all of them made a fuss over me.
"The village works because everyone contributes," Father said as we purchased rice from an elderly man whose grandson helped run the stall. "The farmers grow food, the merchants distribute it, the craftsmen make tools and goods, and the shinobi protect everyone."
"What about the Academy?" I asked, pointing to a large building visible on one of the higher terraces. "I can see it from our compound sometimes."
"That's where young shinobi learn the basics before they become genin," Father explained. "You'll go there yourself in a couple of years."
The Academy building looked impressive even from a distance, multiple stories carved into the cliff face, with training grounds visible on several levels. I could see small figures moving around what were probably practice areas.
"Can we go look at it?" I asked hopefully.
"Today we're focusing on the market," Father said gently. "But we can walk by it on our way home if you'd like."
As we continued shopping, I began to notice differences I hadn't expected. Some children my age were dressed in nice clothes similar to mine, with clan symbols or quality fabrics. Others wore simpler garments that showed more wear, though they looked clean and well-cared-for. But all the children seemed to play together without any obvious divisions.
"Father," I said quietly as we watched a group of kids playing a complex game involving thrown stones and drawn circles, "why do some children have different clothes?"
Father followed my gaze thoughtfully. "Different families have different resources," he said simply. "Shinobi clans often have more income from missions and clan businesses. Merchant families might have moderate income from their shops. Craftsmen earn wages from their work. All are important, but the amounts vary."
"Does that make some people better than others?"
"Absolutely not," Father said firmly, stopping to look me in the eye. "A person's worth comes from their character, their contributions, and how they treat others. Never from how much money their family has."
To demonstrate his point, when we passed a small tea shop, Father greeted the elderly owner, who clearly was not a shinobi, with the same respect he'd shown Elder Genzou. They chatted about the weather and village news like old friends.
"That's Yamamoto-san," Father explained after we'd purchased tea for the journey home. "He's never been a shinobi, but he served as a medic during the war and saved countless lives. Some of the most valuable people in the village aren't fighters at all."
The conversation was interrupted by a commotion from the plaza where the children had been playing. Raised voices and what sounded like an argument drew our attention.
"That's not fair!" a girl's voice called out angrily. "You can't just change the rules because you're losing!"
"We're not changing the rules," a boy responded defensively. "You're the one who doesn't understand how to play properly!"
Father and I approached to see what was happening. A group of about six children stood in a circle around several others who appeared to be having a heated disagreement. The arguing children looked to be about my age, with one girl in particular looking frustrated enough to cry.
"What seems to be the problem?" Father asked gently, his voice carrying the natural authority that made people listen to him.
"They keep changing the rules of stone-toss," the girl said, pointing accusingly at two boys who wore clothes that suggested shinobi families. "Every time we start winning, they say we're doing it wrong."
"One of the accused boys crossed his arms defensively. "We're not changing anything! They just don't know the real rules because they're not from shinobi families."
Father's expression grew serious, and I could sense his disapproval even though his voice remained calm. "I see. And who exactly decided that shinobi families own the rules to children's games?"
The boy looked uncomfortable under Father's steady gaze. "Well... that's just how it is. We learn the proper way."
"Interesting," Father said thoughtfully. "I learned stone-toss from my grandfather, who learned it from a merchant's son here in this very plaza. I wonder where your version comes from?"
The other children giggled at this, and the argumentative boy's face reddened. Meanwhile, the girl who'd been upset looked hopeful.
"How about this," Father suggested. "Since there seems to be disagreement about the rules, why don't we have a demonstration? I'll show you the traditional version, and then you can all decide together how you want to play."
What followed was an impromptu lesson in playground diplomacy. Father demonstrated the stone-toss game as he'd learned it, explaining each rule clearly and asking for input from all the children. The girls, who I realized were probably from non-shinobi families, proved to know the same version Father did.
"Now," Father said after the demonstration, "it looks like both groups know the same traditional rules. The confusion seems to have come from some... creative interpretations. Would you like to start a fresh game with everyone participating fairly?"
The children eagerly agreed, and soon they were all playing together harmoniously. The boy who'd been causing trouble even apologized to the girl, though he looked somewhat embarrassed.
"That was really nice, Father," I said as we continued our shopping. "You helped them become friends again."
"People often create conflict over things that don't really matter," Father explained. "When children argue about game rules, it's usually not really about the game. It's about feeling important or included or respected."
"Were those boys being mean because they're from shinobi families?"
Father was quiet for a moment, considering his words carefully. "Some people, regardless of their background, sometimes try to feel better about themselves by claiming they're superior to others. It's a weakness of character, not a strength of heritage."
We spent another hour in the market, with Father letting me choose a small toy from one of the stalls, a wooden bird painted in bright colors that could be made to "fly" when pulled by a string. Then we began the walk home, taking the route that passed closer to the Academy as Father had promised.
The Academy building was even more impressive up close. Multiple training grounds were visible, with students of various ages practicing different skills. I could see older children sparring with wooden swords, while younger ones worked on what looked like the same balance exercises I'd been learning.
"Look, Father!" I pointed excitedly at a group of children about Akira-nii's age practicing with throwing stars. "They're using real kunai!"
"Those are practice kunai," Father corrected with a smile. "Blunted and balanced differently than real weapons. But yes, Academy students learn to use all the basic tools."
"I can't wait to go there," I said, pressing my face against the fence that surrounded the training area.
"A couple more years," Father said. "You need to be physically ready for the training intensity, and emotionally mature enough to handle being away from the compound for full days."
On the walk back up to our compound, I found myself thinking about everything I'd seen. The village was so much bigger and more complex than I'd imagined. People of all kinds working together, children playing together regardless of their families' status, and Father treating everyone with the same respect he showed clan elders.
"Father," I said as we reached the familiar gates of the Sakamura compound, "will I have friends from non-shinobi families when I go to the Academy?"
"Very likely," he replied. "The Academy brings together children from all walks of life. Some will become your closest friends, others might become rivals, and a few might not get along with you at all. That's normal."
"What if they don't like me because I'm from a shinobi clan?"
Father stopped walking and knelt down to my level, his hands resting gently on my shoulders. "Then you'll show them through your actions that their assumptions are wrong. Treat everyone fairly, share what you can, help those who need it, and be genuine in your friendships. People respond to sincerity."
Inside the compound, Mom was waiting in the main courtyard with several other family members. Her face lit up when she saw us returning with our market purchases.
"How was your first village adventure?" she asked, immediately noticing the wooden bird toy I was proudly carrying.
"Amazing!" I said, launching into an excited description of everything we'd seen and done. "And Father helped some kids solve an argument about game rules, and I got to see the Academy, and Tanaka-san gave me an apple that was the best apple ever!"
Mom laughed at my enthusiasm. "It sounds like you had quite the day. Did you remember to be polite and stay close to Father?"
"I was really good," I said seriously. "Father said so."
"He was excellent," Father confirmed, setting down our purchases. "Very observant, very polite, and he asked thoughtful questions about everything."
Elder Hana approached from the garden area, her weathered hands dirty from working with plants. "And what did you think of the village, young Tetsuya?"
"It's huge!" I said. "And there are so many different people! Father says everyone has a role that makes the village work."
"Very true," she nodded approvingly. "What was the most interesting thing you saw?"
I thought about it seriously. "I think it was watching how Father talked to everyone the same way. He was respectful to everyone, just like he is with you and the other elders."
Elder Hana's eyes crinkled with what looked like pride. "That's because your father understands something important about leadership, that respect earned through behavior is worth more than respect demanded through position."
Later that evening, when the family gathered for dinner, I found myself telling everyone about the market adventure. Daichi-oji and Aiko-oba listened with interest, asking questions about specific vendors they knew. Even baby Haru seemed fascinated by my animated descriptions, reaching toward me with tiny hands.
"The next time we go to the village," Father said as we finished eating, "perhaps some of the other children would like to come along. Akira's old enough to help with larger purchases, and the others might enjoy seeing parts of the village they don't usually visit."
"Can I come too?" Kaito asked eagerly from where he sat with his parents.
"If your parents approve," Father said. "It can be educational for everyone."
That night, as I lay in bed with my new wooden bird on the shelf beside my blacksmithing hammer, I thought about everything I'd learned. The village was bigger and more complicated than I'd imagined, full of people with different lives and roles. But it was also connected in ways I was only beginning to understand.
Father had shown me that being part of a shinobi clan didn't make me better than anyone else, it gave me different responsibilities. And someday, when I was strong enough and skilled enough, those responsibilities would include protecting all those people going about their daily lives in the village below.
The wooden bird caught the moonlight, and I smiled as I remembered Tanaka-san's kindness and the children playing together in the plaza. The world beyond our compound walls was vast and full of possibilities, and I couldn't wait to explore more of it.