The doors opened into a large conference hall, the kind of space designed for gatherings that mattered. Long central tables dominated the room, their surfaces polished to a dull gleam, surrounded by chairs that had been arranged in neat, orderly rows. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the faces of the men and women who had gathered; twenty-five to thirty jonin, each one a veteran of war, each one carrying the weight of experience in the lines of their faces and the set of their shoulders.
Renjiro stepped inside, Saki following close behind. The doors closed with a soft thud behind them, sealing off the corridor and its quiet murmurs. The atmosphere was professional, expectant—the particular stillness of people who had been summoned and were waiting to learn why.
The jonin were a cross-section of Konoha's military elite. Young veterans from the war, their faces still carrying the sharp angles of recent battle. Middle-aged career shinobi, their expressions guarded, their eyes assessing. Older jonin nearing retirement, their postures relaxed, their gazes knowing. Scarred veterans with missing fingers and faded tattoos. Clan jonin in formal attire. Sensor specialists in practical uniforms. Tracking specialists with the lean build of hunters. Taijutsu instructors whose hands were calloused from years of striking. Former battlefield commanders who had led squads through the worst of the war. Medical jonin who had patched together the broken and sent them back to fight.
Some stood as Renjiro entered, their bodies moving automatically—a reflex from years of military discipline. Others nodded respectfully, acknowledging his position without rising. A few watched silently, their expressions unreadable, their eyes tracking his movements as he walked toward the front of the room. And some—a handful—looked sceptical, their arms crossed, their chins lifted, as if they had not yet decided whether to accept his authority.
'They're testing me,' Renjiro thought. 'Not openly. Not aggressively. But they're watching. Waiting to see what kind of commander I'll be.'
He reached the front of the room and turned to face them.
Saki moved to stand nearby, her scrolls and documents arranged neatly, her expression composed.
The room quieted.
"Thank you for arriving early," Renjiro said, his voice carrying without effort. "I appreciate you making time for this."
A few jonin nodded. Others remained still.
"I'll get straight to business," he continued. "Academy graduation is approaching. Team formation must be finalised."
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle.
"I already have a proposal."
He emphasised the word—proposal—making it clear that this was not final, not approved, not permanent.
"Not final," he said. "Not approved. Not permanent."
He let that sink in.
"Here's how this will work."
Renjiro outlined the process, his voice calm, professional.
"Step one: Saki will read the proposed teams."
Saki stepped forward slightly, scroll in hand.
"Step two: feedback. I want to hear your concerns, your observations, your recommendations."
A few jonin nodded.
"Step three: refinements. Based on your feedback, I'll adjust the teams."
"Step four: submission to the Hokage for final approval."
"Step five: the teams become official."
He paused, letting the process settle.
"Everyone here has experience I value," he said. "I'm not here to dictate. I'm here to build the best possible teams for the next generation."
The words earned some approval—nods, relaxed shoulders, a few thoughtful expressions.
"Only twenty teams will be formed this year," Renjiro continued. "Not everyone graduates into active squads."
Murmurs rippled through the room.
"Some graduates will enter the Genin Reserve," he explained. "Continued evaluation, temporary missions, additional training. Strong performance in the Reserve can lead to future team creation."
The murmurs subsided. A few jonin nodded. A few shrugged. A few looked indifferent.
No one objected.
"Good." Renjiro turned to Saki. "Read the teams."
Saki stepped forward, unrolled her scroll, and cleared her throat.
"Team Three," she announced. "Jonin instructor: Daichi Senju."
She read the genin names—three of them, unfamiliar to most in the room.
"Team Six. Jonin instructor: Haru Inuzuka."
More names.
"Team Nine." Saki's voice shifted slightly, becoming more measured. "Jonin instructor: Rei Nara."
She paused.
"Genin: Izumi Uchiha, Miko and Takeda."
The room was quiet.
Renjiro watched the reactions. Rei Nara was a stable choice, balanced, intelligent, and patient. The team composition was deliberate—Izomi Uchiha, with her clan connections and her potential, placed alongside a civilian girl and an orphan boy. No political weight, no clan expectations. Just three children who needed guidance.
'Stable. Balanced. Anchor personalities.'
He nodded to himself.
---
"Team Fourteen," Saki continued. "Jonin instructor: Takeshi Sarutobi."
She paused.
"Genin: Anko Mitarashi. Daigo, Asuma Inuzuka."
Renjiro's attention sharpened.
Anko, he thought. No Orochimaru. No curse mark. No trauma.
He had placed her deliberately with a patient instructor—Takeshi Sarutobi was known for his calm demeanour, his steady hand, his ability to reach difficult students. The teammates were stable: a civilian boy with no political baggage, and a clan heir who would be trained to lead.
Avoiding future Orochimaru-like influence.
He watched the room. No one objected. No one seemed to notice the significance of the placement.
'Good.'
---
Saki continued reading. Team after team, name after name, the scroll unfurling as she worked her way through the list. The jonin listened—some attentively, some impatiently, some with the particular blankness of people who had already decided what they thought and were simply waiting for their turn to speak.
Renjiro studied them.
Only a handful are listening carefully, he observed. Some are taking notes. Some are genuinely interested.
But most?
'Most are already preparing arguments. Already judging assignments. Already looking annoyed.'
He watched a jonin from the Shimura clan scribble something on a scrap of paper, his expression sour. He watched an Inuzuka representative lean toward her neighbour, whispering something that made the other woman frown. He watched a Hyūga jonin cross his arms and stare at the ceiling, as if the entire proceedings were beneath his notice.
They're not listening to the teams, Renjiro realised. They're listening for their own names.
'This is going to be difficult.'
---
Saki finished reading. She rolled up the scroll, stepped back, and returned to her position beside Renjiro.
Silence.
"The floor is open," Renjiro said, stepping forward. "Any feedback?"
Hands shot up everywhere.
Dozens of hands.
Renjiro was pleased—briefly, naively.
'Good,' he thought. 'They're engaged. This will be productive.'
Five seconds later, he regretted everything.
---
"Why wasn't the Inuzuka student assigned to me?" The first complaint came from an Inuzuka jonin, her voice sharp, her expression accusing. "I'm the obvious choice. I understand the clan's techniques. I could train him properly."
"A Hyūga should be trained by Hyūga," a Hyūga jonin added, his tone clipped. "Our techniques are not something outsiders can teach."
"Our insects require understanding," an Aburame jonin said, his voice low, almost monotone. "Outsiders cannot teach that. The Aburame student should be placed with an Aburame instructor."
"The Akimichi child should remain around Akimichi traditions," an Akimichi representative added. "Our clan's techniques are passed down through generations. A non-Akimichi instructor cannot provide the same foundation."
Renjiro listened, his expression neutral.
'Clan politics,' he thought. 'They're not thinking about the children. They're thinking about their clans.'
The complaints escalated.
"One of my assigned students is a civilian," a jonin said, his voice carrying a note of disdain. "How am I supposed to train someone without clan techniques?"
"This orphan lacks proper clan support," another added. "Who will teach him the basics? Who will provide him with resources?"
"How can I teach a child without a family trade?" a third jonin asked. "Civilian students don't understand the shinobi world. They'll hold their teams back."
"The civilian students may slow team cohesion," a fourth agreed. "They're not prepared for the intensity of jonin instruction."
"My team contains no clan heirs," a fifth complained. "How am I supposed to build political connections if I'm training nobodies?"
"I've trained clan children before," a sixth added. "It would be a waste of my expertise to train civilians."
Renjiro's jaw tightened.
'Why does everyone think clan blood automatically equals talent?' he thought. 'Why am I hearing complaints about civilians in a village where most shinobi started as civilians?'
But the worst was yet to come.
"I believe my accomplishments warrant a higher quality team," a jonin said, his voice dripping with arrogance. He was young—younger than most in the room—but his record was impressive. Too impressive, perhaps. He had clearly been told, many times, that he was special.
The entire room nodded.
Renjiro nearly exploded.
'Higher quality team,' he thought, the words echoing in his mind. 'They're children. They're not products. They're not commodities. They're human beings who need guidance.'
He forced himself to breathe.
Nobody was discussing team chemistry. Nobody was discussing development. Nobody was discussing mentorship.
'Exactly the things I built the teams around,' Renjiro thought, his frustration building. 'Exactly the things that matter.'
The complaints continued.
"I'd prefer not to supervise orphans," someone said—a jonin from the Shimura clan, his voice careless, as if he were commenting on the weather. "They have too many issues. Too much baggage."
Silence.
The room went still.
Renjiro stared at him.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
He inhaled.
Why, he thought, do these people think I'm a pushover?
=====
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