The closer they drew to the academy, the more parents Naruto could see accompanying their children. And the moment those parents caught sight of him, Naruto noticed subtle shifts in their expressions. Although Iruka's presence helped restrain any overt hostility, the villagers couldn't completely hide their instinctive reactions. In Naruto's sharp perception, he could still detect the faint traces of fear and aversion beneath their guarded faces.
The expressions were subtle, almost invisible, yet Naruto had grown accustomed to discerning even the palest shadows of hatred.
Any child who glanced curiously at Naruto was immediately pulled away by their parent. The adults whispered in firm, hushed tones—stern warnings not to speak to, touch, or even make eye contact with the blond-haired boy.
The air was thick with unspoken malice.
Surrounded by such animosity, Naruto's emotions stirred for a fleeting moment.
His grip on Iruka's hand tightened involuntarily.
Iruka, surprised by the sudden pressure, felt the faint tremor in Naruto's hand. Though just a Chūnin, Iruka had basic knowledge about jinchūriki. While he wasn't privy to the full truth—that Naruto was the son of the Fourth Hokage—he knew enough to understand the pain of being a vessel.
Naruto was Naruto, and the Nine-Tails was the Nine-Tails.
Naruto was simply the container—a child burdened by the Kyuubi, not the beast itself. He shouldn't be hated for the destruction caused by something sealed within him. He was just a six-year-old orphan, one whose public records—crafted deliberately by the village—depicted a boy who had lost his parents during the Kyuubi's rampage.
Yet he was treated like a monster.
Feared. Shunned. Loathed.
As Iruka thought of this, a trace of guilt softened his expression.
What Iruka didn't realize, however, was that Naruto's sudden tension wasn't from sadness or fear—it was from a momentary lapse in control. A flicker of killing intent had surfaced in Naruto's heart, too brief and instinctual to be noticed by anyone but himself.
> "My mindset still needs work…"
Naruto bowed his head slightly, smirking inwardly in self-ridicule.
The villagers?
He didn't necessarily hate them. After all, they weren't truly to blame for how his life had turned out. They were ignorant, misled, and unaware of what a jinchūriki truly was. In their eyes, he was the Nine-Tails itself. Such a misunderstanding wasn't entirely their fault.
But that didn't mean Naruto had any affection for them.
If the opportunity came, Naruto wouldn't mind pushing those blind villagers into despair. His true hatred wasn't reserved for them—it was for Konoha's upper echelon. Those who claimed their actions were for the sake of peace, justice, and the village.
Especially Shimura Danzō.
That man was one of Naruto's prime targets. He would be killed.
It had nothing to do with ideals—it was simply vengeance. Not just for himself, but for his parents, and all that had been taken from him. If Obito Uchiha had lit the fire, then Danzō had fanned the flames. In Naruto's mind, Danzō bore nearly as much responsibility for the pain and ruin of the past.
Naruto, in this life, wouldn't be foolish like his past self—who naively tried to understand and redeem his enemies.
In the original timeline, Naruto tried to justify and save Uchiha Obito in the final battle, despite everything the man had done.
But this Naruto?
He would never allow someone like Obito—no matter how tragic his backstory—to go unpunished. It wasn't compassion. It wasn't pity. It was foolishness.
Obito wasn't like Uchiha Itachi, Shisui, or Kagami—shinobi who bore burdens with dignity and sacrifice. Obito was a traitor, a killer, and the most disgraceful of the Uchiha.
A cursed name.
"Come on, Naruto," Iruka said softly, guiding him by the hand.
In less than ten minutes, they arrived at the front gate of the Ninja Academy. The area was swarming with parents and excited children, voices overlapping and laughter echoing.
Iruka led Naruto to a quieter spot, crouched slightly, and gently patted his head.
"Wait here, Naruto. I'll handle your registration first. Don't go wandering off, alright?"
"Yes, Iruka-sensei," Naruto replied brightly, nodding with a smile that could almost be mistaken for innocence.
Iruka lingered for a moment, clearly concerned, then nodded and left.
In the world of ninjas, children matured quickly. Many began training at early ages, molded by war and necessity. Kakashi Hatake had graduated the academy at five, became a Chūnin at six, and had joined the battlefield by twelve. Geniuses like him were rare, but graduating at seven or eight and participating in combat was once a common expectation.
But now?
Naruto wasn't so sure.
The other villages' current states were unknown, but Konoha felt like it was rotting from the inside.
The ninja system here had softened. The Academy only accepted students at age six and graduated them by twelve—six whole years without true danger. Six years without bloodshed. Six years of sanitized, almost peaceful education.
To Naruto, that was absurd.
A ninja who had never bled wasn't a real ninja.
And the Will of Fire—the philosophy Konoha cherished?
Naruto didn't think it was wrong. But somewhere along the way, it had been corrupted. It became a doctrine of endless tolerance. Of forgiveness without justice. It wasn't about protecting the future anymore. It was about appeasement. About inaction.
The Third Hokage had indeed done great things for Konoha's reconstruction—but he had also allowed the rot to spread. His forgiveness of Danzō, his indulgence of Orochimaru, his reluctance to confront the consequences of peace… these were the seeds of decay.
And though Naruto was the son of the Fourth Hokage, he felt no deep bond with the village.
Even that bloodline could not tie him to a place that had never embraced him.
Less than ten minutes later, Iruka returned with Naruto's completed registration documents. Relieved to see Naruto still standing where he left him, unharmed and smiling, Iruka let out a quiet breath.
"Alright, Naruto. Let's go to your classroom."
"Yes!"
Naruto took Iruka's left hand again, gripping it firmly. Together, they walked forward—toward the Academy and the uncertain path that lay ahead.