(Azula's POV)
"OI!" My voice cut through the Academy classroom's post-bell chatter like a poorly thrown shuriken.
"What precisely does this," I gestured vaguely at the semi-circle of pint-sized nuisances suddenly surrounding my desk, "have to do with me?"
A vein throbbed rhythmically near my temple. Or it would have, if I weren't currently trapped in this prepubescent body. "Is there an invisible sign above my head that reads 'I need your attention'? Because it feels like it."
My audience was… eclectic.
Front and center, radiating misplaced confidence, stood Tsunade Senju.
Her fists were already clenched – a worrying habit, considering she'd apparently decked Shikoku Nara earlier over a misplaced inkwell, or possibly because he'd looked at her funny; motivations at this age are distressingly primal.
Shikoku (the guy I beat earlier) himself lurked slightly behind her left shoulder, looking profoundly bored, though his eyes held that unnerving Nara sharpness, cataloging everything like a tiny, sleepy spy.
Flanking them were the dynamic duo of future chaos: Jiraiya, vibrating with poorly contained energy, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, and Orochimaru, unnervingly still, his gaze fixed on me with unsettling intensity.
Hovering near the back, radiating earnestness like a miniature sun, was Might Duy, already practicing his 'Good Guy' pose. And sprinkled around were various other future cannon fodder… sorry, 'classmates'. A veritable kindergarten Konoha summit, convened at 'my' desk.
All this, just because I dared to… draw? Or maybe there's something deeper?
Three days of hitting my head against the Uchiha-shaped wall.
The source of my current irritation wasn't just the miniature mob. It stemmed from three days of fruitless negotiation with the most stubborn entity in the Five Nations: Uchiha Tajima, my father.
My objective was very simple but essential: the Shadow Clone Jutsu for efficiency.
One me mastering Chakra theory, another practicing katas, a third catching up on essential beauty sleep (even prodigies need their eight hours), while I, the original, plotted world domination… or, you know, passed the Academy exams with flying colors. Flawless logic.
The one with the same name as Madara's father had one counter-argument. "You are too young, Azula, and it's too dangerous. Your chakra reserves, while impressive for your age, are still developing. Learning Lightning Release was already pushing the boundaries of what I can allow, so the shadow clone jutsu is absolutely impossible."
He'd punctuated this with a small smile on his face, looking for all the world like a benevolent father denying candy, not a military dictator denying a tactical advantage.
The infuriating part was he wasn't entirely wrong about raw capacity. My current chakra might be currently far more than anyone else's at the same age, but it still would only be comparable to Ino Yamanaka's chakra level just after graduating the academy.
But raw power is for brutes and… well, Naruto. Finesse is where true mastery lies. And in control, I had absolute, unwavering, and precision-carved control.
My research into this world's 'Ninjutsu' while mastering Lightning Release Ninjutsu had yielded fascinating parallels to the Avatar World's bending arts.
Firebending and Lightning generation felt remarkably similar to channeling chakra without the tedious hand-waving and shouting.
It was pure, instinctive manipulation – the kind of effortless mastery only legends like Hashirama Senju (hands clap, forest appears) were supposed to possess. It felt… natural. As natural as breathing fire had been.
Yesterday, driven by scientific curiosity (and sheer annoyance), I'd sneakily tested this theory. After using the pathetic D-rank Raiton: Raiken no Shōgeki (Lightning Release: Sparking Shock), I'd retreated to a secluded training ground.
Closing my eyes, I reached for that familiar inner storm, the crackling energy that had once danced at my fingertips in another world.
"Zzzzt." A tiny, controlled arc of pure blue-white lightning leapt from my index finger, dancing precisely where I willed it.
No hand seals, no shouted technique name, just pure, focused intent channeling chakra into the precise form I desired – Lightningbending.
Experimentally pushing more chakra into it, the spark flared brighter, hotter. The drain felt identical to casting the official Ninjutsu – same energy cost, vastly superior control and flexibility.
The implications were surprisingly shocking. Every competent bender from the Avatar World, dropped into this chakra-infested landscape, would be hailed as a prodigy and might as well have Hashirama-level chakra control.
And me? Azula, Princess of the Fire Nation, master strategist, and undisputed first true lightning-wielder? I'd be a… well, a deity wouldn't be out of the question. A very well-dressed, strategically brilliant deity, naturally.
But alas, no Shadow Clone. Which meant my meticulously planned schedule was thrown into disarray. Lightning and Chakra theory relegated to home study.
My intricate schematics for improved Konoha fortifications (purely hypothetical, of course) and elegant fire-lotus designs confined to Academy doodling time. Utterly inefficient!
Back to the present infestation. Three days in this glorified daycare, and the social dynamics were already ossifying.
Clans clustered, rivalries sparked, alliances formed over shared snacks and mutual dislike of ninja arithmetic.
Did I participate? Did I engage in the scintillating debates about whose dad could beat up whose dad? Did I care that Choda Akimichi could eat seventeen rice balls in one go?
Absolutely not.
It wasn't arrogance. Well, not 'just' arrogance. The fundamental issue was perspective.
Inside this small body resided the mind of a seasoned adult, tempered by fire, betrayal, and ultimate power, layered on top of the memories of an entirely different Azula who'd lived and died in a world ruled by elemental mastery, not chakra and clandestine organizations.
My worldview was forged in crucibles these children couldn't even imagine. Their concerns – playground hierarchy, teacher approval, snack time – felt… trivial. Alien. Like observing ants squabble over a crumb.
So, I maintained polite distance. Nods. Curt greetings. A carefully cultivated aura of 'Approach Only With Extreme Caution and a Very Good Reason.'
Apparently, my aloofness, combined with the inherent Uchiha mystique and my frankly impeccable posture, had been misinterpreted as… charm? A magnetic allure? Hence the current blockade around my desk. Ridiculous.
"Hmph!" Tsunade's voice, sharp and demanding, shattered my internal musings. She planted her hands on her hips, radiating Senju indignation.
"As the esteemed Princess of the Uchiha," she practically spat the title, "care to explain what you're doing, doodling away, not even listening to sensei? Shouldn't you be setting a better example?"
The 'Princess' barb. She'd clearly been coached. By whom? 'Grandpa' Danzo, perhaps? Did that man's shadow already stretch long, even over kindergarten politics?
I suppressed a sigh that threatened to rattle my tiny ribs. Tsunade's misplaced rivalry was becoming tiresome after only a few days.
Someone – likely an adult with questionable motives and too much time on their hands – had clearly whispered poison in her ear, painting me as her 'eternal rival.' The sheer banality of it. It triggered a visceral, almost instinctive revulsion.
Was this… the dreaded echo of the Asura-Indra cycle? A cold shiver traced my spine. Madara was still out there sulking in his cave, so the next cycle should wait obediently for Naruto and Sasuke, right?
I met Tsunade's challenging gaze head-on, adopting my best 'Disappointed Royalty' expression. "Firstly," I stated, my voice cool and precise, cutting through the classroom murmur, "I am not the Princess of the Uchiha. I am Azula. Uchiha Azula."
I let that hang for a beat, watching her blink in surprise. "Secondly, what I am doing has nothing to do with you. We are from the same village but essentially strangers. I have things I like and dislike, and you also have things you like and dislike, so why should I do things that you want me to do?"
Then, after saying*that, I even showed them my drawing (though there weren't words in the panel as it's something I would do later, but well).
Her reaction was… priceless. Tsunade's mouth actually fell open slightly. Shikaku's droopy eyes snapped fully open, zeroing in on the diagram.
Jiraiya leaned forward, squinting. "Whoa! That's way better than my frogs!" Orochimaru's gaze intensified, a flicker of genuine interest crossing his usually impassive face. Duy beamed. "Such youthful dedication!"
The collective surprise was apparent among them. They'd probably expected arrogance, dismissal, maybe a haughty sniff.
Clearly, the Uchiha reputation for brooding intensity and emotional constipation preceded me. Tobirama's legacy truly was the gift that kept on giving. I mentally added 'Deconstruct Tobirama's Propaganda' to my ever-growing and almost infinite to-do list.
Jiraiya, ever the opportunist, seized the momentary silence. "Hey, hey! What kind of drawing is that? Looks complicated! Let me tell you," he puffed out his chest, "I'm an artist too! My specialty? The female form in all its glorious—"
My glare hit him like a physical force. It wasn't just annoyance; it was a promise of meticulously planned retribution involving hot pokers, permanent ink in unfortunate places, and perhaps a strategically placed eel down his trousers if he ever directed his 'artistic talents' my way.
The sheer, icy intensity of my focus, honed by the memory of years of command and conquest, momentarily overwhelmed his childish bravado.
He physically flinched, taking a step back, his face paling slightly. Ah, yes. The Ninja World. Intent leaks. Must remember to modulate the homicidal impulses around the under-tens and adults. Another mental note for later.
Predictably, Tsunade was less than impressed with Jiraiya's artistic ambitions. Her fist connected with his shoulder with a solid thwack.
"Idiot Jiraiya! What do you know besides drooling on your desk and snoring through history?" she snapped, her momentary surprise forgotten in the face of easier prey.
Their bickering was somehow boring and a little bit cringe from my modern perspective, but anyway, my time was precious.
Every moment spent enduring this juvenile circus was a moment not spent analyzing chakra flow pathways, how to create a new Kekkei Genkai based on Nature transformation, or devising countermeasures against potential Danzo interventions in the future.
I leveled them all with my flattest, most unimpressed stare – perfected over years of dealing with sycophantic ministers and incompetent generals.
"If you have a point," I enunciated slowly, each word dripping with disdain, "articulate it. Now. I am operating on a schedule tighter than one of the teachers'."
My gaze flickered to the Nara boy, who seemed unperturbed, making him shiver?
The group exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between the ringleaders. Tsunade stepped forward again, puffing herself up.
"Fine! I heard you're strong. So…" She slammed a fist into her open palm. "Fight me!"
Her eyes blazed with challenge.
Welp. There it was. The classic 'determine the playground alpha' gambit. How utterly… primitive. Tsunade, future pinnacle of medical ninjutsu, resorting to brute force resolution at age six.
It was almost endearing in its predictability. Like watching a kitten try to roar. I kept my face a mask of serene indifference, though internally I was rolling my eyes so hard they might have gotten stuck.
"Fight?" I repeated, letting a hint of incredulous boredom seep into my tone. "You mean… play rough? How… energetic. But no thank you. I find recreational violence… messy."
Tsunade's face flushed. "PLAY?!" she practically shrieked. "I said FIGHT! A real fight! To see who's strongest!"
I understood the game instantly. It wasn't just about Tsunade's bruised ego or childish competition. This had fingerprints all over it. Konoha politics, even at this larval stage, were a viper's nest.
The Senju and Uchiha, the founding pillars, were supposed to be united. Hashirama and Madara's dream – a sanctuary from endless war. But Tobirama's legacy of suspicion was a poison seeping into the next generation.
Someone – a parent, a clan elder, maybe a certain future root cultivator – had whispered in Tsunade's ear, painting the Uchiha girl as a threat, a rival to be challenged.
Shikoku's presence reeked of intelligence gathering for the Nara clan heads. Jiraiya and Orochimaru? Pawns, easily manipulated by the promise of excitement or knowledge. Duy? Probably just enthusiastic.
The trap was obvious. Option 1: I fight. I win (because obviously).
Result? Uchiha arrogance confirmed! Senju heir humiliated! Tensions escalate. Whispers of Uchiha aggression begin. Perfect fodder for Danzo's future files.
Option 2: I fight and lose (laughable, but hypothetically). Result? Uchiha weakness exposed! Senju dominance reaffirmed! More grist for the rumor mill.
Option 3: Refuse. Result? Perceived cowardice or arrogance, but crucially, no actionable incident. No victory or defeat to exploit. Just… nothing.
My choice was clear. I waved a dismissive hand, the motion imbued with centuries of royal disdain condensed into a six-year-old's gesture.
"I comprehend your desire for… physical validation," I said, my voice dripping with condescension so thick you could spread it on toast. "However, my motivations are currently aligned elsewhere. Save your enthusiasm for the Academy's sparring sessions. Or perhaps a vigorous game of tag? Now, if you'll excuse me..."
I didn't wait for a response. In one fluid motion, perfected through years of tactical retreats (a necessary skill, even for princesses), I swept my notebook and pencils into my bag, pivoted on my heel, and headed not for the door like a commoner, but for the nearest window.
With a grace that belied my age (courtesy of ingrained Fire Nation agility and burgeoning Uchiha reflexes), I slid the pane open and vaulted cleanly through, landing lightly on the grassy ground outside.
The stunned silence from the classroom behind me was more satisfying than any childish brawl could ever be.
Landing softly, I adjusted my bag and strode purposefully away from the Academy building, the crisp air a welcome relief after the stifling atmosphere of juvenile intrigue and unwashed hair.
Sometimes, I truly despised this world. Not for its dangers or its primitive technology, but for the sheer, suffocating weight of its politics.
Konoha, this Will of Fire village, was founded on a beautiful, fragile dream: an end to the clan wars.
Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha, titans weary of burying their kin, clasped hands (metaphorically, I assume, Madara wasn't big on casual touch) and built a refuge.
A place where Senju and Uchiha could raise their children side-by-side, learn each other's ways, and finally break the bloody cycle.
A noble aspiration. Fatally flawed.
Because they forgot the rot within. Tobirama. That man… his prejudice wasn't just personal; it was institutional. He never wanted to understand the Uchiha.
He saw the Sharingan, the potent chakra, the fierce pride, and labeled it all 'dangerous'—a threat to be managed, contained, feared, not integrated.
And like mold spreading in the dark, that attitude infected the other clans drawn to Konoha's promise. The Uzumaki, the Hyuuga, the Aburame, the Inuzuka, the Akimichi, Nara, and Yamanaka… they absorbed the subtle cues, the unspoken boundaries.
The Uchiha compound, ostentatious and proud, became less a symbol of founding power and more a gilded cage within the village.
Madara saw it. He saw the cracks forming even before the mortar dried. His departure wasn't just petty jealousy over the Hokage hat, as the sanitized village histories likely claimed.
It may be the bitter realization that Hashirama's dream was being strangled in its cradle by his own brother's suspicion. The dream of understanding was being replaced by the reality of alienation.
And now, decades later, the poison has trickled down. Down to the Academy playground.
Down to a six-year-old Senju heiress being subtly nudged to challenge the 'Uchiha Princess.' Down to a Nara child observing with detached, analytical interest. Down to whispers in the dark, fanning embers that could one day become a conflagration.
If I had fought Tsunade today, win or lose, those whispers would have found fuel. "See? The Uchiha are aggressive!" or "See? The Senju maintain dominance!" Either narrative served the purposes of those lurking in the shadows, those who thrived on division.
Danzo Shimura's future Root operatives weren't born in test tubes; they were cultivated in the fertile soil of childhood rivalries and clan suspicion.
By refusing, by dismissing it as juvenile nonsense? I denied them that fuel. I gave them nothing but my retreating back and a whiff of disdain.
This whole situation makes my comic book plan go from 'maybe useful' straight up to 'absolutely critical, save-the-world-NOW' priority.
Seriously, looking around at this blissfully ignorant, chakra-brainwashed world, it's like everyone's sleepwalking towards a cliff while humming nursery rhymes.
How can I follow them when I remember those cosmic locusts, the Otsutsuki, the ones who treat lifeblood and chakra like a convenient snack bar?
I even remember some theory about a certain Otsutsuki Shibai that those who have watched a certain Boruto fanfic talk about; they said he isn't just some alien but a deity.
Reality itself is supposedly his play-dough. Whether it's the past or the present, he can apparently tune in like it's celestial cable TV.
Even among his own kind, the legends call him a god. With entities like Shibai floating around the cosmic void, and who knows how many of his kin lurking in the shadows with the power to swat the Fourth Shinobi War away like a bothersome fly… how in the Sage's name can I justify wasting precious minutes just to spar with a young Tsunade?
Fun for a Tuesday, maybe, but not now. Playing village politics? That's rearranging deck chairs while the iceberg – no, the planet-killing comet – is hurtling towards us. Every second spent schmoozing or pulling punches is a second stolen from what truly matters: POWER. Raw, unadulterated, world-shaking strength.
Once you reach a certain tier – say, buzzing around like Naruto and Sasuke did during the War Arc, tossing around truth-seeking balls and Susanoo arrows like confetti – what does Konoha's approval even mean?
In the absolute worst-case scenario? Grab Mom, Dad, the important cousins, maybe a few loyalists who aren't idiots, and bounce. Found a new village somewhere scenic.
With enough firepower, if all Five Kage united against me? Tough luck. They'd be trying to extinguish the sun with squirt guns.
And that's before we factor in the sheer, terrifying potential of an unleashed Uchiha clan. Fugaku? Itachi? Shisui? Kagami? Imagine them all wielding the Mangekyou Sharingan, their eyes burning with power.
At that level, politics isn't a game; it's an irrelevant footnote scribbled on the margins of history. Strength is the policy.
So, yeah. My focus is laser-sharp. I will get that Shadow Clone Jutsu from the old man. It's the ultimate force multiplier, the key to accelerating everything.
But to pry it loose, I need to prove it won't turn my young brain into scrambled eggs. And I will do it simply. A little demonstration. 'The Kakashi Lightning Festival: Toddler Edition.'
After about a month. I'll put on a show that'll make their eyebrows hit their hairlines.
In fact, I've practically memorized every zap and crackle about all the Lightning Release Ninjutsu in those scrolls; at the very least, the theory is crystal clear in my mind.
The only things holding me back are this pint-sized chakra reserve and a body still catching up to my ambition. If I had a fully developed vessel? I'd be sculpting lightning dragons and forging thunder swords on the daily.
I will show him that I can easily do D-Rank jutsu; I can spam them like firecrackers. Then I'll nail a few C-Rank ones, until finally pulling out a glorious B-Rank technique.
For most seasoned jonin, a B-Rank is their ace in the hole, their desperate trump card.
A 'kid' wielding that kind of power should be more than enough to convince the Hokage my brain can handle clones.
And by then, I should also be able to finish the entirety of season 1 of Demon Slayer in anime form**. Having a body better than any human on Earth is just cheating.
....
Honestly writing discussion of a few kids isn't good because it'll make you die of cringe, anyway for those who can, hope you will vote for me