(Yet, back again)
(Azula's POV)
"The way of the Konoha shinobi," droned the instructor in his best trying-to-be-profound-but-actually-just-killing-our-brain-cells voice, "is to complete his mission no matter what—even at the cost of his life."
"He must be willing to sacrifice himself for the future, for his comrades, and, most importantly, for the village. This was Lord Tobirama's speech when he established the Academy."
Another fine session of mandatory brainwashing before the day's 'practical test'.Tobirama really was as extreme as ever, wasn't he?
That man didn't just drink the Will of Fire Kool-Aid—he brewed it, bottled it, and personally force-fed it to every child in a ten-mile radius.
If only Hiruzen had inherited all of Tobirama's qualities—say, 70% cunning and 70% power—instead of just the political slipperiness.
So many disasters could've been avoided. But no. Life decided to be 'balanced' in the worst way possible.
There were four instructors lined up at the front—each of them at least Chūnin-level—including my personal favorite, Teacher Shimura.
By favorite, I mean he hasn't yet annoyed me enough to make my hit list.
They each gave their own brief speeches, which, in the way only shinobi instructors can manage, lasted less than three minutes combined but still felt like three years.
I wasn't exactly listening. I was more interested in the surroundings.
When I came to school this morning, I'd noticed the playground looked different. I'd assumed it was for the poor third-years—those tragic souls about to graduate into the world of actual murder. Turns out, it was for us.
And not just our class. First-years from other sections were here too—the more… ordinary ones. You know, the kids whose chakra control makes trees cry. If Konoha only trained one class per year, how else would they get ten thousand ninja?
"When you first entered the Academy," one NPC teacher continued "Your first test was kunai throwing at a fixed target. Most of you did well. However, in a real battle, your target will never be fixed—it will be a thinking, moving opponent, often more experienced and cunning than you, and, most importantly, capable of dodging."
Translation: "We're about to make you miss on purpose so we can laugh at you."
If I had enough chakra, I would've just sent a Shadow Clone to deal with this nonsense. Sadly, my reserves still aren't enough to maintain one for more than five hours and receive the memories back without much side effects.
And I just don't get it—I think I should have more chakra than Shisui and Itachi did at my age, plus I'm obviously more mature.
But they could use Shadow Clones in the Academy. Sure, they're boys, but it's not like that magically makes them stronger. Maybe they learned it in their second year? Either that, or the universe just likes trolling me.
Learning the Shadow Clone was laughably easy—it didn't even take me a day. But I suppose that's the downside of being a genius: you'll never truly understand the struggle of peasants—sorry, average students—when it comes to ninjutsu.
"The first participant is Azula Uchiha. Remember, your goal is to hit the target the teachers will throw. The closer to the center, the better."
Wait. What? Me? First? Shouldn't I be like every other overpowered protagonist and go last, making everyone else look like amateurs before my glorious performance?
Instead, I'm the opening act, the sacrificial lamb, the warm-up band everyone forgets before the main show.
It's just like my life back on Earth. Thanks to my name starting with an 'A', I was always the first one called for roll call, tests, humiliations—you name it.
Still, I shrugged internally. Whether I go first or last, the result's the same: I'm a genius. Passing is inevitable.
I stepped forward to the drawn line—the designated 'hurl sharp objects from here' spot. One of the teachers handed me a pouch filled with genuine kunai.
Which made me realize… this was wildly unfair. Some of these kids—especially the orphans—have probably touched a real kunai only twice in their lives: once during the entrance exam, and now.
Meanwhile, I'm from a clan where sharp, deadly weapons are basically considered acceptable toddler toys.
Life lesson? Being born into a good family is like having plot armor—it just makes everything easier, no matter what world you're in.
The moment I spotted another teacher loitering suspiciously near a pile of logs, I understood everything.
It was just that classic 'throw stuff at the log' drill. And since logs are the wooden equivalent of 'hit me' signs, the plan was obvious.
How to put this… I never stopped training with my kunai. Why? Because I still have dreams of mastering the Hiraishin no Jutsu.
I don't care if the opponent is some space alien from another dimension with god-tier chakra—if it worked for the Fourth Hokage, it'll work for me. End of discussion.
With casual confidence, I slid my hands into the pocket of kunai I had been been guven—one, two, three… exactly seven kunai inside. Nice. Seven's a lucky number.
Unfortunately, I didn't get the luxury of a countdown. One of the teachers suddenly yeeted a log at me without so much as a 'ready, set, go'. No warning, no dramatic drum roll—just wood incoming at lethal velocity.
Instinct kicked in. My hand shot out, grabbed a kunai, and thunk—dead center of the log. My body moved before my brain could even get a word in.
Then another kunai, and another—until all seven were airborne in a blur of metal and precision. Less than five seconds later, the log hadn't even kissed the ground, but it was already looking like a pincushion in a horror movie.
When I glanced up, one of the teachers was frozen mid-motion, still holding another log. His mouth was hanging so wide open I was tempted to toss a kunai in there too, just to finish the symmetry.
I understood the game now. Three logs total—the one he threw, the one in his hand, and a third lying nearby.
The point of the test was probably to take your time, spread out your kunai throws, and prove your accuracy over all three logs. The 'average genius' probably only needed two logs to show off.
I didn't care about pacing myself. I stayed expressionless. This was all going according to plan. Like I thought, no matter the test, no matter the order of turns—skill speaks louder than anything else.
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(3rd POV)
While chaos unfolded at the academy, Hiruzen Sarutobi—the Third Hokage—had no clue what was going on. He was… preoccupied.
Today, he was receiving a visitor he never thought he'd have to host in his office: Uchiha Tajima, the patriarch of the Uchiha clan himself.
And this wasn't a 'Oh hey, I just happened to be in the neighborhood' visit. No—Tajima had requested a private audience the night before.
Which was awkward for Hiruzen, because he still hadn't fully established control over the ANBU.
By the time morning rolled around and Tajima strolled into the Hokage Tower, almost every clan head with ties to the ANBU already knew about it. Gossip traveled faster than lightning in this village.
Still, Hiruzen played it cool. Or at least tried to. They exchanged polite compliments, that subtle game of verbal shogi where both sides are smiling but also calculating where to stab.
And then… an ANBU agent entered the room.
Hiruzen recognized him instantly—one of the operatives stationed at the academy.
His gut tightened. If an ANBU was here in the middle of the day, it usually meant bad news.
And the academy wasn't just any building—it was where the heirs of half the important clans in Konoha trained. If something happened to them… well, the political fallout would make stepping down from the Hokage seat look like a vacation.
Trying to project calm, Hiruzen said, "You speak."
The ANBU hesitated. Not out of fear—ANBU are trained to keep their emotions buried—but because he knew reporting this particular situation in front of the Uchiha patriarch could be… delicate.
But disobeying a direct order from the Hokage? That was a bigger no-no than wearing sandals with socks.
So, Hiruzen pushed again. "You don't need to hesitate. The Uchiha are part of the village. Clan Head Tajima might even provide assistance."
The ANBU internally winced. Fine. He'd follow orders.
"It's like this," he began carefully. "Earlier, Uchiha Azula distributed some sort of… book to every student in her class. Very unusual behavior compared to our usual reports on her. She also didn't begin her usual… drawing activity."
Tajima's face remained a calm mask, but Hiruzen could almost feel the temperature in the room drop a few degrees. On the inside, Tajima was irritated—though not for the reason the Hokage probably assumed.
Yes, as Hokage, Hiruzen was right to have the academy monitored. It was standard procedure, especially for high-profile students. And yes, any sudden change in behavior should be investigated.
But Tajima wasn't here as a political figure. He was here as a father. And right now, the question wasn't whether Hiruzen's surveillance was justified.
It was whether it interfered with his daughter… and by extension, the pride of the entire Uchiha clan.