The academy was a large building, divided into different years and different sections.
Yoru was in Section 2. Inside, children shuffled to their seats. Some whispered, others laughed too loudly, trying to mask the nerves of being in a new environment.
Yoru slid into a middle seat, hands folded on the desk. He wasn't nervous. At least, not the way the others were. He had enough experience with being thrown into another unknown environment without any warning.
So, Yoru did what he always did. Observe.
He noted who walked like they'd been trained, who slouched like they'd never held a kunai in their lives, who whispered names with respect, and who rolled their eyes.
It was a good exercise to train his observation and information collection skills. A habit he had developed in his early years, since his motor skills were not developed to do anything else.
The instructor, a man with lines etched into his face from years of squinting at both sun, clapped once for silence. His voice was gravel, low and steady.
"Welcome to the Academy. From today onward, you'll be trained to serve this village. You'll learn how to read and write, yes, but more importantly, how to mold chakra, how to fight, how to survive. The shinobi path is not an easy one. Many of you will stumble. Some of you will fail. But those who endure… will become the future of Konoha."
Yoru almost smirked. That was one way to motivate a group of six-year-olds, talk about stumbling and failing right out of the gate.
The man gestured toward the chalkboard, where a rough outline of subjects had been scrawled in sharp strokes:
Basic academics: reading, writing, arithmetic.
Shinobi theory: chakra, history, tactics.
Taijutsu drills.
Weapon practice.
Ninjutsu basics.
Team coordination.
"The first year," the instructor continued, "will focus on foundation. Reading and writing are useless if you cannot channel chakra. Chakra is useless if your body breaks under strain. Balance is everything. Body and spirit. Remember that."
'Balance again. Always balance.' Yoru filed that away.
The instructor's gaze swept the room. "We'll start with introductions. Stand when called. Name, and anything else you want to say."
Of course, the clan kids went first.
An Uchiha boy practically sprang to his feet. "Uchiha Daichi! My father says our clan has the strongest Doujutsu in history, and I'm going to awaken it faster than anyone." His chin tilted high, eyes glittering with pride.
Yoru noticed the few Hyugas snort at the remark. The clan pride had long been ingrained within them.
Next, a Hyūga girl rose gracefully. "Hyūga Maren," she said. Her pale eyes swept the class like she was already seeing through them. "I've been trained in the Gentle Fist since I was three. No one here will touch me in a spar." The way she sat back down, spine rigid, movements controlled, was almost too perfect.
Then came the main act.
A black haired kid pushed himself up, "Sarutobi Asuma," he said, dragging his name out just enough to make sure everyone heard it. He crossed his arms, smirk tugging at his mouth. "Yeah, my old man's the Hokage. Which means I'm already ahead of the curve. By the time I'm grown, I'll be the strongest in this room, and maybe the whole village." He paused, scanning for reactions. "So, try to keep up."
'Son of the Hokage!' The students rowdied up again.
Yoru can almost hear the surprise and awe in the voices. After all, Hokage was the one with most clout in the village.
It also helped that they were nominally the strongest in the village. And if there was one thing, ninjas respected, it was strength.
Hearing the awe, Asuma grinned, satisfied.
Yoru filed it away: pride bordering on arrogance. But under it, the faint tension of someone desperate to be taken seriously beyond his father's shadow. Asuma resembled Konohomaru in that part.
Kurenai rose next, calm in the wake of Asuma's bluster. "Yūhi Kurenai," she said evenly. "I want to master genjutsu and protect the people I care about. That's all."
"Inuzuka Riku!" shouted the boy who followed, before the instructor even called him. His pup yipped on cue, bouncing on his shoulder. "One day, Me and Kuromaru here, we're gonna be the fastest, sharpest team in Konoha! You'll see, we'll track anyone, anywhere!" He laughed loud, brash, and completely genuine.
Shibi of the Aburame stood, straight-backed, voice low but certain. "Aburame Shibi. My clan works with kikaichū. They are already bonded to me." He sat, unbothered by the confused looks from children who didn't understand a word.
Then came the Nara boy. He yawned as he pushed himself upright. "Nara Renji… I dunno, I'm here because my dad made me. Being a ninja sounds like a drag, but… whatever." He collapsed back into his seat mid-sentence, already halfway to napping.
An Akimichi boy stood next, broad-shouldered even at this age. His cheeks were a little round, his grin unbothered. "Akimichi Daigo! My clan's the strongest eaters in the village, and strongest fighters too. If anyone needs a meal or a friend, I'll be there. And I'll be even stronger once I learn our secret techniques." He laughed warmly, patting his belly.
After him, a blonde Yamanaka girl popped up with bright eyes and a confident tilt of her chin. "Yamanaka Saya! My clan specializes in mind techniques, and someday I'll be running half this village with them. You'll see." She flashed a smile sharp enough to almost be a smirk, then sat down with perfect posture.
'Ino-shika-cho combo all over again', Yoru thought dryly, "Still quite a lot of distinct personalities on this class.'
One by one, the rest of the orphans and civilian kids followed, names stumbling from nervous lips, voices too small or too eager. Some talked about wanting to be heroes, others mumbled about serving Konoha, some just squeaked their names and sat down fast.
And then it was Yoru's turn.
He rose without hurry.
"Yoru," he said simply. No clan name. "I want to be a strong ninja, and protect my village.'
A very generic introduction. Something he was quite satisfied with.
Inside, though, his mind ticked.
Asuma Sarutobi. Later, he'd become the chain-smoking jōnin leading Team 10. For now, he was a kid trying to prove that he was not just the son of Hokage.
Kurenai. Eventually, a genjutsu specialist, a jōnin, one of the respected sensei. For now, she was just a girl with eyes too sharp for her age.
These weren't just classmates. They were names he knew, people whose lives he'd seen play out on a screen. He knew who lived, who died, who stumbled, who rose. And that knowledge was both a gift and a curse. Because timelines could shift. Futures weren't set. His presence alone already tilted the scales.
The instructor gave a brief nod, moved on. The other children barely reacted, though a few orphans glanced at him, maybe remembering how he'd already managed to mold chakra during assessment.
Yoru sat back down, feeling their eyes slide away. Perfect. Not invisible, not too bright. Just enough to be remembered as "competent."
As the introductions wrapped up, the instructor talked again about discipline, about the rules of the academy. "There will be no fighting outside of drills. There will be no use of jutsu without permission. Anyone caught cheating, disrespecting, or sneaking off will be punished. The academy will shape you into shinobi, or it will break you trying."
Yoru leaned back, listening with half an ear. The words were serious, but he heard something else under them. Pressure. Desperation. The Third Shinobi War wasn't just "coming." It was already shaping policy, recruiting, and training reserves was just the first step.
Yoru folded his hands again, silent, eyes narrowing slightly.
...
Instructor Shirikawa
Academy Instructor.
Shirikawa clapped once, loud. "Outside. Time to see how your legs hold up."
He led them out to the training yard, boots crunching the dirt. The track was nothing special, the center bare from years of sparring drills. The sun was already warm on the back of his neck. He pointed at the loop. "Run until I tell you to stop."
Groans from the civilians. Blank stares from the clan kids. He'd expected as much.
Running is one of the major ways to test stamina, coordination, and, indirectly, chakra control. A shinobi's body was a machine; if the legs buckled, nothing else mattered. He watched the children line up, counting heads, scanning for posture, for muscle tone, for instinctive balance.
So, this test was always at the forefront at the beginning of the academy. One of the many surely.
With such thoughts, Shirakawa blew the whistle.
They bolted. Always the same, half the class tore off like wild dogs, wasting energy in the first ten steps. Someone stumbled, went sprawling, and the rest laughed too loud, covering their own nerves.
Shirakawa's eyes scanned the pack.
Uchiha boy, good form, steady lungs. He'd been drilled at home, no doubt. The Hyūga girl, posture like a sword blade, every step measured. The Aburame child moved smooth as a shadow, conserving more than showing. Yes, they'd been prepared for this since birth.
Then there was Sarutobi Asuma. Lord Third's boy.
Sweat already plastering his hair, jaw tight as he forced his body forward. Pride made him run harder than he should. Pride might carry him far. Or it might break him early.
Shirakawa had seen both before.
A few of the orphans were already dragging, feet slapping loose, chests heaving. He knew the sound of lungs that weren't used to labor. He'd heard it on battlefields, too, green genin choking for air, dying not because they lacked courage, but because their bodies hadn't been hardened in time.
His gaze snagged on one boy in the middle of the pack.
Yoru, was it? An orphan. Steady pace. Didn't overextend, didn't lag. Breathing ragged, yes, but measured. The smart ones learned early not to show weakness, even when it burned.
Shirakawa marked it down in his head.
By the end of the first lap, the herd had thinned. Clan heirs still smooth. A few civilians who ambitious parents had clearly trained hung on. The rest began to falter, tripping into the grass, some laughing bitterly to hide the sting.
The second lap carved the line sharper. Asuma cursed with each breath but didn't stop. Kurenai's face was pale, but she kept her gaze forward, steady as an arrow. The Nara boy looked bored even as he sweated. The Akimichi lad, tired but still moving, powered as much by stubborn cheer as by muscle. And that Yoru kid again. Side tight with pain, but eyes blank, refusing to give the effort away.
The whistle cut through the air. Relief washed over the pack, some collapsing outright, others stumbling into the grass. Only a handful stayed upright. The heirs. The trained. And the talented.
Shirakawa kept his face unreadable as he scribbled notes on his clipboard. No praise. No words at all. Words didn't harden lungs or strengthen legs. But he remembered. He always remembered.
Whispers passed through the children, quick as wildfire.
"As expected of the clan kids, it's hard to keep up with them."
"Not just the clans, look, there are some others as well."
"Tsk! I am going to train harder later."
The instructor didn't bother silencing them. Let them talk. Rivalries lit fires that drills alone could not.
He watched them file back to the shade. Some already defeated by a simple run. Others buoyed by their own names, their own pride. And a few, just a few, already preparing for the next test.
'War', he thought, 'didn't care about names. He'd seen clan heirs cut down before they even had time to activate their bloodlines. He'd seen nameless boys rise on grit alone, survive where prodigies didn't.
Talent mattered. But not half as much as endurance, and the willingness to keep standing when everyone else fell.'
He let his gaze linger a moment on the orphan boy who had run with the heirs. Blank-faced, chest still rising hard, but standing.
Yes. It seems there are still some rough gems in this class.
..
Thanks for reading~