"Before we touch a single kunai, before you learn your first jutsu, you will learn what it means to be a shinobi of the Leaf. Your first assignment is an essay."
A collective groan went through the room, Hana's being the loudest.
Daikoku ignored it. "I want you to write about the Will of Fire. What does it mean to you? How will it guide you? I want to see your conviction on the page. I want to see the spirit that will one day inspire you to lay down your life for this village."
He placed a stack of paper on the front desk.
"You may begin."
A collective sigh of disappointment rippled through the classroom. Essays were the stuff of boring afternoons, not the exciting first day at the Ninja Academy. Hana slumped in her chair, her chin resting on the table with a dramatic thud. Even Itachi's perfect posture seemed to hold a note of resignation. Only Ryu remained still, his curiosity piqued. This wasn't just a topic; it was the foundational philosophy of the entire village.
Daikoku Funeno seemed to expect their reaction. He didn't scold them. Instead, he walked to the window and looked out at the village, at the tiled rooftops and the comforting, carved faces of the Hokage monument in the distance. The room fell silent, the students' attention drawn to their teacher's quiet contemplation.
"When you hear the words 'Will of Fire'," he began, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble, not turning to face them yet, "what do you think of? The First Hokage? Grand speeches? Something old and dusty that belongs in a history book?"
He turned back to the class, and his eyes, the eyes of a veteran who had seen both the glory and the horror of a shinobi's life, swept over them.
"Let me tell you what it really is," he said, his voice gaining a quiet intensity. "Look at your hands. Someday, these hands will learn to form seals that can bring forth fire and water. They will learn to throw a kunai with deadly accuracy. They will become weapons. But the Will of Fire… it is not in the hands. It is in the heart."
He gestured back towards the window. "Out there, right now, a baker is pulling bread from an oven. A blacksmith is hammering steel. A mother is reading a story to her child. None of them can perform a jutsu. None of them can fight in a war. But they are all part of the Will of Fire. Because this village is not a fortress of stone and wood; it is a family, a single living body. The baker who feeds us, the blacksmith who arms us, the parents who raise us… they are the bones and the muscle. We, the shinobi, are the shield that protects that body."
He picked up a single shogi piece from his desk—the King.
"Some say a shinobi's duty is to protect the Hokage, our leader. They are wrong," Daikoku said, his statement causing a few surprised gasps. "The Hokage is the strongest shield, the one who stands at the front. But the true 'king'—the treasure that every shinobi from the Hokage down to the newest Genin would gladly die to protect… is you."
He held up the King piece, his gaze locking onto the children, one by one. "It's all of you. The next generation. You are the future of the Leaf. You are the seeds from which the future forest will grow. Our duty is not to win wars or gain glory. It is to ensure that you have a home to grow up in, a place where you can be safe, fall in love, build families of your own, and one day, teach your own children about this simple, unbreakable promise."
Ryu felt the words resonate deep within him. This wasn't a story or a piece of lore anymore. It was a truth spoken by a man who had lived it. The love he felt for his parents, his desperate, secret mission to protect them from the future—Daikoku had just given it a name. It was his Will of Fire. Beside him, he saw Itachi listening with a solemn, profound understanding, as if the teacher's words were merely giving voice to a truth the young Uchiha had already known his entire life.
"The Will of Fire is not a command to be obeyed," Daikoku finished, his voice softening. "It is the love you feel for the person sitting next to you. It is the warmth of your home. It is the taste of your mother's cooking. It is the simple, burning desire to protect those precious things, no matter the cost. That love… that is the fire. And it is the most powerful jutsu we possess."
The classroom was utterly silent, the earlier boredom replaced by a heavy, thoughtful stillness. The children looked at their blank pieces of paper with new eyes.
Daikoku walked back to the front of the room.
"Now," he said. "Write."
The afternoon sun slanted through the high windows of the classroom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The weight of Daikoku-sensei's words about the Will of Fire still hung in the room, a tangible, thoughtful silence. He let the feeling linger before speaking again, his voice pulling them back, deeper into the past.
"But that fire," Daikoku said, leaning against his desk, "it had to be kindled. It wasn't born in a time of peace. It was born from an ocean of blood."
The shift in tone was immediate. The children, who had been inspired, now listened with a more somber intensity.
"Before this village, there was nothing but war. An endless, grinding conflict. The world was not made of nations, but of warring clans. Uchiha, Senju, Hyuga, Inuzuka… every clan was its own army, fighting for land, for resources, for survival. A child born in that era was a soldier from the moment they could walk. Brothers fought brothers from opposing clans, and the average lifespan of a shinobi was barely thirty years old. It was a sickness that consumed everyone."
He paused, letting them picture that grim reality.
"From that darkness, two men, two clans, had a radical, impossible idea. Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha. They were the strongest of their generation, rivals who had shed each other's blood more times than they could count. But they shared a dream: a place where children wouldn't have to be sent to die on a battlefield. A place where clans could live not as enemies, but as neighbors. A village."
"They fought one last time, a battle that carved the very land we now stand on, and from the ashes of that conflict, they built this dream together. The Senju and the Uchiha, the two most powerful clans, laid down their arms and founded Konohagakure. Seeing this, other clans, tired of the endless war, began to join them. They created the first shinobi system, with an Academy, with ranks, with a leader—the Hokage—chosen to protect everyone. They created a home. They took the scattered embers of their clans and brought them together to create a single, great fire. The Will of Fire."
He looked at them, his gaze heavy. "Never forget that. This peace you were born into was bought with the lives of countless ancestors. It is a precious, fragile thing. It is your inheritance. And it will be your duty to protect it."
The sun bled across the horizon, painting the clouds in shades of bruised purple and fiery orange. The official Academy day was over, but the training ground was an arena of anticipation. Hana and Izumi sat on a wooden bench, watching as Ryu and Itachi faced each other in the center of the packed-dirt field.
"Ryu looks so serious," Izumi murmured, her hands clasped nervously in her lap.
"He's always serious when it comes to fighting," Hana said with a grin, her ninken puppy wrestling with his brother at her feet. "But so is Itachi. This is gonna be good!"
Ryu and Itachi performed the Seal of Confrontation, their eyes locked. The air grew still.
It began, as Ryu knew it would, with fire. Itachi's hands were a blur, a perfect execution of seals. "Fire Style: Phoenix Flower Jutsu!" Instead of one large fireball, a volley of smaller, guided fireballs shot through the air, a scattered constellation of death designed to overwhelm and prevent escape.
Ryu didn't try to dodge. He met the attack head-on. A faint, green aura of wind chakra enveloped him as he drew a kunai. He became a whirlwind, his movements a precise, deadly dance. He didn't just deflect the fireballs; he sliced through them, the wind-enhanced blade dispersing the flames into harmless, glittering embers. He flowed through the barrage, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
The moment the last fireball was extinguished, Ryu was on him. A taijutsu exchange erupted, a blur of motion too fast for most civilian eyes to follow. It was a clash of philosophies. Itachi was water—fluid, graceful, his Sharingan predicting and redirecting, turning Ryu's momentum against him. Ryu was stone—solid, direct, his lightning-fast reflexes and raw power aiming to shatter Itachi's elegant defense.
Itachi saw a kick coming for his ribs and moved to block, but Ryu, in a brilliant feint, dropped low and swept his legs. Thrown off balance, Itachi was forced to backflip, landing lightly on his feet a few yards away. He was already forming new seals.
"He's incredible," Izumi breathed, her eyes wide.
"Yeah, but so is Ryu," Hana countered, leaning forward, her knuckles white. "He's not letting Itachi get a second to think!"
Ryu knew he couldn't let this become a battle of ninjutsu. He didn't have the Uchiha's deep reserves or arsenal. He had to end it now. He poured his chakra into his legs, the faint blue crackle of his Lightning Armour returning, far more controlled than in his morning practice.
He vanished.
Itachi's Sharingan spun, tracking the flicker of movement, but it was like trying to catch a lightning bolt in a jar. He saw an afterimage, a faint distortion in the air to his left, and moved to counter it—a fraction of a second too late. Ryu appeared on his right.
There was no flashy jutsu. There was no grand pronouncement. There was only a single, perfectly executed strike. Ryu's fist, wrapped in a thin but potent layer of lightning, slammed into the kunai Itachi had raised to block. The sound was a sharp CRACK. The steel of the kunai, unable to withstand the chakra-infused blow, shattered. The force of the impact continued, and Ryu's knuckles connected solidly with Itachi's shoulder, stopping just short of causing serious injury.
Silence. Itachi stood frozen, his blocking arm numb, the shattered hilt of his kunai falling from his limp fingers and clattering onto the dirt. He looked from his empty hand to Ryu's fist, still buzzing with contained energy. The match was over.
Ryu relaxed, the lightning aura receding. He was breathing heavily, the explosive burst of power having taken its toll. He offered a hand to Itachi, a gesture of respect. "Good fight."
Itachi looked at the offered hand, then back at Ryu's determined face. A slow, genuine smile—a rare and brilliant thing—spread across his face. He took the hand. "You've gotten faster."
The steam from the ramen bowls fogged the cool night air. The four of them sat side-by-side at the counter of Ichiraku Ramen, the savory, comforting smell of pork broth and noodles a perfect end to the day.
"I can't believe you actually beat him!" Hana said for the fifth time, slurping her noodles with gusto.
"It was a close match," Ryu replied, giving Itachi a nod. "If it had gone on any longer, you would have won."
"A loss is a loss," Itachi said calmly, though there was no sting in his words. He pushed his empty bowl forward. "Teuchi-san, four bowls. It's on me."
The old ramen chef chuckled. "A shinobi always pays his debts. A good lesson to learn early, Itachi-kun."
Ryu watched his friends, a feeling of deep, uncomplicated happiness settling over him. Izumi was shyly talking to Itachi about his Sharingan, and Hana was already planning their next three-way spar. For a moment, he wasn't a reincarnated soul with a terrible secret. He was just a kid, with his friends, eating ramen after a good fight.
It was a simple moment. And it was everything worth fighting for.