The sun had barely crested the tiled roofs of the Academy when the written exams began. Satoru sat perfectly still at his desk, his back straight, his breathing even. The faint scratch of scribbles filled the room; the sound of countless students writing furiously, a low susurrus punctuated by the occasional cough or the sharp snap of their writing materials. His eyes scanned the page before him.
The first question read:
"Explain the principle behind chakra conversion when transitioning from physical to spiritual energy. Provide one real-world example of its practical application."
Satoru's brush moved almost lazily. His mind already knew the answer; he had studied it, lived it, felt it in training with Nono, and in every exercise since.
'Chakra is the balance of physical and spiritual energies. Conversion occurs through intent and control — too much physical strain leads to instability; too much spiritual focus, and the chakra fails to take shape.'
He continued smoothly, adding diagrams where needed, breaking down examples from simple tree-climbing to advanced fire release. His strokes were clean, deliberate, and elegant.
The next question was theoretical:
"If two shinobi of equal chakra levels perform the same jutsu simultaneously, what determines whose technique prevails?"
He smirked slightly. "Intent. Precision. Emotional stability." Most students would say chakra control, which was technically true, but incomplete.
Real battle was never about chakra alone; it was about conviction, adaptability. The one who saw more, who read more in an instant, always won. That was why the Sharingan existed.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Not from nerves, but focus. The rest of the world had fallen away; Ito's faint scratching in front of him, Ayano's careful breathing to his right, even the ticking clock near the instructor's desk. All that existed were words, lines, and patterns.
Question after question fell before him like wooden dummies in a dojo. Hand signs and chakra flow charts, strategy analysis, short essays comparing the tactical drawbacks of substitution versus body flicker. It was… easy. Too easy.
When the bell finally rang, signalling the end and a break, a collective sigh rippled through the hall. Brushes clattered, necks cracked, and whispers immediately filled the air like a released torrent.
"Man, that was brutal," someone groaned from the back.
"Brutal? That was nothing!" another said, puffing his chest. "I'll pass that for sure."
Satoru stretched his hands once, rotating his wrist to ease the tension. He didn't stand yet; he was content to listen.
From the corner of his hearing, Ito's unmistakable voice rose in agitation.
"I'm telling you," Ito said loudly, "the answer to the chakra conversion question was seven! It had to be seven, that's the ratio in the textbook!"
Ayano pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ito," she said slowly, "that question didn't have a numeric answer."
"It did! The part about—uh—energy ratios!"
Satoru turned slightly, watching as Ito tried to justify himself with a furious mixture of conviction and confusion.
Ayano crossed her arms. "You read the wrong diagram, didn't you?"
"I… maybe?" Ito muttered, scratching the back of his head. "But I was close!"
Satoru sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You were so far off the mark it's impressive," he said dryly. "Next time, try reading before you start doing math."
Ito pointed dramatically. "Hey! Don't mock my process!"
"Process?" Ayano echoed, deadpan. "You mean guessing?"
"Strategic improvisation," Ito corrected with a grin.
Satoru couldn't help it; a small, genuine chuckle escaped him. Moments like these, small cracks of normalcy, almost made the Academy tolerable.
The bell chimed again; the break was over. The next scrolls were distributed, thicker this time, the brushwork on the front reading:
"Chakra Theory & Jutsu Mechanics."
The room quieted once more. Satoru dipped his brush into ink and began.
This exam was less about facts and more about application — the kind of test that separated those who could recite from those who could think.
"Describe the three stages of hand seal efficiency improvement and the physical cues that accompany each."
He smiled faintly. Stage one: conscious recall. Stage two: subconscious linkage. Stage three: muscle instinct. He wrote quickly, referencing Shisui's blur-speed seals as an example of complete neural imprinting.
Another question asked:
"Why is Water Release considered the most adaptive elemental nature in battlefield conditions?"
Satoru's answer flowed as easily as the element itself. "Because it thrives on manipulation of the environment. It transforms. It listens. Unlike Fire or Lightning, Water bends before it breaks; it's strategy in liquid form."
Finally, the third paper, Tactical and Moral Scenarios.
These were always the trickiest. There were no right or wrong answers, only reflections of who you were.
"Your mission requires eliminating a target who has surrendered. Disobeying means failure; obeying means breaking the shinobi code. What do you do?"
Satoru paused. His brush hovered midair.
His stomach felt heavy for a second. It wasn't a question to him — it was a test of philosophy. Of loyalty.
He finally wrote:
"A shinobi obeys orders. But a leader questions them. The answer depends on which you intend to be."
He didn't add more. There was no need.
Hours passed like minutes. When the instructor called time, Satoru placed his brush down with quiet precision and exhaled slowly. Around him, half the class looked half-dead; the other half looked ready to revolt.
By noon, they were dismissed for lunch. The courtyard buzzed with chatter; paper lunch boxes opened, steam rising into the air as students gossiped about what they wrote, who panicked, who might have failed.
Satoru ate quietly under the shadow of a tree, his chopsticks moving automatically as his mind replayed the exams in perfect clarity.
When the bell rang again, students shuffled toward the training fields. The hum of nervous energy thickened with every step.
The training grounds had been transformed. The wide dirt arena now hosted a sprawling obstacle course that snaked between wooden posts, rope swings, balance beams, and climbing walls. A line of shuriken targets gleamed in the sun like the eyes of predators waiting to judge their prey.
"Alright, form groups of ten!" an instructor shouted, clipboard in hand. "You'll be timed. No chakra enhancement until the second run!"
Groans erupted immediately.
"No chakra?" one student whined. "That's—!"
"—part of the exam!" Haru barked, silencing them instantly.
Satoru rolled his shoulders, feeling the subtle crack of tendons and the faint pulse of energy beneath his skin. His body thrummed with quiet readiness; this was where he excelled.
The first obstacle was a sprint; two hundred meters across uneven ground, stones jutting like teeth. Then came the wall climb, a near-vertical slab of wood with rope handholds that swung treacherously in the wind. After that, balance beams stretched across shallow pits of sand, followed by rope swings, then finally a sequence of shuriken and kunai throws at varying distances.
"Alright!" Haru's voice rang out. "First group, go!"
"THUD!" "THUD!" Footsteps thundered. Cheers and gasps rose as one student tripped halfway across the beam, sending dust flying.
Satoru's turn came soon after.
He crouched low at the starting line, every sense sharpened.
"Begin!"
He launched forward; "Fwoosh!"
The wind whipped past his ears, his stride clean and economical. The wall came into view; he didn't slow. Fingers caught the rope, feet braced, and in one fluid motion, he vaulted over the top. His landing was silent, almost predatory.
Balance beam; easy. Rope swing, one smooth arc. His movements were efficient, not showy; he wasn't trying to impress anyone, just to finish perfectly.
Then the final test, target throws.
He inhaled, eyes narrowing; his Sharingan flickered, one tomoe spinning lazily into place beneath his dark irises.
"Whiiz—Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!"
Every kunai hit dead centre. The instructor's eyebrows lifted slightly, jotting down notes.
When the dust settled, Satoru stepped back, expression calm, pulse steady. He already knew his result.
Second place overall.
Because, of course, Itachi Uchiha had beaten him by three seconds.
Satoru didn't even have to look to know who held first place; the faint ripple of whispers, the subtle admiration in the crowd, it was all the same.
He wasn't bitter. Just… annoyed.
'Three seconds,' he thought grimly. 'That's it. Just three.'
Still, it wasn't a loss that stung. His afterschool training with Shisui and the others had paid off; his speed, precision, and even stamina had improved exponentially. The gap between him and the prodigy was shrinking, and that meant something.
The spars began next.
Students circled around the ring, the air buzzing with tension. The rules were simple; two students per bout, no lethal blows, no chakra-based jutsu. Just pure taijutsu and instinct.
To most, it was terrifying. To Satoru, it was an opportunity.
He leaned against the fence post, watching intently as the first pair stepped forward. His Sharingan activated again, the faint crimson glow hidden beneath his long lashes.
His vision sharpened; every movement slowed into crisp detail. The shift of weight in a stance, the twitch of fingers before a strike, the subtle recoil of muscle before a dodge, all of it painted in vivid clarity.
Around him, students fidgeted nervously. Some whispered, others clenched fists. But Satoru barely noticed; his world was the fight.
"Smack!"
"Oof!" Gasps erupted as one student went flying off balance. Satoru's eyes tracked the victor's form, committing it to memory.
And then— "You're wasting your time."
The voice was soft, measured.
Satoru blinked, breaking his focus, and turned slightly. Itachi stood beside him, hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable.
Satoru arched a brow. "Good afternoon to you, too."
Itachi didn't react. His eyes remained on the ring. "Copying those taijutsu styles is not worth it," he said quietly. "They lack refinement."
Satoru almost rolled his eyes. "Easy for you to say. You and Shisui still refuse to teach me the Uchiha style, so I have to improvise."
Itachi was silent for a moment.
The crowd's cheers filled the pause— "Thud!" "Hit!" "Point to Akimichi!"
Then Itachi finally spoke, tone thoughtful. "Perhaps you shouldn't have to improvise."
Satoru blinked. "What?"
Itachi turned, meeting his gaze for the first time. "Maybe it's time I taught you the Uchiha taijutsu form."
Satoru frowned slightly, suspicion flickering. "Why the sudden change of heart? You've been guarding that style like it's a clan secret."
Itachi's lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile. "Because this is my last year in the Academy. I thought I should be generous before I leave."
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