The last echoes of cheering still lingered in the training field as dust settled from the previous spar. Students whispered and laughed nervously in small clusters, adrenaline from their matches still simmering.
Satoru remained where he was, arms crossed, eyes distant. He was still digesting what Itachi had said moments before— the calm, matter-of-fact declaration that this would be his last year at the Academy.
Itachi, of course, stood a few steps away, posture as composed as ever, his expression as unreadable as a blank scroll.
Satoru broke the silence first.
"Congratulations," he said, his tone even but carrying a faint note of surprise. "I wasn't even sure people were allowed to graduate early from the Academy."
Itachi turned his head slightly, "They aren't."
Satoru blinked. "Then how—"
"Unless," Itachi interrupted smoothly, eyes glinting, "you are exceptionally talented."
The smugness in his voice was subtle, but it was there.
Satoru exhaled through his nose, rolling his eyes.
"Of course. Exceptionally talented. I should've guessed."
Itachi tilted his head faintly. "I'm glad you're catching on."
That earned him a muttered, "Show-off," which made the corner of Itachi's mouth twitch in quiet amusement.
For a moment, neither said anything. The shouts of the ongoing sparring matches filled the space between them; thuds of fists striking flesh, the dull crack of wood against sand, the rhythmic chorus of students cheering.
Satoru's attention shifted back to the ring.
"It's Ito," he murmured, narrowing his eyes.
Sure enough, Ito was locked in a lively match against another civilian boy who was shorter, lean, and clearly nervous. Ito, in contrast, moved with wild energy; his blows were exaggerated, his form uneven, but there was undeniable instinct behind every punch.
"Ha!" Ito shouted, lunging forward. His fist missed by a hair's breadth, but his follow-up kick connected with a satisfying thwack! that sent his opponent stumbling.
The crowd murmured in approval. Ito grinned, teeth bared, crouched low like a dog ready to pounce. Maro barked once from the sidelines, tail wagging, almost as if cheering him on.
Satoru couldn't help but smirk. "Looks like he's finally learning not to telegraph every move. Good for him."
Itachi's gaze lingered on Ito's movements for a moment, then quietly shifted back to Satoru. "You're not surprised?"
Satoru glanced at him. "About Ito? No. He's an idiot, but a hardworking idiot."
Itachi shook his head. "I meant about me. Most people I've told about my early graduation were… more surprised." His tone remained calm, but there was curiosity beneath it — like he was genuinely probing for Satoru's reaction.
"It's not just skipping a few classes. It's leaving the Academy entirely."
"Not really," Satoru said, voice mild. "I trained under you and Shisui, remember? I've seen what you can do. So no, I'm not shocked." He paused, then added with mock seriousness, "If anything, I'm just surprised you haven't already become Hokage."
He chuckled at his own joke, a low, relaxed sound. But when he glanced sideways, Itachi wasn't laughing.
The boy stood motionless, eyes distant; not offended, but thoughtful. Deeply thoughtful.
Satoru's laughter faded. "Wait—you're not actually considering it, are you?"
Itachi didn't immediately respond. The faint rustle of wind through leaves filled the silence before he finally said, almost absently, "Every shinobi should aim to protect the village in their own way. For some, that means leading it."
Satoru blinked, then gave a long, exaggerated sigh. "Right. Of course. Why did I even ask?"
Itachi's lips quirked again; that quiet, knowing smile returning like a passing breeze.
Satoru shook his head, turning his gaze back to the field. "After these exams, you'll officially graduate, then?"
"Not quite," Itachi replied. "I still have to take the second and third-year evaluations before I can be officially assigned to a genin team."
"Ah." Satoru tilted his head. "So… does that mean our training sessions are done?"
Itachi glanced at him, the faintest trace of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Of course not. I'm looking forward to widening my winning streak."
Satoru's eyes twitched.
Itachi folded his arms, his tone perfectly even. "Thirty-two victories so far. Against you."
Satoru's jaw tightened. "Tch!"
Itachi said mildly. "I was hoping to make it thirty-three. Maybe even today."
A vein popped visibly on Satoru's temple. "You—" he started, but an instructor's voice cut through the air.
"Uchiha Itachi!"
Itachi turned toward the sound, giving a small, polite nod.
Satoru released a quiet sigh of relief. "Saved by the clipboard."
Itachi arched an eyebrow. "You sound disappointed."
"I'm not," Satoru said flatly.
Without another word, Itachi stepped into the sparring circle. His opponent, a tall boy with a bulky frame, cracked his knuckles nervously.
"Begin!"
It happened in a blur.
"Tap—thud—smack!"
Three moves. That was all it took. A single sidestep, a sweep, and a controlled strike to the ribs. The larger boy hit the ground with a dull whump! before anyone could even process what happened.
A collective murmur swept through the students.
Satoru didn't even bother activating his Sharingan this time. "Predictable," he muttered. "I could probably sketch that sequence from memory."
He turned away as the instructor announced the winner. Itachi walked off the field without so much as a triumphant glance; utterly calm, as though the fight had been little more than a formality.
Then came Satoru's name.
He stood, brushing dust from his pants, and strode forward. The sunlight struck his face at an angle, casting half his features in shadow, a fitting image, he thought idly, for someone caught between clans.
His opponent stepped into the ring opposite him, and Satoru's brows lifted in mild surprise.
"Yamanaka Ishida," the instructor called.
Satoru's eyes narrowed faintly. A cousin, technically — though the Yamanaka clan rarely treated the orphanage kids like proper kin.
'Interesting,' Satoru thought, a spark of curiosity flickering in his chest. 'Maybe I'll finally get to see their clan's taijutsu firsthand.'
He inclined his head slightly. "Let's make this quick," he said evenly.
Ishida gave a confident grin, brushing his blond hair from his face. "Don't worry, I'll make it painless."
Satoru didn't answer. His gaze was sharp, studying Ishida's stance. Light on his feet, weight distributed evenly; good form; too good for a civilian style. His guard was loose, though, and there was no telltale rhythm of the Yamanaka clan's mirrored palm techniques.
Satoru frowned slightly.
'He's not using it,' he realised. 'He's going to the textbook Academy. How boring.'
The instructor's hand chopped down. "Begin!"
Ishida lunged forward with a flurry of quick jabs, his form clean but shallow. Satoru blocked effortlessly, his arms a blur of motion as each strike met an unyielding defence.
Then, with one smooth pivot, Satoru stepped inside Ishida's reach and hooked his leg.
"Thud!"
Ishida hit the ground hard, dust puffing up around him.
Gasps and murmurs rose from the watching students.
Ishida groaned, rolling to his side, and tried to push himself up. Satoru sighed softly.
"Get up," he said. "I'm not done yet."
Ishida glared, springing to his feet, and rushed again. Faster this time.
But Satoru had already seen everything he needed to. Every muscle twitch, every shift of weight— telegraphed and obvious.
He ducked beneath a wild swing, drove a palm into Ishida's midsection, then twisted to the side and used his opponent's own momentum to send him sprawling once more.
"Thump!"
This time, Ishida didn't rise immediately.
The instructor stepped forward, raising a hand. "Winner, Satoru!"
Applause rippled through the gathered students, though muted, the kind reserved for efficiency rather than spectacle.
Satoru exhaled slowly, letting the tension slip from his shoulders.
'So much for that,' he thought. 'No Yamanaka taijutsu to observe. A waste of time.'
Still, victory was victory. He brushed a bit of dust from his sleeve, glancing toward Itachi — who was watching him from the sidelines, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Satoru caught his gaze, and for a moment, they held it.
Itachi inclined his head faintly. Approval, maybe. Or acknowledgement.
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