Social stratification is a reality that exists even when it isn't officially acknowledged—especially in a world where lineage and power create such a literal divide.
Those born with a silver spoon in their mouths find it impossible to understand the mindset of a child who waits a full year for a burger, counting down the days until their birthday just to be taken to the "glamorous" fast-food joint.
In his previous life, Tatsuma hadn't been wealthy either; he was barely middle-class. During his university years, he'd had a "rich kid" roommate. Once, when the roommate complained about being broke, Tatsuma—thinking he was serious—offered to lend him three hundred ryo to help him through the week. It wasn't until he asked that he realized the roommate's definition of "broke" meant having only three thousand ryo left in his bank app.
That same roommate had pulled the "you should treat me" routine on Tatsuma, only to take him to a high-end, all-you-can-eat steakhouse Tatsuma never could have afforded on his own. At eighty ryo a plate, Tatsuma spent the entire meal doing mental math, calculating how much he'd have to cut from his daily budget to make up for the expense. He didn't even taste the steak.
Of course, when the bill came, the rich roommate paid for everything before Tatsuma could even reach for his wallet. It was only after Tatsuma entered the workforce and built up his own savings that he realized "asking for a treat" was often just a face-saving excuse to get together.
Naturally, it depended on the person. Some were just looking for a free ride. But Tatsuma had used that same excuse countless times with colleagues or new hires to discuss career paths, offer advice, or simply bond. He never actually let them pay. By asking them to treat him first, he was simply gauging how much they valued the relationship.
So, when Shikaku Nara had demanded a treat, Tatsuma understood the motive instantly. Or rather, he understood Shikaku's motive; Choza genuinely just wanted the food.
Tatsuma had purposefully let Minato answer first. If Minato had felt the request was too much or his finances were too tight, Tatsuma was ready to pivot the conversation and save face for everyone. These were social nuances that Minato—no matter how brilliant or precocious—simply hadn't lived long enough to understand yet. Tatsuma didn't mind guiding him.
As they reached Minato's apartment building, Tatsuma patted his shoulder. "Don't overthink it. It just means that from today on, we can officially call Shikaku and the others friends. You heading in to rest, or straight to the training ground?"
Minato thought for a moment. "I'll prep tomorrow's meals first. If I train too late, I don't want to disturb the neighbors by cooking in the middle of the night."
"As expected of you, Minato—always thinking of others. I'll head back and cook too. Meet at Training Ground 3? Let's see who gets there first."
Sakamoto "Never Miss an Opportunity to Fleece" Tatsuma threw out the challenge. As usual, Minato didn't refuse. "You're on."
The next day, the two skipped their morning workout to visit the Academy-recommended tool shop. They purchased the supplies required for the new semester's curriculum.
Back at school, Tatsuma stared at a bottle of liquid that bore a striking resemblance to traditional medicated liniment. The packaging, the color of the liquid, even the pungent scent—it was all too familiar. He had a sinking feeling. Please tell me we aren't learning the Escaping Technique through pure physical agony.
He had initially hoped the "medicine" would be some kind of specialized solution to temporarily soften bones and joints, allowing students to adjust to the sensation of dislocation before gradually tapering off. But smelling that liniment, he suspected the truth: Goppu-sensei was going to manually pop their joints out, and the medicine was just to keep the swelling down afterward.
His fears were confirmed during the first lesson. Goppu Sarutobi spent the first few weeks methodically dislocating and resetting every student's joints, forcing them to experience the profound weakness and helplessness that came with a limb being unseated. He used a combination of the liniment and chakra to ensure they didn't develop habitual or recurring dislocations.
To Tatsuma's surprise, the pain was manageable. Most first-year students were around six years old; Minato had just reached six, while Tatsuma—whose birthday hadn't arrived yet—was only five and a half. Their bones were still "soft" and their bodies flexible. Combined with Goppu's expert technique, there was no permanent structural damage. Had they started this training even a few years later, the pain likely would have been significantly worse.
Thanks to the high-level instruction and the miracle of medical chakra, it took about a month for the entire class to grow accustomed to the sensation. They no longer lost their composure or went limp when a shoulder, elbow, or wrist was popped out of its socket.
The next phase was the "Self-Harm" stage: students had to dislocate their own joints. Tatsuma found this part mentally difficult to stomach—until he saw Minato.
Without so much as a change in expression, Minato followed Goppu's order. He grabbed his own left arm with his right hand and gave a sharp, practiced yank, unseating his shoulder instantly. Tatsuma gritted his teeth and followed suit.
Because they had been subjected to Goppu's manual "adjustments" for a month, everyone knew exactly where the leverage points were. Within two weeks, most of the class could dislocate their own joints with ease.
Resetting them was harder. That took another month of practice before Tatsuma and the others mastered the various maneuvers required to pop a joint back into place using only the surrounding environment or their own body weight.
The final stage involved practicing these maneuvers while bound. The difficulty spiked—not just because of the cramped space, but because the students were often in uncomfortable, suspended, or high-stress positions. It wasn't just a test of the joints; they also learned how to hide thin steel wires in their sleeves as an alternative to bone-breaking for escaping restraints.
By the time another month had passed, the students had barely reached a level of basic competency. Mastery and real-world application were still a long way off, and some students were already planning to drop the practice as soon as the semester ended.
Simultaneously, the Cloak of Invisibility training proved to be... surprisingly simple. As Tatsuma had suspected, it was essentially an arts-and-crafts class mixed with a bit of fine arts. They learned how to construct, preserve, and deploy "cloaks," along with basic breath-holding techniques.
Since the "cloaks" had to match everything from brick walls to forest floors, they were also taught how to mix pigments for perfect color matching. It was during this process that the class discovered one of their students was colorblind. To everyone's shock, the boy was immediately dismissed from the Academy.
Tatsuma watched as the student walked toward the office—a child who had been vibrant and full of life just moments ago, now reduced to a hollow shell. It was as if his entire sense of purpose had collapsed in an instant.
In any other class, it might not have been so devastating. But in Class 1, almost every student came from a prestigious clan or a family of high-ranking village officials. These children were raised with the absolute expectation that they would become powerful shinobi just like their parents. To be told they couldn't even try was a soul-crushing blow.
Compared to the smooth, almost harmonious first semester, these events forced Tatsuma to realize the cold, hard reality of the shinobi world. The path was grueling, and the filters were unforgiving.
Despite the somber end to the term, Tatsuma finished his first year at the Ninja Academy with a wealth of experience—and an even greater wealth of "fleeced" attributes.