Five minutes.
Daigo-sensei had given us five whole minutes to get outside and line up.
Naturally, we were all still scrambling out the door when he started counting down from ten. I barely managed to slip my sandals on properly before stepping onto the training field, where the upperclassmen—Class 6-A—were already gathering in neat rows.
They stood at attention, their faces a mix of determination, boredom, and the quiet kind of terror that only comes from knowing your future hinges on whether you can convincingly turn into a household object.
Unlike us, they weren't just here to watch. They were here to prove they were worthy of stepping into the shinobi world. Or, alternatively, to publicly crash and burn so hard that their families started claiming they were actually adopted.
Either way, good entertainment was guaranteed.
"Alright, listen up," Daigo-sensei announced once we were all assembled, his arms crossed over his chest. "You brats have one job—observe. That means no side conversations, no wandering off, and definitely no trying to 'help' the participants." His eyes flicked toward Renji, who gave his most innocent, totally-won't-cause-trouble smile.
Sensei was not fooled.
"The graduation exam consists of two parts," he continued. "First, the three foundational techniques. Clone, Transformation, and Substitution. If they fail even one, they're done."
A few of my classmates exchanged glances. The Clone Jutsu alone had doomed more hopefuls than I could count.
Some students just couldn't get the chakra control down, and instead of creating a perfect duplicate, they'd summon what could only be described as a malnourished ghost with commitment issues.
Good for laughs, bad for passing grades.
"After that," Daigo-sensei went on, "they'll spar. This will test their ability to apply what they've learned in real combat."
"By real combat, do you mean actual injuries?" someone from our class asked, sounding half concerned, half hopeful.
"The instructors will step in if things get too dangerous," he replied. "But don't expect anyone to hold back just because it's an exam. If you want to be a shinobi, better get used to a few bruises."
I resisted the urge to sigh. The Academy never missed a chance to remind us that our future careers involved liberal amounts of pain, occasional dismemberment, and the constant possibility of being set on fire.
The perks were limited, but hey, at least the dental plan was decent.
"Now," Daigo-sensei said, "find a spot and stay quiet. The exam begins now."
We moved to the sidelines as the proctor of Class 6-A stepped forward.
Unlike Daigo-sensei, who carried himself with the relaxed air of a man who had long since made peace with our collective stupidity, this instructor was rigid, precise, and radiated the same energy as a sword that had been sharpened one time too many.
He cleared his throat and took out a clipboard. "We will begin the examination. As I call your names, step forward. Perform the Clone Jutsu, Transformation Jutsu, and Substitution Jutsu in that order. If you fail any of the three, you will not proceed to the next stage."
A silence fell over the field. Some of the older students shifted nervously, while others stood tall, ready to prove themselves.
The proctor's gaze swept over the group. "First, Aburame Tetsuo."
A lanky boy with dark goggles and the characteristic high collar of the Aburame clan stepped forward.
As expected, his movements were precise and entirely devoid of wasted motion.
The name wasn't familiar so he probably wasn't important enough to be remembered alongside the Sanins or he died off somewhere.
He executed all three jutsu flawlessly—his clone appearing with eerie accuracy, his transformation into the proctor almost too perfect, and his substitution executed with the kind of efficiency that suggested he'd been practicing it since birth.
Fucking clan kids.
"Pass," the proctor said, marking something down on his scroll. "Next, Aoki Reina."
One by one, the students were called forward. Some moved with confidence, others hesitated before performing their techniques.
A few unfortunate souls stumbled—one poor kid transformed into what I could only describe as a deeply unsettling version of Daigo-sensei, complete with an oversized head and a shriveled left arm.
He was failed immediately and if the reaction I got from Daigo-sensei through my sensory range was any good, there was a good possibility that guy would have a bad repeat year.
"Harada Kenji," the proctor called.
A broad-shouldered boy stepped forward, his stance stiff with tension. He managed the Clone Jutsu well enough, though his duplicate looked mildly concussed. His Transformation Jutsu into the proctor was slightly off—he got the height right but ended up with an extra ear. By the time he reached the Substitution, he was visibly sweating.
He formed the hand seals, and in a puff of smoke, he was gone—only to reappear a full three feet from where he was originally standing. He had, somehow, substituted himself with… himself?
A deep silence settled over the field.
The proctor's expression remained impressively neutral. "Fail."
Harada Kenji slumped in defeat and shuffled off to the side.
The exam continued. Some students excelled, some barely scraped by, and a few were eliminated on the spot. Then, after what felt like an eternity, the proctor called out a name that made the entire field buzz with anticipation.
"Hatake Sakumo."
Hmm?
Now that was a name even I couldn't ignore even if I wanted to.
I tilted my head, pretending to think. "Hatake Sakumo, huh? Oh boy. Guess I better start taking notes for the history books."
Renji snorted beside me. "You don't even take notes for class."
"Exactly," I whispered back. "That's how you know this is serious."
At twelve years old, Sakumo was already a living legend among the Academy students. A kenjutsu prodigy with reflexes so sharp they could cut paper (probably literally, given his skill with a blade), he was one of the few people in this exam whose graduation was a foregone conclusion.
I watched as he stepped forward, his expression calm and unreadable. His silver hair—an unmistakable family trait—caught the light, and his movements were smooth, almost effortless.
Now that's protagonist aura right there. Note to myself: Gotta stay away from him at all cost.
There was no nervousness, no hesitation, just a quiet confidence that set him apart from the rest.
From what I remembered from the anime, this guy was going to grow up to be THE Hatake Sakumo—Konoha's White Fang.
The kind of ninja who would one day be spoken about in hushed tones, whose legacy would loom so large that it would even overshadow his son's for a time.
Which meant, of course, that I had the rare privilege of seeing him before he became a legend. Before the fame, before the war, before—
Well. Before everything.
The proctor nodded. "Proceed."
Sakumo clasped his hands together. "Clone Jutsu."
There was actually a puff of smoke, and two perfect clones appeared beside him. Not just 'acceptable' clones—perfect ones. No distortion, no odd flickers, no weird expressions. If I hadn't been watching closely, I wouldn't have been able to tell which one was the original.
Tch. Fucking geniuses.
Hmm? Wait a minute, aren't I also considered a genius amongst my classmates? I'm cursing myself, aren't I?
Tch. Fucking…Whatever.
The proctor made a small, approving noise. "Transformation Jutsu."
Sakumo formed the seals and, in an instant, became a flawless copy of the Second Hokage. Not just in appearance—his posture, the way he held himself, even the slight furrow of his brow all matched perfectly.
I wonder if he could do the 'Hn' as well…
Not like I wanna find out. Gotta stay farther away from him if I can help it.
Another murmur went through the crowd.
"Substitution Jutsu," the proctor instructed.
Sakumo performed the hand seals—and then, without even a puff of smoke, he vanished.
I blinked.
Now that…is actually trippy.
A moment later, he reappeared ten feet away, standing exactly where the proctor had been. The log he'd swapped with landed neatly where he had stood before, not an inch out of place.
The sheer precision of it was enough to make even Daigo-sensei let out a quiet hum of approval.
The proctor nodded once. "Pass."
No surprise there.
As Sakumo stepped back in line, I exhaled slowly.
Yeah. The guy was terrifying.
And he wasn't even in the sparring portion yet.
Triple mental reminder: Stay away from that guy.