I arrived at the Academy courtyard just as dawn broke over Konoha, my sandals kicking up little clouds of dust that caught the first slanting rays of sunlight. The written exam wouldn't start for another hour, but my nerves—or rather, my compulsive need to overthink everything—had dragged me out of bed while the village still slept. The courtyard was mostly empty, save for a few Academy instructors setting up scroll-covered tables in neat rows and one other student—a girl with dark circles under her eyes who looked like she might throw up on her perfectly pressed uniform. Great, I thought, at least I wouldn't be the only one looking pathetic today, even if I had to work at it.
I found a spot against the eastern wall, away from the growing trickle of students, and slipped a small notebook from my pocket. The binding was frayed, the pages dog-eared from constant reference. I flipped to my notes on basic sealing theory—stuff any half-decent Academy student should know—and pretended to review frantically. In reality, I was observing the setup, cataloging the positions of the examiners, and calculating the statistical probability of different test questions appearing based on previous years' patterns.
By the time the courtyard filled with chattering ten-year-olds, I had already memorized the layout of the examination area and identified the senior proctor—Hiroshi Tanaka, a jonin with a reputation for being as warm as a kunai in winter. The scar across his left eye looked even more intimidating in person than in the Academy photo records I'd studied.
"Form three lines!" Hiroshi's voice cut through the morning air like a blade, and the crowd of children scrambled to comply. I deliberately positioned myself in the middle of the center line—not at the front where the eager ones clustered, nor at the back with those trying to disappear. Perfectly, forgettably average.
Hiroshi paced before us, hands clasped behind his back, steel-gray eyes scanning our faces. "Today's examination consists of three parts. First, a written test on fundamental shinobi knowledge. Second, a practical demonstration of basic taijutsu forms. Third, execution of the three Academy ninjutsu techniques." His gaze lingered briefly on me, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. "Performance in all three areas will determine your qualification for genin rank."
My mouth went dry. Had he noticed something? I forced my face into what I hoped was an expression of innocent anxiety, not the calculating dread I actually felt. Being identified as exceptional was the last thing I needed.
We filed into the Academy building, our footsteps echoing in the hallway as we were led to a large classroom. The desks had been rearranged in a grid pattern, each one holding a face-down exam sheet and a freshly sharpened pencil. The metallic scent of graphite mingled with ink and paper, a smell that always made my fingers itch with the desire to practice my sealing techniques.
I took a seat near the center of the room, wedged between a boy who kept cracking his knuckles and a girl who hadn't stopped whispering prayers to herself since we entered. Perfect camouflage.
"You have ninety minutes," Hiroshi announced from the front of the room. "Begin now."
I flipped over my paper and scanned the questions quickly. Just as I'd predicted—history of Konoha, basic chakra theory, shinobi protocols, and a section on tactical scenarios. I could have answered everything correctly in twenty minutes, but that would have raised far too many eyebrows.
Instead, I chewed on my pencil, staring at the first question as if it were written in an ancient language. The eraser tasted like rubber and regret.
Question 1: Explain the significance of the Will of Fire to Konoha's founding principles.
I began writing a response that mixed accurate historical facts with deliberately simplistic interpretations, the kind a bright but unremarkable student might produce. My pencil scratched against the paper as I carefully constructed mediocrity.
Halfway through the exam, I noticed Hiroshi watching me from the corner of the room. I hunched further over my paper and began muttering under my breath, "Barrier seal, five-point configuration... no, that's not right..."
The chunin proctor nearest to me tilted his head slightly. I flipped to the next page and made a show of counting on my fingers while staring at a question about chakra molding. The students on either side of me shot curious glances my way. The knuckle-cracker even scooted his chair a few inches away.
Perfect. Nothing more forgettable than the weird kid who talks to himself.
The questions grew more complex as I progressed through the exam. I caught myself automatically working out the correct answer to a problem on calculating shuriken trajectory, then forcibly introduced errors into my calculations. My hands were steady, but I felt a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognized as frustration.
Every deliberate mistake was a small betrayal of my abilities, yet I knew it was necessary. The papers around me rustled as students flipped pages, scratched out answers, sighed in relief or despair. The room smelled of nervous sweat and determination. A few rows ahead, someone sneezed explosively, and at least three students jumped in their seats.
I allowed myself to get exactly 78% of the questions correct—enough to pass comfortably, but not enough to stand out. When I reached the final problem, a complex scenario about resource allocation during a mission, I started muttering again, this time with real feeling.
"Five shinobi, three days of supplies... no, wait... if the second outpost is seventeen kilometers northeast..." I tapped my pencil against the desk in a pattern that, coincidentally, matched the rhythm for a basic chakra-sealing technique.
The chunin proctor's eyes narrowed. I immediately switched to drumming randomly, adding a few frustrated sighs for good measure. Around me, students were either frantically filling in last-minute answers or staring blankly at their papers in defeat.
"Five minutes remaining," Hiroshi called out, his voice sending a ripple of panic through the room.
I made a show of hurriedly scribbling down an answer that was logical but overlooked a key variable in the scenario. Then I flipped my paper over and slumped back in my chair, trying to look exhausted rather than relieved that the charade was finally over.
As we handed in our exams, Hiroshi stood by the door, observing each student with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. When my turn came, I kept my gaze down, focusing on the slight tremor I'd deliberately introduced into my hands.
"The practical portion will begin in fifteen minutes," he said, his tone giving nothing away. "Report to the east training field."
I nodded and hurried past him, but not before catching a glimpse of his expression. He wasn't looking at my exam paper.
He was looking at me.
——————————————
The east training field stretched before us like a dusty canvas, ready to be painted with our best attempts at looking like proper shinobi. Wooden posts stood in regimented rows on one end for the ninjutsu demonstrations, while the center had been cleared for taijutsu spars. Sweat already prickled at my hairline despite the morning hour—partly from nerves, mostly from the effort of maintaining my carefully crafted persona of mediocrity. It's exhausting work, pretending to be less than you are. Like trying to write with your non-dominant hand while someone watches over your shoulder, judging every wobbly stroke.
The other students clustered in nervous groups, whispering strategies and last-minute tips to each other. I stood apart, stretching my limbs in a deliberately awkward manner, making sure to appear stiff and over-prepared rather than fluid and ready. A breeze carried the scent of crushed grass and anxiety across the field.
Hiroshi Sensei strode to the center of the clearing, clipboard tucked under one arm. The scar across his left eye caught the sunlight, making it seem almost like a deliberate marking rather than an old injury. Two chunin examiners flanked him, their expressions carefully neutral.
"For the practical portion," Hiroshi announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the field, "you will demonstrate basic taijutsu against a fellow student. No ninjutsu or genjutsu is permitted during this portion. You will be evaluated on form, strategy, and adaptability." His eyes swept over us, lingering briefly on me before continuing. "When I call your names, step forward. Bow to your opponent, then begin on my signal."
I tracked the first few matches with careful attention, noting how the examiners marked their clipboards after particularly good strikes or sloppy defenses. Most of the students fought with the unpolished enthusiasm of children who'd learned just enough to be dangerous—to themselves, mostly. Their forms were textbook but rigid, lacking the fluidity that comes with true understanding of combat.
"Akira and Takeo," Hiroshi called.
I stepped forward, feigning mild surprise at being called so soon. My opponent was a stocky boy with determined eyes and a perpetual scowl. He'd been decent in Academy spars—aggressive but predictable, relying on strength over technique. Perfect.
We bowed to each other in the center of the clearing. I could feel Hiroshi's gaze on my back, assessing, evaluating. The weight of it made my skin prickle.
"Begin!"
Takeo charged immediately, exactly as I'd anticipated. I shifted my weight slightly, making it look like I was preparing to dodge left while actually planting my feet to absorb the impact. His fist connected with my forearm in what appeared to be a clumsy block on my part.
The truth was more complex. As his knuckles brushed my skin, I channeled a whisper of chakra to create a micro-barrier seal—invisible to observers, but effective enough to absorb twenty percent of the impact. It felt like static electricity crackling across my forearm, but to everyone watching, it just looked like I'd barely managed to block his strike.
"Good attempt," one of the chunin examiners muttered, making a note. I bit back a smile.
I countered with a textbook punch, deliberately telegraphing my movement so Takeo could easily sidestep. He took the bait, dodging and coming in with a low kick that would have swept my legs if I hadn't "stumbled" backward just in time.
Another micro-barrier, another seemingly lucky escape.
"Maintain your stance, Akira!" Hiroshi called out, his pencil scratching against his clipboard.
I nodded as if grateful for the advice and settled into an Academy-perfect defensive position—which any experienced fighter would recognize as too rigid to be effective in a real confrontation. Takeo pressed his advantage, launching a flurry of punches that I blocked with increasingly "desperate" movements.
The dance continued. I calculated each exchange with mathematical precision: Block seven out of ten strikes normally. Use micro-barriers for two. Allow one to graze me just enough to show I wasn't untouchable. Attack with eighty percent of standard Academy form, deliberately dropping my guard after combination strikes.
Sweat dripped into my eyes, partly from exertion but mostly from concentration. Maintaining the exact right level of mediocrity required more focus than fighting at full capacity would have. The packed dirt beneath our feet kicked up with each movement, the fine dust coating my throat and nostrils, making each breath taste like the earth itself.
Across the field, a practice kunai thudded into a wooden post as another pair demonstrated weapon skills. The steady rhythm of combat surrounded us—the slap of flesh against flesh, soft grunts of exertion, the occasional gasp when a strike landed harder than intended.
Takeo's frustration grew visibly with each exchange. He'd expected an easy victory, but somehow this unremarkable opponent kept slipping away from his best attacks. His movements became more aggressive, less controlled.
"Focus, Takeo," Hiroshi called out, but the boy was already committing to a wild haymaker that left his entire side exposed.
This was the moment of truth—a perfect opening that any competent fighter would exploit. I had a split second to decide: take advantage properly, or maintain my façade?
I split the difference, launching a counter that was technically correct but pulled at the last moment, connecting with his ribs at half strength. Takeo stumbled backward, more surprised than hurt. I immediately dropped back into a defensive stance instead of pressing my advantage, as if unsure what to do next.
Hiroshi's pencil stopped moving. I felt his eyes on me like physical pressure.
"Enough," he called. "Next pair."
As I moved away from the center, Hiroshi's gaze followed me. I wiped dust from my face, using the motion to mask my observation of his expression. His eyes had narrowed, his head tilted slightly—the look of someone fitting pieces together.
I glanced around at the other students. Most were too preoccupied with their own impending matches to pay attention to mine, but a few of the more observant ones were looking at me with confused expressions. I'd won my match, technically, but in such an unconvincing way that no one was quite sure how it had happened.
Perfect. Nothing more forgettable than a win that looks like luck.
The next few matches blurred together as I calculated my next steps. The ninjutsu portion would be even trickier—basic jutsu required a specific amount of chakra, and deliberately using too much or too little was actually harder than perfect execution. Like trying to write poorly with your dominant hand; the muscle memory fights you.
I watched a girl perfectly execute a textbook leg sweep, taking down her opponent with efficient grace. The examiners nodded approvingly, making enthusiastic notes. Something hot and uncomfortable twisted in my chest—not quite envy, more like the frustration of a bird that deliberately clips its own wings.
"Water," Hiroshi said, suddenly appearing beside me and offering a canteen.
I took it with a carefully measured show of gratitude and surprise. "Thank you, Sensei."
"Interesting match," he said, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp. "You have unusual timing."
I took a long drink to avoid answering immediately, using the moments to construct my response. "My opponent was very strong," I finally said. "I just tried to stay out of the way."
"Hmm." That single syllable carried layers of disbelief.
The water was cool against my dust-coated throat, but it did nothing to wash away the discomfort of Hiroshi's scrutiny or the growing weight of the examiners' evaluations. As I watched another perfect demonstration from one of the top students, I wondered how much longer I could maintain this balance—this careful, exhausting mediocrity—before something gave way.
——————————————
The ninjutsu portion began with predictable monotony—lines of nervous students performing the three basic Academy techniques with varying degrees of success. I stood in the third row, mentally rehearsing how to make my transformation jutsu look just shaky enough, my clone technique just imperfect enough. My fingers twitched with the effort of suppressing muscle memory that wanted to form seals with fluid precision instead of calculated clumsiness. Just thirty more minutes, I told myself, and this charade would be over for another term. That's when the alarm bells started ringing—a high, urgent clanging that cut through the peaceful morning like a blade through paper. And just like that, all my careful planning scattered like leaves in a windstorm.
Hiroshi's head snapped up, his entire demeanor shifting in an instant from stern examiner to battle-ready jonin. The chunin examiners followed suit, hands moving to weapon pouches as their eyes scanned for threats.
"Everyone stay calm," Hiroshi commanded, but the tremor of urgency beneath his controlled tone made the younger children whimper. "Form into your emergency evacuation groups. This is not a drill."
Evacuation groups? My mind raced. The Academy practiced those monthly, but this was an exam day with students from multiple classes. Before I could voice this concern, a shattering crash came from the eastern perimeter, less than fifty meters from where we stood.
Three figures in nondescript gray clothing leapt over the wall, metal glinting in their hands. Their faces were obscured by cloth masks with no village insignia—either rogue ninja or deliberately concealing their affiliation. Not good. Not good at all.
"Protect the students!" Hiroshi barked, already moving to intercept the intruders. The chunin examiners spread out, creating a defensive perimeter, but they were outnumbered. More shadowy figures appeared at the wall.
The training field erupted into chaos. Children scattered in panic, some running toward the Academy building, others freezing in terror. The organized evacuation protocol disintegrated in seconds. Through the dust and confusion, I saw four younger students cornered against the equipment shed, cut off from the examiners by two advancing enemy ninja.
One of the masked attackers reached for his weapons pouch.
No time to think. No time to maintain my cover.
My hands moved of their own accord, fingers flowing through a sequence of seals I'd practiced thousands of times in secret. Not the basic three Academy jutsu, but a complex twelve-seal barrier technique I'd reverse-engineered from ancient scrolls. The chakra flowed through my pathways without resistance, like a river that had finally broken through a dam.
"Barrier Technique: Five-Point Reflection Shield!"
The energy surged from my palms as I completed the final seal, manifesting as a shimmering wall of translucent blue chakra. It materialized just as the enemy launched a volley of shuriken toward the trapped students. The weapons struck my barrier with a sound like hail on glass, their momentum completely nullified before they clattered harmlessly to the ground.
The intricate sealing array that formed the foundation of my barrier glowed with bright, complex patterns—concentric circles interconnected with precise geometric shapes and ancient fuinjutsu symbols that no Academy student should know, let alone be able to implement. The chakra network pulsed with each impact, redistributing energy according to formulas I'd spent years perfecting.
One of the cornered children gasped. Not at the attacking ninja, but at me.
The enemy ninja hesitated, clearly not expecting resistance from what should have been easy targets. That hesitation cost them. Hiroshi appeared behind one in a blur of movement, his kunai finding a vulnerable spot with practiced precision. The attacker crumpled without a sound.
But more enemies were pouring in through the breach in the wall. I could see students scattered across the training ground, some still frozen in place, others trying to reach the relative safety of the Academy building. My barrier only protected the four by the shed.
"Expand," I whispered, channeling more chakra into the technique. The familiar burn spread through my chakra network as I pushed beyond what should have been my limits. The barrier rippled like water, then expanded outward in a dome that encompassed a larger area.
Sweat beaded on my forehead and began to drip down my temples. My fingers trembled with the effort of maintaining the complex chakra flow patterns. This was far beyond what a genin candidate should be capable of—this was chunin-level technique execution at minimum.
Through the translucent blue of my barrier, I could see the jonin and chunin examiners engaging the intruders in fierce combat. Their movements were fluid and deadly, nothing like the controlled demonstrations they showed in the Academy. This was real battle—fast, brutal, and without flourish.
A flash of yellow at the perimeter caught my attention. A tall figure with bright blonde hair moved with impossible speed, appearing and disappearing between attackers so quickly it almost seemed like there were multiple of him. Minato Namikaze—the Yellow Flash himself. If he was here, the situation was under control.
Sure enough, within minutes the attacking force was neutralized. Some lay unconscious on the ground, others were restrained with chakra-suppressing bindings, and a few had managed to escape back over the wall—though I doubted they'd get far with Konoha's elite in pursuit.
As the immediate danger passed, I became acutely aware of the silence that had fallen over the training field. My barrier still hummed with energy, the intricate sealing patterns clearly visible to everyone. Dozens of eyes were fixed on me—students, chunin examiners, even Hiroshi Sensei, whose expression had transformed from battle-ready focus to astonished calculation.
Slowly, I released the technique, letting the barrier dissolve into motes of blue light that dissipated in the breeze. The chakra drain hit me immediately, my legs nearly buckling as the adrenaline ebbed. I managed to stay upright through sheer stubbornness.
The silence stretched for three more heartbeats before Hiroshi stepped forward.
"Everyone inside the Academy building. Now." His tone brooked no argument. The other students hurriedly complied, casting backward glances at me as they filed toward safety. "Except you, Akira. You stay."
The four children I'd protected looked at me with wide eyes as they passed. One, a small girl with braided hair, whispered "Thank you" so quietly I almost missed it.
When the field had cleared except for the examiners and a few jonin securing the perimeter, Hiroshi approached me. The other chunin examiners formed a loose circle around us, their expressions ranging from suspicious to impressed.
"That," Hiroshi said, pointing to where my barrier had been, "was not Academy level fuinjutsu."
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "No, Sensei."
"That wasn't even genin level," another examiner added. "Where did you learn a five-point reflection barrier? That's specialized jonin territory."
My mind raced through possible explanations, each one flimsier than the last. The truth wasn't an option. Not the full truth, anyway.
"I... read a lot," I offered weakly.
"You read a lot," Hiroshi repeated flatly. "And somehow taught yourself an advanced barrier technique with complex sealing theory that most chunin struggle to master."
I remained silent, which seemed to confirm his suspicions more than any excuse would have.
Hiroshi crossed his arms, his scarred face unreadable except for a gleam in his eyes that might have been anger or interest—possibly both. "I always suspected you were holding back. But this..." He gestured at the ground where the deflected shuriken still lay. "This goes beyond simple modesty or test anxiety."
The other examiners murmured in agreement, their earlier suspicions apparently confirmed. I felt the weight of their evaluations shift from "passable Academy student" to something much more complicated.
"Those children would have been hurt," I said finally, the only defense I could offer that was entirely true.
Hiroshi held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded once. "Report to the Hokage's office tomorrow morning after the graduation ceremony. The standard protocol has certain... flexibility for exceptional cases."
As the examiners dispersed to help with the cleanup and investigation, Hiroshi lingered for a moment longer. "Whatever game you've been playing, Akira, it's over now." His voice had dropped so only I could hear him. "I suggest you prepare accordingly."
He walked away, leaving me alone in the middle of the training field, surrounded by the physical evidence of my deception's end. The shuriken glinted in the sunlight, mute testimony to a secret years in the making, now exposed in a moment of instinct and necessity.
I'd spent so long calculating exactly how average to appear that I hadn't prepared for this—the moment when calculation gave way to conscience. Now everyone knew I was something other than what I'd pretended to be.
I just hoped they wouldn't discover why.
——————————————
The next morning, the Academy courtyard transformed from battleground to celebration stage with an efficiency that only shinobi could manage. Gone were the scattered weapons and signs of combat, replaced by rows of folding chairs and a wooden platform draped with Konoha's symbolic banners. Families arrived in waves of chatter and formal clothing, pride radiating from them like heat from sun-warmed stones. I stood at the periphery, hands jammed into pockets that still held scraps of paper covered in half-formed seal designs—my constant companions in a crowd where I had none of flesh and blood. The forehead protectors laid out on a velvet cloth gleamed in the morning light, each one a promise and a burden waiting to be claimed.
The ceremony wouldn't start for another twenty minutes, but I'd arrived early out of habit—or perhaps to torture myself with the sight of what I'd never had. A father straightened his daughter's collar while her mother fussed with a camera. Three siblings shoved and teased a boy about to graduate, their rough affection making him flush with embarrassed pleasure. Grandparents distributed candies to younger children squirming in their formal clothes.
And there I stood, an orphan with secrets too heavy for a ten-year-old's shoulders, about to be promoted ahead of schedule because I'd failed at failing.
"They're expecting a big turnout this year," said a familiar voice beside me.
I turned to find Hiroshi Sensei, looking oddly uncomfortable in formal jonin attire rather than his usual training gear. The scar across his eye seemed less severe somehow, softened by the ceremonial context.
"There's always a big turnout for graduations," I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral.
"Not for the student. For you." His gaze swept across the growing crowd. "Word travels fast about a barrier jutsu that shouldn't exist in the hands of an Academy student."
My stomach clenched. "I don't want attention."
"Clearly," Hiroshi said, the word edged with dry humor. "You've worked remarkably hard to avoid it. But some things can't be hidden forever, especially in a village of trained observers."
Before I could respond, he moved away to help organize the arriving dignitaries, leaving me to stew in the implications of his words. I scanned the crowd more carefully and noticed several jonin I recognized from the Hokage's elite guard, positioned casually around the perimeter. Not just here for the ceremony, then. Here to observe me.
At precisely 10 AM, the Academy instructors called for everyone to be seated. I was directed to a special chair in the front row, separated slightly from the regular graduates. Another spotlight I hadn't wanted.
The ceremony began with the traditional Konoha Academy pledge, followed by a speech from the head instructor about the Will of Fire and the responsibilities of genin rank. I barely heard the words, too focused on controlling my breathing and planning my next moves. Everything had accelerated without my consent. Years of careful preparation, adjusted in a single impulsive moment.
"And now," the head instructor announced, "we have a special circumstance to recognize before the standard graduation proceedings."
The crowd quieted as a figure in white and red robes approached the podium. My eyes widened slightly. The Third Hokage himself, Hiruzen Sarutobi, had come to oversee the ceremony. This wasn't standard protocol—usually, he only appeared for the chunin promotions, not genin graduations.
"Yesterday," the Hokage began, his voice carrying easily despite its gentle tone, "our village witnessed both an unfortunate attack and an extraordinary display of courage and skill." His gaze found me in the front row. "Academy Student Akira demonstrated jutsu far beyond his years to protect his fellow students from harm."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. I kept my expression carefully neutral, though my heartbeat quickened. This was exactly the kind of attention I'd spent years avoiding.
"In recognition of his abilities and actions," the Hokage continued, "the council has approved his immediate promotion to genin rank, with special recommendation for accelerated training in his area of expertise."
He gestured for me to join him on the platform. My legs felt leaden as I stood and made my way up the short steps. The Hokage's wrinkled face carried a grandfatherly warmth, but his eyes—those were the eyes of a leader who had guided Konoha through wars and countless crises. They missed nothing.
"Akira," he said, lifting a forehead protector from the velvet cushion an aide presented. "This symbol represents not just your skill, but your responsibility to use that skill in service to Konoha and its people."
He held out the hitai-ate, the metal plate catching the sunlight. I accepted it with a formal bow, trying to ignore the hundreds of eyes fixed on my every move.
"Great power comes with great responsibility, young one," the Hokage murmured, his voice pitched so only I could hear. "Remember that, especially in the days ahead."
A chill ran down my spine. Did he know something? Or was this just standard wisdom dispensed to all promising genin? His expression revealed nothing as he stepped back, allowing me to tie on my forehead protector.
I hesitated for just a moment, then wrapped the fabric around my neck rather than my forehead. The metal plate rested against my collarbone, cool and surprisingly heavy. Not the traditional placement, but it felt right—like the weight of my knowledge and secrets should be close to my heart rather than openly displayed.
The crowd applauded politely as I returned to my seat. The regular graduation ceremony proceeded, with thirty other students receiving their forehead protectors one by one. I watched them hug their parents afterward, receiving congratulatory backslaps and tearful embraces. No one approached me, though many cast curious glances my way.
Across the courtyard, I caught sight of Hiroshi watching me with a mixture of pride and concern. When our eyes met, he gave a slight nod—acknowledgment of a transition neither of us had quite anticipated. I wondered if I'd gained a mentor or a keeper in him. Perhaps both.
As the ceremony concluded and families began to disperse toward celebration lunches and private gatherings, I slipped away from the crowd. Finding a quiet corner of the Academy grounds—a small garden where I often ate lunch alone—I sat on a stone bench partially concealed by a weeping willow.
The ceremonial robes of the officials had rustled with self-importance. The jostle of proud families had filled the courtyard with warmth I could observe but not feel. And now I sat alone with the symbol of everything I'd worked toward, yet had hoped to achieve more discreetly.
I ran my fingers over the leaf symbol etched into the metal plate at my neck. The craftsmanship was excellent, each groove precise and purposeful. Like a seal, but simpler. More recognizable. More public.
"One step closer," I whispered to the empty garden, my voice barely disturbing the gentle swaying of the willow branches.
One step closer to being ready when the time came. One step closer to having the skills and access I'd need. One step closer to preventing a future only I seemed to know was coming—though how I knew remained as much a mystery to me as to anyone else.
I'd been given a path forward, albeit not the quiet, unremarkable one I'd planned. Now I just had to adapt, as I'd been doing since the first seal formula appeared in my dreams at age five, followed by visions no child should have to bear.
The weight against my collarbone felt like a promise. Whatever came next, I wasn't just an Academy student playing at mediocrity anymore.
I was a genin of Konoha. And somehow, that would have to be enough.