Sorcerers are born with power.
Magic was their birthright. While others struggle in the muck—scraping together scraps of technique and knowledge just to cast a cantrip—while wizards spend years locked in dusty towers chasing the arcane through sleepless nights and ink-stained hands… sorcerers just exist. They meditate, learn to breathe right, maybe do a few poses, and eventually—boom—they're hurling fireballs and flying through the sky like it's nothing.
And don't even get me started on the ones who double dip, walking around with both wizard study and sorcerer blood. Abominations.
If it's not clear by now, I hate sorcerers. I hate them—and I am also, very, very jealous of them.
They get to master the arcane just because someone in their bloodline got frisky with a dragon or stared too long into the void. And somehow that makes them special.
Over here, they don't call them sorcerers. They use the term kekkei genkai. I call them what they are—sorcerers. Just as broken here as in any gamebook. And the worst part? They know it.
That's why they sit at the top of the food chain, wrapped in tradition and noble titles, acting like their birthright makes them wise or virtuous. One of the worst offenders? The Hyūga Clan.
Their sorcery is ocular. That's right—eye magic. Not just 360-degree vision, but X-ray sight, chakra perception, and precision that makes most sensory techniques look like finger painting. Just nonsensical.
Compared to the average shinobi, every single Hyūga is a powerhouse. A natural-born elite.
So what I want to know is… what does this one want with me?
We stared at each other, my brow rising as her face got progressively more scarlet. I made the first move.
"Who-" was all I got out before she blurred into motion and my world went black.
xxxxxxxxx
I gasped into consciousness, my head pounding and my memories blurry.
I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of water, the cool liquid soothed my head ache and cleared my mind enough for me to remember the events of last night.
I was knocked.
She knocked me out.
That bitch.
Wait, how the heck am I home?… Does she know where I live?
Oh, boy. This is bad. This is really bad.
The ring of my alarm clock pulled me out of my downward spiral and reminded me today was Monday. My week was over. I had somewhere to be and I hadn't even brushed my teeth.
Time to go to school.
xxxxxxxxx
The key to success in the civilian sector isn't competence. In fact, the key to success in general isn't competence.
How capable you are helps a lot, but the true measure of how far you'll go in life is your ability to bend others to your will.
That's why, regardless of how late I might be, I never skimped on my morning routine. I made sure to look my best. First impressions matter, and networking never stops.
Unlike the Konoha Shinobi Academy, Tobirama Preparatory School wasn't located in the heart of the village, surrounded by the hustle and bustle. Named after the Hokage who had built it to give the civilian members of the village a path to success and a way to rise through the ranks, the school was nestled near the outskirts, surrounded by miles of grass, perfectly manicured shrubs, and rows of sakura trees.
It looked very classy — and honestly, a bit intimidating.
I was wearing the same outfit I'd worn when I visited Naruko at school, minus the shinobi sandals. I wore actual geta now. I preferred the sandals, but it was better to err on the side of caution when it came to my appearance.
I already knew my classroom number, and the halls were empty since classes were already in session. I hurried through the corridors, doing my best to rush without sacrificing dignity.
When I found my classroom — Class 2B — I slid the door aside, drawing the attention of everyone present, including the teacher, who stopped mid-lecture.
She was a middle-aged woman dressed in a green yukata, her dark blue hair pulled into a neat bun, light makeup accentuating her features. She had a kind and noble expression... which faltered into open disdain when her eyes fell on me.
Ah. Stuck-up. Drats.
"You must be Hanama-kun. Welcome to the fifth year of Tobirama Preparatory School," she said with a pleasant expression that abruptly shifted into sternness.
"Tardiness will not be tolerated. From anyone. Especially someone of your... stock," she continued, her tone turning sharp and disgusted by the end.
"Take a seat," she ordered, her pleasant facade snapping back into place.
I bowed and made my way to the only open seat — at the back of the room.
A quick glance around told me everything I needed to know. The better-dressed kids sat at the front, while the less well-dressed — those whose posture clearly showed they hadn't grown up with etiquette instructors — were gathered at the back.
The wealth divide was glaringly obvious. It seemed I'd already been judged and sorted before I'd even said a word.
Damn it.
This wasn't going as planned.
xxxxxxxxx
At lunch, I ruminated bitterly over how badly my planned introduction had gone. And the worst part — the part that pissed me off— was that none of it had been my fault. I hadn't even been given the chance to speak before I was judged, sorted, and dismissed.
It was maddening.
Still, no use stewing over it. I huffed, straightened my posture, and headed toward the cafeteria.
It was lunch break.
The moment I stepped inside, I froze.
The cafeteria was... opulent.
Rows of polished tables lined with pristine white cloths, heavy silver cutlery glinting under chandeliers. A buffet spread that wouldn't have looked out of place at a noble's banquet: expensive sushi, delicate pastries, steaming rice bowls, ornate teapots, even light sake poured from crystal decanters — and everything served on high-class china.
It was ridiculous.
It was awesome.
I couldn't help myself. I loaded up a plate — not a mountain, but a respectable amount. Enough to enjoy without looking greedy, or so I thought.
Tray in hand, I turned to find a seat.
It didn't go well.
At every table I approached, I was met with tight smiles and polite excuses — or, more often, with thinly veiled sneers and turned shoulders. By the time I found myself standing awkwardly in the far corner of the room, my food cooling on the tray, I was seriously starting to wonder what exactly I was doing wrong.
I sighed and sat down alone at an empty table tucked against the wall.
I was mid-mope when someone sat down across from me without a word.
A girl, about my age — maybe eleven. She wore all black: black yukata, black lipstick, heavy black eyeliner. Who in the world puts makeup on an eleven-year-old?
A quick glance around the cafeteria answered my question — a lot of them did. Even the younger girls were done up with powder and color like tiny porcelain dolls.
I shivered.
This world was decades — maybe centuries — behind modern Earth when it came to basic ideas about childhood and decency. I was amongst civilians now, the domain of nobles and merchants, I don't imagine they care much for age of consent.
The thought twisted my stomach, so I shoved it aside for later and focused back on the girl.
"It's the food," she said abruptly.
I blinked. "What?"
She leaned in, resting her chin on her palm, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement.
"It's the food," she repeated, slow and exasperated. "You're eating cafeteria food. Real cafeteria food. Too much of it."
I opened my mouth to protest, but she steamrolled on, speaking with the vocabulary of a seasoned noblewoman — and the profanity of a dockworker.
"Only desperate poor bastards eat the slop they serve here. Anyone with a half-decent upbringing knows it's poorly made, shit quality, bulk-bought garbage," she said, rolling her eyes. "And even if they had to eat it, they'd nibble like fucking birds. Stuffing your face?" She clicked her tongue. "Dead giveaway."
I stared at her, dumbfounded, fork halfway to my mouth.
"What the hell is going on in this place?" I muttered.
She smirked. "Welcome to Tobirama Prep, sweetheart. Now, who the hell are you?"
"Izuku Hanama," I said slowly, still trying to process everything. "And... who are you?"
"Hidachi Kuromaru," she said with a casual wave of her hand. She leaned closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
"And you," she said, flashing a mischievous grin, "have something I want."
I stiffened instinctively.
"Let's talk business," she said, smiling like a cat who had just cornered a very stupid mouse.
xxxxxxxxx
We didn't, in fact, talk business — the bell rang and classes started up again before we had the chance. Hidachi tossed a quick, "Meet me after school," over her shoulder and vanished into the crowd.
Later, when school let out, I found her waiting just outside the main gates, arms crossed, black yukata sleeves fluttering lightly in the breeze.
"You're late," she said, as if she hadn't been standing there for maybe thirty seconds.
I shrugged. "Got held up." Not really
She glared, then jerked her head toward a path winding around the side of the school. "Come on. We can talk somewhere less... conspicuous."
I followed her and we ended up behind a hedgerow where no one could see us.
"Your'e a shinobi," she said immediately, without preamble.
I blinked. "You'd need shinobi training to even notice that."
She snorted. "Please. I don't know because you move like a shinobi. I know because you look like a poor person."
I stared at her, caught off guard.
She folded her arms, voice dropping lower. "This place? It's for the noble brats, the heirs of old clans, the kids of rich merchants and politicians. Everyone here either bought their seat or inherited it. You? You don't move like a spoiled kid used to being waited on. You move like someone who's had to fight for everything."
I swallowed, feeling a little exposed.
"The only way someone like you gets into Tobirama Prep," she continued with a knowing look, "is if you're a charity case. Some 'merit scholarship' pity project. And let me tell you something, Hanama—" she leaned closer, "—none of these kids want to breathe the same air as you."
There was no cruelty in her voice. Just cold, sharp honesty.
I exhaled slowly. "Fine. You've done your little deduction act. What do you want?"
She grinned, wicked and bright. "I want to be below them too."
I raised an eyebrow at that.
She immediately flushed bright red and punched my shoulder —I barely felt it.
"Not like that, you idiot!" she snapped, scowling. "Ugh, boys."
I smirked, and she huffed, straightening her sleeves primly.
"I want to fight," she said seriously. "I think it's cool. I want to be strong like a shinobi. But my parents won't let me. They say it's 'unladylike' and 'dangerous' and that my 'duty' is to marry into another high-status family."
Her lips curled in a sneer.
"So if I can't be a shinobi... then I'm going to learn to fight like one anyway. And you're going to teach me."
I raised both eyebrows this time. "Why would I?"
She smirked, confidence returning. "Because I know this school inside and out. These people? They're sharks. You? You're fresh meat. You help me learn to fight—" she pointed at her chest proudly, "—and I'll help you navigate the deep waters without getting eaten alive."
I crossed my arms, thinking it over.
It was a good deal.
Maybe even a necessary one.
"Alright," I said. "Deal."
She let out a high-pitched squeal of happiness before she slapped a hand over her mouth, coughed violently, and pretended it hadn't happened.
I couldn't help but smile.
"So," she said briskly, cheeks still faintly pink, "when do we start?"
"I'm busy this week," I said, thinking of the promises I'd already made to Naruko and my other obligations. "Helping a friend. We'll meet on Saturday."
She nodded quickly, beaming, and then with a little skip, she spun on her heel and skipped off toward the village proper, humming under her breath.
I watched her go, shaking my head.
Middle school shouldn't be this hard, I thought grimly.
And somehow, I knew it was only going to get harder.
xxxxxxxxx
After parting ways with Hidachi, I made my way toward the Shinobi Academy to pick up Naruko. The crowd of students spilling out onto the training grounds was a chaotic, noisy mass — laughter, shouts, and the scuff of sandals against the dirt filling the air.
I spotted her quickly. Her blonde hair, tied up in messy pigtails, practically gleamed in the sunlight as she weaved her way through the throng. Smiling to myself, I started toward her—
—and then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of dark blue.
I turned my head instinctively, and there she was — standing apart from the crowd—posture hunched and nervous. Her dark blue hair framed her face, and those unmistakable pale white eyes locked onto mine like twin spears.
Recognition struck me like a bolt of lightning.
It was her.
The Hyūga girl.
The one who had knocked me out cold the night before.
Without thinking, the word tore itself from my throat, loud and sharp enough to make a few heads turn:
"You!"