"Group Three, you're up next."
The chalk squeaked across the blackboard, slicing the sleepy afternoon quiet of the Academy classroom. The instructor's handwriting was rough and impatient. Bits of chalk dust scattered with every stroke, catching the sunlight filtering through the wide shōji windows. Outside, the pale orange of the late afternoon bled into the leaf-spotted courtyard, the cries of younger students echoing faintly as they finished their drills.
Satoru sat near the back, as his name appeared under the hastily scrawled Group 3. He exhaled through his nose.
'Hoshino Hyūga, Takeshi Inuzuka. And me. Great.'
A more mismatched trio could hardly be found in the whole Academy.
The exams were looming over them like a storm cloud, one that every student could smell but no one wanted to mention aloud.
And as part of the Hokage's brilliant idea of fostering "peer collaboration," they'd all been thrown into forced group study exercises. Collaboration was the word the instructors used, but chaos was what it looked like in practice.
Around him, desks scraped against the floor; chatter swelled like a low tide. Clusters formed; eager, bored, reluctant, indifferent. Some traded scrolls already filled with half-erased answers. Others whispered, half-hoping their genius classmate might let them copy just one more seal formation.
Satoru shut his notebook with a soft thunk and stood. The air smelled faintly of ink and old paper; the kind of smell that clung to your clothes and followed you home. He dusted off his pants and headed for the adjoining training hall where the group sessions were set up.
The hall's wide tatami mats gleamed faintly under the slant of light pouring in from the high windows. A few groups had already claimed corners. Some argued over chakra equations. Others had simply given up and were playing cards in defiance.
At the far end, near the wall scroll of the First Hokage, sat Hoshino Hyūga; already there, of course. Her posture was immaculate; her legs folded neatly beneath her, her long dark hair tucked behind one ear. Her eyes, pale and reflective, skimmed the lines of her scroll like they were tracing invisible patterns through the air.
Takeshi Inuzuka arrived last, naturally. His voice came first, loud and unbothered, echoing down the corridor long before he appeared.
"Yo! Brain squad! Let's crush this test, yeah?"
He stepped into the hall like it belonged to him, grin wide, one hand scratching at the back of his head while the other held the leash of a small, grey-furred pup that was doing everything possible not to walk in a straight line. The pup, Maro, yipped and sneezed at a dust mote floating by, tail wagging furiously.
Satoru could already feel the headache blooming.
'Perfect. A Hyūga prodigy, a feral Inuzuka, and a guy pretending to be normal.'
Takeshi flopped onto the floor with a heavy thud, scattering one of Hoshino's neatly stacked scrolls. "Wait, is this the real thing or just warm-up nonsense?" he asked, leaning back on his palms.
Satoru didn't bother answering. He sat cross-legged opposite them, calm, composed, eyes scanning their materials like a strategist surveying a battlefield. The scrolls were arranged in tidy stacks, chakra flow diagrams, elemental affinity charts, and hand sign patterns. The upcoming theory exam was notoriously difficult; they were expected to recall precise sequences of hand signs and their corresponding chakra manipulations.
"Alright," Hoshino said softly, setting one of the scrolls between them. "Let's start with the basics. Chakra moulding ratios. That's the foundation of every jutsu question."
Her tone was polite, clipped, and utterly devoid of warmth. It reminded Satoru of cold steel; polished, functional, and a little too sharp.
Takeshi groaned.
"C'mon, we're really gonna study? Just tell me what hand signs go with what jutsu and I'll wing it."
"'Wing it' is not a strategy," she said without looking at him.
"Worked fine for my clan for generations."
Satoru glanced up. "That explains a lot."
Takeshi's jaw dropped for half a second before he burst out laughing. "Hah! Okay, okay, you got jokes, Yama-chiha. Didn't think the silent genius could talk."
Satoru ignored the nickname. He unfurled a scroll and tapped the diagram of chakra coils printed in faint blue ink. "Let's start with the Clone Technique. It's the simplest, and it shows how chakra distribution affects projection."
"Simple?" Takeshi muttered, squinting. "Yeah, if your brain's made of math."
"It's not math," Hoshino corrected. "It's control."
"Exactly," Satoru said. "Clone Jutsu relies on even chakra distribution and timing. Too much chakra and the clone flickers. Too little, and it collapses." He gestured toward the illustration. "Here, the hand signs flow in a chain: Ram, Snake, Tiger. Miss the rhythm, and you get—"
"—a deflated ghost," Takeshi interrupted, snickering. "I've seen it. Looks like my uncle after sake night."
Maro barked once as if in agreement. Yip!
Hoshino's eye twitched. "Can you control that animal?"
Takeshi grinned. "He's free-spirited. Like me."
"Undisciplined, you mean."
Satoru nearly smiled at that. 'She's got edge,' he thought. He hadn't expected that from the quiet Hyūga girl. She wasn't cruel; just exacting. Like someone who had been measured her whole life and learned to do the same to others.
They began working through the exercises. Hoshino's handwriting was precise, clean, bordering on elegant. Satoru's notes were efficient, coded in shorthand. Takeshi's, on the other hand, looked like a storm had passed over his page; arrows pointing in every direction, doodles of dogs and half-written seals.
"Okay, okay," Takeshi muttered, brow furrowed. "So chakra moulding's like balancing smell and taste, right? You gotta feel when it's too strong or too weak."
Hoshino blinked. "That's… one way to put it."
Satoru tilted his head slightly. "That's not entirely wrong. You're describing sensory feedback; the body's way of detecting chakra flow irregularities."
Takeshi beamed. "Ha! See? Genius agrees with me."
"I said it's not entirely wrong," Satoru clarified. "Not that it's right."
"Details, details."
Their voices echoed in the hall, mingling with the sound of Maro padding across the tatami, sniffing at scrolls and occasionally sneezing when he brushed his nose against the ink.
Hours seemed to fold into one another. The room grew warmer; golden light slanted across the floorboards.
They soon reached question fourteen.
Hoshino read it aloud, voice crisp. "'In a team setting, what is the optimal response when one member is unable to mould chakra?'"
Takeshi grinned instantly. "Easy. You cover for 'em and beat the snot outta whatever's coming. That's teamwork."
"Incorrect," Satoru said flatly, without looking up. "The optimal response is to adapt formation. You protect the weak point, not drag them through it."
Takeshi frowned. "Yeah, but real teammates don't leave anyone behind, right?"
His words hung in the air; simple, loud, earnest. For a moment, they filled the hall more than any scroll or diagram could.
Something in Satoru's chest tightened. He didn't know why. Maybe it was the certainty in Takeshi's tone; maybe the way he said it like it was the most natural truth in the world.
'He really believes that. Even after the war. Even in this system.'
Hoshino broke the silence. "It's a theoretical question," she said, eyes lowering. "Not real combat."
"So's this whole village sometimes," Satoru murmured, barely loud enough to hear.
Her pale eyes flicked up; sharp, questioning, but she said nothing.
Takeshi stretched his arms with a loud crack! and grinned. "Boom! We nailed that. Easy pass. Let's go eat before Maro eats me."
He pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his pants, and clapped Satoru's shoulder.
"You're way too serious, Yama-chiha," Takeshi said, still grinning. "You'll pop a vein if you keep thinking so hard."
The nickname again. Usually, it felt like an insult; a reminder of everything fractured in his bloodline.
'Half-Uchiha, half-Yamanaka. Belongs to neither.'
But from Takeshi, it didn't sting. There was no malice in it; just… acknowledgement.
He looked at Takeshi; this loud, reckless boy with a grin like sunshine, and exhaled through his nose. "Not bad," he said quietly. "But don't get used to that name."
Takeshi just laughed. "Too late. It suits you." He slung Maro over his shoulder like a furry scarf. "See you at the exams, brain squad."
The door slid shut behind him, leaving only the faint echo of his laughter in the hall.
For a while, neither Satoru nor Hoshino spoke.
"He's loud," she said finally, almost to herself.
"He's honest," Satoru replied.
That made her pause. "You value that?"
He looked down at his notes. "More than most things."
She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded slightly; a quiet acknowledgement, before standing and leaving the hall without another word.
'They're ridiculous,' he thought. 'But they're real.'
He wasn't used to that; the simplicity of people who spoke their minds, who didn't measure every word like a potential weapon. It was messy, unrefined, human. And maybe that was what made it dangerous. Because part of him, the part that still remembered another life, another world, wanted to believe it.
He packed up his scrolls, the sound of paper rolling tight and firm, before leaving.
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