Five minutes.
That was how long Daigo-sensei had given the class to get outside and line up.
Naturally, being kids, they were all still scrambling out the door when he started counting down from ten.
Murakami nudged Katsuro who was looking dazedly at the ceiling and calmly stood up before walking over to queue up.
And just as the countdown reached 1, Katsuro joined up, earning him a glare from Daigo-sensei.
"Good. Now, follow me." He said and turned, leading the line out of the academy building and onto the training field, where the upperclassmen were already gathered in neat rows.
They all stood at attention, their faces a mix of determination, boredom, and quiet kind of terror that only comes from knowing your future hinges on whether you can show a good performance.
Unlike Murakami's class, the upperclassmen weren't here to observe, they were here to prove themselves worthy to become shinobi of Konoha.
An Honour in its own way.
"Alright, listen up," Daigo-sensei announced once we were all assembled, "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 Kenji, who gave his most innocent, totally-won't-cause-trouble smile.
Daigo-sensei was not fooled.
"The graduation exam consists of two parts," Daigo-sensei explained. "First, the three foundational techniques: Clone, Transformation, and Substitution. You won't fail the exam if you perform them poorly… but your scores will be recorded."
(A/N: I'm changing something here. Since this is the 1st shinobi war period, the first of its kind, there is a shortage of shinobi so the academy won't be picky. Instead I'll be introducing something else.)
This immediately got the class's attention.
"Those scores," he continued, "will follow each of you into your career. They affect recommendations, team placements, and promotion prospects. So even if you pass the Academy… those who score higher here start with an advantage."
A few students visibly stiffened. Pressure without the threat of failure was still pressure.
Murakami listened and observed quietly. The Shinobi Academy system was still in its infancy period and the system was typical of Konoha in the aftermath of Hashirama's death.
The war was already at its peak with even Tobirama having lost his life.
Konoha needed new blood and the competition sharpened, standards rose, and the village prepared in its own way for conflict without openly saying so.
"After the jutsu evaluation," Daigo-sensei went on, "they'll conduct a sparring assessment. Not to determine who becomes shinobi, everyone graduates, but to determine combat aptitude."
Someone raised a hand. "Will they get injured?"
Daigo shrugged. "Maybe. The instructors will intervene before anything serious happens. The goal isn't to hurt each other, it's to measure your general combat aptitude."
Compared to Daigo's calm, almost lazy demeanor, the proctor from Class 6-A was the complete opposite.
He stood with a sharp posture and a clinical gaze of a man who treated evaluations with the same seriousness as battlefield missions.
He stood with a clipboard in hand.
"We will begin," he announced. "When your name is called, step forward and perform the Clone, Transformation, and Substitution Techniques in that order."
"Your performance will be graded on your control, fluidity, and chakra stability. These results will be added to your official Academy record."
As soon as his words fell, tense whispers spread through the graduating students. Not fear of failing but fear of being average.
Murakami observed from the sidelines in interest. This exam would shape the next few years of their careers and while that was mildly interesting, his real interest lay in how much he compared with them.
Soon enough, a silence fell over the field and the instructor's gaze swept over the group. "First, Aburame Tetsuo."
A lanky boy with dark goggles and the characteristic high collar and dark glasses of the Aburame clan stepped forward.
As expected of an Aburame, the boy's movements were eerily precise and completely devoid of wasted motion.
Murakami however, didn't recognize his name. That alone meant he probably wasn't important enough to be remembered alongside the Sannin, or he'd died quietly somewhere along the way.
But he wasn't naive enough to let that fool him.
The classification of strength in this world was skewed. The story only remembered the monsters, the prodigies, the Hokage candidates, and the tragedies dramatic enough to be retold.
Everyone else, no matter how talented, simply vanished into the cracks of time.
There were countless shinobi whose skills far surpassed what the series bothered to ever acknowledge.
So the fact that Murakami didn't know this boy's name meant absolutely nothing.
If anything, it made him more cautious.
Because the quiet ones…the unknown ones…those were the ones who usually had something dangerous hiding beneath the surface.
Murakami narrowed his eyes slightly, observing the boy from the corner of his vision.
And just as expected, the student executed all three jutsu flawlessly.
His clone appeared with uncanny accuracy and without the burst of smoke, his transformation into the proctor was almost unsettling in its precision, and his substitution was a swift maneuver that suggested he'd been practicing for some time.
He didn't even look winded when he was done.
"Pass," the proctor announced, marking something down on his scroll. "Next, Aoki Reina."
One by one, students were called forward. Some stepped up confidently; others hesitated.
A few slipped up in spectacular fashion, one unfortunate soul managed to transform into a deeply troubling version of his instructor, complete with an oversized head and a shriveled left arm.
He was dismissed immediately, and from what Murakami sensed through his chakra perception, Daigo-sensei's reaction suggested the poor boy was going to have a hard time as a shinobi.
"Harada Denji," the proctor called.
A broad-shouldered boy trudged forward, moving like someone approaching their own execution.
His Clone Jutsu was… serviceable, though the duplicate looked mildly concussed.
His Transformation Jutsu mimicked the proctor's height but somehow included an extra ear. By the time he attempted the Substitution, he was openly sweating.
He formed the seals, disappeared in a puff of smoke, only to appear in the exact same spot, replacing himself… with himself.
A heavy silence settled over the field.
The proctor's face didn't so much as twitch. "Fail."
Harada Denji sagged and shuffled off, the picture of defeated resignation.
The exam continued, some students excelled, others scraped by, and a few were cut on the spot.
Then, after what felt like ages, a name rang out that made the entire field buzz with anticipation.
"Hatake Sakumo."
Murakami's head lifted. "Hmm?" he hummed aloud. 'Now that was a name impossible to ignore.'
Beside him, Kenji muttered, "Oh boy…I heard he's the strongest of his year."
Murakami smirked. "Hatake Sakumo, huh? Guess I should start taking notes for the history books."
"You don't even take notes for class," Katsuro standing at his other side said with a disdainful sneer.
"Exactly." Murakami nodded seriously. "That's how you know this is serious."
At twelve years old, Sakumo was already a whispered legend among the students.
A kenjutsu prodigy, gifted with skill sharp enough to cut paper, he was one of the few whose graduation wasn't in question.
Sakumo stepped forward with a calm expression. His silver hair subtly reflected the sunlight as he moved with quiet, natural grace.
His movement held no tension or hesitation, just the steady confidence of someone who belonged on a battlefield more than a classroom.
'Now that's the protagonist's aura right there,' Murakami thought dryly. 'Best to keep a respectful distance.'
He remembered enough from the anime to know exactly who this boy would become: Hatake Sakumo, the White Fang of Konoha.
A future legend whose reputation would overshadow even the Sannins.
And here he was, before the fame, before the wars, before the tragedy.
The proctor nodded. "Proceed."
Sakumo brought his hands together. "Clone Jutsu."
A faint shimmer poured out and two perfect clones appeared beside Sakumo.
Not passable clones, perfect ones. There was no flicker in their outlines, no strange distortions, no mismatched expressions.
To anyone not paying close attention, the three Sakumos standing there looked identical in every way.
'Tch. Geniuses.' Murakami clicked his tongue but then caught himself. 'Wait… technically I'm considered a genius too. So I'm basically cursing myself…tch.'
He clicked his tongue again, abandoning the thought. 'Whatever.'
He knew the effort he put in to be able to perform at the level he could perform.
An indescribable feeling suddenly 'Is this how others probably perceived me?' he thought to himself.
They didn't see his sweat but saw his success. Obviously, they would term him a genius.
Murakami's eyes swept over the three Sakumos again, noting the effortless precision in their build, perfect enough to pass as the original.
It was the kind of skill that made him pause, not in envy, but in recognition.
He knew from experience that mastery like this wasn't granted by talent alone.
There were years of repetition.
A flicker of realization hit him at the reality that most people only ever saw the final product.
They never saw the countless failures and the strain that built the skill into something impressive.
'That's the problem with being good,' he mused silently. 'People see the finish line and assume the race was easy.'
He adjusted slightly, squaring his shoulders as if preparing himself.
Watching them, Murakami realized something crucial: admiration was meaningless unless it fueled his own growth.
If he wanted people to ever truly understand his strength, or to surpass the people they labeled geniuses, he'd have to push harder.
Fail more and adapt faster.
The proctor made a small sound of approval. "Transformation Jutsu."
Sakumo formed the seals and in an instant, his form shifted as a flawless copy of the Second Hokage now stood before them.
And it wasn't just the appearance, the posture, the calm authority, even the faint crease between the brows and glare were all perfectly replicated.
The watching students murmured in awe amongst themselves.
"Substitution Jutsu," the proctor instructed.
Sakumo's hands moved again, quickly and then disappeared without even the customary puff of smoke as a log of wood appeared where he stood.
Murakami blinked. Now that was unsettling.
Someone his age actually stood at the same level of skill as him. He didn't know whether to feel apprehensive or competitive.
'If he's capable of that at this age… what does that mean for me?' Murakami thought, a spark of determination igniting in him.
He'd spent countless hours honing his skills, pushing past limits that others might have avoided, but seeing someone else at his level, so close in age, reminded him that effort alone wasn't enough.
'I can't fall behind.' The thought settled like a weight on his shoulders, but instead of discouraging him, it sharpened his focus.
This wasn't just an observation anymore, it was a challenge, and Murakami intended to rise to it.
A heartbeat later, Sakumo reappeared ten feet away, standing exactly where the proctor was.
Even Daigo hummed under his breath, the closest thing Murakami had ever seen to an approval from the man since the evaluation began.
The proctor gave a curt nod. "Pass."
As Sakumo returned to the line, Murakami's gaze tracked him with an intensity he himself wasn't aware of.
'Yeah. He's Strong.' Murakami thought to himself as an emotion he hadn't felt since coming to this world rose within him.
His hand clenched over his chest almost without thinking as his heartbeat quickened, a strange tension coiling inside him.
'What… is this feeling?' he wondered, brow furrowing. 'Is this the excitement that comes with having a rival? Competitive spirit?'
The realization hit him slowly. 'Ah… he's a worthy rival.'
And just then, as if sensing the intensity of Murakami's gaze, Sakumo turned. Their eyes met.
For a fraction of a second, the world narrowed. No words were exchanged, but something unspoken passed between them.
Murakami regained clarity as his fingers relaxed slightly, though the fire in his chest didn't fade. 'This… this was going to be interesting.'