Chakra rampaged through his meridians like a wild horse that had slipped its reins.
Did I really succeed?
The surging chakra drove Julian White into the infamous "Uchiha mad laughter," the kind whispered about in the village.
I can feel it! Is this what it means for power to flood your body? I feel invincible!
Unfortunately, that illusion of composure lasted less than three seconds. The overwhelming energy did not flow into his limbs or bones. Instead, it executed a perfect turn and charged straight for his core. Julian's abdomen was the first to raise the flag of rebellion.
Wait… something feels very wrong. That dinner at Grandma Mito's house…
The manic grin froze on Julian's face. One hand clutched his stomach, the other covered his mouth as he fought to suppress the half-digested food surging upward.
Like a shrimp tossed into boiling water, he began rolling across the floor in agony.
As the iron law of the spinning drum washing machine would say, truth is singular. Swallowing several ordinary soldier pills at once does not grant explosive chakra. It only gives you violent diarrhea.
As expected, the young lady known as "Please Do Not Die" sat this digestive war out entirely. Her ability did not activate.
Meanwhile, Julian formed an intimate bond with the toilet and came to understand a fundamental law of the ninja world. If you do not seek death, you will not die. If you recklessly seek death, you will die without dignity.
In the end, he did not die.
Some doors should never be opened lightly, especially the door to the bathroom.
Vomiting. Diarrhea.
If something with such catastrophic social consequences happened during tomorrow's exam, it would all be over.
Conclusion: Failure.
Thinking of the coming assessment, determination settled over Julian's face. Today, he had to show real results and reveal his strength when it mattered.
So he prepared an explosive tag.
The next morning, as the sun rose, the training grounds of the Konoha Ninja Academy were already packed.
Golden morning light draped the entire field in a warm glow.
Today was the annual entrance examination, held alongside the upperclassmen's mock exams so that new students could witness firsthand the strength of their seniors.
The air carried the scent of grass and soil, mixed with the faint smell of nervous sweat from children's palms.
There were many participants, but roughly one tenth would be eliminated in the first round, so overcrowding was never an issue. Unlike the sports meets of Julian's previous life, no one was crushed together.
The grounds were broad and open. A one-kilometer track circled the central lawn. Along its edge stood dozens of reinforced wooden posts, pitted and scarred, silently bearing witness to years of students honing their taijutsu.
At one end of the field stood a row of shuriken targets, their bright red centers glaring under the sun. Beneath the shade of nearby trees, parents gathered, watching their children with hope-filled eyes.
The air buzzed with whispered conversations, tense breathing, and the instructors' flat, emotionless commands, cold and precise.
Just as Julian had expected, under the teachers' ironclad standards, those with inadequate physiques, weak fingers, poor flexibility, or insufficient strength were swept away like a receding tide, quickly clearing space for class placement.
The survivors lined up neatly like trained soldiers and proceeded through each test in turn. Physical fitness, shuriken throwing, basic hand seals. Each person moved efficiently through their role. This simple entrance exam included no ninjutsu. Only physical assessment. A merciless octagonal arena.
First came shuriken throwing. One by one, students stepped forward, cold steel in hand, eyes locked on distant targets.
Results varied widely. Some shuriken struck the bullseye like lightning, drawing gasps of admiration. Others flew weakly, wobbling like kites with snapped strings before tumbling uselessly into the grass.
This was hardly surprising. Many had never touched a shuriken before.
Near the strength-testing pillar, a crowd gathered around a reinforced log. A middle-aged man in a green jumpsuit stepped forward, inhaled deeply, and threw what looked like an ordinary straight punch.
Bang.
Spiderweb cracks burst across the log. Under stunned stares, the upper half collapsed in a shower of splinters.
Silence.
A young proctor stood frozen, his clipboard clattering to the ground.
"This is youth!" the man declared, twisting his waist. "Thank you for the applause!"
The spectators' expressions darkened. Was this man serious?
By noon, the blazing sun roasted the oval track. Heat shimmered in the air as sweat poured from students like waterfalls.
Droplets struck the grass and vanished instantly.
The final test was the endurance run. Run as far as you can. Push your limits. New students on the inner lane, upperclassmen on the outer lane.
This was the academy's true strength. An ordinary child trained here could achieve astonishing growth.
The Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, stood atop the viewing platform, enduring the same relentless sun.
For the students, his presence was more inspiring than any speech.
Beneath the Hokage's robes, eyes sharp as a hawk swept across the tense young faces lining the start.
For the new students, this was the final selection before admission.
This was not merely a race. It was a trial of will. Not who was strongest, but who could endure until the end. The first crucible of Konoha's future shinobi.
The leaves hung motionless. Even the cicadas fell silent. The stillness was more terrifying than any roar.
Children lined up, sweat beading slowly. Clan-born youths from the Hyuga and Uchiha stood calm, breathing steady, their formations displaying disciplined training.
Civilian children clenched their jaws, knuckles whitening, eyes filled with fear of the unknown and stubborn refusal to fail.
"Ready," the chunin examiner called, his voice slicing through the silence.
"Go!"
The next instant, thunderous footsteps erupted. Dozens of figures shot forward, kicking up dust and gravel.
From the very start, the gap was clear. Clan heirs moved like well-trained cheetahs, agile and controlled, maintaining an even pace along the inner lane.
Their ninja running posture was textbook, arms trailing loosely behind.
The civilian children were chaos. Some sprinted blindly. Others, more clever, tucked themselves behind the pack, borrowing airflow to conserve energy.
The Third Hokage's gaze did not linger on the frontrunners. Instead, it settled on the middle and rear of the pack.