Kakashi stood outside the classroom door, one hand on the handle.
He was late. Deliberately.
Inside, three genin waited—three new weights to carry, three new graves in the making if he failed. The thought made his steps heavier than usual.
He could already hear the faint creak of the chalkboard eraser balanced on top of the door. Naruto's prank. Predictable.
His fingers tightened around the orange book in his pocket.
For a moment, he hesitated.
Another classroom. Another door. Another life.
The memory rose unbidden, sharp as a kunai.
(Past – Ninja Academy, 15–16 years ago)
The Ninja Academy was too orderly. Perfect rows. Freshly swept floors. Restrained voices. Everything in its place.
Kakashi Hatake hated that kind of order.
Leaning against the classroom wall, arms crossed, he observed in silence. He wasn't much older than the students, but the gap between them was vast. They were learning rules. He had already seen what was left behind when those rules broke.
He didn't want to be there.
The Third Hokage had assigned him as a temporary assistant instructor "so you can share your experience." Kakashi had accepted without protest, as he accepted everything since his father's death: comply, obey, don't think too much.
The sensei was lecturing about pressure points in the tenketsu system. Kakashi wasn't listening.
Until something broke the monotony.
At the very last desk, separated from the others, a boy sat with bare feet resting on the wooden floor. A bandage completely covered his eyes.
He wasn't taking notes. He wasn't following the lesson. He was simply there—still, as if listening to something no one else could hear.
Kakashi narrowed his eye.
"Who's that student?" he asked quietly during the break.
"Toph," the sensei replied in a low voice. "Transferred a few weeks ago from a border village. Excellent in field practice."
"And the bandage?"
"Blind since birth. Don't ask him to remove it—he refuses outright."
Kakashi showed no reaction.
He watched as Toph tilted his head slightly every time someone shifted position or stepped harder. He wasn't following sound. He was following the vibrations in the floor.
Interesting.
"Does he participate in sparring?"
"When I order him to," the instructor sighed. "He doesn't always obey. And when he does… the others end up with more bruises than expected."
That was enough.
The training yard was dry, dust drifting lazily beneath the midday sun.
"Practical exercise," Kakashi announced evenly. "Taijutsu. No weapons. No advanced jutsu."
The students exchanged nervous glances. No one wanted to volunteer.
"You," he said, pointing toward the back.
Toph slowly lifted his head.
"Me? Why me?"
"Because you weren't paying attention."
Toph gave a crooked, insolent smile.
"I was paying attention to something more important."
A few students snickered. Kakashi didn't.
He positioned himself three meters away.
"Whenever you're ready," Toph said, his voice calm—almost bored.
Kakashi attacked without warning.
Toph moved first.
A minimal sidestep. Kakashi's fist passed a finger's width from his face.
Kakashi chained faster, sharper strikes, testing angles.
The ground rose just enough to deflect an elbow—not a visible jutsu, just compacted earth surging up as if responding to a silent command.
A murmur rippled through the group.
Kakashi jumped, shifting his angle midair.
When he landed, the ground vibrated beneath his feet. His balance faltered for a split second.
A wall of compacted earth erupted in front of him, stopping him dead. The impact thudded dully against his crossed forearms.
Too close.
Absolute silence.
"You always strike first," Toph said, breathing evenly. "It's predictable, genius."
Kakashi stepped back, adjusting the band covering his newly awakened Sharingan.
"That's enough," the instructor cut in, tense.
Toph turned and returned to his spot, barefoot and unhurried. Dust clung to the soles of his feet as if it recognized him.
After classes, the room was empty.
Only Toph remained at the last desk, feet on the floor, as though waiting for something.
Kakashi approached and stopped a few steps away.
"You don't use your eyes," he said.
"I don't need them," Toph replied without moving.
"That makes you vulnerable."
Toph turned his head precisely toward him.
"No. It makes you loud. Your steps sound like drums. Your heart beats too fast when you lie."
Kakashi clenched his jaw. No one had spoken to him like that since… since his father.
"People will look at you differently," he said at last. "With pity."
Toph stood slowly. He was shorter than Kakashi, but his presence didn't feel that way.
"I don't need your pity, genius," Toph said, voice steady and sharp. "Never have."
He walked past him toward the door. As he passed, he added quietly:
"Besides… the earth doesn't lie. People do."
He left.
Kakashi remained alone beneath the fading light filtering through the windows.
For the first time in a long while, something hadn't been resolved through sheer speed or technique.
And, strangely, it didn't bother him as much as it should have.
That night, in his empty apartment, Kakashi opened a file he had borrowed from the Academy archives.
Beifong Clan. Specialists in sensory Doton techniques. Nearly extinct after the Second Great War.
He closed the folder.
The earth doesn't lie, Toph had said.
Kakashi looked down at the wooden floor beneath his feet.
For the first time, he wondered what the other boy might be listening to at that very moment—and whether the earth ever whispered back.