By ten years old, everyone wanted to be special.
I wanted to be overlooked.
These goals were not compatible.
---
The Academy changed after the first few years.
The smiles thinned.
The games stopped being games.
Weapons were no longer wooden. Mistakes stopped being corrected verbally and started being corrected physically. Sometimes medically. Sometimes not at all.
No one complained.
The kids who complained didn't last.
---
They started ranking us.
Not officially, of course.
Officially, we were all "students of equal potential." Unofficially, instructors talked. Clipboards appeared. Names were circled. Others were quietly crossed out.
I stayed in the middle.
Always the middle.
Middle grades. Middle speed. Middle chakra.
The middle was safe.
---
Mika did not stay in the middle.
She discovered she had excellent chakra control.
Not flashy control. Not genius-level. Just… steady. Clean. The kind medics liked.
Instructors noticed.
I congratulated her.
Then I went home and added another rule to my notebook.
Rule Two: Anyone praised too often is already dead.
---
The first real test came disguised as teamwork.
They paired us up and sent us into the forest with one instruction:
Retrieve the flag.
No time limit.
No map.
No warning about traps.
We were children.
---
I was paired with a boy named Daichi.
Strong. Fast. Loud.
He liked to announce his moves. He believed confidence was armor.
I believed confidence was a target.
---
We found the flag easily.
Too easily.
I stopped.
Daichi didn't.
He stepped forward.
The ground gave way.
---
The trap wasn't lethal by design.
That was the worst part.
It was meant to injure. To test response. To see who panicked.
Daichi screamed.
His leg was bent wrong. Bone white against red. He begged me not to leave.
I didn't leave.
I froze.
Because the instructors were watching.
And suddenly, this wasn't about saving him.
It was about what saving him would cost me.
---
If I carried him, I'd be noticed. If I healed him, I'd be evaluated. If I failed, I'd be remembered.
Daichi kept screaming.
I applied a tourniquet.
Correctly.
Then I waited.
---
The screams stopped after a while.
Not because he died.
Because he passed out.
When instructors arrived, they praised my calm response.
"Good judgment," one said.
I nodded.
That night, I threw up until my throat burned.
---
Daichi survived.
He never returned to the Academy.
People said he was lucky.
I stopped listening when people said that word.
---
After that, instructors watched me differently.
Not closely.
Carefully.
I adjusted.
I failed a shuriken test the next week.
On purpose.
---
The second test was worse.
It was sparring.
Full contact.
No killing blows allowed.
That rule did a lot of heavy lifting.
---
My opponent was Mika.
She looked nervous.
I looked bored.
We bowed.
---
She was better than me.
Not overwhelmingly.
Just enough.
Enough that winning would mark her. Enough that losing would erase me.
I let her win.
Cleanly.
Convincingly.
The instructor smiled at her progress.
I smiled too.
My knuckles hurt for days.
---
After class, Mika apologized.
"I didn't go easy," she said.
"Good," I replied. "Don't."
She laughed.
I didn't.
---
That evening, I overheard instructors talking.
Not about me.
Which meant I was succeeding.
They talked about promising students.
They talked about fast-tracking.
They talked about war like it was weather.
I went home and sharpened a kunai I hoped never to use.
---
By twelve, we were killing animals.
Not to eat.
To practice.
I learned where to cut so it was quick.
I hated that I was good at that.
---
Mika got scouted by a medic-nin.
She was glowing.
I told her I was proud.
That wasn't a lie.
The lie was pretending I didn't see the target forming on her back.
---
Graduation loomed.
Teams would be assigned.
Lives would be shortened.
I reviewed every failure I'd ever staged.
Every weakness I'd displayed.
I hoped it would be enough.
---
On the last day before final evaluations, Iruka-sensei handed back our files.
Mine was thin.
That terrified me more than if it had been thick.
---
That night, I added a third rule.
Rule Three: Survival requires guilt. Budget accordingly.
I slept poorly.
Which meant I slept like everyone else.