Humans are social creatures. Even children instinctively form small groups—some as large as seven or eight, others as small as two or three.
Minato had striking features and a gentle, likable personality, so it was no surprise that he was always surrounded by friends.
Amano Ren's eyes briefly passed over the crowded seats near Minato before quietly shifting away. He headed toward a quieter corner of the room.
He had never tried to blend in with others. Even when he'd been forced into unsavory street groups in the past, it was always out of necessity. From a young age, Ren had survived by relying solely on himself. That self-reliance had hardened into a core belief: only I can be trusted.
Minato's smile faltered as he once again watched Ren ignore him. Surrounded by curious stares, he slowly lowered his outstretched hand and scratched his head awkwardly before sitting down. Yet even as he did, he glanced discreetly toward Ren, a deep curiosity flickering in his eyes.
Instead of getting upset, Minato found himself puzzled by Ren's evident aloofness.
Once he'd taken his seat, the kids around Minato immediately began asking about his relationship with Ren. Minato brushed their questions aside vaguely, but this only made his friends assume Ren was being rude.
Ren had chosen the seat at the far-left back corner of the classroom—by the window and completely empty. As he sat down, his gaze drifted outside to the training field. It was summer, and the sunlight was intense and searing, flooding the view with a brightness so sharp it nearly reflected back at him.
About ten minutes passed.
Clack!
The classroom door was suddenly shoved open. A rugged-looking man with a single eye strode inside. As he shut the door behind him, the chatter in the room instantly died.
The one-eyed man gave a barely noticeable nod as he observed the sudden silence. His sharp gaze swept across the students before he walked toward the podium. His steps, though steady, were oddly uneven.
After the Second Great Ninja War, the quality of instructors in the village had soared. The current generation of academy teachers were all seasoned warriors who had stepped back from the battlefield. Many had done so not by choice, but due to injuries that hindered their abilities. Most who returned from war either died, or came back scarred in ways that left lasting effects—like this man. His left leg's chakra pathways were completely destroyed. Though officially a chunin, he'd likely struggle even against a fresh genin.
He was heavily built, a Konoha forehead protector strapped across his brow, his hair wrapped under a blue scarf. His features were harsh, and a deep scar in the shape of a cross carved across his right eye made him appear even more fearsome.
"My name is Zekima Ki," he said, his voice low and cold. "Starting today, I'll be your instructor. I won't waste time with pleasantries. If any of you show you're unworthy of this place, you're better off going home now."
His words landed like stones, heavy and unflinching. Just his appearance and entrance alone were enough to make many students shrink into their seats.
At the Hokage's Office
Sarutobi had just finished reviewing a document when he rose from his desk and walked to the window, his gaze directed toward the academy. Knowing Zekima's temperament, he murmured to himself:
"The time for true growth is three years from now, not today. Don't be too harsh on them."
What Sarutobi didn't realize was that Zekima had already made a powerful impression—one that left no room for doubt or softness. He had given every student a brutal reality check the moment he stepped into the classroom. If there had been any other viable candidate, Sarutobi would not have appointed him.
Inside the classroom, not a single sound could be heard. Zekima's intense pressure caused many students to lower their eyes, unwilling to meet his gaze. Only a few kept looking directly at him—Amano Ren among them, as well as Minato.
Zekima quickly took note of the students who weren't intimidated. He reined in his presence, clapped his hands, and said in a slightly softer—though still heavy—tone:
"Alright, starting from the left, introduce yourselves. Keep it short."
The self-introductions didn't take long, and Zekima wasted no time jumping into the lesson.
"Chakra is a form of energy created by combining mental and physical power. It's the essential force needed to perform ninjutsu. If you want to become a ninja, the first step is learning how to harness chakra—to make it something you can control."
His voice lacked any trace of enthusiasm, but he spoke with deliberate pacing and clear enunciation. Surprisingly, it suited a classroom setting.
Then, without warning, he raised three fingers.
"You have three years," he said flatly, "to learn what it takes to be a ninja."
Two fingers folded down sharply. His tone turned cold and stern.
"But you only have one year to prove that you're even qualified. If you can't form chakra within that time… then go home."
Gulp…
The room went dead silent. Even the sound of someone nervously swallowing seemed unusually loud.
Amano Ren felt his heart jolt. One year—if he couldn't produce chakra in that time, all his hopes would be gone. He clenched his fists under the desk, a steely resolve hardening in his eyes.
Becoming a ninja… isn't something you can do easily.
Zekima's voice dropped into a more somber register, as if remembering something from the past.
By the end of the day, Ren hadn't learned much technique-wise, but he'd gained a basic understanding of the structure that governed this new world.
Ninja—this was the term for individuals with special abilities.
Genin, Chunin, Jonin… and Hokage.
The ninja hierarchy was clearly defined. Rank was determined by the amount of chakra one possessed and how skillfully they could use it. Those capable of advanced ninjutsu typically had exceptional innate talent—people born with a natural affinity for controlling chakra.
Back home, Ren couldn't stop thinking about everything he'd learned about this world. Right now, he wasn't even at the level of a genin. Zekima had said it would take three years just to qualify for that. Worse still, if he couldn't even mold chakra, he'd never become a ninja at all.
Zekima, his instructor, was a Chunin. But Orochimaru—the man who had taken him in—was at least a Jonin, possibly far beyond. If Ren could form chakra, then anytime he had questions or needed help, he could turn to Orochimaru. That alone could speed up his progress far more than any classroom lesson.
Thinking this, a small smile crept onto his young face.
Meeting Orochimaru might not have been such a bad thing after all—even if their first encounter had been more than a little unpleasant.
"Not bad," he muttered.
He lowered his head and looked at his small palm, eyes burning with determination.