The exam hall buzzed with an undercurrent of anticipation as Nara Shikaku lazily stepped forward, arms tucked within his flak jacket and eyes half‑lidded, as if he couldn't care less who passed or failed. Yet everyone in the room knew better than to underestimate him; every word from this man carried weight.
"This exam," Shikaku began, his tone steady, "will be conducted in groups. When you enter the examination room, you will receive a set of written questions—eight in total."
Dozens of young Genin leaned forward slightly, trying to commit every syllable to memory.
"These eight questions cover ninja discipline and common sense. Each correct answer is worth ten points."
A collective exhale ran through the crowd. That didn't sound too bad.
Shikaku's gaze sharpened. "After fifty minutes have passed, during the final ten minutes of the exam… the ninth question will appear. That one is worth twenty points. Whether you answer it is entirely up to you. Consider carefully. A passing score is sixty points. Score below that, and you're eliminated."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Shigure, seated between Hyūga Akane and Kusuo Hatake, silently repeated the words in his head. Sixty points—just six correct answers. On the surface, it seemed manageable. But there was always a sting hidden in Konoha's exams.
Shikaku adjusted his headband slightly. "Now, listen very carefully. If you attempt the ninth question and fail, then even if you scored perfectly before, you will be eliminated." His mouth curled into the faintest grin. "If you don't trust yourself, it would be wiser to stop at question eight."
A chill spread through the room. Shigure glanced out the corner of his eye; a few Genin were already shifting uneasily.
"If you refuse the ninth question and your score does not reach sixty, you're also done," Shikaku continued flatly. "Your written result will also determine your battle order in the next practical exam. Higher scores will be rewarded with better match placements. The next examiner will explain those rules."
Heads bowed quickly over desks. The psychological seeds were being sown.
Shikaku's voice, calm yet scathing, pressed again: "And just in case you thought failing was trivial—think again. Any candidate eliminated in this exam will not be allowed to take the Chūnin Exams again for three years. Worse, if you are caught cheating—or even suspected of it—you will be banned for life."
That last sentence fell like a kunai to the gut. Many Genin flinched outright.
Shigure rested his chin on his hands. So that's their trick this year. In the original exam he had studied, proctors permitted a degree of "cheating," testing how creatively Genin could gather information. Here? A different cruelty: crushing fear of failure, of dragging your own teammates down with you. Brilliant. Brutal.
Shigure's dark eyes tightened slightly. I just don't know what that ninth question will turn out to be…
At the front, Shikaku let the words sink in before almost lazily shrugging. "If you lack confidence, you can still walk away. Step out now, and your entire squad will be disqualified. But you'll avoid worse consequences later."
Gasps broke out across the room. The threat of dragging down one's team was its own poison.
Shigure forced himself not to grimace. He glanced at Kusuo; the silver‑haired boy's jaw tightened stubbornly, but he showed no sign of moving. Akane's fists tightened on her lap, her pale lavender eyes fixed dead ahead. They weren't going anywhere. Good.
"I remind you," Shikaku pressed, "Konoha holds two selection exams a year. There are always other chances. But if you gamble recklessly, you may end up chained to the rank of Genin forever." His words slithered like smoke into the ears of the most anxious candidates.
Trembling, one boy rose from his seat. "I… I choose to withdraw. Three years is too long, but better than losing everything now." His two teammates followed reluctantly, their faces pale.
Shikaku gave a nod that was almost approving. "A wise decision. Remember—thinking ahead is also part of a ninja's strength. Do not drag others down with blind pride."
His words hit fertile ground. Slowly, hands went up across the room. More Genin began excusing themselves. Chairs scraped, footsteps echoed, and a steady trickle of squads abandoned the exam altogether.
Shigure narrowed his eyes at one student in particular—the very first who had raised his hand. The boy's movements were too sharp, too deliberate. A plant. I knew it. Shikaku's using shills to feed fear and flush out the weak‑willed. A clever tactic, if infuriating.
At last, those who remained were silent. Not many had left, but the message resounded: this was not an exam for the faint‑hearted.
Shikaku checked the clock. "Very well," he murmured. "Time to begin." He gave a nod, and the proctors fanned out, unsealing heavy packets of exam papers before setting them one by one onto the desks.
The soft hiss of paper unfolding filled the room, followed by the scratch of pens on parchment.
Shigure adjusted his collar. With practiced calm, he scrawled his name—Uchiha Shigure—alongside his shinobi ID. For some reason, the act reminded him absurdly of test IDs from another life, back in a far more ordinary world.
He flipped the sheet, and his lips parted slightly.
"Question One: In the ninja world, what are the names of the three shinobi known as the Sannin?"
He almost laughed out loud. Is this a trick? Even toddlers know this.
The pen practically raced across the page: Jiraiya, Tsunade, Orochimaru.
He skimmed the next seven questions. Each one was astonishingly simple: geography, history, basic principles of chakra. What is this? A children's quiz? They can't be serious…
Yet he stayed cautious. Questions one through seven, he dispatched in minutes. Then he reached the eighth.
"Who founded Konohagakure?"
Shigure's pen paused mid‑air. Finally, some depth.
Most will answer Senju Hashirama alone, he thought. But that's not the whole truth. Konoha was born not from one man, but from a reconciliation—the Senju and Uchiha seeking peace. Someone who forgets that is unfit to wear a Chūnin's flak jacket.
His pen flowed again: Senju Hashirama. Senju Tobirama. Uchiha Madara. Three names, settling firmly across the paper like stones in a riverbed. Satisfaction warmed his chest.
Now I should have eighty points secured. The ninth question… that's where judgment falls.
Behind his lowered lashes, he activated his dōjutsu discreetly. The faint glow of the Byakuran flickered behind his irises. Quickly, he peeked toward Akane's paper. Her neat handwriting matched his answers—save one small difference on question eight. Still, she'd certainly cross the sixty threshold. Relief loosened his shoulders.
He shifted subtly, letting the Sharingan flare just enough to glance at Kusuo's sheet. What he saw nearly made him choke.
The boy's answers sprawled like carelessly tossed kunai. Names misspelled, logic leaps, half the questions unanswered. It looked less like an exam submission and more like a child's doodles.
Shigure's eyes widened in panic, nearly breaking his calm façade. This guy… are you seriously here to ruin me?
He pressed his fist over his mouth, holding back either laughter or despair. With a sinking heart, dread gnawed at him. If Kusuo combusted on paper, the entire squad might tumble into failure with him.
The minutes ticked by. Shigure forced himself to steady his breathing. The ninth question hadn't yet appeared. The real battle was still waiting, like the calm before a storm.
His pen hovered in readiness.
No matter what comes, we can't afford to falter now.
The clock struck sharply. At the very top of each exam sheet, faint ink began to bloom—lines etching themselves across the page, forming the text of the fated ninth question.
Shigure's heart pounded in his chest.
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