The sight of Itachi was like a kunai thrown straight into Satoru's chest. His breath caught, his muscles stiffened, and for a fleeting moment, he forgot entirely where he was.
'What the hell is he doing here?'
He hadn't expected this, not so soon, not in this way.
Meeting Itachi was something he thought would happen in the near future; perhaps when he had already carved out a place for himself, already prepared. But not now. Not here, on the day the Academy gates opened to children still stumbling over chakra control.
'Wait… is Itachi the same age as me? Wasn't he supposed to be older?'
His thoughts raced, tangling into knots. He tried to untangle the mess with what scraps of memory he could pull from the anime's timeline. He ticked the pieces off in his head: Minato was Hokage at this moment, his carved face absent still from the mountain, but his presence already official.
Which meant they were months, maybe even a year, away from Obito's attack and the Nine-Tails rampage. Which also meant Naruto's conception should be imminent, if not already.
If Naruto would be born in a year, then Mikoto Uchiha should either be heavily pregnant with Sasuke right now or have just given birth to him. Sasuke, only months older than Naruto, was about half a decade younger than Itachi. By that math… yes. It lined up perfectly. Of course, Itachi would be enrolling this year, about five years old, a prodigy already in the making.
"Damn it," Satoru muttered under his breath. His fists clenched at his sides. He berated himself silently.
'How could I not see this? How could I not piece the timeline together sooner? I should've been aware… I should've been ready.'
His chest tightened with a cold realisation.
He had, at best, seven or eight years to get strong enough to survive what was coming. The slaughter. The night when Obito and Itachi cut down the entire Uchiha clan like wheat beneath a scythe. If he were part of the clan by then, he'd be a target. If he wasn't… then perhaps he could manoeuvre, take advantage of the tragedy, seize something from the blood-soaked ashes before it was gone forever.
Either way, survival would demand strength. Power. More than he had now, more than he could even dream of possessing yet.
"Children. Gather. It is time to begin."
A rasping voice, deep and commanding, tore him out of his storming thoughts.
Satoru snapped his head up. The man standing before them was tall, broad-shouldered, with hair shaved close on the sides and tied back loosely at the top. His voice carried authority, the kind that made the rowdier orphans hush instantly.
"I am Shibata Haru, one of your instructors here at the Academy," the man announced, his gaze sweeping over them like a hawk sizing up prey. "From this moment forward, your training begins."
The murmurs of children and their guardians died away.
"First, we separate you. Those with unlocked chakra to my right. Those who have yet to unlock it, to my left."
At once, the group split. The division was almost painfully obvious. Every child from the established clans; Hyuga, Inuzuka, Akimichi, Nara, Aburame, Sarutobi and others stepped confidently to the right. They carried themselves with certainty; their parents had ensured their training had begun years ago.
Satoru moved too, with Ito and Ayano at his side. They joined that smaller, stronger group since their chakra had long been opened under Nono's watchful guidance. Alongside them stood three more children whose parents were shinobi, though not from shinobi clans.
On the other side, a larger mass of orphans and civilian children shuffled awkwardly, glancing at one another with uncertainty. The gulf between them felt more than physical; it was the gap between the trained and the untrained, between the children of legacy and the children of no one.
Shibata scribbled into a clipboard, other instructors at his side doing the same, tallying numbers. His sharp eyes flickered from one side to the other before he barked out: "Good. Now—run."
A ripple of confusion passed through the crowd.
"Both Groups. Around the field. Do not stop until you cannot move your legs another step. Go!"
The air burst alive with motion. The side with the locked chakra sprinted off first, legs pumping furiously, their breaths turning ragged almost immediately. The goal was fitness, a measure of stamina, spirit, and the raw physical potential to endure training.
Dust rose beneath their feet. The thud-thud-thud of dozens of small bodies echoed across the training field.
Satoru's group followed. He set into a steady rhythm, Ito and Ayano on either side of him. His lungs drew in air evenly, his steps measured. But his mind... his mind betrayed him. He found his gaze drifting, again and again, toward the boy ahead.
Itachi.
The boy ran with the same ease as one might stroll down a garden path. His face was calm, expressionless, as though the act of circling the field meant nothing at all. His strides were smooth, precise, and entirely efficient; no wasted motion, no wasted breath.
Satoru realised too late that he'd been staring. And in that instant, Itachi's head turned. Their eyes locked.
A flicker of something; curiosity? Suspicion?; passed over Itachi's gaze before he turned back ahead, unbothered.
'Shit,' Satoru cursed inwardly. 'Careful. Don't draw attention. Not from him.'
The laps ticked by. One, two, three. By the eighth, some of the civilian-born shinobi children began to falter. They staggered to a halt, gasping for air, knees buckling. Instructors noted their names, but their gazes had shifted toward Satoru's side.
Because Satoru was still going. Ito had dropped out by the tenth lap, wheezing dramatically as he collapsed into the grass. Ayano pushed to twelve before her legs gave out, trembling like leaves in the wind. But Satoru pushed further.
By the fifteenth lap, only a handful remained. Itachi, of course, leading the pack, his breathing unbroken, his pace unshaken. Beside him was a pale-eyed Hyuga girl, her posture impeccable despite the sweat forming at her temples. A Sarutobi boy ran just behind, his grin feral, teeth gritting against exhaustion. And then Satoru, with his heart hammering, shirt plastered to his back with sweat, but still holding on.
Shibata raised his brows, surprised. Murmurs spread among the instructors.
An orphan boy, keeping pace with clan prodigies.
'Come on, come on… just a little further…' Satoru's mind chanted.
His muscles screamed; each lap felt like dragging boulders strapped to his legs. He pushed chakra into his limbs, augmenting his stamina, forcing his body to obey.
By the twentieth lap, the Sarutobi boy faltered, finally slowing to a stumble before collapsing in the dirt with a groan. Only three remained.
Satoru stole a glance at Itachi. Still flawless. The boy's chest rose and fell gently, his face unbothered, almost serene. It was like running twenty laps was no more effort than sitting down for tea.
The Hyuga girl beside him was calmer than expected, though sweat trickled down her chin and her lips pressed into a thin line of concentration.
And then there was Satoru, every step an act of defiance, every breath ragged and wheezing.
'What the hell is he made of?' he thought bitterly, glaring at Itachi's unshaken form.
'I've been feeding chakra into my body this entire time, and I'm already close to my limit… but him? He looks like he just started.'
By the twenty-third lap, Satoru's legs finally betrayed him. His foot caught, his stride broke, and with a hiss of frustration, he stumbled to a stop. His chest burned; his vision swam. Sweat poured down his temples like rain.
"Damn… it…" he panted, dragging himself to the sidelines.
And still, Itachi ran.
Thirty laps. Thirty-two. Thirty-five. Only then, as if finally humouring the test, Itachi slowed to a stop. His hair clung to his temples, his skin glistened faintly, but his breath was steady, his expression unruffled.
Satoru stared, half in awe and half in dread.
'If this is what he's like now… at five years old… then I'm in for a long, long year ahead.'
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