The sunlight filtered softly through the wide paper windows, casting a pale golden glow across the wooden floorboards of the classroom. Dust motes drifted lazily in the shafts of light, rising and falling like tiny sparks in the quiet morning air.
The room itself was spacious but plain, its walls lined with simple scrolls detailing the history of Konoha and the code of the shinobi. Rows of desks filled most of the chamber, paired neatly two by two, with just enough space between for an instructor to weave through.
At the very back left corner sat Satoru, his grey eyes half-lidded, his posture slightly reclined as if he wanted to melt into the wood. He had chosen his spot deliberately, a quiet corner, unobtrusive, where no one would bother him unless they had to. Across the room, mirroring him in the back right corner, sat another boy: Uchiha Itachi. Their positions almost seemed like reflections, both boys silent islands while the tide of chatter swelled in the middle rows.
It was noisy otherwise. Nearly thirty children occupied the classroom, most of them clustered in their seats, voices overlapping in bursts of laughter, nervous giggles, and excited speculation. But Satoru barely paid them any attention.
Next to him sat Ayano, the kunoichi-in-training with her short hair neatly tied back and her gaze fixed downward at her small hands. She wasn't speaking to anyone else, at least, not out loud. Her lips moved in a faint whisper as she fiddled with her fingers, mumbling quietly to herself in a rhythm only she understood.
Satoru flicked a glance at her, then looked away with a sigh. He had long since noticed this habit. 'The private yapper,' he thought dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching in faint amusement.
'She's not like Ito, running his mouth for the whole world to hear. No… Ayano keeps it all bottled up, chattering away under her breath like some secret radio no one else is tuned into.'
He shook his head lightly, suppressing the smirk before it showed.
In front of them sat Ito, slouched over his desk, already chatting animatedly with another boy beside him. His hands gestured wildly, his voice louder than most others in the room. Bits of his words carried back to Satoru; stories about food, complaints about how small breakfast had been, something about dumplings being better than rice balls.
Satoru watched him for a moment, chin resting on his palm. 'If only I could be that social,' he mused.
'Talking, laughing, making friends so easily… like it's the simplest thing in the world. He's only known this other kid for, what, five minutes? And already they're acting like old pals.'
He let out a faint huff. 'But no. That's weird, isn't it? Trying to cozy up to a bunch of kids. I might look their age, but mentally… tch, no thanks.'
His gaze swept over the room, tracing the eager faces. He knew what kind of class this was, not just any group of new students. The academy had taken in far too many children this year to dump them all together. Instead, they had divided them across several classes. This one was special.
'The elite class,' he thought. 'Top thirty of the entrance tests. That's why the air feels so thick in here — too many clan brats in one room. Twenty-two from shinobi families. Hyūga, Yamanaka, Nara, Sarutobi, Inuzuka, you name it. And then eight civilians. Apart from me, Ayano, and Ito… that leaves five more. Not great odds if you're looking for solidarity.'
He smirked bitterly, leaning back.
The chatter rippled on, but soon it hushed as the door slid open with a smooth shhhk. A figure stepped inside. She was tall, poised, and wrapped in standard ninja gear. The green flak jacket, a forehead protector gleaming under the sun, dark hair tied into a practical ponytail. Her features were sharp but not unkind, her eyes bright and alert. She strode to the front of the room with the easy confidence of someone used to command.
"Good morning, everyone!" Her voice was warm, carrying without effort. She smiled broadly, hands resting lightly on her hips. "I'm your homeroom instructor, Yamada Keiko. I'll be overseeing your class this year. Don't worry — I'm not as scary as I look."
A few children giggled nervously. Satoru arched a brow, unimpressed. She certainly didn't look scary.
Keiko clapped her hands once, the sound snapping crisply through the room. "Alright. Since today's our first day, we'll start simple. Each of you will stand, introduce yourself, and tell us your dream. Let's get to know each other."
Satoru's jaw tightened. 'Oh, here we go. Dreams. Nothing screams 'academy icebreaker' like broadcasting your deepest desires to thirty strangers. Wonderful.' He slouched lower in his chair, inwardly cringing.
The introductions began.
One by one, children stood, puffing out their chests with varying degrees of confidence.
"I'm Sarutobi Akio! My dream is to become strong enough to protect the entire village!"
"Yamanaka Ishida. I want to carry on my clan's traditions and serve as a trusted shinobi for Konoha."
"Namikaze Maeda! My dream is to be as great a kunoichi as my aunt Kushina!"
"Hyūga Hoshino. My dream is to bring honour to my family and perfect my Byakugan."
The line of voices continued, Inuzukas talking about their ninken, Naras muttering about shadows and strategy, an Aburame stating something about studying insects. Each dream stacked upon the last, most of them lofty, noble, predictable.
Satoru's expression remained flat, but his mind whispered sharp commentary with every name.
'Protect the village, honour the clan, uphold tradition, blah blah blah. No one's saying they just want to live to old age with all their limbs intact. Interesting. Even the kids are aware of the low mortality rate.'
His gaze drifted sideways to Itachi, who sat with the same calm composure he had since walking in. When the boy's turn came, he stood smoothly.
"Uchiha Itachi," he said, voice clear but quiet. "My dream is to be strong."
No flourish, no long speech. Just that. He sat down again without another word.
Immediately, a ripple of whispers ran through the girls in the room. A few giggles, a couple dreamy sighs.
Satoru pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Really? Already? He's five. Five. And they're fawning like he's some tragic hero from a romance scroll.'
He fought the urge to bury his face in his hands.
The roll of introductions wound its way toward the back row. And then, inevitably, all eyes shifted to him.
Satoru pushed his chair back with a faint scrape of wood against floor. He stood, his expression calm, unreadable. "I'm Satoru," he said evenly. "My dream…" He let the pause linger for just a breath. "…is to survive."
The words landed like a stone dropped in still water. A few children blinked. Some tilted their heads. A murmur spread — curious, puzzled, maybe even uneasy.
Satoru sat back down without elaborating. His gaze returned to the window, as if he hadn't just thrown an ice bucket into the warm pool of hopeful ambition. Inside, though, he allowed himself a small, private smile.
'Let them wonder. Survival is worth more than a thousand fancy speeches.'
The rest of the morning blurred into a steady rhythm. Instructor Keiko maintained her buoyant tone as she led them on a tour of the academy grounds. She showed them the training fields, the sparring rings, the archery range, the library, even the mess hall. Satoru walked silently with the group, absorbing every detail, cataloging exits, noting shadows.
When the day finally ended, and the chatter of children spilled out through the gates, Satoru's pace shifted. His eyes gleamed faintly with anticipation.
'The library,' he thought, his heart beating just a touch faster.
'Finally. That's where the real treasures are.'
And with that, he turned from the dispersing crowd, his steps quickening toward knowledge.
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