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"Yes, Iruka-sensei!"
As soon as Iruka finished speaking,
the entire classroom responded in unison,
their still-childish voices ringing out loudly.
After all, it was the first day at the Academy.
Leaving a good impression on their homeroom teacher was, for now,
a fairly important matter.
"Good. Very good."
Iruka smiled faintly,
then gestured toward the first child in the front row.
"Let's start with you, Inokuchi-kun.
Just give a simple self-introduction—your dreams, what you like, things like that."
"Yes!"
"My name is Inokuchi Gakuto!
My dream is to become a great ninja!
The things I like are…"
A warm, humanizing way to begin.
Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say:
after years of reform—or maybe just change—
the Academy of today was no longer the same institution
founded by the Second Hokage, Senju Tobirama.
If you dropped these very same kids back into that era,
most wouldn't even make it past the gates.
Not that it was about better or worse.
It was simply the limits of an era.
As one after another gave their introductions,
Naruto quietly observed the children
who would, for the next six years,
be his so-called classmates and companions.
But in truth—
most of them would end up as cannon fodder.
Very few would rise to the rank of chunin.
(And make no mistake: becoming chunin was no small feat.
chunin were the backbone of the village,
leaders of squads, proof of real strength and value.)
As for jonin?
That was an even rarer climb.
To put it bluntly:
there was no world more obsessed with bloodline than this one.
The shinobi world itself had been born from clan conflicts,
and that legacy had never truly faded.
Could a commoner become a great shinobi?
Yes. It was possible.
But rare—exceptional.
This was an era of inherited power.
In the world of Naruto, that was not just a saying,
but hard reality.
Clan heirs had an undeniable advantage.
They reached milestones in half the time it took a civilian-born shinobi,
sometimes even less.
And this wasn't a tortoise-and-hare story.
The hare didn't stop and wait.
If someone had both talent and resources,
and put in equal effort as you—
what chance did you have to surpass them?
No.
You didn't even have the right to keep up.
That was the cruel reality of this world.
Yes, hard work never lies.
But that truth only applied in the narrow sense—
to the individual.
When measured vertically, against your own past,
effort bore fruit.
But measured horizontally, against others?
The result was only despair.
And so, as Naruto watched,
he paid no mind to those faceless classmates,
the nameless civilians who would never matter to the story.
His focus remained firmly on the few clan heirs—
the ones known in the original tale as the "Konoha 11."
Even at this age,
their presence was unmistakable.
Especially the Ino-Shika-Chō trio.
Nara Shikamaru, already lazy and listless.
Akimichi Chōji, looking like a gentle fool.
And Yamanaka Ino—
six years old and already starry-eyed at Uchiha Sasuke.
Naruto had no doubt that if not for the bonds of the trio,
Ino would've thrown herself at that brooding boy's side already.
Honestly…
Looking around the classroom,
it seemed like eighty percent of the girls—
No, not "girls."
They were six.
They were still little kids.
And yet here they were,
gazing at Sasuke with sparkling eyes full of adoration.
Even in the world of shinobi,
Naruto couldn't help but complain inwardly:
"Way too precocious, these kids…"
Aside from the Ino–Shika–Chō trio,
the others were also easy to spot:
Aburame Shino.
Inuzuka Kiba.
Hyuga Hinata and Sasuke—obviously.
And then Sasuke himself,
whose self-introduction was as simple as could be:
"I am Uchiha Sasuke."
A cool mask on his face—
which, to Naruto, was just blatant posturing.
But the effect was explosive.
The shrieks of the girls nearly pierced through the walls.
Enjoy it while you can, Naruto thought silently,
his eyes flicking to Sasuke's side profile.
Because if memory served,
the Uchiha clan had only about a year left.
When that day came,
this cold-faced child would be hurled into darkness.
And his reason for living
would be reduced to a single word: revenge.
But that had nothing to do with Naruto.
Not now.
Not yet.
There were secrets behind the massacre—
of course there were.
Even without past-life knowledge,
anyone with logic could sense that much.
But it wasn't Naruto's place to interfere.
Not at his current level.
For him,
the path was simple:
survive these six years quietly,
grow stronger,
and wait for his chance.
One by one, the faces passed before him.
The last of the Eight to catch his attention—
Sakura Haruno.
The "heroine" of the original story,
with a reputation that split readers in two.
Naruto felt no dislike.
But neither did he feel any fondness.
Because he was not the same Naruto as in the original tale.
Whatever choices Sakura made,
whatever thoughts she held—
none of it concerned him.
As long as she didn't hinder him,
he had no reason to involve himself.
Finally, his turn came.
And just as expected,
the moment he stood,
over eighty percent of the room turned to look at him—
their eyes colored with curiosity,
a subtle difference in their gazes.
Not hostility, not rejection like the adults showed.
Just the innocent strangeness of children
who had been warned by their parents.
Naruto ignored it all.
He smiled politely,
introduced himself in a calm, proper manner,
then sat back down quietly.
Not low-key, not flashy.
Just right.
That was how he would pass his six years at the Academy:
by keeping balance,
by quietly strengthening himself,
and by waiting for the necessary moment.
This—
this was his one and only core plan.