The Academy smelled of chalk, ink, and the faint tang of sweat.
I was six years old, but my mind carried memories of another life — a life older, sharper, more aware than this small body suggested. Around me, the children of Konoha laughed, shouted, bumped into one another. Everything seemed ordinary, but I knew better. I had been born into this world as a toddler, survived the Nine-Tails attack at four, and witnessed the fragile thread of life firsthand. Survival required more than talent; it demanded observation, calculation, and restraint.
Today was my first day at the Academy. My heart beat fast, not with fear, but with anticipation. Here, I would learn formally what I had only observed in secret: chakra, jutsu, strategy, and the subtle currents of human interaction.
⸻
Entering the Classroom
The bell rang sharply, echoing through the hallway. Students shuffled in, chattering excitedly, some bumping elbows, others craning their necks to find a familiar face. I walked quietly, eyes down, measuring everything: the length of desks, the spacing of windows, the posture of each student. Every detail mattered.
Then I saw him — Itachi Uchiha.
He was slight for his age, yet his presence filled the room. Dark eyes, precise posture, the weight of a clan already ancient with reputation. He glanced at me once, then returned to his seat, expression unreadable. I studied him carefully. Talent was obvious in him, but it was tempered with restraint — calm, unnerving restraint.
The teacher arrived moments later: Yuki Minazuki, a man whose calm authority filled the room before he even spoke.
"Quiet, everyone," he said, voice clear and precise. "Welcome to your first day at the Academy. Here, you will learn the fundamentals of chakra control, jutsu, and strategy. Pay attention. The village depends on those who train well."
A hush fell across the room. Even Taro, the loudest boy in our cluster, straightened. Mika clutched her bag nervously. Riku, as usual, sat composed, quiet, watching. And I… I observed everything.
⸻
First Impressions
The first exercise was simple: forming a water droplet on the tip of a leaf with chakra.
Some children failed immediately, their droplets dripping uselessly to the floor. Others succeeded after repeated attempts. Itachi's droplet formed perfectly the first time, trembling faintly but holding. My brows furrowed. Effortless yet controlled — a natural aptitude honed by more than just talent.
I've seen this before, I thought. Not exactly, but close enough to recognize potential.
I focused, molding my chakra carefully, as I had learned to do in secret. The droplet hovered perfectly, a small testament to precision. Sweat stung my eyes, but the control felt natural, almost mechanical.
Riku's droplet wavered but held. Mika's shattered immediately, her lips trembling. Taro scoffed, frustrated by his repeated failures.
Minazuki swept the room with keen eyes. "Well done, Hayashi. Arato, correct? Impressive control for a first attempt."
I inclined my head. "Thank you, sensei."
Itachi's eyes flicked to me briefly. The acknowledgment was small, silent — but it registered. Even at six, I recognized a peer worth noticing.
⸻
Observation and Rivalry
Lunch brought a different kind of lesson. Students clustered into groups: some by clans, others by friendship or shared interests. I chose to sit with Mika, Taro, and Riku, analyzing the dynamics before diving in.
Itachi sat alone, as usual, his Uchiha crest gleaming in the sunlight. Children whispered and muttered, giving him space. Even at six, the weight of the Uchiha name was palpable.
"Do you always sit alone?" I asked softly as we crossed paths near the fountain.
He glanced at me, neutral, almost bored. "I do not need company to concentrate," he said simply. Then, almost imperceptibly: "But I notice who pays attention."
I nodded once. That was all that needed to be said. Respectful, controlled observation — dangerous observation.
⸻
Strategy Lessons
The afternoon focused on reconnaissance and tactical exercises. We were paired up to simulate real-world shinobi scenarios: infiltration, evasion, observation.
I partnered with Riku first. Her movements were deliberate, almost anticipatory. She wasn't fast, but she predicted and adapted, creating openings in ways I had to think carefully to counter. Mika's anxiety made her hesitate. Taro's recklessness forced his opponents to defend themselves.
Finally, I was paired with Itachi. The exercise shifted from routine to something intense. He didn't rush. He didn't overextend. He observed, reacted, and exploited even the smallest mistakes.
I countered, testing him, probing weaknesses he carefully masked. Every feint, every movement was calculated. A silent respect passed between us — recognition of ability in another child. Our minds clashed quietly, silently, an unspoken duel of strategy.
⸻
Classroom Dynamics
Afterward, the class gathered to discuss observations. Minazuki praised students selectively, highlighting control, timing, and awareness. I noted every detail: who hesitated, who rushed, who adapted, and who froze.
Taro grumbled beside me. "Why do you sit and watch all the time? Just jump in!"
"Jumping in without thinking gets you killed in real combat," I muttered.
He frowned but said nothing. Mika peeked at me nervously. "You… you seem so calm," she whispered.
"Calm isn't luck," I said softly. "It's choice."
⸻
Quiet Reflections
After classes, I lingered in the courtyard. My eyes traced rooftops, remembering the stories I had known before being reborn — battles, deaths, strategies. The Academy was only the beginning.
Mika approached quietly, fidgeting with her sleeve. "You're really good," she said. "How do you do that?"
"Observation. Timing. Patience. Anyone could learn it… if they want to," I replied.
She nodded slowly, then ran off to join others. I stayed, watching the sun dip behind village walls, thinking of Itachi.
He's the one I need to watch, I thought. But first… I need to survive the Academy itself.
⸻
The Weight of the Village
Walking home, I passed streets still scarred from the Nine-Tails attack. Families rebuilt, children laughed again, and yet a shadow lingered. That shadow wasn't only the memory of the fox; it was legacy, history, and the weight of the village's expectations.
I clenched my fists. Talent alone would not protect me. Observation, calculation, and restraint — these were my true weapons. And I would use them carefully, learning from every glance, every word, every misstep.
Even at six, I understood: power and perception are inseparable. Survival required both. And if I wanted to thrive, I had to master them before anyone else noticed — or before the world forced me to.