Under Mori Ibi-ki's deliberately crafted, almost tangible pressure—thick as tar—time itself stretched; every second dragged like a blunt blade across flesh.
Terror and uncertainty about the future gnawed at every candidate's will.
At last, one examinee reached his limit.
He sat to Naruto's left, face white as paper, cold sweat beading on his forehead, lips trembling uncontrollably.
After an eternity of inner struggle, he raised a trembling hand.
The gesture seemed to cost him every ounce of strength he had.
He knew that lifting his arm meant all three members of his squad were finished.
Refusing to answer the tenth question earned zero points and dragged his teammates down with him.
But… but… Eyes squeezed shut, a single thought screamed inside him: failing one Chunin Exam is better than being barred forever!
One wrong answer meant permanent disqualification—a risk he dared not take for himself or for his partners.
He would rather be branded a coward who doomed his team than keep gambling in this brutal game.
"I… give up… on the tenth question."
He spoke in a voice barely louder than a breath.
Ibiki's gaze—cold as an arrow—locked instantly onto him and onto the two teammates beside him, their faces equally ashen.
"Candidate number fifty, abandons the question."
Ibiki's voice carried no emotion, as if reading a verdict long since written.
"Together with teammates one-thirty and one-eleven, you have failed the first examination. Leave the hall."
Brief, blunt, beyond appeal.
The three candidates rose like puppets with their strings cut and shuffled out under stares of pity, scorn, or relief.
The heavy thud of the door closing struck the heart of everyone still inside.
It was only the beginning.
The first domino had fallen.
One after another, more examinees buckled, raising shaking hands. Each surrender triggered Ibiki's icy pronouncement and another squad's quiet exit.
"Number XX, disqualified."
"Number XX, disqualified."
"Number XX, disqualified."
Because the rule was "skip the question and the whole team is out," every elimination wiped an entire squad, reducing the hall's numbers at a steady, ruthless pace.
It neatly avoided the awkwardness of uneven groups or lone survivors.
The atmosphere grew heavier with every departure.
Those who remained sat stone-faced, afraid even to exchange glances, lest they see their own cracking resolve reflected in another's eyes.
Time crawled onward.
Less than five minutes remained.
Mori Ibi-ki swept his gaze across the seated survivors and tallied them in silence.
His expression stayed flat, yet a flicker of appraisal stirred deep in his eyes.
'Seventy-eight?'
More than he had expected would last to the end.
It seemed this year's Genin included more steel-nerved gamblers than he'd forecast—an encouraging sign.
He glanced toward the proctors stationed in the aisles, clipboards in hand.
These seasoned Chunin and special Jonin had monitored every candidate's state.
Ibiki met their eyes; wordless messages passed.
One by one the proctors gave him slight nods.
They, too, judged the remaining examinees worthy—their mettle proven.
Ibiki understood.
'Dragging it on will change nothing.'
Those who would break had broken; those still here had passed the trial of will.
Further pressure might only crush seedlings that could become fine Chunin.
The moment had come.
He drew a slow breath, the scarred, glacier-cold mask of his face shifting almost imperceptibly.
Looking over the taut, expectant young faces awaiting final judgment, he spoke—his voice no longer icy, but tinged with… approval?
"Your… resolve is admirable."
The sudden, jarringly different praise left every candidate stunned. Resolve? What did he mean?
Before they could puzzle it out, Ibiki's mouth curved—not the cruel grin from before, but an open, almost proud smile.
He raised his voice, clear and strong:
"Then…"
He paused deliberately, stretching the tension to its limit.
"…everyone still here…"
His gaze traveled across their bewildered, half-hopeful faces.
"…in this first exam…"
"…PASSES!"
"Congratulations!"
"Bwahaha!"
The instant the word rang out Ibiki roared with hearty, triumphant laughter.
The sound rolled through the hall, sweeping away the gloom that had weighed on them for so long.
A chorus of disbelief and questions erupted.
Ibiki paid no heed.
This "first-phase written test" had been, in truth, a massive psychological interrogation orchestrated by him.
He relished laying the mental snares, watching fledgling Ninjas squirm, hesitate, and finally fold under the strain.
Every raised hand of surrender, every minute of terror endured, every quickened breath had been observed—and "enjoyed."
The exam tested more than knowledge or data-gathering; it tested spirit.
And he, Mori Ibi-ki, was the torturer with whip and sweet in equal measure, lashing and gauging their hearts with cold precision.
Seeing the chaos of reactions below, he felt the peak satisfaction of a prankster and observer—far more entertaining than interrogating a single captive.
Naruto gently released the hand he had been clutching—Hinata's no-longer-cold fingers. Slightly sweaty, he casually wiped his palm on his pants.
The small, ordinary gesture made Hinata's cheeks flush again as her emotions settled.
"Great—we made it."
Hinata lifted her gaze to Naruto's eyes: bright, cloudless blue filled only with joy and encouragement.
The last knot of anxiety inside her melted under that smile.
She nodded firmly, a shy but radiant smile blooming as she answered softly:
"Mm!"