The Academy instructor read names the way a clerk read inventories—without curiosity, without judgment, and with the unspoken understanding that most items would never be used for anything important.
The room smelled of chalk dust, old wood, and the faint tang of disinfectant that never quite masked sweat. Children sat in rows too neat for their ages, backs straight, eyes forward. Some were excited. Some were terrified. Most were pretending to be one when they were actually the other.
Sōma sat near the back.
Not by choice. Seats arranged themselves naturally around him. Children avoided proximity the way water avoided oil. He had learned not to resent it. Space was easier to manage than people.
"Hyūga Neji."
Neji stood immediately. Crisp posture. Controlled breathing. His Byakugan flared on instinct, veins blooming at his temples like a practiced reflex.
Approval rippled through the room. It was subtle—small nods, softened expressions—but it was there. The instructor smiled, despite himself.
"Excellent control," he said. "You may sit."
Neji did. He did not look at Sōma.
The list continued.
Children demonstrated basic transformation techniques, clumsy substitutions, chakra control exercises that resulted in uneven leaf adhesion and mild embarrassment. The instructor corrected patiently. Failure was expected here. It was almost comforting.
"Hyūga Sōma."
A pause followed the name.
Sōma stood.
No murmurs this time. Just quiet. The kind that waited.
"Leaf adhesion," the instructor said, not looking up from his clipboard. "Standard exercise."
Sōma stepped forward. The leaf placed against his forehead trembled once, then stilled.
It did not fall.
It did not stick unnaturally tight either. It simply stayed, as though gravity had agreed to wait.
Seconds passed.
The instructor frowned. "That's sufficient."
Sōma removed the leaf and returned to his seat.
A child whispered, "Did you see that?"
Another replied, "He didn't even focus."
The instructor cleared his throat and marked something on the clipboard. He did not ask questions. Questions complicated reports.
Later came sparring.
This was where the Academy quietly decided futures. Not officially, of course. Officially, sparring was about learning. Unofficially, it was about categorization.
Useful. Adequate. Disposable.
Sōma was paired with a boy older than him by a year and heavier by several kilos. The boy smiled nervously. He had been told, clearly, that Sōma was harmless.
"Begin," the instructor said.
The boy rushed.
Sōma did not move.
The first punch stopped inches from his face, the boy's arm locked mid-motion as though caught in thick resin. Confusion flickered across the attacker's face. He tried to pull back.
He couldn't.
Sōma stepped sideways.
The boy stumbled forward and fell hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs in an undignified wheeze.
Silence.
"That's enough," the instructor said sharply.
Sōma stepped back. He bowed. The boy coughed and nodded weakly, unsure why he was embarrassed.
The clipboard received another mark.
That night, the Academy submitted its evaluations to the clan offices.
The report on Hyūga Sōma was brief.
Chakra control: exceptional
Combat instinct: high
Dōjutsu: none observed
Overall assessment: anomalous
The word anomalous traveled farther than any praise ever could.
The elders convened two nights later.
Sōma did not attend. Children never did. He listened anyway.
The room was warm with incense and restrained irritation. Voices overlapped, then settled.
"He should have been sealed already."
"For what? He has nothing worth protecting."
"He's unpredictable."
"So is weather. We don't brand clouds."
"He could be hiding something."
That possibility lingered longer than the others.
An elder cleared his throat. "If he had manifested anything worth concern, we would have seen it by now."
Silence followed. Agreement disguised as logic.
"Monitor him," another said. "Nothing more."
Thus, with the efficiency of men who believed they had seen everything, Sōma's fate was deferred.
No seal.
No ceremony.
No protection.
Life continued.
Sōma trained harder than required and softer than expected. He did not excel publicly. He did not fail privately. His scores hovered just high enough to be respectable, just low enough to be uninteresting.
This was deliberate.
Power had already complicated things enough.
Occasionally, instructors watched him too closely. When that happened, his perception pulled back instinctively, narrowing itself, dimming. The world became slightly less sharp. He disliked it, but discomfort was preferable to attention.
At night, fragments returned.
A sense of knowing the shape of worlds. Of people arguing about strength as if it were a prize rather than a burden. Of threats descending from the sky with inevitability, not malice.
He never remembered faces. Only impressions.
One evening, as rain tapped against the compound tiles, Sōma stared at his hands and wondered—not for the first time—how much of himself he was allowed to become.
Neji passed him in the courtyard the next morning.
They nodded. Nothing more.
Neji's path was clear. So clear it hurt to look at. Sōma's was empty, which somehow felt heavier.
A caretaker approached later that day, voice careful. "You won't be receiving the seal ceremony this year."
"I know," Sōma said.
She hesitated. "You should be grateful."
Sōma considered that. Grateful implied benefit.
"Yes," he said finally.
She smiled, relieved, and walked away believing the matter settled.
Sōma watched her go, then turned his gaze upward, eyes unfocused, perception widening just enough to feel the village beyond the compound walls—the density of lives, the tension of chakra woven into stone and tradition.
The ninja world was already tired.
He could feel it, even now.
And for the first time, the thought occurred to him—not as fear, not as ambition, but as a simple observation:
If this is what power looks like at the beginning,
then the end will not be kind.
He went back to training.
There was time yet.