Today was the first day of school.
Xingye was practically dragged from his sleep by his mother and, under her relentless insistence, forced into a set of brand-new clothes. There was truth to the old adage that the clothes make the man; even in a world of ninjas and death, a sharp outfit went a long way.
Standing before the mirror, Xingye couldn't help but tilt his head, admiring the reflection of the young boy with neat black hair and eyes that held a depth far beyond his five years.
"Not bad," he whispered with a narcissistic smirk. "I'm so handsome it's criminal. Even a young Uchiha would have a hard time competing with this face."
After a quick farewell to Rie, Xingye arrived at the Ninja Academy just minutes before the opening ceremony.
The Academy in Konoha Year 16 was a far cry from the sprawling institution of Naruto's era. In the future, any child could spend six years idling through basic scrolls. But now, in the shadow of the Warring States, resources were tight and instructors were few. The curriculum was compressed into three brutal years, and the gates opened for only a hundred students annually.
As he reached the auditorium doors, Xingye straightened his collar and took a deep breath. Time to make an entrance, he thought, pushing the heavy doors open with a flourish.
He waited for the collective gasp. He waited for the girls to whisper and the boys to look away in envy.
Nothing happened.
Inside, hundreds of children were huddled in small, loud groups, chattering frantically about their nerves and their families. Not a single head turned.
Xingye stood there in the doorway for a beat too long, the silence of his "grand entrance" ringing in his ears. He quietly cleared his throat, grabbed a small wooden stool, and shuffled into the back of the crowd, blending into the shadows. Right. That chuunibyo moment never happened.
The ceremony was brief. Hiruzen Sarutobi, the newly minted Third Hokage, gave a speech that crackled with the "Will of Fire," and soon after, the students were split into three classes: A, B, and C. It was a hierarchy built strictly on academic and combat potential.
In Class A, the atmosphere was different. These were the elites—scions of the great clans. Their homeroom teacher, a stern man named Mitsui, didn't lead them to a classroom. Instead, he marched the thirty students straight to the training grounds.
"Before we open a single book, I need to see what you're made of," Mitsui announced, produced a small wooden box. "A placement assessment. Draw a number. The winners get first pick of their seats in the classroom."
The first to step forward was a boy with shock-white hair and absurd red markings under his eyes. He carried himself with a boisterous, unearned confidence that screamed his identity before he even spoke.
"It doesn't matter who you put in front of me!" Jiraiya shouted, thrusting his drawn slip into the air. "They'll all fall at the feet of the great Jiraiya-sama! Because I, the genius Jiraiya, am the man destined to become the strongest shinobi in history!"
A wave of snickers rippled through the class. Xingye rolled his eyes. Most of the students here were "second-generation" elites—Uchihas, Hyugas, and Senjus. For a commoner in ragged clothes like Jiraiya to spout such nonsense was a direct invitation for trouble.
Xingye stepped up and drew his own number. He looked at the digit—27—and his expression turned sour. Based on the lot-drawing logic, his opponent was number 4.
He looked over at Jiraiya, who was currently fuming at the laughter of his peers.
Great, Xingye thought, scratching his head. This is awkward. Do I crush the future Sannin into the dirt now, or do I play nice and throw him a bone?
The matches began quickly. A boy named Uchiha Iwa—clearly a leader among the Uchiha children—ended his fight in two brutal moves, leaving his opponent gasping in the dust. Xingye didn't dwell on the Uchiha's arrogance; his attention was snapped toward the center of the ring when Mitsui called the next pair.
"Second group: Tsunade versus Nakakura Kuri."
Xingye leaned in. A small girl with a golden ponytail and a doll-like face stepped forward. Even at six, Tsunade possessed a presence that commanded the air around her. Her opponent, Kuri, seemed more interested in her face than her fists. He was still staring blankly at her when Mitsui shouted for them to begin.
By the time Kuri snapped out of his daze, Tsunade's fist was an inch from his chest. He threw his arms up in a desperate block, but the raw, terrifying strength she had inherited from Hashirama Senju wasn't something a mere block could stop.
CRACK.
Kuri was sent staggering back, collapsing onto the dirt and clutching his throbbing arm.
Tsunade tilted her head, looking genuinely confused as to why he had fallen over so easily. She gave a small, innocent shrug and walked back to the line.
Xingye felt a metaphorical arrow pierce his heart. Damn, she's cute. His hesitation regarding Jiraiya vanished instantly. Sorry, good brother. I'll buy you ramen later, but I can't look like a loser in front of her.
"Fourth group: Gekkō Xingye and Jiraiya!"
Xingye walked into the center of the ring. He offered a friendly, disarming smile to the white-haired boy. Jiraiya blinked, taken aback; he had expected another sneer, not a gesture of peace.
"Let's make a deal," Xingye said softly. "We're classmates now. Let's keep it clean. No need for bad blood on the first day, right?"
Mitsui raised an eyebrow, looking at Xingye with renewed interest.
Jiraiya, sensing a kindred spirit who didn't look down on him, nodded vigorously. "Fine by me! But don't expect me to go easy!"
"Begin!" Mitsui barked.
Jiraiya didn't hesitate. For all his bluster, he was a street brawler at heart. He knew the value of the first strike. He lunged across the gap, closing the distance in a blur, his fist aimed squarely at Xingye's face.
Several girls in the crowd winced and closed their eyes. But Xingye didn't flinch. He watched the fist come, his mind calm, his body already shifting into the rhythm he had practiced ten thousand times under the moonlight.