Whispers fluttered like restless leaves through the Academy's corridors.
"Kakashi graduated?"
"Already?"
"He's six!"
The news traveled faster than flame across dry parchment. Haruko stood beneath the shaded veranda beside Daichi and Emi, watching students cluster in anxious conversation. The courtyard looked no different than usual—sunlight slanting through the trees, the distant thump of taijutsu drills—but the atmosphere had changed.
"They're saying he passed a special exam yesterday," Daichi muttered, chewing his lip. "Didn't even wait for final evaluations."
Emi's brow furrowed. "He's the same age as us. That's... fast. And he barely talks to anyone."
Haruko remained silent. His gaze drifted toward the academy gates. Through the morning haze, a single figure walked away from the building, posture upright and expression unreadable. Kakashi Hatake. Slender, calm, and already bearing the quiet pressure of something heavier than childhood.
He didn't celebrate. He didn't look back.
Haruko's voice was low. "He's on a different path."
Daichi crossed his arms. "Maybe. Or maybe he's just lucky. Or... a genius."
Emi gave him a glance. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Daichi."
"I'm not jealous," Daichi huffed. "Okay—maybe a little."
Haruko's eyes lingered on the departing silhouette. "We don't have to match his pace. Just stay true to ours."
The following days at the Academy unfolded with a heavier rhythm.
Instructors pushed harder. Drills grew sharper. Even the quieter students seemed to stretch themselves further, driven by something unspoken.
One afternoon, during shuriken practice, Haruko noticed Emi adjusting her grip after every throw. Each time, her aim improved slightly. Across the range, Daichi cursed softly when a blade bounced off the edge of the dummy's shoulder.
"You're flicking too late," Haruko called out.
Daichi frowned. "Then show me."
Haruko walked over and adjusted Daichi's arm—subtle, confident. "Here. Elbow higher. Release sooner."
The next throw hit center mass.
"See?" Emi said with a smile. "That's teamwork."
Haruko didn't reply, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.
Evenings became a time of quiet study. Haruko spent long hours reading scrolls in the academy's small archive, tracing diagrams of chakra pathways and battle tactics. He wasn't allowed in the advanced sections, but sometimes he caught glimpses—complex jutsu schematics, war reports from the Second Shinobi War, records of past prodigies.
He didn't devour the knowledge for praise.
He studied because he needed to understand.
Late one night, alone by the window, Haruko felt it again—that subtle shift in the air, like the system watching through unseen eyes.
A cold tingle moved down his spine. Then came the whisper—not sound, not thought, but something in between.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: "Next trial awaits. Through shadow, clarity. Through motion, intent."]
Haruko inhaled slowly, committing the words to memory.
Something was coming.
That weekend, Emi arrived at Haruko's door unannounced, a satchel of homemade rice balls in hand.
"You didn't eat lunch again, did you?" she said, stepping in without waiting for permission.
Haruko blinked. "I didn't need to."
"You always say that," she said, setting the food down. "But you're still growing."
They sat in the small garden behind the house. Autumn leaves scattered across the ground, curling and whispering in the wind.
"I think," Emi said softly, "everyone's afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of what happens next. Graduation. Missions. War."
Haruko didn't answer immediately.
Then: "Fear is useful."
"But it shouldn't be everything."
Haruko looked at her—really looked—and nodded.
At the end of the week, Tetsuo gathered the students.
"Starting next week," he announced, "you'll begin scenario drills in the outdoor terrain behind the academy. These aren't games. You'll be evaluated on tactics, stealth, and teamwork."
Haruko's fingers curled at his sides.
He was ready.
Not because he wanted to fight.
But because he had no choice.