Naruto sat alone in the empty classroom, grinning to himself as he replayed fantasies of defeating Sasuke Uchiha—finally earning the respect he deserved. His giggles filled the silence until reality crashed down.
"Naruto!" Iruka's voice cut through like a blade. "Get moving. Now."
Naruto's laughter died. He scrambled to shove his tools into his pack and sprinted for the door without a backward glance.
Iruka watched him disappear down the hallway, then exhaled slowly. "That kid." He shook his head, confusion etched into his features. He'd never understood why the Third Hokage had fast-tracked Naruto into the advanced class. The boy's practical skills were nowhere near the required threshold. No one had told Iruka how it happened—only that it had.
---
The training grounds sprawled beneath the afternoon sun, thirty students arranged in loose lines. Iruka stood before them, clipboard in hand, his voice steady and measured.
"The rules are simple," he announced. "Draw a number. Matching pairs become opponents. One number per person. No exceptions."
Meian drew his slip with the same indifference he applied to most things. Twelve. He stepped back into the crowd without ceremony and without caring who he'd face.
Within minutes, Iruka had read off the pairings. Most students accepted their matches with resignation or excitement. Naruto, however, stared at Kiba across from him and his face fell.
"Kiba?" Naruto's voice cracked with disappointment. "Why you?"
Kiba's grin widened. He clapped Naruto on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Easy, buddy. I'll go soft on you. No need to embarrass yourself."
Naruto shook him off, his pride flaring. "Soft? I don't need your pity. You're too weak to be my real opponent anyway. My true rival is Sasuke."
"Yeah?" Kiba laughed, undeterred. "Funny. I was hoping for Sasuke myself."
From somewhere in the crowd, Meian's focus sharpened. His senses had caught something—a presence perched on a branch beyond the training ground wall. Kakashi Hatake. The Jōnin was hidden just out of casual sight, watching.
Why was he here?
On his branch, Kakashi's single visible eye narrowed as it tracked Meian. The boy had sensed him instantly. Interesting. After their encounter yesterday—brief though it had been—Kakashi had felt something off about the student. The ANBU had cleared his file. Nothing abnormal. But Kakashi's instincts were rarely wrong.
This one noticed me immediately. How?
Meian forced his attention back to Iruka and the other students, careful to project an air of bored indifference. Internally, his mind raced. Low profile. Always low profile. A simple Body Flicker wouldn't draw a Jōnin's attention for long. This shouldn't be happening. The fact that Kakashi lingered suggested otherwise. The concern gnawed at him.
Iruka consulted his clipboard, oblivious to the tension he couldn't see. "First test: shuriken and kunai accuracy. Choose your weapon and proceed."
Sasuke stood, and immediately the air shifted. There was something different about him today—an almost palpable confidence. He walked to the throwing station without hesitation, clearly comfortable with expectations.
"This is trivial," Sasuke said, his voice carrying an edge of arrogance. "Especially after training with Itachi. I'm destined to be the best."
The Uchiha Clan had survived. The relief of that single fact had apparently freed Sasuke to pursue his ambitions without the weight of loss pressing down on him. His confidence showed.
Iruka smiled warmly at him. Sasuke was everything a student should be—talented, disciplined, polite, and from one of the village's most storied clans. The opposite of Naruto in nearly every way.
Sasuke selected five shuriken with careful precision. He wound up and released them all in one fluid motion, not as a wild throw but as a calculated arc.
Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Five perfect strikes. Five bullseyes. The sounds rang out clean and sharp, leaving no room for doubt.
The training ground fell silent for a heartbeat. Then erupted.
"Incredible!"
"He got them all!"
Naruto's hands clenched into fists, his jaw working as he watched. The jealousy burned—hot and immediate. Damn him. But... he is good. Really good. Can I even manage that?
Sakura and Ino were already cheering, their voices overlapping in a chorus of adoration. "Sasuke's amazing! Sasuke's the best! So handsome!"
The other girls stared, eyes wide with admiration. Naruto bit his lip, the sting of it all—the skill, the attention, the effortless superiority—cutting deeper than he cared to admit.
Kiba let out a low whistle. "That's Uchiha talent. He's in a different league."
Shikamaru, unusually alert, nodded slowly. "Troublesome, but accurate."
Chōji crunched his chips thoughtfully. "Top of the class and an Uchiha. What did everyone expect?"
Meian watched it all with a neutral expression, though internally, he was calculating. He could have done the same throw—better, even. But better was exactly what he couldn't afford to be right now.
He joined in the polite applause, forcing a smile of impressed acknowledgment. Look normal. Look unremarkable. Fit in.
On the branch above, Kakashi's eye crinkled slightly—a smirk hidden beneath his mask. The boy had just put on a show of normalcy. Too much effort. Too careful. A truly unremarkable student wouldn't bother pretending to be impressed. They'd simply move on.
This kid knows I'm watching. And he's trying far too hard to look ordinary.
Kakashi was a veteran ANBU operative. Deception was his native language. And right now, he was watching an amateur attempt it.
Let's see what else you're hiding.
Several more students took their turns. None matched Sasuke's flawless accuracy. The crowd's enthusiasm faded into routine acknowledgment. Then Iruka called another name.
"Meian."
He rose without hesitation and stepped to the throwing station. The other students barely noticed—just another turn, just another student.
Meian picked up five kunai, then set one back. Four would suffice. Ordinary. Unremarkable.
He didn't attempt Sasuke's all-at-once flourish. Instead, he threw them individually, one after another, with a calm and measured pace. No flash. No spectacle.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Four solid impacts. Four bullseyes.
The response was perfunctory. A few nods of acknowledgment. Someone muttered, "Good throw." Nothing more. Exactly what he needed.
On the branch, Kakashi watched the trajectory of each kunai, the mechanics of each throw, and most importantly—the deliberate choice not to impress.
He's trying too hard to blend in. And that makes him stand out.
---