The classroom erupted with laughter.
Seiran wasn't laughing. His chest was tight, his palms clammy.
Instructor Fujino Daikichi—all flashbulb smile and sparse hair—had started the introductions. One by one, Academy students stood and spoke their names. Applause. Chuckles. Everything felt surreal.
How did I end up here? Seiran's thoughts raced. In the Naruto world. On the first day of the Academy. This isn't possible.
He scanned the room, cataloging faces. His stomach twisted tighter with each one he recognized.
In the front row sat a kid bragging about his "Hokage father"—Asuma Sarutobi. According to Seiran's memories, that head would fetch a massive bounty one day. Dead weight to the wrong people.
Middle of the second row. Kakashi Hatake. Silver hair, even as a child. Future legend. Future tragedy. Seiran knew what that kid would become—what he'd lose.
The goggle-wearing boy in the back—that was Obito Uchiha. The name alone sent a chill down Seiran's spine. That boy would reshape the ninja world. His end would be... catastrophic.
And there was Might Guy, grinning with teeth that literally sparkled. His dream was to carry his youth to the very end. Noble. Inspiring. Also, according to what Seiran knew, he'd spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.
Cannon fodder filled the remaining desks. Kids who wouldn't survive the next few years. The Third Shinobi World War would come. Mount Kikyo. Kannabi Bridge. They'd fall like leaves.
Seiran's breathing became shallow.
He was branch family. Hyuga clan—the lowest of the low. His parents were dead. No connections. No protection. In this era, people like him had a life expectancy measured in years, not decades.
It's over before it started.
"Hyuga Seiran. Your turn."
Seiran looked up. Instructor Fujino was staring at him. The entire class had turned in their seats.
He stood on shaking legs.
"My name is Hyuga Seiran. I'm from the Hyuga Clan. I like ramen and barbecue. My dream is..." He swallowed hard. "...to live until the finale."
Silence. Dead, crushing silence.
Every eye in the room widened in confusion. Even Instructor Fujino's smile faltered.
"Live until the... finale?" The instructor laughed, a nervous sound. He scratched his head. "It seems you read too much manga, Seiran! The 'finale' is something you only see in comics. I hope you focus on your studies instead."
"Understood," Seiran muttered, sitting down before his mouth could betray him further.
Close call.
The rest of introductions blurred past. When everyone had finished, Fujino clapped his hands together.
"Excellent! Now, let's begin our first real lesson. Open your textbooks to Chapter One: Inheriting the Will of Fire."
Seiran flipped through the red volume. Page after page of flowery propaganda. Everyone is family. Protect the children. Protect the village. Give everything for the village.
Cult indoctrination, Seiran thought, scanning the text with fresh eyes. That's all this is.
Fujino lectured passionately from the podium, his voice rising and falling with genuine conviction. Around him, students listened like he was reciting gospel.
Seiran stared out the window instead. His mind was already elsewhere, calculating. Planning. If he wanted to survive this timeline—to reach that "finale"—he needed a strategy. The Academy curriculum wouldn't cut it. This was just propaganda and basic conditioning.
He'd need to be smarter. Faster. Better.
---
The wooden door of his house creaked open.
Seiran stepped inside, exhausted. The courtyard was small but maintained—a modest inheritance from parents he barely remembered. His mother had died in childbirth. His father, a branch family guard, had died on a mission protecting the clan. That sacrifice had earned Seiran enough respect to qualify for the Academy and inherit this place.
But it also meant the Caged Bird Curse Mark was burned into his forehead.
Just like everyone else in the branch family.
He moved to the kitchen, stomach growling. The curriculum today had been all propaganda—no practical training, no jutsu instruction. Nothing useful. He'd need to compensate on his own.
Money was tight. His monthly allowance from the clan was 1,500 ryo. After food and rent, there was almost nothing left for supplies or training equipment. Meanwhile, kids like Neji Hyuga ate well, trained under the clan's best instructors, and somehow still complained about their fate.
Pathetic.
Seiran reached for the iron pot to clean it.
The moment his palm came close, the metal began to tremble.
Not just the pot. Everything metal in the kitchen—knives, pans, utensils—all vibrated at once. A high-pitched screech filled the air as they rattled against the cupboards and counters.
Seiran froze in the center of the room.
A voice—not his own, but not external either—echoed through his mind:
[Electromagnetic Force: Level 1]
[2000 EXP to next upgrade]
His breath caught. The trembling stopped. The metal fell silent.
What the hell was that?
---
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