Makima's fourth week in the Academy was a meticulously crafted facade of grace and genius. Her existence was a testament to impossible perfection: every drill mastered, every scroll memorized, every social interaction flawlessly executed. The entire class now orbited her, drawn by her fabricated aura of gentle superiority. The only resistance, the only point of dangerous discord, was a quiet boy named Kuro Watanabe.
Kuro was the embodiment of competitive meritocracy. Hailing from a third-rate, non-fighting clan known only for minor logistical work, he possessed no latent Kekkai Genkai or vast familial resources. His achievements—his perfect test scores, his quick mastery of basic jutsu, his place as Makima's closest academic rival—were built on a foundation of sheer, agonizing effort and brilliant, tactical foresight. He was the chaotic anomaly that Makima, the harbinger of order, could not tolerate. His existence validated the foolish belief that effort could challenge destiny.
Kuro had spent every free moment observing Makima. He saw the unsettling smoothness of her chakra flow, the complete absence of physical fatigue, and the speed at which she absorbed complex material. For him, a person who had to pay for every hour of study with physical exhaustion and mental strain, Makima's effortless excellence was an offensive, unnatural contradiction. He began to calculate the energy costs of her schedule. The numbers didn't add up.
During the restricted quiet period after lunch, Kuro approached her desk. He lacked the nervous deference of the other boys; his gaze was cold, sharp, and purely analytical.
"Utatane-san," Kuro stated without preamble, his voice low and devoid of courtesy. "I find your speed in mastering the first-year curriculum mathematically impossible. To simultaneously achieve top scores in tactical history, elemental theory, and advanced calligraphy requires more hours than you appear to be awake. This suggests a structural advantage you have not disclosed."
He leaned in, his voice dropping further. "The only logical explanation, given your Uzumaki reserves, is that you are utilizing the Shadow Clone Jutsu (Kage Bunshin no Jutsu) for study. It is a forbidden, high-level technique. Is the rumor true?"
It was a sharp, calculated move. Kuro wasn't accusing her of cheating the rules, but of cheating the universe by leveraging immense, secret resources.
Makima turned her golden eyes toward him, the expression perfectly sculpted—mild, forgiving, and laced with a subtle pity that suggested she already knew his final, disappointing fate.
"Kuro-kun, that is a very astute and, frankly, predictable question for someone whose entire world is based on counting hours," she replied, her voice soft but steady. She set down her brush and folded her hands neatly. "But why would I limit myself? I have the resources, and I possess the efficiency to deploy them. Why only work on one subject when I can work on three?"
She smiled, a hint of genuine cruelty touching her lips. "The Uzumaki blood, Kuro-kun, does not grant us the luxury of rest. It grants us the ability to never stop working. That is the difference between an inheritor of power, and a boy who must constantly beg for it."
The next morning, the instructor assigned a grueling set of tasks designed to push the students' stamina and attention span simultaneously—a perfect crucible for Makima's demonstration.
Makima stepped onto the field. She performed the necessary hand signs faster and cleaner than anyone present, her movements so precise they were a blur of elegant motion. She then executed the Shadow Clone Jutsu (Kage Bunshin no Jutsu).
She deliberately created two clones. They shimmered into existence, physically perfect, stable copies, humming with her immense, controlled Uzumaki chakra. The sight of the three identical Makimas, all perfectly serene and radiating casual power, stopped the entire training field.
Makima gestured to them sweetly, addressing her peers. "You see, this is simply a matter of resource management," she explained, her voice carrying a light, instructional tone. "With this much available energy, dividing it for simple clerical tasks is merely efficient."
"You two will focus on the tactical scrolls," she instructed her clones. "I will handle the advanced target practice, and we will reconvene for the Kawarimi practice."
The two clones immediately sat down nearby, pulling out thick scrolls and beginning to read, their minds feeding the information back to the original Makima in real-time. The original Makima turned toward the throwing range and began flawlessly hitting every target with minimal chakra expenditure, effectively performing thirty hours of work in ten.
The sight was psychologically devastating to Kuro. His mind, which was his greatest weapon, was paralyzed by the scale of her power. He had mastered the regular Clone Jutsu—a non-functional illusion. Makima, a first-month student, was using the high-level, forbidden Shadow Clone to triple her work capacity.
Kuro's POV: The realization hit him with the weight of destiny. It's not just talent, it's her reserves! His entire strategic framework collapsed. I studied for ten hours last night, pushing myself to exhaustion. She is effectively studying for thirty hours right now, barely breathing hard. She isn't cheating the system; she's simply operating on a scale of resources that makes my effort worse than meaningless—it's pathetic. His dedication, his will to overcome his low standing, became a sick joke in his own mind. He had found his ultimate ceiling, and it was Makima's boundless, casual power. The challenge dissolved into a quiet, burning acceptance of his own futility.