"Torrential rain is expected for tonight; we recommend citizens do not leave their homes..."
The sound of the television cut off as he turned the knob.
Michael was a bundle of nerves. Today was his first class at the Shinobi Academy; he had packed and unpacked his backpack repeatedly. Every time he felt ready, he had a nagging feeling that he was forgetting something.
Classes started at nine in the morning. He had eaten rice with scrambled eggs for breakfast and prepared a lunch box for the midday break.
He strapped the backpack onto his back and, for a second, thought the weight would pull him to the ground.
He looked at himself in the mirror before leaving: he was wearing a white t-shirt and blue trousers. In one of his pockets, he still carried a holstered kunai; he didn't feel comfortable without it.
He left the apartment with all the confidence he could muster, feeling the wind hit his face. The day was cloudy, and if not for the forecast, he would have brought an umbrella.
He walked toward the Hokage Residence; the Academy was nearby. He had gone there the day before to ensure he wouldn't be late today. Though, as it turned out, it wasn't necessary: his sixth sense acted up again.
It was a buzzing in his head that helped him orient himself or understand Japanese. It wasn't as good as having access to memories, but it was better than nothing.
Maybe it's due to the strange conditions the boy was in when I transmigrated, he thought. He had woken up in the night soaked in sweat and breathing heavily, remembering the look of his reflection.
Upon reaching the building, he saw several children of different ages entering; some were chatting while others looked tired. He could empathize with the latter: he hated Mondays.
The hallways were spacious, and on some of the walls, written in crayons of different colors, one could read:
"A shinobi must put the mission first""A shinobi must never show their emotions""A shinobi must see through deception and pain""A shinobi must never disobey their leader"
The buzzing rang in his head, and he turned right down the hallway. The first door he saw had a sign that read "5-A."
He entered the classroom and put on a serious expression. He realized he would have to live Naruto's life, and he wasn't Naruto; he didn't want to go around pretending to be someone he wasn't. Five eight-hour classes a week... he didn't have enough energy to act for that long.
The classroom had a tiered design, with two aisles running up the middle. The benches seated three people: two on the ends and one in the center.
Some of his classmates were already present. Upon seeing them, the buzzing in his head would appear and tell him their names, but nothing more. So far, none of the characters he knew were there.
He climbed to the back row and sat next to the window, in what he liked to call the "protagonist's seat." None of his classmates had their supplies out, so he didn't bother taking his out of his backpack.
He wasn't in the mood to talk to his classmates, and there was still time before class started. He tried to grab his cell phone from his right pocket, but only found his kunai.
He could stare at the desk, which was impeccably clean, but that would not only be bad for his neck, it would also be too strange.
He rested his head on his hand and gazed at the view through the window.
He could hear the sliding door opening and closing with the arrival of more classmates; with them came an increase in the noise level of the room. It felt like he was in a ball pit, where the chaos of noise had no end, but from one moment to the next, the noise went from one hundred to zero.
Surprised by the abrupt change, he turned his head only to see the first face he truly recognized.
It was a man with brown hair in a ponytail, black eyes, and a vertical scar running across the bridge of his nose. He wore the standard village chunin uniform; on his forehead was the headband identifying him as a Leaf shinobi.
"Today we will do physical training, I'll see you at Training Ground A!" Iruka said in a loud, clear voice.
In less than a second, the chunin vanished; he was probably already at the training ground. And as if a dam had been unplugged, the noise returned.
As the group walked toward the training ground, he positioned himself in the middle. He had managed to identify some of the anime characters: the first was Choji, quite easy to identify by his large size. Followed by Sakura and her strange hair color. Next to her was Ino, with her striking purple outfit.
As he continued looking for more familiar faces, he saw a mop of red hair walking with bravado. The buzzing raced through his head again, but this time it wasn't just the name.
Mito? Why do I feel caution and... fear?
He didn't understand the why or the how, but he knew it wasn't good to get close to her. And so far, his sense hadn't failed him, so he kept his distance.
It didn't take long to reach the training ground, where Iruka stood with crossed arms and an impassive gaze. He was in the middle of a white circle, which was likely used for combat practice.
The place was about the size of a soccer field; he could see various practice tools iconic in martial arts anime: practice dummies, throwing targets, wooden mannequins...
They formed a semicircle around Iruka, waiting for instructions. Once the last ones arrived, Iruka said:
"We'll start by running a few laps around the field as a warm-up."
This reminded him of P.E. classes at his school, although he assumed this would be much more physically demanding.
If I had known today was physical training, I wouldn't have read the scrolls. I could have used that time to figure out the capabilities of this body, he thought, irritated.
He decided to stay in the middle of the pack. Ahead, he could see most of the main characters, except for two: Shikamaru and Choji; the latter seemed to only be accompanying the former.
Michael, in his past life, didn't have the habit of running or jogging; he was the type of person who preferred going to the gym, but this time he was finding it entertaining. The air flowed in and out easily, and his feet didn't hurt from the repetitive action.
So, he decided to push a little further and get into the top half. However, that was his first mistake: he thought it would be a few warm-up laps, but the signal to stop never came.
Little by little, his breathing accelerated while his pace decreased with each extra lap they ran. His classmates started passing him: he went to the middle, from the middle to the lower half, and finally, the ones at the back passed him.
Just when he thought he would collapse at any moment, Iruka ended the warm-up. They did a quick stretching session, where Michael took the chance to recover a bit.
However, Iruka decided that was enough rest for his students and said:
"Go to the targets and form six lines of six people. You will alternate between throwing shuriken and kunai; once you throw, run to retrieve your weapon and return to the line." He paused, but seemed to remember something and added: "Wait for your classmate to return before throwing!"
All his classmates rushed toward the targets; he, on the other hand, went at a light pace. He was in no rush to throw a projectile at the target—or rather, he was in no rush to make a fool of himself.
He made sure to get in a line where there were no characters he recognized from the cast, and when the six lines were ready, Iruka started the practice.
His line moved slowly; with every classmate that returned, his nerves spiked. He played with the kunai in his hand, trying to summon any shred of muscle memory this body might have.
However, his turn arrived. Imitating the grip his classmates used, he threw his kunai, which not only veered off course but also fell short halfway there.
He could hear the laughter of his line mates and feel their gazes piercing his back. Upon returning to the line, he made sure to look at the floor; not just to avoid tripping, but because he didn't want to make eye contact with anyone.
The practice continued, and his results didn't improve much. The only thing he managed to do was increase the distance his projectiles traveled; however, his aim remained atrocious.