(AN: omg its 1 am eyes heavy dogs passed out)
The morning didn't look different, but it felt different anyway.
Raizo noticed it before the Academy gates, before the courtyard noise, before the teacher's voice could cut through the air. The village was awake in a sharper way—like everyone had leaned forward without meaning to, waiting for something to happen.
Tsunade walked ahead of him like she owned the road. Her shoulders were set and her steps were loud enough to make people move aside. She didn't look at anyone, and that somehow made it worse for them. They looked at her anyway.
Raizo stayed half a step behind.
Not hiding. Not clinging. Just… not offering himself.
"Don't be slow," Tsunade said without turning.
"I'm not," he answered.
She made a sound in her throat, like his words irritated her even when they were correct. That was Tsunade. She liked strength, and she liked winning, and she didn't like anything that felt uncertain.
They reached the Academy and stepped into the courtyard where the noise lived.
Kids ran like they had too much energy for their own bones. Someone shouted a name. Someone shoved someone else. Someone laughed too hard. It was a mess, but it was a normal mess—until Raizo felt the way some heads turned, the way some whispers pulled tight when they passed.
It wasn't everybody.
It never was.
But it was enough.
Jiraiya was easy to find because he was loud like a flare.
"I'm telling you, my leaf was spinning!" he announced to a small cluster of kids who looked half-impressed and half-trapped. His hands cut wild circles through the air like he wanted to demonstrate the leaf's "amazing behavior" using only his body. "It spun and then it wobbled, but that's because my chakra's strong. It doesn't like sitting still."
One kid leaned away like Jiraiya might accidentally punch him.
Jiraiya spotted Tsunade and Raizo and lifted a hand like they were part of his audience.
"Hey! You made it! Did you practice? I practiced!"
Tsunade didn't even look at him. She walked past as if he were a signpost.
Jiraiya blinked, offended for exactly one heartbeat, then shrugged and kept talking because stopping would have required a different kind of control.
"Whatever. I'll still beat all of you."
Raizo didn't react. Loud didn't mean important. Loud usually meant the opposite.
Inside the classroom, the heat and smell of too many people trapped together pressed down. Desks scraped the floor. Paper rustled. A pencil snapped and someone hissed a curse like they were testing the shape of the word.
Raizo sat where he'd been sitting lately—near the side. Not in the back where people could throw things at him and pretend it was an accident. Not in the front where it looked like he was trying to be seen. Close enough to hear the teacher clearly. Far enough to feel like he had space.
Tsunade took her seat like she was taking territory.
Jiraiya dropped into his with a dramatic sigh, like sitting down was an insult.
Orochimaru was already there.
He didn't move much. He wasn't stiff; he was simply still, like he'd decided motion was optional unless it served a purpose. His eyes drifted once across the room and then lowered to his paper. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He looked like a boy who already knew he didn't need anyone's approval.
Raizo didn't like the way Orochimaru watched. It wasn't the same as the other kids. Their attention felt like poking. Orochimaru's attention felt like measuring.
The instructor entered and the room changed shape. The noise didn't stop, but it learned where it was allowed to exist.
He wrote on the board with chalk that squealed just enough to make a few kids flinch.
Micro-Assessment.
Someone swallowed loudly.
"Yesterday," the instructor said without turning, "you behaved like children."
A few nervous giggles tried to rise and then died when he turned to face them.
"That wasn't a joke," he said. "Today, you will behave like shinobi."
Silence spread, thin and uneasy.
"Three parts," he continued. "Forms. Control. Attention."
He didn't explain why.
He didn't say what happened if someone failed.
He didn't threaten.
He simply looked at them like he expected results.
"All of you will be watched," he said.
Raizo felt his stomach tighten—not fear, not exactly, but the pressure of being measured. Being weighed. Being turned into a number in someone else's head.
"Line up," the instructor ordered.
They moved. Desks scraped. Feet shuffled. Someone muttered that it was stupid, as if saying it first could protect them from caring.
They filed into the training yard where the sun was bright and there were no corners to hide in. The ground was flat, the air open, the space too honest.
There was another teacher there too—older, arms folded, gaze sharp. Two instructors meant it mattered.
Tsunade's jaw tightened. She liked proving herself, but she hated being evaluated.
Jiraiya bounced on his toes like he could turn nerves into confidence by force.
Orochimaru stood like a statue.
Raizo stood still, shoulders relaxed on purpose. He didn't want to look tense. Tense made people think they'd found something they could pull.
The instructor lifted his hand.
"Forms," he said.
Names were called one by one.
Kids stepped forward and performed. Some were sloppy. Some tried too hard. Some forgot what their bodies were supposed to do and turned into elbows and knees without sense.
When Tsunade's name was called, she stepped forward like the yard belonged to her.
Her stance was solid. Her punches snapped through the air sharp enough to make other kids blink. She didn't wobble. She didn't hesitate. Even the instructor's expression changed slightly, like he hadn't expected her to be that clean.
She finished and stood there, breathing steady, eyes daring anyone to comment.
"Good," the instructor said.
It sounded like an insult because it wasn't perfect.
Tsunade's eyes flashed, but she stepped back without saying anything. Her pride didn't bend; it just went quiet and angry.
Jiraiya went next.
He was fast and messy. His feet moved like they didn't want to stay in the same place. He overextended, had to catch himself mid-strike, and smiled like confidence could erase mistakes.
The instructor stared at him.
"Again," he said.
Jiraiya's grin cracked. "What?"
"Again," the instructor repeated. "Slower."
Jiraiya's face reddened. He did it again, slower, and it was obvious he hated the feeling of restraint. His second run was better, but the frustration clung to him.
The instructor didn't praise him.
"Sit down," he said, like he was shelving an object.
Jiraiya stomped back into line muttering under his breath.
Orochimaru's name was called.
He stepped forward smoothly.
His forms were quiet—not weak, not soft, just efficient. No wasted movement. No extra power. No show. He finished like it was boring.
The instructor's eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
"Next," he said.
Raizo's name came.
He walked forward and the yard felt larger. The sun felt brighter. The air felt thinner, like it didn't want to give him enough room to breathe.
He took his stance.
For half a second, his body wanted to lock up. It wanted stillness so sharp it could become invisible.
But he didn't let himself freeze.
He breathed once and moved.
His punches weren't the strongest. His kicks weren't the flashiest. He kept his motion clean and controlled, like the important part was not what he could do, but what he could stop himself from doing.
When he finished, he ended exactly where he started.
The instructor watched him for a moment too long.
"Again," the instructor said.
Raizo didn't ask why. He didn't show surprise. He simply did it again.
The second run was almost identical—except his left foot slid half an inch too far on one transition. He felt it immediately, like a grain of sand under skin, and corrected the next step without making it obvious.
"Enough," the instructor said.
Raizo stepped back.
Tsunade glanced at him once, quick and sharp, like she was checking for cracks.
Jiraiya stared at him like he didn't like what he'd just seen. "What was that?" he whispered, too loud.
Raizo didn't look at him. "Forms," he answered, calm.
Jiraiya squinted like the word annoyed him.
The instructor clapped his hands once.
"Control," he said.
A bucket of water sat near a low slab of stone. Beside it were leaves and small pebbles.
It looked easy. That was what made it worse. Easy things were the ones people used to humiliate you when you failed.
"Each of you will make the water ripple," the instructor said. "Once. Not a wave. Not a splash. A ripple."
A girl stepped forward and pressed her fingers into the water. Nothing happened. She pressed harder, face turning red, and the water splashed like it was offended.
The instructor didn't scold. He simply waved her away.
A boy tried next. The water trembled, then stilled.
"Next," the instructor said.
Kids cycled through. Some managed a ripple. Some made a mess. Some couldn't make anything happen at all and looked like they wanted the ground to swallow them.
When Tsunade stepped forward, her fingers touched the surface and the water shivered immediately—one clean ripple spreading outward in a perfect circle. Then another. Then another.
She lifted her hand like the water belonged to her.
Jiraiya slapped the bucket too hard and sent water splashing over the rim.
"Oops," he said with a laugh that didn't fool anyone.
The instructor didn't blink. "Again."
Jiraiya tried gentler. The ripple came out crooked, like the water itself didn't trust him.
The instructor moved on.
Orochimaru touched the surface and the ripple was perfect enough to look drawn.
No smile. No pride. Just results.
Raizo's name came.
He stepped up. The bucket smelled like cold stone and metal. He placed his fingers on the surface and felt his chakra tug, wanting to surge because touching things and making them obey was easy when he didn't care about damage.
But he cared.
He gave the water the smallest push.
A ripple spread outward. One circle, then another. Clean. Quiet.
He lifted his fingers away and stepped back.
The instructor leaned forward slightly, like he was watching something he didn't trust.
The older teacher beside him murmured something too soft to hear.
Raizo didn't look at either of them. He wasn't going to offer his face as a target.
The instructor clapped once more.
"Attention," he said.
The air changed.
Kids who were good at punching looked nervous now. Muscles didn't help if your mind slipped.
The instructor held up a strip of paper covered in ink marks. Not words. A pattern: lines, dots, a spiral, a break, and more lines.
"Watch," he said.
He held it up for three breaths.
Then lowered it out of sight.
"Write it," he ordered.
Pencils scratched. Some kids froze. Some scribbled fast like speed could catch what their brains dropped.
Jiraiya stuck his tongue out while he wrote, eyes narrowed in angry concentration.
Tsunade wrote quickly, then paused with a frown like she didn't like one section.
Orochimaru wrote without hesitation.
Raizo didn't rush.
He drew the first line. Then the dot. Then the spiral. Then the break. He finished and set his pencil down.
The instructor walked between rows, silent. Silence was worse than yelling. Silence let kids imagine the punishment.
He paused behind Raizo's desk.
Raizo didn't look up. His hands stayed flat on the wood.
After a long moment, the instructor moved on.
Then came the second attention drill.
"Close your eyes," the instructor ordered.
Groans started and stopped under his stare.
They closed their eyes.
The world went dark, but sound stayed. Footsteps moved across the yard—slow, then faster, then stopping. A scrape. A tap. A pause. A different set of steps. Then silence again.
"Open," he said.
They opened their eyes.
The instructor scanned them like they were suspects. "How many people moved?"
Hands shot up. Numbers were shouted—six, four, ten.
The instructor didn't react.
"How many footsteps were heavy?"
More guessing.
"How many taps?"
More noise.
The instructor's gaze landed on Raizo.
He didn't call him out with his name. He simply looked at him like Raizo was already part of the answer.
"What did you notice?" the instructor asked.
The yard went quiet in a way that felt sharp. Heads turned. Eyes pinned. Raizo's throat tightened with pressure—not fear, but the heavy feeling of being made into the center.
He kept his voice small and steady. "Two people moved," he said.
A kid snorted.
The instructor didn't blink. "How do you know."
"Different weight," Raizo said.
It sounded too simple. It sounded like a guess.
But it was true.
The instructor tilted his head slightly. "What else."
Raizo hesitated, then answered anyway. "One tried to step softly," he said. "But the scrape gave it away."
The older teacher's eyes sharpened.
The instructor nodded once, slow and thoughtful, and then turned his gaze back to the class like nothing had happened.
"All of you return tomorrow," he said.
A breath of relief went through the group.
Then he added, "Some of you will be watched more closely than others."
The relief snapped into a different kind of tension. Kids shifted, trying to decide if that meant good or bad.
Tsunade lifted her chin like she wanted the watching.
Jiraiya looked like he wanted it and feared it at the same time.
Orochimaru didn't change expression at all.
Raizo kept his face blank. Not because he felt nothing. Because he didn't want them to know what mattered.
The instructors spoke quietly together at the side of the yard. Their words didn't carry, but their attention did.
They dismissed the class.
Kids spilled out like beads rolling across stone.
Outside the Academy gate, Tsunade fell into step beside Raizo, closer than usual. Not soft. Not gentle. Just present—like she was daring anyone to come near him.
"Good," she said, like the word tasted wrong in her mouth.
Raizo blinked. "What?"
"Your control," she muttered. Then, quickly, as if she hated the idea of him thinking she cared, "Not that you need me to say it."
Raizo didn't answer. He didn't know what to do with that.
Jiraiya jogged past them, then turned to walk backward so he could face them like a fool.
"Okay," he said, pointing at Raizo, "that last part was weird. The eyes-closed thing. How did you—"
"Don't," Tsunade snapped.
Jiraiya jerked like he'd been hit. "I'm asking!"
"You're broadcasting," Tsunade said. "Again."
Jiraiya frowned. "What does that even mean?"
"It means stop making everything louder," Tsunade said.
Jiraiya opened his mouth to argue—he always did.
Raizo cut in before Jiraiya could build speed.
"Stop talking about me," Raizo said.
His voice was calm, but it wasn't soft.
Jiraiya froze, face doing something messy—embarrassment first, then anger, then something like shame.
"…Fine," he muttered. Then quieter, "Fine."
He turned and walked ahead with stiff shoulders.
Tsunade watched him go.
"You were nice," she said, like she didn't mean it as praise.
"I wasn't," Raizo answered.
Tsunade made a sound that almost became a laugh and then stopped herself like laughter would make her lose.
They reached the edge of the Senju district paths where their routes split. Tsunade's home was closer. Raizo's path went deeper toward the place people pretended not to stare at too long.
Before Tsunade peeled away, she glanced at him again.
"They'll watch you now," she said.
Raizo shrugged like it didn't matter.
It did.
He just wasn't going to let it own him.
Inside the compound, the air always felt cleaner. Quieter. Like the walls were built to hold the world's noise outside.
Raizo washed his hands. Ate what he was given. Tried not to replay the instructor's eyes over and over.
A messenger arrived later—no mask, no drama, just a person with careful posture and a sealed note.
The kind of careful that meant adults were speaking around something sharp.
The note went to Mito.
Raizo didn't see what it said.
He didn't need to.
Because when Mito looked at him after reading it, her expression was calm in the way the ocean could be calm right before it decided to swallow a ship.
"Tomorrow morning," Mito said, "you will wake earlier."
Raizo didn't argue. "Okay."
Mito held his gaze. "You did well today."
Praise from her felt heavier than praise from anyone else. Like it came with responsibility attached.
Raizo kept his face still. "I did what you said."
Mito's mouth softened—barely. Not a smile. Not warmth. Recognition.
"Good," she said. Then, after a pause, "They will look for cracks."
Raizo stayed quiet.
Mito didn't need him to speak. She didn't need reassurance.
Her gaze flicked to his sleeve where the small breath-anchor tag sat hidden under cloth.
"You will not give them a show," she said.
Raizo met her eyes. For once, he didn't feel small. He felt steady.
"No," he said.
Mito nodded once. "Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow we train."
For the first time since Raizo had come to this village, thinking about tomorrow didn't twist his stomach.
It made his fingers itch.
Not for a fight.
For control.
Outside the compound walls, the village kept breathing. Somewhere inside it, the people who watched were already deciding what they thought Raizo was.
Raizo didn't care the way they wanted him to.
Let them think.
Tomorrow, he would still be here.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.