As rows of children gathered outside the academy gates, shuffling nervously while waiting for their official class placements after completing the grueling admission process, the instructors finally arrived. They were flanked by several chunin volunteers, their presence casting a somber shadow over the excited crowd.
"Students who did not pass will be shown the exit immediately," the lead instructor announced, his voice devoid of sympathy.
Soon, the volunteers began to lead the tearful children away one by one at the command of the instructor. The atmosphere shifted from anticipation to a heavy, suffocating gloom. Some children were openly begging for a second chance, but their desperate pleas went in vain as they were ushered toward the gates. Others walked in a daze, feeling the stinging, mocking eyes of those who had stayed behind. A few simply broke into a sprint, running fast to avoid the gaze of their peers and the weight of their own shame.
For the parents watching from the sidelines, their faces held a mosaic of expressions. Some were visibly angry, already branding their own children as failures for the rest of their lives. Others wore "as expected" masks of indifference, clearly planning to invalidate every single opinion or desire those children might have from this day forward. Fortunately, a few reasonable parents looked on with soft eyes, thinking only of how to comfort their children and try again next year without being too hard on them.
For the volunteers and instructors, however, the emotional display was a mere afterthought—just another routine day at the office.
As 50% of the children were cleared from the academy jurisdiction, the remaining chunin waited for the instructor's next direction.
"Lead Class 'Green' to this corner," the instructor commanded, pointing his finger at a dusty patch of ground near the playground.
Soon, around 40% of the total children gathered near the swings and slides. Their faces were a mix of lingering disappointment and simple relief that they were, at the very least, admitted. This left behind a small, elite group of 10%—roughly 90 children—still waiting for their prestigious placement.
'Sucks I couldn't be in that group,' Sosuke Ryo sighed internally. He watched as he was officially assigned to the regular mass class, a stark contrast to the 90 children who were heading to the elite track to receive specialized attention and better resources.
It was a pity he couldn't quite make the cut. Then again, he had only transmigrated into this world about four years ago when he was just an infant. The specific details of the Naruto plot had only begun to resurface in his mind a few weeks prior. He had done his absolute best with the limited time he had to ensure he didn't fail entirely, so he supposed that was that.
'They should let me go to the library, right? I did pass, after all.' As he busied himself with these thoughts, planning his next moves, the 90 elite students were divided into three groups and assigned to their respective classes. They were already marching away toward the main building to inform the good news.
Some of them were ecstatic, grinning and few were casting superior glances back at Class Green. Others, particularly those with emblems etched onto their clothing, felt nothing at all; for them, this placement was simply the expected minimum.
As the crowd began to thin and the noise died down, Ryo approached one of the lingering instructors, asking whether he could visit the library before the official term started.
"Why, kid?" the man asked, pausing.
"I want to study before the actual classes begin."
"What's your name, kid?" the instructor asked, staring at him for a long, quiet moment.
"Sosuke Ryo, sensei."
The instructor looked at his clipboard, scanning the list until he identified the name. He looked back at Ryo, squinting slightly, before quickly jotting something down on a small scrap of paper.
"Give this to the librarian to gain access," he said. He tore the piece of paper off, folded it once, and handed it over. "Don't look inside. That's a direct order."
The instructor turned and left without another word, leaving Ryo standing there, slightly puzzled.
'No idea why he stared at me like that,' he thought, shrugging. He put the mystery aside and headed toward the interior of the academy to find the library.
After asking for directions from a passing staff member and walking for about ten minutes through the polished halls, he reached the library entrance. From the outside looking in, the architecture and the way the scrolls were shelved reminded him of the Japanese Edo-period libraries his past self had once visited.
"Hey kid, what are you doing here?" A woman's voice cut through his observation. The librarian stepped out, her face a mask of practiced disinterest.
Ryo simply handed over the folded paper. After a brief wait while she inspected the note and gave him a measuring look, she spoke.
"You will pay 100 ryo if I find you damaging or writing on even a single page of a book in here," the librarian warned sternly. With that, she retreated back to her desk.
He gave a sharp nod and stepped into the quiet rows of shelves, searching for something useful. Since he knew that the academic standards here would likely be much lower than the rigorous schooling of Earth—and considering the academy was essentially a military training facility rather than a traditional school—he was confident he could breeze through the written subjects by simply listening and glancing at the texts.
What he really needed was a roadmap for training. He had no mentor, and with the "cheat" he possessed, he couldn't afford to let his potential go to waste. He was also deeply curious about the history the original series never bothered to mention, hoping to find inspiration for new jutsus to master.
His ultimate goal was simple, yet gargantuan: to learn every single jutsu that existed in this world.
And… why not?
Some people in this world craved total domination. Some sacrificed everything for a fragile peace. Others sought the cold embrace of immortality or the power of limitless wealth.
Ryo knew his existence likely wouldn't change the grand design; the world would eventually be saved by the predestined heroes without his help. So, why not hold on to this frivolous impulse? Why not become a living library of shinobi art?