The shinobi world, after years of uneasy peace, is once again brewing a storm beneath the surface. Many years have passed since the end of the Second Great Ninja War.
Looking up at the sky, I realize—I don't have much time for myself anymore.
---
Hokage's Office, Konoha.
"Hokage-sama! This is the list of new academy enrollees. Please take a look!"
"Alright."
Sarutobi Hiruzen exhaled a puff of smoke from his pipe as he took the roster.
"This year, we have 624 freshmen. The highest number in recent years."
The middle-aged, balding man stood formally in front of the desk, hands straight at his sides, speaking with respect.
This was the Third Hokage—Sarutobi Hiruzen.
"Hmm, that's very good," Hiruzen nodded thoughtfully.
Now in his fifties, the Hokage who had governed the village longer than any before him, was beginning to feel the weight of his age. Yet seeing new children enroll in the Ninja Academy still filled him with a sense of relief. They were the future of the village—of Konoha.
As he opened the roster, his eyes were immediately drawn to the top name on the list.
"Uchiha Saitama...?"
The names listed at the top were always those students who had shown exceptional talent during the entrance assessments, the ones who had caught the attention of many instructors.
The bald administrator remained silent. He was wary when it came to the subject of the Uchiha Clan. After all, he was merely the head of the Ninja Academy, and such clan politics were beyond his station.
"You may go," Hiruzen said, his gaze still fixed on the roster. "That will be all."
The man bowed politely, turned, and left the office, closing the door behind him.
Left alone, the Third Hokage sat in silence, the smoke from his pipe slowly filling the room, veiling his expression.
No one could tell what thoughts stirred behind that cloud of smoke.
---
"Ah, Saitama, you're back."
Uchiha Saitama walked through the door, holding up the vegetables he'd bought.
"I'm back, Granny KaKa. Brought dinner."
Granny KaKa, an elder of the Uchiha Clan, spent most of her days at home. Although there were many around her age in the clan, she kept to herself and rarely mingled. Content with her quiet life, she had little interest in making new friends.
With time on her hands, she'd taken to experimenting with the new recipes Saitama casually mentioned, treating cooking as both pastime and purpose. It kept her occupied—and, frankly, with the chaos outside, that was probably for the best.
Handing over the groceries, Saitama headed upstairs.
She can cook and entertain herself. Better that she keeps busy—idleness isn't good for her at her age. Cooking is perfect for her.
Once in his room, Saitama sat cross-legged and began his daily chakra refinement.
---
At noon, he had a simple meal of chicken and salad before heading off to the academy again.
That afternoon marked the start of formal shinobi training—specifically kunai and shuriken basics.
For the students in Saitama's class, this was little more than a formality. Most of them already had at least a basic grasp of these tools before entering.
The instructor knew this as well. After a brief explanation of the fundamentals, the students were left to practice freely, honing their proficiency with these staple ninja weapons.
The class took place at a designated training ground—spacious enough for everyone to train without crowding.
Saitama held the wooden kunai and shuriken in his hands, their weight oddly familiar despite being made of wood.
In this world, would such simple tools really be enough to take a life?
In his past life, he'd never seen death delivered by such means.
Still, he wouldn't neglect his training. After all, the shurikenjutsu skills of Uchiha Shisui and Uchiha Itachi were nothing to scoff at. If he could reach even half their skill, these tools would be more than useful in battle.
With that thought in mind, he hooked his right index finger through the ring of the kunai, spinning it smoothly as he idly rubbed the shuriken with his left hand.
This wasn't his first time handling ninja tools. There was a strange familiarity to it.
Perhaps... this was talent?
Ignoring the chatter and clumsy practice of his classmates, Saitama focused solely on the tools in his hands.
Despite being wooden, they had a satisfying heft to them.
With a flick of his wrist, he sent the shuriken flying toward a nearby target.
Thud!
It struck the bullseye cleanly.
Yet no one around him paid much attention. Many students were trying their hand at the same, captivated by the novelty of shuriken throwing.
Had someone looked closely at Saitama's target, they would have noticed his perfect hit.
But whether it was luck or skill—only Saitama knew the answer.
After an afternoon of such practice, Saitama could only confirm one thing—the first-year curriculum was painfully basic.
As the saying went, "The master leads you to the door, but cultivation is up to the individual."
If he truly wanted to become stronger, he couldn't rely solely on the academy.
He would have to carve his own path.