The parchment lay bare in front of Hiroshi, illuminated by the dim light of the workshop lantern. His fingers tapped impatiently on the table, his mind racing with possibilities. What could he create that would set him apart from every other puppeteer? What kind of invention would not only surprise his sensei but also make the ninja world tremble?
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as a mischievous grin crept onto his face. "What's scarier than a ninja with shuriken? A ninja with a fucking flamethrower."
But then the doubts crept in. How do I even make a flamethrower? Was it madness to try something so dangerous with his limited resources? What if he accidentally turned the workshop—or himself—into charcoal?
He muttered to himself, "Is this genius… or just me trying to get myself killed in the coolest way possible?"
Despite the humor, the challenge was real. Hiroshi wasn't just building a puppet; he was creating a symbol, a tool of destruction so unconventional it might rewrite the rules of combat. The first step? Fuel.
Hiroshi knew the power of fire, but he also knew it was unpredictable. The flamethrower would need a reliable, controllable fuel source. Gasoline and kerosene didn't exist here, but what about animal fat or oil? Sunagakure had plenty of livestock and oil-pressing methods for cooking. Could he repurpose these materials into something dangerous?
The idea wasn't perfect, but it was possible. Oils were flammable, easy to obtain, and relatively safe to store. He chuckled at the thought, imagining himself sneaking into the market and coming home with jars of cooking oil under the pretense of "helping his mom."
Then came the container. It needed to be lightweight yet sturdy enough to withstand the heat. Wood was out—it could catch fire. Metal? A better choice, but crafting a small, portable tank with Sunagakure's limited resources wasn't going to be easy.
As he sketched the blueprints, his mind buzzed with questions.
How do I make it durable enough to handle heat but light enough to attach to a puppet?
How do I create a nozzle that sprays fuel at the perfect pressure?
Can I test this without blowing something up—or Nakamura kicking me out of the workshop?
Hiroshi stared at the blueprint he'd drawn, his heart racing with both excitement and fear. This was going to be his first big step, his first real innovation. If he succeeded, he'd create something that could rival a C-rank fire-style jutsu, a weapon that didn't need hand seals or chakra molding.
But the road ahead wasn't easy. He'd need to find materials, test designs, and figure out how to control the flames without causing collateral damage. This wasn't just building a puppet—it was starting a journey, one that could change everything.
Hiroshi smirked, holding the blueprint up to the light. "Well, no one ever said changing the game would be easy."
Even though Hiroshi's mind was buzzing with excitement about starting his flamethrower project, school wasn't something he could skip—no matter how much he wanted to. The worst part? Spending hours in the company of these kids. If someone ever asked him what was harder: designing a fuel container or tolerating a classroom full of hyperactive 6-year-olds, the answer was obvious.
As he made his way to the academy, he sighed. "Another day in paradise."
Today wasn't just any ordinary day. It was the academy's yearly test, and the usual chaos was subdued—at least somewhat. Most kids were nervously quiet, muttering last-minute facts to themselves, while others stared at the ceiling as if the answers were written there. But, as always, some kids didn't seem to care about the world ending, let alone a test.
One boy was spinning a pencil on his nose, laughing like it was the greatest achievement of his life. Another girl was furiously chewing on her eraser like it held the secret to passing.
And then there was Hiroshi, who had long since accepted his fate. He sat calmly in his seat, watching the chaos with the kind of resignation that came from knowing it wasn't worth the energy to care.
Finally, the test papers were handed out, and a hush fell over the room. Hiroshi glanced at the questions, his mind switching gears instantly. The questions were a mix of theory and basic applications of chakra control. For him, it was straightforward—almost insultingly easy—but he noticed a few curveballs that would definitely trip up some of his classmates.
One question read:
"If a shinobi channels chakra to their feet while running across a slippery surface, how does it affect their grip and speed? Explain."
Hiroshi smiled, scribbling his answer: "Channeling chakra increases grip, allowing a shinobi to stabilize themselves. Speed may decrease slightly due to added chakra focus, but overall performance improves in such conditions."
Another question asked:
"You have three kunai but only enough chakra to enhance one for precision throwing. What factors should you consider before throwing?"
Hiroshi wrote: "The target's distance, movement pattern, and environmental obstructions should determine which kunai to enhance for maximum effect."
Fifteen minutes later, he was done. With a confident smile, he walked to the front and handed his paper to the invigilator.
The teacher raised an eyebrow, flipping through the neatly written answers. "Done already, Hiroshi?"
"Yes, sensei," he replied calmly.
The teacher gave him a skeptical look before nodding. "You always finish early, but 15 minutes is… impressive. Let's hope it's correct."
The murmurs started as Hiroshi walked back to his seat.
"Fifteen minutes? No way!"
"Did he even read the questions?!"
"I bet he just guessed everything."
One boy leaned over to whisper, "Show-off. I bet he doesn't even pass."
Hiroshi ignored them, leaning back in his chair. He wasn't here to impress anyone. Let them think what they wanted.
The invigilator continued reviewing his answers, and after a moment, their expression shifted to one of surprise. Hiroshi caught the small, approving nod before the teacher returned to their desk.
"Looks like someone's been studying," the teacher said loud enough for the class to hear.
The murmurs turned to silence, followed by some begrudging respect.
"Man, he's so annoying," muttered one kid. "How's he so smart and fast?"
"He's like… a ninja robot or something," whispered another.
Hiroshi couldn't help but smirk. A ninja robot? That wasn't the worst nickname he'd ever been called.
With the theoretical test out of the way, the academy students moved outside for the physical assessment. This was the part Hiroshi had been waiting for. Though he was still competing with children, he knew these weren't ordinary kids. Sure, many of them barely paid attention in class, but when it came to physical training, they were determined—after all, they were training to become ninja.
Hiroshi stood among his classmates, stretching his arms as the instructors began calling names. He was confident he could outperform everyone in his batch, but his mind wandered to something more ambitious. How would I compare to someone like the Kazekage when he was my age? Or the prodigies who set school records? Could I even break one?
The instructors announced the first event: a 100-meter sprint.
The names were called, and the first group of students lined up. The whistle blew, and they bolted forward. Some were surprisingly fast, their feet kicking up small clouds of dust as they dashed to the finish line.
"Whoa! Did you see that? Daiki's legs are like lightning!" one student exclaimed.
"Yeah, but did you see Kenta trip on his own feet?!" another teased, laughing.
Kenta, brushing dirt off his face, muttered, "It's called strategy! I was… uh… distracting everyone."
The next group went, and the performances varied again. Some were cheered on enthusiastically, while others faced groans or playful jeers.
Finally, Hiroshi's name was called. The murmurs began immediately.
"Hiroshi's up! I bet he's gonna destroy this."
"Yeah, but is he fast, or just book-smart?"
"Watch him trip like Kenta. That'd be hilarious!"
Hiroshi stepped to the starting line, rolling his shoulders and settling into position. When the whistle blew, he pushed off the ground with all his strength.
The world blurred as his feet pounded the dirt. His movements were smooth and controlled, his body flowing like water as he surged ahead. By the time he crossed the finish line, the gap between him and the second-place runner was wide.
The students erupted into a mix of cheers and gasps.
"He's a monster! How's he that fast?"
"Was he holding back all year?!"
"That's not fair; his legs are longer or something!"
The instructors exchanged impressed glances, one of them nodding in approval. "His form is excellent, and his stamina is incredible for his age," one said quietly.
Next came the obstacle course: climbing walls, crawling under low beams, and leaping across gaps.
As usual, some students struggled hilariously.
"Hey, I think Kenta got stuck under the beam! Should we go rescue him?"
"Nah, leave him there. Maybe he'll turn into a mole and dig his way out!"
When Hiroshi's turn came, he took a deep breath, visualizing the course. This was where his enhanced reflexes and flexibility would shine.
The whistle blew, and Hiroshi darted forward. He scaled the wall in seconds, using his momentum to swing himself over. He ducked and weaved under the beams with precision, his body moving like a spring. The final jump was the toughest—most kids hesitated here—but Hiroshi didn't break stride, clearing it with ease.
The class erupted again.
"He's not human!"
"I swear, he's got springs in his legs."
"That was awesome!"
Even the instructors had to admit he was performing far above expectations.
Finally, it was time for the shuriken-throwing assessment. Hiroshi wasn't as confident here—he had decent aim, but this wasn't his strongest area.
The goal was to hit three bullseyes out of five throws. Most students managed one or two, though a few hit all three.
When it was Hiroshi's turn, the students were buzzing.
"Do you think he'll break the target or something?"
"Maybe he'll throw them so fast they catch fire!"
"Don't jinx him!"
Hiroshi stepped up, calm and focused. He lined up his throws carefully, exhaling to steady his aim.
The first two shuriken hit the bullseye dead-on. The third landed slightly off-center, and the fourth was just on the edge of the bullseye. The final throw, however, landed perfectly in the center.
While it wasn't as overwhelming as his earlier performances, it was still the best score in his class.
"Of course he aces this too," someone muttered.
"Why didn't he hit all five? Is he losing his touch?" another joked.
By the time the assessments were over, Hiroshi had solidified his position at the top of the class. His classmates' reactions ranged from admiration to envy, with more than a few grudging cheers mixed in.
The instructors made a note to report his progress to the academy head. "This boy isn't just talented—he's disciplined. He'll go far."
Hiroshi, brushing sweat off his forehead, smirked to himself. The tests were done, but his mind was already elsewhere—thinking about fuel containers, blueprints, and the flames he'd one day unleash.