The students of Class 1-A had progressed to their third year, now officially designated as Class 2-A. Two weeks had passed since the start of the year, and it had all gone by in a whirlwind. Yet, Yuuto couldn't help but wonder why Raijin hadn't shown up. He had been absent since the start of the third year and while this wasn't entirely new —Raijin had once been absent for an entire month—something about his absence this time felt particularly noticeable.
The classroom door creaked open, and a tall man walked in, standing confidently at the front of the class. In his early thirties, he had a commanding presence. He placed his belongings on the podium with precision, standing straight and exuding discipline. His fair face held a gentle yet stern expression, and his Chūnin vest was perfectly pressed. He looked bit as the teacher—more so than Kaiyo-sensei, who had stood before them.
The class, accustomed to Kaiyo's warm demeanor, fell into an uneasy silence. For the past two years, they had only known Kaiyo as their instructor, so the arrival of a new teacher—especially one unfamiliar—left the students unsettled.
The room buzzed with whispered conversations, soft murmurs rippling through the students. Eyes darted around, uncertain of how to react to the stranger in front of them. The whispers slowly grew louder, filling the room with nervous energy.
A loud voice cut through the buzzing noise shattering the tense and unsettled atmosphere. "I'll beat you again next time, watch it..." The voice belonged to none other than Satoru. He stepped into the classroom, with Kageyuki closely behind him.
As the bell hadn't rung, they weren't required to be in the class yet. The two were caught up in some rivalry, their voices echoing down the hall as they walked, drawing attention to them.
Yuuto glanced over at them, relieved by the familiar sight. As Satoru and Kageyuki headed to their seats, they eyed the new instructor curiously, though neither seemed particularly fazed. Satoru casually strolled to his seat next to Yuuto, still talking, while Kageyuki took his spot nearby.
Yuuto leaned in, lowering his voice as he settled into his seat. "A new instructor… Did Kaiyo-sensei leave us?" he whispered, his words laced with confusion and concern.
"That might not be it," Satoru whispered, the unease also gnawed at him. Kaiyo's presence had always been steady, and reassuring in the classroom. And the thought of someone new taking over felt like a disruption in the balance they had grown used to.
The students whispered continued and within moments, the noise became quite overwhelming.
Just then, the new instructor cleared his throat, "Quiet down!" he said, his almost imperceptible smile accompanied by a calm yet authoritative tone, bringing everyone's attention back to the front.
Instantly, the students fell silent, sensing the change in the atmosphere. However, light whispers continued.
The new instructor's smile was polite, but there was something distant about it. He locked eyes with each student in the class, his gaze unnervingly direct. Some students flinched, dropping their eyes to the desk, while others avoided his stare altogether. A few, however, held his gaze, unafraid, their glares sharp.
The man surveyed the classroom with a gaze that felt more like an assessment than a casual observation. His eyes seemed to catalog each student, lingering with particular intensity on Kageyuki, Yuuto, Meiko, Taro, and Satoru.
Finally, he glanced at the wall clock. It was exactly 8 o'clock. He smiled again, this time with a bit more warmth, "Good morning, class. I am Mitoru, and I'll substitute for Kaiyo-sensei while he finishes his mission."
Mitoru turned toward the board, his movements precise and almost mechanical. He wrote his name—Mi-to-ru—in bold, deliberate strokes that made the chalk screech louder than necessary. After finishing, he wiped his hands and turned back to face the class, his smile unchanged.
He briefly scanned the attendance sheet, finger tracing down the list of names, and began the roll call. When he reached the end, his gaze lingered on the absence of a particular student, Raijin, who had been missing for two weeks. The absence stood out, though he made no immediate comment.
"I've heard interesting things about this class," he continued, his voice smooth and even. His eyes swept over the room again, lingering on the same certain students. There was no mistaking the intention behind it—each student he focused on also seemed to feel the weight of his attention.
"Let's begin with some basic chakra exercises to assess where everyone stands," Mitoru said scanning the classroom one last time.
Something about Mitoru made Satoru's skin prickle, though he couldn't pinpoint why. Maybe it was the way his smile seemed practiced, or how his eyes seemed to catalog every student they fell upon.
The first exercise: Leaf Concentration was familiar – Satoru had practiced it on his own. He performed the exercise with ease alongside the kids from prominent families. Civilians, however, struggled with the leaf concentration practice.
"Remember," Mitoru said, walking between the desks, "chakra control is fundamental to every ninja technique. Even the strongest shinobi must master the basics."
At first, Mitoru demonstrated, guiding them through the process. Each student received a leaf and had to try making it stick to their forehead using chakra. Most of the class groaned; it was harder than it looked, and few could maintain it for more than a few seconds.
Yuuto watched as his classmates tried. Satoru made it as soon as he put the leaf on his forehead. Mitoru made a note in his small black notebook with his expression still unreadable.
"Chakra isn't just power, son. It's like a quiet stream – you must feel its flow." Mitoru said, directing his advice at some students struggling with the exercise.
The morning continued with more basic exercises. They practiced the hand seals they'd learned so far – rat, ox, tiger, bear, ram, and so on. Most students still fumbled with hand sign transitions and Mitoru moved around the room, correcting their hand signs quickly, precisely, and efficiently.
During Kunai practice on the training grounds, the students diligently worked with the standard training weapons provided to them—well-worn kunai designed specifically for practice. It was a familiar and daily routine, part of the fundamental training every student underwent.
The targets were large, stationary wooden posts, each adorned with concentric circles painted in bright, bold colors, marking the designated zones for scoring. The wooden surfaces of the posts bore the weathered scars of countless previous training sessions: deep gouges from missed throws, splinters from years of repeated impacts, and faded paint worn down by relentless strikes.
"Proper form is essential," Mitoru said, his voice calm and steady as he demonstrated the technique. His movement was a study in clean precision, each step fluid and deliberate, the kunai sailing effortlessly from his hand and striking the target with pinpoint accuracy. "Power means nothing without accuracy," he continued, his gaze unwavering.
Most of the students struggled to replicate his precision. Their kunai ricocheted off the targets, clattering harmlessly to the ground, or sailing wide, missing the mark entirely. The air was filled with the sound of imperfect attempts, the sharp clink of steel against wood, and the occasionally frustrating sigh.
However, a few stood out. Satoru, Kageyuki, Meiko, Yuuto, and Taro—all of them showed a glimmer of potential. Their throws were more controlled, their aim steadier, and their kunai found their mark more often than not.
During the break, as the rest of the class murmured, Yuuto leaned closer to Satoru, lowering his voice to a whisper. "My father says sometimes ANBU disguises themselves as teachers."
Hearing this, Satoru's eyes flicked toward Mitoru, who sat far away, reviewing his small black notebook with a laser-like focus. Mitoru's posture was rigid, his attention seemingly split between the pages and the students. His eyes would occasionally lift, scanning the room, before he'd jot down a note in the margins of his notebook with a quick, fluid motion. He wasn't just watching the class; he was cataloging each student and observing them.
Satoru studied him for a moment longer, an uncomfortable sense crept up his spine.
…
The second day began with Taijutsu forms on the training ground. All the students paired up and assumed their starting stances. Mitoru stood at the edge of the training area, his ever-present notebook in hand, his sharp eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity.
"Power comes from proper form," Mitoru called out, moving effortlessly between the students. His voice was calm but commanding. He adjusted the posture of a pair, practicing a stance with his hands precise and deliberate. "A perfect technique performed slowly is better than a sloppy one performed quickly," he continued, reinforcing the lesson's core. Each correction he made was done with a meticulous, almost clinical touch as if every small shift in alignment was crucial to their growth.
As the students cycled through their drills, Mitoru's eyes flicked from one pair to the next. His attention wasn't just on those struggling to master the basics but also on the students who displayed natural fluidity in their movements—those who adapted quickly to his corrections, adjusting their form with ease and precision. These were the students who caught his attention the most.
Mitoru carried his notebook almost everywhere. The notebook's pages were filled with tiny details he had jotted down about each student. It was clear that Mitoru wasn't just teaching the forms—he was assessing potential, evaluating each student's ability to master the fundamentals, and, perhaps, much more.
The afternoon brought written work—a shift from the physical strain of training to the mental challenge of understanding ninja concepts. The students were handed sheets filled with basic theories about chakra and tactical scenarios, simple enough for their age but designed to make them think critically. The questions were straightforward on the surface.
"You're practicing throwing kunai and see a fellow student struggling. What do you do?"
"Your team needs to deliver a message across the training ground. What's the safest route?"
Satoru found the questions easy enough to answer, but something about Mitoru's approach made the children pause. As the students scribbled down their responses, Mitoru walked between the desks, eyes scanning the papers. His attention didn't seem solely focused on the answers; instead, he seemed more invested in how the students arrived at their conclusions.
"Why would you help your classmate?" Mitoru asked one student, his voice casual but probing. He wasn't satisfied with simple answers. He wanted to understand the reasoning behind them.
"What made you choose that route?" he inquired of another student, his tone quiet, yet insistent.
And when it came to Satoru, Mitoru didn't let him off easily either.
"What is your topmost priority?" he asked, his gaze never leaving Satoru's face, as if searching for more than just the right answer.
…
The third day featured teamwork exercises designed to foster collaboration. The students were divided into small groups and tasked with simple activities: passing bags of rice down a line, solving puzzles in pairs, and engaging in games that required them to communicate, trust, and sometimes, even deceive their teammates in order to win.
"In the field," Mitoru said as he observed their efforts, "your teammates' lives may depend on how well you work together."
Students struggled to balance competition with cooperation. These three days taught them: how to function as a team, how to rely on others, and, at times, how to make tough decisions for the greater good.
Satoru felt the tension in the air, the pressure to perform not just for himself, but for his team. The stakes, even in this controlled setting, felt higher than they appeared. Was it because of Mitoru? He wondered.
During the final afternoon, the class gathered to review everything they had learned so far: basic chakra theory, the fundamental hand seals, and the critical importance of teamwork. It was all part of the standard Academy curriculum, the foundation every student had to master. But somehow, under Mitoru's supervision, the lessons felt different—sharper, more intense like they held deeper significance.
Satoru had long since left the classroom, his thoughts swirling as he headed back to retrieve his forgotten textbook. The corridors were quiet as he headed to the class, the fading sunlight filtering through the windows, casting soft light on the walls. When he reached the door, however, he stopped short. Through the narrow crack, he caught sight of Mitoru sitting at his desk, the small black notebook open before him.
"Shows natural chakra control for age level..."
"Adaptable thinking in basic tactical scenarios..."
"Follows instructions while showing initiative..."
"Family status [Civilian]: Father deceased (nine-tailed attack), mother deceased (nine-tailed attack)"
"Guardian: None [Konoha's Orphanage]"
At the bottom of the page, Satoru saw his own name, written clearly in the same precise script, followed by two brief but damning notes: "unconventional" and "not suitable."
The words burned in his mind. Not suitable?
Satoru froze, his mind going blank for a heartbeat. The words Yuuto had whispered to him earlier replayed in his head like an echo. "My father says sometimes ANBU disguises themselves as teachers..."
A chill ran down his spine as the pieces clicked into place.
"Sensei?" Satoru called quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, hoping not to startle Mitoru.
The instructor's head snapped up, his expression unguarded for a split second—just long enough for Satoru to see a flash of something unreadable behind his eyes. But then it was gone, quickly replaced by a neutral, professional demeanor.
"Ah, Satoru," Mitoru said, his tone smooth and calm as if nothing had changed. "You're here for your textbook, I presume?"
Satoru nodded slowly, his gaze shifting briefly back to the notebook still open on the desk—the one he had caught a glimpse of just moments before.
There was a subtle tension in the air now as if Mitoru knew that Satoru knew more than he should.
"Yes, sensei," Satoru replied, his voice steady but carrying an underlying edge of caution. He stepped into the room, making sure to keep his movements deliberate, not wanting to show any sign of hesitation. "I forgot it after our last lesson."
…
The next day, Kaiyo returned to class, his arm in a sling but his smile was as warm and genuine as ever.
His presence seemed to fill the room with a sense of ease, the classroom felt a little brighter, a little more natural. The students greeted him with relief and curiosity, eager to see their familiar instructor back in action.
When asked about Mitoru, Kaiyo's expression momentarily faltered. His brow furrowed in confusion as if the name didn't quite register. "I don't know any Chūnin by that name," he replied, his voice steady, But Satoru wonder if there was more to the response than Kaiyo knew. Without skipping a beat, Kaiyo shifted gears, his demeanor lightening as he redirected the conversation. "Anyway, let's get back to our upcoming lessons."
Satoru had also previously asked Kaiyo directly about Mitoru, but Kaiyo had dismissed the inquiry with a casual remark: "The Hokage must have employed a new Chūnin to train the class in my absence."
Life at the Academy gradually returned to normal. The lessons resumed as planned, and the drills continued.
Satoru found himself slipping back into the rhythm of his daily routine, the sense of unease from the past days slowly fading into the background. Yet, something lingered—a quiet tension that hadn't completely dissipated, a nagging feeling that the events surrounding Mitoru, the instructor's strange notebook, were far from over.
And then there was Raijin. He hadn't shown up to the Academy yet.
***