“Sasuke Uchiha.”
The name hung in the air like smoke over a battlefield. We rose from our seat, moving with the silence of a shadow to the front of the room. Iruka handed us the paper, a circle drawn around the number 100 in red ink, and spoke words that meant little.
"Once again, perfect score. Keep it up."
The sound of our classmates, murmuring like crows disturbed from their perch, rose as if any other result were expected. We offered Iruka a slight bow and returned to our seat without a word. Three weeks back at the academy, eight since the massacre, and yet nothing of substance had come to light. Tidbits, perhaps, but nothing more. And still, we waited.
When the class settled, Iruka resumed, droning on about Konoha's history. We listened, if only to cross-reference what he said with the truth we already knew. The rest of the class—children of noble birth and peasant blood alike—were of more interest. Watching their reactions, their fidgeting and glances, looking for threads to pull. Little discrepancies, small cracks in the facade, but nothing yet that mattered.
The bell rang, the day’s lessons over, and we began the ritual of sorting the fragments we’d collected. Everything observed, everything noted. The human mind was a fragile thing, easily undone, so we wrote it all down. Encoded in layers, languages upon languages we’d crafted ourselves. Even we would be hard-pressed to break it without hours of toil. For most, it was a cypher they would not solve in a lifetime.
As we gathered our belongings, we sensed them—two auras at the edge of our vision, watching, and a third farther off, watching the watchers. No need to look; we knew them. Ino Yamanaka, child of the clan head, and Sakura Haruno, a civilian by birth but eager, if nothing else. The third was the most curious. Naruto Uzumaki. The boy carried the weight of a familiar malevolence, though few spoke of it openly. Information on him was scarce, vague as smoke on the wind.
They were approaching us now. Odd, after so many weeks of silence. None of them dared approach us before. Our classmates feared us in their own way. Too much in awe of our grades, of the name we bore. We had hoped to make alliances, especially among the nobles, but the ANBU—always watching—made such moves perilous. A slip of the tongue, a wrong word, and the game would be up. No. We would wait. Patience, as they say, is a shinobi’s first weapon.
Sakura spoke first. A hesitant “You’re Uchiha Sasuke, right?”
We turned to her, one eyebrow raised, and watched as her face turned a furious red. Ino, not to be outdone, struck her on the head, nearly shouting. “How many other Uchiha do you know?”
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We called out softly, ignoring the sharp sting that came with the reminder of our clan's fate. “Girls. Relax.” Their eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, they were speechless.
“What do you want?” we asked, lifting our bag onto our shoulder.
They stammered, stumbled over their words, and then, as if reaching some silent agreement, bowed quickly and scampered off without so much as an explanation.
With a sigh, we glanced at Naruto, standing at the back of the room, yelling something about being our rival and becoming Hokage. The usual nonsense. It lasts only a few moments. The other girls nearby rose to silence him, and we left the classroom, disappointment settling like a stone in our chest.
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The market was uneventful, and soon we returned to the Uchiha district, a bag of groceries in hand. The silence here was heavy, a weight we had come to find comfort in. The house was as it always was, immaculate, untouched but for our hands. Yet we knew better. Shinobi left no trace when they wanted to. The ANBU had been here. They always were.
Groceries set aside, we moved through the house, pulling off sandals, slipping into indoor slippers, and then taking a long shower to wash away the dirt of the day. The house was empty but never truly so. ANBU Number Five lingered just at the edge of our perception. She had been here twice last week. Quiet, at least. Always quiet.
Outside, sparrows chirped on the fence, the soft clack of the bamboo rocker in the garden filling the air with its rhythm. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful. We felt them then. Two unknown auras, moving in swiftly. One engaged with our silent ANBU observer, and the other made straight for us.
A blur shattered the window, a hand closing around our throat. But in a puff of smoke, the attacker found himself clutching a mop handle, our substitution made in an instant. We were already outside, racing through the streets of the Uchiha district, then skidding across the ground on a layer of chakra, as a kunai whistled past our ear. Our assailant was fast, already closing the distance. Closer. Here, standing across from us.
Good. At least the house would remain undamaged.
Hands blurred through seals, and with a breath, we unleashed a fireball, scorching the street and toppling poles. But it was a decoy, an afterimage. We flickered to a rooftop, watching as the shinobi below stabbed at the illusion we had left behind. We stabbed him back. He smiled then, a cruel twist of the lips, and whispered, “Got you, you little bugger.”
Too late. The mud clone we struck dissolved, and we sensed the real him—on another rooftop, hands already forming the technique-specific seal of the Yamanakas. His chakra pulsed into us, invading our consciousness.
A mistake.
In our mindscape, a figure appeared. Our attacker looked around—at the strangeness surrounding him—before immediately deciding he had better places to be. He turned tail, his ego fleeing back towards his body.
Alas, it was too late.
Sōzōamatsukami!
The words barely left our lips, blood trickled down our right eye.