Graduation Exam: Trash and Genius

The Konoha Ninja Academy training grounds were absurdly sunny that morning.

The clouds had vanished who knew where, leaving behind nothing but an unbroken sheet of blue so bright it hurt to look at. There was no wind either. The air seemed nailed in place, too lazy to so much as stir.

The training grounds had been remodeled overnight—three tiers of wooden stands had been erected around the perimeter. The bottom tier seated the academy instructors and examination committee, rows of stiff faces that looked like cookies stamped out by an assembly line. The middle tier was packed with upperclassmen and family observers, crammed together like rice seedlings. The top tier—

Civilians.

Konoha's civilians were far more enthusiastic about ninja graduation exams than anyone could have imagined. More accurately, they were enthusiastic about "watching the show." Dango vendors pushed their carts up to block the entrances to the stands, taking money while calling out, "Come on, come on, graduation-season limited red bean dango!" Business was so good their hands trembled.

At the highest point of the stands was a separate VIP section. A sunshade, cushioned seats, attendants serving tea. The arrangements were neither extravagant nor shabby—more modest than the Hokage's office, more respectable than the regular stands.

Four people sat there.

Hiruzen Sarutobi sat in the middle, a pipe between his teeth and a kindly expression on his face. From that angle, he appeared to be smiling at the field, but that smile covered too much ground—no matter where he looked, it remained the same curve, as if his facial muscles had been fixed in place.

Jiraiya sat to the old man's right. He had one leg crossed over the other and held that suspicious little book with a half-naked beauty on its cover. Anyone who knew Jiraiya even a little understood that the book was his "prop"—whenever he was seriously observing something, he would pull it out and pretend to read, making everyone else think he was merely a lecherous pervert here for the spectacle.

Uchiha Fugaku sat to the left. His clan head's formal robes were immaculate, and his hair was tied in the standard high ponytail of the Uchiha main family. His face was expressionless. His back was straight as a ruler. He had brought two clan elders along as decoration, but their presence was practically equal to air.

The last person sat—

In the corner.

His cane rested in his right hand, his left hand on his knee. The right half of his face was wrapped in bandages, leaving only one cloudy eye exposed.

Danzo Shimura.

He had come.

No one had invited him—at least, not officially. The VIP list for the graduation exam had been approved by the Third Hokage, and Danzo's name was not on it. Yet when the old man took his seat, no one asked him to leave.

Hiruzen Sarutobi glanced at him. Just once, then continued smoking.

That one look probably contained enough information to fill three political science textbooks.

The morning exams were unremarkable.

Written test. An hour and a half. The material covered ninja world history, basic ninja technique theory, and an introduction to chakra.

Yan finished in forty minutes. For the remaining fifty, he lay sprawled over his desk and used Observation Haki to count the birds in the tree outside the window. There were seven. One of them was taking a shit.

Minato took fifty-five minutes. When he came out, his expression was calm, but his left hand unconsciously clenched around his pen—he still wanted to write; he had not finished. Not because he did not know the answers, but because he wanted to elaborate.

When the results came out, there was no suspense.

Yan: Perfect score.

Minato: Perfect score.

Two perfect scores, tied. The instructors murmured among themselves for a while before passing the score sheets to the examination committee. No one was surprised. These two had always been the ceiling of their year in theory—the difference was that Yan's was an "abnormal perfect score," while Minato's was a "perfect score as expected."

The Three Basic Techniques assessment was equally uneventful.

Transformation Technique: Excellent for both.

Substitution Technique: Excellent for both.

Clone Technique—

Minato's clones were textbook-perfect. Three clones stood there, nearly identical to the original in both appearance and presence. The examiner gave him an "Outstanding."

Yan's clones.

Three of them. Standing there.

Alive.

Not dispersed.

As for their quality—the examiner studied them for two seconds, then gave him a complicated look and marked "Good."

Good was enough. Yan's Clone Technique had improved by who knew how many levels compared to half a year ago, when it would explode the instant he used it, but it was still streets behind Minato's. That was within the plan—he did not need to stand out with the Clone Technique. That was being saved for the afternoon.

The examiner wrote a line in the remarks column:

"Genius in theory, good in practical application. Recommended to observe combat performance."

The morning ended.

Lunch break.

As expected, Minato had brought rice balls.

Yan picked one up and took a bite.

The saltiness that flooded his mouth nearly shattered his expression management.

"Did you dump an entire bag of salt into this?"

"No, I measured it. One spoonful."

"Was your spoon a shovel for digging sand?"

Minato's face reddened. "Then don't eat it—"

"Who said I wasn't eating it?" Yan stuffed the rest of the rice ball into his mouth and swallowed. His throat was full of salt. "Anyone who wastes food will be reborn as a slug in their next life."

Minato looked at him.

Then smiled.

The two sat in a corner of the waiting area. Neither mentioned the afternoon.

There was no need to. They had said everything that needed saying yesterday.

Afternoon.

The sun had climbed to its most vicious position overhead. The dirt field had been baked white, and it was hot enough to scorch their feet.

There were twice as many people in the stands as there had been that morning. The news had spread during lunch—"There are designated matches this afternoon," "That genius Minato is fighting that Uchiha trash." The speed at which spectators gathered surpassed even the fastest record for assembling ninja.

The old woman selling dango had already pushed over a second cart. The limited edition now came in an additional flavor called "Lava Red Bean"—which was simply red bean paste with chili powder mixed in. The naming fully reflected Konoha civilians' impression of Yan's Nanga River Incident.

The chief examiner of the examination committee stepped into the center of the field. A middle-aged chunin with a blank face and a voice like a bronze bell.

"The combat exercise segment. The rules are as follows: one-on-one combat. Lethal methods are prohibited. Surrender or loss of combat ability will be judged as defeat. The white lines mark the field boundaries. Leaving the field will result in defeat."

He unfolded the list in his hand.

"The following matches have been designated by the examination committee—"

The entire venue held its breath.

"Uchiha Yan."

A pause.

"VS Minato Namikaze."

For one second, there was a vacuum of silence.

Then the noise exploded.

"Huh?" "Seriously?" "That guy who's been at the bottom every year?" "That Uchiha trash possessed by a ghost?"

"Against Minato?"

An upperclassman around seventeen or eighteen leaned against the railing and sneered at the person beside him. "Minato could take on ten of him by himself. This isn't an exam. It's an execution."

The boos were endless, mixed now and then with sharp laughter. Someone whistled. Someone clapped, but the rhythm was not encouragement—it was jeering.

In the waiting area—

Yan stood up.

At the center of the field.

Minato was already standing there.

The sunlight formed a fuzzy halo around his golden hair. His usual playful smile was gone. His blue eyes were calm and focused, carrying a clean, steady composure. A standard ninja tool pouch hung at his waist, and his hands rested at his sides. His stance was relaxed.

He did not look like a twelve-year-old examinee.

He looked like someone who had been on a battlefield.

Jiraiya watched his student, the corner of his lips lifting by an almost imperceptible millimeter.

Yan walked out from the waiting area.

His pace was neither fast nor slow. One step at a time.

As he passed the bottom tier of the stands, the booing and laughter peaked. A second-year student shouted, "Don't hurt Minato!"

Laughter erupted everywhere.

Yan did not stop, speed up, or look in any direction. He reached the center of the field and came to a stop.

He met Minato's gaze.

Five meters apart.

"Your rice balls are terrible," Yan said.

"I know," Minato replied.

Then neither of them spoke.

The examiner stepped between them and raised the red flag in his hand.

"Combat exercise—designated match one."

His voice carried far across the training grounds, which had grown eerily quiet.

"Uchiha Yan—versus—Minato Namikaze."

The red flag rose to its highest point.

The sound of breathing vanished from the entire venue. Even the old woman selling dango forgot to take payment, frozen in place with her money pouch in hand.

The flag fell.

"Begin!"

—Minato moved.

A golden afterimage flashed across the field and vanished. His opening was not a probe, nor was it a feint—it was a full-speed frontal charge.

Body Flicker Technique.

That speed—the three chunin-level examiners at the assessment table all pushed their chairs back half an inch at the same time. Not out of fear, but professional instinct. That speed had already surpassed the reasonable limits of a genin graduation exam.

In the VIP section, Jiraiya lowered the little book in his hand by two centimeters.

Fugaku's eyebrow twitched.

The tip of Danzo's cane lightly tapped the ground.

And Yan—

Closed his eyes.