The dawn was sharp. The sky bled from deep indigo into streaks of red and gold, the kind of sunrise that promised both beauty and war. Tharion stood at the edge of the Academy training field, arms crossed, watching the dozen Genin before him. They shifted nervously, their breath visible in the crisp air.
Children. Barely older than Nina. Yet their eyes gleamed with the raw hope of becoming shinobi worthy of their village.
But hope was nothing without steel.
"Listen closely," Tharion's voice cut through the silence, carrying the weight of a commander, not a teacher. "This is not a classroom anymore. Forget your lectures. Forget drills. Out there, hesitation means death, and arrogance means burial. Today, you will learn that truth."
Before they could react, he flicked his wrist—kunai whistled through the air and embedded in the ground at their feet. A few flinched, some scrambled back. Only one or two instinctively reached for the weapons.
"Rule number one: hesitation kills." Tharion's eyes swept the group like a storm. "Rule number two: your life depends on your team. You fail each other, you die together. Rule number three…" His mouth curved in a cold half-smile. "You are not strong. Not yet. So forget pride until you earn it."
Then, the nightmare began.
The drills were brutal. Tharion pitted them against one another in uneven teams—two against one, then one against three. He blindfolded them and forced them to fight relying on sound and instinct alone. He struck them without warning, using bursts of killing intent so suffocating that one girl froze mid-step and collapsed to her knees.
Another boy tried to run. Tharion was on him in a heartbeat, pinning him to the ground with the weight of his presence alone. "Running is death. You run—you abandon your team—you forfeit your life."
The boy trembled, tears welling in his eyes, but nodded. Tharion released him.
Every detail mattered. Who adapted under pressure. Who broke. Who stood despite fear gnawing at their bones. And though most stumbled, a few sparked with potential.
On the other side of the field, his older students—Kakashi, Anko, Iruka, and Mighty Guy—were put through equally unforgiving trials.
For Kakashi, Tharion devised duels where the young prodigy could not rely on his Sharingan. He blurred his movements with techniques Kakashi had never seen, forcing him to think beyond copying. "Your eye is a tool," Tharion said, deflecting a strike and pinning him to the ground with a single hand. "But tools make you lazy. If you rely only on it, it will consume you."
Anko, sharp and reckless, was forced into restraint exercises. Tharion bound her with sealing ropes and forced her to fight without overreaching, teaching her a chakra suppression seal that could paralyze an enemy mid-fight. She snarled and cursed at first, but her eyes gleamed when she mastered it. "Your venom is potent," Tharion told her. "But poison without control kills indiscriminately. Learn precision, and you'll own the battlefield."
Iruka's endurance was tested until his legs shook. Tharion unleashed waves of shadow clones against him, each countering his every move until sweat poured down his back. "A teacher must be the last to fall," Tharion reminded him as Iruka forced himself upright despite exhaustion. "If you collapse, your students fall with you."
Guy was thrown into relentless taijutsu drills that shattered the ground beneath their strikes. Tharion matched his ferocity, then slowed the tempo, teaching him the art of conserving stamina between explosive bursts. "You are fire," Tharion said, blocking a thunderous kick with one arm. "But even fire burns out without air. Learn when to strike, and your flames will never dim."
By midday, all of them were drenched, broken, yet burning brighter than before.
The Genin were wide-eyed, silent, nursing bruises but staring at Tharion with something new—respect born from terror.
"You want to survive the Chūnin Exams?" Tharion asked them, voice low but ringing clear. "Then listen. You will obey. You will bleed in training so you do not bleed in battle. And if you give me your all, I will give you more than survival. I will give you victory."
As if to seal his words, Tharion drew a series of hand signs. A seal circle glowed on the ground, and smoke erupted in a column. Out of it rose the towering silhouette of a beast—its form obscured, eyes glowing red. The Genin screamed, stumbling back in panic.
Then the smoke cleared—it was nothing but a carved wooden effigy, animated by chakra threads.
"Lesson one: believe what you see, and you will be deceived. Fear can be manufactured. And so can courage." His lips twitched faintly. "Obey my teachings, and one day, you'll summon something real."
The children nodded vigorously, determination replacing fear.
But Tharion's day wasn't finished.
By late afternoon, a messenger arrived. "Tharion-san, the Hokage requests your presence in the council chamber."
The air shifted. His instincts sharpened. He dismissed his students and left.
The council chamber was dim, the atmosphere thick with tension. At the head sat Minato, calm yet burdened, with Hiruzen Sarutobi beside him, wise eyes narrowed in thought. Elders lined the table, and in the shadows—Danzo Shimura.
The topic was sharp, dangerous.
"The villagers are uneasy," one elder said gravely. "Rumors spread that the Uchiha could control the Nine-Tails with their Sharingan."
Minato's brow furrowed. "Speculation and paranoia. We cannot persecute a clan based on fear."
Danzo leaned forward, his tone silky, dangerous. "With all due respect, Hokage-sama, ignoring a potential threat is folly. If the Uchiha hold such power, contingencies must be considered."
Tharion's eyes narrowed. The subtle poison in Danzo's words was obvious. He wasn't speaking fear—he was cultivating it.
"You've traveled, Tharion," Minato said, turning to him. "What do you think?"
The room shifted, all eyes on him.
Tharion's voice was low, steady, but every syllable carried the weight of experience. "I've seen villages fall. Kingdoms rot. Not because of enemies outside their walls—but because of whispers inside them. Fear does not grow on its own. Someone waters it. Someone feeds it. If we let this seed fester, what grows will not be peace. It will be blood."
His gaze turned, locking with Danzo's single eye.
Danzo held it evenly… until Tharion let go of the walls around his mind. Just a crack. Just enough.
And Danzo saw.
Flashes of war-torn landscapes. Skies black with ash. Rivers running red. Screams of dying children, comrades falling, betrayal upon betrayal until trust was ash in the wind. A massacre with no end, a silence heavier than death.
Danzo's hand tightened on his cane. For the first time in years, his mask faltered—his face twitched.
Tharion's words followed, quiet as a knife pressed to the throat. "I have seen what comes when distrust festers. I have walked through massacres. If you keep feeding these flames, Danzo Shimura… you will bring this village to ruin."
The chamber fell silent. The elders shifted uneasily. Hiruzen's eyes narrowed, sharp with thought. Minato leaned back, absorbing every nuance.
Danzo… said nothing. But for the first time, a shadow darker than his cloak flickered in his eye—fear.
When the meeting adjourned, Minato caught up with Tharion outside.
"You rattled him," Minato murmured.
"I wanted to," Tharion replied flatly. "Men like him don't understand warnings. They only understand nightmares. I gave him a taste."
Minato exhaled slowly. "Still… keep watch. Distrust eats a village from within faster than any enemy could."
Tharion's gaze lifted to the night sky. The stars above were faint, struggling to shine against the heavy dark. His jaw tightened.
The gods had sent him here with a mission: protect Naruto. But perhaps, just perhaps, it would also mean protecting Konoha from the seeds of its own destruction.
And if shadows thought themselves untouchable, then it was time they remembered that even shadows tremble before fire.