Thunder rumbled over the academy roof, low and familiar, like the village itself was stirring from a deep sleep.
Raizen Tsukihana stood alone in the courtyard where it had all begun six years ago, hands tucked into his pockets, breath misting in the crisp morning air. The stone steps were the same. The cracked flagstones still spiderwebbed the ground in uneven lines. Even the crooked training posts out back stood in their usual crooked row—scarred by countless kunai and black rings where overeager kids had let chakra sputter out of control.
But the boy standing there now was different.
Back then, he'd struggled to hold a Transformation longer than a heartbeat. Back then, he'd tripped over his own feet in close combat and whiffed half his throws trying to work around a blind spot he didn't understand yet.
Now, chakra thrummed under his skin like a coiled storm.
Seals inked along his wrists and ribs hid beneath his sleeves. Genjutsu patterns sat ready on the tip of his tongue. His lightning flowed when he called it—clean, sharp, obedient.
Raizen turned away from the empty yard and headed for class.
⸻
Later that morning, he sat by the window, chin propped on his hand, watching the world blur behind sheets of rain. Thunderclouds loomed over the academy like dark, restless sentinels.
Down in the training yard, a group of first-years slogged through sparring drills, mud splashing around their sandals. An instructor paced along the sidelines, voice slicing through the downpour.
"Stop whining about the weather! The enemy won't wait for sunshine!"
A kid slipped, landed flat on his back, and scrambled up again, cheeks red.
Raizen's lips curled into a grin.
He remembered being down there. Remembered hating close combat, always a step slow, always turning his head too late to catch attacks coming from his right. Remembered the frustration of knowing exactly how he "should" fight from watching anime back on Earth—and finding out his new body, his blind eye, his chakra, didn't care what he thought he knew.
He'd come a long way.
Three years of grinding had turned panic into timing, and raw chakra into something like a system.
It really started that summer.
⸻
Flashback – Summer of Raizen's Third Year
"The paper reacts to chakra nature," Ayame said, holding the thin slip between two fingers. "We use it to find a shinobi's primary affinity."
They sat across from each other at the low table in the Tsukihana home, the evening light turning the wood a warm gold. Outside, cicadas buzzed. Inside, the world had narrowed to that one square of white.
"It's possible to have two or three natures you're compatible with," she went on. "But chakra paper only shows the strongest. There are other tests for the rest. Today—" she turned the paper so he could see its texture "—we focus on your main one."
Raizen already knew the explanation by heart. He'd watched this scene a dozen times on a screen back on Earth: Asuma with Team 10, Kakashi with Naruto.
Seeing his mother reenact it in front of him made his chest tighten with weird nostalgia.
Ayame continued anyway, patient and precise.
"If the paper burns to ash, that's Fire. If it becomes wet and soggy, Water. If it crumbles to dust, Earth. If it slices cleanly in half, Wind." She paused, then fed a thin thread of chakra into the slip.
The paper twitched, then crinkled in on itself with a dry crackle.
"And if it crinkles like this," she finished, holding it up, "Lightning."
Of course, Raizen thought. His father hadn't exactly been subtle, slipping him Lightning tomes whenever he thought Raizen wasn't looking.
Ayame set a fresh strip of paper in his palm.
Up close, he noticed faint blue flecks in the fibers, like static waiting for a reason to jump.
"These react to your chakra," Ayame said. "When you're ready, pour in a small amount. Don't force it."
Raizen drew in a slow breath. For a heartbeat, his mind flicked back to his old world—Naruto grinning, Kakashi calmly crumpling paper between his fingers, a screen's blue glow in a dark bedroom.
Now it was his hand. His chakra.
He pushed.
The paper reacted instantly.
It snapped tight, crinkling in his grip. A thin blue spark crawled across the surface with a sharp tsk before fading.
Ayame's mouth curved upward.
"As your father and I expected," she said. "Lightning affinity. Very common in Kumo—and very strong in the Tsukihana line."
She reached out and flicked his forehead lightly, just enough to make him blink.
"This is the best outcome. You'll be able to inherit our clan's techniques—and some unique jutsu your father and I created together."
Raizen couldn't hold back his grin.
Lightning had always been the coolest element on screen. Fast, lethal, dramatic. Every big Raikage moment, every Chidori charge, had punched straight through his old world attention span.
But the fan in him also remembered the tradeoffs.
Lightning's not exactly a shield, he thought. In the show, the strongest users always had something else to cover their defense. Kakashi with his Earth walls, Sasuke with Susanoo…
"Lightning is really cool," he said aloud, rolling the crinkled paper between his fingers, "but is there a way to check for a secondary nature? Lightning doesn't really have much in the way of defense."
Ayame's finger snapped out and tapped his forehead again, a little sharper this time.
"You're getting ahead of yourself," she said. "You're still academy level, Raizen."
He winced and rubbed the sore spot. "Ow…"
"Yes, Lightning isn't famous for its defense," she conceded. "But any element can do more than people expect. That depends on the shinobi, not the nature."
Her gaze fixed on him, the warmth in her eyes narrowing into something firmer.
"I'll tell you this once," Ayame said. "Don't start with 'I can't.' You'll kill your own potential before anyone else ever gets the chance. If you don't believe you can shape your chakra into something new, no one will."
Raizen swallowed. "…Right."
"Good." The edge in her expression softened, just a little. "Since you're so eager—let's see what you can do with what you do have."
Her hands blurred through a short string of seals, fingers steady, movements economical from years of repetition.
Chakra stirred in the air between them, sharp and metallic. The hairs on Raizen's arms lifted as the first faint whiff of ozone reached his nose.
Ayame's lips curved into a small, dangerous smile.
"Watch closely, Raizen," she said. "This is the first step to making Lightning defend you, not just destroy things."
The air around her palm crackled to life.
Ayame clapped her hands once, then called out:
"Lightning Release: Thunder Shell Guard
(雷遁・雷殻守 — Raiton: Raikaku no Mamori)."
Lightning bloomed over her body.
It wasn't like the Raikage's raging armor Raizen remembered from the show. Ayame's lightning was tight and controlled, a thin shell of crackling chakra floating just off her skin. There was a visible gap between her body and the buzzing layer of light—like she stood inside an electric outline of herself.
Raizen's eyes widened. "W-what is this? Lightning Armor?"
Ayame huffed a laugh. "Hardly. This is an original jutsu your father and I created. We call it Thunder Shell Guard."
Raizen's curiosity flared. "So what can it do?"
Ayame's smile turned sharp. "Why don't you find out for yourself?"
She slid one foot back, shoulders squaring. "Come. Let's spar."
She moved the instant the words left her mouth.
Ayame blurred forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Raizen barely had time to plant his feet and bring his arms up into a tight guard.
Her fist slammed into his forearms.
The instant he crossed into the Shell, a sharp, concentrated jolt knifed through his muscles. His arms jerked on reflex. His guard broke open.
Ayame pivoted on her heel and drove a kick into his stomach.
The impact blew the air out of his lungs and launched him backwards. He hit the ground, skidding across the yard.
"Ghk—!" Raizen curled around the ache, coughing.
He grit his teeth, pushing himself up on one knee. That wasn't just a punch… that minor shock blew my guard wide open. Thunder Shell Guard… it counters taijutsu by making your own body betray you.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his breathing to steady.
"Alright," he muttered. "Now that I know what it does, I can work around it."
Raizen stood fully, toes digging into the earth. He let his vision soften and let his ears take over. The constant buzz of the Shell wasn't just sound—it was a signature. A hiss of charged air, a crackle layered beneath Ayame's footsteps.
He closed his eyes.
There—a shift. The hum of lightning grew louder, closer, riding the rhythm of her stride.
Raizen snapped his eyes open. His gaze dropped instinctively to Ayame's hips, the anchor of her movement.
She swung in—a low sweeping strike.
He ducked under the first swiping punch, felt the air stir over his head. A kick snapped toward his ribs; he slid sideways, letting it cut past. A straight jab followed; he caught the angle and redirected her forearm with a parry, turning her shoulder just a little too far.
For a moment, her stance was off-balance.
Raizen stepped in, palm already chambered.
"Got you—!"
He thrust his hand toward her chest, aiming center mass. His timing was perfect, his angle clean—until his hand crossed the boundary of the Thunder Shell.
The instant his palm entered the shell, his muscles twitched violently, like invisible fingers had yanked his tendons. His strike went wild, his hand skimming past Ayame's shoulder instead of slamming into her sternum.
"Tch—!"
Ayame flowed into the opening. Her knee drove up into his exposed midsection, crushing the breath from him a second time.
"Hrk—!"
Raizen folded, dropping to one knee. Before he could fall the rest of the way, Ayame stepped in and wrapped her arms around him, hauling him into a crushing bear hug.
"Aww, Raizen," she cooed, squeezing until his spine popped. "You look so serious when you fight. It's adorable."
He squirmed, only to feel the constant bite of her Shell up close. Faint shocks danced across his skin wherever her arms pressed into him. It wasn't enough to injure—but it was constant, crawling, wrong.
"And," she added, voice still light, "it's time I show you just how strong your mother can be."
More sparks crawled across his back and neck. Every tiny stun made his muscles flinch against his will, turning his own body into dead weight in her grip.
"Now," Ayame murmured near his ear, "I'm going to turn up the voltage. Try not to pass out, alright?"
Her tone was teasing, almost sing-song.
A pulse of chakra ran from her core into the Thunder Shell.
This time the shock wasn't faint. It hit him like a clean, low-level Lightning jutsu to the chest. Raizen's whole body spasmed; his teeth clicked together hard enough to hurt.
"G-gh—!"
Dang it, I have to escape, he thought, forcing his hands to move through the static.
He bit down on a groan, forced his fingers into the right shape, and spat out the final word through clenched teeth.
"Substitution…!"
Smoke cracked between them. Ayame's arms tightened around rough stone instead of her son.
The boulder dropped out of her grip and thudded to the ground.
"Aww, Raizen," she said, looking up, amused. "We were just getting to the fun part."
He reappeared a few meters away, hunched over, panting. His clothes were rumpled, and his white hair stood out in every direction, spiked by residual charge.
He looked like he'd stuck a fork in a socket—or, more accurately, like a tiny, very offended Super Saiyan.
Raizen frowned, flexing his fingers as the last sparks faded from his skin.
"…I guess I underestimated how lightning could be used defensively," he admitted.
Ayame chuckled, the faint hum of her Thunder Shell Guard still crackling around her like a second skin.
"Not necessarily," she said. "Lightning is naturally offensive, sure. It wants to pierce, burn, overload. Turning that into a shield is a hassle. You need a deep understanding of every in and out of the element. Your father and I spent months just getting the idea for Thunder Shell Guard to stop blowing up in our faces."
She tapped the veil of lightning around her, the thin gap between it and her skin almost shimmering.
"But it proved it wasn't impossible. So that's the mindset you need, Raizen. If something doesn't exist yet, you don't complain about it." Her eyes sharpened. "You deepen your knowledge and create it yourself."
⸻
Raizen's POV
…Yeah. She was right.
If Mom and Dad could turn raw lightning into armor, then he could build his own style too. Between his growing control, his mother's training, and what he remembered about how electricity worked in his old world, it didn't seem that far-fetched.
And if he hit a wall, well—he had two jōnin for parents. He wouldn't exactly be stuck.
With that thought, his three years of training under Ayame really began.
◇◇◇
Those three years moved smoother than he ever could've hoped.
In Medical Ninjutsu, he picked up a whole arsenal of support techniques:
• Shindan (Diagnostic Technique) to read injuries and chakra flow. He still remembered the first time he scanned Daichi's arm and felt the chakra "catch" around a hairline fracture before even seeing the bruise.
• Kiyomaru (Cleansing/Purification Technique) to flush out contamination.
• Shiatsu (Medical Pressure Technique) to stabilize or stimulate the body with precise chakra points.
• Dokunuki (Poison Extraction Technique).
• Ketsuki Gyouko (Blood Coagulation Technique) to stop bleeding—Aika had once stared at him, wide-eyed, as a nasty gash sealed enough for her to keep fighting in a drill.
• Tekishutsu (Extraction Technique) for pulling out embedded objects.
• Teikouryoku (Resistance Technique) to bolster an ally's ability to withstand toxins or strain.
None of it was flashy. He couldn't blow up a training dummy with any of those.
But he could keep his teammates standing when they should've been on the ground—and that made him someone a future squad could rely on.
In Genjutsu, he added one particularly nasty weapon to his toolkit:
• Demonic Illusion: Hell Viewing Technique
(魔幻・奈烙見 — Jigoku Gouka no Jutsu).
With his strong Yin affinity, it slotted in almost too well. He was already dangerous with illusions; this one turned opponents' own fears against them. Against someone who wasn't expecting genjutsu from a "lightning specialist," it was brutal. People tended to underestimate him right up until the world around them started rotting and burning.
As for Fūinjutsu, the academy only scratched the surface—but even that scratch was useful.
They learned a basic Suppression Seal, a formula that could dampen and restrict an opponent's chakra flow. His version was… serviceable. In practice, it suppressed Daichi, Aika, and Mizue's chakra for maybe a minute at best before it started to crack. And that was on academy students.
If it struggled against them, it wouldn't do much to a chūnin.
Still, every instructor hammered it into them that what they'd learned was just the bare minimum. They were encouraged—almost dared—to experiment and develop their own variations.
And he wasn't just some random academy kid. He had the backing of the Tsukihana clan, a family drenched in sealing arts. If he wanted an advanced suppression seal badly enough, Raizen knew there were scrolls and mentors in reach… once he proved he was ready.
The biggest change, though, still came from Mom.
From her, he finally learned:
• Lightning Release: Lightning Beast Running Technique
(雷遁・雷獣追牙 — Raiton: Raijū Tsuiga).
She didn't pick it at random. From Takuma-sensei's yearly reports and her own observations at home, Ayame knew he favored his conduction thread techniques, and that he'd already spun two original variations off the base jutsu. So she chose a move that could plug directly into that style.
The Lightning Beast Running Technique let him shape his chakra into a beast-shaped current that sprinted along the ground, chasing down its target. Guided by his hand and intent, it was perfect for driving enemies exactly where he wanted them—like into a field of live threads.
Better yet, the beast didn't have to stick to the earth. He could run it along chakra wires and even his threads themselves, turning his webwork into a living hunting ground.
Lightning for battlefield control.
Genjutsu for surprise and tilt.
Fūinjutsu for defense, barriers, and storage.
Medical ninjutsu to keep his future squad alive.
Piece by piece, the life of "background extra who died in someone else's story" was getting further and further away.
◇◇◇
Raizen blinked back to the present—the cramped academy classroom, chalk dust in the air, dull drone of a lecture in the background.
He was sitting at his desk, smiling without realizing it, just… remembering. How far he'd come since the day he woke up in this world. Since the day he was transmigrated into Raizen Tsukihana.
"…What the hell are you smiling at, creep?"
Reina's voice snapped him out of it.
He realized, with a tiny jolt of panic, that he'd been staring straight at the back of her head this entire time.
She didn't even bother turning fully around, just glanced at him over her shoulder with that bored, superior look.
"I don't mind you admiring my beauty," she said, flicking her shoulder-length blonde hair like she was on some stage, "but staring is very rude, Raizen."
He sighed.
Reina was still her unbearable, arrogant self. Whatever softness she'd shown during their third-year midterm felt more and more like a fluke the further they got from it. Since then, she'd gone right back to belittling him and acting like she ruled the academy from her desk.
For just a heartbeat, though, as she turned back to the front, he caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth—like she was glad he was still there to annoy.
He looked away, hiding a small grin.
If she knew how much stronger he'd gotten—and how much further he planned to go—she'd really have something to complain about.
⸻
Thunder grumbled somewhere above the academy, close enough to rattle the window frames.
Takuma-sensei stood at the front of the elite classroom, hands folded behind his back, hitai-ate tilted slightly up on his head. For once, there were no stacks of papers on his desk, no chalk dust on his fingers, no training plans pinned to the board.
Just the class. Just them.
Raizen could feel the shift in the air. Even Reina was quiet.
Takuma let the silence sit for a moment, letting his gaze move slowly across every face in the room—Reina, Karui, Samui, Omoi, Tetsuo, and Raizen.
Then he exhaled.
"Six years," he said, voice steady. "Six years of screaming, bleeding, getting thrown into mud, lightning, snow, and the occasional swarm of very angry monkeys."
Omoi coughed into his fist and looked away. Karui smirked like it had been a little funny.
Takuma's mouth twitched, just barely.
"When you walked into this building for the first time, half of you couldn't hold a transformation for more than three seconds. Some of you threw kunai like you were trying to feed the dirt. A few of you"—his eyes slid toward Karui and Omoi—"thought 'strategy' meant 'swing until something breaks.'"
Karui clicked her tongue and crossed her arms. Omoi scratched his cheek, embarrassed.
Takuma's gaze moved on.
"Year One," he said. "You learned how not to die. How to fall and get back up. How to mold chakra without burning yourselves from the inside out. Basic formations. Basic weapons. Basic discipline."
He tapped a knuckle lightly against the desk.
"Year Two, we started separating the ones who merely wanted to wear a forehead protector from the ones who might actually survive with one. First real field drills. First live-weapon exercises. First time you sat across from another student and understood—truly understood—that one day, that 'spar' could just as easily be a battlefield."
Raizen remembered that year clearly. The first time he'd felt lightning in his veins and realized it wasn't just cool—it was lethal.
"Year Three," Takuma continued, his voice deepening. "Your midterm survival exam. The forest. The scrolls. The ambushes. Some of you impressed me." His eyes flicked to Reina, then Samui, then Tetsuo. "Some of you nearly got yourselves killed. A few did both in the same hour."
Reina smirked like it was a compliment.
"From there," Takuma said, "we stopped treating you like children playing ninja and started treating you like what you claimed you wanted to be."
He lifted a hand, ticking off each point with a finger.
"Electives.
Specializations.
Team drills with live-graded tactics.
Night operations in the rain.
Scroll defense and pursuit trials.
Joint exercises with full-fledged genin teams."
He let his hand fall.
"Every time you stepped onto the training grounds," he said quietly, "you were being evaluated. Not just on whether you could win, but on how. On whether you could follow orders. Whether you could take initiative without being reckless. Whether you could keep a teammate alive. Whether you could think when your lungs were burning and your chakra was low."
Raizen felt that one. Harsh late-night drills with Ayame, the way Takuma's eyes seemed to see straight through you whenever you cut a corner.
Takuma's gaze drifted now to their wrists, their gear, the way they sat—more relaxed than civilians, but never fully off-guard.
"You've all changed," he said. "Some of you learned the value of patience." His eyes flicked to Karui. "Some of you learned to speak up." A small nod toward Samui. "Some of you learned there are better answers than 'charge straight ahead and hope it works.'"
His eyes landed on Tetsuo for a breath, then finally on Raizen.
"And some of you," he said, "learned how to take what life dumped on you and turn it into fuel."
Raizen felt his throat tighten, just a little.
Takuma straightened his shoulders.
"So," he said, "let me make this official."
He bowed his head slightly—a rare gesture from him.
"Congratulations. You've all passed the academy."
The room didn't erupt. They were elite; years of discipline kept them mostly contained. But Raizen heard Omoi's soft "finally," the quiet exhale from Samui, the low grunt of satisfaction from Tetsuo. Even Reina's expression slipped for a second, something like pride crossing her face before the arrogance slid back into place.
Takuma let them have that moment, then raised a hand.
"Now," he said, "before any of you ask: no, you will not be taking a 'final exam.'"
Karui's head snapped up. "What? So that's it? No big test, no last fight, nothing?"
Takuma gave her a flat look.
"Yotsuki, your 'big tests' have been happening for years," he said. "Did you think the scroll defense exercise, the three-way survival drills, the joint missions with active genin were for fun?"
Karui shut her mouth.
Takuma turned his attention back to the whole class.
"The regular academy track needs a final exam," he explained. "A simple, standardized way to see if a student can perform under pressure just once. Clone technique, transformation, hitting a target—pass or fail."
He gestured around the room.
"You are not regular academy students. This is the elite class of Kumogakure. We have never been interested in whether you could do it once."
He tapped his temple.
"We wanted to see if you could do it consistently. Under harsher conditions. Against stronger opponents. Over years, not days."
He turned, grabbing a thick file from his desk and holding it up. It was swelling with pages, bound by chakra thread.
"These," he said, "are your records. Every spar, every mission simulation, every field assignment. Every time you froze, every time you overextended, every time you adapted, every time you dragged a teammate back to their feet instead of leaving them behind."
He dropped the file back down with a dense thump.
"Your 'final exam' was never going to be a single afternoon in a classroom. You've been sitting inside it since the day you walked through those doors."
A silence settled over the room again, heavier this time. Not uncomfortable—just… real.
"Make no mistake," Takuma said, his voice low but firm. "Passing this stage does not make you strong. It makes you qualified to start being weak on an actual battlefield without immediately dying."
Tetsuo snorted once, looking entertained. Omoi half-laughed, half-choked.
"But," Takuma added, "it means this village has looked at your performance, your potential, and your progress, and decided you are worth investing a jōnin's time into."
Raizen felt a small spark jump in his chest. Jōnin-sensei.
"Tomorrow," Takuma went on, "you'll report to the main hall. You'll be assigned to your teams and meet the jōnin who will decide whether you become proper shinobi… or wash out early."
His expression softened just a fraction.
"For today?" He scanned their faces one last time. "Today, you're allowed to feel proud. Not satisfied—that gets people killed. But proud. You earned that much."
He inclined his head again.
"Elite Class," he said, "you've passed the academy."
Raizen let the words sink in, feeling them settle somewhere deep beneath the lightning in his veins.
I really made it this far…
Outside, thunder rolled again—but to Raizen, it sounded less like a warning and more like applause.
⸻
The next morning, the academy didn't feel like a school.
It felt like a waiting room.
The main hall was packed—rows of newly minted graduates crammed onto benches while parents, clan representatives, and a few bored-looking chūnin leaned along the walls. The air buzzed with whispers, nervous chakra, and the low rumble of distant thunder crawling along the village's storm-belt.
Raizen sat with the rest of the elite class near the front.
Reina sat on his right, legs crossed, posture perfect, acting like this was all a formality beneath her. Samui sat on his left, calm as ever, hands folded neatly on her lap, eyes half-lidded but sharp. Behind them, Karui was bouncing her leg hard enough to shake the bench, Omoi was chewing his lip, and Tetsuo looked like he was ready to punch the wall just to pass the time.
On the stage, Takuma stood off to the side while the head instructor droned about duty, honor, and glory for the village. Raizen caught pieces—"You stand on the threshold", "the Will of Lightning", "our enemies will test you"—but his focus kept drifting back to the same thought.
This is it. From today on, I'm a shinobi. No more academy do-overs.
He felt his fingers twitch, wanting to trace sealing patterns on his thigh, or twist his conduction threads between his hands just to bleed off nervous energy. Instead, he forced himself still.
Reina seemed to notice.
"Nervous?" she murmured out of the corner of her mouth, eyes never leaving the stage. "Don't tell me our storm prodigy is scared of a little team assignment."
"I'm not nervous," Raizen muttered back. "Just thinking."
"I doubt that," she said, but there was no real bite in it. "You'll be fine. As long as they don't stick you with dead weight."
Her eyes flitted briefly toward Karui's row.
Raizen held back a sigh. Please don't let us land on the same team. I survived a midterm with you. I don't know if I can survive years.
Samui's voice cut softly through his thoughts.
"Whatever the teams are," she said quietly, "they won't be random. Kumogakure doesn't waste resources. We'll be placed where we're most useful."
Reina rolled her eyes. "Spoken like a true tactician."
Samui didn't rise to it. "Spoken like someone who doesn't want to get killed because she was too busy complaining to read the situation," she replied in that same calm tone.
Raizen almost smiled.
Onstage, the head instructor finally wrapped up. Takuma stepped forward, scroll in hand.
"Alright," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the hall. "You've heard enough speeches. Time to get to the part you've all been obsessing over since your second year."
The room shifted. Spines straightened. Conversations died.
"Team assignments," Takuma said. "Listen carefully. This isn't a game of favorites, or clans, or who your parents drank with. These teams were built around skill balance, temperament, and projected growth. You don't have to like it."
His eyes slid over them, sharpening.
"You have to make it work."
Raizen swallowed.
Takuma unrolled the scroll.
"We'll begin with the elite class," he said. "Since the Raikage is expecting your files on his desk by midday."
A murmur rippled back through the regular graduates.
Takuma glanced at the six of them.
"First squad," he said. "Reina. Samui. Raizen."
For a second, Raizen thought he'd misheard.
…Me, Reina, and Samui?
He felt his stomach drop and twist at the same time. On one hand: Samui. Reliable, analytical, low-drama. On the other: Reina.
Of course. Of course they put me with her permanently.
Reina's reaction was immediate—a small, satisfied smirk.
"Well," she whispered, "it seems the village has good taste."
"Can you go thirty seconds without being unbearable?" Raizen hissed under his breath.
"No," she said simply.
Samui exhaled, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "We'll balance each other," she said. "A close-combat swordswoman, a lightning and support specialist, and a tactician. It fits."
Raizen slumped slightly. It fits too well. Which means I'm never getting rid of her.
Takuma continued.
"Your jōnin sensei…" He paused, eyes flicking up. "Raitaro."
There was a small stir among the chūnin in the back rows. Raizen caught the way one of them stiffened—respect, not fear.
"Second squad," Takuma went on. "Karui. Omoi. Tetsuo."
Karui grinned. "Tch, finally."
Omoi muttered something about terrible scenarios under his breath. Tetsuo just folded his arms and nodded, like this was what he'd expected all along.
"Your jōnin sensei…" Takuma's mouth quirked. "Killer B."
That set the hall off.
Even some of the parents started whispering. A few of the regular graduates gaped openly.
"The Killer B?" Karui hissed, eyes going wide. "As in the Raikage's little brother, Jinchūriki Killer B?"
"Great," Omoi moaned. "We're going to die. Or get dragged into some huge conspiracy. Or both."
Tetsuo's eyes had gone sharp and hungry. "Good," he said. "Stronger teacher, stronger we get."
Takuma rapped his knuckles on the podium and the noise died down.
"Remaining teams will be posted outside by the courtyard," he said. "Elite class, you don't have to wait. You'll meet your sensei immediately."
He rolled up the scroll with a crisp snap.
"Elite squads, outside. Everyone else, hold your celebrations until you've actually read which jōnin is stuck dealing with you."
The hall erupted into motion.
Raizen stood, still processing. Raitaro… Raitaro… The name tugged at something in his memory. Ayame mentioning a promising young jōnin once. Takuma muttering about "the kid with the storm eyes."
Reina was already on her feet, moving with that confident, effortless stride like the world rearranged for her. Samui rose more quietly, waiting for Raizen before they followed.
Outside, the sky was a sheet of pale grey, the kind of bright overcast that made the village's metal supports gleam. The courtyard stones were still damp from last night's rain.
Two figures stood waiting.
Raizen recognized one instantly.
He was taller than Raikage posters made him look, dressed in sleeveless, high-collared gear that left his tattooed arms bare. Red shades hid his eyes, and eight white-wrapped swords were strapped to his back like a porcupine of steel.
Killer B.
He was bobbing his head to some rhythm only he could hear, already freestyling under his breath.
"Yo, yo, new sprouts in the cloud, gonna train you up strong, make the village proud—"
Karui's whole face lit up. "B-sensei!" she yelled.
Omoi went pale. "Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no, this is going to be loud, we're going to get sent on suicide missions, or he'll improvise a training plan that accidentally blows up half the district—"
Tetsuo just stared, eyes glittering.
Next to B stood someone Raizen didn't recognize.
He was young—shockingly young for a jōnin. Barely older than a senior student, maybe twenty at most. Jet black hair fell in slightly messy layers around his face, long enough to brush his jaw, but not enough to hide the Kumo headband tied neatly around his forehead.
What caught Raizen were his eyes.
Violet.
Not just a faint tint—deep, clear amethyst that seemed to hold a reflection of the stormy sky above them. There was a calm in them, a quiet focus, but underneath that… Raizen felt it. A hum. Like standing too close to a live wire.
His jawline was clean and sharp, his features almost annoyingly symmetrical. The standard flak jacket couldn't quite hide a lean, well-trained build.
You've got to be kidding me, Raizen thought. They gave us a pretty-boy prodigy sensei.
The young man lifted a hand in an easy wave as the six of them approached.
"Yo," Killer B said, throwing both hands up. "Squad Two, line on me! We're about to rhyme and grind, sharpen body and mind!"
Karui practically sprinted over. Omoi dragged his feet like he was walking to his execution. Tetsuo followed with measured steps, eyes taking everything in.
That left the other man with them.
He watched Reina, Samui, and Raizen come to a stop, his expression somewhere between relaxed and assessing.
"So," he said, voice smooth and warm. "These are mine, huh?"
Takuma stepped up behind them. "Reina, Samui, Raizen," he said. "This is Raitaro. He'll be your jōnin-sensei from today on."
Raitaro.
The name finally sank into something solid in Raizen's memory. Ayame's offhand comments at dinner:
"There's a kid in the jōnin ranks now—Raitaro. Takes lightning training seriously, doesn't waste talent. If you pull him as a sensei, listen to him."
Raizen straightened unconsciously.
Raitaro looked them over one by one. Not a scanning, military sweep—more like he was actually seeing them. Measuring posture, stance, where their eyes moved, how they held their weight.
His gaze lingered on Raizen's hands for a moment, flicking to the faint marks where lightning had kissed his skin over the years. Then to Reina's sword calluses. Then to the way Samui's eyes never stopped moving.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Raitaro," he said, giving a small nod. "Nice to meet you. Let's get one thing out of the way early—if you're expecting some grizzled old war vet who's going to scream at you until you puke, that's not me."
Reina tilted her head, intrigued despite herself.
"But," Raitaro added, and for a heartbeat, Raizen felt his chakra pulse—like a storm flickering behind a curtain, "if you're expecting this to be easy because I'm young…" He shrugged. "You'll be disappointed."
Raizen swallowed. He could feel it now, that same precise control Ayame had when she wore her Thunder Shell. Raitaro didn't leak chakra. He pressed it in, shaped it, coiled it tight.
Reina flashed a confident smile. "As long as you're strong enough to keep up, sensei, I don't mind."
Samui elbowed her lightly in the ribs. "Reina."
Raitaro chuckled. "Good. I'd be bored with a quiet team."
He shifted his weight, attention settling on all three of them at once.
"Team assignments are official as of today," he said. "From now on, your failures are my problem. Your progress is my responsibility. And your survival"—his eyes sharpened just a fraction—"is our shared job."
Raizen felt a strange mix of emotions roiling in his chest—excitement, anxiety, annoyance.
So this is it. My squad. My sensei. And Reina… permanently.
He glanced sideways at her. She caught his look, gave him a smug little smirk as if reading his thoughts perfectly.
"Cheer up, Raizen," she murmured. "Being stuck with me just means you'll have a front-row seat to greatness."
He gritted his teeth. "If I die, it's going to be from second-hand ego exposure."
Samui sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I see my work is cut out for me."
Raitaro watched the exchange, and Raizen didn't miss the way those violet eyes softened, amused.
"Good chemistry," he said quietly. "Rough edges, but we can work with that."
He jerked his chin toward the village beyond the academy gates.
"Alright," Raitaro said. "Team—let's get out of here. First stop: a proper introduction, somewhere we can talk without an audience."
He glanced up at the sky. Thunder rumbled far off, almost answering.
"And after that," he added, "we'll see what the next generation of Kumo's shinobi can really do."