"Sshhk!"
The sun stood high overhead when the classroom door opened. The midday light spilt across the floor, momentarily brightening the chalk-stained walls and the neatly stacked piles of paper at the front. Their homeroom instructor, Yamada Keiko, strode in with her usual brisk energy, her sandals clicking softly against the wooden planks.
She wore her flak jacket open, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and had a no-nonsense air about her that could silence most chatter with a single glance.
"Alright, everyone," she announced, her voice cutting across the low hum of conversation. "Put your things away; it's time for History."
A wave of groans erupted from somewhere in the middle rows, the sound drawn-out and exaggerated. Satoru, slouched at his desk near the window, didn't even bother to turn and identify the culprits. His eyelids felt unbearably heavy, threatening to close on him with each blink. The sun warmed his back, the classroom air was thick with the faint scent of chalk and polished wood, and his desk was just the right height to be an accidental pillow.
He barely resisted the temptation. 'Don't sleep,' he scolded himself. 'Do not sleep in class. You'll just get called on and humiliate yourself.'
His head tilted forward before he caught himself. He pinched the inside of his arm beneath the desk, wincing to force his eyes open.
"I should not have late nights on school nights," he muttered under his breath. His voice was so faint it drowned under the sound of chairs scraping and books being shut.
The memory of last night still burned fresh. After he had gotten his hands on the four scrolls—the Clone Jutsu, Transformation Jutsu, Substitution Jutsu, and the crown jewel, the Fireball Jutsu—he had been too excited to sleep.
He'd sat cross-legged in his tiny room, candles flickering around him, unrolling and rereading every line as though they might vanish from the page. He'd traced the ink strokes of the Fireball instructions again and again, lips moving silently through the sequence of hand seals: Horse, Tiger, Ram, Monkey, Boar, Horse.
That one he hadn't dared to attempt. Not in his cramped house, not when one mistake might torch his walls. Still, the knowledge of it buzzed in his chest like static. His very first real ninjutsu, something beyond chakra leaf-balancing and tree-walking exercises.
But excitement had a price, and today the price was fighting sleep in the middle of Keiko's lecture.
The instructor was already moving into her rhythm, chalk tapping sharply against the blackboard. "Now then—who can remind the class how Konohagakure was formed?" she asked, turning slightly to face them.
A hand shot up from the front row, and she nodded.
"The village was founded under the banner of the First Hokage, Senju Hashirama," the boy recited dutifully. "It came from the cooperation between the Senju and Uchiha clans, who agreed to stop fighting and build a peaceful home together."
"Good," Keiko said, underlining the names Senju and Uchiha on the board. White dust clung to her fingertips as she gestured. "That cooperation was the cornerstone of Konoha's strength."
The conversation flowed from there, students chiming in with additional details. They discussed how the two clans had once been bitter enemies on countless battlefields, their rivalry so fierce that entire generations grew up knowing nothing but war. Yet somehow, the Senju and Uchiha had buried the hatchet, or at least appeared to, and worked side by side to create a village that could shelter future generations from endless bloodshed.
Satoru listened with half an ear, chin resting on his palm. His thoughts drifted until something caught his attention.
'Wait a second.'
His eyes narrowed, tracking the words being scribbled across the board, then flicking to the eager students parroting facts.
'All this time, they haven't mentioned Madara's name, have they?'
That struck him like a kunai to the chest. Madara Uchiha wasn't just important; he was the rival of Hashirama Senju, the other half of the legend. Without Madara, there was no Valley of the End, no symbol of conflict and reconciliation that shaped not just Konoha, but the entire shinobi world. Yet here, in the classroom where history was supposed to be taught, his name didn't come up once.
Satoru shifted uncomfortably. 'This is strange. You don't just erase a man like Madara from the record. Unless… they want him erased. Someone's controlling the narrative.'
At the front, Keiko's voice carried on smoothly. "After the pact between the Senju and Uchiha was established, other shinobi clans gradually joined the village. Can anyone tell me why those clans decided to join?"
Satoru smirked faintly to himself. 'Because Hashirama had the charisma of a shonen protagonist and could sweet-talk enemies into family dinners?'
He didn't raise his hand, of course. Someone else did; a girl with neatly tied pigtails who sat two rows ahead.
"Yes, Kanna?" Keiko prompted.
"The Uchiha clan rallied the other clans under their banner," Kanna said confidently. "That's why the smaller clans agreed to join, they trusted the Uchiha's leadership."
The words landed in Satoru's ears like a dropped stone. He sat up straighter, blinking.
'Wait—what? The Uchiha were the ones who rallied everyone?'
A rush of conflicting thoughts tangled in his head. In the anime, the narrative was clear: Hashirama had been the charismatic unifier, the dreamer who extended a hand to friend and foe alike. But if here, in this version of history, the Uchiha were painted as the ones who persuaded—or coerced—the other clans…
'Madara was the one behind that?!' Satoru's pulse quickened. 'Now that I think about it, it really is possible. He could've threatened them into joining, or forced their hand with raw power. If the official record says the Uchiha rallied the clans, then maybe… maybe the truth is more twisted than I thought.'
He tapped a finger against his desk, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. 'So they erased Madara's name, but kept the Uchiha clan's role intact.'
The class droned on, though the room itself seemed to weigh heavily with each revelation. Eventually, the shrill clack! of chalk on wood marked the end of the lesson.
"That's enough for today," Keiko declared, clapping her hands to get their attention. "Don't forget, head straight home. I expect you to work on your writing and arithmetic before tomorrow. No excuses."
"Yes, sensei," the class chorused, though the energy was already spilling into the chatter of release. Chairs scraped back; satchels rustled as books were stuffed away.
Satoru stretched his arms overhead with a stifled yawn, joints popping audibly. He slung his bag over his shoulder, weaving through the tide of children eager to bolt for the door. His path, however, led elsewhere.
Across the room, Uchiha Itachi sat calmly at his desk, surrounded by a small flock of girls. They leaned in eagerly, their eyes shining, firing off questions with the intensity of interrogation.
"Itachi-kun, do you train every day?"
"What's your favourite food, Itachi-kun?"
"Will you show us a jutsu sometime?"
Each question piled on top of the next, but Itachi himself barely reacted. His gaze remained downward, his responses were soft hums or single words, his expression unreadable. If anything, his silence only fueled their persistence.
Satoru slowed, watching the scene unfold with growing irritation.
'What in the world is going on here?'
Itachi shifted slightly, his dark eyes flicking once in Satoru's direction before returning to the floor, as though silently acknowledging him without breaking free of the mob.
Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose. 'This is ridiculous. He's supposed to be taking me to meet Shisui for training, not sitting here like the star of some elementary school idol show.'
He planted his hands on his hips, scowling. 'Seriously—what are they putting in these girls' food? Because aren't they like five?'
The thought gnawed at him, souring his patience further. His excitement for his first real training session buzzed restlessly in his chest, and each giggle from the cluster around Itachi grated on his nerves like sandpaper.
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