The announcement had spread through Konoha two days earlier.
Uchiha Itsuki would attempt early graduation.
For most villagers, it was interesting gossip.
For the clans, it was something else entirely.
Early graduation itself was not unprecedented. During wartime, prodigies were often accelerated through the system. The Sannin had done so at six years old.
But five?
And after barely half a month at the Academy?
That had never happened.
By the time the sun climbed over the Hokage Monument, the training grounds were already lined with observers. Clan heads. Senior jōnin. Advisors.
At the front stood Sarutobi Hiruzen, expression unreadable.
Beside him, Uchiha Hayato maintained a courteous smile. Near him, Kazuma watched in silence.
In the center of the field stood Itsuki.
Arms folded.
Eyes calm.
He looked less like a child and more like someone waiting for a scheduled appointment.
A jōnin stepped forward to act as referee. At his side stood the examiner—a chūnin in standard flak armor.
The rules were simple.
"Endure five minutes under the examiner's attack," the referee announced. "If you remain capable of combat at the end, you pass."
For an ordinary Academy student, surviving five minutes against a mission-experienced chūnin would be nearly impossible.
For an early graduation candidate, it was the minimum threshold.
The referee turned toward Itsuki.
"Any objections?"
"No," Itsuki replied evenly.
Internally, however, he noted the structure.
Only one chūnin.
A measured test.
Cautious.
So this is the Hokage's balance, he thought. Testing without provoking.
The referee raised his hand.
"Begin."
The chūnin moved immediately.
Shuriken flashed through the air in a tight spread, angles calculated to restrict evasion routes.
Clean form. Disciplined wrist control.
Competent.
Scarlet ignited in Itsuki's eyes.
Three tomoe rotated.
The world slowed.
The shuriken's rotation, the tension in the examiner's shoulders, the shift in weight before the next motion—every detail sharpened.
Itsuki stepped lightly to the side and drew a kunai.
Metal rang.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Each projectile deflected with minimal movement.
No wasted motion.
The watching jōnin narrowed their eyes.
The chūnin pressed forward, forming hand seals—
Too late.
"Sharingan."
Itsuki's gaze locked onto his opponent's.
The illusion struck instantly.
To the observers, the chūnin froze mid-motion.
To the chūnin, the field had shifted into crimson distortion.
Itsuki closed the distance in two steps.
Kunai tip pressed lightly against the man's chest.
Right over the heart.
The entire exchange had lasted seconds.
The referee stared.
The five-minute mark had not even begun to matter.
Itsuki's voice carried clearly across the field.
"If this is the standard," he said calmly, "it seems unnecessary."
A faint ripple moved through the spectators.
Hayato's smile tightened.
Kazuma's eyes gleamed.
Hiruzen exhaled softly through his pipe.
Itsuki did not gloat.
He did not raise his voice.
He simply continued:
"If this is an early graduation assessment, perhaps a jōnin would be more appropriate."
The statement landed.
Not insolent.
Not loud.
Just precise.
The chūnin examiner, still under the fading edge of genjutsu, broke free with visible strain, stumbling back once the illusion lifted.
He understood what had happened.
So did everyone else.
One exchange.
Complete control.
A five-year-old had neutralized a combat-experienced chūnin before the clock could matter.
The referee cleared his throat.
"The candidate has demonstrated clear superiority over the assigned examiner."
He glanced toward the Hokage.
Hiruzen met Itsuki's gaze across the field.
Measured.
Evaluating.
The wind stirred the dust at Itsuki's feet.
He did not look away.
Pressure settled again in his chest.
Stronger than before.
This stage was different.
He could feel it.
And he welcomed it.