Chapter 12: The Teacher's Farewell
Ragnar told no one of the morning's confrontation on the street. The brief, cryptic exchange with the Anbu operative hung in his mind, a puzzle of veiled recruitment and hidden agendas. He walked to the Ninja Academy alone, his thoughts a whirlwind of strategy and cold assessment.
In this era, early graduation was a grim reality for the talented, a fast-track to the meat grinder of the coming conflict or the shadowed halls of the Anbu. Names like Kakashi, like Itachi, proved that path. Greenhouses bred weak flowers; the storm forged survivors. For the past three months, he'd spent as little time in the classroom as possible, securing frequent leave from Yamada-sensei. The instructor, understanding the silent war Ragnar was waging against the Uchiha's looming threat, and recognizing the boy had long since surpassed the standard curriculum, had granted it without fuss.
Entering the school grounds was like stepping into a different, softer world. The air was filled with the carefree shouts and laughter of children whose greatest concerns were grades and playground rivalries. Ragnar moved through them like a ghost, separated by an ocean of experience and purpose.
"Run! The Red-Hot Habanero's on the warpath again!"
From across the yard, a panicked squeal cut through the noise. A cluster of younger students scattered like startled birds, tripping over themselves in their haste.
Pursuing them with purposeful, stomping strides was a girl with a cascade of vibrant red hair, her cute features twisted into a scowl of righteous indignation. The very air around her seemed to crackle with volatile energy.
It was Kushina.
Of everyone, she had perhaps changed the most in three months. The timid, cautious transfer student was gone. In her place was a force of nature. The innate ninja talent and monstrous vitality of the Uzumaki clan had blossomed under Konoha's training. She'd rocketed to the top of the class, a celebrated genius.
And with power came… personality. The buried fire, once banked by elders' warnings, had erupted. She was, after all, a princess of a fallen clan, come to Konoha with a purpose beyond mere learning. She carried a dream, naive and blazing: to become the Hokage of this village. Such a declaration had been met with sneers and mockery from her less imaginative peers.
Kushina's response had been direct, physical, and utterly effective. A series of swift, decisive beatings had silenced the loudest critics. Backed by the unspoken but clear favor of Konoha's highest echelons, she had become someone even the clan children hesitated to provoke. In the unofficial school hierarchy, one might risk an Uchiha's pride, but no one with sense crossed Uzumaki Kushina.
"Hmph! Just you wait! I will be Hokage!" she declared to the fleeing backs, shaking a small, clenched fist at the sky, her hair a furious banner.
Then she stopped. Her eyes, scanning the yard, landed on a familiar, solitary figure. The stormcloud on her face vanished, replaced in a blink by a radiant, sunbeam-bright smile.
"Mister Ragnar!"
She trotted over, the menacing aura dissipating as if it had never been.
"Long time," Ragnar acknowledged with a slight nod.
Kushina's eyes widened in genuine shock. By Ragnar's standards, that was a veritable speech. Four whole words! And he'd initiated it. The "long time" was accurate—between his frequent absences for training and her own mysterious disappearances from the school roster, their paths had rarely crossed. Ragnar could guess where her time went: not just the Academy, but the secluded Senju compound, learning the ancient, potent art of fuinjutsu from the legendary Mito Uzumaki herself. Sealing was the Uzumaki's birthright, their trump card in a world of flashy ninjutsu.
Lost in this pleasant surprise, Kushina stood there, a faint blush on her cheeks, a small, uncharacteristically girlish smile playing on her lips. The transformation was so stark it made the nearby students, who were cautiously peeking, shudder in disbelief. The Red-Hot Habanero… shy?
But then they saw who she was looking at, and understanding dawned. Oh. Ragnar. The boy who'd put an Uchiha prodigy in the infirmary for three months and counting. That made a twisted sort of sense.
Ragnar gave her one more assessing glance, then turned and continued his path toward the school building without another word.
Kushina, however, remained rooted, still floating in her moment of happiness.
A chubby, earnest-looking boy nearby, unable to bear the awkwardness, whispered, "Uh… sis? He left."
"…Huh?" Kushina blinked, the dreamy look evaporating. She looked around. The space where Ragnar had been was empty.
Whoosh. A phantom wind of embarrassment seemed to blow through her.
"You! Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she rounded on the portly boy, her eyes flashing back to their familiar fiery intensity.
"Sis! You didn't ask!" the boy yelped, shrinking into his collar.
With an inarticulate sound of frustration, Kushina stomped her foot, then bolted after Ragnar, the brief moment of softness thoroughly buried under renewed vexation.
In the classroom, when Yamada-sensei entered, his eyes found Ragnar immediately. A silent, knowing look passed between them. No words were needed about street fights or Anbu.
Ragnar listened to the chakra theory lecture with a different kind of attention now. He cross-referenced the dry academic knowledge with the visceral, instinctual understanding granted by Haki. Most of the class dozed or doodled. The ones who paid rapt attention were largely clan children—Hyuuga, Uchiha, Aburame, Nara, Yamanaka—for whom this was foundational clan lore. The few exceptions, like Minato, were civilians with a desperate, hungry focus. Class, as always, dictated the approach to learning.
After the theory session, as students filed out for physical drills, Yamada-sensei caught Ragnar's eye and gave a slight jerk of his head toward the stairwell.
They ended up on the school's barren, wind-swept rooftop. The village sprawled below them, looking deceptively peaceful.
"I heard about the incident this morning," Yamada began, his voice low against the breeze.
"Your concern is appreciated, sensei," Ragnar replied, giving a shallow, respectful bow.
Yamada let out a short, humorless laugh. "It's all I can do. I cannot stand against the Uchiha clan. My skills… are mediocre. I cannot even properly shield my own student. It is the definition of failure." The self-deprecation in his tone was raw, unvarnished.
"You have no cause for blame," Ragnar said, meaning it. Since the fight with Tsuki, Yamada's attitude had undergone a subtle but profound shift, from detached instructor to something resembling a grimly invested mentor.
"Ragnar," Yamada said, turning to face him fully. "In one week, the Academy will hold its annual inter-class combat tournament. Participants are those with over a year of training. The Hokage himself, along with several jounin commanders, will be observing."
He paused, letting the significance hang. "Exceptional performers are fast-tracked for early graduation. They can be chosen as students by a jounin sensei, or recruited directly into the Anbu. You have only been here six months, but I am submitting your name. I want you to participate. I want you to excel. Find a patron. A powerful sensei, or a place in the Hokage's own forces. It is the only way to secure a future the Uchiha cannot easily touch."
Ragnar met his teacher's earnest gaze. The path was clear. "I will participate. And I will win."
A genuine, relieved smile broke through Yamada's usually stern expression. "Good. With your… abilities, you have a real chance."
But the teacher's intense, almost personal investment still nagged at Ragnar. They were not family. He was an outsider. Why this level of care?
"Sensei," Ragnar asked, his voice quiet. "May I ask why? Why go to such lengths for me?"
Yamada seemed to have been waiting for the question. His face grew solemn, the lines around his eyes deepening. He fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his vest, lit one, and took a long, weary drag. The smoke was snatched away by the rooftop wind.
"Because," he said, his gaze drifting out over the village, toward the distant, hazy border, "after the tournament, I am being deployed. To the Land of Rain. We are among the first contingents being moved to the front. The war drums are beating, Ragnar. I don't expect to come back."
The words fell between them, heavy and final. The care wasn't just for a student. It was a legacy. A final, desperate attempt by a mediocre chunin to plant a seed that might grow into something strong enough to survive the coming storm, in a world he would no longer be part of.
(End of Chapter)
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