Six weeks had passed since Corvus slipped into this world wearing the skin and name of Akira Uchiha.
Six weeks, and the boy he pretended to be no longer resembled an Academy student in anything but height and paperwork.
In that short span, Akira had more than doubled his overall level. His chakra control had climbed to what most would comfortably call jōnin-grade, refined to the point where wastage felt almost offensive. He had created an entirely new genre of genjutsu, sound-based illusions woven through vibration and resonance. The idea itself was shamelessly borrowed from the future, but history had no objections yet, so neither did he.
He had also created new jutsu, though "created" was a generous term. He had stolen the concept from a classmate's future self, dismantled it, rebuilt it properly, and optimized it beyond recognition. Four additional jutsu had been added to his arsenal, his fire and wind nature control had sharpened considerably, and the Body Flicker Technique had become second nature rather than a desperate burst of speed.
Somewhere along the way, he had also become the disciple of a man who would one day be known as a Sannin.
Orochimaru.
That alone would have been enough to draw attention. Unfortunately, subtlety had never been Corvus' strongest suit when power was on the table. His rapid rise had attracted unnecessary scrutiny, whispers, and curiosity from places best left uninterested.
Still, value had been established.
And value, in this world, was armor.
All of this served a single purpose. To grow strong enough, experienced enough, wealthy enough in system points to acquire stronger templates and essential skills. Because compared to what waited in his base world, the Wizarding World, this place was merely a training ground. Dangerous, yes. Brutal, certainly. But not yet racing towards 1981 on a ticking clock.
Here, at least, he had breathing room. The main plot is a generation away, although war is on the horizon, it's not to big a concern, he thinks.
With knowledge, charm, and calculated audacity, he was confident he could survive the Naruto world. He only needed to last one year. After that, whether he returned or relived this life again would depend on the system's whims.
The only thing he knew he would miss was this world's version of his mother. Her quiet care, unspoken concern, and unconditional warmth were things no system could replicate or purchase.
All things considered, it had been a productive six weeks.
His Sharingan had played its part, accelerating his learning to absurd levels. His left eye had matured to two tomoe, while the right lagged behind at one. An imbalance, but a manageable one.
Still, he would not be relying on the Sharingan for the next challenge.
Today was the Academy's mid-year examination.
And to secure the mission reward, he needed to win.
Just not too convincingly.
As Akira made his way toward the Academy, a familiar disturbance rippled through the air. A snake slid into view, unnatural in both movement and presence. It stopped before him, its mouth opening to disgorge a small rolled note.
I expect you to win, it read.
There will be a reward.
Akira sighed internally.
Of course there would be.
Over the past four days, he had been visiting Orochimaru's laboratory regularly, carefully cultivating the image of a science-obsessed prodigy. It wasn't entirely an act. Chakra fascinated him, especially its composition and interaction with physical reality. Unfortunately, the laboratory equipment was crude by modern standards. The microscopes were laughable, barely sufficient for basic biological observation.
Still, limitations bred creativity.
He had constructed a makeshift periodic table, incomplete but functional. He had written down Newton's laws of motion, complete with explanations adapted to chakra-enhanced physics. These notes were left conspicuously displayed, not as arrogance, but as bait.
He knew Orochimaru had checked them.
The System, Siri was of tremendous help, he would deny that without it his man of science persona would have collapsed.
Thanks to its knowledge base, Corvus had replicated most theories accurately, adjusting terminology just enough to fit this world's understanding. He silently thanked every Muggle science book he had ever read, and the long nights spent force-feeding Siri with information far beyond its intended purpose.
Knowledge, after all, was the most dangerous form of poison.
And today, at the Academy, he would make sure everyone tasted just enough of it to remember his name.
But not enough to fear it.
Not yet.
Akira reached the Academy early, and for once, the air itself felt restless.
Excitement hummed beneath disciplined silence. Whispers moved in clusters. Students straightened their posture unconsciously. Even instructors carried themselves with a little extra gravity. Mid-year examinations were not merely assessments, they were filters. Lines drawn quietly between potential, mediocrity, and future expendability.
The theory test came first.
Akira was unconcerned.
No one knew it, but the Sharingan was a cruel advantage in written examinations. Photographic recall, instant pattern recognition, flawless retention. Every lecture, every diagram, every offhand remark from instructors lived perfectly preserved behind his eyes.
The paper was almost insulting.
He finished early, reviewed twice out of habit, and submitted without fanfare. Tactical theory, chakra control formulas, shinobi law, mission protocol, even subtle political questions embedded within the Shinobi Rules section. Chain of command hypotheticals. Authority conflicts. The cost of insubordination weighed against mission success.
He answered them all correctly.
Some instinctively. Others with calculated restraint.
He would get full marks. He was certain of it.
Then came the practical examinations.
Weapon handling first.
Shuriken and kunai flew with mechanical precision. No wasted motion. No flourish. Full marks again.
Ninjutsu followed.
He demonstrated basic techniques cleanly, then raised eyebrows by forming seals one-handed, smoothly, casually, as if it were nothing more than a party trick. Murmurs rippled through the exam hall. Instructors exchanged glances.
That was intentional.
And finally, the spars.
The moment his first opponent was announced, the temperature in the room shifted.
Hizashi Hyūga.
Neji's father.
The observation gallery was full.
The Hokage sat at the center, flanked by his advisors. Clan heads occupied reserved seating. Jōnin instructors leaned forward with interest. Even merchants were present, wealthy civilians drawn in by a new experiment.
Akira's idea.
Commercialization of shinobi events. Sponsored examinations. Tiered seating. Privilege access. Discreet advertisements. Controlled spectacle.
The proposal had reached the Hokage's desk exactly as intended.
Free money had a way of silencing objections.
Even better, Akira had suggested a secondary benefit. Anyone willing to pay obscene sums to watch enemy-aligned genin fight was either a spy or connected to one. Let them buy tickets. Take their money. Then quietly investigate them.
The idea had resonated.
Too well.
According to Orochimaru's latest note, Danzō Shimura now believed Akira Uchiha should be inducted into Root.
Akira almost laughed.
As if I'm joining Root full-time.
Freelancing, maybe. For a price.
The match began.
Hizashi activated his Byakugan instantly.
Akira smiled.
Then he dropped a bomb.
A small object hit the ground and detonated in a blinding flash. No smoke. No lingering cloud. Just pure, overwhelming light and concussive sound.
A flashbang.
Crude by future standards, but devastating in this era.
Hizashi staggered, momentarily blinded, chakra flow disrupted, senses screaming. Against a normal opponent, he might have recovered in seconds.
Akira didn't give him one.
He vanished in a Body Flicker, reappearing at Hiashi's side, kunai resting gently against the man's neck.
The silence was absolute.
"Match over," the proctor announced.
Victory.
The Hyūga section of the gallery was visibly disturbed.
Merchants leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
Orochimaru smiled.
Of course he did. Akira had left samples in the lab days ago. Not the formula. Never the formula. Just the concept. The application. The tactical philosophy.
Flashbangs were far superior to smoke bombs.
Even the Hokage looked intrigued.
Danzō too.
More interest meant more leverage.
Some of the Uchiha were furious.
Despicable methods, they whispered. Dishonorable tactics. Worse, their Sharingan had been caught in the flash as well, triggering migraines and sharp pain.
But not all of them complained.
Some watched quietly.
Some understood.
In the shinobi world, victory was not about pride.
It was about survival, efficiency, and control.
And Akira Uchiha had just taught everyone a very uncomfortable lesson.
Minato, Kushina, and Mikoto advanced without difficulty. Ino–Shika–Chō followed suit, exactly as anyone with eyes and a functioning brain had predicted. The first round concluded swiftly, leaving a clear divide between those merely talented and those unmistakably dangerous.
The second round began soon after.
Akira's next opponent stepped forward with a confident stride.
Tsume Inuzuka.
She rolled her shoulders once, eyes sharp, lips curling into a predatory grin.
"Well then, pretty boy," she said, cracking her knuckles. "This is where it ends."
Akira smiled back, pleasant and entirely unbothered.
Then, as they moved toward the arena, he began to whistle.
It was light, rhythmic, impossibly catchy. The kind of tune that stuck to the mind whether you wanted it to or not. Anyone from 21st-century Earth would have recognized it instantly, but here it was simply… unusual. Too modern. Too playful for a shinobi examination.
As the match started, Akira added soft vocals, not loud enough to be theatrical, just enough to be distracting. The melody danced around Tsume, slipping past her guard like a teasing echo.
Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby
Let me know
Girl I'm gonna show you how to do it
And we start real slow...
Reactions were immediate.
Jiraiya leaned back, grinning like he'd just found free entertainment. A few of the younger audience members blinked in confusion, unsure whether this was allowed. Tsunade pinched the bridge of her nose, debating whether to laugh or reprimand someone. The Hokage cleared his throat pointedly, very pointedly.
Akira, meanwhile, circled Tsume slowly, humming and whistling, occasionally letting the tune drift closer to her ear.
You just put your lips together
And you come real close
Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby
Here we go....
It worked.
Her concentration fractured. Not because of embarrassment, but irritation. The rhythm refused to leave her head. The sound bounced strangely, seeming to come from places it shouldn't.
What most people missed was the chakra woven into the sound..
This wasn't mere noise.
It was sound-based genjutsu, subtle, layered, piggybacking on melody and vibration rather than hand seals. Tsume began reacting to things that weren't there, striking at phantom movement, tracking enemies that only existed inside her senses, and some people in audience were also getting horny....
Akira waited.
Timed it.
As the melody looped for the second time, he cut the sound sharply.
Then vanished.
A flicker.
He reappeared behind Tsume and struck cleanly at the side of her neck. Precise. Controlled. Non-lethal.
She collapsed before she even understood what had happened.
Silence followed.
"Winner," the proctor announced after a heartbeat, "Akira Uchiha."
The crowd erupted.
Not just applause, but buzz. Excited, unsettled murmurs rippled through the gallery. Some Inuzuka clenched their jaws in frustration. Others stared thoughtfully. The more perceptive among the jōnin exchanged quiet looks.
That hadn't been luck.
That had been preparation.
Akira straightened, hands in his pockets, expression calm.
Another win. Top 8.
When Tsume was woken up, Akira went to apologise, " I am sorry my lady, I not just a pretty boy, although I dont mind going down under, just not during a fight".
With that Jiraiya started laughing, and Tsunade punching him.