The Academy classroom still smelled of new wood and fresh paint when the teacher finished writing on the board. The sound of chalk scratching against the surface echoed softly, almost ceremonially, as if each word carried enough weight to remain beyond that first day. The children were restless—some swinging short legs that barely reached the floor, others whispering with the anxious excitement of those who did not yet fully understand where they were, only that something important was about to begin.
Ren watched everything in silence.
Not out of shyness—that was a role he knew how to wear when necessary—but because he was assessing. The space, the arrangement of the desks, the way the teacher occupied the center of the room without needing to raise his voice. It was an old habit, older even than this life: the need to understand an environment before moving within it.
— Very well — the Sarutobi teacher said, lightly tapping the eraser against the board. — Before we truly begin… there is something every Academy student needs to hear at least once.
The murmuring subsided. Not from discipline, but from curiosity.
— You've all heard this expression — he continued, a calm smile on his face. — The Will of Fire.
Some nodded. Others repeated the words under their breath, as if testing how they sounded.
Ren did not react. He had heard that term more times than he could count—spoken in speeches, written in books, wrapped in empty promises. He knew the difference was never in the phrase itself, but in who used it—and for what purpose.
— Tell me — the teacher went on, resting his hands on the front desk —, if the village were in danger… who would you save first?
Silence fell heavily.
A girl raised her hand, hesitant. — My mother.
— My father — another said right after.
— My dog — Gaku Inuzuka blurted out, drawing a few laughs.
The teacher nodded to all of them, correcting no one, judging no one. He simply listened. Then he asked another question.
— And if you couldn't choose?
The laughter died. The children looked at one another, confused, as if that possibility simply did not exist in worlds still too small for losses too great.
Ren felt the weight of the question with uncomfortable clarity—not because it was new, but because it was honest.
The teacher turned back to the board and wrote calmly, his handwriting steady:
"The Will of Fire is not about choosing who to save.
It is about accepting the burden of protecting what remains."
Some did not understand. Others pretended they did. But the silence that followed was real.
— To be a ninja — he continued — is not to be the strongest. It is to be the one who remains standing when others fall. Sometimes, that means fighting. Sometimes, it means losing. And almost always… it means carrying something no one else wants to carry.
Masaru Uchiha raised his hand, confident, like someone who already saw himself above the rest. — If someone is strong enough, they don't have to choose — he said. — You can save everyone.
There were murmurs of agreement. It was a beautiful answer. Clean. Comforting.
Ren slowly turned his head toward him. He observed the way Masaru spoke, the light in his eyes, the absolute certainty of someone who had not yet been tested by limits.
— And when you fail? — Ren asked, without raising his hand, his voice low and direct. — Who do you let die then?
The silence that followed was different. Heavier.
Masaru stared back, teeth clenched—not out of humiliation, but because the question did not strike his pride. It struck his logic.
Reiji Nara let out a lazy yawn. — Saving everyone sounds like too much work.
A few nervous laughs spread through the room. Ren did not react, but he took note. Reiji had understood more than he let on.
Hiashi Hyūga watched everything with cold attention, his gaze far too sharp for a child. Hizashi, beside him, seemed more curious than critical. Shin Shimura remained motionless, recording every interaction as if this were a silent report.
The teacher did not intervene. He simply let the discomfort do its work.
When the lesson ended, he said only: — Today you learned the word "fire." One day… you will understand what it burns.
The children began to leave in disordered groups, talking loudly, arguing, laughing. Masaru walked out ahead, irritated. Gaku ran down the hallway. Reiji dragged his feet.
Ren stayed behind.
He looked at the now-erased board, as if the words were still there, invisible. He thought about the teacher's sentence. About fire that burns. About what it consumes.
And then, inevitably, he thought of Danzō.
The fire that truly destroys a village does not come from outside, he reflected. It comes from those who believe they can burn the entire forest just to save their own root.
Ren turned and left the classroom in silence, certain of one thing:
if Konoha were ever consumed, it would not be by external enemies—
but by those who believed that sacrificing others was always acceptable, as long as their version of the village survived.