A five-year-old voice.
Calm.
Unhurried.
Asking for a jōnin instead.
Under normal circumstances, it would have sounded absurd.
Here, after what they had just witnessed, it did not.
The chūnin examiner had been defeated before the five-minute limit could even become relevant. There had been no struggle, no drawn-out exchange, no narrow survival.
Only dominance.
The gathered shinobi did not see arrogance.
They saw evidence.
Sharingan was a bloodline limit, yes. But no one foolish enough to stand among clan heads and senior jōnin would dismiss the result as mere genetics. Bloodline was power—but power still required control.
And control, at five years old, was rare.
Tsunade clicked her tongue from the sidelines.
"What a waste. I was hoping he'd get knocked around at least once."
Her tone was dry, but her eyes were sharp.
Jiraiya folded his arms, watching with something dangerously close to envy. "At five, I was still tripping over my own kunai."
Orochimaru's gaze did not waver from Itsuki. "Talent like that… is rarely accidental."
Nearby, the Hyūga clan head observed in silence, pale eyes steady. He did not activate the Byakugan. He did not need to.
"The chakra output was consistent," he murmured quietly. "Even without the Sharingan, he would not have fallen to that chūnin."
Other clan leaders exchanged low comments.
For large clans, one prodigy was a blessing.
For smaller ones, it was a generational event.
The Uchiha, however, seemed to produce them more often than most.
On the field, Itsuki stood motionless, kunai still lowered at his side.
Inside, the pressure shifted again.
He felt it clearly this time.
Stronger.
Broader.
The attention of powerful shinobi pressed inward from every direction.
The refinement was immediate.
Dense chakra circulated smoothly through his coils. The Sharingan's internal strain lightened slightly, as though adapting to the scrutiny.
So this is what scale does.
The difference between performing before children and performing before leaders was not subtle.
This was exponential.
The referee cleared his throat. "The candidate has—"
Itsuki interrupted.
"Lord Hokage."
His voice carried without being raised.
All eyes turned.
Sarutobi Hiruzen met his gaze across the field, smoke drifting slowly from his pipe.
"Yes?"
Itsuki lowered his kunai fully.
"With respect," he said evenly, "this level is insufficient."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Hiruzen's expression did not change. "Insufficient?"
"If this is an early graduation assessment, I believe the benchmark should reflect that."
He paused deliberately.
"One jōnin would be more appropriate."
Silence deepened.
Some jōnin shifted slightly where they stood.
Itsuki continued, unhurried.
"If that proves too simple, three would suffice."
The field exploded in whispers.
Even Tsunade let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.
"Three?"
Jiraiya blinked. "He's serious."
Orochimaru smiled faintly. "He is."
Kazuma's expression remained controlled, but his fingers tightened subtly against his sleeve.
This was bold.
Not reckless—but undeniably bold.
Hiruzen studied Itsuki for a long moment.
"You understand what you are suggesting?"
"Yes."
"A jōnin will not restrain themselves in the same way a chūnin might."
"That is acceptable."
"And three?"
Itsuki's gaze did not falter.
"If the purpose is evaluation, then evaluate fully."
The air felt charged.
This was no longer merely an assessment.
It was a declaration.
Not of rebellion.
Of standard.
Itsuki was not asking for recognition.
He was asking for calibration.
The wind stirred across the training ground, carrying dust in small spirals.
Hiruzen finally lowered his pipe.
"Very well."
A collective intake of breath passed through the spectators.
"I will assign one jōnin first," the Hokage said. "If you remain standing, we will proceed from there."
Itsuki inclined his head once.
Inside, the pressure tightened again.
Stronger observers.
Higher threshold.
Greater refinement.
This was the stage he had chosen.
And he intended to use it.