Chakra roared to life in Amamiya Raizen's palm, swirling faster and faster until it condensed into a glowing blue sphere.
The air trembled. Bark splintered. A thick tree behind Jinsuke split clean in half with a thunderous crack.
"Wha—what the hell… That's insane!"
Jinsuke's jaw practically hit the ground. His eyes gleamed with childlike awe. "What's that technique called? I wanna learn it! Teach me, Raizen-sama!"
Raizen exhaled through his nose. "This is called Rasengan. An A-rank ninjutsu. It doesn't rely on hand seals, only chakra control and rotation."
He crouched and traced a circle in the dirt. "You start with this—learn to spin chakra evenly, like water swirling inside a sphere. Then you condense it. Compress. Refine. Until it hurts."
Jinsuke nodded eagerly, eyes wide. Raizen smirked. "Got it?"
"Uh…" Jinsuke scratched his head. "Not even a little."
Raizen sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Figures. Then practice until you do. That's how you learn real ninjutsu."
"Yes, Patriarch!" Jinsuke's grin returned full force as Raizen patted his shoulder and walked off toward the training field, where Senju Hashirama waited.
Behind him, chaos broke out. Students swarmed Jinsuke like hungry crows.
"What was that move?"
"The chakra ball thing—teach us!"
Jinsuke puffed out his chest. "Hmph! That was an A-rank jutsu the Patriarch taught me personally! It's called, uh… called…" His confidence wilted. "...Um."
"It's called Rasengan," said Hatake Hoshino, his tone flat as ever. "A non-elemental A-rank ninjutsu invented by Lord Raizen himself. When combined with his Flying Thunder God Technique, it's practically unstoppable on the battlefield."
"Ugh, you think you're such a know-it-all!" shouted Zhenjie, face red with irritation.
Hoshino shrugged. "Believe what you want. Either way, most of you won't even scratch the surface of that jutsu."
The other students muttered, half in awe, half in jealousy.
Jinsuke clenched his fists. No way I'm losing to that smug little brat.
He turned toward the battered stump where the tree had fallen and stared at the faint scorch mark. "Just you wait, Hoshino. I'll master it."
Hashirama chuckled, watching from afar. "Your clan's got spirit, Raizen-san."
Raizen's smirk returned, sly and knowing. "Spirit makes for good stories. Every generation needs its 'genius' and its 'dead last.'"
Hashirama tilted his head. "Dead last?"
"Trust me," Raizen said. "The weak one always bites back. That's the rule of the shinobi world."
He turned away from the noise, gesturing toward the distant ridge. "Come on. Let's walk."
They reached a cliff overlooking a vast stretch of forest. Once, the land below had been an endless green sea. Now it was scarred by roads, outposts, and smoke. Small clusters of tents had started to form, like seedlings of something larger.
Hashirama's eyes softened. "So this is what became of our old training ground…"
Raizen folded his arms. "Times change. Trees fall. Villages rise."
Hashirama stayed quiet, gaze distant. "Back then, we swore we'd build a place without war. You, me, and Madara. But the older we get…" He trailed off. "I feel like I'm walking away from that dream."
Raizen didn't respond. He didn't need to. The wind carried enough grief for both of them.
Below, the scattered camps shimmered with faint chakra light—symbols of fragile alliances.
"One day," Hashirama murmured, "that alliance will become a village. No more bloodshed. No more graves."
Raizen's voice cut through the silence, steady and cold. "Then we'd better survive long enough to see it."
Hashirama's hands tightened. "Maybe it's time I stop letting fate drag me around. If I stay silent, I'll just be another corpse in this endless war."
Raizen's eyes flicked toward him, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. "Now that's the Hashirama I remember."
Days passed.
Raizen didn't meet Hashirama again—too many preparations, too many clans converging on their newly formed Konoha Alliance. The place buzzed with movement: scouts, merchants, young shinobi from six families, each bringing pride and suspicion in equal measure.
The alliance had grown beyond his expectations. A mere pact wasn't enough anymore. If he wanted the world to notice, it needed spectacle. Proof.
An idea took root. Dangerous, but perfect.
A ninja exam.
Not for Chūnin or Jōnin—no, too soon for that. This would be a Genin exam, a battlefield trial for the next generation. A test to show every clan that the alliance didn't just have veterans; it had a future.
Over four hundred students trained under the Amamiya banner. Ninety would graduate this season. Thirty squads of three. Each one forged in war, not academy comfort. Their training wasn't classroom drills—it was survival.
Every one of them, even the weakest, was a soldier ready to die.
Raizen watched them spar from the hilltop, Rasengan still faintly glowing in his palm. "The future starts with blood," he muttered. "Let's see who survives it."