One week.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours of Takeo's "special hell" (aka: conditioning drills that made rolling in radish patches feel like a spa day).
Satoru had sprinted around the yard until his lungs staged a rebellion. He'd been flipped, thrown, and face-planted so many times he was starting to believe dirt had a vendetta. His muscles ached in places he didn't know existed.
He hadn't stepped outside the walls of their modest home once. Not even to peek.
But now—today—was different.
Today was Academy Day.
And Satoru Gojo, future legend, stood at the threshold of his home like a hero about to embark on a world-shaking journey. The early sun lit his white hair like a beacon. His academy uniform (slightly oversized) billowed in the breeze.
"Watch out, peasants," he whispered to no one in particular.
"Your Glorious Blue-Eyed King arrives"
From behind, Takeo crossed his arms, one brow raised.
"Are you sure you don't want me to walk with you?" he asked, tone neutral but eyes sharp.
Before Satoru could respond, Aiko's voice rang from deeper inside the house, sharp as a kunai.
"And behave yourself, Satoru! No fighting, no flirting, and for the love of the Sage, don't monologue at your teachers!"
Satoru didn't even flinch.
He turned slightly, just enough so they could see the glint in his eye, the curve of a confident grin.
"Fear not, Mother! Father!" he said, placing a hand over his heart with theatrical conviction.
"As a man, I must face this sacred rite alone! My journey to become Konoha's greatest student and most desirable heartthrob starts today!"
Takeo blinked slowly.
"...So that's a no to the escort, then."
Satoru gave a thumbs-up.
"Full solo deployment!"
And with that, he turned on his heel and strutted toward the village like a man walking into destiny or at least into light bullying and a poorly organized attendance roster.
And so, Satoru marched.
Not walked. Not strolled.
Marched.
Head high, shoulders back, each step hitting the dirt road with the pomp of a noble prince returning from conquest.
The streets of Konoha bustled with their usual morning life: vendors shouting, shinobi leaping across rooftops, children racing past... but all eyes inevitably found their way to him.
Gasps. Whispers. A turn of heads.
"Who is that boy?"
"Look at those eyes…"
"Such presence… Is he from the Hyūga? No, too confident. Uchiha? No—too happy?"
Satoru didn't spare them a glance.
Of course they stared. Of course they whispered. How could they not? His white hair gleamed like silver threads in the sun, and those sapphire eyes—impossibly bright, impossibly bold—cut through the morning haze like twin blades of destiny.
To the onlookers, he had to be the heir of some elite clan. A prodigy. A boy born for greatness.
But no one dared approach.
There was something in the way he carried himself—too fearless, too self-assured. Like someone who already knew the world belonged to him and was just waiting for the paperwork to catch up.
Even the jonin standing at a dango stand paused mid-bite, watching the tiny boy strut past like a daimyo inspecting his territory.
Satoru didn't see them. Or rather, he chose not to see them.
He was too busy narrating his internal monologue:
"Step one of the plan: dominate the academy, earn everyone's respect, and make my face known throughout the Land of Fire. Obviously, the real training arc starts today."
He smirked.
"You're welcome, Konoha."
And with that, he vanished around the corner toward the academy gates, his invisible crown gleaming above his head.
One hour later.
Satoru stood just outside the academy gates, hands in his pockets, face tilted toward the sun like he'd arrived on a red carpet instead of packed dirt.
He sighed—long, loud, theatrical.
"Let's review," he muttered to himself.
"I woke up early. I got ready early. I left early."
A beat of silence.
"...So why am I late?"
He tapped his chin thoughtfully, then snapped his fingers.
"Right. Because it wouldn't make sense to arrive early."
He turned his eyes to the building in front of him, the symbol of Konoha shining proudly over the gate.
"After all," he said, voice solemn as if reciting scripture,
"a legend doesn't just show up. He arrives. At the perfect moment. Fashionably, dramatically—impactfully."
He placed a hand on his chest, steadying the weight of his invisible greatness.
"Me, Satoru Gojo, arriving on time like some commoner? Unacceptable."
The academy bell rang.
Perfect.
He smirked to himself, fixing the hem of his uniform and brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders. With every step toward the entrance, his grin grew wider.
It was time.
The curtains were rising.
And Satoru Gojo was ready for his debut.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in a classroom of the Academy, fate had gathered a class of misfits, prodigies, and future legends—all blissfully unaware that their morning peace was about to be shattered.
Everyone was in their seats.
Chatter buzzed, nervous energy bounced off the walls, and eyes flicked between potential rivals, future teammates, or people to avoid entirely.
At the front, a scarred man with a warm but firm expression cleared his throat.
"I'm Umino Iruka," he began, adjusting the clipboard in his hands. "And I'll be your instructor this year—"
Knock. Knock.
The room stilled.
Every head turned toward the classroom door.
Whispers broke out.
"Who'd be late… on the first day?"
Iruka blinked, confused.
Before he could respond—before he could even utter a simple 'Come in'—the door slid open on its own, slow and deliberate.
And there he stood.
Bathed in morning light like the protagonist of an overly dramatic stage play.
Satoru Gojo.
Eyes like carved sapphire, posture straight and proud as if this wasn't a school, but a coronation.
He took one step in, then another, calm and unhurried—like the whole room had been waiting for him.
And honestly? Some of them had.
Gasps rippled through the class. A few students exchanged irritated looks. Others blinked in awe. A certain shy girl blushed. One loud-mouthed blonde muttered something under his breath. An innocent Uchiha tilted his head, curious.
Satoru ignored them all.
He stopped just past the threshold, adjusted the nonexistent dust off his sleeve, and looked straight at Iruka.
"I'm late," he said.
No excuse.
No explanation.
No shame.
"But," he added, with a soft, entirely unapologetic smile.
"I'm deeply sorry for the inconvenience."
And then, he walked toward the nearest empty seat like nothing was wrong at all—leaving a classroom full of baffled students and one very speechless teacher in his wake.