Hiruzen Sarutobi
The children gathered before me are still so young, and yet… I can already see the makings of something rare. Their eyes—sharp, eager, a little worn—have begun to resemble those of true shinobi. The Elite Class was meant to bring out their potential, and it's doing just that. But three of them… three of them shine brighter than the rest.
Tokasu Nara. Sayaka Senju. Yuki Kazanari.
In a way, they remind me of another trio I once trained. They've yet to grasp the weight of their potential, but it's there. Clear as day to someone like me.
I watch from the high viewing platform as the final match is about to begin. The crowd buzzes with anticipation. Among them sit chunin instructors, hopeful parents, and a handful of jōnin who volunteered to help evaluate. These matches, while meant to be encouraging, are far more important than the children realize. Not just for ranking, or even rewards.
Beside me stands an older man clad in jōnin attire, face aged and deeply lined, arms crossed in thought. He was one of the founding advisors of the Elite Class program.
"They're not bad, huh?" he says, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Those three… could be something special."
I nod, keeping my gaze forward.
"They might be exactly what the project needs."
He's silent for a moment. "The Sannin Project?"
I don't answer. Not right away.
"It's too early to say for sure," I finally reply. "But if things continue like this… they may very well be our first generation."
The man chuckles under his breath. "You always were the visionary type, Hiruzen."
I ignore the comment. Below us, the announcer's voice rings out, cutting through the noise.
"For the final match of the End of Year Tournament—Tokasu Nara versus Yuki Kazanari!"
The murmurs in the crowd swelled into excited chatter. Even the instructors leaned forward, eyes sharp with anticipation. These two had earned their reputations over the past year—one a genius tactician born from a clan of strategists, the other a prodigious swordsman, his movements laced with a chakra nature no one had seen in years.
But I recognized it the moment I saw it.
'The Kazanari clan... I thought the last of them perished during the Nine-Tails' rampage.'
A slow smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.
'So one survived after all.'
Their kekkei genkai—Frostfire—was a rare and beautiful fusion of opposing forces, fire and ice dancing in harmony. It was a gift as dangerous as it was elegant. A legacy thought lost to tragedy… and yet, here it stood, alive in the hands of this quiet boy.
'Good. I'm glad they're not gone.'
I cross my arms and observe as they enter the ring. Tokasu's expression is unreadable, as expected. Yuki's is calm, focused, perhaps even cold.
The match begins, and for a time, neither of them moves. That's good. That means they're thinking.
They're not just throwing jutsu or rushing in blindly. They're playing a mental game, trying to control the future of the fight before the first move is even made. I can't help but smile.
Yuki makes the first move—a burst of speed aided by Body Flicker. I almost miss it, but my eyes are trained. His sword flashes, striking low, then high. Tokasu dodges narrowly and counters with a wide-cast shadow spike technique, sending spears erupting from the floor.
Yuki's movements are fluid, evasive. He slides back, pivoting with grace that feels like dancing. His blade parries one of the spikes, then carves a crescent arc to create space.
"His kenjutsu is exceptional," the jōnin beside me mutters. "I haven't ever seen form that clean from a genin"
"It's not just the form," I say. "It's the way he integrates it. His blade isn't separate from his ninjutsu—it's like an extension of his thinking."
Yuki weaves hand signs mid-swing, and a pale-blue fireball launches across the field. Tokasu dodges, but barely. A stray ember scorching the floor below him.
Tokasu retaliates, laying shadow traps beneath Yuki's feet, forcing him to remain airborne longer than he likely prefers. It's subtle, brilliant. He's manipulating Yuki's movement options, boxing him in.
Yuki changes stances. His blade now glows with a faint white-blue hue. Frostfire. The Kekkei Genkai of the Kazanari line. Short bursts of speed—body flicker, executed with fluid ease—carrying him forward, never staying in one place long enough for Tokasu to pin him down. Each step keeps the pressure mounting, a blade at the throat of strategy.
Beside me, the older jōnin narrows his eyes, arms folded.
"Most kids their age can barely manage a single jutsu," he mutters. "These two? They've already used a handful—at least. And with control."
I nod slowly.
"They're more than just talented. They're ahead of the curve... frighteningly so."
Tokasu defends smartly, using terrain, clone feints, and deceptive footwork to stay alive. He forms a dense web of shadows beneath him. Then the jutsu begins—a prison technique, one I've seen before. Spikes of darkness shoot up from the ground, closing in on Yuki from all sides.
The audience can no longer see what's happening within the dome of shadows. The trap is total.
Tokasu stands in the arena, both hands locked in a seal. Sweat trails down his temples, dripping from his chin. His breathing is shallow, drawn. I can sense it from here—he's pushing himself past the limit, funneling the last of his chakra into the technique. The shadow dome pulses, a dark sphere like ink swallowing light.
Then… silence.
The dust begins to settle, stirred only by the wind.
And the shadows retreat.
My eyes narrow.
There, where Yuki should be—within the heart of the trap—there is nothing.
Instead, the boy stands behind Tokasu, his blade extended, steady, cold steel resting just behind the neck. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just flawless execution.
A clear victory.
The crowd takes a moment to register it. Then the eruption—cheers, gasps, confusion. But I'm already replaying it in my mind.
'How?'
Body Flicker wouldn't work. Not inside a complete shadow encapsulation like that. Once Tokasu's jutsu closed, there was no line of sight, no route of escape. He was fully enclosed.
And yet… Yuki moved. Not just escaped—repositioned, and without being seen.
I glance toward the jōnin beside me, but say nothing for a moment.
'Advanced Body Flicker? Possibly… the timing, the chakra signature left behind… it was more than just speed.'
A form of teleportation?
At that age?
I stroke my beard thoughtfully.
"I didn't see the movement," I murmur aloud. "Whatever he used, it was hidden within the collapse of the jutsu. Dust and shadow… the perfect cover."
The jōnin frowns. "But even then, the level of chakra control required to mask it…"
I nod. "Exactly. That wasn't improvisation. It was deliberate, planned. He not only noticed his opponents plan but also devised a trap of his own."
The subtle distancing. The willingness to play along, to feign weakness. Every part of Yuki's counter had been set in motion long before the final moment.
The announcer's voice rises above it all.
"And your winner is… Yuki Kazanari!!"
Tokasu's jutsu fades slowly. Confusion is written across his face. And then, his eyes widen.
Just behind him, the tip of Yuki's sword glints, held to the back of his neck.
He never broke the trap. He outsmarted it. Left behind a residue of his chakra to mimic his presence while slipping away.
"He beat him at his own game," the jōnin mutters, sounding genuinely surprised. "Can't say I expected that from the swordsman."
I allow myself a small smile. "That's because you were only watching his blade."
Below, the proctor calls both boys back to the center of the ring. Yuki sheathes his sword with the same calm he carried through the match, his expression unreadable. Tokasu follows, silent, but there's a nod—a quiet, begrudging respect exchanged between the two. One born from real battle.
"The Sannin Project… yes. They may be the ones."