The Tactician: Naruto Fanfiction

[4736 Words]

The academy was loud. 

Yasu had expected that. 

Children, dozens of them, filled the room with noise, their voices overlapping, conversations weaving together into an indistinct hum of excitement. Some clustered in groups, already forming connections—laughing, chattering, exchanging names and stories like it was the most natural thing in the world. Others moved between the clusters, seeking a place to settle, a group to belong to. 

Yasu sat near the middle, not too close to the front where the overeager students gathered, but not far enough back to seem disinterested. His hands rested on the desk, fingers lightly tapping against the wood in idle thought as he took in his surroundings. 

The classroom itself was simple—rows of desks lined neatly, enough space between them to move but not much else. The walls bore faint scuffs, signs of years of restless children sitting in these same seats, whispering, fidgeting, growing into the shinobi they would one day become. The far end of the room held a large chalkboard, clean for now, waiting to be filled. 

Yasu could still hear Hisao's voice from earlier, low but certain, as the man adjusted his cloak before leaving: 

"Connections matter." 

Yasu understood that. 

A shinobi's strength wasn't just in skill or power—it was in alliances, in bonds, in the people who stood beside them. He didn't plan on growing up a loner. That would be stupid. 

But at this age—the age he was supposed to be—it was difficult. 

Difficult to pretend to be interested in the things these children found exciting. Difficult to lower himself into their world, their simplicity, their naivety. 

So, he remained still, watching. 

Then, a shadow crossed his desk. 

Yasu glanced up, eyes settling on the girl standing before him. 

She wasn't smiling like the others. 

Dark green hair framed her face, long enough to reach past her shoulders, though strands of it curled slightly at the ends. Her dark brown eyes studied him—not unfriendly, but searching, curious. 

"…I'm Sumire," she said, her voice level, direct. No hesitation. 

She tilted her head slightly, as if considering something before she spoke again. 

"Can I sit with you?" 

Yasu studied her for a moment, taking in the way she watched him—not with the idle, thoughtless curiosity most children had, but something sharper, something genuine. 

He gave a small nod. "Go ahead. I'm Yasu." 

Sumire slid into the seat beside him, quiet as she settled. She didn't immediately speak, instead letting her gaze drift downward, to where his hands rested on the desk. 

"You have bandages," she noted. Not an accusation, just an observation. 

Yasu glanced at them briefly before curling his fingers slightly, hiding the worst of the wrappings. The fabric was clean, but beneath it, his knuckles ached faintly, still raw from the hours he had spent training last night. Hisao would have called it excessive. Yasu thought it was necessary. 

"I trained too hard," he said simply. 

That caught her attention. 

Sumire's dark eyes flicked back up to his face, interest sparking. "Training?" 

He nodded. 

"With what?" 

"Kunai drills. Striking dummies. Chakra control." 

She considered that for a moment, then said, "You're training before even starting the academy?" 

Yasu's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "It's not like we're here to play games." 

That earned him an approving nod. "That's true." 

She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk as she studied him again. "My parents are shinobi," she said, matter-of-fact. "They said the academy won't teach everything. That we have to train outside of it, too." 

That made sense. "They're right." 

Sumire hummed, glancing toward the rest of the class. The other children were still caught up in introductions, some already forming groups, laughing and exchanging excitement about the academy. She didn't seem particularly drawn to them. 

"What about yours?" she asked, looking back at him. 

Yasu stilled for half a second. He had expected the question eventually. 

"They're not," he said, voice even. 

Sumire's brows lifted slightly, but she didn't ask anything else. No prying. Just quiet consideration before she shifted back to the previous topic. 

"What kind of chakra control?" she asked, head tilting. "What are you working on?" 

Yasu let out a slow breath. "Refining it. Molding chakra without losing control." 

Sumire looked thoughtful at that. "I've only practiced a little. My parents let me try walking up trees once. I wasn't very good at it." 

He didn't expect her to admit that so easily. 

"It takes practice," he said. 

She huffed. "I know that." 

He glanced at her again, taking in her posture, the way she spoke. She wasn't like the others—at least, not in the way she held herself. The other kids were loud, eager, still grasping at the novelty of it all. 

Sumire was different. 

Not like him. Not like Hisao. But not naive either. 

That made her interesting. 

Maybe Hisao was right. Connections mattered. 

He didn't mind this one. 

Soon enough the door slid open. 

The sound alone wasn't enough to quiet the class, but the figure who stepped inside was. 

A man stood in the doorway, tall but not towering, his posture relaxed yet commanding. His dark grey flak jacket was well-worn, straps secure over the standard black uniform underneath. His hitai-ate was tied around his upper left arm rather than his forehead, the metal plate reflecting a dull gleam under the light. His hair, a deep brown, was cut short and slightly messy, as if he hadn't bothered to fix it before coming in. 

But it was his eyes that truly silenced the room. 

Sharp. Focused. The kind that had seen real battle. 

For a long moment, he simply stood there, letting the weight of his presence settle over the room. Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the chalkboard. His steps were even, purposeful, his boots making little sound against the floor. 

The class remained quiet, watching as he picked up a piece of chalk and, in bold, steady strokes, wrote his name: 

Hiroshi Tenzō 

He turned back to face them, tapping the chalk against his palm. "Alright," he said, voice firm but not unkind. "Listen up." 

A few students straightened in their seats instinctively. 

"My name is Hiroshi Tenzō. You will call me Sensei. I'm a chunin of Iwagakure, and for the next several years, I'll be the one responsible for shaping you into shinobi." 

His gaze swept the room, sharp but unreadable. "Some of you are here because you dream of being great warriors. Some of you are here because your families expect it. Others may not even know why you're here yet." He set the chalk down on the desk beside him. "But by the time you leave this academy, you'll have your answer." 

A pause. Then, he folded his arms across his chest. "This isn't a playground. You will be pushed. You will be tested. You will struggle. Some of you will fail." 

A ripple of unease passed through the room. 

Hiroshi let it settle before continuing. "A shinobi's life is not easy. But if you're sitting in this classroom, it means you've taken your first step." His voice softened—only slightly. "And that first step is important." 

He glanced at the students nearest to him. "We'll start with something simple. Stand, one at a time, and introduce yourselves. Name, something about yourself, and why you want to be a shinobi." 

The class hesitated for a moment before the first student slowly stood. 

The introductions began. 

One by one, the students rose to introduce themselves. Some were eager, voices ringing with confidence. Others spoke hesitantly, casting glances around the room as if gauging how they were being perceived. Hiroshi Tenzō stood at the front, arms crossed, listening with the same steady expression, offering no praise or criticism—only waiting for the next to speak. 

Then, it was Sumire's turn. 

She stood without hesitation, her dark green hair shifting as she moved. "Sumire," she said, voice level, clear. "My parents are shinobi. I want to be one too." 

That was it. No embellishment, no unnecessary words. Just a statement of fact. She sat down as smoothly as she had risen, as if the moment had never happened. 

Yasu was next. 

Yasu stood, his grey eyes calm as they scanned the room. He didn't hesitate, didn't fidget like some of the other children had. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but firm. 

"Yasu," he said. 

A pause, just long enough for the weight of silence to settle. 

"I'm here because this world doesn't wait for us to be ready." 

The words weren't grand or loud, but they carried something heavier—something that made a few students blink, as if trying to grasp what he meant. Some didn't understand at all. Others thought they did but weren't sure. 

Yasu sat back down, unfazed. 

Behind him, a girl stood. She had short, mouse-brown hair and nervous hands that clenched briefly at her sides before she forced them still. Despite the way her shoulders were drawn in slightly, there was a tightness in her expression that made it clear she was trying not to let the attention rattle her. 

"I'm Rika," she said, and though her voice was soft, she made sure it didn't waver. "I… I want to be strong enough that I don't have to be scared." 

She sat quickly, eyes flickering downward as if expecting someone to look too closely. 

Then came the boy beside her. He stood with an ease that suggested confidence—shoulders back, expression cool, as if introductions were just a formality. 

"Daichi," he said smoothly. "I'll be the best in this class. That's all you need to know." 

A few students scoffed under their breath, but Daichi didn't react. If anything, the amusement only reinforced his certainty. 

Further down the row, a boy hesitated before standing. He had been quiet the entire time, hunched slightly in his seat, as if he hadn't expected to be called on so soon. There were two empty desks between him and Yasu, as if even his choice of seat was uncertain. 

He swallowed once, as if thinking. 

Then, finally: 

"Ren," he murmured. His hands curled at his sides. "I… I guess I'm here because I want to be. I think. I mean, I do. I just—" He exhaled, like the answer hadn't quite solidified until now. Then, finally, he straightened just a little. "I want to prove that I can." 

He sat down, shoulders still a little tense, but there was something steadier in his expression now. 

The introductions moved on. 

But for those brief moments, something had settled. 

. . . 

. . . 

The wooden desks were now occupied with open books and writing materials, the scratch of pencils filling the gaps between words. Some students wrote diligently, brows furrowed in concentration. Others glanced around, still adjusting to the rhythm of a classroom that wasn't just talk—it was learning. 

At the front of the room, Hiroshi Tenzō stood, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping the students as he spoke. 

"Tell me," he said, "what is the most important thing a shinobi must learn?" 

A few hands shot up immediately. Others hesitated. 

Hiroshi pointed to a boy in the front row. 

"Strength," the boy said confidently. "To fight enemies." 

Hiroshi didn't nod, didn't agree or disagree. Instead, he turned to another. 

"Cunning," a girl said. "You can't just be strong. You have to be smart." 

"Discipline," someone else added. 

"Chakra control," another student suggested. 

Hiroshi let the answers settle before he spoke again. "All of those things are important. But there's one skill that matters even more." 

He stepped forward, resting a hand lightly on the desk of a student in the front row. His voice was steady but carried weight. 

"Observation." 

A few students frowned in thought. Others leaned forward, interest piqued. 

"A shinobi who can't observe won't last long in the field," Hiroshi continued. "You can train your body, sharpen your skills, but if you don't see the danger before it happens, none of that will save you." 

He let that hang in the air for a moment before he moved toward the chalkboard, picking up a piece of chalk. 

"There are five great hidden villages," he said, drawing five distinct symbols on the board. "Who can name them?" 

Hands shot up faster this time. 

"The Leaf," one student called out. 

"The Sand," another added. 

"The Mist," "The Cloud," "The Stone." 

Hiroshi nodded. "Good. Now, tell me—what do you know about them? Their strengths? Their weaknesses?" 

The room filled with a new energy, voices overlapping, questions bubbling up before they could be fully formed. Some students knew bits and pieces, others were eager to learn, pushing forward with guesses, theories, half-formed knowledge they wanted to confirm. 

Yasu sat still, listening. Sumire, beside him, had her arms crossed, gaze locked on the board, absorbing everything. Daichi had leaned forward slightly, as if already planning how to use this knowledge. 

Hiroshi let the discussion flow for a moment before he raised a hand, silencing the room. 

"Good. You're thinking. That's the first step," he said. "Now, let's go deeper." 

As the discussion flowed, Hiroshi's gaze swept the room before settling on Yasu. 

"You," he said, tapping his chalk lightly against the board. "What about you, Yasu-kun? What do you think is the greatest strength of a village?" 

Yasu had been listening carefully, absorbing the information, turning it over in his mind. He leaned back slightly, fingers tapping idly against his desk as he considered the question. 

Most of the answers so far had been surface-level—military strength, strong shinobi, strategic locations. All true, but incomplete. 

He glanced at the five symbols on the board, then back at Hiroshi. 

"It's not just about their strengths," Yasu said slowly, his voice thoughtful rather than certain. "It's about balance. Every village has something that makes them strong, but that same strength is also a limitation." 

A few students exchanged confused glances, not quite following. 

Hiroshi's expression remained unreadable. "Explain." 

Yasu nodded, his mind already moving. 

"The Leaf is powerful because of its numbers and diverse techniques, but that means they rely on a stable structure to manage them all. If that system breaks, their strength turns into chaos." 

He gestured vaguely toward the Sand's symbol. "The Sand is efficient. They've learned to survive with less, to use every resource wisely. But that also means they're limited—if they lose even a little, it hurts them more than it would another village." 

His eyes flickered to the Mist. "The Mist cultivates strength through brutality. Their shinobi are hardened, relentless. But that kind of strength comes with instability. A system built on fear can't last forever." 

The Cloud. "The Cloud has the strongest military presence. They push forward aggressively, but that means they risk making too many enemies." 

And finally, his gaze landed on the Stone. His own village. 

"The Stone is resilient," he said. "We endure. We outlast. But sometimes, that makes us slow to change. The more we dig in, the harder it is to adapt." 

Silence. 

A few students furrowed their brows, trying to piece together what he had just said. Others just looked lost. 

Hiroshi studied him for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. 

"You think like a strategist," he said, not unkindly. "Most your age wouldn't consider things that way." 

Yasu tilted his head slightly. "Shouldn't they?" 

A flicker of something—approval, maybe—passed through Hiroshi's gaze. 

"They will," he said simply. "Eventually." 

The conversation moved on, but Yasu could still feel the weight of a few lingering looks. Sumire, beside him, was watching him closely, eyes sharper than before. Daichi had an unreadable smirk on his face. Ren, a few seats away, looked like he was still trying to process it. 

Yasu didn't mind. 

It wasn't about being impressive. 

It was just interesting. 

. . . 

. . . 

The brief break was a welcome relief after the focused intensity of their first lesson. Some lingered at their desks, flipping through their books, while others milled about, already forming the early outlines of friendships and rivalries. 

Yasu remained seated, his fingers idly drumming against the wooden surface of his desk. He wasn't in a rush to move, content to observe. The conversations around him were light, scattered—excited murmurs about the villages, speculation about what the academy would be like beyond lessons, guesses about tomorrow's practical training. 

Tomorrow. That was when things would get interesting. 

A shadow fell over his desk. 

Yasu glanced up. 

Daichi stood there, arms loosely crossed, his posture casual but deliberate—like he had chosen this moment, this interaction, rather than simply stumbling into it. His sharp, dark eyes were focused, assessing, carrying an air of practiced confidence. 

"You're a thinker," Daichi said, voice smooth, unreadable. "That's obvious." 

Yasu blinked, waiting. 

Daichi tilted his head slightly, considering. "But we're training to be shinobi. And shinobi don't win battles by sitting around thinking, do they?" 

Yasu's fingers stilled against the desk. 

A challenge. 

Subtle, but it was there. 

Yasu took a moment, reading Daichi the same way he read books—picking apart the intent behind the words, the posture, the carefully chosen phrasing. Daichi wasn't hostile. If anything, there was something almost amused in his expression. But there was also interest. 

Not just in Yasu. 

In what Yasu could do. 

Yasu exhaled quietly, his mouth twitching—not quite a smile, but close. "No. But shinobi don't win by acting without thinking, either." 

A few students nearby had begun listening in, their quiet murmurs slowing as they turned their attention toward the exchange. Sumire, still seated beside Yasu, remained silent, watching with sharp, unreadable eyes. 

Daichi let out a soft hum. "That so?" He shifted his weight slightly, his stance still lazy, but his gaze sharpened. "Guess we'll see, then. Tomorrow, we're doing practical exercises. That's when we'll find out how 'smart' you really are outside of a classroom." 

Not an insult. A promise. 

Yasu met his gaze evenly. 

"Guess we will." 

Daichi's lips curled into something halfway between a smirk and a grin—satisfied, expectant. Then, without another word, he turned and walked off, disappearing into the shifting crowd of students as the classroom continued its restless hum. 

Yasu remained still for a moment, thoughtful. 

Beside him, Sumire tapped a finger against her desk. He glanced at her, finding her watching him—not with amusement, not with concern, but with something steadier. Calculating. 

She didn't say anything. 

She didn't need to. 

Tomorrow would be interesting. 

. 

. 

. 

Later that evening. 

The candle on Yasu's desk had burned low, its wax pooling unevenly at the base, but he hadn't moved in hours. 

His room was small, spartan—just a futon in the corner, a wooden desk pushed against the wall, and a shelf that held a few books and a single worn scroll. The air was still, save for the quiet scratch of paper shifting under his hands as he flipped another page. 

The book in front of him wasn't really a book. It was a mess of notes bound together, the pages filled with tight, deliberate script, intricate symbols, and diagrams that stretched across entire spreads. Some were drawn so large that he had to turn the book sideways just to take in the full picture. 

And he still didn't understand a damn thing. 

Yasu scowled, running a hand through his hair as his gaze swept over the page again. The section he was on—The Basics of Fūinjutsu—should have been simple. It should have been just another skill to break down, analyse, and internalize. 

But it wasn't. 

The problem wasn't that the book was disorganized. If anything, the notes were meticulously drawn, every line purposeful. The issue was that none of it felt intuitive. 

Seals are written using special symbols and kanji, similar to a script or formula. 

That was the first sentence. And it was where everything started to fall apart. 

Yasu had assumed—wrongly, apparently—that fūinjutsu would be like any other shinobi art. That it would have a structure, a system, something that could be grasped logically. 

Instead, he was staring at a page filled with unfamiliar symbols, kanji arranged in ways that didn't make immediate sense, their meanings layered, shifting depending on how they were written and combined. It wasn't just about memorization. It was about context. Placement. Proportions. 

He ground his teeth, flipping back to an earlier page. 

A seal is not just ink on paper. A poorly drawn stroke will not activate. An incorrect kanji will change the entire function of a seal. Writing is everything. 

Yasu exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping his pencil tighter. 

Writing was everything. That was the frustrating part. It meant there were no shortcuts, no instinctive way to grasp it. He had to learn the symbols, memorize their meanings, and—worse—understand how they connected to each other. 

His eyes flicked to one of the diagrams, where a seal had been broken down into its individual components. The kanji for bind sat in the centre, encircled by three smaller symbols—focus, anchor, and release. A single brushstroke out of place could twist the meaning entirely. 

Yasu pressed his fingers against his temple, frustration gnawing at him. 

This was different from throwing a kunai or controlling chakra. This wasn't something he could simply do and adjust through trial and error. It was precise, rigid. If chakra control was learning to balance on a branch, fūinjutsu was learning an entirely new language. 

A language that had no room for mistakes. 

And yet… 

Despite the frustration clawing at his mind, despite the sheer headache of trying to untangle this mess of symbols and formulas— 

He couldn't stop. 

The more he struggled, the more it bothered him, and the more it bothered him, the more he wanted to understand. 

The book made no effort to hold his hand. Hisao had clearly chosen it for that reason—it wasn't a beginner's guide, wasn't a neatly structured lesson plan. It was the scattered knowledge of someone who had already known what they were doing, put together in a way that made perfect sense to them but left anyone else to claw through the confusion themselves. 

Yasu turned another page, ignoring the way his eyes burned from lack of sleep. 

He wasn't going to let a book win. 

Yasu didn't hear the door slide open. 

He was too deep in it now, his pencil moving across the page in quick, frustrated strokes—copying symbols, breaking them apart, trying to make sense of them. His desk was a mess of papers, some half-crumpled from where he had abandoned his own attempts at drawing the seals. The candle flickered beside him, casting long shadows across the scrawled notes. 

He was so focused, so wound up in the spiralling frustration of why won't this make sense, that he didn't notice Hisao's presence until the man exhaled—long and tired—from the doorway. 

Yasu stiffened slightly, his pencil pausing mid-stroke. 

Hisao was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His uniform was slightly rumpled from the long hours he'd put in—longer than usual, now that he was settling back into a proper work routine after taking Yasu in. His dark eyes flickered to the candle, then to the spread of notes across the desk. 

Then he sighed. 

"Yasu," Hisao said, voice even, but carrying that weight—the kind of tone that meant this wasn't a conversation Yasu could sidestep. 

Yasu lowered his pencil but didn't turn fully to face him. He didn't need to. He already knew what Hisao was about to say. 

"You should be asleep." 

Yasu exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his temple. "I was going to." 

Hisao's gaze swept over the desk again, unimpressed. "Yeah? Looks like it." 

Yasu didn't answer. Because there wasn't an answer. 

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the soft crackling of the candle. Then, finally, Hisao pushed off the doorframe, stepping further inside. His fingers ghosted over one of Yasu's discarded notes before picking it up, scanning the messy, half-finished symbols. 

He sighed again, quieter this time, and set the paper back down before settling into the seat across from Yasu. His movements were slow, as if exhaustion had finally settled into his bones now that he was home. 

"How was the academy?" Hisao asked, voice lighter now, as if easing into the conversation instead of forcing it. 

Yasu hesitated for a second before shrugging. "Fine." 

Hisao lifted a brow, unimpressed. "That's it?" 

Yasu leaned back slightly, arms crossing. "It was fine. We did introductions. Had a lesson." 

Hisao waited. 

Yasu glanced at him before looking away, exhaling. "It was interesting." 

Hisao's lips quirked slightly. "That's more like it." 

Another pause. Then: 

"And now you're up past midnight staring at kanji." 

Yasu scowled, gripping his pencil again. "…It's not just kanji." 

Hisao hummed, reaching for the book, turning it so he could see the pages. The candlelight flickered against the inked diagrams, the intricate structure of the seals laid out in clean, precise strokes—strokes that Yasu had been trying and failing to replicate for the past few hours. 

Hisao studied the notes for a moment before glancing back at Yasu, his gaze softer now. "It's not going to come easy, you know." 

"I know that." 

"Do you?" Hisao leaned back slightly. "Because you look about five seconds away from burning the book out of spite." 

Yasu scowled deeper, but he didn't argue. Because he had considered it. 

Hisao watched him for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose. He reached forward, lightly tapping a finger against one of Yasu's notes—one of the many failed attempts. 

"Alright. Tell me what's got you stuck." 

Yasu hesitated, glancing between him and the mess of symbols, frustration curling at the edges of his voice. 

"…All of it." 

Hisao sighed, long and heavy, like a man who had seen this kind of frustration before. He reached for one of Yasu's discarded notes, flipping it over to a blank side, then picked up the pencil Yasu had practically crushed in his grip. 

"Alright," he said, tapping the paper once. "You're looking at this the wrong way." 

Yasu tensed at that, irritation flaring, but Hisao kept talking before he could argue. 

"You're trying to understand everything at once," Hisao continued, his voice even, steady. "Fūinjutsu doesn't work like that. You don't start by memorizing full seals and expecting them to make sense. You start by understanding the symbols—what they mean, how they connect. Like math." 

Yasu frowned. "Math?" 

Hisao smirked slightly. "Yeah. Math. You don't start by solving advanced equations. You start with numbers. How they add, subtract, multiply. Fūinjutsu works the same way." 

He turned the book toward himself, flipping a few pages before landing on one of the diagrams—a simple seal, its parts broken down. With the pencil, he pointed to the center. 

"Take this," he said. "This part here? That's the core kanji. Let's say it's 'bind.' On its own, it's just a word. But the moment you add this—" He tapped one of the surrounding symbols, "—it changes. Maybe now it's 'reinforce.' Maybe it's 'restrict.' It depends on the combination." 

Yasu's eyes flickered across the page, his mind latching onto the explanation. It did sound like math. Like formulas, shifting based on what you added or removed. 

Hisao leaned back, tossing the pencil onto the desk. "That's what you need to focus on first. The symbols. Their meanings. How they alter each other. Once you get that down, then you start learning how to structure full seals." 

Yasu's frustration hadn't vanished, but it had dulled. 

Hisao saw it and huffed, shaking his head. "You're not staying up all night to figure it out now." 

Yasu opened his mouth to protest. 

Hisao cut him off with a pointed look. "No. Bed. You have academy tomorrow." 

Yasu clenched his jaw, but he knew there was no winning this one. 

Hisao stood, stretching out his shoulders before heading toward the door. Just before he stepped out, he glanced back. "We'll go over it this weekend when I have time. Until then, don't drive yourself insane trying to solve something you don't have the foundation for." 

Then he left, sliding the door shut behind him. 

Yasu sat there for a long moment, staring at the book, the notes, the diagrams. Hisao was right. He knew that. 

Still. 

With a quiet exhale, he reached out, carefully stacking his notes into a neat pile before closing the book. 

There was still a long way to go.