While the higher-ups of the Hidden Leaf were quietly fortifying the village's defenses, waiting for the delegation from the Hidden Cloud to walk right into their trap, life for most of the villagers carried on as usual. Since no public announcement had been made, nearly everyone remained unaware of the looming threat. And so, the annual Ninja Academy entrance exams were in full swing, proceeding with urgency and precision.
As time passed, the number of examinees steadily declined. Some were eliminated after reaching their limits; others gritted their teeth and pushed on. Two clear paths began to emerge—failure or resilience.
By now, the third and final round of the Academy's entrance exam—the last test held on the first day—had entered its closing phase. But even in this final sprint, the trials remained merciless for the remaining children.
Judging from the ongoing rate of dropouts, this year's exam was on track to set a record low for admissions since the school's founding. If things didn't improve, they might not even be able to assemble a complete class.
Of course, that didn't mean this year's batch of candidates was especially weak. No, the real reason lay elsewhere—something many people had already muttered about under their breath: despite appearances, the seemingly simple entrance exam was, in truth, a miniature version of the Chūnin Exams.
All of this was the doing of the true mastermind behind the exams—Naruto Uzumaki, the time traveler.
Naruto's goal was simple: filter out the dead weight. He wanted only the most capable candidates to remain, so that by the time the actual Chūnin Exams rolled around, all participants would at least possess the skills to keep themselves alive. It was a plan to minimize casualties.
The first and second rounds of the exam had been so subtle and quiet that many wondered whether they'd even been tested. Much like the written test of the original Chūnin Exams, the focus had been on adaptability—responding to circumstances in creative ways. Nothing was ever what it seemed.
Take the first round, for instance: if a candidate successfully lined up and entered the school through the proper channels, they passed. It was just like completing the written test legitimately in the original Chūnin Exams.
But if they couldn't get in through regular means, they were forced to improvise—sneaking in, cutting the line, or exploiting a loophole. That, too, was passing. It was a sanctioned form of "cheating," not unlike how the Chūnin Exams had subtly encouraged deception.
Unlike the original test, however, there were no harsh penalties for being caught here. No proctors yelling or fail marks. The Academy, acknowledging the candidates' young age, turned a blind eye. After all, in Naruto's eyes, receiving help from others was a skill in itself—ninja were rarely solo operators.
However, relying too heavily on adults came at a cost. Many of the kids who passed the first round by having their elders carry them in found themselves floundering in the second.
This time, Naruto didn't just sit back and endure criticism. He knew that his mere presence in the exam area would provoke discontent. So he used that to his advantage—turning himself into bait to test whether these supposedly innocent children truly had pure hearts.
The official premise of the second round was to test whether the candidates could remain emotionally composed—even in the face of harsh words from their own parents. But the real purpose went deeper: it tested independent thought and the ability to make one's own decisions.
Some kids were eliminated because their parents followed the mob in criticizing Naruto and questioning Tenzo's announcements. Others fell because they blindly imitated their surroundings. But a few stood out—either ignoring their parents' anger or, conversely, refusing to follow the crowd even when their parents were silent. It wasn't about obedience. It was about making one's own judgment.
Then came the third and final round—a synthesis of the previous two.
At the start, Naruto had enlisted Little Uchiha Fan to run ahead, not just to ignite competitive spirit, but also to secretly tamper with the route signs along the course. Some signs at forked roads were altered just enough to send examinees down the wrong paths—paths that would eventually reconnect with the main route, yes, but were about 10% longer.
And 10% might not sound like much—until you realize the final round required the candidates to run an entire lap around the entire village.
The difference in distance was enough to wear down their initial momentum. And those were just the early deviations—later ones varied in length and difficulty. From the moment they reached the first fork in the road, the real exam had begun.
The first test? Environmental awareness and decision-making. Could the candidates recognize their home terrain? Could they tell which road should be correct? Because if you can't trust your judgment in a familiar place, how will you navigate foreign terrain on a mission?
Still, if someone took the wrong path and still completed the course according to the official rules, they'd be admitted—no question. In fact, they might be fast-tracked into a higher-tier class.
But such students were rare. More often, the situation pushed kids to consider a risky question: Should I break the rules to win?
After experiencing the previous rounds' inconsistencies, many kids tried to follow the rules. But as exhaustion set in and the effects of their single ration pill and meager water supply wore off, the idea of breaking the rules began to tempt them.
Naruto had baked three intentional "loopholes" into the rules.
First, like Shikamaru, a candidate might realize the signs were wrong and choose a shorter, more efficient path, conserving stamina.
Second, some kids tried to rob others—like the trio that attempted to mug Sasuke for his supplies. Violent and unethical? Maybe. But technically legal. After all, the rules never said you couldn't steal food and water. And those three got ahead precisely because they kept stealing ration pills to maintain peak chakra levels.
Too bad they picked the worst possible target.
Sasuke, moody and furious, didn't just defeat them—he vented all his pent-up frustration. The trio ended up bloody, bruised, and disqualified.
As Naruto might put it: Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.
Third, and perhaps the most cunning loophole, lay in the weighted gear every candidate had been issued.
The rules were clear: to pass, one had to return to the school wearing the weighted gear.
But nowhere did it say whose gear.
Just like how Naruto had carried Hinata's weights at the start, a candidate could offload their gear to a teammate, retrieve it later, or even pick up someone else's discarded equipment before the finish line.
One viable strategy: discard your weights early to conserve stamina, then circle back and grab someone else's just before returning.
Another? Wait near the finish line and ambush tired candidates, steal their weights, and stroll in.
Of course, this carried risks—most remaining candidates by this stage were strong. If two ambushers picked the same target and realized neither had weights... well, it could end in tears for both.
A more cautious version of this involved discarding weights halfway, then picking up stray ones later.
The most ruthless? Ditch your weights from the start, then betray a teammate at the end to claim theirs.
Dirty? Absolutely.
Within the rules? Also yes.
This third round wasn't just about endurance. It was about thinking like a ninja. The test mirrored the second round of the Chūnin Exams—capture the scrolls. Except here, there was only one scroll equivalent: the weighted gear.
As the final stage neared its end, tension among the children only grew. Instead of easing, the atmosphere thickened with suspicion, strategy, and fear. Glances became calculating. Alliances began to fray.
And somewhere, among this gathering storm of silent tension…
One child moved.
Just one.
Like the spark on a fuse, it was all it took to light the match.
The real chaos was just about to begin.