I may have fucked up, Reiji thought as he stepped inside the Hokage Tower.
He had only been here once before, during an academy visit. Back then, they had stayed on the first floor—received, shown around, then sent back. They had never gone higher.
Now, following behind his teacher as they climbed, the space changed with every level. The corridor narrowed, forcing the path into a straight line, barely wide enough for two people to pass side by side. Each step upward made the walls feel closer, the air tighter. By the time they reached the upper floors, the pressure had settled in fully.
This wasn't a place someone entered without reason.
And he knew exactly why he was here.
Reiji didn't consider himself impulsive. Irritable, yes—especially around idiots or people trying to provoke him—but that had never been the issue. There had always been a line. He knew where it was. Even when he pushed, even when he indulged himself a little, he stayed in control.
Apparently… not today.
This trash really had to say that, huh…
The thought returned sharp and immediate. His jaw tightened as the memory replayed—the words, the tone, the deliberate way they had been thrown at him.
Enji had known exactly what he was doing.
Reiji went over it again as he walked. Enji had known he was outmatched. That much had been obvious from the beginning. There was no advantage in continuing the fight, no outcome where pushing further would favor him.
So why escalate?
Because that was all he had left.
Reiji's gaze stayed forward, but his thoughts sharpened around that point. Enji hadn't been trying to win anymore. He had been trying to land something that mattered. Something that would force a reaction.
And he had found it.
Reiji exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his breathing steady as they moved deeper inside. He already knew how it had played out. There had been a moment—brief, narrow—where he could have stepped back. Ignored it. Let it pass. The teacher would have intervened eventually. Enji would have been punished. The situation would have resolved itself.
He hadn't taken that option.
He had already decided not to.
Deep down, he knew it had only been a matter of time before something like this happened. Seeing a Sarutobi—no less the Hokage's son—in his class had felt like a bad joke from the start. Even now, he couldn't understand what the administration had been thinking, putting them together. Reiji wouldn't have cared if the other boy had kept his distance.
But Enji hadn't.
Worse, he had been an idiot about it.
From the moment Reiji had seen him, he had understood what kind of person he was. Not strong. Not weak enough to ignore, either. Just above average, carried by his name. The kind who mistook that for worth.
Reiji hated that type.
He hated weakness more, but arrogance built on nothing came close.
So he had put him in his place.
Repeatedly.
For years.
He had assumed Enji understood by now.
That he knew where he stood.
Below.
Their clashes had always followed a pattern: taunts, friction, controlled hostility. They kept it contained, dressed it up as something harmless—just a rivalry between students, nothing more. An acceptable lie. Neither of them brought up the real reason. Enji couldn't. He had no justification for his resentment, so he hid it behind attitude.
And recently, Reiji had noticed the shift. Others tolerated him more now. The distance was still there, but it had changed.
Enji had seen it too.
And he couldn't stand it.
Because if that distance disappeared, he lost the only excuse he had to justify the conflict.
So he made it ugly.
He said what should not be said.
Reiji knew, the moment the words left Enji's mouth, that it was a trap. Enji had expected a reaction—a rough beating at worst, something the teacher could interrupt before it went too far.
Too bad for him.
Reiji had decided something in that moment.
Why should he care?
Why should he tolerate it?
Why should he let someone like that speak about his parents and walk away?
Hokage's son?
So what.
His classmates watching?
Irrelevant.
Anyone afraid of broken bones had chosen the wrong profession.
The decision had been simple.
Direct.
Final.
And when he acted—
Reiji had never felt as clear as he did when he heard the scream.
The memory lingered, sharp and precise.
Then faded.
Well… it could also be an opportunity.
The thought came more calmly this time. The academy had been losing its value. Minato was there, yes—but the rest were a drag. Worse, making himself more approachable had become exhausting. Adjusting. Holding back. Presenting something he wasn't.
It cost more than it gave.
If this ended that—
Then maybe it solved more than it created.
It would disappoint his father.
That much was certain.
But his father wasn't unreasonable. He would understand.
Eventually.
Even if—
His thoughts cut off.
Someone was waiting for them in the corridor.
His father.
He stood there, cane resting lightly against the floor, posture composed at first glance. Calm. Controlled. Anyone else might have seen nothing unusual.
Reiji knew better.
It was in the stillness. The way Soichiro's shoulders didn't shift even slightly. The way his hand rested too quietly on the cane. The way his gaze remained fixed ahead, unmoving—as if the corridor had narrowed to a single point.
His father was furious.
Shit.
Reiji slowed for a fraction of a second, then exhaled and continued forward. Each step sounded louder in the empty corridor, the polished floor carrying the rhythm too clearly. He kept his face still as he approached, shoulders squared, head raised—but when he stopped in front of his father, he found he couldn't quite meet his eyes.
"Father—"
"Be quiet."
Reiji's mouth closed immediately, the words he had prepared dying before they could form.
Soichiro didn't even look at him.
His attention had been on Fūma-sensei from the moment they arrived. His eyes moved over her posture, her stance, the set of her shoulders—taking in each detail with cold patience. Measuring. Judging.
And from the faint hardening in his expression, Reiji knew he had already found her lacking.
Fūma noticed too. Reiji saw it in the slight straightening of her back, in the brief tightening of her shoulders. Not fear.
Pressure.
The kind that came from being evaluated by someone who had already decided the outcome.
"So," Soichiro said at last, tilting his head slightly, his voice calm in a way that felt colder than anger, "you're Reiji's teacher."
"Yes." Fūma met his gaze, though Reiji could see the effort it cost her. "Fūma Satsuki. I don't believe we've met before. I'm sorry it has to be under these circumstances."
"You don't seem sorry."
Her expression faltered.
"What—"
"You were supervising the spar," Soichiro continued, cutting her off. "Correct?"
She froze.
Reiji caught the hesitation clearly this time. Small, but undeniable—a fraction of a second where she should have answered and didn't.
"Yes…"
"And you couldn't stop it before it reached this point."
It wasn't a question.
It was a verdict.
"You're a chūnin," Soichiro went on. "Don't tell me you were outmatched by an academy student."
Silence.
Fūma didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Soichiro didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"You're an embarrassment."
His expression didn't change, but something beneath it sharpened—disdain, cold and unfiltered.
"Leave. You're not needed here." A brief pause. "Go back to teaching children you're not even qualified to handle."
He didn't stop.
"The Fūma clan must have fallen very low to accept someone like you as its representative. Breathing the same air as trash like you is unpleasant."
Reiji saw Fūma go rigid.
Her hands clenched at her sides, fingers curling into fists so tightly the tendons stood out beneath her skin. Her weight shifted—barely. Not quite a step. Not quite an attack.
But enough.
Reiji understood the impulse before she acted on it.
His father saw it too.
Only contempt crossed Soichiro's face.
"Hm. You punish my son for something you're on the verge of doing yourself." His voice remained even. "Good job preaching control you can't maintain. Go now, before you embarrass yourself further."
Fūma stared at him, her face unreadable except for the tension locked in her jaw. She didn't respond. Didn't argue.
After a second, she turned.
Her steps remained controlled as she walked past them, posture rigid, pace steady. No outward sign of anger. No visible reaction—beyond the stiffness in her back and the fists she forced open at her sides.
Reiji watched her go.
"Ah. I almost forgot."
His father's voice carried down the corridor—calm, measured, precise.
Fūma stopped.
Not all at once. Just a break in rhythm—one step cut short, her weight settling unevenly before she stilled completely. She didn't turn. Didn't look back.
But she had heard him.
Reiji saw the shift in her posture. Subtle. Her shoulders drew in slightly, her spine tightening as if bracing.
"I hope," Soichiro continued, tone unchanged, "that what happened today is the result of your own lack of ability. Nothing more."
No response.
"If that is the case, then you are exactly what you appear to be."
A pause.
The corridor seemed to hold its breath.
"But if it isn't…" Soichiro tilted his head slightly, though she couldn't see it. "If there was intent behind your failure—if you used the Hokage's son as leverage for something personal—then understand this clearly."
The words slowed.
Deliberate.
"The Hokage is not a fool. And he does not tolerate those who turn his own blood into a tool."
Reiji watched Fūma's right hand tighten again—less than before. Controlled. Forced down immediately.
Soichiro continued.
"So I hope, for your sake, that you are as incompetent as you appear."
A short pause.
"Because if you're not, losing your position will be the least of your concerns."
His head tilted again, just slightly.
"After all… Konoha has never lacked for people to discard. It only makes exceptions for the strong."
Silence.
Fūma didn't turn.
Didn't respond.
After a moment, she resumed walking. Same pace. Same controlled steps. No visible reaction beyond the stiffness already in her posture.
She left without acknowledging him.
Reiji followed her with his eyes until she disappeared around the corner.
No response.
That was her choice.
He barely began to turn—
SLAP.
The sound cracked through the corridor, sharp and clean, echoing off the walls. Reiji's head snapped slightly to the side, the impact spreading a precise, stinging heat across his cheek. It didn't move his feet, didn't break his balance, but it stayed—focused, burning, impossible to ignore. His jaw tightened immediately, teeth pressing together as the sensation settled into something steady and controlled.
He didn't step back. Didn't raise a hand.
He had expected worse.
Soichiro stood in front of him, arm already lowered, posture unchanged, as if the movement had required no effort at all.
"Why did you do that?"
The question came calmly.
Reiji's fingers curled at his sides, nails pressing lightly into his palm. The sting in his cheek remained sharp, but he kept his posture still.
"He said—"
"I know what he said." Soichiro cut him off without raising his voice. "So what? Will you react to everything a stupid child says to you?"
"I am a child too."
"No." The answer came immediately. "You are better than them. So act like it."
Reiji's mouth opened again, but the words stalled. His father didn't give him space to recover.
"What I'm asking is why you did that."
The question didn't change.
Reiji's jaw tightened further. He looked down instead of answering, his gaze settling somewhere between them. The distance didn't help.
"Is it because of yesterday?" Soichiro continued, tone steady, controlled. "You were already in a bad mood, and this child said the wrong thing at the wrong time."
"No."
The word came out sharper than he intended. His head lifted, control slipping just enough for the tension underneath to show.
"He wished you dead. You—and me. What was I supposed to do? Walk away?"
"Are you stupid?" Soichiro replied without hesitation. "You could have put him in his place. You could have made him pay in many ways. Instead, you chose to break his arms in front of everyone. Are you that desperate to prove you can't control yourself?"
There was no anger in his voice.
Only judgment.
And disappointment.
Reiji's teeth ground together. His vision blurred slightly at the edges, not from pain, but from the pressure building behind his eyes.
"Your anger is misplaced, Reiji," Soichiro continued. "You need to let go of this vendetta against the Sarutobi. They are not our enemies."
A brief pause.
"They are our benefactors. Don't forget that."
Something tightened in Reiji's chest.
"But I hate it."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Low at first, then rising despite himself.
"I hate it," he repeated, the frustration breaking past the control he usually held. "Always being told I should be grateful. Like forgiving you—like letting me exist—is some kind of sacrifice on their part."
His hands clenched, tension running up through his arms.
"What? I'm supposed to grovel? Thank them because the Hokage allowed me to live?" A short breath left him, sharp and bitter. "You want me to act like their dog for that?"
He shook his head once, the motion abrupt.
"I won't apologize for being alive."
Silence followed.
Soichiro watched him without interruption, his gaze steady, weighing the words without reacting to them.
"I didn't tell you to befriend them," he said at last.
The words were quiet. Firm.
"And the Hokage never asked that of you either. He doesn't blame you. I've told you that before."
His eyes didn't leave Reiji.
"You're creating enemies where there are none. And breaking his son's arms won't change that."
Reiji didn't answer.
There was no argument he could make that wouldn't loop back to the same point.
The silence stretched.
Then Soichiro's expression shifted—slightly. The edge of judgment didn't disappear, but it settled into something more restrained. Less sharp. More final.
"Enough."
The word ended it.
"What's done is done. We'll talk about this later." His tone hardened again, controlled. "For now, I'll handle it."
A brief pause.
"You stay quiet. Let me speak."
Reiji swallowed the response that rose up. It dissolved before it could form, leaving only a dull weight behind his ribs.
He nodded.
The shame came slower than the anger had.
But it settled deeper.
Soichiro didn't acknowledge it. He had already turned, cane tapping lightly against the floor as he resumed walking. The rhythm was steady, controlled, echoing along the corridor as Reiji followed a step behind, matching his pace without speaking.
Neither of them said anything.
By the time they stopped, they stood in front of a closed door.
The Hokage's office.
Soichiro paused, glancing once at Reiji. His expression had returned to its usual neutrality, giving nothing away.
Then he raised his hand and knocked.
A moment passed.
"Enter."
The voice came from inside—calm, familiar.
Soichiro opened the door.
The Hokage's office was rectangular—wider than it was deep—and the proportions felt deliberate rather than comfortable.
The far end of the room was dominated by a large desk set before wide windows overlooking the village. Light filtered in from behind, diffusing across dark wood worn smooth in places. Its surface was crowded with uneven stacks of documents—some tied neatly with string, others left open, loose pages spilling outward. A few scrolls lay off to the side, partially unrolled, their edges curling as if abandoned too long.
Three chairs stood before the desk, arranged with deliberate symmetry.
Enji sat in one of them.
Both his arms were encased in thick casts, wrapped from wrist to above the elbow. The rigid plaster forced his posture into something awkward, incomplete. He shifted slightly, shoulders tight, fingers twitching uselessly against the unyielding surface—as if his body hadn't accepted the limitation yet.
A woman stood just behind him, both hands resting on his shoulders. When the door opened, she turned. Black eyes. Brown hair. A cold expression that didn't soften when she saw who had entered. Her gaze narrowed slightly, then stilled. She said nothing, turning back without a word. The resemblance to Enji was clear enough—same structure, same sharp lines.
His mother.
Along the walls, four ANBU stood at equal intervals—one near the door, one on each side, one closer to the windows behind the desk. Masks unreadable. Bodies completely still. No shift in stance. No wasted motion.
Danzo sat slightly to the left, posture relaxed in a way that didn't match the room. One hand supported his chin, fingers resting lightly against his face. He watched everything without moving. There was something there—subtle, but present.
Amusement.
Reiji's gaze lingered for half a second, then moved on.
Beside him sat a woman Reiji didn't recognize. Older. Composed. Her expression remained neutral, but her attention was sharp, fixed entirely on the exchange without visible reaction.
And then—
At the center.
The man behind the desk did not impose himself through movement. If anything, he appeared almost relaxed, his posture loose compared to the rigid stillness around him. But that quiet carried weight. Nothing in him moved without purpose. Nothing in him needed to.
His eyes rested on Reiji.
Reiji knew who he was.
Everyone did.
He had seen him before—always at a distance. During ceremonies, announcements, moments where the village gathered and focused on a single figure standing above the rest.
The man at the center of it all.
The strongest shinobi in Konoha.
The Third Hokage.
And—
Reiji's gaze flicked briefly toward Enji—
—his father.
Reiji stepped fully into the room, taking in each position, each presence, without breaking stride. The door closed behind him with a soft sound that felt louder than it should have, sealing the space.
Soichiro spoke first.
"It has been a long time, Hokage-sama," he said, inclining his head in a brief bow. "I regret that we meet again under these circumstances."
Reiji blinked once, catching the phrasing.
The same opener.
Sarutobi allowed a small smile and inclined his head in return.
"The future is rarely predictable," he said calmly. "We never know what the next day will bring." His hand lifted slightly, gesturing toward the chairs in front of him. "Please, take a seat. Both of you."
Soichiro moved immediately, stepping forward and taking the center chair. His posture remained straight, composed, his cane resting lightly against his leg as if it were simply part of him rather than a support.
Reiji followed a moment later.
The chair felt heavier than it should have when he sat, the weight settling somewhere deeper than the wood itself.
"How are you, Soichiro?" Sarutobi asked, voice even. "As you said, it has been a long time. Are you still lounging around at home?"
"Yes, I am," Soichiro replied without hesitation. "It is a comfortable one, after all."
"Hm." Sarutobi exhaled through his pipe, a thin cloud of smoke drifting upward before dispersing. "Are you still not interested in a teaching position at the academy? Your abilities would be valuable for the next generation. Seeing that your son is already among the best in his class, one wonders what you could achieve with others."
"I only replicated what Shimura-sensei did with me. Nothing more." Reiji saw Danzo's roll is eyes at that. "The rest is my son's own talent. But I agree—you may need a new teacher to guide the students. The current one… seems lacking."
Sarutobi let out a quiet chuckle, the sound light against the tension in the room.
"Perhaps," he said. "But that is not why we are here today. We will return to that later. Do not worry."
Hiruzen's gaze shifted.
It settled on Reiji.
"We have met before," the Hokage said, his tone even, almost conversational. "Though we have never had the opportunity to speak directly." A brief pause followed, short but deliberate. "You are Homura Reiji, correct?"
Reiji nodded once.
Before Hiruzen could continue, the woman behind Enji spoke.
"Can we move on to the matter at hand?"
The interruption cut across the room without needing volume. One of her hands remained on her son's shoulder, fingers pressing slightly into the fabric, while her eyes fixed first on Soichiro and then on Reiji. Cold. Direct. She wasn't looking at him like a child. She was looking at him like the source of the casts wrapped around Enji's arms.
Reiji felt his hands tighten slightly in his lap, just enough for his fingers to press against his palms.
Hiruzen exhaled quietly. "I was getting to that," he said, his tone unchanged as his gaze shifted toward her. "There's no need to interrupt." A brief pause followed, and then, with the faintest trace of dry patience, "I am still the Hokage, you know."
"Then do your job properly."
"You wound me," Hiruzen replied lightly, though nothing in his expression changed. "I am doing exactly that." His attention returned to the center of the room. "But we will proceed carefully. They are still children."
"Your son's arms were broken."
"Yes," Hiruzen said.
"I'm aware."
The answer came immediately. Flat. Controlled.
The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, but Hiruzen didn't linger on it.
"How is he?"
A brief silence passed before she answered. Her gaze shifted back to Reiji, colder now, sharper, measuring him through the damage he had caused rather than through anything else.
"The fractures were clean," she said at last. "I set the bones and began treatment immediately. With proper recovery, there should be no lasting damage."
Hiruzen gave a small nod. "Good."
No emphasis. No visible relief. Just the conclusion that the injury would not permanently damage Enji's future.
Then his attention returned fully to Reiji.
"Now that this is settled," Hiruzen said, folding his hands lightly on the desk, "we need to understand what happened." His eyes stayed on him, calm but fixed. "Why did you do this, Reiji-kun?"
Before Reiji could answer, Soichiro spoke.
"Hokage-sama, my son deeply regre—"
"I'm sorry, Soichiro-kun," Hiruzen interrupted.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
"I was asking your son."
The words came calmly, but they ended the attempt immediately.
Soichiro's mouth closed. For a brief second, he remained still, the interrupted sentence still hanging in his posture before settling. Then his gaze shifted toward Reiji. Not sharp. Not threatening. But clear enough.
A warning.
Reiji understood.
He hesitated for only a moment before speaking.
"I…" The word came out quieter than intended. He caught it, steadied his voice, and continued. "I don't have a good reason for what I did."
His gaze lowered slightly, not fully to the ground, but enough to break direct eye contact without looking like he was collapsing under it.
"There's nothing that justifies it. I… regret it."
He inclined his head.
The words were measured. Controlled. Stripped of anything that could sound like an excuse.
He didn't add more.
There was nothing useful to add. The room didn't need the insult repeated. It didn't need his reasoning, not now. Explaining would only sound like justification, and justification would make the situation worse. He had been given an opening to show he understood the position he was in, and the correct response was obvious.
Acknowledge the act. Accept the weight. Do not escalate.
He kept his hands still in his lap, forcing the tension out of his fingers. He was a child in this room. That mattered more than his skill, more than his pride, more than anything he thought about Enji. The damage looked serious, but it was not permanent. Enji would recover. The consequences would come, but if Reiji stayed controlled, they could remain contained.
Manageable.
If he pushed back, if he argued, if he tried to explain too much, he would only give them a reason to tighten their grip.
So he stayed quiet, head slightly lowered, expression composed, and waited.
Hiruzen watched him.
Not just the words.
Him.
His eyes narrowed slightly, not with suspicion exactly, but with assessment, measuring what Reiji had said against the boy sitting before him. The silence lasted just long enough for Reiji to feel the scrutiny settle over him.
Then Hiruzen gave a small nod.
"It is good that you understand the gravity of your actions," he said. "And that you claim to regret them."
A pause.
"But that does not change what you did."
His gaze remained steady.
"You intentionally broke the arms of a fellow student."
The statement was simple. Direct. There was nothing to soften.
"A shinobi of the Leaf does not turn his strength against his comrades—not out of anger, not out of pride," Hiruzen continued. His tone remained even, but authority settled beneath it now, quiet and immovable. "We are trained to control our emotions, not be ruled by them."
His eyes shifted briefly to Soichiro.
Then his gaze returned to Reiji.
"Right now, your behavior makes you a liability to your fellow students."
Reiji didn't move.
"I am not speaking to you as a father," Hiruzen said, "but as Hokage."
"I understand that your situation is complicated. That you may feel wronged by how you are treated within the village. That none of this was something you chose."
For a moment, something in his expression softened, not enough to weaken the judgment, but enough to show he saw the larger shape of the problem.
Then it was gone.
"But that does not excuse your conduct. You ignored your teacher's warning that the match was over. In doing so, you disobeyed a superior. If you were already in the genin corps, that would be treated as insubordination, and the consequences would be severe."
Reiji absorbed the distinction immediately.
Disobedience.
That was the part Hiruzen wanted marked.
"I have received multiple reports regarding your behavior at the Academy," Hiruzen continued. "Your individual performance is exceptional. There is no doubt about that."
A brief beat.
"But your ability to cooperate with others is lacking."
Silence settled again, tighter than before.
"So I have made a decision."
Reiji's focus sharpened instantly, though he kept his head lowered and his posture still.
"You will be removed from the Academy."