Cursed Uchiha - Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Academy Antics and Prodigy

The day Uchiha Dom turned six, a new chapter, quite literally, began: the Ninja Academy. He stood before its large, somewhat imposing gates, a small figure in a new, dark blue shirt and pants, the Uchiha crest proudly displayed on his back. The air buzzed with the nervous excitement of dozens of other six-year-olds, a chaotic mix of clan heirs with miniature, serious faces and civilian children wide-eyed with dreams of becoming powerful shinobi.

Dom, however, felt a familiar knot of dread mixed with a cynical sort of curiosity. This was it. The starting line for many of Konoha’s future cannon fodder, and also, for some of its legends.

And speaking of legends… or future mass-murdering prodigies…

His eyes, already sharper than any normal child’s thanks to his Sharingan (Level 2, dual tomoe), scanned the crowd and quickly found him. Uchiha Itachi. Standing quietly near a group of other Uchiha children, his expression placid, observant, already carrying an air of composure that belied his six years. He looked like any other gifted Uchiha child, perhaps a bit more serious than most.

[Dom didn’t use his Sharingan here… but because of Sharingan awakening, some passive improvement in his eyesight is also there]

Dom’s internal monologue went into overdrive. ‘Okay, be cool, be cool. He’s just a kid. A very, very talented kid. A kid who will, in approximately six to seven years, methodically slaughter almost everyone I’m related to, including, probably, me, if I’m not careful. But still! Just a kid. Right now. Probably doesn’t even have his Mangekyo yet. Probably.’ He took a deep, calming breath, a technique he’d honed during his countless hours of meditation. ‘Just act normal. Or, my version of normal, which is admittedly a bit skewed.’

The bell rang, and the children were ushered into a large classroom. It was bright, airy, and already filled with the low hum of childish chatter. Dom found a seat near the back, hoping to remain relatively inconspicuous. An instructor, a stern-looking Chunin named Iruka Umino’s older, less patient cousin perhaps, entered and called for order.

“Alright, brats! Welcome to the Konoha Ninja Academy!” the instructor barked, his voice echoing slightly. “My name is Hayate-sensei. Here, you will learn the basics of what it means to be a shinobi of Konohagakure. Discipline, dedication, and a willingness to die for your village – that’s what we expect! Now, let’s start with introductions. Stand up, state your name, and… something interesting about yourself. Try not to be boring.”

One by one, the children stood. Most gave standard answers: “My name is Tanaka Kenji, and I want to be a strong ninja like the Hokage!”

Among all, 20% wants to become Hokage. Some wants to become stronger ninja. Some just wants to become ninja.

Then it was Dom’s turn. He stood up, his expression carefully neutral. “Hi,” he said, his childish voice carrying clearly in the suddenly quiet room. “I’m Uchiha Dom. My hobbies include breathing, which I find quite essential, and hoping not to get impaled by any sharp objects in the near future. It’s a long-term goal.”

A stunned silence descended upon the classroom. Hayate-sensei’s eyebrow twitched violently. Several children stared with wide, confused eyes. Then, a distinct, unrestrained giggle erupted from a few rows over. Dom’s gaze flicked towards the sound. A girl with wild, dark brown hair, distinctive red fang markings on her cheeks, and a small, equally wild-looking puppy peeking out of her jacket, was grinning at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Hana Inuzuka, if Dom’s memory of Konoha’s clans served him right. Kiba’s older sister. She gave him a conspiratorial wink.

‘Well, at least someone appreciates my brand of existential humor,’ Dom thought, offering a tiny, almost imperceptible nod in her direction before sitting down, leaving a ripple of bewilderment in his wake.

The first few days at the academy were a strange mix of boredom, hilarity, and dawning frustration for Dom. Basic physical exercises like running laps and simple stretches were laughably easy for him. His Reinforcement Lv1 (still at 43% proficiency, as he focused his skill training on speed bursts rather than general augmentation) made his six-year-old body far stronger and more durable than his peers. He had to consciously hold back, to stumble occasionally, to breathe heavily when he wasn’t even winded, just to avoid standing out too much.

Then came shuriken practice. The children were lined up, given a handful of blunted metal stars, and told to aim at large, straw targets. Most of them struggled, their throws wobbly and inaccurate.

Dom stepped up. His Sharingan, even without the tomoe visibly flaring, provided him with a level of visual acuity that was frankly unfair. Every minute detail of the target, the slight tremor in his own hand, the subtle air currents – all were processed with preternatural clarity. Combined with his 100% CE control that allowed for incredibly fine muscle adjustments, and the subtle strength boost from Reinforcement, aiming was almost an afterthought.

He threw his first shuriken. Thwack. Dead center.
Second. Thwack. Next to the first.

He went through all five. Five perfect hits, clustered tightly in the bullseye.

A hush fell over the practice yard. Hayate-sensei stared, his jaw slightly agape. Even Uchiha Itachi, who had also achieved a perfect score but with a more flamboyant, practiced grace, glanced over at Dom with a flicker of something unreadable in his calm, dark eyes – surprise? Interest?

‘Oops,’ Dom thought. ‘Maybe a bit too perfect. Note to self: cultivate an air of ‘talented but occasionally clumsy’.’

This pattern continued. In taijutsu spars, where they practiced basic blocks and strikes, Dom found he had to actively try to get hit, to make his movements seem less precise, his reactions less instantaneous. His enhanced strength, even when he held back 90% of it, meant his light taps often sent his sparring partners stumbling back further than expected.

However, when it came to theoretical knowledge, the situation reversed dramatically.

“Dom Uchiha!” Hayate-sensei would call out in the classroom. “What are the three primary prohibitions for a shinobi on an undercover infiltration mission?”

Dom, whose mind was usually either replaying scenes from Harry Potter for his next book or calculating Cursed Energy point expenditures, would blink. He knew the Earthly equivalent of spy rules, probably. But Konoha’s specific doctrines? He’d usually offer a guess based on common sense, which was, more often than not, spectacularly wrong in the context of ninja ethics.

“Uh… Don’t eat smelly food beforehand? Don’t forget your fake mustache? And… always blame the missing person if the mission goes south?”

The class would erupt in giggles (led by Hana Inuzuka, who seemed to have appointed herself his personal fan). Hayate-sensei would bury his face in his hands.

“How can one child be a genius on the training field and a complete dunderhead in the classroom?” he’d mutter to himself, loud enough for Dom to hear. “It defies all logic. Especially an Uchiha!”

Itachi, who excelled effortlessly in both theory and practice, would sometimes look at Dom during these classroom debacles with an expression of faint, polite bewilderment. During one break, after Dom had spectacularly managed to describe the primary export of the Land of Wind as “sand… lots and lots of very fine, annoying sand,” Itachi approached him.

“Dom-san,” Itachi said, his voice quiet and even. He was, Dom noted with an internal gulp, already carrying himself with an unnerving level of poise. “Your shuriken technique is very precise. Your movements in taijutsu are also… efficient.”

Dom tried for a casual smile. “Oh, you know. Lucky throws, lucky moves. Sometimes I just flail, and it works out.” ‘Please don’t analyze me, future kinslayer. Nothing to see here.’

Itachi tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes studying Dom for a moment too long. “Luck often favors the prepared,” he said, a statement that could mean anything or nothing. Then, he gave a small, polite nod and moved away, leaving Dom feeling like he’d just been subtly interrogated by a very tiny, very dangerous detective.

The underlying current of anti-Uchiha sentiment in the village didn’t bypass the academy walls. One afternoon, during a break, Dom was sitting alone, trying to mentally review the disastrous history lesson on the founding of Konoha, when a group of three older, non-Uchiha boys cornered him.

“Well, well, look what we have here,” the biggest one sneered, cracking his knuckles. “One of those stuck-up Uchiha.”

“Think you’re so great after you bastard killed my dad with the giant fox, huh?” another one chimed in, shoving Dom’s shoulder.

Dom sighed internally. ‘Here we go. The obligatory bully scene. Does this come with a training montage afterwards?’ He knew Hayate-sensei was nearby, ostensibly supervising the break, but currently engrossed in a conversation with another instructor, his back turned.

Dom didn’t want to cause a scene. He didn’t want to reveal his strength. He tried to sidestep them. “Look, guys, I don’t want any trouble. I was just enjoying the… institutional ambiance.”

They didn’t appreciate his vocabulary. The leader threw a clumsy punch. Dom, with his enhanced perception and speed, saw it coming a mile away. He leaned back, the fist whiffing past his nose. He used the momentum to lightly tap the boy’s outstretched arm with his Reinforcement-backed fingers – just a tap, but enough to make the boy yelp and stumble off-balance into one of his friends. The third one tried to grab him, but Dom sidestepped with an ease that made it look like the attacker had tripped over his own feet. It was over in seconds, with the three bullies looking more foolish and tangled than hurt.

Suddenly, Hayate-sensei was there, his face like a thundercloud. “UCHIHA DOM! What is the meaning of this brawl?!”

Before Dom could explain, one of the bullies, nursing his arm, whined, “Sensei! He attacked us! Just ‘cause he’s an Uchiha, he thinks he can push everyone around!”

Hayate-sensei’s gaze, already stern, hardened further as it landed on Dom. He didn’t ask for Dom’s side. He didn’t question the accusers. “I saw you, Uchiha! Creating a disturbance! Fighting during break time! This is unacceptable! You will stand outside the classroom for the rest of the afternoon!”

Dom opened his mouth to protest, to point out he hadn’t thrown a single punch, but the instructor cut him off. “Not another word! Go!”

Shoulders slumping in theatrical defeat (though internally he was cataloging this injustice with cold precision), Dom trudged out of the practice yard. As he leaned against the hallway wall, he muttered to himself, “Yep, the discrimination package is fully installed and running smoothly. Comes standard with the Uchiha Experience™, apparently. No refunds, no exchanges.”

Amidst the microcosm of academy politics, whispers from the larger world still filtered through. Dom, with his Perception skill often subtly active, caught snippets of conversations between instructors, or later, from his father.

There was much talk about the Sannin, Jiraiya. Apparently, he had recently played a crucial role in a series of decisive battles that had helped bring the long and bloody Third Shinobi World War to its official, if uneasy, conclusion. His name was spoken with awe and respect. This helped Dom place the current timeline more firmly – the war was freshly over, its scars still raw, the Kyuubi attack a devastating blow in its immediate aftermath.

With the war’s end, there was also talk of tightening village security, of new protocols and increased vigilance. But Dom also overheard his father, Hiroshi, speaking in hushed, frustrated tones to Hana one evening.

“They asked for proposals for restructuring the patrols around the new compound, Hana,” Hiroshi said, his voice tight with anger. “I submitted a detailed plan, drawing on our clan’s generations of experience in policing. So did several other senior Uchiha officers. Today, we heard back. All our proposals were… ‘taken under advisement.’ Instead, they’re implementing a plan drawn up by a committee that doesn’t have a single Uchiha on it, a plan that puts more ANBU oversight on us than actual external threats.”

Hana sighed, her hand resting on his arm. “More of the same, then.”

“It’s as if they don’t trust us to even guard our own cage properly,” Hiroshi muttered. “So much for the ‘Will of Fire’ encompassing all of Konoha’s children.”

Dom, listening from his room where he was supposed to be reviewing his (abysmal) history notes, felt a cold agreement. The Will of Fire, it seemed, cast a very selective warmth. For the Uchiha, the shadows were growing longer, colder. And the academy, with its petty prejudices and biased instructors, was just a smaller reflection of a much larger, more dangerous game.