Adamo Amet
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Chapter no.4 Who Taught You That?
🕑 Added 2025-02-01 16:55:59 +0000 UTCThe classroom felt more tense than usual, and Iruka wasn’t surprised. He had been watching the clock, counting down the minutes until the inevitable happened. It wasn’t a question of if the rest of the class would want to take the early graduation exam, but when.
Naruto had passed, and if there was one thing Iruka knew about kids, it was that they fed off each other’s confidence—or, in this case, the illusion of it.
Sure enough, the first one to come up was Sasuke Uchiha. Of course it was him. Who else?
Sasuke stood by Iruka’s desk, looking exactly the same as he always did—black eyes, spiky hair, navy-blue shirt with that high collar, white shorts, and his usual air of superiority.
“Well then,” Iruka said, handing him the form, “just fill this out, and the test will be conducted in the evening if you’re ready.”
“Hn.” That was all Sasuke said as he grabbed the paper and walked off.
Iruka wasn’t even fazed. That reaction was as predictable as the sunrise. The principal had already given them, the homeroom teachers, strict instructions: if any student asked for early graduation, they were to allow it.
Not that it meant they’d get it. Naruto’s case was special. The rest of them? They’d be lucky to pass the cafeteria on their way to a diploma.
By the time the first period ended, more students had lined up. Kiba was next, swaggering up to Iruka’s desk like he had something to prove.
“If Naruto can do it, then so can I!”
“Sure you can,” Iruka muttered, handing him the form.
Then came Sakura and Ino. And of course, it wasn’t because they genuinely wanted to graduate early. No, they did it because of Sasuke. The way they bickered over who would outperform the other on the exam was proof enough of that. Iruka handed them their forms without much thought, already predicting the chaos they’d cause.
A few confident civilian students followed, their faces full of determination. Iruka admired their courage, even if they had no idea what they were signing up for.
Then came the one surprise of the day—Hinata Hyuga.
She approached him quietly, her gaze flickering down to the floor before meeting his. Iruka wasn’t shocked that she was there, though. He had been her homeroom teacher long enough to notice how often she glanced toward Naruto during class. He had seen it in her eyes—the way she looked at him like he was her hero.
Naruto inspired her. It wasn’t just admiration; it was something deeper, something that made her want to be better.
As Iruka handed her the form, he smiled. “Do your best,” he said gently.
Hinata nodded shyly, clutching the paper as she turned and walked away.
When second period ended, Iruka headed to the teacher’s lounge, where the real news hit him. Neji Hyuga and a few upperclassmen had signed up for early graduation as well.
Naruto, if only you could see it—you’re the talk of the entire school.
He let out a small sigh, imagining the chaos that would follow. He had barely settled into a chair when—
“Chūnin Umino Iruka.”
Iruka froze.
The voice was calm, but he recognized it instantly. He turned, and there she was—death in the form of purple hair and a cat ANBU mask. Neko. The same woman who had executed Mizuki.
Was she here for me?
His heart jumped to his throat. He made a long, tired sigh. Without another word, he dropped to his knees and bent his head low.
“My only request,” he said, voice steady despite the panic clawing at his chest, “is that you make it quick and painless.”
He kneeled there, waiting. Any second now, he expected the cold steel of a blade to slice through his neck. Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity, and when nothing happened, he cautiously lifted his head.
Neko was standing there, perfectly still, her posture relaxed. He couldn’t see her face behind the mask, but he knew she was amused.
“Are you finished?”
Iruka blinked. Once. Twice. Then the realization hit him—she wasn’t there to kill him for some reason. Heat flooded his face as he scrambled to his feet, coughing awkwardly.
“Ah—of course—ANBU-san, I—er—I was just… practicing. For a recital. A play. Or a musical. About the honorable death of a samurai. Ha… ha…”
I want to crawl into a hole and die.
“You have been selected by the Hokage to host the early graduation,” she said, her tone cool and professional.
Iruka straightened up immediately, grabbing the scroll she handed him. “Shouldn’t this be delivered to the principal?”
“A shinobi looks beneath the underneath, Umino-san,” she said smoothly, her voice cutting through him like a kunai. “I’m sure even just a chūnin can figure it out.”
And just like that, she flickered away, vanishing into thin air as if she were nothing but a bad dream. Iruka stared at the spot where she had been, the weight of her words pressing down on his chest. Slowly, he looked down at the scroll in his hand.
Just a chūnin?!
He had never felt his rank sting like that before. He’d heard those words in passing before, sure—some jōnin laughing at the expense of the “mid-tier” shinobi, but he’d brushed it off. This time, though, it hit different. Maybe because it came from someone like her, someone with enough authority to execute someone without blinking.
He shoved the thought aside. He had a job to do.
By the time the afternoon rolled around, the hall was packed with students. There were kids from every corner of the Academy—some older, some younger—all buzzing with excitement, nerves, or a dangerous combination of both. The news had spread like wildfire. Naruto Uzumaki had passed the early graduation exam, and now every kid in the school was convinced they could do the same.
The room echoed with chatter and restless energy, but Iruka’s mind wasn’t fully there. He kept thinking back to what the ANBU had said. Beneath the underneath. Just a chūnin. The words circled in his head, twisting into something heavier than they had any right to be.
He didn’t even notice the vice principal standing next to him until he nudged his arm.
“Huh, what?”
“We need a word from the head examiner,” the vice principal said, giving him a look that told him he’d already been zoned out for longer than he should’ve been.
Right. He stood up and took a deep breath, channeling chakra into his vocal cords. The sensation was familiar but always strange—like a soft hum vibrating at the base of his throat, pushing the sound forward and amplifying it without straining. His mind cleared as he focused on what needed to be said. The Hokage had been very clear about the message he was supposed to deliver.
“I know why you’re all here,” Iruka said, his voice echoing throughout the hall. The chatter died down, replaced by expectant silence. “You’ve all heard the news—Naruto Uzumaki has graduated early. Some of you think that if he could do it, then it should be easy, right?” He paused, watching as a few kids shifted awkwardly in their seats. “Well, here’s the truth. If you have what it takes, you’ll be given the exact same exam that Naruto was given. If you pass, congratulations—you’re a genin. If not, I’ll see you back in class tomorrow.”
Iruka sat down as the teachers began handing out the exams, his face calm, but inside, he felt like he’d just told the biggest lie of his life.
Because the truth was, they weren’t getting the same exam Naruto had taken.
Naruto had been given a standard genin exam. It wasn’t easy for him, sure, but it was fair. What these kids were holding in their hands was something completely different. The Hokage himself had designed this test, and when Iruka had skimmed through it earlier, he’d nearly shivered at how brutal it was.
The Hokage wasn’t just testing these students. He was protecting the illusion that Naruto’s graduation had been earned the hard way, making sure no one could accuse the boy of getting special treatment.
Maybe that’s why I was chosen to be the head examiner, Iruka realized. To help sell the illusion that this was the same exam, that Naruto’s path to genin was no different from anyone else’s.
He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair as the students hunched over their papers, some already looking like they regretted signing up for this. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Guess I did look beneath the underneath, huh? Maybe he wasn’t just some “fucking chūnin” after all.
Still, he couldn’t shake the restless energy coursing through him. He wanted to get up, head to the training ground, and push himself until the doubt in his chest burned away.
Perhaps, Iruka thought, this was a bad idea.
It wasn’t like him to get riled up like this. He wasn’t the kind of man to grit his teeth, squeeze his fists, and declare that he was going to get stronger out of sheer frustration. It wasn’t like him to feel discontent with his role as a teacher—a role he’d worked so hard to earn, a role he thought defined him.
The world needed teachers. It was a necessity.
Teachers built foundations, passed down knowledge, and shaped the future. They ensured that students not only survived but thrived. Iruka had always wanted to be a teacher. He achieved that goal, and for a long time, he was happy.
Then came the next question.
Now what?
It was a question he’d never needed to ask himself before. He had always been content with his place at the Academy, guiding young, fragile minds and nurturing their dreams of becoming shinobi. He had even entertained the idea that one day he might become a principal or help expand the school. It was a simple dream, but it had been enough.
“Just a chūnin.”
Those words hit him harder than they should have. They stripped his dream bare, leaving it hollow and unsatisfying.
He couldn’t hate the ANBU operative for saying it. He understood the life she lived—the horrors she had seen and the brutal choices she had made to protect people like him. People who lived comfortably outside of risk. The statistics didn’t lie: shinobi in administrative roles lived longer, safer lives. Most active-duty shinobi never made it to retirement, but teachers like him had a chance.
Still, her words lit a spark inside him. A stubborn, burning flame that refused to die. He had thought about rushing out to the training grounds, pushing his body to its limit, and becoming a jōnin out of sheer spite. Prove her wrong. Show her that he wasn’t just anything.
But he wasn’t jōnin material, and he knew it.
Jōnin were the village’s elite—their best and brightest. War heroes, specialists, geniuses. People like Kakashi Hatake, Asuma Sarutobi, and Guy. What was he compared to them?
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was average. Average chakra reserves. Average hand seal speed. Average in genjutsu, taijutsu, and ninjutsu. The very definition of what a jōnin was not. There was no secret technique or hidden power that would suddenly elevate him to their level.
Did he even want to stand among them?
He shook his head. It had been a fun thought to entertain, but it was just that—a thought. Nothing more.
The sound of sniffles pulled him from his musings, and he turned his attention back to the students sitting for the exam.
A girl from one of the older classes stood up abruptly, her face red and blotchy, tears streaming down her cheeks. She mumbled an apology to the proctors before bolting for the door, her sobs echoing through the hall.
She wasn’t the first.
More and more students were breaking down. Some sat frozen in their seats, staring at their exams as if the papers were taunting them. Others clutched their heads in frustration, whispering to themselves as they tried to make sense of the questions. A few were openly crying, their shoulders shaking as they scribbled furiously, only to cross out their answers moments later.
A boy from the civilian class slammed his pen down, muttering curses under his breath before storming out. Another girl followed soon after, tears falling as she clutched her unfinished test.
Iruka watched them leave, one by one.
The few who remained were struggling just as much. He could see it in their faces—the panic, the confusion, the frustration.
He couldn’t blame them. This exam was cruel.
Then who do you blame? A voice whispered in his mind. The students? Or the system that failed them?
He didn’t have an answer.
Part of him wanted to stand up and call the whole thing off, to tell the kids that this test wasn’t a reflection of their worth. But he knew he couldn’t. The Hokage had set this in motion, and he had his role to play. Naruto’s graduation needed to look legitimate. This exam was part of that illusion.
Still, watching these kids—kids who had come in confident, maybe even a little arrogant—crumble under the weight of this test left a sour taste in his mouth.
Iruka stared down at the exam in front of him, the hum of the room fading as his focus sharpened. He had picked it up to distract himself, to get away from the heaviness of watching the students crumble under its weight. But as he worked through the questions, he quickly understood why they were struggling.
The problem wasn’t that the material was beyond them—it wasn’t. Every question was based on topics covered in the Academy. But the context? The context was missing, hidden behind layers that these kids weren’t prepared for.
His pencil hovered over the page as he reread one of the questions:
When utilizing a chakra-enhanced substitution during pursuit, what is the optimal positioning to ensure tactical recovery without exposing your flank?
It was a perfectly reasonable question—for a genin who’d already done a few C-rank missions. But to a student who had only practiced the basics of substitution in a controlled environment, the question would feel like a trap. They wouldn’t have the frame of reference to know what “tactical recovery” or “pursuit” meant in the heat of a real mission. And the way the Hokage had worded it, every choice seemed like the wrong one unless you knew the practical application.
The more Iruka went through the exam, the more obvious it became. Every question was designed to test knowledge the students didn’t have, couldn’t have. Their education at the Academy wasn’t supposed to cover this yet. These were the kinds of things they would learn after they became genin, when real missions and jōnin instructors filled in the gaps.
It was genius, in a cruel sort of way.
He leaned back in his chair, his mind racing.
The gears in his brain churned to life, slow at first, like an old rusty engine that hadn’t been used in years but was finally getting the oil and care it needed. And for the first time in a long while, Iruka was thinking—really thinking—about the way they taught at the Academy.
The syllabus hadn’t changed much since the era of the Second Hokage. Sure, they’d made some adjustments, like raising the graduation age to prevent another child prodigy from cracking under pressure, but the core of the curriculum was the same. The same subjects. The same drills. The same routines. Year after year.
It had become so monotonous that even the teachers saw it as a chore. Most of the students viewed the Academy as a stepping stone, a waste of time before they could do the real work of being shinobi.
Iruka’s heart thumped heavily in his chest.
For so long, he’d thought of himself as someone who would never become a jōnin. He didn’t have the raw talent, the elite skills, or the burning desire to be on the front lines. Sure, he could probably push himself to make it to the rank of Tokubetsu Jōnin someday, but then what? What would that get him?
A better paycheck? A few harder missions? The thrill of adventure?
No. None of that mattered to him.
Money wasn’t an issue. Danger wasn’t his calling. Adventure wasn’t his dream.
He would never be a jōnin.
He was a teacher.
But maybe—just maybe—he had been looking at it the wrong way all this time.
Maybe wanting to become more didn’t have to mean chasing a promotion. Maybe becoming more meant becoming a better teacher. A teacher who did more than just follow the syllabus. A teacher who created something greater.
What if he could sharpen his students’ wits, hone their instincts, and push their minds and bodies beyond what anyone expected of them? What if they didn’t just survive their first missions—they dominated them? What if, upon graduation, their jōnin instructors saw them perform and couldn’t hide their shock as the words slipped from their mouths:
“Who the hell taught you that?”
And their answer would be simple:
“Umino-fucking-Iruka, that’s who.”
He imagined it for a moment, the way their success would ripple through the ranks. Jōnin whispering about this mysterious Academy teacher whose students excelled beyond expectation. A teacher who went beyond the standard drills and lectures, giving his students a foundation that even the Hokage would be proud of.
And then, one day, when word reached the ANBU who had dismissed him as “just a chūnin,” she wouldn’t understand how he’d earned that level of respect. She wouldn’t know why his name carried weight among shinobi who outranked him.
He’d smile at her confusion and say:
“Of course you wouldn’t understand. You’re just an ANBU.”
