The Academy smelled like chalk, dust, and faint sweat. That scent—dry paper mixed with stale air—had been the same since Ken first walked through its doors at age five. Two years ter, it still hadn’t changed.

  Neither had the way people looked at him.

  “Ken Uchiha?” the instructor called out one morning during roll call.

  A few students turned to gnce at him. Some with vague interest, others with thinly veiled smirks.

  He gave a quiet, “Here,” and kept his eyes on his desk.

  He had learned early on how to occupy the lowest yer of attention. Too quiet to provoke, too average to praise. But even then—he still bore the name Uchiha, and that meant attention would find him eventually.

  Especially now.

  Because Itachi Uchiha had just made genin. At seven.

  The Academy was buzzing about it.

  The teachers brought it up like it was gospel: "If you train like Itachi did," or "Remember, Itachi passed this exam fwlessly." His name carried weight, a metric, a gravitational pull that distorted everything around it.

  Especially the other cn kids.

  They weren’t shy about comparing.

  “Did you hear Itachi mastered the clone jutsu on his second try?”

  “I heard he completed a B-rank mission with his team st week!”

  “They say he already awakened his Sharingan.”

  It wasn’t just admiration—it was competition. The Inuzuka boy with wild hair barked about his tracking speed. The Hyuuga girl snapped back with precision chakra control. Even the Nara kid in the back tried harder than usual that week.

  And somewhere in the mess of it, someone asked:“Wait, isn’t that other Uchiha still in our css?”

  Ken didn’t flinch, but he heard it. Of course he did.

  They said it louder the next day.

  “Hey, Ken,” said Kento, a sharp-eyed boy from the Aburame cn, during sparring drills. “You’re Uchiha, right?”

  Ken nodded. “Yeah.”

  Kento tilted his head. “Then why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be in a genin team like Itachi?”

  A few kids snickered nearby.

  Ken kept his tone ft. “Not everyone’s a prodigy.”

  Kento grinned. “Guess not. Maybe you’re a different kind of Uchiha. Like… the background character kind.”

  More ughter. No one stopped it.

  Ken didn’t argue. He just walked off the mat and reset for the next drill.

  That was how it went, day after day. Not bullying—just constant comparison. Death by praise for someone else. Every time the instructors mentioned the Uchiha, it wasn’t about him. Every time the cn came up, it was Itachi this, Shisui that.

  And then there was Ken.

  A footnote. A punchline.

  He wasn't weak. He knew that. His chakra control was sharp. His taijutsu was tight. His fundamentals were clean. But he wasn’t showy. He didn’t use Fire Release. He didn’t dominate sparring matches.

  He fought like someone who didn’t want to be remembered.

  And maybe that was the problem.

  One afternoon, he found himself alone on the practice field after css. The others had left, ughing in packs, rushing toward snacks and free time. Ken stayed behind, wooden sword in hand.

  He moved through his kata—one strike, turn, shift, parry. The motions were precise, not fshy. He imagined an enemy in mist. Envisioned how the air would pull with every bde movement. Trained not for appuse, but for crity.

  “Ken,” a voice called out from behind.

  He turned to see Ueno-sensei, one of the taijutsu instructors, watching him with arms crossed.

  “Why are you always out here alone?”

  Ken paused, then answered honestly. “Because no one else is training for the way I want to fight.”

  Ueno raised a brow. “You don’t want to learn the Uchiha forms?”

  “They’re not mine,” Ken said simply. “Not yet.”

  There was a long silence.

  Ueno nodded slowly, then left without saying more.

  Ken took that as approval.

  That night at home, Daiki was silent during dinner. Airi filled the gap with small talk—how the neighbors were pnting again, how the rain gutters needed cleaning. Ken responded politely, quietly.

  But before clearing the dishes, Daiki finally spoke.

  “Itachi passed the genin exam.”

  Ken nodded. “Yeah.”

  Daiki stared at him. “He’s your age.”

  Ken held his father’s gaze. “And we’re not the same.”

  Daiki said nothing after that. Just walked away.

  Airi gave him a sad smile and touched his shoulder. “We don’t need you to be him,” she said softly.

  Ken didn’t respond, but the words stayed with him.

  Two days ter, the css sparring match came.

  It was a routine drill—one-on-one bouts, rotated partners, meant to test reaction and control.

  Ken faced Kento again.

  The Aburame boy grinned. “Let’s see what the background Uchiha’s got.”

  The match began.

  Kento moved in quickly, aiming to overwhelm. Fast, precise, nothing wasted. His insects swarmed out from his sleeves, weaving midair to distract.

  Ken didn’t backpedal.

  He stepped into the motion, sidestepped the bugs, and clipped Kento’s ankle with the wooden sword in a clean arc. Before Kento could recover, Ken’s foot swept under him, and the point of his bde rested near the boy’s throat.

  Silence.

  Even the instructor blinked.

  “Match—Ken.”

  Ken lowered the bde and walked off without a word.

  The css didn’t cheer. They didn’t boo. They just stared. It wasn’t the kind of win people bragged about. No chakra fres. No shouts. Just clean, quiet dominance.

  And that was exactly how Ken liked it.

  Later, in the locker hall, Kento stopped him.

  “You pnned that whole thing, didn’t you?”

  Ken shrugged. “I practiced.”

  Kento’s lips curled into a reluctant smirk. “Not bad… for a background character.”

  Ken met his eyes and said calmly, “The background’s where shadows hide.”

  Then he left.

  That night, Ken sat on the roof of his home, sword resting on his knees, staring at the moon above the Uchiha compound.

  He thought about power—not the loud kind, not the fireballs and bloodline flexing. But the kind that watched. Waited. Endured.

  Itachi cast a long shadow.

  But shadows could stretch far.

  And Ken had time.