Prologue
"Beep! Beep! Beep!"
An alarm clock flew across a small room before hitting the wall and shattering into pieces. Iruka turned to the other side and tried to fall asleep again.
"Beep! Beep! Beep!"
"Fuck."
Iruka hated waking up. He hated that he had put the second alarm clock out of reach, forcing him to roll off the bed, sluggishly shuffle to the cabinet, and turn off the annoying sound. Why was he so damn smart?
"What I wouldn't give for another two hours."
If someone had offered it, he might have sold the village's secrets on the spot. Dragging his feet across the floor, he climbed into the shower, letting ice-cold water hit his face. He hated that it always took ten seconds to turn warm—and that he always forgot.
When the hot water finally decided to turn on, Iruka stayed in the shower for longer than needed, just staring at the tiled wall and thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. It took some time before he decided he was done and went to the sink.
Looking in the mirror, he found a teenager staring back at him. Or maybe not, eighteen years old, finally a man. A tired, broke, and unmotivated man—but still a man. If he were a civilian, he'd be legally allowed to drink. As a shinobi, he had found a way around that. He already had a budding case of alcoholism. It was under control, of course. He could stop anytime. The problem was, he didn't want to.
"Phew," he sighed, tying his messy hair into a ponytail. He noticed the faint beginnings of facial hair. "Guess I'll have to start buying razors. You waited this long to show up—you could've waited a few more years."
He wasn't in the right mindset to think about grooming. Maybe he'd get a mask like Kakashi. Or maybe his beard would grow in evenly and not look ridiculous. He had more important things to worry about—like what kind of ramen to have for breakfast: pork, chicken, or maybe spicy.
Washing his face one last time and making sure that the few hairs on his face weren't too visible, he dressed in his usual black pants and shirt. Putting on his forehead protector, he finished his distinctive look before walking to the kitchen. He was now ready for the day, at least in appearance.
"Why did I even buy the shrimp one?" Staring at the package he'd been avoiding for weeks, Iruka decided to eat it. "Ugh, the smell. Why do I keep falling for the sales?"
The taste was fine, but the smell was impossible to ignore. It only reminded him that on any other day, he wouldn't have even gotten out of bed. But today wasn't any other day. Finishing his breakfast, he put on his jacket and left his apartment. The sun was already out, brightly judging him. He already missed his bed.
Walking through the peaceful village, Iruka grew irritated by the loud, energetic children. They were far too cheerful: boys playing with a ball, girls picking flowers, a Jinchūriki watching it all from atop a hill, and the last Uchiha sneering at everyone as he passed by.
Iruka hated them all. So, he ignored them and walked to the graveyard. Only remembered that he had forgotten to buy flowers again. And because of that, his sensei's grave looked a little too plain. It had been five years since he died, along with Iruka's dreams and hopes.
Eight years ago, when he woke up in this body, in this world, he should have known better. He wasn't a child, yet he dreamed like one: of becoming a hero, mastering amazing powers, and wooing any girl he fancied. For the first three years, he lived that dream. But reality was cruel, and truth merciless.
Iruka pulled a few weeds from the grave and cleaned it as best he could. A familiar, wheezing cough stopped him mid-action. He turned to see his old teammate, Hayate Gekkō, slowly approaching with a bouquet of flowers in hand.
"You're early, as always," Gekkō said, placing the flowers at the tombstone.
"And you're dying, as always," Iruka replied. "You look more dead than sensei."
"I could say the same. So, it's true?"
"Yeah. I just don't have the energy to do it anymore."
"What are you planning to do now?"
"Who knows? I have a plan, but only time will tell."
"He was most proud of you, you know."
"I know," Iruka said, fishing a flask from his pocket. "He was always a bad judge of character."
"There's nothing I can say to change your mind?"
"Nah." Iruka took a long sip from the flask, then poured the rest over the tombstone. "I should've given up a long time ago. I'm no hero material."
"Will you visit him?"
"Mizuki? I'd probably break his legs again if I saw him."
"Then it's probably best you don't. Especially if you ever want to come off suspension. Still, I wish that you at least didn't make things harder for the Third."
"Words hurt, you know," Iruka muttered. "I was more hurt by what he said than he could ever be from me breaking his legs."
"It wasn't even about you. Anko told you to ignore him."
"That's why it hurt more. If it had been about me, I'd have only broken one of his legs. But when it's someone important to me? Two legs are a small price to pay."
"Just don't get into too much trouble. I can't keep bailing you out."
"Yeah, yeah," Iruka waved him off and left.
Maybe he could still fit in a nap. Even though it was only February, the cold of winter had long passed, leaving behind the warmth of spring. Everything was coming alive—vibrant, beautiful. Iruka hated it.
At least in winter, he could blame the cold for staying in bed. Now, he couldn't even lie to himself. And though he loved to sleep all day, he'd feel a twinge of guilt for wasting time. Damn society and its norms. And damn him for trying to follow them.
"I'm coming," Iruka said aloud to the thin air that followed him. "I didn't forget, so go away. Shush. Leave me alone."
The air didn't respond. Damn ANBU and their persistence. With a sigh, Iruka turned toward the Hokage building. Goodbye, nap.
If only he were as cool as Kakashi—maybe then the Third wouldn't care if he was late. If he had half of Kakashi's talent, he wouldn't be in such a foul mood all the time. He'd still be a childish dreamer, trying to become a hero or the next Hokage. Kicking ass, spewing fire, making dragons from water. At least he could still do it in his dreams.
He still remembered his first three years in this new life. He studied endlessly, thinking knowledge alone could let him reach the top. He thought he could learn and do anything he put his mind to. Even if it took time, he did realize that reality was cruel and the truth merciless.
If you wanted to master taijutsu, tearing your muscles wasn't enough. You had to break bones daily. Iruka was fine until the point where he had to kick trees instead of air. The first time he broke his finger, he cried for hours. The second time, it was his ankle—and he cried for weeks at the hospital bill. There was no third time.
That was fine. Taijutsu was for suckers anyway. Real shinobi used ninjutsu.
Yeah, fuck that. Fire release could burn your lungs. Lightning release? Electrocution, if you lacked fine control. Water release sounded safe—until you filled your lungs with it. Wind release? He almost cut off his hand once. When he cut his neck, he gave up entirely.
Funny enough, Earth's release was relatively safe. Unfortunately, it was also his weakest element. As for Yin and Yang, every jutsu tied to those was a clan or village secret. No orphan, and especially a nobody like him, was getting access to it.
Still, he didn't give up. Genjutsu was safe, even if it gave him migraines on a daily basis. He trained in swordsmanship and other weapons. There were safe, low-rank ninjutsu to learn, even if they lacked power or any impact when it mattered the most.
He just didn't have what it took. Not mentally. Not physically. Maybe he was just unlucky. With a clan behind him, he might've had someone to teach him step-by-step. But maybe that was just an excuse to feel better about quitting before he reached any results.
"I'm here to meet the big guy," Iruka said to the receptionist with a wink.
"Iruka Umino, right? He's waiting for you."
"Cold as always."
Iruka walked past the receptionist to his doom. Cracking his neck, he knocked on the door. It opened quickly. Inside, the Third Hokage sat at his desk, watching Iruka approach the already-prepared seat.
With his large white and red hat, ceremonial robes, and puffing smoke from his expensive-looking pipe, the Third Hokage looked quite regal. If Iruka didn't know how much the man fucked up in his life, he might hate him. But knowing that before him was also a man who made mistakes made Iruka respect him a bit more.
"It's been a while since we last talked," the Third said. "It's been almost nine months since your last mission. That one was difficult, so I understood your need for time off. But your actions suggest this is more than just time off."
"I needed time to think," Iruka replied. "To understand things that seemed beyond me. To make some final decisions before moving on."
"Words alone are meaningless," the Third said. "I won't push you, but time waits for no one. I understand what it's like to return in such a state. Betrayal from a friend is never easy. So I was lenient with you all this time. But injuring your comrades is unacceptable. I hope you understand that."
"I want to change my assignment," Iruka interrupted, not wanting to hear a lecture. "I don't want field missions anymore. I want a job at the Academy."
"The Academy? A man of your skills?"
"It's a peaceful life. That's all I want now."
"There are other peaceful jobs—administration, clerical work. Iruka, you're a valuable asset. You've fought hard and made sacrifices for this village. Aside from your... quirks, which I'm willing to overlook, you only need ask. I'll give you any position you want. And I know you will excel in it."
"I want to be a teacher."
"But you'll be a terrible teacher."
"Won't even let me explain why?"
"Iruka, I'm trying to be nice. We both know you have issues with authority. Addictions. You're violent. You don't hesitate to hurt others, children included. Shall I remind you of the incident?"
"She was annoying."
"She was a ten-year-old girl who was curious," the Third snapped, then composed himself. "You're capable, even with your faults. I trust you with missions or difficult tasks. But not in a classroom."
"I'm a failure of a shinobi," Iruka interrupted again. "I made mistakes. Too many. Costly ones. I know my limits. This is it—the end of the line. I don't want other kids full of hope and dreams to end up like me. Just give me a chance. That's all I want."
Once upon a time, Iruka dreamed of being a hero. But after he was promoted for the first time, he realized what kind of world he lived in and what he truly was. As the reality hit him hard, making him accept that he was no hero. He could not save anyone. But the village needed a hero. So, if he couldn't be it, he had to make someone else take the position.
…
"It's a shame," the Third muttered as he signed the document transferring Iruka Umino to the Academy. "He would've made a good ANBU."
Looking at the file in front of him, the Third sighed. Iruka had been one of the most diligent shinobi of the last eight years. Flawed, yes—but few matched his professionalism. Too bad, the Third had a soft heart and couldn't deny an earnest request. And, too bad, the Academy lacked personnel, and he had no right to disagree.
Iruka Umino, Age 18. Special Jōnin. Specialization: Assassination.
482 Official Missions Completed:
122 D-rank, 201 C-rank, 105 B-rank, 52 A-rank, 2 S-rank.
Success Rate: 95%.
A.N. Probably not what you expected. Neither did I. I wanted to continue my old stories. But for the past few months, I tried to write them, only to delete them and begin again. I don't know why, but I just can't get them to follow a direction I want. I became so damn frustrated that I wrote this yesterday. Hope you like it.