Sato Fan had figured out the Ninja Academy’s curriculum in just one year.
Mornings were generally for theory classes—Ninjutsu history, tactical principles, and intelligence analysis—interspersed with some basic Chakra control training.
Afternoons were for practical classes: Taijutsu sparring, shuriken throwing, Ninjutsu execution, and occasionally, wilderness survival training.
Theory class was the only subject Sato Fan didn’t have to “pretend” in.
In his previous life, he had at least received a proper education; his logical thinking and analytical abilities were more than a tier above this group of teenagers.
Plus, with his complete memory of the Naruto plot, he could often see the answer to many questions at a single glance.
But he dared not score too well.
“Sato Fan, this theory test, you’re above average again.” Iruka looked at the report card in his hand, his brows slightly furrowed.
His tone was full of regret and helplessness, his expression complex.
“You aren’t stupid, so why can’t you get the hang of practical classes?”
Sato Fan lowered his head, gripping the corners of his clothes with both hands.
He pressed his lips together, his face full of guilt, putting on an appearance of shame.
But he couldn’t show his true self.
An ordinary teenager with no background, no Bloodline Limit, and no backing would only invite disaster by being too conspicuous.
An outstanding Genin meant more missions, and more missions meant higher risks.
Of those geniuses who shone brightly in the Ninja Academy, how many actually lived to adulthood?
Look at those geniuses from the Uchiha clan; which one of them wasn’t incredibly talented?
And which one of them didn’t fall early?
So what he needed to do wasn’t to become strong, but to make everyone feel that he was “not worth noticing.”
Scoring above average in theory class was not conspicuous, yet it wouldn’t get him eliminated as trash.
As for practical classes…
that was where he had to really “perform.”
“shuriken throwing, pass.
Hit rate 50%, barely passing.” The teacher in charge of the assessment held the clipboard and announced in a flat tone.
Sato Fan was expressionless, walking forward sluggishly to pull the shuriken from the target.
In his heart, he was calculating: a 50% hit rate, 5% lower than last time.
Very good, keep it up.
He could actually achieve an 80% hit rate.
This was the result of his secret practice in the outskirts—80% was exactly the “upper limit an ordinary person could reach after training” and wouldn’t arouse anyone’s suspicion.
But he chose to fluctuate around 50%.
Because 80% was still too high.
It was better to be rotten from the start, so that everyone would lose interest in him.
“Taijutsu sparring, Sato Fan versus Inoue Takehiko.
Sato Fan, defeated.” The referee teacher shouted the result, his tone carrying a sense of being accustomed to it.
He deliberately slowed his reaction speed, letting his opponent’s attack “just” graze past his defense.
He intentionally stumbled, then fell heavily to the ground, brow furrowed tightly, mouth twisted in a pained and disheveled expression, but he controlled the extent of his injury to be “just a scrape.”
He couldn’t actually get hurt; that was something only a fool would do.
“Ninjutsu execution…
sigh.” Iruka looked at the stiff and clumsy hand signs Sato Fan used, shaking his head repeatedly.
His tone was full of exasperation, “Clone Technique, fail.
You got the order of the hand signs wrong again.”
“I’m sorry, Iruka-sensei, I will definitely practice harder next time.” Sato Fan lowered his head even further, his voice small and thin, carrying just the right amount of frustration and self-reproach.
His fingers could actually form the hand signs correctly.
He had been able to do it two months ago.
“If you continue like this, it will be hard to even graduate.” Iruka looked at him with sincere, worried eyes.
“Even if you barely graduate, you’ll only be able to do the lowest-level D-rank missions.”
Sato Fan chuckled inwardly.
D-rank missions?
Catching cats, weeding, taking care of children?
That would be just great.
“I will work hard, Iruka-sensei.” He slowly raised his head, a glimmer of stubbornness and refusal to admit defeat deliberately flashing in his eyes, his tone firm yet carrying a hint of clumsy determination.
This was the expression management he had learned from textbooks—what a student with mediocre aptitude but a correct attitude should look like.
It was the kind of “lower-middle” student that teachers would care about for a few words, but wouldn’t spend too much energy focusing on.
This type of person was the safest in any system—they wouldn’t be pushed to the front lines as a key training target, nor would they be cleared out as trash.
The only thing that made him feel a bit guilty was Naruto.
“Sato!
Did Iruka-sensei scold you again today?”
During the break, Naruto lay on his desk, leaning over the aisle, his cheeks bulging as he chewed on some snack he had gotten from who knows where.
“Yeah.” Sato Fan nodded lightly, his voice flat, pretending to be listless.
Ever since he treated Naruto to ramen once, this kid had naturally considered him a friend.
But he wasn’t worried that Naruto would see through his disguise—Naruto, that guy, was oblivious.
The facts proved his judgment correct.
One time in Taijutsu class, he was intentionally knocked to the ground by his opponent.
Naruto was stomping his feet in a hurry nearby, clenching his fists and shouting, his face full of anxiety: “Sato!
You could have clearly dodged that just now!”
Sato Fan’s heart skipped a beat at that moment.
But he quickly realized that Naruto just simply thought he “should have been able to dodge it,” a blind confidence between friends, not because he had actually seen through anything.
It was just like a fan thinking “My grandma could have scored that goal,” purely emotional.
“Do you want to go eat ramen after school today?” Naruto’s eyes sparkled, and he leaned in closer with a look of anticipation, inviting him excitedly, “My treat!
Like we agreed last time!”
“Next time.
My parents are waiting for me at home.” Sato Fan politely declined, his tone gentle and carrying a hint of apology.
That’s right, Sato Fan’s parents were alive and well.
They were two commoners in Konoha who had worked hard their whole lives to send their child to the Ninja Academy, hoping he would strive, become successful, enter the system, and become an honorable Ninja.
This damned normalcy—didn’t you see those protagonists who were always losing their parents, filled with deep hatred, and having no choice but to succeed!
Unlike himself, who could only enjoy this useless parental warmth and family happiness.
Naruto’s eyes dimmed instantly upon hearing this.
He lowered his eyelids, a flash of intense envy passing through them, but then he forced a smile, waving his hand as if being generous: “Then let’s do it next time.
Going home to be with family is more important.”
After the afternoon practical class ended, Sato Fan didn’t go straight home.
Instead, he took a detour to a small grove on the east side of Konoha Village.
This was his “training ground.” It was secluded, nobody usually came here, which made it perfect for him to do some “shady” practice.
After confirming there was no one around, he took a few Kunai out of his backpack and took a deep breath.
Throw.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—
Three Kunai were precisely nailed to the tree trunk twenty meters away, all hitting the bullseye.
Then came the second set, and the third set.
He looked at the dense marks of Kunai on the tree trunk, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly.
His current hit rate in a static state could already reach 80%.
Moving targets were at 60%.
After all, if you want to be a sharpshooter, you have to feed it with bullets; if you want to be a master of hidden weapons, only practice makes perfect.
This result, placed in the Ninja Academy, could already rank in the top ten.
After all, at this age, not many kids could endure the patience to practice after school, except for those young masters and misses from the Ninja clans.
“Can’t practice with Kunai anymore; the noise is too loud.” He muttered to himself, brows slightly furrowed, calculating cautiously as he pulled the Kunai from the tree trunk and packed them away.
Then he took a stack of paper out of his backpack and began to practice Chakra control.
He evenly attached Chakra to the surface of the paper, letting it stick to his palm without falling off.
This was the most basic Chakra control training, and also his most important practice content at the moment.
His Chakra volume was only at an average level; he couldn’t rely on “quantity” to win.
All he could do was to make every bit of Chakra produce the maximum effect.
It was like two people moving bricks; one person was strong and could move ten bricks at a time, while the other was weak and could only move five.
But if the weak person learned to use tools, find techniques, and plan routes, they might end up moving more bricks than the strong person in the end.
What he had to be was that “person who knows how to use tools.”
The paper stuck steadily to his palm, not moving an inch.
Three minutes, five minutes, ten minutes.
His forehead began to sweat, his arm trembled slightly, but the paper still didn’t fall off.
“That’s enough.” He whispered to himself, slowly putting away the paper, and raised his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
Today’s training ended here.
He couldn’t train too hard; what if his hand shook during class tomorrow and he got caught?
After packing up his things, he circled the grove again to confirm he hadn’t left any traces, and only then did he leave.
Back home, a man and a woman were sitting at the dining table.
They were Sato Fan’s parents, Sato Michi and Sato Umeko.
“Xiao Fan is back.
Come and eat, Mom made your favorite hamburger steak.” Sato Umeko looked up with a smile, her tone gentle and loving, beckoning him over quickly.
Sato Fan sat at the table in silence, quickly shoveling the food into his mouth, hurriedly putting down his bowl and chopsticks, and said in a low voice: “I’m full.” Then he turned and went back to his room.
Sato Umeko looked at his hurried back, frowning slightly, her tone full of confusion and heartache: “This child is rushing about all day long; I wonder what he’s busy with?”
Sato Michi stroked his chin with a chuckle, his tone open-minded and gratified: “The child is growing up and needs his own space.
Xiao Fan will soon graduate and become an honorable Ninja; he is already a man who can stand on his own two feet.”
Back in his room, he closed the door and opened a secret compartment under the bed.
He had spent a week making this himself; the location was hidden, so even if someone entered his room and rummaged through things, they wouldn’t necessarily find it.
Inside the compartment, several items were neatly arranged:
Twelve Kunai— “picked up” from the school training ground.
After each training session, there were always some Kunai scattered around the field that no one collected, so he would casually take a few; no one would notice.
He had saved up this many in three months.
Six shuriken—same as above.
Three blank sealing scrolls—these were bought with real money.
It cost him two months of saved allowance, but he felt it was worth it.
A small bag of food pills— “accidentally taken” while helping organize supplies in the school warehouse last week.
Anyway, the damage report listed them as “damp and scrapped,” so no one would know if a few were missing.
This was all his possessions from the past three months.
Pathetically little, but at least it was a start.
He picked up a sealing scroll, his eyes focused, and studied it carefully.
Sealing techniques were the most underrated skills in the Naruto world.
They didn’t require a large amount of Chakra, didn’t require a Bloodline Limit, only precise Chakra control and a lot of practice.
If he could master basic sealing techniques, he could hide things more effectively, and even carry more supplies with him.
And the advanced versions of sealing techniques—like the kind that could seal people inside—were simply tailor-made for someone like him who was afraid of dying.
In case he encountered danger, could he seal himself into a scroll and come out when it was safe?
He silently made up his mind in his heart, whispering: “Next time I go to the library, I’ll look for information related to sealing techniques.”
He couldn’t borrow them; it was too conspicuous.
He would just read them in the library, memorize them, and practice when he got back.
He sealed the secret compartment back up, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Twelve years.
From the time he transmigrated into this world until now, a full twelve years.
He was still that ordinary Sato Fan, with no cheats, no fortuitous encounters, and no influential benefactors.
The only change was that he had finally accepted his ordinariness and started using “ordinary person” methods to pave a path for his survival.
“Although I am clumsy, I must still hide my clumsiness.”
This sentence sounded a bit contradictory, but if you think about it carefully, this was the smartest way to live.
True stupidity wasn’t having poor talent, but not knowing one’s poor talent and insisting on rushing forward to die.
He was just an ordinary person who wanted to survive.
In this world where Ninjas were as common as dogs and strong people were everywhere, staying alive was the greatest victory.
Let those tall people take the lead!
Outside the window, the moon slowly rose, casting a cold, clear light.
Sato Fan closed his eyes and quickly drifted off into dreamland.
Tomorrow would be another day of hiding his clumsiness.