Chapter 1
"Bang! Bang!"
Iruka shot out of bed, kunai in hand, scanning his empty room. The faint traces of his nightmare still lingered as he slowly lowered his weapon and started to control his breathing.
"Umino!"
More pounding went on. It took a hot moment for Iruka to realize he wasn't in danger. It was the landlord again. Still half-asleep, Iruka threw on a shirt and pants before stumbling to the door. The pounding continued.
"Coming," he muttered to himself, knowing full well the old man didn't care even if he heard him. The bastard enjoyed tormenting his tenants.
"You're late on payment again," the landlord sneered the moment the door opened.
There were many times when Iruka wanted nothing but to punch the guy in his pig-like nostrils. And even more times, he fantasized about killing him. Slitting his throat for him just to bleed out slowly before his eyes. Or strangle him and watch as the life from his eyes disappears. In the end, Iruka tossed the prepared cash into his face and slammed the door.
"Already had it ready, you fossil," he grumbled under his breath as he walked back to his bed.
It was the oldest trick in the world. A week after he was supposed to collect the rent money and then come to demand it, as per the contract, his tenants owed him ten percent more. Though if he were an active shinobi and missed the payment due to a mission, it would be illegal for him to do so.
The landlord was older than the village itself—one of the first settlers of Konoha. He'd bought up land early and now profited off shinobi like Iruka, orphans, and clanless. More specifically, people without a home of their own. Charging absurd rent on property they could never hope to own.
There was no free land in Konoha. Clans owned everything that the fossils, like that landlord, didn't already buy. Now, the land prices were absurd—at this point, becoming Hokage was more realistic than owning a property.
And those old bastards knew it. Knew they were sitting on gold and exploited it thoroughly.
"And it's just six in the morning. Fucking hell." Iruka sighed.
He didn't bother taking off his shirt—just collapsed face-first onto the bed. He couldn't believe it, but he missed his Academy days. He had one year of being a carefree kid in the orphan system that took care of his housing and other necessities. Even as a Genin, things weren't so bad—a no-interest loan helped him get started. D-rank missions weren't glamorous, but they paid the bills.
Eventually, he saved up enough to pay off the debt and get a small apartment in a quiet district. And being a shinobi helped—distance to his favorite places didn't matter when you could cross the village in minutes. So, a quiet neighborhood was all he needed.
If only such a neighborhood existed, and there weren't so many irritating people everywhere he went.
He was certain the old men of Konoha had some collective grudge against him. He just wanted to sleep. Why did the world insist on bothering him?
Was there even a reason to get up anymore? He had tried—he had. But the Uchiha incident was the final nail in the coffin. He was weak. Insignificant. Nothing he did ever mattered to anything.
And still, he got up. Every damn day. Not a hero. Not the change he dreamed of becoming. Just a man with a lot of baggage and broken dreams. Still, he did find a way he could do something meaningful. He would bring the full potential of the next generation of shinobi and make sure they are able to do what he couldn't.
It wasn't just about stopping Konoha from being attacked in the future, twice. He also didn't find the idea of living in a dream appealing. And he would like to avoid wars where tens of thousands of people would die.
With that thought, he decided to finally get up, since sleep wasn't coming to him. Hot water helped clear his head. Or maybe it just helped him stop thinking. He liked it, the feeling of water running down his body, but just like lying in bed, all good things have to come to an end.
In the mirror, his eyes drifted down to the scars across his body. Not from battle—at least, not most of them. Apart from the messy scars from his training in the early years. His eyes locked on the many clean and deliberate cuts. Precision wounds that could only have been possible by using a scalpel.
…
"A teacher? You?"
Anko stared at him from across the table, where Iruka was quietly eating pancakes, not knowing how to react. She was surprised but, more than anything, amused at the idea. Meanwhile, Iruka wondered how she kept finding him all the time.
"Are you serious? You hate kids."
"That's not true," Iruka replied. "I hate their ignorance. Their naïve ideals. Their big dreams. I hate that they still have them—and I don't. However, it would be more accurate to say that I envy them. So, when I see them, I can't help but want to kick them and wake them up to reality."
"So, it is worse than hate."
"I just don't like that they still have their bright future before their eyes while mine is gone."
"You're eighteen, Iruka," Anko said with a deadpan look. "Stop talking like an eighty-year-old man who long since passed his prime. The future's right in front of you—grab it and stop whining."
"That's rich from someone who only lives for revenge."
The fork embedded itself between Iruka's left-hand fingers. He didn't flinch, just ignored it, and kept eating. It was a sore subject, but he knew Anko wouldn't stay mad long. At worst, a trip to the dango shop should fix things.
"You've got a knack for getting stabbed," she said. "You should think before you open your mouth. I'll let it slide—for now. I still owe you for shutting Mizuki down. Especially when you did it so painfully."
"And you need to watch your emotions. They'll get you killed. Then I'll have to avenge you, and that's way too much effort." Iruka replied. "If I haven't intervened, you would have killed him, or worse, do nothing and bottle it up inside you like you always do."
"What choice do I have?" Anko's voice dropped. "You know I'll never be accepted until he is dead. Not after what he did. Especially not to you. Don't pretend you don't hate him, too."
"Hate and vengeance are for the strong," Iruka replied. "Not for me. All I'm good for are sweet pancakes and this drink."
He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a swig. Anko frowned but didn't comment. He wasn't wrong. He couldn't fight someone like him. It'd be a waste of life. A meaningless death.
"Forget it," she sighed.
She should've known by now—pushing him never worked. He had long since hit his limit and knew where he stood among other shinobi. No huge chakra reserves, no genius-level intellect. Nobody could take on harsh training. He only had a flask and common sense.
"Enjoy what you have," Iruka said. "Don't burn yourself out thinking about the future that you know well won't come."
"Then why don't you follow your advice?"
He chuckled.
"Good question. Maybe because I know what the future holds for me, and I know I am insignificant in it."
"There you go with the depressing shit again," she muttered. "So? You gonna tell me what this whole teacher thing's really about?"
"Do you want the answer I gave the Third Hokage, or the real reason?"
"Which one's the truth?"
"Both. This village doesn't need another depressed alcoholic like me. And the other reason is why I chose to take on the infamous class."
"You're insane." She shook her head. "You volunteered to take that class? The one with seven clan heirs? You realize you can't hit them, right? Their parents will kill you."
"Yes, I do," Iruka replied. "And it's the only reason I even got the job."
"I wonder why? Maybe because no one is brave enough or even capable enough to teach the heirs of prominent clans? And that's not even mentioning the Uzumaki kid. The only reason the Third would give you that class is because there isn't anyone else who could take it, and for a good reason. I heard six teachers have already quit and returned to active duty because of that class."
"They are just kids," Iruka said, not that worried. "Students who will follow their instructor's judgment and orders. Like good little soldiers, they are trained to be."
"No, they all are little monsters that will drive you insane, and before you know it, the class will become a bloodbath, and you will be on the run with the whole village hunting you down. But seriously, they are all just spoiled brats who only attend the academy because it is mandatory for them. Their clans are more than enough to teach them."
"And every one of them will be important shinobi in the future," Iruka added. "And that's exactly why I want to do this. None of their sheltered lives will prepare them for what's coming. I want to change that. Help them to realize their potential and make them strong enough to make the right decisions outside the restrictive teachings of their clans."
It would've been easier if he could just tell someone about the future. But in the best-case scenario, they wouldn't believe him. Worst case? They'd start asking how he knew. And he had no interest in finding out what the village's most paranoid, cold, cold-hearted murderers would do when they weren't satisfied with his answers.
"Anyway, I'm done eating," he said. "Stop following me and leave me alone."
"Tch. You act like I'm some stalker," Anko scoffed. "I'm worried about you, idiot. Hayate, Yugao—hell, even Genma is worried about you. You're not alone, Iruka. Whatever this is, you can ask for help."
He really was that obvious, huh?
He knew he had friends. But there were things he couldn't tell them—not without putting them in danger.
Danzo already had eyes on him. He should've known better. He should have known that he couldn't keep his relationship with Itachi and Shisui a secret. And now Danzo is wondering what he knew and how deep he was in this shit.
Now, he lives in regret, always wondering if he could have done more to change the future and help his friends. Not only has he failed to change the future, but he has also let down his friends, and he wasn't even here when they probably needed him the most. He will curse their self-sacrificing asses for the rest of his life.
He couldn't even leave the village anymore since he had gained an enemy. Given any chance, he'd be gone. Many things could go wrong on missions. Danzo would see to that since Iruka had become a liability.
But maybe it wasn't all bad. Danzo's attempts to erase him had given him something he desperately needed.
Purpose.
And one day, when he was ready, he'd cut that bastard's throat.
It wouldn't fix anything.
But damn, it would feel good.
A.N. Okay, the story got more attention than I thought it would. Thanks. I've been working on the story for a few weeks now and think I've got quite a good idea where I want to take it. I will be posting every week from now on; I just don't know on which days yet.
If you want more, up to seven advanced chapters, you can support me on pa treon. com \ ironwolf852. And if you have any requests for stories, I will at least listen to them. Again, thanks a lot.