Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Iruka Umino stood at attention by the double doors of the largest meeting room in the Academy, the rigid set of his shoulders doing little to hide his nerves. The weight of the moment pressed against his chest, and he gulped quietly, his gaze darting over the room. Nearly a hundred people were assembled, filling the rows of seats arranged in perfect symmetry. Every teacher from all six Academy sites was present, along with their respective headmasters. The Grand Headmaster of the Academies, Tetsuro Igarashi, sat front and center, exuding a confident air that felt out of place amidst the subdued tension.

Iruka’s unease deepened as his eyes landed on the unexpected guests: the headmasters of Konoha’s most prestigious civilian academies, known for their expertise in subjects like mathematics, literature, and the arts. Their presence was unusual, almost foreboding. Whatever this meeting was, it was unprecedented.

The hum of low conversation vanished in an instant as the double doors swung open. Iruka stiffened, his throat tightening as the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, entered the room. The old man walked with calm purpose, his rich robes of office trailing lightly behind him, the crest of the Sarutobi Clan embroidered in gold on his back. His age showed in the lines of his face, but his piercing gaze carried the weight of decades of leadership. Every step he took seemed to pull the room’s focus to him, demanding not just attention but respect.

Flanking the Hokage was an array of Konoha’s most prominent figures. To his right was Hiroto Sarutobi, the clan head and a former ANBU Commander. His sheer presence was magnetic, his sharp, assessing eyes scanning the room with the precision of a predator. To the Hokage’s left strode Shikaku Nara, his posture deceptively relaxed, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed the ever-turning wheels of his brilliant mind. Next came Yamanaka Inoichi, his serene expression masking the intensity of someone who had spent years unraveling secrets from unwilling minds.

Behind them walked some of the most respected jonin in the village. Maito Gai, for once subdued, carried an aura of quiet strength, his sharp eyes betraying his usual exuberance. Hayate Gekkō, pale and ghostlike, moved with the grace of a shadow, his katana bouncing softly against his hip. Kurenai Yuhi followed, her crimson eyes keen and reflective, as though she could see the hearts of everyone in the room. And then there was Ibiki Morino.

Iruka couldn’t stop himself from swallowing again. The scarred interrogator seemed to radiate menace, his very presence enough to make the room feel colder. He didn’t even look at the assembly, yet it was as though his gaze bore into every soul present. Behind them, Kanna Sarutobi, head doctor of the Konoha Hospital — what was she doing here? —, carried an air of composed efficiency, her hands lightly brushing against the towering stacks of paperwork carried by three administrative staff who followed behind.

“You may sit,” the Hokage said, his voice calm but commanding, as he took his place at the head of the room. Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone obeyed, the silence sharpening the tension in the air.

Hiruzen’s gaze swept the room, his expression grave but steady. “I will be brief,” he began, his tone carrying the weight of the decades he had spent leading this village. “You all know what I believe the children of this village represent. They are the future of Konoha. They are the reason we fight, the reason we protect, the reason we endure. Everything we do—everything—is for them.”

The room remained utterly silent, every ear attuned to the Hokage’s words. Iruka’s chest tightened as he absorbed the gravity of what was being said.

Hiruzen’s tone grew sharper. “And yet, I have watched as complacency has taken root in our Academy system. The betrayal of traitors within our ranks was a devastating blow—but it merely exposed what had already begun to fester. The real damage was not done by traitors. It was done by those who grew too comfortable. By those who rested on the laurels of Konoha’s past victories, assuming that the future would take care of itself.”

Iruka felt the weight of the Hokage’s words like a blow. His eyes darted to Tetsuro Igarashi and the two headmasters beside him: Mizuki Katō, who oversaw the Academy site specializing in “Important” students—those from prominent clans—and Hideki Nakamura, whose reputation for disinterest had long been whispered about. The tension in the air grew as the Hokage’s gaze lingered on them.

“Tetsuro Igarashi. Izuki Katō and Hideki Nakamura. I thank you for your service,” the Hokage said, his tone even but firm. “But you are dismissed.”

“What?” Tetsuro sputtered, his face flushing as he began to rise from his seat. “But Hokage-sama, surely—”

He fell silent as Ibiki’s head turned, the interrogator’s scarred face twisting into something that might have been a smirk but was more akin to a silent warning. Tetsuro sank back into his chair, his lips pressed into a thin line. The other two headmasters exchanged uneasy glances but remained silent.

Hiruzen continued as though the interruption hadn’t occurred. “To lead the Academy system forward, I am appointing Hiroto Sarutobi as the Headmaster of all six Academy sites.”

A ripple of surprise ran through the room. Hiroto Sarutobi? The leader of one of Konoha’s most powerful clans? A former ANBU Commander, now overseeing the Academy? This wasn’t nepotism, no—if anything, it was the opposite. For someone of Hiroto’s stature to take on a role many considered mundane spoke volumes about the Hokage’s intentions. This wasn’t just reform. It was a revolution.

“And to replace the dismissed headmasters,” the Hokage added, his gaze sweeping the room, “I appoint Amara Kendo and Umino Iruka.”

Iruka’s heart stopped. Me? The word reverberated in his mind, echoing louder with every passing second. His name hung in the air, heavy and surreal. He could feel the eyes of the room turning toward him, though he couldn’t meet them. A surge of panic bubbled in his chest—was this a mistake? Surely, there were better candidates, more experienced shinobi, people who were ready for this.

But then the Hokage’s gaze settled on him, steady and unwavering, and something in Iruka shifted. He swallowed his fear and rose shakily to his feet, bowing deeply. “Thank you for your trust, Hokage-sama,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos in his head. “I will do my best to serve.”

When he sat, his hands gripped his knees tightly, his pulse pounding in his ears. His mind was a storm of panic, doubt, and something unfamiliar—pride. He had been chosen. Trusted. And for all his fears, one thought rose above the rest.

I will not let him down. 

The thought gave him a fleeting sense of steadiness, but his pulse still raced as Hiruzen Sarutobi, standing at the head of the room, clapped his hands lightly to draw attention back to him. The chatter that had been bubbling around the room since Iruka’s appointment vanished instantly.

“Now,” Hiruzen said, his voice steady but charged with purpose, “I announce the creation of the Academy Inspection Corps. In the future, this body will oversee the operations of the Academy. All staff will answer their questions and fully comply with their reviews.”

Iruka shifted slightly in his seat, intrigued. An inspection corps? It was a surprising move, but after what the Hokage had said about complacency, it made sense.

“One of the reasons our Academy system failed,” Hiruzen continued, “was the lack of accountability. Positions of authority grew stagnant. Trust was eroded. This new oversight body will ensure that such failures do not happen again. The corps will be co-chaired by Ibiki Morino, Inoichi Yamanaka, and—though he could not join us today—Shibi Aburame.”

A few low murmurs rippled through the crowd, but no one dared speak loudly. The trio of names carried weight—formidable in skill and reputation. Iruka’s stomach knotted at the thought of Ibiki overseeing Academy audits. No one’s going to want to be on the wrong side of that.

“To support them,” Hiruzen added, “two full-time chunin will be assigned to the corps. Their responsibilities will include regular inspections and conducting thematic audits on all aspects of the Academy system.”

Interesting murmurs buzzed louder this time, a mixture of curiosity and unease. The Hokage gave no room for further speculation. His next words came as smoothly as the first.

“Furthermore, I am announcing sweeping changes to the Academy system that will take effect in one week. These changes include adjustments to organization, curriculum, and examinations. Key, Koro, please distribute the leaflets.”

A flurry of movement followed as the administrative staff handed out thick, neatly printed documents. Iruka flipped open his copy, his eyes immediately darting to the curriculum details, but the Hokage’s voice kept his attention firmly on the front of the room.

“These booklets contain everything in detail,” Hiruzen said. “If you have questions, you may schedule a meeting with Hiroto Sarutobi, Ibiki Morino—though I doubt many will choose that path—or Shikaku Nara, who was instrumental in designing these reforms.”

The crowd chuckled lightly at the mention of Ibiki, though the tension remained thick.

“For now, I will highlight the key elements,” the Hokage continued. He straightened slightly, his voice taking on a tone of quiet authority. “First, the curriculum has been completely overhauled. Weekly instructional hours will increase from twenty-five to thirty-five.”

A collective murmur rippled through the room. Iruka scanned the page in front of him, his mind trying to process the changes as the Hokage continued.

“Fifteen of these hours will focus on civilian disciplines. These include writing, reading, history, and mathematics, with the addition of a new subject: social and political sciences. This is an increase from the previous five hours of "civilian" disciplines, and it is critical. Our future shinobi must not only know how to fight but also understand the world they are sworn to protect.”

Iruka nodded faintly, his teacher’s instincts kicking in. It was a bold change—and a necessary one. Too many young shinobi left the Academy with barely the ability to write a proper report, let alone navigate the complexities of diplomacy or governance…Which, in the long term, jeopardized some of the missions and made Konoha stagnant. 

“The remaining twenty hours will focus on ninja disciplines,” Hiruzen continued, his voice gaining momentum. “Ten of these will be dedicated to taijutsu. Six for muscular reinforcement and fitness, and four for techniques and sparring. Basic ninjutsu will take up five hours, genjutsu three, and kenjutsu—including shuriken techniques—two.”

A few eyebrows rose at the reduction in time for kenjutsu, but the Hokage’s next words preempted any objection. “While hours for kenjutsu and shuriken play have been reduced, the Academy training grounds will now be open outside of class hours. Students will be supervised by a chunin or genin — I'm going to issue it as a D-rank—, ensuring that those without clan resources can practice as much as they need.”

That sparked a wave of approving murmurs. Iruka’s chest swelled slightly. That’s a good move. It would level the playing field for students like Naruto, who lacked the advantages of private clan training.

“Additionally,” Hiruzen said, “students in Years 3 and 4 will now participate in three two-week survival training sessions in the Forest of Death. These will teach them resilience and practical application of their skills. Year 5 students will undergo a longer, two-month survival program in the Konohan Forest, complete with mock missions focused on tracking and retrieval.”

Iruka’s brows furrowed. The Forest of Death was no joke, even under supervision. But he couldn’t deny the value of the training. Too many genin learned survival skills the hard way—when failure meant death.

“Finally,” Hiruzen said, his tone softening slightly, “years 4 and 5 will include mandatory basic healing classes. Those who show aptitude will receive further training in medical ninjutsu at the hospital, thanks to Kanna Sarutobi’s cooperation.”

Kanna gave a small nod of acknowledgment, her calm expression steady. The room hummed with quiet approval. Medical training had long been a neglected area in the Academy, and this addition would save lives—if not immediately, then down the line.

“But the most significant changes,” Hiruzen continued, “are not in the hours, but in the curriculum itself. You’ll find detailed breakdowns in your booklets for each of the five Academy years.”

Iruka flipped ahead, scanning the new programs as the Hokage spoke.

“The physical training and taijutsu curriculum was designed by none other than Maito Gai,” Hiruzen said with a slight smile.

“YOOOOSSSSH!” Gai’s triumphant exclamation echoed through the room, startling a few teachers.

"And, to be exemplar, you will also do the training alongside your students — and wear the weighted vests everywhere and everyday alongside them", said the Hokage, looking amused. 

There was a collective groan from the teachers,

“Ninjutsu training,” the Hokage said, his tone turning wry, “was developed by Hatake Kakashi. Prepare to start the leaf exercise in Year 2.”

“Genjutsu,” Hiruzen said, his gaze briefly resting on Kurenai Yuhi, “was designed by Kurenai herself.” Kurenai blushed faintly, offering a small smile as murmurs of respect rippled through the room.

“And finally,” Hiruzen said, “kenjutsu and shuriken techniques have been restructured by Hayate Gekkō.” Hayate gave a small nod, his expression composed.

The Hokage stepped back slightly, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the podium. “These changes are ambitious,” he said. “They demand more from you as educators, but they will also ensure our students are prepared for the world they will face. This is a turning point for Konoha. I trust all of you to rise to the occasion.”

“Furthermore,” he said, “it is crucial that our chunin teachers do not stagnate in their own development. Teaching our future shinobi is an honorable role, but it must not lead to complacency. To that end, every Academy instructor will now be required to complete a minimum of three outside-the-village C-rank missions each year.”

A ripple of murmurs spread across the room, and Iruka felt his stomach tighten. Missions? Outside the village? For many, teaching was a transition from active service to something steadier, safer. This change implied something more demanding—and more dangerous. The Hokage raised a hand to quiet the noise. 

“These missions will not only ensure that your own skills remain sharp but will also provide you with a broader perspective—one that can only benefit your students. Additionally, all instructors will be required to attend specialized courses at the University. While details are not yet public, rest assured, this initiative will give you access to advanced training and educational methodologies.”

Iruka blinked. A…University? What was that ? He glanced around the room, catching expressions that ranged from cautious intrigue to outright alarm.

The Hokage allowed a brief pause before moving on. “Now,” he said, his tone shifting to one of practical focus, “regarding the organization of the classes. We are going to reinforce the institutional and functional link between the Civilian Imperial Academies and our own Ninja Academy.”

This sparked another wave of whispers. The Civilian Imperial Academies were prestigious institutions, dedicated to fields far removed from shinobi life, one that formed the administrative staff of the Daimyo and of the nobles —arithmetic, literature, calligraphy, and more. Their graduates often became advisors, scholars, or bureaucrats. Rarely merchant or artisans — the apprenticeship was more common for these professions. 

“By bringing these institutions closer together,” Hiruzen continued, “we aim to bridge the gap between civilian knowledge and shinobi expertise. Starting next term, select instructors from the Imperial Academies will teach courses at the Ninja Academy, particularly in civilian disciplines such as mathematics, history, and the newly introduced social and political sciences. Conversely, some of you will have opportunities to teach short-term seminars in the civilian academies, sharing insights into strategic thinking, discipline, and leadership that are unique to shinobi life.”

Iruka’s brow furrowed. It was an ambitious idea. The two worlds—civilian and shinobi—had always been separate, each suspicious of the other. But if done correctly, this could enrich both sides, creating a generation of shinobi who were more well-rounded and…Iruka smiled. It would make administrators and civilians from every background a lot more at ease to recruit the future "gentleman" and "adjusted" ninjas of Konoha. 

— — — 

"Again," Dove said, his voice calm and steady, like the sound of rain on stone. It was maddening.

Sasuke’s body was a wreck. Every muscle felt like it had been torn apart and stitched back together with fire. His arms shook as he pressed his palms into the dirt, forcing himself upright. His ribs ached from the repeated impacts, his legs were leaden, and his breathing was a harsh rasp, each inhale a struggle.

He had thought he knew pain. Lee’s relentless speed had left him bruised and broken. Gai’s brutal training drills had pushed him to the brink of collapse. Even the “light sparring” against the Hokage’s clone had reduced him to a gasping heap. But this… this was something else. Dove’s training wasn’t just brutal; it was systematic, tearing him apart piece by piece.

"You're getting sloppy, Sasuke," Dove said, taking a single, measured step forward. His tone wasn’t mocking—it was worse. Clinical. Uncaring. "Your stance is collapsing when you’re tired. That’s where I’ll kill you. Fix it."

Sasuke forced his legs to cooperate, dragging himself upright. His knees wobbled, but he gritted his teeth and adjusted, squaring his feet shoulder-width apart. He lowered his center of gravity, ignoring the tremors that rippled through his thighs.

“Better,” Dove said, stepping to the side, his movements fluid and precise. "But your guard’s too wide. Keep your elbows closer. If I were Itachi, you’d already be bleeding out."

The mention of Itachi sent a bolt of rage through Sasuke, and he clenched his fists, forcing his arms into position. The pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except proving that he wasn’t weak. That he could do this.

“Now stop thinking and move,” Dove snapped.

Sasuke surged forward, his fists cutting through the air with everything he had. His punches were sharp, his footwork steady—but it wasn’t enough. Dove’s forearm intercepted his first strike, redirecting it harmlessly to the side. His second punch was caught mid-air, and before Sasuke could react, Dove’s knee slammed into his stomach.

Sasuke doubled over, gasping for air, but Dove didn’t let up. A sharp jab to his shoulder sent him spinning, and a low sweep took his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, his vision swimming.

"Get up," Dove said, circling him like a predator. "Your foot placement’s wrong. You’re too flat-footed on the approach, which makes it easy to read your momentum. Stay on the balls of your feet. Think spring, not anchor. Again."

Sasuke growled, shoving himself up with trembling arms. He adjusted his feet, forcing himself to find balance. He remembered Dove’s advice—tight guard, compact movements, stay light. When he lunged again, his steps were faster, his strikes tighter. For a moment, he thought he had him. But Dove shifted like water, catching Sasuke’s wrist mid-strike and twisting it. Pain shot up his arm as Dove used the momentum to flip him onto his back. Before Sasuke could even blink, Dove’s knee pressed against his sternum, pinning him.

“You're still leading with your shoulders,” Dove said, his voice calm. “It telegraphs your movement. If I know where your power starts, I can break it before it lands. Try again.”

Sasuke glared up at him, his pride clashing with his exhaustion. His body was screaming for him to stop, but something about Dove’s voice—the unrelenting calm, the exacting precision—kept him moving. He shoved the knee off his chest and stood once more, his stance sharper than before.

He lunged again, this time feinting left before striking right. Dove blocked it, but his reaction was faster. Sasuke threw another punch, tighter, closer, and Dove raised his arm just in time. The contact sent a jolt of satisfaction through Sasuke, even as Dove’s elbow crashed into his ribs a second later, sending him sprawling.

“Better,” Dove said, stepping back. “You’re learning.”

Sasuke lay there for a moment, his chest heaving as he stared up at the sky. Every part of him ached, but beneath the pain was something else—a quiet, unfamiliar sense of satisfaction. For the first time, he wasn’t carrying everything on his own. Dove wasn’t coddling him, wasn’t pitying him. He was driving him to the edge and showing him how to survive it.

Sasuke had never felt this before—not from Kakashi, not from his clan, and certainly not from the shallow whispers of sympathy that came from those who didn’t understand what it meant to bear his name. Dove didn’t treat him like a broken child or a prodigy who needed protection. He was treated like a human, like a fellow warrior, raw and flawed but capable of being shaped into something unbreakable. And that was enough. For the first time in years, Sasuke felt something loosen inside him. He didn’t need to be perfect now. He didn’t need to carry the entire weight of the Uchiha legacy on his own shoulders. Because there was someone else here who knew what that weight felt like—and who carried it better.

As Sasuke finally pushed himself back onto unsteady legs, he glanced at Dove, the figure standing unmoving, his mask catching the last light of day. The man was relentless, merciless—and exactly what Sasuke needed. Dove embodied what the Uchiha were: powerful, sharp, and unyielding. Sasuke felt a flicker of something he hadn’t in years—respect. Not forced deference, not grudging acknowledgment. True, unshakable respect. And in that moment, as he squared his shoulders and met Dove’s gaze, Sasuke felt a small weight lift from his chest. The legacy of the Uchiha didn’t rest solely on him anymore. “Again,” he said, the word escaping through bloodied lips, steady and full of determination.