As genin, their baseline should have been D-rank, with the occasional C. Even then, they had already been forced into two B-rank missions within three months, both clearly manipulated exceptions because of the world’s tension.

That was already the maximum stretch possible. But if they became chūnin now, C-rank should have been their default in peacetime, but instead, likely B-rank would be that default due to the world situation again.

And once that baseline was set, it was nothing for Hiruzen to occasionally slip them into A-rank missions under the excuse of “urgency.” It was the perfect leash disguised as praise.

The genin stage was meant mostly for familiarity and basic learning, so it wasn’t surprising that most shinobi advanced within a few years.

Talented heirs and gifted shinobi often rose in just one. Once promoted, they became chunin, though even then they were still led by their more experienced chunin or jōnin captains.

At this stage, however, they could also start taking on more tailored missions outside their original team.

With time, they would either lead their own squads or advance to jōnin. Team stability mattered most at the genin level, when cohesion and guidance were vital for training and survival.

Later in their careers, shinobi cycled through dozens, even hundreds, of temporary or permanent groups depending on mission desk assignments, power level, or specialized skills.

Even so, Ryusei was certain the three of them would remain together for now.

After all, Okabe was a jōnin, not a chunin, and they had only just graduated. It made no sense to reshuffle or replace them this early.

The only way to advance to chunin during peacetime was through the yearly or sometimes semi-yearly Chunin Exams.

There were simply too many genin in the village, and the Hokage and administration didn’t have the time or resources to evaluate each one individually.

So the exam was the filter. It tested the basics every shinobi needed: teamwork under pressure, tactical awareness, and individual combat strength. Those who passed moved up.

But in wartime, or during tense geopolitical moments, that whole system became a luxury.

The village couldn’t wait for the ceremonies. Advancement was judged purely by results.

You performed, you survived, you got promoted. They didn’t have the time to look deeper than that.

Advancement from chunin to jōnin was different.

In peacetime, the numbers were far smaller, and it was always a matter of the Hokage and his close circle personally weighing a shinobi’s potential, strength, and record.

Who could lead, who could be trusted?

Yet once again, war shifted the rules. The fog of battle clouded everything, and with morale on the line, promotions often came down to mission merits alone.

A record of victories, the ability to keep delivering results, could push someone up to jōnin, whether or not the Hokage had been watching closely.

Ryusei was lost in thought for a few seconds, connecting all of it.

Then, hearing Shikaku’s teasing tone, he smoothed his face back into that familiar, narrow-eyed, gentle smile. His voice came out calm, polite, perfectly deferential.

“We are honored, Lord Hokage. To be recognized so early… it gives us even more reason to work harder for Konoha. Thank you for your trust.”

Hiruzen’s lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed sharp on Ryusei, as if testing every word.

The old man heard only obedience, humility, and gratitude, exactly what a loyal young shinobi should display. Outwardly, there was nothing to doubt.

Yet deep down, he felt that something about Ryusei didn’t add up.

The boy’s tone was perfect, but almost too perfect, too measured.

It reminded Hiruzen of those shinobi who smiled politely even while hiding knives in their sleeves.

For a brief second, the Hokage wondered if this boy had already begun plotting something several steps ahead of that narrow-eyed smile.

Still, he dismissed the thought behind another puff of his pipe and let his public smile soften further.

“Good. That’s the spirit I expect. Remember, Konoha rewards loyalty and effort. Carry this new rank with pride, and you’ll find the village standing firmly behind you.”

However, even if the boy had already guessed something more from the fact that the blade had already been raised against him twice now, Hiruzen didn’t care.

He still wore that same sanctimonious mask, calm and grandfatherly, as if nothing was amiss. Even if Ryusei saw through it, the Hokage didn’t take it seriously.

Ryusei caught it and, in a twisted way, even admired it. 

Both he and Hiruzen likely knew that the other was aware, yet they both kept pretending.

For someone who saw him as insignificant, an enemy to be erased, Hiruzen still measured every word, wrapped every tone in that saintly façade, harmless and grandfatherly, without a shred of open malice.

No wonder he had been the longest-standing Hokage in history, clinging to power for over four decades in the original timeline. Ryusei suspected this was the kind of man who would never let the mask slip, not even when alone with animals or trees, let alone in his own office.

Soon after, the meeting wound down with a few more minutes of Hiruzen’s empty concern, encouragement, and the usual talk of the “Will of Fire.”

He urged them to work harder in these tense times, then dismissed them on a positive note.

Outside, Shikaku personally led them to another office where their ranks were officially updated, while talking with them about varous things.

Ryusei, meanwhile, also wondered how much Shikaku Nara truly knew about Hiruzen’s real nature, or about the schemes aimed at him, as he was interacting with him.

But a man that smart couldn’t possibly be blind. Which meant he knew and chose to play along. That alone made him complicit, and Ryusei quietly marked him as another enemy.

As Chief Secretary, Shikaku was obviously trusted by Hiruzen, firmly latched onto his side, moving on the same page.

Not to mention, Ryusei remembered well how, in the original, the Sarutobi and Nara clans had an almost hereditary closeness, hinted at to predate Konoha itself.

That bond hadn’t disappeared. So to Ryusei, it was clear: the same as Hiruzen’s two formal advisors, Danzo, and the other two “vassal clans,” there was little hope for Shikaku or his entire clan to ever become neutral in his survival or climb to power. They would be enemies by default.

Afterward, they were handed new identification, briefed on their new responsibilities and benefits, and given the standard Konoha flak jackets downstairs.

When they finally stepped outside, Kanae slipped away almost immediately, clearly intent on avoiding another of Ryusei’s teasings.

As she darted off ahead like that, Renjiro suddenly let out a strange, low laugh, openly.

“Hah. She’d rather run for the hills than stay near you. Some ‘charm’ you’ve got, Ryusei.”

“Or maybe she just doesn’t want you eavesdropping.” Ryusei gave him a sidelong glance, his usual narrow-eyed grin slipping into place, 

“And at least I know how to talk to them. But you? Girls don’t exactly swoon over men who only polish swords all day. I’m honestly starting to think the Hatake style comes with a vow of celibacy.”

Renjiro blinked, caught completely off guard. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Ryusei turned away, waving lazily as he started walking off.

“Don’t worry. You’ll understand when you finally grow up.”

Renjiro stood there for a moment, his grin gone, staring after him.

Then he snorted under his breath. “…What the hell’s gotten into him?”

He also hadn’t expected Ryusei to admit it so openly. It was unlike him, but also… interesting.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep