Naruto: Reincarnated As Azula, From The Same Generation As The Sannin Chapter 12: How Azula Started a Toddler Cult

(Seriously thought, if you were to be reincarnated in the Naruto World with your mory, how would you get along with these bunch of weird toddlers whom you have different ideology?)

.......

Five whole days. That's how long the Ninja Academy had managed to maintain a fragile, whisper-thin veneer of 'calm' since Tsukiyo shuffled off this mortal coil.

The oppressive, soul-sucking cloud of depression had lifted... slightly.

Tsunade had actually shown up today, which was a minor miracle roughly equivalent to finding an Uchiha smiling.

But still, the legendary Princess resembled a deflated party balloon more than her usual whirlwind self.

The Academy's resident gaggle of tiny humans (ages 5–6, experts in mud pies and questionable nose-picking techniques) had valiantly tried to cheer her up.

Their efforts mostly involved offering slightly squashed dango and explaining death using complex theories involving lost toys and maybe needing a really long nap. Deep philosophical waters? They were barely paddling in the wading pool of existential understanding.

But Azula couldn't spare a single, solitary crap about the toddler symposium on 'The aning of Life (and Where Did Uncle Toshi Go?)'.

To her finely tuned Uchiha intellect, this whole charade was just Konoha's patented brand of subtle brainwashing—'Toddler Indoctrination Hour', sponsored by the Will of Fire™.

'Seriously,' she ntally scoffed, ticulously arranging tiny scrolls within her larger one. 'What does a creature whose primary life experience involves mastering the art of the sticky booger possibly know about cosmic purpose? Although children in this world are mature, even Hashirama and Madara once competed over who could pee farther. Now these children barely grasp why stealing Shikoku's cloud-watching spot is bad form!'

Yet, here was Konoha, shoving profound questions at them like they were handing out free ran samples. The inevitable conclusion, spoon-fed by earnest, teary-eyed Ninja? "Why, little Genin-to-be, the sparkling, one-and-only aning of life is to joyfully beco a human shuriken for the village! Sacrifice! No questions! Just pure, unadulterated loyalty! It's what Hashirama would have wanted! Now, who wants a shiny forehead protector?"

It was enough to make her eyes itch.

After a month of ticulous plotting, covert ink-stained days, and battling the urge to set her own project on fire out of sheer artistic frustration due to boringness, Azula's work was finally ready.

"Project: Demon Slayer"—over 100 painstakingly 'colored' issues—nestled safely within her scroll.

This wasn't just storage; it was a pocket dinsion specifically calibrated for manga convenience. Take that, Tenten's boring weapon scrolls.

A flicker of sothing alien—nervousness?—danced in Azula's gut. It felt disturbingly similar to the ti she tried convincing her mother that explosive tag origami was a valid art form.

Here she was, poised to unleash a graphic novel tsunami upon a classroom of semi-literate ankle-biters. 'Corrupting the youth with tales of water-breathing swordsn and tragic backstories?'

Her unusual stillness hadn't gone unnoticed. Instead of imdiately diving into her usual intricate doodles of schematics or suspiciously drawing like usual, Azula sat rigidly, clutching her scroll like it contained state secrets.

Her eyes scanned the room with unusual intensity. She could hear their whisper-like voices. 'Why's Azula not drawing but looking intensely at her scroll?' 'Is the scroll… glowing?' 'Did she finally snap?'

Azula sighed internally. 'Friendship. With these… creatures.'

The sheer effort required felt like scaling a mountain made of soggy ran noodles. But her grand plan demanded it. The path to power, it seed, was paved with forced social interaction and distributing pulp fiction.

Taking a breath that felt suspiciously like steeling herself for battle, Azula Uchiha did the unthinkable. In front of the entire, suddenly silent class, the girl known for her impenetrable bubble of aloofness turned to her desk neighbor.

"Ayane," Azula stated. Ayane, a quiet civilian girl perpetually hovering on the fringes of the class's chaotic social ecosystem much like Azula herself, blinked. Slowly, like an owl surprised by a sudden spotlight.

Azula pulled out a stack of roughly 50 vibrantly colored comics from her scroll (dinsionally convenient!). "Um... Ayane," she repeated, the unfamiliar request tasting strange. "Can you help distribute these to the class?"

Ayane stared at the proffered stack, then at Azula's face, searching for signs of possession by a mischievous spirit.

Finding none, she simply gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod—the universal language of the introvert acknowledging a necessary, if baffling, task.

She took half the stack, staggering slightly under the unexpected weight. 'This is serious business.'

The classroom watched, utterly spellbound, as the Academy's Twin Towers of Silence began their mission.

Azula moved with Uchiha precision down one aisle, Ayane with quiet determination down the other. The rustle of pages and the soft thump of comics hitting desks were the only sounds.

Chaos, however, is never far behind silence. Jiraiya (age 6, future super-perv) received his copy directly from Azula.

As she placed it on his desk, her gaze lingered for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary—likely because she was ntally calculating how quickly he'd misinterpret this.

He puffed out his tiny chest, a slow, goofy grin spreading across his face. "She looked at ! Like, REALLY looked! It's happening! The Uchiha Princess has fallen for my... uh... devastating charm and superior nose-blowing technique! Destiny!"

His brain was already drafting terrible haikus in her honor.

anwhile, high in the rafters, an Anbu operative codenad 'Weasel' nearly choked on his own spit.

"Uchiha initiating contact? Distributing unknown materials?!"

Faster than you could say 'Will of Fire', he lted into the shadows, a streak of panic heading straight for the Hokage Tower.

The Hokage needed to know: the quiet Uchiha girl was distributing... 'colorful pamphlets'. The horror! The sheer, unadulterated, potentially subversive horror!

Well, none of the students—not even the almighty Azula Uchiha—had the faintest idea about the soap opera unraveling inside the Anbu's head, even if they were sohow aware of his existence.

Then again, this was an ANBU operative we're talking about.

And if 'ANBU' doesn't imdiately make you think 'ntally stable', you clearly haven't been paying attention.

These people are walking PTSD in black pajamas. They've seen things. Horrible things. Like a certain underground love story between two higher-ups.

So yeah, one or two loose screws is expected, and three or four is just professional standard.

Anyway.

The mont Azula handed out the mysterious manga, her classmates pounced on it like starved wolves discovering ran coupons.

This was no ordinary doodlebook. Azula had spent more than an entire month drawing this since the start of the Academy.

A whole month of eye-straining, ink-stained, eraser-dust-covered blood, sweat, and possibly the tears of a civilian supply vendor who sold her discounted pencils. It had to be important, right?

Wrong. Because just as the first few students reached page three—right around when it started getting juicy—a wild chik—ahem, teacher appeared.

Teacher Shimura. A man whose na just so happens to match that of a certain other Shimura. You know, the one who looks like a boiled raisin and calls paranoia 'a leadership skill'.

Now, Azula, being the suspicious ball of genius and fire that she is, would've definitely raised an eyebrow at this guy's sudden appearance in the teaching scene—if Danzo hadn't only beco Hokage's advisor a year ago.

Any earlier, and she'd have bet her favorite kunai that this teacher got hired because the darkness of Konoha found his na aesthetically pleasing.

But alas, Teacher Shimura had been teaching for five years. And he was a Chunin. Which, in Konoha's ranking system, ans: just good enough to die for the village, but not cool enough to get your own tragic backstory flashback.

Still, give the man credit. His ANBU-level instincts imdiately zeroed in on the suspicious books everyone in the room—except Azula, who was playing it cool like the author of Death Note—was holding.

He wanted to snatch one. You could see it in his eyes. The raw, burning curiosity. The sa look you give when soone opens a group chat and types 'I can't believe what just happened'.

But alas, being a teacher ant maintaining dignity. Especially when teaching a class that contained not one, but two heirs of the biggest clans in the Shinobi world. So he cleared his throat, summoning the power of Authority Mode™.

"Ahem. Okay everyone, class is starting."

Instant regret spread like wildfire. The students, still holding their unread comics like forbidden scrolls, could practically hear their dreams of plot twists and secret pairings being thrown out the window.

But nobody dared defy him. After all, this was the sa man whose 'Punch of Love' technique had earned him the nickna Shimura the Bruiser among the previous graduating class.

And let's be real—nobody wants to get uppercutted into next week for trying to sneak a peek at a book.

Seeing them obediently tuck the books away brought a twisted smile to Shimura's lips. The joy of scaring toddlers who might outrank you in five years: pure serotonin.

"Today," he announced with all the dramatic flair of a reality show host, "the Academy will be testing your practical skills and overall progress since you joined."

The reaction was imdiate. The class lit up like fireworks on festival night.

Finally. Finally! A chance to throw kunai, kick things, and maybe beat up that one annoying kid who always talks during lunch.

Anything—anything—was better than sitting through another lecture about Konoha's 'great Will of Fire' that sounded suspiciously like cult propaganda, well, to Azula at least.

This test wasn't so random surprise. It was tradition—established by none other than the Second Hokage himself, whose hobbies included...

According to this brilliant system, exactly one month into Academy life, every student—civilian or clan-born—gets tested to see where their talents lie.

You learn the basics: shuriken throwing, elentary taijutsu, maybe a little jutsu, which has a 1/100000 chance of happening if you're feeling fancy.

Then your current skills are compared to your entrance level. From that, the Academy tries to figure out: 'Hey, is this kid future Hokage material, or future Chunin Exam cannon fodder?'

Of course, for clan kids, the test is mostly decorative. Their parents already have a much simpler evaluation tric: 'Did you awaken the Kekkei Genkai yet?'

No? You didn't unlock your Sharingan? Or your Byakugan? Not even a basic bloodline limit like… I don't know, stretchy ears? Then sorry, sweetie. You're officially a disappointnt. Better luck in your next life.

Among the Uchiha, the situation was even worse. If you didn't awaken your Sharingan by age ten, you were practically a ghost.

Nobody cared if you had talent in genjutsu, fuinjutsu, or the secret art of interpretive dance—you didn't have red eyes, so you didn't matter.

anwhile, Teacher Shimura clapped once and barked, "You've got five minutes to get ready and et at the playground. Anyone late will be marked as having failed the test."

And with that final, ominous line—delivered with the enthusiasm of soone who just canceled Christmas—he turned and left the classroom like a man with zero regrets.

The students stared at each other for a beat. Then chaos.

Shoes were grabbed. Toy headbands were adjusted. A student almost tripped over another in a rush to tie their wooden kunai pouch properly. One poor soul tried stuffing a sandwich into his shuriken holster out of pure panic.

(END OF THE CHAPTER)

Sorry, sorry! I literally voyaged more than 1,000 km over the past few days, and even now I'm still too tired. I hope you can vote and maybe leave so reviews. With my ADHD, I kind of obsess over having more reviews than chapters. Those who understand that kind of obsession—thank you.