How to Beat a Genius Before Dinner

[A/N] I woke up to find us at the top of the weekly leaderboards. That honestly blew me away, being that this story just came out last Sunday and this is my first story ever.

I have you all to thank for that. Your support, kindness, and engagement mean the world to me. I'm looking forward to continuing this journey with you all! 

Oh, and that being the case, I will release another chapter within the hour. ;)

Happy Reading!

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Satoshi Yamanaka

Genjutsu.

Highly underated, criminally misunderstood.

Most shinobi treat it like an accessory—a way to distract or confuse, flashy and overdone, but not much else. They'll use it as a prelude to some devastating ninjutsu, or to throw off opponents just long enough to deliver a kunai to the neck. 

Effective, sure. But subtle? Creative? Not so much. 

There are exceptions, of course. Future and past legends—Itachi. Shisui. The second Mizukage. 

Most other shinobi aimed for grand illusions that would leave their victims breathless, screaming, or distraught. 

Personally, I prefer a gentler touch—a whisper instead of a shout. In my opinion, that's where true genjutsu lives, in the quiet spaces between reality and what you're willing to believe. 

Take today's little spar, for example.

The genjutsu I used on Shisui wasn't a sophisticated technique. Just a throwaway, really. 

I called it Utsutsu, or False Present. 

A passive genjutsu, subtle as a breeze. It doesn't take seals; it doesn't draw on huge reserves of chakra. In fact, it's activated with nothing more than a pulse, either through touch or sound. 

I patted his shoulder as I walked to the centerfield. That was all I needed. 

A single moment of contact. Like slipping a note into someone's pocket, undetected. Shisui probably assumed I didn't care about winning the spar and that he'd sized me up with those sharp Uchiha eyes of his. 

But even a prodigy can miss the obvious when it's hidden in plain sight. 

Some might say that I cheated. And to them, I ask, are we not training to be shinobi? 

The beauty of False Present is that it remains dormant until the exact moment I want it. A delayed reaction set off by a trigger I chose. 

In Shisui's case, it was simple: the moment I raised my hand. It wasn't to ask a question, like Shisui thought, but to scratch my head. 

That subtle movement planted itself in that split-second of observation of arm movement, waiting until he let his guard down. 

And when he did? 

The whole world shifted, just slightly. Enough to bend his perception, to make him believe I asked a question, in reality, I scratched my head, and the countdown had already begun. 

And the rest was history. 

He lost, I won. 

To be expected, he is but a five-year-old boy. I'm sure he will do some self-reflection tonight—that, or the Uchiha Elder he arrived with will punish him in some abhorrent way. 

Either way, I'm sure I'll find out tomorrow. Children are quite honest when asked the right questions. 

Creating genjutsu that embodies life, sound, feeling all comes naturally to me. I can reconstruct entire worlds within my head, worlds I can place in someone else's mind as easily as breathing. 

People are just so… pliable, and chakra, magical. They're always looking for patterns, for familiar things. Feed them what they expect to see, and they'll convince themselves they're not under the influence of anything at all. 

My trick with Shisui was simple: alter his sense of time, and sequence. 

He believed he was still in reality, waiting to launch his attack. Meanwhile, I was already in place in front of him, kunai poised at his neck, watching his and the rest of the class's confusion fade to shock. 

The entire illusion was grounded in his perception of me lifting my arm. That was the trigger I'd set. 

As the illusion dissolved, I saw him blink, his eyes widening as he processed what had happened. 

I could see the pieces clicking together, the realization that he'd bene beaten before he even moved a muscle. He is a very smart child, I will give him that. 

"Looks like this is my win, Shisui," I said, not bothering to hide my smile. 

And there it was—that priceless flicker of disbelief in his eyes. I wonder how long it'll take for him to start overthinking every sparing match we have, wondering if reality itself is a genjutsu waiting to snap. 

But that's the beauty of False Present. It's not about brute force, or overpowering your opponent—those tactics don't appeal to me. 

It's about setting a stage so delicate that even the sharpest mind will miss the trap right in front of them. 

That's the kind of genjutsu I like. Quiet. Elegant. Devastating. 

After all, isn't it more satisfying to watch a genius question his own senses? 

To plant just enough doubt that he's left wondering what's real and what's not?

And for a shinobi, there's no greater weapon than the ability to make your opponent doubt the ground they're standing on. 

Anyway, enough reflection. Looks like it's time to run away from my new fan girls. 

The sound of clacking geta against the pavement and screaming girls echoed from outside the Academy walls. 

The difficulty of being handsome and talented.  

###

Later that evening, I found myself at the kitchen table, surrounded by the clan elders, my mother, and one small food gremlin—Taro, who was practically inhaling his rice. 

I was giving a rundown of my first day at the Academy, which felt odd. 

Now that I think about it, I never did this kind of thing with my own kids back… well, back then. Probably one of the many reasons they hated me. Oh well. Another story for another time. 

It's been months since I started training under all five elders, and it's been nothing short of grueling. I used to think Akira's methods were intense, but I was a fool. 

Nothing prepared me for Elder Daiki's training sessions. You don't get a face like his—scarred from temple to jaw—by being soft. 

Elder Haruto clapped a hand on my back, nearly making me spill my tea. 

"That's what I'm talking about, Satoshi!" he said, his mouth full of rice, which only made the grains cling to his beard like unintentional decoration. 

Across the table, Elder Daiki was ravaging the miso-glazed black cod like it was his first meal in years. For an old man who moves like a ghost when we spar, he sure eats like a starving bear. 

These dinners have become somewhat of a nightly ritual. 

All it took was one taste of my cooking—one sip of my tea—and now the elders seem to think I'm their personal chef. 

I was initially annoyed at the thought of cooking for eight people almost every night. Yet, there's this strange warmth that comes over me when I see them enjoying my food. 

Something internal, peaceful. 

Like I'm doing something that matters. I blame it on Joichiro's cooking talent bleeding over into me; I never used to care about things like this. 

It's led to some… interesting evenings. 

"I'm sure that fool Shinji is seething right about now," Akira said through sips of her peach tea. 

"His teeth are probably cracking from how hard he's gnashing them in anger." She let out a malevolent laugh behind her cup, which, let's be honest, is mildly terrifying. 

Over the months, I've learned the elders don't actually hate the Uchiha. 

It's more of a longstanding rivalry, like two old men arguing over a game no one remembers. Something about a lost bet… or was it an argument over sake? 

I stopped listening when Haruto started rambling about honor and loyalty. It's hard to care when he's three bowls into his rice. 

Elder Nao's beady eyes drilled into me from across the table. "I'm still amazed at how effortlessly you use False Present." He paused, the words catching in his throat. 

I assumed he didn't want to admit that a five-year-old had mastered a jutsu he struggled to learn. 

His fingers tightened around his teacup, but his eyes never left mine. 

He always does that—stares. Unnerving? Absolutely. But that's just Nao. 

Curious. Unorthodox. A little… Kooky, but not a bad guy once you get past the unsettling gaze and complete lack of personal boundaries. 

"It's not too difficult," I said, trying to keep a straight face as I watched his eyebrow twitch. "Once you get the hang of setting the trigger, the rest is easy."

"Mh-hmm…" He hummed, the irritation rolling off him in waves. 

Across the table, Taro shoved a handful of rice into his mouth, his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel storing food for winter. 

"This is soooo good!" he mumbed, bits of rice flying everywhere. "Satoshi-nii, you make the best food ever!" 

Elder Haruto, between shoveling food into his mouth and slurping his tea, nodded in agreement. 

"If there's one thing you've got a true knack for, it's cooking. Now, if only you'd placed first in that race today, we'd really have something to celebrate." He sighed, shaking his head. "But, I suppose you can't be good at everything." 

I forced my eyebrow not to twitch from his obvious sarcasm. 

Right, right. I was the one who chose to wear a kimono, and geta... Oh, and be under enhanced gravity 24/7. 

Elder Daki leaned back, crossing his arms with a slight smirk. "You must temper your body while you are young, Satoshi. Balance and body control are fundamentals of being a decent shinobi. Soon, you'll be thanking me." 

Mom set down her chopsticks, breaking through the usual chatter. "You should invite him over," she said as if this was a perfectly normal suggestion. 

I looked up from my cod, raising an eyebrow. 

"Don't give me that look," she said, her tone halfway between a scold and a sigh. "He sounds like someone you could be friends with. It's about time you had a friend," she returned to eating but as the food was about to enter her mouth, she quickly added, "Your own age, that is." 

I pursed my lips, then went back to my food. 

It wasn't a terrible idea, I suppose. Meeting Shisui had been a pleasant surprise. I'd had a rough sense of the timeline, but seeing him in the Academy's courtyard helped solidify it. 

We're the same age, both five. But his life, in this world I only know secondhand, is already filled with tragedy. 

Born and bred to serve the Village, he'll be dragged through the mud of clan politics and the looming coup d'état. 

He'll do everything he can to protect the Village, only to meet an end that's as selfless as it is senseless, a pawn sacrificed by greedy, decrepit old men clinging to their power. 

He deserved better. 

Hell, he could've been one of the strongest shinobi if he hadn't died so young. Unlocking the Mangekyo Sharingan before turning ten, a jōnin by eleven. Maybe even more talented than Itachi. Shisui wanted a world of peace. A clan united, not torn apart by fear and hatred. 

I'm going to make sure he lives long enough to see that world. The world he dreamed of, the clan he wanted. 

That, I promise. 

"I'll invite him over for dinner tomorrow," I said, which got me a smile from mom and a scoff from Haruto, who is probably still nursing a grudge from that ancient clan bet. 

Akira chimed in, setting her teacup down with a quiet clink. "Speaking of tomorrow, don't forget we're meeting at the hospital after school. You'll be starting your medical training." 

She fixes me with one of her piercing looks. "Don't expect to be learning any fancy medical jutsu. You'll start at the bottom. That means doing everything they tell you to do. Sweeping floors, fetching supplies, cleaning bodily fluids—every menial task you can think of." 

I nodded, hiding my smile. The thought of returning to a hospital, even in a world like this, felt strangely… grounding. 

Back on Earth, hospitals were where I found purpose, peace, even a sense of control. Here, it's just another training ground, but it's a familar one. 

"Understood." 

Elder Masary spoke next, "The homework I assigned you. Have you completed your analysis?" 

I stifled a sigh, realizing I'd left it in the living room. I got up, padding over to grab the thick stack of papers I'd spent most of the week working on. 

I returned to the table and handed them to Masaru, who flipped through the pages with his usual meticulous attention. 

Each elder teaches me something different. 

Akira has been drilling me in chakra control, fuinjutsu, and basic medical knowledge. 

Haruto teaches me the nuances of clan politics, how to control my expressions like a good little Yamanaka, and how to lie convincingly. 

He calls it "social warfare." As the clan heir, it's not enough to be proficient out in the field; I have to be able to navigate the political undercurrents, too. 

Nao is in charge of ninjutsu, genjutsu, and our clan techniques. 

We theory-craft together, developing new concepts. I've learned some basic Wind Release techniques from him, and I'm currently working on creating a new wind-based jutsu and another genjutsu that I'm pretty excited about. 

It takes me longer to learn ninjutsu than genjutsu or the clan's mind jutsu. Not by much, but enough to be noticeable. 

Nao calls it "a minor inefficiency." 

Elder Daiki oversees my physical conditioning. 

He has me practicing taijutsu, shurikenjutsu, and even how to use wires and senbon. According to him, a true shinobi isn't worth "jack shit" if they can't pick up any weapon and use it proficiently. 

"On the battlefield, you use what you've got, and sometimes that's your enemy's weapon," he likes to say. 

And then there's Masaru. 

Strategy, tactics, and every possible scenario he can think of. 

He's assigned me complex problems to solve—like last week's homework, where I had to devise a series of battle formations and contingency plans in the event of an ambush by an enemy force double our size with limited supplies and dwindling morale. 

I had to write out my primary strategy and then follow it up with two backup plans in case the first one failed. That assignment alone took three sleepless nights.

Masaru thumbed through my homework, his expression giving away nothing. He set the papers down with a sigh. 

"Your primary plan is… rudimentary. It lacks depth, Satoshi. Tact. You're relying too much on the obvious. Anyone with a brain would see through this by the second move." 

Haruto hissed. "Oof. Burn." 

I kept my face neutral. Masaru's expectations of me are the highest out of the group. He demands something higher than perfection at all times. 

"Understood, Masaru-sama," I replied. Guess I wasted three sleepless nights of work.

"We'll discuss this further next week. I want you to rework these plans before we meet again. Start thinking less like a shinobi and more like a strategist. Every move you make should have at least three consequences. Consider how your enemies will adapt, and then how you'll counter that adaption." He slid the papers back towards me. 

"I'm training you to anticipate every possible scenario. Don't let me see another submission this… predictable." 

Akira let out a soft chuckle, taking a sip of her tea. "Try not to crush the boy's spirit all at once, Masaru. Leave some for the rest of us." 

"If his spirit breaks, he's not meant for this life." 

I gave her a slight nod and transmitted, [Don't worry, Akira-sama. My spirits intact.]  

She nodded, then leaned back, tapping her chopsticks against her bowl. 

Ever since Whisper had been distributed among the clan, silent conversations like this had become the norm.

Two Yamanaka could sit in utter silence, but beneath the surface, they might be sharing a full-blown discussion, strategic or otherwise, all in the privacy of the genjutsu. 

Word around the Village is that Whisper has been a game-changer in the war, skyrocketing the clan's prestige. 

Of course, no one knows that I created it—yet. The clan decided to keep that little detail under wraps. No need to paint a target on my back that we're not ready to handle. Anonymity and me? BFF's. 

Haruto cleared his throat, shoving back from the table. "Alright, kid, we'll be heading out. But tomorrow night, we expect those—what did you call 'em? Ham-bugger things?" 

"Hambur-gers," I corrected. 

"Right, right—hambuggeries," he repeated, then slapped my back with a hand that felt like a sledgehammer. 

"Looking forward to it. We're in for a feast if they're anything like that miso cod." 

Daki merely gave a nod. "See you tomorrow, Satoshi. And don't hold back on the meat." 

Nao rose next, adjusting his glasses with a frown that looked more thoughtful than irritated for once. "Yes… bring on the hambu-gruel," 

Akira-sensei rolled her eyes, muttering. "Idiots, the lot of you." 

Last to leave was Masaru, who gave me one last look, tapping a finger against the table. 

My days feel like they stretch on forever, but surprisingly, I enjoy them. I enjoy this. 

I stood up, helping Mom clear the table. 

It was time to figure out the best way to invite a five-year-old to dinner.

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[A/N] As I said, another chapter will be coming out within the hour. Just have to run it through grammerly.