This kid is a real genius.
After watching Maki's match, the fear she instilled had left the Third Hokage disinterested in the remaining competitions. He only glanced at them occasionally, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
The Third Hokage wasn't unfamiliar with the Aburame Clan of the Hidden Leaf. But what Maki had just displayed—at her age—was comparable to the techniques of a full-fledged jōnin from her clan.
Due to the nature of their symbiotic relationship with insects, there were no major differences in the quality of bugs among Aburame members. So to show that kind of power… Maki's current strength was on par with a jōnin.
But how old was she?
And more puzzling—she hadn't even formed a proper hand seal. Though she did make a one-handed sign, it was sloppy, as if just for show. With the sharp eyes of a seasoned ninja, the Third could tell it was more of a formality than a necessity.
She wasn't hiding her talent—she was flaunting it.
The Third had never seen anything like it, not even among the Aburame elite. It reminded him of the First Hokage, who could shape chakra with a clap of his hands and perform incredible feats. Not even the Second could match that level of instinctual mastery.
Coming from someone known as the "Professor of Ninjutsu," this was shocking.
He had heard of the Aburame Clan's techniques—classified broadly under Yang Release—but because of how secretive they were, he never truly grasped the details. Even so, what he saw today raised countless questions.
How did this little girl do it? He could only sigh in awe.
She really is a genius. Incredible.
Meanwhile, Maki stood on the sidelines watching the next group of children fight. Part of her attention remained on her insects. Her eyes, however, flicked to the corpses of bugs scattered across the field—dead remnants of her last attack.
They were spread out like a dark carpet.
Still too weak, she thought.
Parasitic insects.
Crushed to death. No matter how dangerous they were, they were still bugs—and bugs could be squashed. Even children could crush one with a finger.
Although ferocious in swarms, individually they were vulnerable. Strength and durability were not their selling points. Their true danger lay in suicidal swarm tactics.
There are four main types of attacks used by parasitic insects.
The first is chakra absorption — their most basic and essential ability.
The second is physical damage through cutting and chewing with their powerful jaws.
These insects have highly complex mouthparts. Along with large mandibles for tearing, their inner tongue, outer jaw lobes, and lower lip work together to form a specialized feeding tube used to siphon chakra.
This combination creates a chewing-and-sucking mechanism.
Typically, they tear open the skin to create an entry wound, burrow into the subcutaneous tissue, and continue feeding by damaging tissue and drawing chakra as they move.
Naturally, this process is extremely painful.
The third method of attack involves raising body temperature and forming a swarm ball to literally cook the target to death. Once the insects form the ball, they begin absorbing chakra to increase their own heat. In the enclosed space of the swarm, the temperature can rise to over 40°C (104°F) within ten seconds — enough to cause heatstroke and unconsciousness.
In extreme cases, the temperature can reach nearly 60°C (140°F), which is hot enough to begin cooking flesh and even kill the insects themselves from the heat. Under such closed conditions, the resulting burns can be as lethal as a Fire Release technique.
The fourth method is the most brutal — suffocation.
The swarm clusters tightly to block air circulation. Insects rush to any available opening in the target's body, especially the lower body and head, invading through the mouth, nose, and ears. A mass of them floods the throat, sealing off both the trachea and esophagus. Combined with the sealed swarm ball, this leads to a rapid and excruciating death by asphyxiation.
Typically, members of the Aburame clan use only one or two of these attack types in battle. It's not a matter of skill, but of chakra efficiency.
Controlling insects requires chakra. The larger the swarm or the more complex the commands, the higher the chakra cost — because communication between host and insect relies entirely on chakra.
But for Maki, this burden hardly exists.
She can execute all four attack methods simultaneously, fully maximizing the swarm's lethality — with barely any strain.
This is why her insect swarms are abnormally large. Most of the chakra required to maintain and command them simply isn't consumed the usual way.
However, that doesn't mean Maki is at jounin-level strength.
The Aburame clan teaches a crucial principle: balance the number of insects with available chakra. Part of your chakra should go into raising and maintaining the swarm, but most should be reserved for combat. Raising too many insects weakens endurance and reduces overall combat effectiveness.
But Maki, as always, is an exception.
The larger the insect swarm, the stronger it becomes. Maki doesn't need to conserve chakra for combat—she can dedicate nearly all of it to raising and controlling her insects. That alone gives her a tremendous advantage.
By contrast, most members of the Aburame clan only increase their swarm when their standard number of insects has been depleted. After all, raising new insect eggs doesn't cost chakra, but maintaining and commanding an active swarm does.
In truth, most Aburame aren't considered particularly strong on their own. Their effectiveness is often limited by how many insects they can deploy in battle. Maki's swarm, however, fights just as well as any clan member's—perhaps even better.
And yet, what she showed just now was only one facet of the parasitic insects' abilities. She hadn't even come close to revealing their full terror.
The aftermath of a full-scale parasitic attack is nightmarish. The corpses they leave behind are mutilated, drained, and grotesque.
Tsunade lost because she lacked a jutsu capable of wide-area damage—like a Fire Release technique. Pure taijutsu is at a severe disadvantage against a swarm. If she'd had a broader attack method, she might not have been overwhelmed so quickly—or at least could have held her own for a little longer.
Maki actually felt a bit disappointed.
She glanced over at Tsunade.
The girl was now squatting by herself at the edge of the field, knees pulled to her chest, completely silent.
Her body was still covered in the slimy fluids and fragments left by the parasitic insects—an unpleasant mix of biological waste and dead tissue that gave off a subtle, sickly smell.
The child looked utterly broken.
Beneath her mask, Maki's lips curled into a faint smile. It was a satisfying end to her performance.
The rest of the battle exams continued. Realistically, this kind of test shouldn't even be happening at this stage. Kids from civilian backgrounds, with no prior training, had no chance to show anything meaningful. They needed time—weeks or months of instruction—to begin unlocking their potential.
Then, a test like this would actually be useful to measure talent.
From Maki's perspective, this test was poorly timed and badly designed. If the Fourth Hokage brought his wife here now, she'd be dismissed immediately—overlooked before she even had a chance.
Besides, early results don't mean everything. Just look at Guy and his father. Some talents take time to reveal themselves.
This whole setup—its timing, the eyes watching from the shadows—made it clear. Someone wanted to see something.
But what?
Was it just to observe the students' potential?
The Third Hokage...
Maki looked at Tsunade again. Was this the quiet wish of an old man, hoping for a prodigy?
If so, she'd happily play the part.
Now was the perfect time to establish herself as a genius.
There were only benefits—recognition, attention, resources—and no danger yet. Danzo hadn't become the dangerous extremist he would later become.
The match concluded. Maki turned her eyes to the field.
It was time to focus.
Because Uchiha Naori was stepping in.
And there's a saying Maki firmly believed:
"A true genius shows themselves by the age of three."
The real ones? They've always been different—right from the start.
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