Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 61

Patrol duty turned out to be exactly as exciting as watching paint dry.

Which is to say, not exciting at all.

The eastern perimeter stretched out like someone had decided to draw a line in the dirt. Trees on one side, more trees on the other side, and occasionally some rocks just to break up the monotony. We moved through it all at what they called standard patrol speed. That's what they called it, anyway. What it actually meant was fast enough that civilians would be impressed, slow enough that your legs didn't hate you by hour three. We hopped from branch to branch like we were getting paid by the kilometer. Which we weren't.

I took up the rear because someone had to, and it might as well be me.

Nothing happened for the first hour. Then nothing continued to happen for the second hour. It was peaceful enough to make you wonder why anyone bothered with patrols in the first place, except we all knew the moment you stopped checking was when everything went to hell.

Around the third hour, the guy with the scar started complaining about the heat. The other one agreed, adding something about his boots giving him blisters. They started chatting about whatever popped into their heads, just two guys trying to pass the time without losing their minds to boredom.

That's when Yuhi stopped walking.

"Enough."

Both chunin shut up immediately.

Yuhi turned around, his expression flat. "This is a patrol, not a social gathering. Maintain focus."

"Yes, sir," they both said, snapping to attention like they'd been slapped.

The rest of the patrol got really quiet after that. Awkwardly quiet. Everyone was thinking about saying something but nobody actually did because breaking it feels worse than enduring it.

We kept going. Yuhi's back stayed rigid. The two chunin looked like they wanted to sink into the ground.

About an hour before we finished, Yuhi decided to give us a speech. Or rather, multiple mini-speeches. He stopped, turned to face us, and locked eyes with the scarred one first.

"A shinobi's patrol isn't just about walking the perimeter," he said. "Every step we take protects those sleeping safely inside these walls. The Will of Fire demands constant vigilance, because the moment we grow complacent is the moment the village becomes vulnerable."

The scarred chunin nodded seriously. "Yes, sir."

Then Yuhi turned to the squinting one. Same routine. Eye contact, mini-speech, something about how proper patrol rotation ensures no blind spots and how each section we cover could mean the difference between detecting a threat early or responding too late. He nodded with the same serious expression.

Finally, Yuhi's gaze landed on me. And I could tell he was about to launch into another one. "The strength of our defense lies not in dramatic battles, but in these quiet hours walking the walls. Every patrol completed without incident is a success. Remember that your attentiveness here, even on a peaceful night, reflects on all of us. The Will of Fire burns brightest in those who guard it without glory."

He finished, looking at me.

"Got it," I said. "Stay alert, check everything, boring patrols are good patrols."

His eye twitched slightly, but he didn't push it. Just gave me a long look before turning back around and resuming the patrol.

By the time we got back to the outpost, I'd figured out exactly what kind of person Yuhi was.

The typical brainwashed shinobi who really, genuinely bought into the whole Will of Fire. Not that there was anything wrong with loyalty, but there was a difference between being loyal and being unable to think for yourself. Yuhi struck me as the latter. Someone who'd follow orders even if those orders made zero sense, because questioning authority meant questioning the system, and questioning the system was basically heresy.

Yeah. That guy.

I signed off on the patrol report, watched Yuhi march away with his back still straight, and decided I needed to do something productive before my brain melted from boredom.

…….

The clearing near the stream was quiet. Peaceful, even. Water burbled over rocks, birds did their thing in the trees, and nobody was around to give speeches about the Will of Fire.

Perfect.

I dropped into position and started with one-arm push-ups. Left arm first, two hundred reps, then switched to the right for another two hundred. The movement was so familiar at this point I barely had to think about it anymore, just let my body go through the motions. Down, up, down, up. The burn kicked in eventually, settled into my arms like it was supposed to. That was the whole point, really.

After eight hundred total reps, I shifted to one-arm handstands. Right arm first. Two minutes. Easy enough, I'd been doing this since I was nine.

Left arm. Two minutes. Still easy.

Then came the interesting part.

Five fingers. Weight spread across my whole hand, which honestly wasn't that different from the full palm. Two minutes per side.

Four fingers. Thumb tucked in like it was trying to avoid responsibility. Which, fair. Two and a half minutes each.

Three fingers. Index, middle, ring doing all the work while pinky sat there being useless. Three minutes per arm, and okay, now we were getting somewhere. That familiar burn starting to show up.

Two fingers. Just the big ones—index and middle. Because I liked my hands functional, thanks.

Three and a half minutes each side. Forearms officially complaining now.

One finger at a time. Started with the middle—longest, most stable. Four minutes. Then index—slightly shorter, different angle, had to adjust my weight distribution. Another four minutes. Ring finger next—awkward angle but doable. Four more minutes. Each finger had its own personality, its own way of handling the load.

Switched arms. Same routine. Middle, index, ring. Four minutes each.

Twelve minutes per arm. Twenty-four minutes total.

By the end, my arms were shaking.

Which meant it was working.

I dropped back down and went into explosive clap push-ups. The three-clap variation—behind, front, behind. Had to get enough height to fit all three in before landing.

Two hundred reps. One, two, three... fifteen...

Somewhere around there, my mind started wandering.

That fucking plant thing.

The problem with having memories from a past life, timelines being what they are—is that you end up with an incomplete picture of things that haven’t happened yet. Like trying to remember a movie you watched half-asleep at three in the morning, you remember the important parts, the twist, the villain, the parts that made you go, “oh shit.”

But the details were fuzzy.

Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five...

What I did remember was that Zetsu was surveillance. Black Zetsu especially. That thing had been playing the long game for centuries. Manipulating the Uchiha, rewriting history, probably watching Nagato right now from some tree, or underground, or whatever the hell plant-people do.

And if I was going to get anywhere, I needed to start by tracing the surveillance.

Thirty-one, thirty-two...

The issue was detection. Or lack thereof.

Zetsu could phase through solid matter. Could merge with plants, earth, basically anything organic. Even sensor-types couldn't track it properly, something about its chakra signature being weird. Too plant-like. Too... I don't know.

And I wasn't a sensor.

Not even close.

My chakra control was good, great even, but sensing? That was a whole different skill set. You either had the talent or you didn't, and apparently Jiraiya's genes decided to skip that particular ability when they were putting me together.

Thanks, old man.

Forty-seven, forty-eight...

So capturing Zetsu through conventional means was out. Couldn't track it. Couldn't sense it. Couldn't exactly walk up to Nagato and ask if he'd noticed any suspicious plants hanging around lately.

But here's the thing.

If I could get my hands on even a piece of White Zetsu, and yeah I was pretty sure there was more than one of those things running around, I might be able to harvest some Hashirama cells. The show had been vague about it, but Zetsu was made from that stuff, wasn't it? Or connected to it somehow.

The problem was, how was I supposed to track something even specialists couldn’t find?

Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five.

So I needed a workaround. Some way to detect the undetectable. Fuinjutsu, maybe?

Minato—future Hokage Minato, anyway—had the ultimate cheat code for Uzumaki seal techniques. Married into the clan. Learned directly from Kushina, probably got teachings from Mito before she died, might've even visited Uzushiogakure before it got wiped off the map. All those containment seals, the death god thing, whatever other nasty fuinjutsu the Uzumaki had developed.

By the time he became Hokage, the guy would have access to serious seal work.

And if he could learn it, so could I.

Eventually.

Everything circled back to fuinjutsu.

Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.

Issue was, I wasn't a fuinjutsu expert. I knew the basics, could handle standard storage scrolls, explosive tags and exploding clones, but designing a fuinjutsu to trap an S-rank threat? That was way beyond my pay grade.

Which meant I needed to talk to someone who actually knew what they were doing. Someone with serious seal knowledge.

One hundred forty-one. One hundred forty-two.

The obvious answer was Uzushiogakure. They had experts. Lots of them. The whole village was basically a fuinjutsu research facility with houses attached. But showing up as some random chunin asking for advanced sealing techniques? Yeah, no. They'd send me packing before I finished my introduction.

Unless I brought someone with actual credentials.

Kushina.

She was Uzumaki, had connections there, knew the right people. If anyone could help me get access to advanced sealing technology, it'd be her. Plus, she'd probably be thrilled to show me around her homeland, introduce me to her family, make a whole thing out of it.

One hundred eighty-six. One hundred eighty-seven.

Assuming I could convince her to—

Whoosh.

Instinct kicked in before thought did. I pushed off with my arm and threw myself sideways, and something fast and heavy demolished the air where my head used to be.

BOOM.

The ground exploded. Literally. Dirt and grass and chunks of earth flew everywhere as a crater formed exactly where I'd been doing my handstand push-ups.

I landed on a tree branch, and looked down at the crater.

Tsunade stood at the crater, looking up at me with that expression she got when she was trying not to smile.

"One hundred eighty-seven reps," I called down. "You interrupted me at one hundred eighty-seven. I was going for two hundred."

She brushed some dirt off her sleeve. "Not bad, actually. Most people don't dodge the first hit."

"Most people have normal teachers."

"And you're so grateful for that, aren't you?" She hopped out of the crater, landing on solid ground with barely a sound. "Though if you'd really been paying attention, you would've sensed me coming from farther away."

"I did sense you," I said, dropping down from the branch. "I just wanted to see how close you'd get before attacking."

"Liar."

"Completely true."

"You're full of shit, Shinji."

"That too."

She snorted, shaking her head. "Come on. If you've got energy left for handstand, you've got energy for real training."

I glanced back at the crater she'd made. "Does real training involve you trying to kill me?"

"Only if you're lucky."

"My definition of lucky might be different from yours."

"Too bad." She started walking toward a flatter section of the clearing. "Now stop complaining and get over here. We're working on your combat awareness today."

I followed, already resigned to whatever fresh hell she had planned.

Starting that day, Tsunade called it “sparring.”

She said it so casually, too. Like she wasn’t about to commit a series of acts that, in any other country, would be classified under attempted murder.

The first day, I made the mistake of thinking blocking was an option.

You know, basic taijutsu logic. Fists come at you, you block. Easy.

Except something deep in my spine, some leftover animal reflex older than reason, started screaming to move.

And before I even realized it, my body had already moved on its own.

I shifted and let the wind of her punch brush past my face like a passing train that had forgotten to stop at the station.

The ground behind me exploded.

Not cracked. Not dented. Exploded.

A small crater where my torso used to be standing.

I blinked at it, then at her, then at the perfectly ordinary smile on her face.

Like she hadn’t just tried to teach me geology through personal experience.

“That,” she said, “was my super strength.”

Yeah.

And that was my survival instinct, earning its paycheck for once.

Tsunade called it “a good start.”

I called it “pure reflex.”

Same difference.

By the second day, she began mixing things up—super strength, no strength, half strength, maybe strength.

It was like fighting a slot machine that could punch you through a mountain.

But unfortunately for her, I had a pretty good sense of when to block and when to move.

Call it instinct. Or maybe self-preservation.

After a while, I started thinking, doesn’t that basically make her super strength pretty useless against me?

That was my mistake, thinking anything she did could ever be called useless.

Because right after that thought crossed my mind, she smiled.

Not a “good job” smile.

But the smile of someone who’d already decided pain was part of the lesson.

She did ‘something’—I don’t even know what, but the air folded, the ground cracked, and my body decided to dodge half a second too late.

The shockwave still caught me.

I didn’t die, but I felt like my skeleton briefly considered it.

I staggered back. “What the hell was that?”

“There’s always a talented yet cocky shinobi,” she said, brushing dust off her shoulder. “They rely too much on instinct and reflex.”

“That’s not fair,” I said. “Instinct and reflex have been treating me really well so far.”

She tilted her head, smiling like a teacher grading a wrong answer she secretly found entertaining.

“Not anymore, it hasn’t.”

I glared. She laughed.

And then, just like that, training continued, me dodging slightly later, her smiling slightly wider.

Unfortunately, no matter how much I asked or prodded, she never gave a clear answer.

Just said, “Figure it out on your own,” like enlightenment was something that could be tripped over between punches.

By the third day, Tsunade stopped holding back, and I stopped pretending that dodging was enough.

The first exchange didn’t even start with a warning. One second we were standing under the pines, and the next the air detonated.

Her fist came first, my body followed its own orders, sliding in, parrying low, twisting my shoulder to cut her power line in half.

Her heel cut across like thunder chasing lightning.

I ducked, pivoted, let the kick tear bark from the tree behind me. The trunk folded like paper.

Our movements blurred, sharp edges of light and shadow flashing between us.

Palm met wrist, knee met thigh, every contact sending out bursts of dirt and chakra dust.

To anyone watching, it probably looked like two ghosts beating each other through the clearing.

To me, it was math at the speed of instinct—angles, weight, timing, every strike solving and rewriting itself mid-motion.

She moved like gravity had favorites.

I moved like I’d memorized the rules and was rewriting them on the fly.

When her breath hitched and her shoulders dipped a fraction lower, something in me screamed to move.

I jumped to the nearest tree, her fist missing my face before slamming into the ground

The earth split. Shockwave.

I felt my ribs protest, my organs rearrange their seating chart.

Hands blurred through seals before my feet even touched the ground—Kage Bunshin no Jutsu.

Two clones burst out, filling the gaps in my rhythm.

One went high, the other low, both diving into the chaos she left behind.

Tsunade met them like she’d been expecting company.

A heel swept through the upper clone—gone in smoke.

The second caught her elbow and redirected it, using her own momentum to twist her sideways.

For half a second, she was open.

I took it.

I dropped from the tree, angling my fall to glide into her blind spot.

I drew a breath, chakra swelling in my chest, shaping heat behind my teeth.

Gōkakyū no Jutsu.

The fireball spun out wide, heat blooming across the clearing like a second sun.

Tsunade didn’t dodge.

She smiled like she’d been waiting for it, and punched straight through the flames.

Then the ground erupted where I’d been standing.

I twisted away, dirt exploding at my heels, the shockwave catching only the tail of my jacket.

Momentum carried me up and sideways—I hit a tree trunk, rebounded, and landed crouched on a branch still trembling from the blast.

My chakra flared green.

Tissue knitted, blood flow slowed, ribs agreed to stay in one piece.

She was already there when I looked up.

A blur.

Fist, kick, elbow, fist again—so fast they stacked on top of each other like frames in a single heartbeat.

I caught half of them, redirected three, dodged two, and the rest hurt.

We broke apart only to collide again, like the world had lost track of where we were supposed to be.

Her foot caught the side of a boulder. It didn’t survive.

I used the flying debris—springboarded off a chunk of stone, twisted mid-air, and launched a fireball down through the smoke.

She shattered the fireball with a single kick, heat scattering into harmless sparks.

The aftershock still reached me.

The trees behind me bowed.

For a moment everything slowed, the forest bent around our fight, dust spiraling, chakra mist glowing faintly gold in the dying light.

We moved again.

Another exchange, faster now.

She pressed forward, every movement a blend of grace and brutality.

I countered with feints layered in real attacks, shadow clones flickering in and out of existence, our reflections weaving through smoke and shards of broken ground.

By the time the sun dropped behind the ridge, neither of us had landed a decisive hit, and the clearing looked like a battlefield disguised as a lesson.

Finally, she stopped. Sweat streaked her cheek, and her eyes were sharp with that particular look that meant she’d figured something out about me.

"You're good," she said, catching her breath. "Really good. You read my movements, adapt on the fly, counter perfectly." She wiped her forehead. "You know the difference between reflex and instinct?"

"Is there?" I tilted my head. "Pretty sure they're the same thing. Like how water and ice are technically different but both still get you wet."

"That's a terrible comparison." She crossed her arms. "Reflex is innate. Your body reacts before your brain processes anything. Instinct, though? That's earned. Built from experience, from reading patterns, from muscle memory developed over years of fighting." She tilted her head. "And your reflexes are legitimately amazing. Best I've seen from any shinobi so far."

That sounded like a compliment. Which meant the other shoe was about to drop.

"But?"

"But that's not the problem." She tilted her head, studying me the way someone might study a particularly interesting puzzle. "The problem is your instinct. You're reading my movements before I finish them. You know when I'm about to use enhanced strength and when I'm not. You're making split-second decisions—dodge this, block that—and you're making them correctly."

I said nothing. When in doubt, shut up and let them fill the silence themselves.

"Do you understand what that means?" she continued. "That kind of instinct comes from experience. From getting hit a thousand times until your body remembers the lesson. From sparring so many opponents that you can read the micro-adjustments in their stance, the shift in their weight, the tension in their shoulders."

She stepped closer, and there was genuine curiosity in her expression now.

"So here's what I want to know." She reached up and grabbed both my cheeks, squishing them. "In the span of a few exchanges, you figured out when I'm using super strength and when I'm not. You're making those calls faster than most people can think. That kind of instinct doesn't come from nowhere. It takes years, something that belongs to veterans who've survived multiple wars. So how does someone your age already have it?"

The question sat there, waiting for an answer I wasn't going to give. I could've been honest. Could've explained the whole past life situation, the muscle memory that shouldn't exist, the fact that dying once apparently came with some consolation prizes. But honesty was overrated. I smiled instead.

"Talent," I said, trying to pry her fingers off my face. "Some people are born with good looks. Some people are born with massive chakra reserves. I was born with an unfair advantage in taijutsu. That's all."

She didn't look convinced. But she also didn't push.

"That's all, huh?"

"That's all."

She didn't buy it. I could see that much in her eyes. But she also wasn't going to drag it out of me, which I appreciated.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm an excellent liar. You just know me too well."

The sky had gone dark while we'd been at it, stars starting to show through the evening haze. Training with Tsunade always felt longer than it actually was. Time dilation through concentrated violence, maybe.

"So," she said, finally releasing my face. "What did you figure out about my super strength?"

I rubbed my cheeks, trying to get feeling back into them. "That it's completely unladylike?"

Her smile was dangerous.

"Oh, you think so?"

Before I could backtrack, she grabbed my face again, this time with significantly less gentleness. She pulled my cheeks in opposite directions, then squished them together, then pulled them apart again like I was made of mochi.

“Unladylike,” she repeated, stretching the word out while stretching my face at the same time.

"I take it back," I said, the words coming out muffled. "Very ladylike. Peak femininity, even."

She gave my face one final squeeze before letting go.

“Better.” She crossed her arms, her expression turning from sparring partner to sensei. "Super strength isn't actually about muscle. It's about chakra control. You gather chakra at the point of impact and release it the moment you make contact. The timing has to be perfect, release it too early and you waste energy, too late and you just hit normally. It's about focusing all that chakra into a single point and then—"

"Wait." I held up a hand. "Are you trying to teach me super strength?"

She looked at me like I'd just asked if water was wet.

"Obviously. What did you think I was doing? Sharing fun facts?"

I blinked enough for both of us. “...Why?”

"Because didn't you say you wanted to before?"

I opened my mouth. Then closed it.

And just like that, we fell into this weird silence.

Me standing. Her standing. Some bird providing unnecessary commentary from the trees. The stream doing what streams do, bubbling along like the conversation hadn't just crashed into a wall.

I tried to remember when I'd said that. Had I said that? I must have said something at some point, probably in passing, probably as a joke or an offhand comment about how useful super strength would be. And she'd just... remembered? Decided to actually teach me?

"I..." I started, then stopped. "Huh."

"Huh?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I mean. I just." I gestured vaguely at nothing. "You're really teaching me?"

"That's what I said."

"But that's your thing. Your whole..." I waved my hands around more. "Your signature technique. Don't jonin usually keep those secret?"

"Usually." She shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. "But you're my student. And you said you wanted to learn it. So."

"So," I echoed.

More silence.

This was getting uncomfortable. Not bad uncomfortable, just... I didn't know what to do with this information. With the fact that she'd been paying attention. That she'd remembered some throwaway comment I'd probably made weeks ago and decided, yeah, okay, I'll teach him.

"Plus," she added, and I could hear the smirk in her voice before I saw it, "watching you try to figure it out should be entertaining."

There it was. The Tsunade I knew.

"So this is for your amusement."

"Partially."

"What's the other part?"

"You've got good chakra control." She lifted her hand to poke my forehead. "Better than most jonin I've met. If anyone's going to learn this, it's—"

I caught her hand, wrapping my fingers around hers.

"—probably you," she finished. "Seems wasteful not to teach you."

I stared at her. She stared back.

"Well?" She pulled her hand away. "You want to learn or not?"

Did I want to learn super strength from Tsunade? Was that even a question?

Apparently, it was. Because I shook my head.

"Actually, no," I said, and her mouth twitched like she’d just bitten a lemon.

I added quickly, "I’d rather learn your medical ninjutsu."

Because honestly, I’d already figured out most of her super strength just by watching. Chakra flow, tenketsu control, reinforcement timing, it wasn’t exactly a mystery. Useful, sure. But I already had the chakra scalpel and exploding clones. How many ways did a person need to break something, really?

If I was going to spend my time learning from her, I’d rather invest in something I couldn’t reverse-engineer. Something that actually mattered. Like medical ninjutsu. Or fuinjutsu. Something that’d still be useful after the punching stopped.

"No?" She looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "You're actually saying no?"

"I mean, if you're teaching me things," I said, "I'd rather spend time on medical ninjutsu. That's more my speed."

She blinked. Just once. Then her eyes narrowed slightly. "You're refusing super strength for medical ninjutsu?"

"Yeah."

She let out a breath through her nose. "I've seen a lot of shinobi in my time, but you might be the first one who's actively insane."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't one. Most people would jump at the chance to learn super strength. Hell, most people would beg for it."

"I'm not most people."

"Clearly." She adjusted her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. "Fine. Iryo ninjutsu. But don't come crying to me when you realize punching through walls would've been useful."

"I won't."

She didn't push the point, which I appreciated.

Truth was, I had bigger problems than learning how to punch harder. Nagato. Zetsu. Things that actually required my personal attention. And Tsunade wasn't stupid. If I sent a shadow clone to her training sessions, she'd figure it out fast. Either she'd refuse to continue teaching or she'd be livid. Neither option sounded appealing.

Iryo Ninjutsu was the priority. Learn what I needed, sort out the Nagato situation, then maybe ask about super strength when my schedule wasn't so full."

"And for the record," she added, pointing at me, "you haven't 'more or less figured out' how my super strength works. You've figured out the basic concept. Actually executing it is a completely different problem."

"Noted."

"Good." She started walking toward the trees. "Come on. If we're switching to medical training, I need to grab some supplies from the outpost. And you're carrying them."

So we went. And yeah, she actually did it.

Started teaching me more advanced iryo ninjutsu—cell regeneration, chakra scalpel refinement, even tissue synchronization theory. Real stuff. Not the "heal a bruise and call it progress" kind.

I’d like to think it was because of my talent. But if I’m being honest, it was probably because I’d been dropping smooth little nudges here and there, questions about cellular response, tissue grafts, chakra compatibility.

All the things I’d eventually need if I ever wanted to play around with Hashirama cells.

She probably thought I was just being curious.

Which, technically, I was.

And I thought that meant the sparring would calm down. You know, fewer punches, more diagrams.

It didn’t.

If anything, it got worse.

Apparently, teaching me medical ninjutsu didn’t mean she’d stopped using me as a test dummy. She just added anatomy lessons between the bruises.

Every time I blocked, she’d tell me what muscle I’d just overstrained. Every time I failed to dodge, she’d give a short lecture on internal bleeding—mine, specifically.

I started wondering if this was her version of balanced education. Theory in the morning, trauma in the afternoon.

And weirdly… it worked.

Somehow, getting repeatedly punched by your sensei really drives home the importance of Iryo ninjutsu.

……..

Rain came down hard in the Lightning Country that night. Thin alley, cheap lights, smell of wet iron and smoke.

Jiraiya had the kid—his kid—pinned against the wall with one hand, the other holding ninja wire ready to bind him if he tried anything stupid. Again.

Shinji's clone looked up at him with that same infuriating casual expression, like getting caught by him in Lightning Country after nearly starting an international incident was just another Tuesday.

"You did something incredibly stupid," Jiraiya said through his teeth.

"Did I though?"

"You sabotaged Kumo's Bijuu resealing. You understand what that means, right? You understand the kind of shitstorm you just created?"

The clone shrugged. Or tried to. Hard to shrug properly when someone's holding you against a wall. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

Jiraiya wanted to laugh. Or scream. Maybe both. This was his son—his actual son—and the kid had inherited his talent for infiltration, his strategic mind, and apparently his complete disregard for proper protocol.

But this wasn't some academy prank. This wasn't even a mission gone sideways.

This was an international incident. Kumo was furious. And now Jiraiya had to be the one to bring his own son in and report this mess to the Hokage.

Because that's what loyalty to the village meant. Even when it hurt. Even when the person causing the problem was someone you'd die to protect.

"I have no choice but to report this to the Hokage," Jiraiya said quietly. "You know that, right? This went past being a prank the moment you touched that seal. Now it's a political nightmare."

The clone's expression shifted. Just slightly. Something that might've been understanding. Or disappointment. Hard to tell with this kid.

"Yeah," Shinji said. "I figured."

Jiraiya wrapped the ninja wire around the clone's body, binding them securely, then started moving toward where he'd set up his temporary base.

He needed to get a message to Konoha. Fast.

And then he needed to figure out how to keep his son from getting executed for nearly starting a war.

……..

The message reached Konoha a few hours later.

The meeting room was quiet, which usually meant someone was about to start yelling.

Koharu Utatane sat with her hands folded, her expression tight with irritation that came from dealing with problems that shouldn't exist in the first place. Homura Mitokado looked equally displeased, though he at least had the courtesy to keep his mouth shut while Koharu gathered her thoughts.

Danzo sat beside them, arms crossed and eyes closed—either deep in thought or silently judging everyone.

And Hiruzen sat at the head of the table, pipe in hand, waiting.

"Look at what Jiraiya's brat did," Koharu said coldly. "He nearly triggered a war with Kumo. A war, Hiruzen. When Konoha already has its hands full with Sand, River, and Iwa."

She paused, letting that sink in.

"Luckily," she continued, "Jiraiya managed to capture the boy before it became truly disastrous. But the damage is done."

Hiruzen took a slow pull from his pipe. "The real Shinji was at the western front during the incident. He's been doing excellent work raiding outposts. His contributions have been significant."

Koharu went silent. Just for a moment. Then her eyes narrowed.

"Those are two different problems," she said. "Even if he's one of ours, he needs to be dealt with accordingly. You can't be sentimental about this, Hiruzen. You need to act in Konoha's best interest and punish the boy properly."

"Punish him," he repeated.

"He can't be out in the field anymore. For Konoha's sake." Her tone left no room for argument. "Who knows what he might do next in the west? What if he costs us the entire war?"

Hiruzen closed his eyes. He wanted to sigh. He didn't, because Koharu's concern was valid, even if he disagreed with her conclusion.

"Don't be hasty, Koharu."

The voice came from the corner. Danzo, sounding almost reasonable.

Both Koharu and Homura turned to stare at him. Surprise flickered across their faces. Usually, Danzo and Koharu were aligned on these matters. The fact that he was disagreeing now meant he wanted something.

Danzo finally opened his eyes. "I had great hopes for the boy. I even invited him to join ANBU. He has tremendous potential. It would be a waste to lose him like this."

Here it comes, Koharu thought.

"So why don't you let the boy join Root?" Danzo said, his tone perfectly reasonable. "It would be the best of both worlds. The best scenario and ending for both the boy and the Leaf."

There it was.

They knew exactly what Danzo was doing. Offering a solution that sounded logical, practical even. Take a problem child and turn him into a weapon. Hide him away in Root where his skills could be "properly utilized" and his personality could be "corrected."

It was a clean solution.

The meeting room fell into silence. Everyone waited for Hiruzen to respond.

He took his time. Let the silence stretch. Let them wonder what he was thinking.

When Hiruzen finally opened his eyes, something had changed. All three council members straightened slightly, caught off guard by the seriousness in his gaze.

"We're going to continue the boy's plan," Hiruzen said. "Sabotage Kumo's attempt to reseal their Bijuu."

The words landed like a boulder in still water.

Koharu's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "You've gone insane."

"Hiruzen." Homura set his hands flat on the table. "Konoha must not get involved in another war with a major village at this time. It could prove disastrous."

"Kumo is going to attack whether we show hostilities or not," Hiruzen said calmly. "Once they settle the rampaging Bijuu matter, they'll turn their attention to us. Now is as perfect a time as any to strike Konoha while we're busy with Sand, River, Ame, and Iwa. They know this. We know they know this."

He set his pipe down on the table.

"If we use their own Bijuu to deal massive damage to Kumo now, we might be able to prevent war with them for some time. Buying ourselves breathing room. Possibly years."

"You're talking about attacking one of the five great villages while we're already spread thin across three fronts," Koharu said, her voice rising. "That's not strategy, that's suicide."

"Is it?" Hiruzen leaned forward. "Kumo's Bijuu is rampaging. Their forces are divided trying to contain it. Their defenses are weakened. Their attention is split. When will we have another opportunity like this? When they've resealed the beast and reorganized their military? When they march on our borders with full strength?"

Homura frowned, fingers drumming on the table. "You're suggesting a preemptive strike."

"I'm suggesting we capitalize on an enemy's moment of weakness before they capitalize on ours."

The logic was there. Hiruzen could see them processing it, turning it over in their minds, looking for holes.

"It's still a massive risk," Koharu said, though her voice had lost some of its edge.

"All warfare is risk. The question is whether we take a calculated risk now or face a guaranteed threat later." Hiruzen paused, then continued. "There's more. Jiraiya sent intel about Kumo's Bijuu situation. Apparently, they've been searching for suitable hosts for some time now. Most candidates either die after the sealing or go on rampage shortly after. Their latest attempt ended in spectacular failure when Shinji interrupted them."

Koharu frowned. "How long has this been going on?"

"Years, according to Jiraiya's sources. But that's not the concerning part." Hiruzen tapped his pipe against the table. "Kumo has been showing increased interest in Uzushiogakure. It's not just about the sealing tools Uzu provided us. Kumo needs something else from them."

Homura's fingers stopped drumming. "Hosts."

"Exactly. The Uzumaki clan produces the most compatible Bijuu hosts. Their chakra, their vitality, their longevity—all ideal traits for containing a Tailed Beast." Hiruzen looked at each of them. "Remember the Kumo kidnapping attempt on Kushina? What if their goal was always to acquire an Uzumaki for their Bijuu problem?"

Silence fell over the room.

"And now they're gathering intelligence on Uzu itself," Danzo said. "Which means they've moved past observation into active planning."

"Which means we have two problems converging," Hiruzen said. "Kumo's failed resealing has left them vulnerable, but also desperate. Desperate enough to consider moving against Uzushiogakure to solve their host problem permanently. If they succeed in destabilizing or conquering Uzu, they gain access to an entire clan of potential hosts while simultaneously cutting off Konoha's most valuable ally and supplier."

Koharu and Homura exchanged glances. Some unspoken conversation passed between them, years of working together condensed into a look.

Finally, Koharu let out a long breath. "Fine. Your insight is... not without merit. We'll support the plan."

Homura nodded slowly. "Agreed. Let's hope your assessment is correct."

"So do I," Hiruzen said quietly.

Danzo didn't sound pleased. "I don't like this plan. But I agree it's the best option Konoha has right now."

The decision was unanimous, even if some were happier about it than others.

Hiruzen picked up his pipe again. "Danzo, I need Root agents deployed north to assist Jiraiya. He'll need support coordinating the operation against Kumo's Bijuu."

"How many?"

"Enough to make a difference. Jiraiya's already in position, but this escalated beyond a solo operation." Hiruzen paused. "He's also still holding the boy. That situation needs to be handled carefully."

"The clone will dispel eventually," Koharu said. "What matters is the real Shinji stays in the west and continues his work there. Keep him away from this mess entirely."

"Agreed, though I'd suggest bringing him back from the front," Homura said. “Keep him stationed in the village where we can keep an eye on him and make sure this doesn't happen again."

Danzo nodded. "That's the better approach.”

"No." Hiruzen leaned back in his chair. "Tsunade is his jonin-sensei. She's there with him at the front. I'll brief her on what happened and have her monitor him more closely, but I'm not pulling him back based on one incident caused by his clone."

Koharu's expression tightened. "Hiruzen—"

"Tsunade is more than capable of handling one chunin," he said. "And frankly, we need every skilled shinobi at the front right now, even the problematic ones."

Danzo narrowed his eyes slightly, but he said nothing.

"Fine," Homura said after a moment. "But make sure Tsunade understands the situation clearly."

"I will." Hiruzen stood, signaling the meeting was over. "We're decided then. I'll inform Jiraiya of what happened and send word to Tsunade to monitor her student more closely."

They filed out one by one. Koharu still looked displeased. Homura looked thoughtful. Danzo looked like Danzo, grumpy and vaguely disapproving of everything.

When the room was finally empty, Hiruzen sat back down and allowed himself that sigh he'd been holding in.

This was going to be a mess. But it was a mess with a chance of success.

Better than the alternative.

He picked up his pipe and took another long pull, staring at the closed door.

Somewhere in the north, Jiraiya was dealing with his son. Somewhere in the west, that same son was apparently raiding outposts and making a name for himself.

Two different Shinjis. Two different problems.

Or maybe just one very complicated problem wearing two different faces.

Either way, Hiruzen had just committed Konoha to a dangerous gamble based on a chunin's unauthorized operation.

Some days he missed being just a jonin.

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke and muttered to no one in particular, “Let’s just hope the boy stops giving me heart attacks before this war does.”