Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 36

The smell hit me before we even made it through the door—that perfect combination of charcoal smoke, sizzling beef fat, and the kind of hunger-inducing aromas that could probably end wars if deployed strategically.

"Table for three," I told the hostess, who looked like she'd been working here since the village was founded and had probably seen every type of shinobi drama play out over grilled meat.

She led us to a low table with tatami seating, the built-in grill already glowing with that perfect orange heat that promised good things. The restaurant was packed—mostly civilians celebrating something or drowning their sorrows in premium beef. The war announcement had apparently driven half the village to comfort food.

"I still can't believe we got A-rank pay," Tsume said, settling onto her cushion with a satisfied grin. "I mean, we basically just walked some farmers to a settlement and got jumped by a few Suna-nin."

"Don't forget the part where we had to play house with civilians for a week," Mikoto said, sliding gracefully onto her own cushion. "I'm pretty sure that alone deserves hazard pay."

"Hey, my domestic skills are flawless," I said, flagging down a server. "You two just weren’t ready for my level of immersive roleplay."

Tsume snorted. "Your immersive roleplay consisted of arguing with a fruit vendor for twenty minutes over yams."

"That’s called method acting. I lived that character."

The middle-aged man server approached, cheerful in that trained, automatic way. "What can I get you tonight?"

"Everything," I said, then caught the looks my teammates were giving me. "What? We just got paid. Might as well spend it on something that won't try to kill us."

Twenty minutes later, our table looked like a food cart parade had taken a wrong turn and crashed. Thinly sliced beef, chicken thigh, pork belly, and a brave little tray labeled premium offal filled every inch of space. We had three dipping sauces, a colorful pile of pickled vegetables, and enough rice to mount a siege.

I cracked my knuckles like a man preparing for combat and laid the first strips of beef on the grill. "Alright. This is going to be so good."

The meat hit the hot surface with a satisfying sizzle, fat immediately beginning to render and fill the air with that smell that makes vegetarians reconsider their life choices. I watched the edges curl and brown, waiting for that perfect moment when the outside was caramelized but the inside was still tender.

"You know," Tsume said, tossing chicken on her side of the grill with all the confidence of a raccoon operating a vending machine, "I have no idea what I’m doing. Do I just... leave it until it stops being pink?"

"Pretty much," I said, flipping the beef. "Though try not to char it into jerky. The goal is edible, not a charcoal exhibit."

"This is a lot of pork belly," Mikoto said, arranging the strips. "We're definitely not going to finish all this."

"That's the point," I said, watching the fat render and sizzle. "Order too much, eat until you can't move, then regret it tomorrow. It's the yakiniku way."

"Exactly," Tsume said, already zeroing in on a piece that looked properly seared. She snagged it, popped it into her mouth, and blinked. "Oh, that's actually amazing."

"Told you." I transferred the first pieces of beef to my plate, the meat perfectly caramelized on the outside. "Sometimes the sketchy-looking stuff turns out to be the best part."

Mikoto plucked a golden piece of chicken from her side and dropped it onto my plate. "Try this one. I think I got the timing right."

"Thanks," I said, taking a bite. The skin had gone crisp without drying out the meat, which stayed juicy and perfectly seasoned, just enough char to add flavor.

"You nailed it," I said, nodding approvingly. "Perfect timing on that one."

"Good, because I was completely guessing," she admitted, then gestured at all the meat covering our table. "Seriously though, look at this. We ordered enough food for ten people."

"Challenge accepted," Tsume said around a mouthful of pork belly, already reaching for more chicken.

"I'm being serious," Mikoto said, poking a slice of beef with her chopsticks like it might multiply if she looked away. "This is a week’s worth of protein. I’m going to gain ten pounds just from tonight."

"You'll burn it off on the mission tomorrow," I pointed out, loading more beef onto the grill. "Besides, when's the next time we'll get to eat like this? Might as well enjoy it."

"Easy for you to say," she muttered. "You probably have the metabolism of a hummingbird."

"Hey, I work for my figure. You think dodging assassins and running for your life doesn’t count as cardio? That’s premium cardio right there."

"He’s not wrong," Tsume said, gesturing with her chopsticks like she was defending me in court. "We're about to go chase bandits through the countryside for who knows how long. This is probably the last decent meal we'll have for weeks."

"That’s... actually a depressing thought," Mikoto said, but her hand was already sneaking another piece of chicken like her mouth had filed a request without notifying her brain.

"On that note," I said, lifting my cup of tea, "to eating like actual human beings instead of scavenging like forest goblins."

"To real food!" Tsume added enthusiastically, raising her own cup.

"To fitting into my clothes when we get back," Mikoto said dryly, but she was smiling as she joined the toast.

We clinked cups, and I couldn't help but notice how comfortable this felt. More than two week ago, we were just Academy classmates thrown together by team assignments. Now we were... well, actually teammates who'd figured out we worked pretty well together when people were actively trying to kill us.

"So what do you think the other teams are doing right now?" Tsume asked, loading more meat onto the grill.

"Probably depends on their sensei," Mikoto said, sipping her tea. "Teams with chunin instructors are probably still on D and C-rank missions. Only the jonin-led teams get thrown into actual danger."

"Lucky us," Tsume muttered, though she didn’t exactly sound bitter. If anything, she sounded vaguely smug. "I bet most of them are still stuck carrying groceries for grumpy civilians while we’re out here doing real work."

"Hey, don’t knock grocery runs," I said. "Some of those old ladies could probably take on missing-nin with just a broom and sheer disapproval. Honestly, I’d rather fight assassins. Less emotional damage."

Mikoto laughed into her cup.

"And knowing our luck," I continued, "our next ‘simple investigation mission’ might evolve into another missing-nin, an explosion, and someone getting stabbed in the leg."

"Worked out fine last time," Tsume said, grinning through a mouthful of pork belly. "A-rank pay? No complaints here."

She chewed in thoughtful silence for a moment, then glanced at the table. "But seriously—what do you think this war with Suna means for us? Are we just gonna keep doing what we're doing? Or are they gonna shove us straight into the front line?"

"Hard to say," I said. "They won't throw genin at the front lines right away—that's chunin and jonin work. But if this drags on, or if we start losing badly..." I shrugged. "Let's just say they might get less picky about experience requirements."

The conversation drifted as we focused on the serious business of grilling and eating. The restaurant had gotten louder as the evening wore on, filled with the kind of boisterous chatter that came from shinobi blowing off steam after long missions. At a nearby table, a group of chunin were deep in a very animated argument about how to counter Suna’s puppet squads.

"You’ve gotta break the chakra threads," one of them said.

"Break the puppeteer," another said. "Threads don’t matter if the guy controlling them is unconscious."

"Unconscious? Try decapitated. Worked great for me last time."

"Easy for you to say. You're not heading back to the western front tomorrow morning."

Further down the row, a different group was placing loud, half-drunken bets on how long the war would drag out.

"Six months tops."

"You’re out of your damn mind. This thing’ll last a year, easy."

"A year? Please. I just got back from the border yesterday and it's already a complete mess. Told my wife to stock up on rice and preserved goods. I'm ready for five."

"At least you can plan ahead. I just finished one assignment and they're shipping me right back out at dawn."

It was chaotic, a little grim, and weirdly comforting—like if the world had to go sideways, at least we weren’t the only ones watching it tilt.

"Did that guy just say 'try decapitated'?" Tsume asked, jerking her thumb toward the chunin table.

"Puppet users," I said, cutting another piece of beef. "Though honestly, those guys are missing the real problem."

"What do you mean?" Mikoto asked.

"They're all talking about breaking threads and killing puppeteers, but nobody's mentioning the poison."

"Poison?" the girls’ eyebrows went up.

"Yeah, Suna puppets are famous for coating their weapons with all kinds of nasty stuff. Paralysis agents, neurotoxins, slow-acting crap that waits until you're finally relaxing before it ruins your life. You get nicked, think you're fine, then three hours later you can't feel your lungs."

I shrugged and reached for more beef. "Breaking the threads won’t help much if you’re already dying from a scratch you didn’t notice."

"Did you read that somewhere again?" Tsume asked, not even slowing down her chew.

"Yep, puppet fights aren’t about overpowering the puppeteer. They’re about not getting touched. At all."

"Great," Tsume muttered. "One more way to die horribly. Just what I needed to hear with dinner."

"You're welcome."

By the time we’d worked our way through most of the meat, the restaurant had begun to empty out, and the server had refilled our tea twice.

"Okay," Mikoto said, setting down her chopsticks. "We should probably talk about tomorrow."

"Right." I pulled the mission scroll from my jacket and unrolled it across the table, nudging aside empty plates and one sad-looking pickle dish to make space. "Let's see what we're walking into this time."

The scroll was longer than I expected. Not your usual bullet points and vague instructions—this was the deluxe edition. Maps, incident reports, casualty counts. Someone in the chain of command was clearly sweating over this.

"Neutral states are requesting support," I said, scanning the summary. "There’s been a spike in bandit attacks—hit-and-run stuff, targeting merchant convoys and supply lines. Basically anything worth money and too slow to fight back."

Tsume leaned in, squinting at the map. "Why the hell are we babysitting neutral states when we’re already in a war? Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, focusing on not losing to Suna?"

"Fair question," I said, tapping one of the red-marked routes. "But take a look. These aren’t just random states—they’re our suppliers. Iron ore. Hardwood. Textiles. Food. Half the things keeping Konoha’s war machine running come through these lines."

"So if they get cut off..." Mikoto said slowly.

"We start running out of everything important," I finished. "Weapon stockpiles shrink, armor breaks without replacements, no new uniforms, and good luck feeding the forces. It’s a clean way to choke us out without firing a single jutsu."

"You think someone's orchestrating this?" Mikoto asked. "I mean, the timing is suspiciously convenient. We declare war on Suna, and suddenly all our supply lines and the nearby neutral states start getting hit?"

"Could be coincidence," I said, though I didn't believe it. "Or it could be other villages playing smart—taking advantage of the distraction to bleed us dry. Hit our economy, mess with supply chains, make us fight with one hand tied behind our back."

"That’s deviously evil," Tsume muttered. "I really want to punch someone."

"The best kind of evil usually is." I rolled up the scroll and slipped it back into my storage seal. "Anyway, that's probably what the higher-ups are worried about. Look at the team assignments—multiple squads working this, and they've even got Jiraiya's people involved instead of sending them to the main war front."

Mikoto’s eyebrows lifted. "Wait—Jiraiya? As in Tsunade-sensei’s teammate, and the target of our mission last time?"

"That’s the one. And that’s what makes it interesting. You don’t pull someone like him off a war front for bandit control unless you think the bandits are either smarter than average... or not really bandits."

A brief silence settled over the table.

Then I caught the server’s eye and gave her a quick signal. She appeared like she'd been waiting for the cue all night and presented the check with the polite weariness of a woman who’d seen one too many overstuffed shinobi tables.

Mikoto and Tsume both reached for their wallets, but I waved them off and handed the server a large bill—plus a tip generous enough to earn an instant, glowing smile.

She bowed deeply. “Thank you, honored guests.”

"Alright," I said, standing and stretching muscles that still hadn’t forgiven me for the journey home. "We leave tomorrow morning, so get some rest. Pack light but pack smart—we don't know how long we'll be in the field."

"Great," Tsume muttered. "More survival camping."

"Hey, look on the bright side," I said as we made our way toward the door. "At least we’re getting paid properly to sleep in the dirt."

"True," she admitted, then flashed a grin. "Thanks for dinner, by the way. That was way better than I expected."

"Don't mention it."

The night air was cold against my face as we stepped outside, a welcome change from the smoky warmth of the restaurant. The streets were mostly empty, just a few distant silhouettes moving between lantern-lit homes. Most people were probably inside, keeping their heads down, watching the war updates with apprehension.

"See you tomorrow," Mikoto said, adjusting her jacket. "Try not to oversleep."

"Me? I'm always punctual," I protested.

"Sure you are," Tsume laughed. "Night, guys."

I watched them disappear down opposite streets before turning around myself. Hands stuffed into my pockets, I wandered through the quiet lanes, actually enjoying the peace for once. No screaming civilians. No exploding trees. Just a full stomach and the simple luxury of walking home without a weapon in my hand.

The village felt different at night now. More patrols. Fewer people lingering outside, and that underlying tension you could almost taste in the air. But it was still home. Still the place where, not long ago, my most pressing concern was whether the sake shop had restocked my favorite brand—or if I’d be stuck drinking the one that tasted like regret.

I was almost there—just a few doors down—already imagining the blessed gurgle of that first glorious pour, when something flickered in the corner of my eye. A flash of red, visible through the swaying flaps of Ichiraku’s entrance curtain.

My pace slowed, curiosity dragging at my heels like a nosy old aunt.

Only one person in the village had hair like that. Bright as a firecracker and just as loud when provoked. I drifted closer, peering through the gap in the fabric.

Yep. Red hair flowing down her back. A pair of chopsticks gripped like the ramen owed her money. And that slight forward lean that meant she was probably complaining about something to poor Teuchi.

'Well, well.'

I hadn't seen Kushina since before the mission—over a week now.

I pushed through the entrance flaps.

"—telling you, the pork belly in tonight's batch is way too fatty," she was saying, poking at a piece of char siu with her chopsticks. "I can barely taste the meat under all this grease."

"Kushina-chan," Teuchi said patiently, "you say this every time you order the deluxe bowl."

"Because it’s true every time I—" She turned at the sound of my steps, and the rest of her sentence hit the brakes so hard I could practically hear the tires squeal.

“Shinji?”

"Hey," I said, sliding onto the stool next to her. "Look at that—two hungry shinobi walk into a noodle bar. What are the odds?"

Her face lit up with one of those smiles that could melt lead-lined armor. “You’re back! When did you get in?”

"Few hours ago. Just finished mission debriefing with the team." I nodded to Teuchi. "The usual, if you don't mind."

"Coming right up," he said, already ladling broth into a bowl.

"So," Kushina said, turning to face me fully, "how was your first real mission? Still in one piece, I see."

"Mostly," I said, noting the way her eyes immediately did a quick scan for injuries. "Though I've got some stories that'll probably make you question my decision-making skills."

"More than usual?"

"Way more than usual."

"Well, you're still breathing and all your limbs are attached," she said, giving me another quick once-over. "So it can't have been that bad."

"Fair point." I took a sip of the broth Teuchi had just set in front of me. "So what about you? What's been keeping you busy while I was off playing glorified escort?"

"Training, mostly." She twirled some noodles around her chopsticks. "Grandma Mito's been working me to death with Fuinjutsu. Did you know there are more than seventeen different ways to anchor a chakra containment array? Because I do now. All of them."

"Sounds thrilling."

"Oh, it gets better. She's got me practicing storage seals until my fingers cramp. Apparently, my brush control needs 'more improvement' before she'll let me near the cool stuff."

I took a sip of broth, nodding sagely. “Storage seals, huh? That actually sounds pretty useful.” Then I lifted my gloved hand like I’d just remembered something. “Speaking of which, what do you think of this?"

Her eyes snapped to my palm like they were magnetized. “Huh, where’d you get that?”

"Tsunade-sensei gave it to me for the mission." I flexed my fingers, watching her expression as she leaned in for a closer look. "What's your expert opinion?"

"Expert?" She laughed, but her eyes were already tracing the seal patterns. "I mean, I'm not Grandma Mito, but I know my way around basic sealwork. Can I?"

I extended my hand, and she took it gently, turning my palm up to examine the glove more closely. Her touch was warm, fingers light as they traced the contours of the seal without actually touching the leather.

“This is solid work,” she murmured. “Anchor points are clean. Structure’s efficient. There’s even some basic anti-tamper script built in.”

"So nothing too fancy?"

"Yep, this is standard stuff. Functional, but not flashy." She looked up at me. "Though it's well-made. Whoever did the sealwork knew what they were doing, even if it's just basic storage."

"Tsunade-sensei called it a basic seal too," I admitted. "Said if I wanted anything advanced, I'd need to commission an Uzumaki."

That did it. Her whole face lit up like she’d just been offered the keys to a fireworks vault.

“Well, when you’re ready for the good stuff, you know where to find me,” she said, grinning. “Assuming I haven’t blown myself trying to decode advanced Fuinjutsu by then.”

She paused, chopsticks halfway to her mouth, and gave me a look I couldn't quite read. "Actually, speaking of seals... didn't we have some kind of deal? Before you left?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Deal?"

"You know." She waved her chopsticks vaguely. "I teach you some fuinjutsu, you teach me how to cook something more complicated than instant ramen?"

"Oh, right." I grinned. "Our little arrangement. I was wondering if you'd remember that while I was gone."

"Hey, a deal's a deal," she said, then paused. "Though I should probably warn you, I may have attempted to make something called 'yakitori' last week. It... didn't go well."

"How bad are we talking?"

She looked me dead in the eye. “My kitchen still smells like arson.”

“Ah,” I nodded solemnly. “You summoned the spirit of charcoal.”

"That’s not important," she snapped, waving her chopsticks at me. "What’s important is that you’ve been gone for over a week, which means I missed at least two lessons. I’m behind. My domestic skills development arc is stalling."

She leaned in, voice dropping like we were trading state secrets. "How about we make it worth both our whiles? You give me that cooking lesson tomorrow, and I'll help you upgrade that storage seal on your glove."

"Upgrade it how?"

"Well, right now it just dumps everything out at once, right? I could tweak the seal so you can pull specific items instead of getting buried under an avalanche of your own gear.”

My eyes lit up. "Seriously? That would be incredibly useful."

“Grandma Mito’s been running me through selective retrieval drills all week. I could use the practice on something that's not a training dummy."

“Deal,” I said, zero hesitation—until reality crept in like an uninvited guest with muddy shoes. “Wait. Tomorrow? Crap. I can’t. We’re heading out on another mission first thing in the morning.”

She deflated a little. Not dramatically—just enough to make me feel like I’d accidentally kicked a puppy.

She sighed. “Oh. Well, when do you—”

“Buut no problem,” I cut in, waving a hand like scheduling village-sanctioned operations was something I did over lunch. “I’ll just tell them we’re leaving in the afternoon instead. Or the day after. These things are flexible.”

Kushina blinked. Then laughed. Like, full-body, shoulders-shaking, ‘what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you’ laughter. “You’re seriously going to reschedule a mission just so you can spend time with me?”

“Why not?” I shrugged. “I’m sure they can wait a day or two. What’s the worst that could happen?”

"Oh, I don't know," she said, still giggling. "Maybe the Hokage decides you're not quite ready for that chunin promotion you'll never get anyway?"

"See? No real consequences."

We scraped our bowls clean, then set them down with the satisfied clink of two people who had no regrets—except maybe the sodium content. Kushina casually dropped a fat ryo bill on the counter. Way more than necessary, but considering the mountain of empty bowls she'd racked up like trophies, it was probably fair.

"So," I said as we stepped out into the night air, "what were you thinking for breakfast? Something simple, or do you want to jump straight into the deep end?"

“Define simple,” she said, falling into step beside me as we made our way toward my apartment.

"Eggs, maybe some rice, things that won't explode if you start daydreaming about ramen."

“Hey,” she protested, “I don’t get distracted that easily.”

"Kushina, you're the type of person who would forget she's boiling water because a bird landed on her windowsill."

“That’s… okay, yeah, that’s probably true,” she scrunched her nose. "But birds are pretty, though."

"Uh-huh." I turned down the street that led to my building. "Okay, how about tamagoyaki? It's basically a rolled omelet, but there's barely any technique involved. You can dress it up if you want, or keep it simple enough that it doesn’t spontaneously combust.”

“Combust?”

“I’m being optimistic.” I unlocked the door and held it open for her with my best after-you, noble arsonist little bow.

She stepped in and paused just past the door, eyes scanning the room like she was already drafting blueprints in her head. “For the seal work, I’ll need a flat surface and decent lighting.”

“Kitchen table’s fine. Plus, that way you can familiarize yourself with the battlefield. Get to know the ingredients, form emotional bonds with the spices.”

"Wonderful. I'll be sure to have a heart-to-heart with the paprika," she said dryly, moving deeper inside with an amused look. Her gaze flicked over bookshelves, sake racks, and a suspiciously clean sink. "I forgot how neat you keep this place."

“Some of us weren’t raised by wolves.”

“Hey, my place is also clean.”

“I’ve never been there,” I said, shrugging off my sandals. “So I’m reserving judgment. For all I know, your kitchen is a sealed-off crime scene.”

I settled into the chair across from her, arms folded, legs stretched just far enough to get comfortable. She was already unpacking her tools across the kitchen table—brushes of varying thickness, an inkstone with a polished sheen, and a stack of specialized paper that looked expensive enough to have a surname.

“Just so you know,” she said, uncapping a squat bottle of sealing ink, “this might take a while. Modifying an existing seal isn’t like doodling on a napkin—one wrong stroke and this thing could blow your fingers off. Or, worse, mine.”

“Take your time,” I said, resting my chin in one hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She dipped her brush and began tracing careful lines along the perimeter of the seal inked into the fabric. Her strokes were slow but confident—not the hesitant hand of a beginner, but more like someone who had spent enough hours with ink and chakra to ruin a dozen tables and still come out the other end.

Watching her work reminded me of something I'd been meaning to bring up.

The scroll jutsu.

I’d asked for it as a mission reward—turned down the money, argued my case to the Hokage like a bureaucratic maniac. Something about “wartime skill acceleration” and “making the most of our talent pool.” Pretty sure he only approved it because I wore him down. Or possibly because he wanted me to leave his office before lunch.

Either way, it was mine now. And I had a feeling Kushina would lose her mind when she saw what it could do.

"Hey Kushina," I said casually. "Ever heard of something called Kage Bunshin?"

She paused mid-stroke, brush hovering an inch above the seal, and looked up with a slight frown. “Can’t say I have. Is it some kind of clone jutsu?"

"Yeah, but way more advanced than the basic stuff they teach at the Academy." I leaned back in my chair. "Instead of just creating illusions, these are actual solid clones with independent thought. They fight, train, screw up—just like the original."

Her eyes widened like I’d just invented ramen that refilled itself. “Seriously? How the hell does that even work? The chakra cost alone would be massive.”

"Yep," I agreed. "Which is exactly why most people can't use it. But here's the interesting part—when the clones dispel, all their memories and experiences transfer back to the original."

She stared at me like I’d announced I could time travel.

“Wait. All of it? You’re telling me you could, what, make ten of yourself, have them train all day, and then just… enjoy the results?”

“Exactly. You could spend one afternoon sparring in ten different styles, and come out of it like you’d trained for a week.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then sat back, visibly recalculating her entire life.

“...Okay,” she said slowly. “I need this jutsu in my soul.”

Then she stared at me, eyes already calculating like she was mapping out her entire training schedule for the next decade. “Shinji, this is incredible. The training applications alone would be revolutionary. You could potentially accelerate skill development by however many clones you can maintain.”

I nodded. “Exactly. But it takes enormous chakra reserves to be remotely practical. The kind of reserves most people just don’t have.”

I gave her a thoughtful once-over. “Though I suppose someone with, say, absurdly large chakra reserves might find it… extremely useful.”

She froze. Then slowly—grinned.

“Wait. Are you saying I could—” She caught herself, grinning wider. “Okay, that’s it. I’m definitely helping you research this jutsu. That’s fine, right?”

I shrugged. "Why not? While we’re at it, though… I’ve been wondering about something. Theoretically speaking, would it be possible to modify shadow clones to, say, explode when they’re dispelled?"

She blinked, then leaned back in her chair. "Explode? Like, actually explode?"

“Yeah. Like, add a seal to the clone that triggers either on command or once it takes enough damage. Tactical self-destruction. You know. For the greater good.”

"…I hate how much I love that idea," Kushina said with a slightly disturbing grin.

She then fell silent, fingers tapping against the table as her brain went sprinting down the fuinjutsu rabbit hole. I could practically hear the gears turning—and probably violating a few safety regulations in the process.

“Maybe,” she said at last. “You’d need a proper trigger—some kind of seal matrix that activates on clone collapse or responds to a specific chakra signature. But I’m not sure it’d work. Clones aren’t exactly stable platforms.”

"But theoretically possible?"

“Theoretically?” She gave me a lopsided smile. “Maybe. In practice?” A shrug. “I’d need to do a lot more research. And probably convince Grandma Mito to let me mess around with explosive seals again, which…”

She made a face. The kind of face that said there were past incidents.

“Let’s just say she has some very strong opinions about ‘reckless applications of fuinjutsu.’”

"Fair enough. Just curious."

Which was true. Mostly. I wasn’t actually planning to turn myself into a walking bomb factory.

Yet.