Yanholic

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.”

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 60

Down here, darkness wasn't empty space. It was something solid, something that touched skin and stayed there, damp and clingy. Madara had lived in it so long he'd stopped remembering what the sun looked like. Decades did that. Turned memories into blank spaces. Sunlight was just one of many things that had gone missing from his head.

The chamber smelled like stone and old blood and rot. Behind Madara, the tree grew from the floor, pale bark twisted into something that almost looked like a body if you squinted and had a really messed up imagination. Hashirama's cells, turned into life support. Tubes ran from the trunk into Madara's back, pumping chakra through his failing system, keeping his heart moving when it should've quit years ago.

He was a corpse plugged into a tree. Just one that hadn't figured out how to stop breathing yet.

His lungs pulled air. In, out. The sound was wet, like something breaking underwater. Every breath felt like lifting a stone with his chest. Every heartbeat felt close to being the final one.

He sat there, this thing that used to be Madara Uchiha, propped up by chakra and spite and a tree that looked like it had been carved by someone who hated the concept of beauty. His skin hung loose on his bones. His hair had gone white decades ago, thin and brittle as spiderweb.

White Zetsu materialized from the floor. Literally. One second there was stone, the next second there was this pale thing shaped vaguely like a person, pulling itself up through solid rock like it was water.

"You're back," Madara said. His voice sounded like gravel being dragged across more gravel.

"Yep!" Zetsu's tone was cheerful in that grating way that made anyone want to smack him across the face. "Got an update on the boy."

The boy. Nagato. The Uzumaki brat with Madara's eyes sitting in his skull, the Rinnegan that Madara had transplanted years ago when the kid was too young to remember. The plan hinged on that boy. Everything hinged on that boy.

"Talk," Madara said.

"So there was this flood—"

"What flood."

Zetsu tilted his head, that weird bob that made him look like a curious plant. "Big one. Reservoir broke somewhere upstream, water came down hard. Real nasty situation, lots of people drowned, the whole village got hit pretty bad—"

Madara's hand twitched. Or tried to. The movement was more of a spasm, fingers curling then uncurling against the stone. "The boy."

"Oh, he's fine! Well, mostly fine. I got there just in time, he was outside playing when the water hit. Pulled him out before he got swept away. Close call though! Like, really close. Another minute and he would've been gone with everyone else."

"How did this happen," Madara said slowly.

"Hm?" Zetsu's face did that thing where it tried to look innocent and just ended up looking more punchable. "How did what happen?"

"The flood." Each word took effort. Talking was exhausting. Existing was exhausting. "Reservoirs don't break on their own. Too convenient. Someone might know about the boy. About the plan."

"Oh! Right, yeah, so I did some digging yesterday, well, not literal digging, though I could've if I wanted to, and turns out it was just bad luck. There was this whole thing between River Country and Konoha, shinobi fighting near a dam, jutsu got thrown around, things exploded, and the wall just... gave up. You know how it is."

Madara went quiet, turning the information over in his head. Zetsu had no reason to lie. If he said it was a coincidence, then it probably was. But probably wasn't the same as certainly, and Madara had lived too long to stop being paranoid now.

"River and Konoha," he repeated.

"Yep! Total coincidence. Nobody knows about the boy, nobody knows about the plan, nobody was targeting him specifically. Just wrong place, wrong time. War things." Zetsu waved one pale hand like he was brushing away a fly. "But hey, all's well that ends well, right? Kid's alive, eyes are intact, we're still on track."

The paranoia didn't leave. It never left these days. Madara had lived too long, seen too much, trusted too many people who'd proven that trust was just another word for stupidity. Someone could have found out. Someone could be moving against him. The timing was suspicious. Everything was suspicious when the entire plan hinged on pieces he couldn't control.

But Zetsu's explanation made sense. War was chaos. Chaos created collateral damage. Two villages clashing, jutsu flying, infrastructure failing, it was a pattern Madara had seen play out countless times before. Nothing unusual about it.

Still.

"Keep watching him," Madara said. "Closer than before."

"You got it, boss!" Zetsu saluted. At least, that's probably what he was doing. With Zetsu it was impossible to tell if he was being sincere or making fun of you. Usually both.

The cave went quiet except for Madara's labored breathing and the tree's chakra hum. He should send Zetsu away. Except there was another question.

"Have you found one yet."

Zetsu knew what he meant. Madara could tell by the way the pale face shifted, enthusiasm draining out like water through a cracked cup.

"Ah. That." A pause. "Not yet."

"Not yet," Madara echoed. "How long has it been."

"A while," Zetsu admitted. "I've been looking, I really have! Checked every Uchiha I could get eyes on, but none of them fit what you need. You know how it is."

"…Keep looking."

"Sure thing! I'll find you the perfect candidate, just give me a little more time. These things can't be rushed, you know? Gotta make sure we pick the right one, can't just grab any random Uchiha off the street—"

"Enough." Madara cut him off. "Go."

Zetsu stopped mid-excuse, then sank into the floor like the stone was drinking him. Three seconds and he was gone.

Madara closed his eye. Breathed. In, out. Wet sounds. Breaking sounds. His body was a prison and the sentence was life without the possibility of parole, except the life part was negotiable and getting more negotiable every day.

The plan would work. It had to work. He'd spent too long, sacrificed too much, killed too many for it not to work. Nagato would grow strong. Would master the Rinnegan. Would collect the Tailed Beasts. Would resurrect Madara using Rinne Tensei. Then Madara would finish what he started. Cast the Infinite Tsukuyomi. Reshape the world.

Death was just a temporary inconvenience. An intermission. He'd come back. The Rinnegan guaranteed that.

All he needed was a successor. One Uchiha. One suitable puppet to ensure Nagato followed through, to pull the strings and make sure the resurrection actually happened.

……

Kawazumi Outpost

I woke up to the sound of hammering.

Again.

The morning light filtered through the gaps in the wooden planks, the construction crew hadn't gotten around to properly sealing the barracks yet. Probably because they were too busy working on the actual important stuff, like the walls and watchtowers.

I sat up, rubbed my face and looked at the gaps in the wooden planks. Late. Later than I’d planned, anyway. The barracks were quieter now, which meant most people had already started their day.

My futon was still warm. I could probably lie back down for another ten minutes and no one would notice.

Except I had work to do. Chunin work. Patrol duty at fourteen hundred hours, then training if I had energy left over. Which I probably would, because patrol at an outpost meant walking the perimeter and pretending bandits were a serious threat. They weren't. Not here. Not with this many shinobi around.

Well. Unless you counted the shinobi pretending to be bandits. That was always fun. Nothing like getting ambushed by enemy nin wearing cheap masks and acting like they were just random thugs. Kumo was particularly fond of that trick.

Still. Orders were orders.

I got dressed and stepped outside. The outpost was already buzzing with activity, shinobi moving between buildings, civilians hauling materials, the usual morning chaos. The air smelled like sawdust and cooking fires. Somewhere in the distance, someone was yelling about measurements being off by three inches.

"Morning, Shinji!"

I turned. Three civilian laborers were passing by, carrying what looked like wooden beams for one of the new buildings. The one who'd called out to me was a middle-aged guy with sideburns. I'd helped him and his crew reinforce a foundation yesterday when they'd run into issues with the ground being too soft.

"Morning," I said, raising a hand. "Try not to drop those on your feet."

"We'll do our best," one of the other workers, younger maybe mid-twenties, replied with a grin. "You coming by later? We could use your eyes on the eastern fence line."

"Maybe. Got something to do first."

They nodded and kept moving. I watched them go for a moment, then continued my own walk through the outpost.

The mission board was near the command post, a wooden structure cobbled together from rough planks that hadn’t been treated for weather, already starting to warp at the edges. A handful of shinobi were already gathered around it, checking their assignments for the day. I squeezed past a couple of genin and scanned the board until I found my name.

Patrol duty. Fourteen hundred hours. Eastern perimeter.

Two other chunin I didn't recognize by name. And one jonin.

Shinku Yuhi.

I'd heard about him. Everyone at the outpost had. He'd been making waves lately, contributions during the engagements with Suna, some impressive work over in River Country. People talked. Not Tsunade-level talk, obviously. Not even Orochimaru-level. But enough that chunin at the mess hall would mention his name when discussing who to avoid pissing off during joint operations.

I memorized the time and location, then stepped away from the board. The crowd shifted to fill the space I'd left. Nobody paid attention to me. Just another chunin checking another assignment.

Business as usual.

I kept walking, past the main square, if you could call it that. More like a wide-open space where people congregated because someone had decided it was the square and everyone just went along with it. A few vendors had set up stalls. Nothing fancy. Basic supplies, mostly food, tools, a couple of weapons dealers.

And one flower shop.

I stopped in front of it. The shop was small, just a wooden cart with a canvas covering stretched overhead to keep the sun off the merchandise. Buckets of flowers lined the front, nothing exotic just what could grow in the area or what the owner had managed to bring in from nearby towns. Daisies, chrysanthemums, a few roses that had seen better days.

And tulips.

The shop owner was an older woman, probably in her late forties, with gray hair tied back in a simple bun. She looked up when I approached and smiled. "Shinji-kun. What brings you by?"

"I need flowers," I said.

"I can see that." She gestured at her inventory. "What's the occasion?"

"Hospital visit."

Her expression softened. "Ah. Someone close to you?"

"Teammate."

She nodded slowly, like she understood more than I'd said. Maybe she did. "Tulips," she said after a moment. "They're simple. Elegant. Uplifting without being too much."

I looked at the bucket of tulips. They were yellow, bright but not obnoxiously so. "Yeah. Those work."

"How many?"

"Enough for a bouquet."

She selected a dozen stems, wrapping them carefully in brown paper. "This teammate of yours," she said as she worked. "They going to be okay?"

"Depends on your definition of okay."

She glanced at me, then went back to arranging the flowers. "That bad?"

"Could be worse."

"Could always be worse," she agreed. She tied the bouquet with twine and handed it over. "On the house."

I blinked. "What?"

"On the house," she repeated. "You've helped enough people around here. Consider it a thank-you."

I stared at her for a second, then took the flowers. "Appreciate it."

"Just take care of yourself, Shinji-kun. We don't need you ending up in the hospital too."

I gave her a small smile and left.

The hospital wasn't far, nothing at the outpost was far from anything else, but I took my time getting there. Passed a few medical tents on the way. Those were for minor injuries, quick treatments, the stuff that didn't require a full hospital stay. The actual hospital building stood out because it was one of the few structures that looked properly finished.

Konoha didn't mess around when it came to medical facilities.

Even at an outpost like this, the hospital was solid. Two stories, reinforced wooden walls, actual windows with glass instead of just shutters. The inside was clean, well-lit, and organized. Sterile, almost, except for the fact that everything was made of wood and you could still smell the forest outside.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hallway was quiet. Most of the patients were probably either asleep or too injured to make noise. I turned a corner and counted doors until I reached the third one.

Knocked twice.

"Come in."

I pushed the door open.

Aya was sitting up in bed, propped against a couple of pillows. She looked tired. Her left arm, or what remained of it was wrapped in bandages, the stump ending just below where her elbow used to be. Her face was pale, but she managed a smile when she saw me.

"Shinji," she said. "Didn't expect you to visit again."

"Yeah, well." I held up the tulips. "Thought you could use some color in here."

She laughed softly. "Tulips. That's sweet of you."

"Just thought they'd suit the occasion."

I walked over to the small table by her bed. There was a vase there, glass, probably repurposed from somewhere else with flowers in it. Wilted flowers. The water was murky, and the petals were brown around the edges. Leftovers from a previous patient, maybe. Or someone had brought them days ago and nobody had bothered to change them out.

"These are dead," I said, nodding at the vase.

"Yeah, the last patient left them behind." She looked at the brown petals. "Felt wrong to throw them out. Someone cared enough to bring them once."

Right. So what she was really saying or maybe what she wasn't saying, was that nobody had brought her any. That she was keeping dead flowers from a stranger because at least they proved someone, somewhere, had been worth visiting.

Well. Not anymore.

I picked up the vase and dumped the old flowers into a nearby wastebasket. The water smelled stale. I rinsed the vase in a small basin near the window, then refilled it with fresh water from a pitcher on the table. Aya watched me the whole time, not saying anything.

"So," I said as I started trimming the tulip stems with a small knife. "How's the recovery going?"

"Slow. Painful. The usual."

She shifted slightly, her right hand ghosting over the bandaged stump before she caught herself. “Sometimes it feels like my fingers are still there. Like they’re cramping or burning. The medics call it phantom pain.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded.

“They gave me suppressants,” she added, “but it doesn’t always help.”

“Sounds about right.”

I’d studied medical ninjutsu long enough to know this wasn’t something I could just fix by flooding the area with chakra. Phantom pain lived in the nervous system, in the way the brain refused to update its map of the body. You couldn’t heal that with a glowing hand and good intentions. Sealing the wound? Easy. Regrowing the limb? Theoretically possible, if I had the right materials. But convincing her brain to stop “feeling” something that wasn’t there? That was way beyond me.

"The medics say I'll be cleared to leave in another week or so." She paused. "Once the wound heals enough."

"And then?"

She sighed. "Then I go back to work."

I glanced at her. "Work?"

"I'm a sensor, Shinji. I can still do that without an arm." Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. Not anger, exactly. More like resignation. "They'll probably keep me here at the outpost. Or send me somewhere else that's relatively safe. Desk work, essentially. Monitoring chakra signatures, relaying information."

"You don't sound thrilled about it."

"I'm not." She looked down at her bandaged stump. "But it's not like I have much of a choice. Retiring is an option, technically. But my family..." She paused, then shook her head slightly. "They have expectations. And I'm a sensor, so. There's always somewhere they can use me. Safe positions. Outposts like this one. Monitoring duty." Her voice stayed calm. Too calm, maybe. Like she'd said these exact words before. Probably to herself. Probably more than once. "It's fine. Really. I can still be useful."

I finished trimming the tulips and arranged them in the vase. The yellow petals caught the light from the window, brightening up the otherwise drab room. "You'll get by," I said.

"I know. I just—" She stopped, then shook her head. "Sorry. I shouldn't be dumping this on you."

"It's fine."

She smiled again. "Thanks, Shinji. For the flowers. For visiting.”

I set the vase back on the table, positioning it where she could see it easily. "Don't worry," I said. "I'm training under Konoha's best Iryonin. Give me a few years and I'll surpass her. When that happens, restoring an arm will be easy. Grafted replacements, advanced tissue work. It's all possible."

Her eyes widened slightly. "You really think you can do that?"

"I don't think. I know."

Her expression changed. Softened. Her eyes got a little shiny. "That's... Shinji, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time. Even if you're just being kind."

"Just being honest."

"Still." She smiled. "Thank you."

I nodded and turned to leave. "Take it easy. I'll check in again soon."

"Shinji, wait."

I looked back. She was holding out her hand.

I walked over and took it, thinking she wanted to say something else. Instead, she pulled me down gently and kissed me.

It was soft at first. Her lips were warm and she smelled faintly of jasmine, probably from some soap or lotion they'd given her. I froze for a second, caught off guard, then leaned into it. My hand came up to cup her cheek as I kissed her back.

The angle was different from how I usually saw her, tilted up slightly, eyes closed, my thumb resting along her cheekbone. From this position, the resemblance hit me. The bridge of her nose. The shape of her closed eyes. The contour of her face under my palm. Kurenai. She reminded me of Kurenai. I'd never noticed before because I'd never been this close, never touched her face like this. Strange that I'd never picked up on it before.

That was weird, but she was probably just a distant cousin or something.

I stopped thinking about it and kissed her.

She tilted her head slightly, deepening the kiss. Her mouth opened and I followed her lead, my tongue sliding against hers. Slow at first, then more insistent. Her lips were wet and soft, and when she sucked gently on my lower lip I felt it all the way down my spine.

Her hand tightened around mine and she made a small sound in the back of her throat, halfway between a sigh and a moan. I could taste the herbal tea she'd been drinking, mixed with something sweeter. Her tongue moved against mine, slick and warm, and I tilted my head to get a better angle.

My fingers slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, threading through her hair. She pulled me closer with her hand, her breathing quickening. I could feel her pulse racing under my palm where my thumb rested against her throat.

The kiss got messier. Wetter. Her tongue traced my upper lip before diving back into my mouth, and I returned the gesture, feeling the heat building between us. A thin strand of saliva connected our lips when we broke apart for air, only for her to pull me back in immediately.

When she finally pulled away for real, both of us were breathing hard. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her lips swollen and glistening. Her eyes were bright and slightly unfocused.

She bit her lower lip, then smiled. A little embarrassed, maybe?

"Sorry," She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I shouldn't have—"

"Stop apologizing."

"But I just—"

"Aya. It's okay." I squeezed her hand. "Really."

She laughed, embarrassed but happy. "Okay. Okay." She let go of my hand slowly. "Thank you. For the flowers. For the promise. For... everything."

"Don't mention it."

"I mean it."

"I know."

I spent another minute or two making small talk about the hospital food, apparently they'd served her something gray and unidentifiable for breakfast that she'd been too polite to refuse. I told her politeness was overrated when it came to mystery food.

I left the room with her smiling after me. The door clicked shut softly behind me.

The hallway was quiet again. Peaceful. I started walking back toward the stairs.

Well. That happened.

I made it maybe five steps before I saw someone round the corner ahead.

A jonin. Stern-looking guy, maybe late twenties. Standard uniform, standard walk. Nothing remarkable except that I recognized him.

Shinku Yuhi.

The jonin I'd be patrolling with later today. And Kurenai's father, though Kurenai herself didn't exist yet. Wouldn't for a while, probably. I wondered when that would happen.

We passed each other in the hallway. He didn't acknowledge me. I didn't acknowledge him. Just two shinobi crossing paths in a hospital corridor. Nothing unusual about that. We'd see each other later for patrol anyway, so there was no point in striking up conversation now.

I kept walking.

Then I heard the door open behind me.

Aya's door.

I stopped.

Turned slightly.

Shinku Yuhi had entered her room.

Wait.

Why was he visiting Aya?

I stood there for a moment, confused. Then curious. Then both at the same time.

I walked back quietly and positioned myself near the wall, just out of sight from the doorway. Voices drifted through the gap.

"How are you feeling?" That was Shinku's voice, flat and empty of any warmth.

"Better, the medics say I'll be discharged soon." Aya's voice sounded different than it had a minute ago, quieter and more subdued.

"Good. I've already spoken with Commander Minoru about your reassignment."

A pause.

"Reassignment?" Was she angry?

"You'll be stationed here at the outpost as a permanent sensor. Full-time monitoring duty. It's a stable position."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"And you've already decided this?"

"It makes sense given your condition. You can still contribute without being in the field. The decision's already been made, but I wanted to inform you first." He paused. "What do you think?"

What do you think.

The question was polite. But the way he said it made it clear he wasn't actually asking. He was informing her and then checking if she'd accept it. Which she would. Because what else could she do?

"Do you have any objections?"

"No. That's... fine." Her voice sounded hollow. Like she was reading lines from a script again.

"Good. I'll handle the paperwork. As your husband, I need to ensure you can still contribute. The village needs sensors."

Husband.

Wait, what?

I pressed my back against the wall and processed what I was hearing.

Shinku Yuhi was her husband.

That explained—well, actually, it explained almost nothing.

If she was married, why didn't she use the Yuhi name? I was pretty sure when she'd introduced herself back during our first meeting, she'd used a different family name, not Yuhi. Was their relationship that strained that she didn't even use her husband's name?

And if she was married, why had she kissed me?

I mean, I could guess. The interaction I'd just overheard felt less like a married couple and more like coworkers discussing logistics. It was like listening to someone plan a funeral.

My gut feeling about Aya reminding me of Kurenai made sense now. Shinku Yuhi was Kurenai's father. Which meant Aya was her mother.

That's why she'd felt familiar. The hair. The face. The way her features looked when I'd cupped her cheek. It was Kurenai's face, just older. More tired.

I stood there in the hallway, staring at nothing.

My gut feeling had been right.

And now I had no idea what to do with that information.

I heard Shinku's voice again, still talking to her about duty schedules or medical checkups or something equally mundane. His tone hadn't changed at all.

Right.

Time to go.

I turned and walked away as quietly as I could. A jonin like Shinku would sense me if I lingered too long. The last thing I needed was to get caught eavesdropping on a superior's private conversation.

Especially since I'd just had my tongue down his wife's throat five minutes ago.

I made it to the stairwell and started descending. The voices from downstairs grew louder, medics going about their work, patients talking, the usual hospital background noise.

Outside, the hammering had started up again. The outpost never stopped moving.

I stepped out into the sunlight and took a breath.

"Shinji-san!"

I turned. Someone was waving at me from the road, an older man with gray hair and a permanent squint from years of close-up work. The tailor. I'd dropped off my jacket at his shop a week ago after the last mission with Tsunade and Aya had torn it up pretty badly. Scratches, loose seams, the usual damage that came from combat.

"Hey," I called back, walking over.

"There you are! I've been looking for you." He grinned, a bit out of breath. "The flower shop lady said you'd gone to the hospital, so I figured I'd wait around. Didn't want to miss you."

"What's up?"

"Your jacket's done. You can pick it up whenever you want. Turned out better than I expected, honestly. That tear on the sleeve was tricky."

"Appreciate it. I'll swing by later."

"Actually—" He scratched the back of his neck. "I wanted to ask you a favor."

I waited.

"Me and a few friends want to head out to the stream west of here. We're gathering bamboo and reeds for some projects. It's not far, but we could use a shinobi escort. Just in case of wild animals or, you know, worse."

I thought about it for half a second. I had patrol duty at fourteen hundred, but that was hours away. Plenty of time. "Sure. When?"

"Now, if you're free."

"Yeah, I can do that."

He grinned. "Perfect. Tell you what, the jacket's free. Consider us even."

"Works for me."

I wasn't going to argue with free.

He gathered his friends, three other civilians, all middle-aged or older, carrying woven baskets and cutting tools. We left through the west gate and followed a dirt path into the forest. The stream wasn't far, maybe twenty minutes on foot. The trees were thick here, blocking out most of the sunlight. The air smelled like damp earth and moss.

They got to work immediately, wading into the shallow water and cutting bamboo stalks while I kept watch. Nothing happened for the first hour. Just birds and insects and the sound of running water.

Then the sky opened up.

The rain started without warning, one second dry, the next second soaked. Heavy drops that turned the dirt path into a mud slick in what felt like seconds but was probably closer to a minute.

"Damn," one of them muttered, wiping water from his face. "Should we head back?"

"Let's finish what we started," another said. "We're already soaked."

They kept working. I kept watching. The rain made everything slippery, rocks, tree roots, the bamboo itself. One of them almost fell into the stream but caught himself at the last second.

Then I heard movement in the bushes.

Not small movement. Something big. Or maybe it just sounded big because everything sounds bigger when you can't see it. Schrodinger's threat. Both dangerous and harmless until observed. Though in this case, observation came pretty quickly.

I held up a hand. "Stop."

They froze.

The bushes rustled again. A boar crashed through, big one, tusks like curved knives, eyes that looked less "wild animal" and more "extremely inconvenienced by rain and now taking it out on the nearest targets." I understood the feeling. Rain was annoying. Though usually I didn't try to gore people about it.

It charged.

I moved. One blade to the throat.

The boar stumbled, fell, didn't get back up.

That was that.

The civilians stared at me, then at the boar, then back at me.

"Well," the tailor said after a moment. "That's breakfast sorted."

They hauled the boar back. Two hundred pounds of dead weight—literally—split between four civilians. Math said that was fifty pounds each, which seemed rough but they managed. I walked ahead, keeping watch. That was the deal. They carried things, I made sure nothing tried to kill them while they were carrying things. Division of labor.

The tailor offered his shop's backyard for cooking. Good space. Big enough for a fire pit and some seating.

They butchered the boar while I gathered firewood. Fair trade. They worked together, separating meat from bone, trimming fat, cutting portions. Knew their way around a knife, clearly.

I got the fire going while they finished prepping the meat. Took a bit, the wood was damp from the rain but eventually it caught and burned properly.

One of them had brought salt and pepper, and someone else had vegetables from the market.

"Hold on," I said, pulling out a small pouch from my glove. "You're not cooking boar with just salt and pepper."

They looked at me.

I opened the pouch. Inside were small containers—dried herbs, garlic powder, a bit of oil in a sealed vial. The basics.

"Is that..." The tailor squinted. "Seasoning?"

"Rosemary, thyme, garlic. And some oil to keep the meat from drying out." I sprinkled the herbs over the skewered pork, rubbed them in with my fingers, then drizzled a small amount of oil over each piece. "You want the fat to render properly. Salt and pepper alone won't cut it for wild boar, the meat's too lean and gamey."

They watched me work, fascinated. The tailor whistled.

I handed the pouches back and wiped my hands. "Now it'll actually taste good."

The smell that started rising from the fire after about ten minutes proved my point. Roasted pork with herbs and woodsmoke, the fat sizzling and dripping into the flames. We threw the vegetables on alongside the meat.

The skewers took maybe twenty minutes to cook through. We sat around the fire, turning them to keep the meat from burning. I looked at the pile of bamboo and reeds they'd stacked near the shop's back wall.

"So what are you actually using all that for?" I asked.

"Drying racks," the tailor said, rotating his skewer. "Bamboo frames with reed mesh. You can air-dry just about anything on them, medicinal herbs, smoked meat, fish if you catch any."

"The hospital's been asking for more herb storage," another one added. "Fresh stuff goes bad too fast, but if you dry it right, it lasts months."

"Same with meat," a third one said, nodding at the boar we were currently cooking. "If we'd had racks ready, we could preserve half of this for later instead of eating it all at once."

Preservation was half of survival. You could have all the food in the world, but if it rotted before you could eat it, you had nothing. Drying racks solved that problem in the simplest way possible, which was usually the best way.

"Actually," the one sitting across from me added, "I've had a few chunin stop by my stall asking if I sell jerky. They're sick of ration bars, apparently. Been thinking about making batches to sell once we get the racks built."

"Can't blame them," I said. "How long does it take to build one?"

"Couple hours if you know what you're doing. The frame's easy, just lash the bamboo together. The mesh takes longer. You have to weave the reeds tight enough that small stuff doesn't fall through, but loose enough that air can circulate."

Made sense. Too tight and nothing dried. Too loose and you lost half your product.

They kept talking about measurements and spacing while I turned my skewer and listened. Civilian ingenuity. Different from shinobi problem-solving, but no less useful.

I bit into the pork and thought about Aya's missing hand.

Couldn't help it. The taste was good, the company was fine, but my brain had latched onto the problem and wouldn't let go. Her arm. The stump.

Grafts. Hashirama-based prosthetics. That was the answer. Or an answer, at least. The First Hokage's cells had regenerative properties that went beyond normal medical ninjutsu. If I could get my hands on some, and experiment with them, figure out how to culture them properly, integrate them with existing tissue... Yeah. That could work.

And it wasn't just Aya either. Mikoto flashed through my mind. Her future. The Mangekyo Sharingan she'd probably awaken someday, trauma had a way of forcing that evolution in Uchiha. And after the Mangekyo came blindness. Slowly at first, then faster. Until she couldn't see at all.

The only cure was the Eternal Mangekyo Sharingan. Which required transplanting eyes from a close blood relative. Sibling, ideally.

Mikoto didn't have siblings.

Could you use a parent's eyes instead? I didn't know. The canon never made it clear if that worked or if it had to be siblings specifically. And even if parents could work, that created another problem, the parent would need to have awakened their own Mangekyo first. Did Mikoto's parents have Mangekyo? No idea. Probably not. Most Uchiha never awakened it at all.

Too many uncertain variables. Too many things that could go wrong or simply not work.

Hashirama cells, though. Those could stabilize the Mangekyo. Prevent the blindness entirely. Or at least slow it down significantly. Obito had managed it in the original timeline. The cells provided regenerative properties that countered the Sharingan's deterioration.

One solution. Multiple problems solved.

Aya's arm. Mikoto's eyes. Probably dozens of other medical issues I hadn't even thought of yet.

All of it hinged on getting Hashirama cells though which wasn't exactly easy. The First had been dead for decades, and his cells weren't just lying around in storage somewhere. Well, they probably were, actually. Just not anywhere I could access without committing several crimes and possibly starting an incident with village leadership.

The potential applications were massive. Not just for Aya and Mikoto. For all of Konoha. Medical advancements, regeneration techniques, maybe even counters to certain poisons or injuries that normally would be permanent. The cells could revolutionize how we treated shinobi injuries.

So why wasn't anyone doing this already?

Wait.

Someone probably was.

Danzo.

The guy definitely had Hashirama cells. Had to. He was obsessed with the First Hokage's legacy, and he had the resources and lack of ethical constraints to experiment with things most people wouldn't touch. If anyone in the village had access to those cells and was using them for research, it was him.

But he didn't share. Didn't tell anyone he had them. Which made me wonder, was using Hashirama cells morally wrong?

That was the real question. Danzo did a lot of questionable things, but he wasn't stupid. If he was keeping the cells secret, hiding his research from the rest of the village, maybe there was a reason beyond just hoarding power. Maybe the act of using them was inherently wrong somehow.

Desecrating the dead? The First Hokage had been gone for decades, but his cells were still being used for experiments. Was that disrespectful? Unethical?

This exact problem had existed back on Earth. HeLa cells. Henrietta Lacks. 1951. Doctors took cancer cells from her cervix without consent, and those cells became the first immortal human cell line. Revolutionized medicine. Led to the polio vaccine, advanced cancer research, AIDS research, gene mapping. Used in over seventy-five thousand studies.

Massive benefits. Undeniable progress.

But they were taken without permission. Without consent. Her family didn't even know about it for decades.

So was it worth it? The medical advancement versus the violation? I remembered the debates back on Earth. Some people said yes, the good outweighed the bad. Others said no, the ends didn't justify the means. Both sides had valid points.

Hashirama cells were the same problem. Just shinobi-flavored instead of medical-flavored. The First Hokage was dead, his cells were being used without his consent, assuming he hadn't given it before dying, which I didn't know, and the potential benefits were enormous.

But was it right?

I chewed slowly and tried to think it through.

If using the cells was wrong, then my plan to help Aya and Mikoto was wrong. And all the potential medical applications were wrong. That seemed bad. People could be helped.

Or maybe Earth's history was just repeating itself here. Maybe in a hundred years, people would look back and debate whether using Hashirama's cells was ethical, the same way people debated HeLa cells. Maybe the answer would still be unclear.

I couldn't tell.

That was the problem. I genuinely couldn't figure out if using Hashirama cells was morally acceptable or not. The logic went in circles. Help people versus respect for the dead. Medical advancement versus ethical boundaries. Consent versus consequences.

Earth hadn't figured it out cleanly. Why would this world?

Was that normal? Not being able to tell?

Most people seemed to have clearer answers to questions like this. They had moral frameworks that just... worked. Gave them answers. Right and wrong, good and bad, acceptable and unacceptable.

Mine apparently didn't function that well.

Maybe I had moral problems.

I took another bite and decided to shelve the complicated moral philosophy until after I actually got the cells. No point debating ethics when I didn't even have the materials yet.

Speaking of cells.

The easiest source wouldn't be Danzo. It would be Madara.

Uchiha Madara. The legendary shinobi. Co-founder of Konoha alongside Hashirama. Also currently half-dead, ancient, and literally one foot in the grave. Probably hooked up to the Gedo Statue or some weird tree somewhere underground, barely clinging to life through sheer spite.

If anyone had Hashirama cells integrated into their body, it was him. The man had been obsessed with the First Hokage. Fought him. Lost to him. And according to what I knew, he'd definitely taken some souvenirs from that final battle.

Perfect source. Old. Dying. Not like he'd miss a few cells.

Only one problem.

I had no idea where he was hiding.

Underground somewhere, obviously. But "underground somewhere" covered a lot of territory. The Elemental Nations were big. Madara could be anywhere from here to the other side of the continent, buried in some cave system or hidden facility that nobody knew about.

I needed to find him first.

I formed the hand seal and created a shadow clone without looking away from the fire. The clone appeared next to me in a small puff of smoke, standing there with the same relaxed posture I had.

We didn't say anything. Didn't need to. The clone knew what I wanted. It understood the assignment.

It turned and walked away from the fire, snatching an uneaten skewer from the tailor's hand as it passed. The tailor stared at his now-empty hand, mouth opening and closing without sound.

The clone headed toward the outpost's main gate, eating the skewer as it walked.

The others stopped talking and stared.

"Uh," the tailor said, looking between me and the departing clone. "That was—"

"Just some shinobi business," I said with a smile. "Nothing important."

The smile was normal. Friendly, even. But something about it made the civilians go quiet. The tailor looked away first, then the others followed. Nobody asked any more questions.

They got the message. The conversation moved on to other topics, something about lumber prices, I think. I wasn't really listening.

They kept glancing at me though. Probably not used to seeing shinobi casually create duplicates of themselves in the middle of breakfast. Fair enough. Most people didn't do that.

I took another bite and let them wonder.

The clone would handle it. Scout around, gather information, check whatever records it could access. Finding Madara wouldn't be easy, but it wasn't impossible either. I had a lead.

Nagato.

The kid with the Rinnegan. Somewhere in Ame. Madara's pawn, whether Nagato knew it or not. The old man was watching him, manipulating things from the shadows, which meant there had to be some connection between them. Some way for Madara to observe what was happening.

Follow that thread and maybe I'd find where the ancient bastard was hiding.

Of course, finding Nagato in Ame wasn't exactly simple either. The Rain Village wasn't friendly territory, and tracking down one specific orphan kid in a country would take time. But it was a starting point. Better than nothing.

And if the clone found nothing?

It'd make more clones. Send them to different locations. Cast a wider net.

Eventually, something would turn up.

I bit into the meat again. The rosemary and garlic had seeped in properly, mixing with the natural sweetness of the fat. The flames popped and hissed as I watched more fat drip into them, sending little bursts of light into the air.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 59

I didn’t think Sakumo was the type to joke while an entire base burned, but he said, quiet and sure, “It hasn’t fallen,” and then he was already moving.

Tsunade moved with him. A flash of pale hair, a footfall that didn’t even bother the ash, and both of them blurred past the outer berm like the night had opened a side door just for them. By the time my eyes caught up, they were gone.

I sighed, spun off two clones that flickered out of sight, then sprinted after Tsunade and Sakumo.

Closer meant smell first. Burned wood, oil, the sourness of old fat catching flame. Beneath that was the iron note I knew too well. The outpost’s walls breathed heat, the watchtower was a torch, and the gate looked like someone had tried to teach it how to flower open from the inside.

No shouting. No steel hitting steel. Just the quiet roar that a fire makes when it has nothing left to argue with.

Bodies outside. Eighteen? Nineteen? I didn’t stand long enough to count. Wrong headbands, wrong gear. Patches, odd makes, the lazy mix of a life on the road. Missing-nin. Almost all of them. A couple of neighboring uniforms, but not many. Konoha flak vests, barely any at all on the ground. That was the first thing that didn’t match the picture I expected.

I stepped past a man whose mask had melted into his cheekbones. The ground around him was littered with shuriken that hadn’t found anything to do. I kept moving.

Inside wasn’t better. Corridors baked to a dark sheen, a glaze left by fire chewing on the same spot over and over. A door hung drunkenly by a single hinge. More bodies. Some had fallen with their hands up like they were still arguing with the wall.

I found them near the command room. Tsunade stood with her arms loose at her sides, Sakumo half a step behind her, and a jonin from the outpost was saying something while looking exhausted as hell. When I got close enough to hear, the word that reached me was “ambush.”

Tsunade noticed me. The conversation stopped like a thread pulled clean. She looked at my face and made a call in the space between her blinks. “The attackers are gone, so you can get some rest,” she said. “We’ll take Aya to the hospital wing.” She swept up Aya as if the weight didn’t exist, nodded to Sakumo and the jonin, and they were gone again.

I took a breath that didn’t help and exhaled it just to make room for the next one. Treated like a kid again. I could keep going for two days if I had to, tower defense or tower offense whatever mode it needed. But sure, rest. Why not.

She’d said the outpost was safe, attackers gone. Safe. The word felt too neat for what I’d just seen, like a lid pressed down on a pot that was still boiling underneath. Something was off. I knew it. I could feel it.

Outside, chunin dashed from the trough with sloshing buckets. A few others stood near the worst of the fires, hands moving through seals before releasing streams of water. I watched steam roll in white sheets and thought that something about the way the fire clung to the buildings still felt wrong, like it didn’t quite match the story everyone was acting out. I frowned, tried to pin it down, then caught a familiar face. The chunin who guarded the command post sometimes, the one with a wife who worked mess. My hand went up before my brain finished, ready to call out, but I realized I’d forgotten his name. I let the hand fall and pretended I’d never raised it.

I turned toward the barracks and made it six steps before a different thought tripped me. Minato and the others. Were they fine? Probably. Definitely. The “definitely” didn’t feel like a fact; it felt like a string I’d tied around my finger.

My stomach growled, and I debated finding something to eat. I glanced at the hard-working shinobi trying to put out the fires and felt embarrassed for even thinking about food.

But honestly, since I didn't know any water jutsu, I couldn't help anyway.

To ease my guilt, I created a single clone and told it to hide nearby, create additional clones, and secretly help put out the fires while I went for a walk.

So I wandered around the outpost with my hands tucked into my flak jacket, whistling, ignoring my clone's fading grumbles about manual labor.

The whistling died after about ten steps.

The outpost looked worse up close. More bodies than I'd expected, some covered with sheets, others still waiting. Chunin rushed past carrying water buckets, their faces streaked with ash. Some buildings had collapsed into charcoal and smoke. The smell of burnt wood mixed with something I didn't want to think about too hard.

I kept walking, letting my feet take me wherever. Must've been fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Long enough for my legs to feel the aimless wandering, for the smoke smell to settle into my clothes.

By the time I reached the barracks area and turned a corner, I'd almost forgotten why I was out here in the first place.

Then I stiffened.

One of my clones popped.

I turned and made for the mess hall, picking up my pace. The building came into view around an orange shed. Better shape than the others, roof sagging on one side, door hanging crooked, but mostly there.

I went inside, found it empty, and checked every corner and room. Again, something felt off—very off. My clone had been right, one corner of the room had a faint draft, even though no window was open. I crouched down, felt around, and there it was, slightly warmer air rising from a narrow crack in the floor.

I deliberately walked around the mess hall and, sure enough, some sections of the kitchen floor gave off a different sound when stepped on. Less dense, more hollow.

I carefully checked the kitchen area and found a trapdoor beneath a large stove. Figured it out by tapping the floor near the stove and hearing a faint hollow response, unlike the packed earth around it. The alignment with the nearby walls and tiles was also slightly off.

Trapdoor under a heavy stove. Weird choice, but smart. Nobody moves a stove unless something has gone very wrong or very right. I put my hand on the iron lip to shift it, then stopped. The draft had a shape now, a faint lift of warmer air. And I hadn't seen a single civilian body outside.

Shelter. Everyone down there, waiting for a knock with the right password. Open it, and I’d get a lot of faces and a lot of questions. Also a lot of hassle. This smelled like a problem that’d puts mud on your boots and then follows you home. So nope. With my curiosity satisfied, I quickly lost interest and abandoned the trapdoor, putting it out of my mind.

Instead, I rummaged through the kitchen for food. Cold trays sat under cloth. The grease had turned waxy, but food was food. I grabbed a plate, loaded it with whatever looked edible. Some kind of stew, rice that had gone hard, a piece of bread that still had some give to it. Ate standing up by the counter, chewing through cold meat and vegetables that tasted like they'd been sitting since yesterday.

The chewing gave my mind something to do. Another part of me was busy picking up the items I'd dropped in my head on the way in.

The underground shelter. Tsunade and Sakumo's conversation with the jonin about an "ambush." Back then, I had assumed it was Konoha that had been ambushed, since the outpost was clearly on fire.

But on second thought, something had been off from the beginning. I’d been distracted by that married chunin before, but now that I remembered and thought about it carefully, I knew what was wrong.

First, the burning buildings, there was almost no exterior blast damage. If enemy jutsu had caused the fires, there should have been signs of attack from the outside. Windows blown inward, scorch marks on the outer walls, that sort of thing.

But on the contrary, windows and doors were blown outward, with burn marks streaking from the inside like black fingers reaching for escape. Glass shards were scattered on the ground outside the buildings, not inside. Smoke was billowing from multiple openings, suggesting the fires started indoors.

And those missing-nin corpses. I'd walked past a few earlier, one guy halfway through a window, stuck there with his face smashed against the ground. Another pressed against a doorframe, half his body covered in burns. Actually, most of them had burn marks now that I thought about it.

These weren't attack casualties. Well, they were casualties, obviously, but not from attacking. These were people trying to escape something.

Even a fresh academy graduate could have figured it out. Hell, probably a civilian could have figured it out. Konoha had lured them inside somehow and started the explosions. The few who'd made it outside had been picked off while trying to flee.

Actually, maybe not a civilian. But definitely an academy graduate.

Anyway.

Satisfied with my curiosity being sated, I kept eating.

The cold stew wasn't bad, considering. Rice was harder than it should've been, but I'd eaten worse. The bread had some chew left in it. Sometimes food was just food, and overthinking it was a waste of time.

The smell of charred flesh was getting stronger. Or maybe I was just noticing it more now that I wasn't focused on cooking. Hard to enjoy a meal when... yeah.

Though honestly, I've eaten in worse places. Not sure why I thought that was worth mentioning.

I took another bite and wondered how the higher-ups had managed to pull this off. Luring that many missing-nin into buildings... that required planning. Intel. Someone had to know they were coming. When they were coming. What route they'd take.

Which raised another question, who were these missing-nin anyway? These guys don't usually work in groups this large. Too many people means splitting the pay, and missing-nin are notoriously bad at sharing. They also don't usually take jobs this risky unless the money's really, really good.

So someone hired them. Someone with enough money to convince more than eighteen missing-nin that attacking a Konoha outpost was a good idea.

Which meant someone wanted this outpost gone. Or wanted to test our defenses. Or wanted to make a statement.

I kept walking, chewing on that thought.

Another clone popped.

This one had been standing on top of a tree about half a kilometer out, looking at the landscape around the outpost. Corpses scattered across the ground. Both Konoha and missing-nin, but way more missing-nin than ours. Bodies in the grass, bodies against trees, a few face-down in a shallow stream.

I shoved my hands back in my pockets and kept moving. The bodies weren't going anywhere, and neither were my questions. Well, technically I had answers now. Whether I wanted to do anything about those answers was the real problem.

……

The next day in Konoha, the roof of the Hokage Tower was quiet.

Hiruzen and Danzo stood side by side, overlooking the village. Smoke rose from a few chimneys. Somewhere below, a merchant was closing up shop. Normal evening routines. The things that continued regardless of war.

Hiruzen felt genuinely grateful to Danzo. Without Root's black ops work, they never would have obtained the intel on Iwa's attempt to contact Amegakure. And because of that intel, Konoha had managed to ambush most of the Ame and Iwa shinobi who'd been disguised as missing-nin at Kawazumi.

"What do you plan to do about the war?" Danzo asked.

Hiruzen took a slow breath, considering his words. This was the tipping point. The successful defense of Kawazumi, combined with the successful raids on enemy outposts, it had created a clear momentum shift. Konoha looked strong. The enemy appeared vulnerable.

Now was the time to push for peace negotiations. On Konoha's terms.

"We force the Land of Rivers to capitulate first," Hiruzen said. "Once that happens, Sand will have no choice but to follow."

Danzo was silent for a moment. Then. "That alone won't be enough."

"I know."

"But you should pursue peace regardless," Danzo continued. "I'll support you from the shadows. Root will continue the black ops raids, maintain pressure, prevent them from recovering."

Hiruzen nodded. That was what he'd hoped to hear.

"Use diplomatic channels," Danzo said. "Offer them ‘reasonable’ peace terms."

Reasonable. Of course. Terms that heavily favored Konoha, naturally, but packaged in a way that allowed Rivers and Sand to save face. Give them an out. Let them tell themselves they'd negotiated a decent settlement instead of admitting defeat.

"And what about Iwa?" Hiruzen asked. "And Amegakure?"

The real concern. Iwa and Ame couldn't publicly acknowledge the loss of shinobi they'd never officially sent, but they'd know. And knowing meant they'd respond.

Danzo turned to look at him. "You're worried they'll accelerate their plans."

"Forty-eight of their shinobi dead," Hiruzen said. "Even with plausible deniability, that's a significant loss for Iwa and Ame. They'll either pull back to reassess, or…"

"Or they'll commit more resources to whatever they were planning in the first place," Danzo finished.

Exactly. It was what happened in the shadows. What moves Iwa and Ame would make next, now that their initial probe had failed so spectacularly.

"Can Root delay whatever comes next?" Hiruzen asked. "At least until the war with Sand and Rivers is over?"

Danzo was quiet again. Thinking. Calculating. The way he always did when presented with a problem that required... creative solutions.

"I can deploy Root operatives disguised as Ame-nin," he said finally. "Have them attack several Iwa villages. Stir hostilities between the two."

"How long can you keep that going?" Hiruzen asked.

“Long enough,” Danzo said. “By the time Iwa and Ame figure out what’s happening, they’ll be too busy fighting each other to care about us. And if they don’t, I’ll make sure things get… unsettled in Ame as well.”

Long enough. That was all they needed. Just... long enough.

"Thank you, my friend," Hiruzen said quietly.

Danzo didn't respond. Just stood there, looking out over the village.

Below them, the merchant had finished closing his shop and was walking home. A woman called out to her children to come inside for dinner. Just another evening in Konoha.

……

Kawazumi Outpost

I woke up to the sound of someone snoring.

Not my snoring, thankfully. One of the other chunin in the barracks had a talent for making sounds like a dying walrus. I'd gotten used to it over the past few days, but that didn't make it pleasant. The morning light filtered through the narrow window above my bunk, painting everything in that weird orange-gray color that made the whole room look like it was trying to decide whether it wanted to be depressing or just ugly.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:00.

Tsunade had told me to meet her at the training ground at 9:00, which meant I had time. Not a lot of time, but enough that I wouldn't have to rush. The three other chunin in the room were still dead to the world, bundled in their blankets like particularly antisocial caterpillars. If I didn't have training, I'd probably still be asleep too.

I stretched, felt my spine pop in three places, and swung my legs off the bunk.

The bathroom was down the hall. I grabbed my stuff and headed there, trying not to think about how much I missed my apartment back in Konoha. The outpost bathrooms were functional, sure, but they had all the charm of a prison cell. Gray walls, flickering light that buzzed like an angry bee, and a mirror that was either dirty or cursed. Maybe both.

I spent about ten minutes going through my morning routine. Brush teeth, wash face, fix hair so it didn't look like I'd been electrocuted. The usual. My reflection stared back at me. A dead fish would've looked more enthusiastic. Then again, I'd spent yesterday hauling lumber and hammering nails instead of doing anything interesting, so maybe that tracked.

By the time I finished, I felt almost human again.

The mess hall was already busy when I got there. Shinobi of various ranks sat at long tables, eating breakfast and talking in low voices. The air smelled like rice, miso soup, and something vaguely fish-related that I didn't want to identify. It wasn't bad, exactly. Just... boring.

"Shinji-san!"

I turned and saw her, the chunin's wife I'd met a few days ago. She was behind the serving counter, ladling miso soup into bowls for the line of shinobi. She looked tired, but then again, everyone here looked tired.

I grabbed a tray and joined the line. When I reached the counter, she glanced up and smiled.

"Morning," I said, walking over. "How are you holding up?"

"Better than I expected," she said, ladling soup into my bowl. "The repairs are coming along well. Minato-san and his team have been a huge help."

"Yeah, he's good at that." I moved my tray along as she added rice and grilled fish.

She laughed. "I don’t doubt that. From what I've heard, you've been just as helpful."

"I'm mostly following Minato's lead," I said. "He actually knows construction. I just carry the heavy stuff and nod when he explains load-bearing walls."

She added pickled vegetables to my tray, still smiling. "Well, either way, thank you."

I nodded and moved on, scanning the room for a place to sit. Most of the tables were full, but I found a spot near the back where a few chunin I vaguely recognized were eating in silence.

"Mind if I sit?"

"Not at all," one of them said. Then he blinked, like something just clicked in his head. "Wait, you're the one who helped with the fires a few days ago, right? With all those clones?"

"Uh, yeah. That was me."

"Man, you saved our asses," another one said. "That blaze near the eastern wall was about to spread to the next building. Then suddenly there's like twenty of you running around doing everything."

"Got it handled way faster than we could've," the third one added. "Probably saved us half the repairs we're dealing with now."

"Oh. Yeah, no problem."

Which was a weird thing to say because, honestly, I didn't remember most of it. The clones had kind of done their own thing once I'd made them. I'd given them a general direction, put out the fire, don't let anyone die, and they'd just... gone. By the time they dispelled and I got all their memories back, it was already done.

So really, I was accepting thanks for work I'd technically done but hadn't actually been present for.

"Seriously though," the third chunin said. "You kept the whole situation from getting worse. We appreciate it."

"Just doing what needed doing," I said, because what else could I say? "Glad it worked out."

They seemed satisfied with that, which was good because I didn't have a better answer. We settled into comfortable silence after that, just eating. They nodded at me a few more times throughout the meal in this way.

I nodded back.

It felt nice, actually. Weird, but nice.

My clones had apparently made a good impression.

That fire had been just one mess among many from the attack, but at least it was a mess we'd actually managed to handle.

It had been a few days since the counter-ambush. If you could even call it that. More like "the time a bunch of enemy shinobi tried to be clever and got absolutely demolished for their trouble." The outpost had taken some damage during the fight, which was why I'd spent some of my time helping Minato and the others with the construction and repairs. Not that I minded, really. Hauling lumber and hammering nails was just another form of physical training. It beat sitting around doing nothing.

"Hey." Minato appeared beside the table with his team. Miyabi, Nawaki, and Yua stood behind him, looking about as awake as I felt, which was to say not very.

"Morning," I said. "Grab a seat."

They sat down, grabbed their chopsticks, and dug in.

For a minute, nobody talked. Just eating. Nawaki looked like he wanted to say something, opened his mouth, then apparently decided food was more important.

"So," I said eventually. "Plans for today?"

"Training with Orochimaru-sensei," Nawaki said immediately, practically vibrating with excitement. "Then more repairs."

"Same," Miyabi added, sounding significantly less excited about it.

"I'm training with Tsunade-sensei," I said. "Then more repairs. Also more training after that. Living the dream."

Yua raised an eyebrow. "That's a lot of things to do in one day."

"Tsunade-sensei's thorough like that," I said with a shrug.

"What kind of training?" Minato asked.

"Probably something medical-related," I added. "Since that's what we've been working on."

Nawaki perked up. "You're learning medical ninjutsu? That's so cool!"

"It's a lot of memorization," I said. "Less cool than it sounds."

"Can you fight with it though?" Nawaki said, leaning slightly. "Like, is there offensive medical ninjutsu?"

"Sure," I said. "Chakra scalpel, for one."

Miyabi looked interested now. "Scapel?"

"Yeah. It's meant for surgery, precise cuts without needing an actual blade. But you can use it in combat too." I paused. How to explain this? "You coat your hand in chakra, shape it right, and it just... cuts. Through muscle, tendons, whatever. Doesn't leave external wounds though. Just severs what's inside."

"That sounds brutal," Yua said.

"It is." I took a bite of fish. "But it's useful and hard to block, since most people don't expect it."

Actually, 'hard to block' wasn't quite right. You could block it, technically, but you had to know what you were dealing with first.

"Helped me a lot in the last fight," I said. "When you're up against jonin, having something that bypasses armor and standard defenses—" I gestured vaguely with my chopsticks. "It makes a difference. People see your hand coming, think it's just taijutsu, then suddenly their arm stops working."

Nawaki's eyes went wide. "Wait, you've actually fought jonin? Like, actual jonin?"

"Few times now," I said. "Still getting used to it, but yeah."

"That's insane," Nawaki said. "I can barely keep up with chunin in training."

"You'll get there," I said. "Just takes practice."

Minato had been quiet, but now he looked at me with this expression I recognized. "We should spar sometime."

I blinked. "What, now?"

"Not now. But soon." He smiled, but there was something else there. Interest, maybe. "I'd like to see how you use it. The chakra scalpel, I mean."

"You just want to figure out how to counter it," I said.

"That too," he admitted.

Miyabi smirked. "He's been trying to spar with every chunin at the outpost since we got here."

"I wouldn't say 'every,'" Minato said. "Just the ones I think I can learn something from."

"Same thing," Yua said.

I took another bite of fish. A spar with Minato sounded interesting, but also kind of weird when I thought about it. Because wasn't I doing the exact same thing? Walking around the outpost, finding chunin to spar with whenever I had free time?

We were creepily similar in that regard.

"Sure," I said. "After I'm done with Tsunade-sensei."

"Looking forward to it," Minato said, and I could tell he meant it.

Yeah. Definitely similar.

Nawaki raised his hand like we were still in the Academy. "Can I watch?"

"If you want to see your teammate get his ass handed to him."

"You say that now," Minato said, grinning wider. "Might want to save the trash talk for after."

The conversation settled for a moment, people going back to their food. Then Nawaki shifted in his seat, and I could tell something had been eating at him.

"The ambush a few days ago," he said, looking at me. "Shinji, were you in that fight?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Some chunin told us at least thirty enemies got taken down. Maybe more. I still can't believe it. We were just sitting in the shelter the whole time and—ugh, it's so frustrating!"

“Because we were in the shelter,” Yua reminded him. “Exactly where we were supposed to be.”

"I know, but still!" Nawaki's expression shifted from excitement to something closer to frustration. "It's so annoying that we got stuck down there. We missed the whole fight!"

"You would've been a burden," Miyabi said bluntly. "Or dead. Most of the people fighting were jonin and chunin. Genin would've just gotten in the way."

"She's right," Yua said. "You probably would've been chewed in half in a single blow."

Nawaki's face scrunched up in a pout. "You don't have to say it like that."

I picked at my pickled radish. "That's why you should learn as much as you can from Orochimaru-sensei. Get better, get faster. Make chunin. Then next time something like this happens, you won't be stuck in a shelter."

Nawaki's whole face lit up. "You're right! This is just the first step. I'm gonna train hard, make chunin, and become Hokage!"

"You'll have to beat me first," Minato said, smiling. "I want to be Hokage too."

Nawaki blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Really."

"Well then I'll just have to work twice as hard!" Nawaki said. "I'm gonna be the best student Orochimaru-sensei ever had!"

"Pretty sure that spot's taken," I said. "But second-best isn't bad."

"Second-best?" Nawaki looked offended. "I'm not settling for second-best. I'll be first. At everything. Orochimaru-sensei's best student, the strongest genin, and the next Hokage. Minato can have second place."

Minato just smiled wider. "We'll see about that."

"Yeah." Nawaki pointed at him with his chopsticks. "We will."

Then he turned to me. "What about you, Shinji? Do you want to be Hokage too?"

I paused mid-chew.

Did I want to be Hokage?

No. Absolutely not. Being Hokage meant paperwork. Mountains of it. Sitting at a desk all day, signing documents, attending meetings with old men who talked in circles. That sounded like hell. I'd rather fight a hundred jonin bare-handed than spend my days buried in administrative work.

"Nah," I said. "Not interested in being a desk guy."

"Really?" Nawaki looked surprised. "But you're strong enough. You could totally do it."

"Strong enough, sure. But wanting to do it is different." I took a sip of water. "Being Hokage sounds exhausting."

"You could still train to be strong without wanting the position," Minato said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"That's the plan," I said.

Nawaki shrugged. "Your loss. More room at the top for me."

"Sure," I said. "Good luck with that."

We kept talking as we ate, the conversation drifting from training to missions to the general weirdness of living in an outpost that had almost been overrun by enemy forces a few days ago. Talk that didn't really go anywhere, just bounced around until everyone finished eating and realized they had places to be.

Eventually Minato and his team stood up, said their goodbyes, and headed off toward wherever Orochimaru was probably waiting to put them through training that would make grown men cry.

I finished my breakfast, dropped off my tray, and headed out.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 58

I watched Tsunade's expression shift into full mission mode as she turned toward Aya. "How many shinobi are we looking at inside the outpost?"

Aya didn't hesitate. "Twenty-three."

Twenty-three. That's a decent chunk of people for what looks like a supply depot. I glanced back toward the cluster of buildings we'd been observing. From our current position, tucked behind some weathered rocks about two hundred meters out, the place looked quiet enough. But twenty-three bodies could make things complicated fast.

"What about patrol routes?" Tsunade continued.

"There's movement around the perimeter," Aya reported. "Two-man teams doing circuits around the base. I'm estimating every thirty to sixty minutes based on what I've observed."

Tsunade nodded. I could see her thinking. No, more than thinking. Working through something.

"Alright," she said finally. "Here's how we're going to handle this. Sakumo and I will infiltrate the outpost. Our job is to locate and destroy their storage areas and any supply caches we can find."

She gestured toward the rest of us. "The rest of you will maintain overwatch positions. I need you monitoring for incoming reinforcements or any unexpected movement. More importantly, I need you to secure our escape routes so Sakumo and I can extract cleanly and move on to the next outpost as quickly as possible."

Fair enough. Though twenty-three people...

"Twenty-three is a lot of bodies," I said, voicing the thought. "Might be worth using my clones to draw some of them away from the outpost. Make your job easier."

Tsunade glanced at me, and I caught a flicker of approval in her expression. "Not a bad idea," she admitted. "But I want to save that approach for the second outpost."

"Why's that?"

"We don't know what we'll face at the other outposts," she explained. "Your clone strategy could be exactly what we need for a tougher target. Better to save that card for when we really need it."

"Besides," she continued, "it's not like Sakumo and I are planning to fight all twenty-three head-on. This is an infiltration mission. With just the two of us moving quietly, our chances of getting in and out undetected are actually higher than if we brought more people."

Fair point. More bodies meant more chances for someone to trip up, make noise, or get spotted. Keep the infiltration team small and fast.

Tsunade turned back to Aya. "I'm putting you in charge of the rest of the squad while we're inside."

Aya straightened slightly. "Understood."

"Don't be shy about relying on Shinji," Tsunade added with just the hint of a smirk. "He's got useful skills for this kind of work."

I rolled my eyes. Thanks for the vote of confidence, sensei.

Aya’s mouth ticked up, just for me. “I will.”

Sakumo shifted, a quiet tap of the scabbard against his back. “Time window?”

Aya closed her eyes. “Closest patrol passes our side in… two minutes. After that, you have twelve before the next lap hits the east fence.”

“Good,” Tsunade said. “On my mark.”

We flattened behind a low fold of ground while the two-man patrol trudged past, boots gritting on old gravel. One had his flak vest undone at the throat, sweat darkening the fabric. The other fought a yawn and lost. They murmured about ration stew and a letter from home. And they kept walking.

“Go,” She breathed.

The group split naturally. Tsunade and Sakumo melted away toward the outpost, disappearing into the shadows without so much as a whisper. The rest of us circled around to find a better observation point.

We ended up on a small ridge that gave us decent sightlines of the outpost and the surrounding area. The position was concealed enough to keep us hidden but elevated enough to spot trouble coming from multiple directions.

Aya settled in next to me, pulling out what looked like a hand-drawn map covered in scribbles and markings.

"Okay," she said quietly, spreading the map between us. "I've plotted out three potential escape routes for when Tsunade and Sakumo finish their mission."

“Primary route,” she said, pointing with two fingers across the ridge line that ran like a spine north of the outpost. “Fastest, least turns. We follow that ridge for five hundred meters, drop into the gully behind those birches, and cut south at the dry creek until we hit the game trail that leads back toward our next objective.” She traced the path again so the other jonin could picture it. “It’s the fastest if nothing goes wrong.”

“Secondary?” Scarface asked, keeping his voice calm, eyes on the yard.

“Longer, but quiet. Follow the creek bed south. It’s soft ground, but the water sound covers us and it’s screened by growth. Good if someone starts sweeping the ridges.”

“And emergency?” Ponytail said.

Aya's expression grew more serious. "This one's for when everything goes wrong." She traced a path that seemed to loop back on itself before heading toward what looked like rough terrain. "It's not pretty, but it'll get us out if we're being actively pursued. Lots of cover, but the going will be slow."

I studied the map, noting the detail she'd put into marking potential hazards, cover points, and what looked like alternative paths within each main route. She really went all out on this.

"Good planning," I said. "You've been busy."

She looked pleased at the acknowledgment. "I wanted to make sure we had options. In reconnaissance work, you learn pretty quickly that plans have a way of falling apart."

"Been there before?"

"More than I'd like," she said with a slight grimace. "My first few missions... let's just say I learned the value of backup plans the hard way."

“We all screw up eventually. Part of learning.”

"Right. Still, I'd rather learn from other people's mistakes than keep making my own."

She folded the map carefully and handed it to me. "Can I count on you to scout these routes with your shadow clones? I'd like confirmation that they're all clear before Tsunade and Sakumo finish up."

I took the map, noting all the detail she'd crammed into it. "Yeah, you can count on me."

She smiled. "Thanks. I know this is technically my first time leading, and... well. Having support makes a difference."

First time leading? No wonder she seems a little tense. I glanced at her sideways, noting the way she kept checking our surroundings even while talking. Responsible, but maybe trying a bit too hard to be perfect.

"You're doing fine," I said. "Better to have too much of a plan than no plan at all."

I formed the hand seal for shadow clone jutsu. Three copies of myself popped into existence, always felt weird that moment when you're suddenly looking at yourself from multiple angles. The clones knew what they needed to do, obviously. Same brain and all that.

Actually, calling it "knowing" wasn't quite right. More like... they just did.

"You take the primary route," I instructed one clone quietly, then pointed to the others. "Secondary route. Emergency route. Look for patrol patterns, potential ambush spots, anything that might complicate a fast extraction."

The clones nodded and took off.

Aya settled in next to me, adjusting her position to watch the outpost. Scarface was checking his equipment. Shoulders had his eyes on the perimeter, scanning for movement. Ponytail was... doing whatever Ponytail did.

"How long you think they'll need?" Shoulders asked quietly.

Scarface glanced over. "Depends. Could be quick if it's just supply caches sitting in the open. Could be longer if..." He shrugged. "Lot of variables."

"Guards could be off schedule," Ponytail added. "Or there could be more inside than Aya sensed."

"Twenty-three's already a lot," I said.

Aya looked up from her notes. "I'm confident in the count.”

Scarface nodded. "Sensor intel's usually solid. It's everything else that gets messy."

Nobody disagreed with that. Though nobody really responded either. I got the feeling they were used to operating with incomplete information and random variables, working around problems as they came up. Experience, maybe.

I leaned back against the rock, trying to get comfortable. Waiting. Always the worst part of these things.

At least it's nice out. The sun felt good, not too hot. Bit of a breeze. Would've been perfect for... I don't know, reading or something. Maybe some sake. Instead I'm crouched behind rocks waiting to see if we need to run for our lives.

Aya was watching the outpost, eyes focused on the buildings. Scribbling notes every few seconds. Guard movements, probably. Or maybe just keeping busy.

The other jonin were doing their thing too, Scarface checking his gear for the third time, Shoulders still scanning the perimeter like something might sneak up on us.

"How's it looking?" I asked.

"Patrol just finished their loop," Aya said, still watching the outpost. "Right on schedule. Well, close to it. Forty-seven minutes since the last one."

So they're consistent. Or trying to be, anyway. Could mean good discipline. Could mean they were just following orders. Either way, predictable was... predictable.

One of my clones dispelled itself, sending back memories of the primary route. Clear path, no unexpected obstacles, and importantly, no signs of enemy activity. The route looked solid.

"Primary's clean," I reported to Aya.

She nodded, making another note. "Good. How much longer for the other two?"

"Give it another few minutes."

The second clone's memories hit me as I spoke, secondary route also clear though there were a few spots where the forest cover thinned out more than Aya's map had indicated. Nothing that would compromise the route, but worth noting for timing purposes.

"Secondary's good too," I said. "Fair warning though, there are a couple of spots where we'll have less cover than your map shows. Not a problem, just something to keep in mind if we need to move fast and quiet."

"Noted. I may have been overly optimistic about the forest density in that area."

Better to know now than find out when we're running for our lives.

The third clone took longer to complete its circuit, which made sense given that the emergency route was the most complex and winding of the three paths. When its memories finally reached me, I was relieved to confirm that the route was viable, if challenging.

"Emergency route's clear," I reported. "It's going to be rough going if we have to use it, lots of uneven ground and some tight spots, but it'll work if we need it."

"Perfect." Aya lowered her note and checked her timepiece. "Tsunade and Sakumo have been inside for about fifteen minutes now."

Still well within normal parameters for this kind of mission. Though I had to admit, part of me was eager for them to finish up so we could move on to the next phase. Sitting still was never my favorite part of fieldwork.

Scareface caught my attention with a subtle gesture, pointing toward the outpost's main entrance. I followed his gaze and spotted movement, another patrol team emerging for their scheduled circuit.

"Right on schedule," I muttered.

The first shout came thin through the trees. Then the alarm—shrill, ugly, bouncing off the walls of the outpost and skittering through the pines. We all flinched like someone had cracked ice against the back of our necks.

‘Did she get it done?’ I thought, and then corrected myself. ‘She’s with Sakumo. The real question is whether she hit the extra objectives too.’

Aya’s head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing. “Eighteen,” she said. “River shinobi, moving fast. They’re chasing Tsunade and Sakumo.”

Nobody said anything for a moment. Shoulders muttered something under his breath, couldn't catch what but it didn't sound happy. Ponytail started checking his kunai count. Again. Scarface just kept staring at the outpost.

Eighteen. Against the five of us.

Well, four of them and me, really. Though I wasn't sure that distinction mattered much right now.

I could see it in their faces. That look people get when they're doing math they don't want to finish. They were already thinking about... well. How to make it count. Buy Tsunade and Sakumo time to get clear, take down as many as possible before—

'Really not that deep, guys.' Part of me wanted to say something. Tell them they were overthinking this. That it'd be fine as long as I was here. But saying that would just make me sound like an arrogant chunin who didn't understand what eighteen jonin could do.

Better to show than tell.

"We should set up an ambush," I said instead. "Further down the line. Force them to come at us through a chokepoint."

'Preferably past the spots where I planted my insurance policies.'

Scarface nodded grimly. "Better than meeting them in the open."

We moved fast, pulling back to a position with better cover and sightlines. The others were already positioning themselves, checking angles, preparing for what they probably thought would be their last fight.

I settled behind a cluster of rocks, trying to look appropriately tense while internally counting the seconds until—

The world exploded.

Not metaphorically. Actually exploded.

The ground jumped. Trees bent wrong. Everything got loud, then louder, then just noise. Multiple blasts, one after another, overlapping until it was just one continuous—

I hit the ground, pressing against the rocks. Everyone else did the same. Basic survival instinct kicking in.

Debris started falling. Stone chunks, wood splinters, bits of... well, bits of things that used to be something else. Probably.

When the worst of it passed, I looked up. The four jonin were staring at where the explosions had come from, faces cycling through confusion and shock.

Scarface's mouth was hanging open slightly. Which was... not an expression I'd expected to see on his face.

"What the h e l l was that?" Shoulders' voice sounded distant and distorted, broken up by the constant ringing in our ears.

Before anyone could figure out an answer, two shapes came through the smoke. Tsunade and Sakumo, moving fast. Well, fast-ish. Not their usual speed. Tsunade had blood on her forehead, and Sakumo's sleeve was... torn? Burnt?

They looked like they'd been too close to something that exploded.

Which, yeah.

Clone memories hit me then. All at once, like they always do. Eighteen River-nin, moving fast, surrounding Tsunade and Sakumo from everywhere, basically. Getting close. Too close. My clones had waited until the last second to detonate. Maybe a second too late? Or early? Timing had been...

Well, almost perfect. Almost.

Most of the River-nin were gone. Just gone. But the timing had been tighter than I'd wanted, and even Tsunade and Sakumo had caught some of the shockwave. Internal injuries, probably. Nothing that would kill them, but...

Three River-nin had been close enough to Tsunade and Sakumo to survive the worst of it. They were down but not dead, kneeling in the debris like broken toys.

Aya was already doing her sensor thing. "Three left," she confirmed. "The rest are gone."

The other jonin looked at each other. Relief, maybe some satisfaction. They headed toward the three survivors, kunai already in hand. No discussion was needed, they all knew what came next. Time to finish what the explosions had started.

I created a clone and sent it toward Sakumo. "Help him out," I told it quietly.

Tsunade was already working on herself. Green chakra around her hands, dealing with whatever damage she'd taken internally.

I stopped next to her. Close enough to help if she needed it, but not so close that she'd take a swing at me. Since, technically, it was my explosions that had banged her up in the first place.

She might be a little... touchy about that.

I hesitated for a second, then figured I should probably ask anyway. "You okay, sensei?"

She turned her head, dust still in her hair, and gave me a smile that could have passed for kind if it wasn’t sitting on her face. “Well? What do you think?”

I froze. There’s a difference between Tsunade scowling at you and Tsunade smiling at you. One promises broken ribs, the other promises something you won’t understand until after it’s too late. I took a step back.

"It was an accident," I said quickly. "I mean, the timing was off. I'll do better next time. Promise."

Before she could say anything else, the others came back. Aya, Sakumo, and the three jonin, all looking satisfied with their work. I was surprised to see Sakumo with them. Guy was injured and he still went to help with the cleanup? Though I guess that explained why it had been so quick.

I glanced at my clone, who was supposed to be healing Sakumo. The clone just shrugged at me with this helpless expression, like 'what was I supposed to do, argue with him?' Then it went back to trying to patch up whatever internal damage Sakumo had taken.

A few minutes passed in silence before Tsunade finally broke it. "Alright, let's move to our next target."

And we were running again.

Still dark, which made everything... well, everything sucked. Hard to see where I was going, hard to tell how long we'd been moving. Time got weird when everything looked the same.

Could've been an hour. Could've been longer. My legs were definitely feeling it by the time we stopped.

I was breathing harder than I wanted to admit. Not exactly the cool, collected image I was going for.

We'd reached another outpost. Smaller than the first one, tucked into a cluster of rocks that probably made it harder to spot from a distance.

"Aya," Tsunade said, not even winded. "What's the situation?"

Aya closed her eyes, concentrating. Doing her sensor thing. After a moment her eyes snapped open, and she looked... confused? Surprised?

"Six shinobi in the outpost," she said. "No patrols around the perimeter."

Scarface frowned. "That's it? Trap?"

"Could be," Aya said. "It's... unusually quiet."

Tsunade shook her head. "Commander Minoru probably started another engagement. Pulled half their forces to the front line to deal with our main force."

That made sense. If there was fighting elsewhere, they'd need everyone they could get.

"This is our chance," she continued. "Aya, I need exact positions on those six. Sakumo and I will handle them. The rest of you focus on the supplies. Find their caches, burn everything that looks important."

Simple enough. Though 'important' was kind of subjective when everything was fair game.

We nodded and moved toward the outpost. Simple plan. Sometimes simple was better than... well, whatever the alternative was.

Once we got close, we split up. Cover more ground that way. The jonin went their direction, I went mine. Standard search and destroy.

That's when I saw it.

Scarface had grabbed someone. Civilian, looked like. Older guy, probably a worker or something. He looked terrified. Scarface was asking him about storage locations.

The civilian was stammering, pointing toward a building with shaking hands. When Scarface got his answer, he just... shoved the guy aside. Hard. Left him on the ground, whimpering.

I watched it happen and felt...

I don't know. Something. The guy was just a civilian. Probably didn't even want to be here, just trying to survive. But this was war. And we had a job to do.

Still felt unnecessary though.

I created four clones and sent them out. "Burn anything that looks important," I told them quietly.

Fifteen minutes later, we were already moving again. No one chasing us, no alarms, no complications. The outpost was behind us, probably still burning.

Quick and clean. Just the way I liked it.

The next outpost was Suna territory. Land of Wind. Which meant more running to get there, and my legs were definitely feeling it by now. Young body or not, there were limits.

This one played out similar to the last. Quick destruction, grab what intel we could, and get out.

Except this time, something went wrong.

"Large group incoming," Aya said suddenly, voice tight. "Multiple squads. They're returning."

Scarface tensed. "How many?"

"Forty, maybe more," Aya said, her eyes still closed in concentration. "Hard to get an exact count, they're spread out, but definitely a lot of them."

I heard Ponytail curse under his breath. Shoulders was already checking his weapon pouch, movements quick and jerky.

"Forty?" Scarface's voice cracked slightly. "We need to move. Now."

Whether the main battle had ended or they'd figured out someone was hitting their supply lines, we didn't have time to find out. Either way, we weren't sticking around to ask.

"We've done enough damage," Tsunade said. "Mission's complete. Time to head home."

Home being our outpost. Wherever that was from here.

Aya took point, leading us away from the incoming Suna force. She kept using her sensors, adjusting our path constantly. The Dampening Tags were still working, helping us stay hidden, but the Land of Wind was mostly... well, wind and sand. Not a lot of places to hide.

It wasn't long before they picked up our trail.

"They're following," Aya said. Unnecessary announcement, really. We could hear them behind us.

I cursed under my breath and started making clones. Two, three at a time. Every few minutes, dropping them behind us as we ran. The constant chakra drain was slowing me down, making my steps heavier.

Then Tsunade just... picked me up. Princess carry. In front of everyone.

Could this get any more embarrassing?

"Keep making clones," she said, like this was totally normal. Then, quieter. "Second-gen only. Too many eyes around."

Right. Couldn't have witnesses reporting impossible things back to their villages.

So I kept churning out clones, dropping them behind and around us. Every time a group of Suna-nin got too close, I detonated one. It didn't take long before the desert turned into noise. Explosions hammered the air. Sand thrown high enough to blot the stars. Every blast dug a crater into the dunes, shockwaves slamming against our backs, my stomach lurching each time. The world narrowed to running, detonating, running again.

I lost count of how many. Ten? Twenty? More? Every time I thought it might be over, Aya would murmur “still behind us,” and another group of Suna-nin would rise out of the dark. Then another explosion, another crater, and we’d keep moving.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Time blurred, melted by sweat and ringing ears.

When Tsunade finally set me down, the ground under my feet was darker, softer, the soil of the Land of Fire.

Silence. No dust trails behind us. No more pursuers.

I turned to Tsunade and Sakumo. Both looked rough, pale faces, dry lips, bruises across their arms and necks. All of us marked by the night's violence, like the desert had taken a piece of us. And the others weren't there at all.

My voice scraped out, “Where are the others?”

Even as I asked, I could feel it starting. Clone memories pressing against my skull, trying to force their way in. Flashes of sand and blood and—no. I clenched my teeth, pushing back against the flood of images, forcing myself to keep them buried in some dark corner where they couldn’t reach me.

Tsunade didn’t stop her hands from glowing green across her chest. “They didn’t make it. Suna-nin got them.” Flat words, as if any more detail would only make it worse.

Her tone was so casual. I got why she said it that way. Dwelling on details wouldn't bring them back, wouldn't help the people still here. But…

I forced myself to focus on what I could still control. The immediate stuff. People who were still breathing. I looked at Sakumo, using the distraction. Blood at the corner of his mouth, more seeping through his shirt. How much blood I couldn’t tell, but it wasn’t good.

I created two clones immediately, gesturing toward Sakumo.

The clones moved without a word, green chakra already forming around their hands.

Four people. Aya and three jonin, just... gone.

Aya. Her smile when she'd handed me that map, covered in all her notes. The way she'd asked if she could count on me, and I'd said yes. Confident, like it was easy. The world tilted. I swayed, then dropped to one knee, suddenly dizzy. Was I dizzy? Everything felt wrong.

"You okay?" Tsunade asked, looking over at me.

I pushed myself back up. "Yeah. Just tired." Which was... mostly true. Tired, dizzy, whatever. "I'm fine."

I fumbled for something to do with my hands, some way to keep busy and not think about what had just happened.

"Focus on her instead," Sakumo said quietly to my clones, nodding toward something behind him.

I froze. Her?

For a second I thought he was delirious from blood loss. Making jokes or hallucinating or something. Then I saw what was lying on the ground behind him.

Aya. Alive. Barely breathing, blood pooling beneath her, but her chest was still rising and falling in shallow, desperate gasps.

The clones were already moving before I could even process what I was seeing, green chakra forming around their hands as they rushed to her side.

Sakumo sheathed his sword on his back. "Unfortunately, I could only save her," he said quietly.

I understood what he meant. During all that chaos, the explosions, the running, the fighting, Sakumo had been trying to save people. But even he had limits. Two hands meant he could only carry one person, carry Aya to safety while still fighting.

The next several minutes were tense. Aya was in bad shape, really bad. Multiple injuries, internal bleeding, barely conscious. And her left hand was just... gone. My clones started working on stopping the bleeding, but Tsunade quickly moved over and took charge, her superior medical skills immediately apparent. She directed my clones to assist while she handled the more complex procedures, stopping the arterial bleeding from the severed hand, stabilizing the internal injuries. I helped with Sakumo while keeping one eye on Aya, watching for any sign that she might not make it.

Finally, Tsunade sat back on her heels. "She's stable. Still needs more work, but the immediate danger is past."

"Can she travel?" Sakumo asked.

Tsunade glanced over at Aya. "I've stabilized the worst of it, but she's lost a lot of blood so we'll need to go slow."

Sakumo nodded. "Then we head back to Kawazumi outpost."

Kawazumi outpost. If he hadn't said the name, I wouldn't have even known our base had one. Just went to show how much attention I'd been paying to the details.

We started running again. Two more hours through the night, heading toward what should have been safety. Home base. Hot food, actual beds, maybe some time to process what had just happened.

Should have been.

We came to an abrupt stop at the top of a ridge, and I just... stared. Couldn't quite process what I was seeing.

In the distance, the Kawazumi outpost was on fire. The whole thing was engulfed in flames, orange light dancing against the darkness.

I rubbed my face with both hands. 'Are you kidding me?'

……

A few days earlier—

Rain came down hard in Amegakure. The Iwa-nin pulled his cloak tighter, water already seeping through the fabric. His partner walked beside him, both of them trying to ignore the stares.

Civilians lined the narrow streets. Poorly dressed, most of them. Hungry-looking. And when they saw the two strangers, they spat. Not subtly either, right in their direction, expressions twisted with open hostility.

The Iwa-nin kept walking. Getting into fights with civilians wasn't why they were here.

The Land of Rain. Small country, wedged between three powers that could crush it without thinking twice. Fire Country to the east, Wind Country to the south, Earth Country to the north. All of them bigger, richer, stronger.

Trade was minimal here. Agriculture even worse. While Fire Country enjoyed fertile lands and prosperity, Rain Country survived on whatever scraps it could get from the endless conflicts around it. Mercenary work, mostly. Assassination contracts. The ugly jobs nobody else wanted to claim responsibility for.

Which was exactly why they were here.

The tavern looked like every other building in this place, dingy, rain-stained, forgotten. Inside wasn't much better. Rough patrons filled the tables, some obviously shinobi, others looking like drunken missing-nin who'd given up on life. The bartender was behind the counter polishing glasses. Looked bored.

The moment they stepped inside, conversations stopped. Then the laughter started.

"Look what crawled out of the mountains!" a drunk at the bar slurred, raising his bottle.

"Damn right!" another drunk bellowed, raising his mug. "What's the matter, boys? Can't find any caves to hide in?"

The first voice wheezed with laughter. "Probably got lost looking for rocks to eat!"

"Hey, stone-heads!" a third patron chimed in, clearly encouraged by the others. "Your little pebbles won't help you in here!"

"Mountain rats!" someone else shouted, and now half the tavern was laughing. "Should've stayed in your holes!"

The insults kept coming, each one accompanied by more laughter. The Iwa-nin felt his partner tense beside him, hand drifting toward his weapon pouch.

"Don't," he said quietly. "We're here for business."

They approached the counter. The bartender continued polishing his glass, acting like they didn't exist.

"We're here to commission mercenary work," he said.

The bartender didn't look up. Kept polishing. The crowd behind them kept laughing.

His partner stepped forward, face flushed with anger. "We're talking to you."

Still nothing. Just the sound of cloth on glass, over and over.

Finally, the Iwa-nin reached into his cloak and placed a pouch of money on the counter. Heavy pouch. It hit the wood with a solid thud.

The bartender smiled. Still didn't look at them, but his hand moved beneath the counter. Something clicked, and a door creaked open behind him.

He went back to polishing glasses like nothing had happened.

The crowd kept jeering as they walked through the door.

Inside, a familiar figure waited. Murase. Every major nation's spy network knew that name. Hanzo's right hand, the man who handled Amegakure's less official business arrangements.

"Gentlemen," Murase said, gesturing to chairs across from his desk. "I understand you have a proposition."

The Iwa-nin sat down, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. "We need someone eliminated. Konoha's regional commander."

Murase didn't react. Just nodded like they'd asked him about the weather. "Such requests require... significant compensation."

That's when the real negotiation started. And it went badly from the beginning.

Hanzo's terms were massive. Enormous payment in ryō, more than they'd expected to pay. A mutual defense pact in case Konoha retaliated. Trade agreements heavily favoring Ame. Shared access to several of Iwa's mines.

"This is extortion," his partner snapped, shooting to his feet.

Murase shrugged. "Hanzo-sama anticipated that someone would come knocking when one side in the war started losing. The terms reflect the... complexity of your request."

They left fuming. Said they'd relay the terms to their superiors.

After the door closed behind them, a shadow moved behind Murase.

"Going after Konoha seems risky," the figure said. "What makes you think Iwa won't just abandon us if Konoha comes for revenge?"

Murase leaned back in his chair. "Hanzo-sama knows best. The operation will be disguised as missing-nin work. Allows us to publicly condemn the 'unauthorized' action while secretly benefiting. Keeps diplomatic channels open if things go wrong."

The shadow remained silent for a moment. "I hope you're right."

"Hanzo-sama usually is."

The next day, the two Iwa-nin returned. The agreement was finalized.

—

And that's how the outpost ended up burning.

All I could see was the flames in the distance, orange light against the darkness. Our base, our supposed safe haven, reduced to a bonfire.

I rubbed my face with both hands. 'Are you kidding me?'

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 57

I didn’t plan for the wind to be mean about it. But the wind was mean about it, shoving the smell of wet river mud and pine sap into my nose, flipping my hair into my eyes like it had a grudge.

The river kept hissing like it wanted us to shut up, but nobody listens to rivers.

“Contact west-southwest,” Aya murmured. “They’re moving parallel.”

Nobody else said much. Tsunade’s chakra was already building, subtle as a thunderhead humming behind your teeth. Sakumo tilted his head slightly, testing the wind.

I didn’t ask. Didn’t wait for an order either. Just shrugged, let my chakra split, and four of me blinked out of the dark.

One of me snorted at the others. Another me grinned back. They already knew where to go.

The three jonin, I almost called them “extras,” which is rude but also accurate. I didn’t know their names, so I gave them some. Scarface, obvious reasons. Shoulders, because the guy’s whole body was just trapezius. And Ponytail, self-explanatory, though I could’ve gone with “Horse Girl” if I felt like being meaner.

Anyway, Scarface, Shoulders, Ponytail. Don’t ask me their real names, nobody bothered to introduce me, so the nicknames are sticking.

They looked… comfortable? Not comfortable like they were at home, comfortable like they already knew what to do and didn’t need to talk about it. Or maybe that’s just how jonin always are. I wouldn’t know.

River squad stepped over the sandbar, one behind the other, then spread wide without anyone telling them to. That’s how you can tell they’ve been doing this too long. That alone told me I liked them; not as people, but as opponents. They did the soundless check of angles. One lifted two fingers and I saw the slightest ripple of Suiton chakra on his tongue.

He never got to use it. A blur slipped in behind him, Sakumo’s tanto kissed the base of his neck and kept going. The man dropped without a sound, the water chakra still gleaming useless on his tongue.

Another River-nin jerked back, face twisting—“Ambush!”

Tsunade whispered, “Now.”

I snapped two clones right, two left. The right pair burst from grass with basic kunai-flicks, nothing special, just honest low-skill opening feints. The left pair went low, palms open, aiming for ankles and wrists.

The River-nin didn’t fall for it. He didn’t block; he stepped back half a pace and let the angles die. He threw his kunai not at a person but at the space my clone wanted to occupy next.

The valley cracked with noise, exploding tags snapping sharp, like planks smacked flat. Scarface and Ponytail used the noise to slide in. On the right, my clone took a Suiton: Teppōdama head-on. Instead of just popping, he flared and blew, steam and shrapnel ripping through the air. The River jonin twisted away, fast enough to avoid being shredded, but not fast enough to stop the blast from rattling his chest and gut. He staggered.

Tsunade was already there. She drove off her back leg, shoulder behind the punch, and when her fist landed the man’s chest folded in with a wet crunch. His body cratered the dirt, ribs driven in like splintered wood.

“Remind me never to piss her off,” I muttered, then jumped onto a low stone outcropping to see everything.

I stayed out of the brawl, keeping my eyes on everyone instead of swinging.

Sakumo was across the stream before I even processed the splashes. White chakra along his tanto like frost. He didn’t swing; he placed. The first River blade met his and screamed. Sparks. The second River blade met nothing because Sakumo wasn’t there anymore; he’d stepped to the side in that small, mean way that swordmen do when they’re being rude. The third River shinobi tried to use a Doton wall as a shield. The wall rose. Sakumo’s tanto slipped between stones to the soft part under the jaw.

I saw it then, the shinobi on the far bank molding hand seals for Suiton: Suiryūdan no Jutsu, the Water Dragon surging up, coils of liquid muscle ready to crash across our front. Aya slammed both palms down, raising a Doton wall. It wasn’t strong enough to hold back the torrent, but it split the dragon’s body, broke its momentum, and left only a flood of water scattering around us.

Another River-nin lunged in with a kick that felt more like a battering ram. The clone caught it on his forearms and still got shoved back three steps, heels carving ruts in the dirt. His guard buckled under the pressure, arms screaming with the impact, and the enemy twisted, driving a follow-up straight through the gap. The clone ducked by a breath, shoulder grazing the shin as it passed, and only then did he roll with the force, clinging on like a tick.

My grin spread across his face, not because he was winning, but because he’d stolen half a second that shouldn’t have existed. Chakra Scalpel lit thin and blue, and he carved a fast line across the shin. Not deep, just enough to make the muscle spasm for three seconds.

“Finish,” the clone said, and Shoulders finished, his kunai punched clean through the River-nin’s throat, dropping the man in a wet collapse that didn’t rise again.

Around us, the fight didn’t pause, it only spread wider.

Steel and chakra crossed the clearing in ugly arcs, kunai curtains, water and fireballs, each side trying to force the other back. Our squad shoved through it, blades flashing when the distance broke. Three of the River-nin went down in the mess, one choking on his own breath, another cut off mid-seal, and a third dragged under when a clone’s exploding body turned his own water jutsu back in his face. The rest held their ground and answered with more jutsu.

The exchange dragged on, their formation starting to fray under the pressure.

Someone shouted, “Pull back!” in River dialect. Good call. If I were them, I’d pull back too.

They went for the riprap slope, thinner cover. One of my clones burst from the grass, grinning wide like he was about to blow himself apart. A River shinobi faltered, the memory flashing of his comrade writhing after a clone’s nasty explosion. That second of hesitation was all Sakumo needed. He pounced, tanto low. The man tried to vault away, sandals scraping stone, but the blade slid into his thigh mid-leap, shredding muscle. He hit the slope screaming, and Sakumo ended it with one merciless thrust under the jaw.

Of the few still running, one hugged the base of a concrete run-off where the river met an old reservoir wall, patched a dozen times and still standing. He slammed out a Doton: Ganban Kyū, rock snapping shut to catch Scarface, who was right on his heels.

Scarface barked back with his own Doton, a hard wall slamming up in front of him. Stone met stone, wrong against wrong, and the clash hit harder than either of them had meant. The berm cracked along a fault I hadn’t seen. The sound it made wasn’t a fight sound. More like the ground clearing its throat.

Aya’s head snapped up. “What was—”

The dam wall cracked, spiderwebs, then more spiderwebs, ugly fractures spreading because that’s what cracks do.

I told myself it wasn’t about to break. Then I told myself I was lying. Both things were true for a second.

And water, water doesn’t care.

“Move!” Sakumo barked, and even River-nin moved, bodies answering before minds caught up. The reservoir didn’t erupt, it slouched then gave way like an ox dropping under too much weight. A wall of floodwater rushed downstream, chewing through everything in its path. The noise followed after the sight, a blunt roar that smothered every other sound.

They barely had a second to take it in.

“Downstream, what’s there?” Ponytail asked, panting.

“Farm terraces,” Aya said. “Ame border villages.”

“So what? That’s their problem,” Shoulders said, because someone always says it.

“Stay sharp,” Sakumo said, and the conversation shuttered.

All eyes went to the fight.

Some River-nin still fought. I respected that. Not because they thought they’d win, they didn’t, but because they kept swinging even after the math was already written.

One of them got halfway through the seals for Suiton: Suiryūdan. He almost finished. My clone lunged, but the jonin snapped his wrist aside with a snarl and the signs kept going. A second clone slammed in low, forcing him to twist, and the slip was just enough to throw the jutsu off. He recovered instantly, blade whistling—smoke and flesh torn apart in a blink. But not before a scalpel’s kiss scored his thigh, shallow but enough to make the muscle hitch for a breath.

Tsunade was there a moment later. Her fist took him in the chest. There was no second step. Just ground. Just silence.

The last one tried harder. Smoke bomb. Kunai reverse-grip. He came out of the haze furious. Three of my clones met him, one already bleeding from the waist because he’d been too slow. He cut another down with a single stroke, shadow puffing out before it could cry. But numbers are numbers. The third clone hooked his ankle, pulled him half-down, and that was enough.

Tsunade’s heel found him before he found balance again. The sound wasn’t steel. It was meat and stone arguing.

She stood over what was left, shoulders rising once, then still.

The dam wasn’t the same dam anymore, it had changed shape while we were busy. What used to be a steady spill had turned rough, swollen, fast. It dragged branches, nets, the wooden posts from someone’s fishing weir. Chunks of stone too, pieces of the wall itself. Things that didn’t belong in the water but were in it now.

The sound kept growing. Like something big was coming down a corridor you couldn’t see yet.

That sound was the reservoir failing. The flood had started.

“Regroup,” Sakumo said.

We pulled back from the bodies and stood by the breach. The reservoir wall was still there, but not whole anymore.

I came down off the berm. “Is there a settlement below?” I asked.

Aya’s eyes flicked at the water. “Yes. Small ones. Closest is an Ame farming village, ten kilometers at most.”

Scarface shook his head. “Then it’s already too late for them.”

Shoulders didn’t even hesitate. “We’re not Ame’s guardians. We’re Konoha shinobi. Our job is over there”—he jerked his chin toward River territory—“not here.”

Ponytail added. “And if we stumble into a River patrol half-spent, we don’t come back at all. Mission first, everything else second.”

They didn’t even argue. It was already decided between them.

I asked anyway. “So we just leave it? Let the flood roll down into Ame? What if it turns into an international problem?”

The wall groaned, cracked again. More stone peeled off. The river widened itself, carried more than it should have.

Scarface spat. “That settles it. We can’t stop this without bleeding ourselves dry. And if we’re drained later, Konoha pays the price for saving farmers who don’t even belong to us.“

Shoulders and Ponytail both nodded. The others stayed quiet, which was the same as agreeing.

I looked at Sakumo. He looked like a man chewing on words he didn’t plan to swallow or spit. In the end, he said nothing.

Their reasoning was solid. I couldn’t argue that. Didn’t want to.

Then Tsunade said, “Leave one of your clones here.”

Everybody looked at her. Nobody understood. What would a clone do against a river? What would a shadow do against a flood?

I smiled. Didn’t explain. Just left one behind.

The rest of us turned for River territory. The clone stayed. Tsunade shoved a Doton scroll into its hand before we left—“do something useful,” like the river was a wound it could stitch.

So it had work now. Trying to slow a flood with borrowed jutsu.

The sigh it gave wasn’t for the water. It was for the free labor. Again.

…..

Ten kilometers was a long way not to see. But if you asked a river to carry a message, it did. It carried it in noise first, then in smell, then in things that used to belong to people.

Ame Country. Rice paddies stacked like green books. A village where roofs were low and morning chores were higher. A boy and a girl played ken-ken-pa on packed dirt chalked with circles. One foot, two feet, hop, land, arms shook out for balance, almost tipped, almost laughed. The girl’s hair was in two messy loops and the boy’s shirt had been mended at the shoulder with blue thread that didn’t match. Their world was a triangle: the game, the bucket their mother had left by the well, the neighbor’s dog sleeping with its snout on its paws.

The first thing was a sound no one recognized, too big to be a storm, too steady to be a cart. Grown-ups looked up and decided they didn’t know what they were hearing and therefore it was fine. Grown-ups were professionals at deciding things were fine.

The second thing was smell. Cold water had a smell. It was metal and old moss and the memory of winter.

The third thing was the dog standing and raising its hackles.

Then there was the corner turning. The water didn’t come like a cartoon wave. It came like a wall, gray and full of pieces of other places: fence rails, the wrack of somebody’s field, a garden pot, a barrel with somebody’s surname burned into it. It didn’t spread with noise. It just moved downhill. The lowest places went first. And that was where the kids were. Because kids always picked the ground that was kind to them, right until it wasn’t.

The girl’s heel caught on the chalk line, and she went down on her palms, laughing. The boy reached to yank her up by the wrist. He was still on one foot because that was the rule of the game. His mouth opened to say her name.

But he stopped when the water reached his ankles.

He looked down, because of course he did, and confusion was a real expression. He wore it. Then the cold hit, shoving both its hands into his chest, knocking him off his hopscotch balance and making him fall.

Adults shouted names. Names that belonged to sons, daughters, parents. Names that sounded smaller against the water.

Doors slammed. People tried to hold the flood out with wood and iron, but it came through anyway.

The bucket by the well tipped and floated. It drifted slow for a moment, then the current took it.

The neighbor’s dog swam hard, head barely above the surface, claws scraping for anything solid.

Someone on a roof swung a pole into the water, reaching for a body already gone under.

A woman climbed a ladder with a baby on her back. The water took the ladder. She reached the eave, slipped, and the child’s cry stopped in the water.

The chalk circles on the ground washed away. The boy reached for the girl’s hand and caught nothing. His shirt tore loose in the current, the blue thread on the shoulder still visible as it sank.

The current pulled. The current kept pulling.

The village that had been alive this morning wasn’t alive anymore.

A barrel slammed against a wall and broke apart. A shrine bell was torn free. It rang once, then was carried off, ringing faintly as it drifted toward the next village downstream.

……

Back at the reservoir, I blinked river spray out of my eyes and unrolled the scroll. The edges were still wet, ink smudged in places, and my hands weren’t exactly still when I opened it. I wasn’t built for studying under pressure, but pressure was all there was. Three Doton jutsu written in bad handwriting.

I skimmed the first line, then went back, then skimmed again. Doryūheki. Doryū Taiga. The third one I didn’t have time for. The choice wasn’t complicated. You pick the ones that make walls and the ones that make soil move. That’s what a breach needs.

I read faster than I understood, and then I tried to understand faster than I could read. After two hours my head ached like I’d been pressing seals into my own skull. But I had them. Enough to try, at least.

So I split again. Two more clones stood with me, and none of us spoke when we saw the gap. Bigger than before, louder too, water knifing through the broken mouth of the reservoir. We didn’t say anything because the noise had already said enough.

We moved at once. Hands blurred, seals locked, and the ground rose under our palms. A wall, wide and high, slammed into place across the breach. For a moment it looked like it might hold. For a moment.

Then the river laughed in our faces. A jet like steel cable punched under the wall, ate out the footing, and dragged the whole thing down. The wall cracked, folded, and went. The water didn’t even notice it had killed something.

We frowned together. Same expression on three faces. I opened my mouth, the others already nodding before the words even landed.

“Layer it,” I said.

So we layered. Not one wall but teeth, each a step behind the other. Staggered inside the throat of the breach, one taking the hit, the next stealing what was left. Like defensive lines, like biting back.

Then came shoulders. Short, fat walls braced on either side, holding the edges from tearing wider. Because the breach wasn’t just a hole, it was a hole that wanted to grow.

Still not enough. Water has more patience than stone. So we dropped the river’s own soil against it. Doryū Taiga, chakra pouring into mud. The upstream bank slumped, then collapsed, a landslide shoving itself into the mouth of the breach. The current pressed it down, packed it tight against our walls. An improvised cofferdam. Ugly, but alive.

And we didn’t stop. We couldn’t. As fast as it ate, we built. A rotation. Clones making clones, clones meditating to catch back chakra, then throwing up another wall, another plug, another patch. Normal shinobi would’ve run dry. We weren’t normal shinobi.

We armored what we built. We shoved boulders in, jammed logs, dragged rubble until our arms shook. Anything heavy. Anything that looked like it might hate water as much as we did. The fill thickened. The edges held.

Finally we stopped moving. Not because it was finished. Because it looked like it might last. The water still hissed through cracks, still tested everything, but the breach wasn’t growing anymore.

We stood on the dam, soaked, spattered with mud, and for the first time in hours we breathed without counting.

One of the others glanced at me. "How long you think this'll hold?"

"A few days, maybe more if we're lucky."

"Enough time?"

I nodded, watching the water test our patchwork. "Enough to get people out. That's all we need."

"Yeah." He wiped mud from his hands. "Better than nothing."

"Way better than nothing."

The reservoir level would drop, or Ame-nin would get here, or neither. That wasn’t our concern anymore.

We sat on the mud. Not because it was comfortable, it wasn’t, but because our legs said enough. The water pressed at the cofferdam like it was daring us to blink. We didn’t blink. We just sat and breathed, all of us soaked the same way, breathing the same mud-heavy air.

“Do we keep it up?” one clone finally asked, tilting his head toward the patched wall. “Or do we just—” He snapped his fingers in the air.

“Dispel?” another finished. “Maybe that’s better. Less risk of anyone tracing us back.”

Silence stretched for a while. The river sounded calmer now, but we all remembered how it had looked two hours ago when it broke loose.

One clone rubbed at his knee, but his eyes were on the water. “The damage is already done. We didn’t stop it in time.”

Another leaned, watching the current strain against the cofferdam. “Do you think it reached the closest village?”

Nobody answered right away. We all looked downstream as if we could see that far.

Finally, one spoke. “It probably did. Ten kilometers isn’t much for water moving this fast.”

Another exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. They’re probably gone by now. But at least it didn’t spread further. The other villages won’t get swallowed. We stopped it from getting worse.”

They nodded and the talk was over nothing more needed saying nothing more wanted.

……

Lightning Country, Kumogakure

The captain's knuckles hit the heavy wooden door twice before he heard the gruff voice from within grant him entry. He stepped inside the Third Raikage's office and closed the door behind him.

"Raikage-sama." He straightened. "I have the preliminary findings from the investigation."

The massive man behind the desk didn't look up from the reports scattered across its surface. Documents, intelligence summaries, the usual mess of paperwork that came with running a hidden village. "Let me hear it."

"The attack patterns suggest either Konoha or Iwa involvement. Possibly both working together." The captain paused, organizing his thoughts. "The shadow clone usage points heavily toward Konoha, but we also have eyewitness accounts of Iwa traces left behind at the scene."

That got the Raikage's attention. “Could it have been their jinchuriki?"

The captain had been expecting this question, their intelligence on Konoha's Nine-Tails container was extensive, if not always reliable. "That's what I thought initially. Our files show he used the same mass shadow clone tactic in Kitaura. The squad we sent after him then..." He trailed off. No need to spell out what happened to teams that didn't come back.

"But?" The Raikage's tone suggested he already knew there was more to it.

"The timing doesn't work, Raikage-sama. According to our latest intelligence, their jinchuriki is currently deployed at the western front. Has been for days now. Meanwhile, the attack on our sealing site happened three days ago, here in Lightning Country. Even with our fastest shinobi's speed, that's not possible."

The Raikage leaned back in his chair, which creaked under his considerable weight. More than fifty shadow clones at the sealing site, and whoever was controlling them had kept spawning more throughout the engagement. That kind of chakra reserve wasn't common, even among jonin.

"So we're looking at another Konoha shinobi with comparable abilities." It wasn't really a question.

"That's my assessment, yes sir."

"Dismissed."

The captain bowed briefly and left, leaving the Raikage alone with his thoughts for all of thirty seconds before another knock came at the door.

"Enter."

Dodai stepped inside, carrying a scroll case under one arm. His face already told the Raikage this wasn't going to be good news.

"Raikage-sama," Dodai began, setting the scroll case on the desk. "I have updates on those ninja tools Konoha's been using against our forces. The ones that have been causing problems for our squads."

The Raikage gestured for him to continue. "What do we know about them?"

Dodai set the scroll case on the desk and pulled out several detailed reports. "They're products from Uzushio. Recent partnership, from what our intelligence suggests. Uzumaki clan's been supplying them with specialized equipment over the past few weeks."

He spread out the written reports and sketches of Uzu’s ninja tools. "It's not just quantity, it's quality that's concerning."

The Raikage picked up one of the sketches, studying the intricate seal work visible on what looked like a strange kunai. Uzushio had always been known for their fuinjutsu expertise, but actively supplying a major hidden village during wartime changed the equation significantly.

"Begin monitoring Uzushio operations," he decided, setting the sketch down. "Full intelligence gathering. Trade routes, shipping schedules, production capabilities. If they're going to arm our enemies, I want to know exactly what we're dealing with."

"Understood, Raikage-sama. I'll have teams in position within the week."

The Raikage nodded, turning toward the window that overlooked the village. Reddish stains had seeped through the bandages wrapped around his right forearm. "Also, begin preparations for the next container. The current one was sealed in an emergency. The process wasn't stable."

Dodai's expression grew grim. "How long do we have?"

"Not long before it goes berserk again." The Raikage flexed his bandaged arm slightly. "We need to be ready. And double the security around the sealing site. Those shadow clone users might try to hit us again, try to release the Eight-Tails during the resealing process."

"I'll see to it immediately, Raikage-sama."

……

Meanwhile, deep in River Country territory...

The River outpost sat in the distance like a stubborn wart on the landscape, all stone walls and watchtowers that should have had guards moving around by now. Should have been sending out squads to intercept us, actually. But the place looked dead quiet, and I wasn't sure if that meant our tags was working or if we were walking into a trap.

I crouched next to the others behind a cluster of rocks, squinting at the fortification. No movement on the walls. No dust clouds from running feet. Nothing.

"This is incredible," Aya whispered, her eyes still glowing faintly from her sensory jutsu. "They should have spotted us by now and sent interceptors. We're well within their detection range, but I'm not picking up any squads moving our way. That dampening tag is working better than I expected."

She sounded genuinely amazed. The Uzumaki chakra-dampening tags were apparently living up to their reputation. We were practically invisible to their sensors, walking right up to their front door without triggering a single alarm.

Which might not seem like a big deal at first, considering Konoha got infiltrated by foreign shinobi all the time. But that was during peacetime, when most of the sensor corps was off duty. Wartime was different. Every sensor worth their rank was pulling shifts around the clock, constantly scanning for hostile chakra signatures, like radar pinging nonstop. The fact that we could get this close without setting off any alarms meant these tags weren’t just good, they were terrifyingly good.

But that got me thinking, and my brain started connecting dots I probably should have left alone. Uzushio kept pumping out these tools, each one more impressive than the last. They were basically the arms dealers of the shinobi world, and everyone knew what happened to arms dealers when the wars got ugly.

Uzushio was going to get wiped off the map eventually. Too many villages would start seeing them as a threat, especially if their tools kept tipping battles in Konoha's favor. Basic geopolitics, you don't let the guy selling guns to your enemies keep making better guns. Just like what happened in the canon timeline, multiple villages would eventually band together to destroy them out of fear and jealousy.

I didn't particularly care about Uzushio itself. Never been there, didn't know anyone from there except—

Except Kushina.

Well, that's a problem. Kushina was from Uzushio. Her family was still there, probably. If the other villages decided to gang up and wipe the place out, she'd be devastated. Completely destroyed. And I'd have to watch her go through that, knowing I'd seen it coming and said nothing.

Maybe I could at least plant the seed, get people thinking about it before it was too late.

"Sensei," I said quietly. "What happens if other villages start seeing Uzushio as too much of a threat? I mean, if these tools keep giving us victories, someone's going to want to cut off the supply line permanently."

Tsunade's eyebrows shot up, and she gave me one of those looks that said she was reevaluating something about me. Again. "That's... surprisingly insightful thinking, Shinji. You're right that it could become a problem."

"What, you sound shocked that I can think."

"I'm shocked you're thinking like a shinobi." She paused, studying my face. "Though it's weird that you're bringing up Uzushio specifically. Why would you care about... wait." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Mikoto mentioned you've been hanging around that Uzumaki girl. What's her name?"

"Don't read too much into it, sensei."

"Uh-huh. And I'm sure her being Uzumaki has nothing to do with it."

"Not a thing."

She gave me a look that said she wasn't buying it, but decided to let it slide. "Konoha's priority has to be winning this war, but we can't ignore what might happen to our allies..." She didn't finish the thought, but she didn't dismiss the concern either.

Sakumo shifted beside us. "Shinji, your thought process is sound," he said quietly. "But we need to focus on the mission at hand. We can't let personal feelings cloud our judgment as shinobi."

There was something in his tone though, a slight nod of approval that suggested he respected the fact that I was thinking about consequences beyond the immediate situation.

"I know," I said, though part of me wondered if I actually did know. "Just thinking out loud, I guess."

Aya was still monitoring the outpost. "No change in their patrol patterns. Everything looks routine from here. The dampening effect is working perfectly."

Right. Mission first. Kushina's potential heartbreak later. I could deal with that problem when it actually became a problem.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 56

Land of Lightning

The first civilian he questioned was a farmer with dirt under his fingernails and the shaky hands that came from watching too much violence in one day.

"They came from nowhere," the man said, wringing his cloth cap like it owed him money. "Shouting for everyone to get out, get out now. Said the mountain was gonna... you know. Explode or something."

"Who was shouting?" the Kumo-nin asked. The farmer had that glassy look that meant his brain was still trying to process what his eyes had seen.

"Our boys. Your boys. Kumo shinobi, I mean. They had the headbands and everything."

"You recognized them?"

The farmer shook his head. "Never seen 'em before. But hell, I don't know every face in the town, you know? They looked alright, though."

The Kumo-nin filed that away and moved on.

The second witness was an elderly woman who'd been hanging laundry. She remembered everything except what mattered. How one shinobi had apologized for making her drop her clothespins. How another had the brightest smile she'd seen in months. "Such polite boys," she kept saying. "Much nicer than that patrol guy who comes through here acting like he owns the place." When pressed about their appearance, she frowned. "Well, now that you mention it, the tall one's accent was funny.

The Kumo-nin made another note and kept searching.

The third witness was where things got interesting.

A teenager, maybe sixteen, with the wide eyes of someone who'd seen something he wasn't supposed to see. He kept glancing around like he expected kunai to start flying out of the shadows.

“It was crazy,” he said. “These guys in our colors show up, right? Telling everyone to run. So we’re running, and then Gumrot and Greaseface—” He stopped himself, throat clicking. Realized too late that maybe calling chunin by the names kids whispered behind their backs wasn’t smart. “Uh, I mean… the two who usually patrol through here.”

The Kumo-nin’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. Enough to make the boy’s chest feel tight.

"And?"

“And they… they started talking to each other,” the boy said quickly, eyes flicking up then down again. “The patrol guys with the ones telling us to run. But it didn’t look right. Like they weren’t getting along, or something.

"What kind of questions?"

“I—I couldn’t hear,” the boy admitted, shoulders hunching. “Not from where I was. But whatever it was, it set the others off. Next thing I know, one of ’em had a kunai out, threw it right at the patrol guys.”

Now they were getting somewhere.

The fourth witness was a middle-aged merchant who'd been loading his cart when the fighting started. He had the best view of what came next.

"Those weren't our boys," he said, then immediately looked around like someone might be listening. "Look, I've been trading in this town for twenty years. Seen plenty of weird shinobi stuff. But this..." He wiped sweat from his forehead. “One second the guy’s got a square face and brown hair, next second he’s bald, clean head, sharper jaw after getting hit by the patrol-nin. It was like watching someone peel off their own skin."

"You're sure about what you saw?"

"I wish I wasn't. That image is gonna be stuck in my head for weeks. Do all you shinobi know how to... change faces like that? Because that's the creepiest thing I've ever seen."

"And then?"

"Then they ran. All of them. Like rabbits when the wolves come calling."

The fifth witness, a carpenter who'd been on his roof fixing a leak filled in the final pieces.

"The patrol guys? They went after them," he said, wiping tar from his hands with a dirty rag. "Whole thing turned into a mess real quick. The evacuation team scattered like spooked rabbits, went three, maybe four different ways. Our boys tried to follow, but you can't chase everyone at once."

"What happened next?"

"Gone, every last one of them. Left the rest of us to deal with the injured." The carpenter gestured toward the town square. "Three civilians got caught in that blast. Nothing too serious, but enough blood to make the women scream. Made quite a scene without any shinobi around to help."

He questioned three more civilians, but they only confirmed what he’d already pieced together. Enemy agents disguised as Kumo shinobi had been evacuating the town when two real Kumo patrols spotted them. A confrontation followed. Their disguises failed under attack, and the infiltrators escaped.

But that still left the biggest question unanswered. Why evacuate civilians at all?

He made his way back through the town, past buildings still shaking from whatever had happened up in the mountains, past groups of old civilians huddled together and whispering about the end of the world.

The rooftop where his squad was meeting sat three stories above the main square, high enough to see the whole town. Several jonin were already there, clustered around their captain.

"—confirmed that the sealing site was hit by at least fifty hostile clones," one of them was saying. "Maybe more. They came in waves and killed the masters."

"Casualties?" the captain asked. He was standing at the edge of the roof, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the town with the expression of a man trying to solve a puzzle that was missing half its pieces.

"Everyone at the site except the Third Raikage. They're all gone."

Another jonin. "We've identified the attackers' affiliation. Multiple witnesses confirm Iwagakure headbands and standard Earth Country gear."

"Iwa." The captain said it like he was tasting something bitter. "What do the civilians know?"

"Most of them don't know anything happened beyond the evacuation itself. They saw shinobi in our colors telling them to get out, so they got out." He shifted his weight. "Maybe a dozen people total witnessed the actual fight, and half of those were too panicked to give coherent statements. Far as the rest are concerned, some Kumo-nin showed up, got them to safety, and then the mountain started shaking."

The captain's jaw tightened. "So we have almost nothing. A handful of confused witnesses and a town full of people who think we saved them from a natural disaster."

The Kumo-nin who'd been questioning civilians cleared his throat. "Captain. I have something to add."

All eyes turned to him. The captain nodded for him to continue.

"I have additional details about the impersonation operation in town. The fake evacuation team wasn't just creating a diversion, they were genuinely helping civilians get to safety. Being polite about it, even helping elderly residents with their belongings."

One of the jonin frowned. "Why bother if they were planning to release the Eight-Tails anyway?"

"That's exactly what doesn't make sense. They went to significant effort to get people out of harm's way, right up until our patrol chunin spotted them and realized something was wrong."

He gave them the full report, the civilian testimonies, the confrontation, the failed henges, the escape. When he stopped talking, nobody said anything. Just the sound of roof tiles creaking in the wind and distant voices from the street below.

The captain stopped staring out at the town and faced them. The confusion in his expression had hardened into something much more serious.

"So ‘Iwa’ attacks our sealing ceremony," he said slowly, "kills our people, releases the Eight-Tails, and puts the entire region at risk. But at the same time, they're evacuating civilians to keep them safe."

"It doesn't add up," one of the jonin agreed. "If they wanted maximum chaos, why not let the beast rampage through the town? The casualties would have been enormous."

"And if they wanted to minimize casualties, why attack the sealing at all?"

The captain was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the town. Families were starting to trickle back now, parents carrying children, elderly couples walking slowly hand in hand. Normal people living normal lives who had no idea how close they'd come to being erased from existence.

"What were they planning to do with the civilians?" he said finally. "Why save them only to...?"

He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to. They were all thinking the same thing.

What if this wasn't over?

What if the evacuation had been preparation for something else?

Maybe psychological warfare? Gain the civilians' trust, then use them as intelligence assets? Create a false sense of security before the real attack? Maybe they wanted witnesses to spread specific information. The captain's mind raced through possibilities, but he had no idea he was overthinking what amounted to one teenager with a guilty conscience who didn't want a bunch of farmers getting eaten by a giant demon monster.

"What about the patrols?" he asked suddenly. "The ones who chased them. Any word?"

"Still missing. Search teams are out, but..."

The captain nodded grimly. "I want all of you to continue your current investigations. Full surveillance on the town until further notice. If there are more Iwa agents in the area, I want them found."

Nods all around.

The squad began to disperse, jonin flickering away into the growing dusk. The captain remained at the roof's edge, hands still clasped behind his back.

Iwa could be the culprit. Too many reasons pointed their way. But the shadows that had struck the sealing site weren’t tricks Iwa favored. Shadow Clone. Multiplying bodies, dispersing bodies. That stank of Konoha.

……

Kawazumi Outpost

I waited for my first S-rank mission the way you wait for a dentist, pretending you’re calm while your tongue keeps checking the tooth that hurts. The roof tile under me was warm from the afternoon sun and probably not designed to hold a shinobi plus the weight of his anxiety, but engineering isn’t a class they offer at the Academy, so here we are.

I had a yakitori skewer in my mouth, chicken and charcoal and glaze, chewing it like it owed me rent. I kept thinking about brains. I didn’t mean “what is the mind?” I meant the physical thing that senses, the sensor brain. My work on it had hit a wall so solid it might as well have been brick.

You need living specimens to map pathways, to see where chakra listens and where it shouts. You can’t hear a dead radio. And unlike a certain pale man who never met a snake he didn’t admire, I did not have a basement full of ethics violations and jars. Could I, technically, go full snake and start collecting? Yes. Would people notice? Also yes. Would Tsunade punt me into the stratosphere like I was a football in a stadium? Very yes.

So I told myself it wasn’t high on my priority list. Then I looked at the sky and mentally arranged it higher on my priority list. Then I rearranged it lower again because an S-rank mission tends to make all other lists look like grocery notes. “Eggs, salt, don’t die.”

In the meantime, I had my budget version of omniscience. Four clones, one at each compass point, tight to the perimeter. They didn’t ping like sensors; they breathed. They stayed. They watched. And when something came, something fast, something big, something pretending to be boring, they either intercepted and got erased like chalk under rain, or they dispelled themselves on purpose if the threat blew past them. Either way, I knew. Instant notification.

Sensors have to work. They have to concentrate and pulse and consume chakra like a lantern eating oil. My set-and-forget tripwire squad kept running on a different economy: passive and petty.

I flicked the skewer with my tongue and slid it out clean. My hand went into my flak jacket and came out with a dampening tag, the Uzumaki sheet that turned you into less of a lighthouse and more of a shadow. The paper was ordinary. The ink was not. It looked like someone had drawn a maze where the walls kept moving if you stared too long. Uzu handed Konoha a box with twenty of these and I had one of them right now.

Could I make more? No. Not yet. Explosive seals, sure. Kushina had been patient with me when I was failing the math of death. My explosive seals were getting neat, no not neat, neat is for handwriting, not for something that can turn a house into gravel. They were reliable. In other fields, my fuinjutsu was… what do you call a student who gets A+s in exactly one subject and a polite cough in everything else? Me. That was me. Some of my clones were back in Konoha, standing in a cramped workshop while Kushina barked corrections between her own studies, but progress moved like old honey, and that’s before you count how often she got dragged away to do ninja things instead of babysit my obsession.

Resources. That was the missing blood type in this operation. An S-rank mission meant money, favors, access, maybe a chance to stop building tools out of salvage and start building them out of things that hadn’t been a roof tile last week.

“Thinking about doing crimes?”

Tsunade dropped in beside me, and the roof didn’t complain about her weight, it complained out of respect. Sleeves shoved up, headband gleaming, she wore that almost-smile. For half a second the outpost quieted, probably just in my skull, but I believed it anyway.

“Only small crimes,” I said. “Medium, if they come with snacks.”

“Good,” she said. “We only approve snacks. You ready?”

“Define ready.”

“Define define.”

“Define—okay.” I sat up, rolled the stiffness out of my shoulders and the tag went back into my pocket. “Ready enough. It’s S-rank mission. If I say I’m ready ready, you’ll tell me to stop lying.”

She clicked her tongue. “I’d just ask you to say it twice with a straight face.”

“Now that I cannot do.”

“Do you actually want to take this?” She watched me closely. “You don’t have to. There are still plenty of A-rank missions if you’re not ready.”

“I do.” The words surprised me by not wobbling. “The little jobs are starting to feel like whetstones. I’m getting sharp in places that don’t cut anymore.”

“Hm.” She squinted at me the way doctors do right before announcing that your problem is sleep and vegetables. “How’s your medical training?”

“Ask me something harder,” I said, and lit my palm.

Chakra gathered, thin as floss. The scalpel formed along my fingers, a ghost blade that hummed against skin without breaking it. It made that soft, high feedback you feel in your wrist more than your ear. I pinched the tip with my other hand and felt the edge kiss the calluses. Tsunade’s brows went up a notch. Not shocked. Not even surprised. Just pleased, which is rarer and scarier.

“Show-off,” she said.

“You asked.”

She reached out, hooked a finger in my hair, and tugged. My hair has been growing out. Occupational hazard. You skip two cuts and suddenly you’re a drama protagonist. “You’re getting scruffy,” she said, ruffling it like I was a house cat and she was bad at boundaries.

“Hands,” I warned. “Do you know what a man does when cornered?”

“Cry?”

“Worse,” I said, and poked her in the stomach with two fingers.

Tsunade’s laugh, yes she laughed, hopped out of her like a startled sparrow. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” I grinned. “You’ve been eating well. Cheeks look fuller.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Fuller?”

“Yeah. Must be all the rice.”

She reached over and pinched my face hard enough to make me wince. “Say that again.”

“Ow, ow—alright! I take it back,” I said, words garbled through squished cheeks. “You’re perfect, okay? Strongest kunoichi alive, not an ounce out of place.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Don’t roll them too far back,” I said. “If they get stuck, I’m not qualified to fix it yet.”

That earned me her hand on my wrist. We didn’t decide to spar. We just tripped over the line and kept walking. Standing grappling, the sweet spot between ‘ha ha we’re joking’ and ‘I am now going to teach you a lesson using the ground.’

I went for an inside tie, elbow in, thumb light on her triceps. She pummelled for the underhook, shoulder pressure that said I might be strong, but she had bones carved by a cruel god. I tried a foot rake, heel to her laces to break stance, and she sticky-stepped like I was trying to sweep a tree. We drifted two steps on the roof. Tiles complained. Somewhere below us, a chunin yelled for someone to bring more barrels.

“Hands up,” she said.

“Always,” I said, and immediately dropped one to bait her.

She grabbed the back of my neck. I pushed off her arm, ducked under, and gave her head a token yank, nothing serious, just enough to see if she’d flinch. She didn’t. Instead, her grip tightened, and I could practically hear the smirk through her hand.

We locked and broke grips, over and over, like arguing without words. I shoved, she shifted. She pulled, I slipped free, like two arguments crashing into each other, both of us too stubborn to blink first.

I ducked low for a body lock. She stuffed it, cranking my arm and leaning her weight heavy across my shoulder. A quick knee bump rocked me, I clawed at her wrist to recover, and she slid behind me smooth, like she’d already read the page I hadn’t written yet.

“Don’t think I won’t throw you,” she warned.

“You won’t throw me,” I lied.

She grinned. “Make a bet?”

“I don’t gamble,” I said, already gambling.

We circled, hands locked at collar and bicep like a dance. I feinted a sacrifice throw, hips turning, then twisted harder than I should have, dropping my weight all wrong on purpose. A fake collapse.

She adjusted, of course she did, because no one expects their student to weaponize clumsiness. I shot back up under her arm, spinning off the rebound. Unorthodox, messy, but it stole her timing for half a second.

That was when my palm landed, slipped really, straight onto her chest.

Reflex is a traitor. My fingers clenched before my brain could send the memo. One brief squeeze, pure accident, a reflex mistake born from bad timing.

Silence had a shape for exactly one second.

“Whoops,” I said, doomed and aware of it. “Pure accident, don’t kill me.”

Her smile stopped pretending to be wholesome. She cocked her head, knuckles flexing, and the look in her eye made the dampening tag in my pocket feel like paper armor. Her grip cinched like steel cable, and I knew she was about to fold me into the roof. Muscle-on-muscle wasn’t an option, she had me there. So I did what any grappler does when they’re outclassed, changed the angle. A shrug underhook, sharp hip turn, and I slid down the line of her frame, not breaking her hold so much as leaking out of it. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t clean, but it was enough. The second I felt daylight, I took it, vaulting the roof’s ridge, tiles rattling under the burst of Shunshin.

Tsunade followed with a hop. She didn’t need Shunshin to catch me, she had long legs, terrifying quad strength, and a personal relationship with momentum.

“Misunderstanding!” I called, skittering across to the next building. A genin on a ladder ducked with a swear as I cleared his head and stepped off his rung.

“You’re dead,” she said flatly.

“I didn’t mean to!”

“You still did.”

That, unfortunately, was fact. I took a corner hard enough that the little vendor below dropped a bowl. Steam slapped my face with broth smell. I used a laundry line as a pivot, swung, landed, kept going. Tsunade’s shadow kept my shadow company.

“You can’t hit me,” I called over my shoulder.

“I can, and I will,” she shot back. “With interest.”

“Sounds like a bad deal.” I said, and jumped. The next roof had a patch of cheap tile that looked like it had already lost two arguments with rain. I stuck the landing like a cat then felt her hand on the back of my collar.

I tried a duck-under, spinning, hips down. She followed, body to body, and we wound up in a clinch again because that’s where this always ends. I hooked a leg, tried a trip. She smiled like she had just remembered something funny about physics.

“Careful,” she said.

“I am nothing but.”

She threw me.

Not a little toss. Not a polite “here’s the ground.” She turned, hip check, hand at my sleeve and back of the neck, and I felt the planet reach up and say come here, we need to talk. I hit the roof with enough force to crack tile and insult the beam underneath. Cracks spidered away from my spine like white chalk lines drawn by a very energetic child.

“Okay I surrender,” I said, hand up. “Hands. Up.”

She cracked her knuckles. First the left, then the right, or maybe the other way, I don’t remember. It was loud enough that I noticed the silence after. Birds flapped up in a rush, like the noise had given them orders.

“Mercy,” I added.

“No.”

“I have a medical exemption,” I tried. She came in with a gait that would’ve scared a tiger.

And that was when panic invented creativity. As she reached for me again, I rolled sideways, hooked her ankle with mine, and shoved my hip underneath just enough to redirect her weight. Not a throw exactly, more like borrowing her gravity and mailing it back. She stumbled, half a step, maybe less, but enough for me.

She caught herself instantly, of course, eyes bright, grin sharpening. Her fist came next, a short hook aimed at my ribs, fast enough that I saw the future where I’d be spitting them out. I twisted in close instead of away, jammed my elbow up to catch her forearm, and let the impact shove me backward rather than break me. It rattled, but it didn’t kill.

I was already up, legs moving before my brain signed off. Call it jujutsu. Call it dumb luck. Either way, it worked.

She was laughing now, which is both comforting and not.

We hit the roofs again. My boots slapped, skidded, then pushed off, barely stuck the landing. She was right there, not sprinting, just… closing. I ducked behind a chimney. She put a hand on it, and the whole thing gave a little like it knew better. I veered left, jumped the alley, skimmed the mess hall roof. A cook looked up, ladle in hand, staring like I was a bad dream running past her shift.

“Shinji! Come here so I can teach you respect.”

“I respect you from over here,” I said, and jumped again.

I pushed for the edge of the roof near the gate, view wide open. For a second I thought I’d made it. Then her sweep caught me, and the roof caught me harder.

“Mercy?” It slipped out before I could think better of it.

Her smile came slow, stretched, and it didn’t stop where normal smiles stop. For a second I thought she might actually say something back. She didn’t. She just looked at me like I’d asked the wrong god for help.

On the ground, near the newly reinforced gate where fresh timbers wore a shine of resin and a chunin had just finished chalking a duty roster on a board that still smelled like sawdust, the squad arrived in twos and threes. The jonin had the look of men and women who slept in armor and made peace with that years ago. The civilians who’d drifted in with their carts hugged the edges, curious, trying not to stare while failing completely.

They turned at the sound of screaming.

Not battle-screaming. Not pain. Something thinner, closer to pleading.

Up on the roofline, only Tsunade’s shoulders and head were visible, the rest hidden behind the ridge.

They all glanced at each other, trying to make sense of it. Nobody said anything. What could you even say?

The noise on the roof stopped. For a moment, the outpost seemed to breathe again.

And still, none of them asked, just exchanged that flabbergasted look.

……

A few minutes later, everyone in the squad was running through the northern forest, and I could feel their eyes on me like insects crawling across my skin.

Not in a paranoid way, this was just basic human curiosity, the natural reaction people have when they're stuck with the obvious outlier in their group. And I was definitely the outlier here. Youngest by at least five years, lowest rank, and the only one who'd spent the pre-mission prep time getting chased across rooftops by an angry princess instead of doing whatever serious, professional things elite jonin did before S-rank missions.

Actually, what did they do? I realized I had no idea. Meditate? Review intelligence reports? Sharpen their kunai while staring pensively into the distance? Write heartfelt letters to loved ones in case they didn't come back?

That last one was depressing. I pushed it away.

I pretended not to notice the stares and instead glanced at Tsunade, who was running beside Sakumo at the front of the group. They were having some kind of conversation, probably about the mission, or important jonin-level things that I wasn't privy to. Which was fine. Totally fine. I wasn't bitter about being left out.

I wondered if I should ask her about the mission details. Uncle Minoru had given me the broad strokes back in that meeting room, but broad strokes weren't exactly what you'd call comprehensive intelligence. No one else seemed to be asking questions, though, which made me wonder if I was the only one left in the dark.

I was still debating it, ask and look stupid, or stay quiet and stay stupid, when one of the jonin saved me the trouble of choosing.

"Is it really okay to bring your student on such a dangerous mission?" The voice came from behind me—male, concerned but not hostile. "Especially since he's still chunin."

I mean, the question wasn't unreasonable, actually pretty logical when you thought about it, but I was more curious about what Tsunade would say than anything else.

"It's fine," she replied without looking back. "He can hold his own against a couple of jonin. That's why the commander approved him. His presence will make this mission much easier."

Okay, I'll admit it, hearing her actually praise me in front of everyone made me feel pretty good. Maybe even a little smug.

Then everyone went quiet. Like, really quiet.

Well, not literally quiet. We were still moving through trees at high speed, so there was noise from branches and wind and feet hitting bark. But the silence was... yeah, it was loud. You know what I mean.

The four jonin were clearly processing this information. Probably recalculating their assumptions about the pretty boy they'd been stuck with. Or maybe they were just surprised. I could practically hear the gears turning in their heads, though that might've been wishful thinking on my part.

"Hold his own against a couple of jonin?" The voice this time was female, and when I glanced sideways, I found myself looking at a kunoichi with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a figure that could probably stop traffic. In multiple countries.

She was staring at me like I’d suddenly transformed from a generic chunin into something actually worth paying attention to. Which was… well, it was nice.

"So you're a young prodigy, huh?" And there was something in her tone that made me think she was either flirting or making fun of me. Maybe both. Hard to tell sometimes.

Either way, I felt a familiar spark of interest, the automatic response I had when attractive women showed me attention. Which was probably exactly what I should be feeling, honestly. I mean, I wasn't some monk who'd sworn off worldly pleasures. And she was definitely attractive.

Though getting distracted by a teammate on my first S-rank mission was probably not the smartest move. Then again, building rapport with the squad was important too, right?

"I might be a prodigy," I said, "but I'm still lacking in many ways. Still learning."

Which was true. Technically.

"I'm Takashiro Aya," she said, falling into pace beside me. "I handle sensing and intelligence for the squad."

Aya. The name fit her, short and easy to remember. And she was a sensor, which was interesting. I'd been wondering how we were going to navigate potentially hostile territory without running into ambushes, and apparently the answer was that we had someone who could detect threats before they became problems.

She started chatting, asking casual questions about my background, my training, my experience with different mission types, my age, and whether I really was as strong as my sensei claimed. Normal getting-to-know-you conversation. I answered, sometimes serious, sometimes joking, because I could feel the eyes of the squad, but hers were the only ones that mattered.

And yes, maybe I’m something of a womanizer. Maybe. Don’t quote me. But when a beautiful kunoichi with curves like commas you want to follow takes an interest, you don’t complain. You answer her. You chat back. You let yourself enjoy it, even with the war in the background, even with branches slapping your arms.

“So it’s true then,” Aya said, smile audible in her voice. “You really took down more than two jonin by yourself?”

I scratched my cheek, pretending modesty I didn’t fully feel. “Depends on how you define ‘by myself’. They weren’t exactly the strongest.”

She laughed softly. “Still. Not bad for a chunin.”

And for one second I imagined taking that laugh somewhere else, somewhere with less armor and fewer witnesses.

But that's when Tsunade finally had enough.

"Don't get too cocky," she called back without turning around. "Most of the enemies you've fought so far were average jonin. But as this war drags on, you're going to face elite jonin with far more experience, opponents on an entirely different level."

Her voice had that tone teachers get when they're trying to deflate your ego. For your own good, supposedly. The whole "you're not as special as you think" lecture.

And she wasn't completely wrong, honestly. I mean, the jonin I'd fought before had been competent. Dangerous. Could've killed me if I screwed up badly enough. But they'd also been... how do I put this without sounding like an ass... not exactly the cream of the crop.

The really elite ones, the jonin with decades of experience that could reshape entire battlefields, those guys were probably deployed on more important stuff than harassing supply convoys.

The ones I'd encounter on an S-rank mission would probably be different. Better trained, better equipped. More ruthless. More creative, maybe. The type who didn't just try to kill you, they tried to kill you in ways you'd never seen coming.

Which was... yeah. Not exactly a comforting thought.

"Yes, sensei," I said, because arguing with her in front of the squad would accomplish nothing except making me look like an arrogant brat.

But her lecture had raised another question that was bothering me more than it probably should have.

"Why are we heading north?" I asked. "I thought the River outpost was in a different direction."

Tsunade glanced back at me. "Just as I mentioned in the briefing, we're going through Amegakure territory for a stealthier approach. Target the River outpost from their blind side."

The word snagged in my ears. “Briefing?”

I hadn’t been to any briefing.

The others gave me strange looks.

Tsunade coughed into her fist. “As my student, all you need to do is stay by my side. Don’t overthink it.”

I stared at her back. Speechless. My sensei had forgotten me. Not metaphorically. Literally. Forgotten to invite me.

The urge to call her out twitched in my chest. But another urge, self-preservation, dignity, slammed it down. Another beating wouldn’t help. Not with the squad watching. Not with Aya beside me, staring like she had better uses for my mouth than talking.

So I swallowed it. Not gracefully, more like you swallow too fast and it sits wrong in your chest, but I kept moving. Pretended it was nothing. Maybe it was nothing.

Branches blurred past. Breath in, breath out. And my eyes, traitors that they are, slid sideways for half a second. Just a glance. Aya’s stride matched mine, curves shifting with the bounce that came with running. I didn’t linger. Or at least I told myself I didn’t.

She caught me looking and smiled. Not long, not wide, just enough that I knew she knew. Then she leaned just close enough while running to murmur, “Eyes front, prodigy.”

The tease carried me farther than my legs wanted to. Maybe farther than I wanted to. And then, well, we kept running, because what else was there to do.

An hour of high-speed running. My lungs were fine, my legs were fine, my ego less fine, because when everyone else moves like wind cutting corners, you start to notice you’re not the wind, you’re the leaf trying to keep up. I filled the gaps by talking to Aya whenever the forest gave me nothing else. Questions about her sensory range, her training, a joke or two that weren’t funny but earned a smile anyway.

Another thirty minutes passed. Collar damp, shirt sticking. Breathing steady, or steady enough, until it wasn’t. Then Tsunade and Sakumo both stopped. We all pulled up with them, boots grinding bark. The pause wasn’t new. The silence after always was.

Tsunade raised her hand, pointed at Aya, same gesture as every half hour. Aya already knew. She closed her eyes, steadied her breathing.

Her lips parted. “A squad of eight,” she said after a pause. “Several kilometers west.”

The scarred jonin asked, “Ame-nin?”

Aya shook her head. “Not sure, but I doubt it. They’re heading toward the Land of Rivers.”

One of the jonin frowned. “Why would River squads be this deep in Ame territory?”

Sakumo finally spoke. “Could be the same reason we’re here. Or maybe they’re running patrols for exactly that, keeping other people from using it.”

Tsunade’s brow pinched. She didn’t speak right away, just kept her eyes ahead. A breath passed. Maybe two. Then she gave the smallest nod. “Use dampening seals.”

Everyone reached for the slips of paper. So did I. The Uzumaki tag burned faintly in my palm, that maze of ink I still didn’t understand. It felt alive in a way paper shouldn’t. I pressed it to the inside of my forearm. Cold, then warm, then gone, as if it had never been there. But I could feel it working, like a part of me had been erased from the air, like the world had decided not to acknowledge me anymore.

The squad looked at Tsunade again. She gave a sharp nod. “Quick kill. Move.”

And we did. No pause, no discussion. Boots slammed wood, then earth, then wood again. My body trailed behind the pack, no shame in admitting it, they were faster. Still, every stride I told myself the same thing, catch up, catch up, catch up.

Another branch snapped underfoot. Another breath. Another half-beat behind the others.

Running toward something I hadn’t seen yet. Running with the knowledge that the first thing we saw, we’d kill.

And that was the mission.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 55

The clone boss lowered the spyglass. The Raikage and the bijuu were tearing the forest into noise and fire, but his eyes drifted to the town instead. Half-empty already. The smart ones had run the second a stranger in Kumo colors yelled “evacuate.” The stubborn ones—farmers, drunks, the elderly, finally got the message when the ground convulsed like the earth itself had indigestion. Nothing like a bijuu brawl to loosen stiff legs.

A shadow leaned close. “Boss… this might be too much. Original’s gonna eat this memory raw. What if it blows his cover? What if this stops being just shadows and turns into a war?”

The boss set the spyglass down and thumbed the edge. “What’s done is done, we can’t roll it back. But we can double down.”

The other frowned. “Double down how?”

The boss didn’t answer at first. Just lifted his chin toward the horizon, where dots of civilians stumbled along the road, shadows stretched thin by firelight. Sandals slapping dust. Parents dragging kids. Some dropping what they owned because weight mattered less than survival.

The clone followed his gaze, head tilted. Confused. A moment later, his eyes widened with understanding—“ah”—and he clapped his palm into the heel of his hand. “You want us to…”

The boss didn’t nod. “Take a few clones and stage it. Kumo chasing Iwa. Make sure some civilians see it as they run.”

……

Meanwhile, back with the original...

Looking at the outpost again, I had to admit they'd done some impressive work since our last visit.

What used to be a collection of hastily thrown-together wooden buildings had transformed into something that actually looked permanent. New structures had sprouted up between the old ones like mushrooms after rain, storage buildings, what looked like expanded barracks, even a proper mess hall that didn't appear to be held together by prayer alone.

The population had basically doubled since our last visit. Shinobi everywhere, all walking with brisk pace that meant they had places to be and people to potentially stab. But it wasn't just military personnel. Merchants, blacksmiths, the usual crowd that follows armies around like opportunistic seagulls. Amazing how quickly people will set up shop in a war zone, as long as there's profit to be made and only a moderate chance of getting killed.

'Development at its finest,' I thought, watching two genin handle the crowd flow like pros, clearly they'd been stuck with this job long enough to get really good at it. 'Nothing quite like an active conflict to speed up urban planning projects.'

A chunin appeared beside our convoy before we'd even come to a complete stop. Professional, competent, definitely a checklist guy. He took one look at the wagons, nodded to himself, and immediately started barking orders to get everything unloaded and sorted.

Tsunade and Sakumo barely looked at the guy before heading for the command building. I followed them. Well, I mean, that's what you do, right? Follow your teacher into whatever mess is waiting. Better than standing around watching people haul boxes around anyway.

The command building was exactly like I remembered it. Solid wood, built for work not looks. Different guard though. Young chunin, looked pretty green.

He spotted us coming—well, spotted Sakumo and Tsunade coming, since I was walking behind them, and his eyes went wide. Recognition, then panic, then that frantic look of someone trying to remember the right protocol.

"Tsunade-sama! Hatake-sama!" He straightened up so fast I thought he might give himself whiplash. "Please, let me escort you to the commander."

He led us into the building and down a short corridor, practically bouncing on his toes. When we reached the commander's door, he raised his hand to knock—

That's when Tsunade shoved the door open and bounded inside like she owned the place.

Which, considering her family connections, she sort of did.

The poor chunin's hand was still hanging in mid-air, frozen in the almost-knock position.

"Uncle Minoru!" Her voice boomed through whatever conversation was happening inside. "Hope you weren't saying anything important, because I'm here now and that means all the interesting stuff can finally start!"

Sakumo and I exchanged a look. The chunin's jaw had dropped so far I was worried he might dislocate something.

"Sorry about that," Sakumo said to the poor guy, sounding like he'd done this before. "She's... enthusiastic."

I gave the chunin what I hoped was a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "First time? You get used to it. Eventually. Maybe."

Poor kid, I thought as we went inside. He'd probably been rehearsing all morning—how to properly announce important visitors, proper protocol, all that stuff. Then Tsunade just... yeah. Though I guess if you're expecting normal behavior from someone who relieves stress by punching things, that's on you.

Inside was pretty much what you'd expect. Two guys had been bent over maps and papers, looking serious, having some kind of important discussion. Now they were both staring at the whirlwind that had just burst through their door.

One of them was obviously Minoru Senju, looked like Tsunade, just older and more weathered from years of dealing with bureaucracy. The other was obviously a Nara, with that sharp but tired look they all seemed to have.

"Tsunade," Minoru said, sounding like a tired uncle who'd been dealing with her chaos for years. "Still can't use a door like a normal person, I see."

"Normal doors, normal people," she replied cheerfully. "I'm neither."

The Nara—Shikaro, if I was remembering my clan politics correctly, rubbed his temple like he could feel a headache coming on. Which, considering he was probably about to get pulled into whatever shenanigan Tsunade had cooking, was entirely reasonable.

After the usual family pleasantries, health, weather, the general state of not being dead, Minoru's attention shifted to me.

"And who might this be?" he asked, though his tone suggested he'd already made some educated guesses.

"Shinji," I said, giving him a respectful bow that was exactly the right depth, deep enough to show proper respect to a senior commander, not so deep as to look like I was trying too hard. "Tsunade-sensei's student."

That's when she decided to showcase her complete and utter lack of shame.

"My student," she announced, puffing up with pride like she'd built me from scratch, "who also happens to be Konoha's strongest chunin right now. All thanks to my excellent teaching, of course. Kid took down a whole group of jonin just the other day."

The silence that followed made me acutely aware of my own heartbeat.

Both men turned to stare at me like I'd just claimed I could juggle tailed beasts. Which, honestly, was probably less ridiculous than what she had just told them. I felt heat creep up my neck, that embarrassment when your teacher brags about you while you're standing right there, fighting the urge to correct her in front of her uncle. Because apparently the details of that fight have been getting more impressive every time she tells the story. She'd already told Sakumo some version on the way here. Next week it'll be a hundred jonin and a small army of chunin. The staring continued. I tried to look like someone who definitely hadn't been exaggerated beyond all recognition.

Then Shikaro spoke up. "Tsunade, you've been on the front lines for most of the past three weeks. When exactly were you doing all this 'excellent teaching'?"

Ouch. Direct hit.

Her confident expression flickered for just a moment before she rallied with that shameless Senju confidence.

"Quality over quantity," she said, waving her hand around like this was common sense. "I don't need to hover over my students like some people. I give them the tools and let them figure out how to use them. Builds character."

'Tools,' I thought, trying to keep a straight face. Right. Is that what we're calling it when you disappear for weeks? Because I'm pretty sure most of what I've learned came from... well, not having a teacher around to actually teach me anything.

But you couldn't argue with the results, even if the methods were... unconventional.

The conversation eventually shifted away from my apparently mythical combat prowess and toward more practical matters, the war, specifically, and how things were progressing on various fronts. Turned out the news was actually pretty good, at least from Konoha's perspective. The combined pressure on both River and Sand was working, and there were increasing signs that both sides were starting to feel the strain.

That's when Minoru got down to business.

"Well, your timing couldn't be better," he said, spreading out a new map across the table. "We have a mission that requires your particular skill sets."

The map showed certain regions in detail, outposts, supply routes, terrain features, all carefully marked. Someone had risked their neck getting this information. Probably multiple someones.

"River and Sand have been consolidating their food supplies at several key outposts," Minoru continued, pointing to marked locations. "These stockpiles are what's keeping their forces operational in this region. If we can eliminate them..."

"They'll be forced to either withdraw or accept terms," Sakumo finished. "Cut off their ability to maintain extended operations."

"Exactly. Primary objective is the destruction of these supply caches. Secondary objective is intelligence gathering, troop numbers, supply routes, command structure. Tertiary objective, if the opportunity presents itself, is elimination of key personnel."

He straightened up, his expression serious. "This isn't about body counts. It's about crippling their operational capacity and forcing them to the negotiating table."

Made sense. Wars weren't won by how many people you killed, they were won by making it impossible for the other side to keep fighting. Cut off their food, disrupt their supplies, make it more expensive to continue the war than to accept peace.

"So when do we leave?" Tsunade asked, already looking like she was mentally packing for the mission.

"As soon as possible," Minoru replied. "Time is critical here. You two can select the best jonins available to join you for this mission. And if your student is truly as powerful as you claim, Tsunade, then he should be a valuable asset as well."

So I was definitely going along for this one, assuming I could prove I belonged there.

That's when Sakumo asked the question that changed everything.

"Has Shinji learned chakra suppression yet?"

The silence was immediate and telling.

Tsunade blinked. I blinked. Neither of us had an answer, because the answer was embarrassingly obvious to everyone in the room.

'Chakra suppression,' I thought, and immediately realized I had absolutely no idea what that was. Well, I mean, the name was pretty self-explanatory, suppress your chakra, obviously, but as an actual technique? Complete blank. Which was weird, because you'd think something called 'chakra suppression' would've come up at some point during my extensive Academy education. You know, that education where they taught us how to throw kunai and recite the Will of Fire but somehow forgot to mention survival techniques that apparently kept ninja alive on dangerous missions. Unless this was one of those advanced things they only taught to people whose teachers actually planned lessons instead of disappearing for weeks at a time.

Tsunade's face went through a fascinating series of expressions, confusion, realization, embarrassment, and then resignation.

"I, uh." She cleared her throat. "That might have slipped my mind."

'Slipped her mind.' I gave her a flat look. Because apparently while I was busy figuring out chakra control and medical ninjutsu, we'd somehow completely missed this particular survival technique.

"Right," she said, rallying quickly. "No problem. Sakumo and I can handle this one. Shinji can stay here and help with outpost stuff. Plenty of useful work that doesn't require infiltration skills."

I felt my expression change before I could control it. That disappointed look just happened. The one that made me look like a kid who'd just been told he couldn't come to the grown-up party. Because after everything, after finally getting included in something important, I was about to get benched over a training gap.

That's when Minoru spoke up.

"Actually, it should be fine to bring him along."

Both jonin turned to stare at him. Sakumo's expression was particularly skeptical.

"With respect, Commander, even with proper chakra suppression training, there's always a risk of detection by skilled sensors. We'll be hitting multiple targets, which increases the chances of our techniques being identified and countered. Bringing along a chunin without any suppression training, regardless of his other skills, significantly increases the mission risk."

Valid points. Careful risk assessment kept people alive in situations where a single mistake could mean torture and death.

That's when Shikaro decided to contribute to the conversation.

"Actually," he said, sounding like he'd been thinking three steps ahead of everyone else, "it shouldn't be a problem. We did specifically request supplies from Uzushiogakure for situations like this."

As if summoned by his words, and knowing how Nara clan members thought, he probably timed it perfectly, there was a knock at the door.

The same chunin from earlier entered, carrying a small wooden box like it was either very valuable or very dangerous. He set it on the table and stepped back, waiting for dismissal.

Minoru opened the box, showing what was inside. Maybe twenty paper tags, each one covered in complex seal work.

Now that was interesting. I leaned in to get a better look at the patterns. Had to be Uzushio craftsmanship, nobody else could make seals this complicated without accidentally blowing themselves up. And if Shikaro thought these would solve our problem... well, they probably would.

So I wouldn't need to learn chakra suppression after all. Just stick on a tag and become invisible to sensors. Way more reliable than trying to figure out some advanced technique right now. Though I wondered how they actually worked. Absorb chakra? Redirect it? The patterns were too complex to understand just from looking.

"Chakra Damping Seals," Minoru explained, lifting one of the tags for examination. "Uzushio's latest contribution to the war effort. While active, these completely mask chakra signatures. Even skilled sensors won't be able to detect you."

He set the tag down carefully. "If this mission succeeds, if we can force River to accept terms, Sand will have no choice but to follow suit. End the whole conflict."

'End the whole conflict.' That would mean a lot of people getting to go home. Families reuniting. Kids not having to worry about their parents coming back in pieces. Parents not having to wonder if their kids would make it through the war. And honestly, it would mean I wouldn't have to keep killing people either. That was a nice bonus.

And sometimes, if you were very lucky and very good at what you did, you could help make that happen.

Minoru turned to me, his expression serious but not unkind. "So, Shinji. Do you want to join this mission, or would you prefer to stay here and assist with outpost operations?"

I didn't hesitate.

"I'll join."

Because sometimes the choice isn't between safe and dangerous, or smart and stupid, or even right and wrong. Sometimes the choice is between being part of something important or watching it happen from the sidelines.

And I'd never been much good at watching from the sidelines.

Besides, missions like this were how you built up contributions that got you access to the good stuff. S-rank techniques. Forbidden jutsu. Scrolls locked away in the Hokage's private vault that required serious political capital to even look at, let alone learn.

Which reminded me of something I'd just seen through my clones, the Third Raikage's Black Lightning. Guy had charged straight at the Eight-Tails with black lightning covering his whole body, punching holes through anything that got in his way. Black lightning. I'd never even known lightning could change colors until I saw it with my own eyes. Well, my clone's eyes, but close enough.

Though thinking about it, that was probably the point of missions like this. You couldn't learn about jutsu that defied normal understanding if you never did anything worth rewarding. And you couldn't do anything worth rewarding if you spent your whole career playing it safe.

Sometimes you had to take the dangerous mission and hope your contribution was valuable enough to open doors that stayed closed for everyone else.

And just like that, the meeting was over.

Minoru began collecting some papers, his focus already shifting to the next problem on his desk.

"Well then," Tsunade said, clapping her hands together. "I need to put together a proper squad for this. It can’t just be the three of us if we’re hitting outposts."

She turned to me. "Shinji, you're officially off duty until tonight. Go play around, explore the outpost, take a nap, whatever keeps you entertained. We're departing at nine, so don't wander too far."

"I've got some arrangements to make as well," Sakumo added, already heading for the door. "See you both tonight."

And then they were gone, leaving me standing in the command room like a piece of furniture someone had forgotten to move.

'Play around,' I thought, staring at the empty doorway. 'Explore the outpost. Take a nap.'

Right. Because that's exactly what every highly trained chunin wants to hear before an infiltration mission. 'Go find something fun to do while the adults handle the important stuff.' It was like being told to go outside and play while your parents planned your surprise birthday party, except instead of a party it was a mission where getting caught meant torture and execution.

Though thinking about it, surprise parties and infiltration missions had more in common than they should. Both involved a lot of sneaking around and hoping nobody screwed up the timing. Both required everyone to keep their mouths shut until the big moment. And both usually ended with someone getting jumped by people hiding in the dark.

Okay, that comparison got weird fast.

I walked out of the command building and into the afternoon bustle of the outpost, watching people go about their daily routines. Merchants hawking their wares, ninja heading to and from assignments, civilians trying to make a living in what was essentially a militarized frontier town. Everyone had something to do, somewhere to be, some purpose driving them forward.

Meanwhile, I had been told to 'play around' for the next few hours.

'Play around.' What was I supposed to do with that? I wasn't twelve anymore, despite what my face apparently suggested. I couldn't just go find a stick and pretend it was a sword, or challenge random people to friendly sparring matches. Though the sparring thing wasn't actually a terrible idea, now that I thought about it. Nothing like a good fight to pass the time and maybe learn something useful.

I created four shadow clones and sent them off in different directions. "Find some chunin who look bored," I told them. "Get some sparring in. Different fighting styles, see what you can learn." Well, what we could learn. Same thing.

They nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Left me standing there with... what, five hours to kill? Maybe four. And this nagging feeling that I should be doing something useful instead of just hanging around.

I found a decent rooftop and climbed up, getting into a one-handed handstand against one of the support beams. Blood rushed to my head as I held the position, left arm locked while my right stayed tucked at my side. Balance and core strength training.

All that blood pooling in my skull got me thinking about... well, blood flow. Circulation. Which reminded me of those medical texts Tsunade had given me weeks ago. The ones probably gathering dust on my desk back home. I'd been excited about them initially, advanced medical theory, surgical techniques. The real stuff they don't teach at the Academy.

Then I'd made the mistake of leaving reading clones at home.

It started innocently enough. Why not have a clone read while I was out on missions? Efficient use of time, doubled my learning speed, made perfect sense. The clone would absorb the information, I'd get the memories when it dispersed, and suddenly I'd know everything without spending hours hunched over books.

Except it worked too well.

I'd come home after a long day, ready to settle in with one of those medical texts, only to realize I already knew everything in it. My clone had read the entire thing that morning, processed it, understood it, and now those memories were rattling around in my head like borrowed clothes that didn't quite fit.

The experience felt hollow. Like cheating on a test and then wondering why the victory felt meaningless.

So I tried different books. Fire Country history, encyclopedia stuff, anything about the First Hokage. But the clones were faster than me. More focused. Never got distracted by... I don't know, lunch or wondering what that noise outside was. Within a week they'd read everything I owned and started on borrowed books.

Reading became pointless. Every time I picked up a book, I'd already know what was inside. Every fascinating discovery had already been discovered by a version of me that no longer existed, leaving only secondhand memories of secondhand experiences.

It was like trying to be surprised by a movie I'd already seen, except worse because I was the one who had seen it, just not... me me. Clone me. Previous me.

My head was starting to hurt thinking about it. Well, my head was already hurting from being upside down, but this made it worse.

But here's the thing about clone memories—they're just information. Not experience. I could remember reading about storage seals, sure, but my hands had never actually drawn one. I knew the theory behind chakra flow diagrams, but my muscles didn't know how to make the brush strokes work.

That's why I was hanging upside down on a roof instead of studying more. Physical training couldn't be downloaded from a clone. Strength meant actually lifting heavy things. Balance meant falling over until you stopped falling over. Endurance meant... well, pushing through being tired until being tired became normal.

Clone memories were like having someone else's dream about learning how to fight. Interesting, maybe useful in theory, but ultimately useless when someone was trying to punch me in the face.

I pushed off slightly with my left hand and switched to my right, feeling the burn in my shoulders as I caught myself in the new position. This discomfort, this effort, this was mine. Not borrowed, not secondhand, just me doing something difficult because difficult things made me stronger.

Eventually I figured I'd spent enough time upside down contemplating the weirdness of secondhand knowledge. I dropped back down and made my way to the mess hall. My shoulders were sore, which felt... I don't know, productive somehow.

The mess hall was busier than I'd expected for mid-afternoon. Apparently a lot of people had the same idea about grabbing food between whatever important tasks they were supposed to be doing. The smell hit me as soon as I walked in, rice, miso, grilled fish, and the heavy smell that came from cooking in bulk.

I grabbed a tray and got in line, looking around for somewhere to sit. That's when I noticed a familiar face at one of the corner tables, the chunin from earlier, the guy who'd been about to knock when Tsunade burst through the door.

He looked up as I approached, recognition flickering in his eyes. "Oh, hey. Tsunade-sama's student, right?"

"Shinji," I said, settling down across from him with my tray. "Don't think I caught your name earlier, what with Tsunade kicking down the door and all."

"Akio," he replied, momentarily thrown by how casually the kid had just dropped Tsunade's name. No 'sama,' no 'sensei,' just... Tsunade. Like she was some random jonin instead of the Senju princess. He started to open his mouth, then thought better of it. Not his business how a student addressed his teacher, maybe they had a better relationship than the typical master-student dynamic. He cleared his throat. "And yeah, that was... something. Does she always do that?"

"Only when she's in a good mood," I said, picking up my chopsticks. "When she's in a bad mood, she just kicks the door off its hinges."

We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just two ninja grabbing a meal between whatever responsibilities the day had thrown at us. Except I noticed Akio kept glancing toward the serving area, his attention drifting from our conversation every few seconds.

Following his gaze, I spotted one of the cooks, dark hair pulled back, ladling soup into bowls. She moved fast but didn't look rushed. Pretty in a way that had nothing to do with trying to be pretty, if that made sense.

"So... friend of yours?" I said, going for casual but probably not quite hitting it. The teasing note crept in anyway. He was being pretty obvious about the staring.

Akio's chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth, and I caught the faint blush creeping up his neck. "Something like that."

"Something like that," I repeated, grinning. "Come on, that's the look of a man who's either deeply in love or planning to ask for extra rice. And considering how you keep staring, I'm guessing it's not about the food."

He set down his chopsticks and rubbed the back of his neck, looking caught between embarrassment and something that might have been pride. "She's my wife."

I blinked. "Your wife is working in the mess hall?"

"Her choice," he said, a bit too fast. Like he was expecting me to argue about it. "I told her to stay in Konoha where it's safe, but she insisted on coming here. Said if I was going to be stationed at the front lines, she wanted to help however she could."

There was something in his voice. Happy, but worried. Like he couldn't decide if this was the best thing that ever happened to him or a nightmare waiting to happen.

'His wife followed him to a war zone,' I thought, watching him steal glances at her. 'And he has no idea how to feel about it.'

I mean, I got it. Romance was complicated enough without adding the possibility of getting killed by enemy ninja. It was like... well, it was stupid, honestly. Smart thing would be for her to stay safe in Konoha.

But then again, maybe that was the point. Maybe love was supposed to be stupid sometimes. The whole refusing-to-be-separated thing, even when separation made sense. Even when it was dangerous.

Actually, especially when it was dangerous.

Though I wasn't sure if that made it romantic or just reckless. Probably depended on how things turned out.

'Romantic if they both survive,' I decided. 'Tragic if they don't.'

Not exactly the most optimistic way to look at it, but realistic.

"Must be nice," I said, "having her close by. Even if it's not exactly what either of you planned."

“It is,” he admitted, his voice softening. “But every night I lie awake wondering what happens if we get attacked, if enemy forces break through the perimeter. She’s not a shinobi; she’s a civilian who knows basic first aid and can cook for fifty people without breaking a sweat. She’s the most amazing woman I have ever met. But if things go bad…”

He didn't finish the sentence, but I could guess. War made everything harder. Even the good things, especially the good things.

"She knows the risks," I said. Not sure if I was trying to make him feel better or convince myself this wasn't completely insane. "She came anyway. That's got to mean something."

Akio nodded, but he still looked like he was chewing on the same problem I was.

I glanced over at his wife again. She was still working, focused on whatever she was doing. Looked like she knew what she was about, at least. Like she'd thought this through and decided it was worth it.

Or maybe she was just as scared as he was and hiding it better.

Hard to tell from across a crowded mess hall.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I just hope..." He stopped, shook his head. "I don't know what I hope, honestly."

That made two of us.

I went back to my food, but kept thinking about it. About following someone into danger because the alternative was being apart. About whether that was brave or stupid.

Probably both.

I was still processing Akio's relationship dilemma when movement caught my eye near the food line. Someone familiar stepping away from the serving area, tray in hand, scanning the room.

Minato.

And behind him, Nawaki, Miyabi, and Squinty. I still couldn't remember her actual name, which was why I'd started calling her Squinty in the first place. The nickname had stuck so thoroughly in my head that I'd probably forgotten her real name at this point. They all had trays, all looking around for seats.

Wait. Where was the soft-looking boy? What was his name again... Noboru? Yeah, Noboru. Where was he? And where was Nawaki's teammate? I didn't see either of them.

I waved them over before that thought could spiral anywhere dark. They spotted me, surprise flickering across their faces, then genuine smiles. Nawaki actually grinned and nudged Minato, pointing in my direction.

"Akio," I said, turning back to my tablemate. "Looks like some old friends just showed up. Thanks for the conversation."

He glanced over at the approaching group, then back at me. "No problem. Better get back to my post anyway." He stood, gathering his tray. "See you around, Shinji."

"Yeah, see you."

He left just as my old Academy classmates arrived at the table. There was that awkward moment where everyone's trying to figure out the seating arrangement, but then Minato just plopped down across from me and the others followed suit.

"Shinji!" Nawaki said, like he couldn't quite believe I was real. "What are you doing here?"

"Could ask you the same thing," I replied. "Though—" I glanced around the table, doing a quick headcount. Something felt off. "Miyabi, isn't your team missing someone? That soft-looking kid... Noboru?"

The question hit the table like a stone thrown into still water. Miyabi went quiet, her chopsticks pausing midway to her mouth. Nawaki's expression shifted. Squinty—Yua, damn it, her name was Yua—stared down at her rice.

Right. Okay. Message received.

'The weakest link broke,' I thought, then immediately felt guilty for thinking it. Because Noboru had been weak, relatively speaking, but he'd also been a kid trying his best in a world designed to kill him. And now he was probably...

Yeah. Moving on.

"So anyway," I said, shifting gears with all the subtlety of a freight train changing tracks. "Minato, man, feels like forever since we've talked. How've you been?"

The relief in his eyes was obvious. "Good, good. Busy, but good. What about you? Last I heard you were—wait." His gaze dropped to my flak jacket, and his expression changed. "Is that...?"

"Chunin vest," I confirmed, trying not to sound too proud about it. Though honestly, I was a little proud. Sue me.

The reaction was immediate and gratifying. Nawaki's chopsticks clattered against his bowl. Miyabi's eyes went wide. Even Yua looked up from her food with something approaching shock.

"You're a chunin?" Nawaki said. "Already?"

"Already?" I grinned. "What do you mean 'already'? It's been weeks since we graduated."

"Yeah, but..." He gestured vaguely, like he was trying to encompass the entirety of shinobi career progression with hand movements. "Chunin! That's... that's really fast."

Was it? I mean, compared to the other chunin, maybe. But compared to what I felt I should be capable of, it seemed almost slow. Time is relative when you’re living multiple lives through shadow clones.

"How'd it happen?" Miyabi asked. There was something in her voice, not jealousy exactly, but maybe a little envy mixed with curiosity.

So I told them about the evaluation, about someone recommending me for field promotion, about the whole thing being less dramatic than they probably imagined. I left out the parts about killing a group of jonin and accidentally becoming famous for exploding clones, because those stories had a way of growing in the telling.

"Man," Nawaki said when I finished. "I'm gonna work even harder now. Gonna be a chunin before the end of the year, just watch."

There was something fierce in his voice when he said it. Determination, maybe, or just the competitive spirit that seemed to run in his family. Either way, I believed him.

"What about you guys?" I asked. "What brings you to this particular corner of the war?"

That's when the real story came out. How their original teams had been... restructured. How they'd lost teammates, not just Noboru, but others too. How Orochimaru had basically inherited a collection of survivors and decided to make them into something functional.

"Mostly we're doing support work," Miyabi explained. "Helping around the outpost, escorting supply convoys. Nothing too dangerous."

'Nothing too dangerous' - right. As if there was some magical category of safe missions when people were actively trying to kill each other. I mean, even delivering supplies could turn into a fight these days.

"Orochimaru's a good sensei though," Yua added quietly. "Tough, but he knows what he's doing."

I could imagine. Orochimaru had that reputation, brilliant, demanding, not particularly concerned with making his students feel comfortable. Probably exactly what a group of Academy graduates needed after losing their first teams.

"What about you, Minato?" I asked, turning to him. "Did you join up with Nawaki's team too? I thought you were still with Jiraiya-sensei."

Minato shook his head. "Not permanently, no. Jiraiya-sensei is... well, he's around, but he comes and goes. So when he's off doing whatever it is he does, I get assigned to different teams that need extra hands." He gestured toward Nawaki and the others. "I've been working with this group for a while now."

"Makes sense," I nodded.

"And you?" he asked. "Still with Tsunade-sama?"

"Yeah, still learning how to punch things really hard and heal people really well," I said. "It's a surprisingly useful combination."

We talked for a while longer, catching up on gossip from Konoha, comparing notes on missions, doing that thing where old friends try to bridge the gap between who they used to be and who they're becoming. It felt good, familiar, like a reminder that not everything about this whole ninja career was life-or-death stakes.

Sometimes it was just friends eating bad mess hall food and complaining about their teachers.

Though I noticed none of us talked about the future much. About what we wanted to do after the war, or where we saw ourselves in five years, or any of the normal things Academy students used to speculate about.

Maybe we'd all learned better than to make plans that far ahead.

Or maybe we just didn't want to jinx anything by assuming we'd live long enough for those plans to matter.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 54

Lotus House had a garden. Not a real garden, obviously. Real gardens don’t have drunken samurai sleeping under azalea bushes or courtesans smoking pipes by the koi pond. But it had gravel paths, lanterns, and koi that had probably seen more regrettable late-night confessions than any priest in Fire Country.

The sake was good. Too good. Which was a problem, because good sake made me honest, and honesty wasn’t part of the Kanzaki Ryouma package deal. I sat back on a cushioned chair at a garden table, the lanterns throwing soft light over the koi pond behind us. Across the table, Sumire, madam of Lotus House, poured another cup.

“So, young master Kanzaki,” she said, smiling like she was listening. “Are you satisfied with our service?”

I swirled my cup, put on my best spoiled-rich-boy grin, and said, “Very satisfied. Especially your women. And your sake.” I made sure to sound just tipsy enough to sell it. Kanzaki Ryouma, wealthy young master with a fondness for women and alcohol: flawless performance. Oscar-worthy, if Oscars existed here.

She laughed politely. Too politely. Which meant she didn’t buy it. Women like Sumire had seen too many men playact confidence. She could probably tell how much coin was in a man’s pocket just by how he said “thank you.”

I leaned conspiratorially. “Actually, Madam Sumire, I’m looking for someone. A cooper. Or maybe a carpenter.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly. Like I’d asked her if she happened to know any necromancers. “A… cooper?”

“Mm.” I nodded. “Barrel-maker, cask-maker, someone who knows their way around wood and iron hoops.”

“Young master, may I ask… why?”

I widened my eyes the way only the truly stupid or truly rich can. “I recently purchased an old recipe. For sake. From a traveling merchant.” I lowered my voice like it was a scandal. “He claimed it was unearthed from old ruins. Said it might be a long-lost brew.”

If acting had a difficulty ranking, this was S-rank acting. Pretend to be naive while being cynical while pretending to be naive. Clone Oscars, again.

Her expression froze. Speechless. Madam Sumire had probably heard every scam between Fire and Lightning, and this one didn’t even make her top ten. Her lips parted, then closed again, because for half a second she almost nodded along. Easy money. A client too naïve to know better. Then she realized agreeing too fast might cost her more than she stood to gain. If this really was a scam, and he realized later, would he hold a grudge? Rich boys don’t forget slights; they pay them back with interest.

So instead of agreeing, she schooled her face back to neutral, lips parting like she was about to promise help, then closing again. Caution won over temptation. Better to warn him than take the coin and risk being remembered as the one who fed his humiliation.

“Young master… forgive me, but that sounds like—”

“A scam?” I cut in cheerfully. “Of course! But I have plenty of money. Father gives me more than I can spend. Even if it fails, it will be amusing. And if it succeeds—” I raised my cup like I was toasting destiny. “I will be the one who revived ancient sake. Imagine that story.”

She exhaled through her nose. That’s the sound women make when they’ve already given up on you but can’t stop themselves from trying anyway. “There are easier ways to waste money, Kanzaki-sama.”

“Ah, but none so entertaining.”

Her silence stretched, long enough for a koi to leap and splash like it was filling the awkward pause for us.

Not bad. Most merchants would’ve lunged at the bait already—greedy, predictable, drooling like dogs chasing scraps. But she? She bit her tongue, weighed the angles, let me sweat in my own silence. That kind of restraint is worth more than coin. If she were a con artist, she’d be the dangerous kind. If she were honest, she’d be rarer still. Either way, I almost liked her for it. Almost.

Finally, she shook her head. “Even if I knew such craftsmen, I shouldn’t encourage this. You’ll only lose coin.”

I waved her off like a man who’d never once checked a balance sheet. “Madam, please. Pocket change. A whim. If you help me, I’ll make sure you’re well paid for the headache.”

“…You really are persistent,” she sighed.

“Persistence is my best quality,” I said, savoring the sake, and slipped a folded sheet from my sleeve.

I set it on the table, and her fingers hesitated just slightly before taking it.

She unfolded it. Read. At first, polite interest. Then her brow faintly furrowed.

Mash Tun. Fermentation vessels. Distillation apparatus. Storage barrels. Funnels, cloth filters, glass jars...

By the time she reached the bottom, her smile had thinned into silence. The garden lanterns flickered against her face as she lowered the paper. “…This is… extensive. Some of these things I have never even heard of. To make them, if they can even be made, will take time. A great deal of time.”

Which was fair. If someone handed me a recipe and it said step one: capture lightning in a bottle, I’d probably hesitate too.

I smiled like a fool who’d never failed at anything in his life. “That’s fine. My bodyguard used to be a rogue nin. Traveled everywhere, learned all sorts of tricks. If you’re unsure about something, he can guide you.”

And then I tilted my head slightly, just enough for her to follow my gaze.

He was already standing beside me.

A bulky man stood with arms folded, half his face swallowed by shadow, radiating a chill that made the koi in the pond forget how to swim.

Her fan slipped in her hand. She hadn’t seen him arrive. She hadn’t even felt him arrive. One second he wasn’t there, the next he was, as if he’d been cut-and-pasted into the scene.

Her back stiffened, eyes darting between me and the wall of muscle. Pretend-rich boys don’t have bodyguards like that. Real ones do. And just like that, her doubt cashed itself out.

Eighty percent convinced turned into full certainty. Her fingers tightened just a little on the fan. She looked burdened for a moment, and that was harder to miss than the smile she tried to cover it with.

I didn’t know why, but need reads louder than greed, and for just a second, I saw it.

She wanted the coin, no doubt. But it wasn’t the shiny-eyed hunger I’d seen a hundred times in merchants who thought they’d just found a walking ryo bag. This was different. Like the money wasn’t for her, but for something else pulling at her sleeve.

Something was up.

And maybe I should’ve cared. Maybe I should’ve asked. But Kanzaki Ryouma wasn’t here to care; he was here to throw money around and look naïve doing it. Still… desperation without greed? That was unusual—rare, like finding a merchant who didn’t haggle or a gambler who walked away winning. And my instincts itched.

Mm… Maybe I’d slip another clone into the house later, see what her story was. Nothing crazy, just enough to scratch the itch.

She lowered the list slowly, as if it weighed more than paper should. “Very well. I’ll do what I can. But this will take time, Kanzaki-sama.”

I nodded, sipping my sake like it could teach me patience. It couldn’t, but let’s not ruin the mood.

……

Meanwhile, in Lightning Country—

I counted fifty-three. Not by names, because naming your clones is how madness starts, but by shadows. Fifty-three bodies crouched under rocks, tucked in brush, clinging to ridges like barnacles pretending to be moss. Fifty-three copies of random haircut, each waiting for me to tell them what kind of bad idea we were about to commit.

“Boss,” one of me whispered. “We really going through with this?”

Not an unfair question. 3rd-gen Clones are me, but they’re also me with fewer filters. Which means they ask things I’d rather keep as subtext.

“If we screw this up, they trace it back to us,” the clone went on. “Konoha and Kumo stop glaring at each other from across the room and start throwing kunai. Are you sure?”

I thought about it. About Kumo’s resealing circus down in the clearing, about the old host coughing his lungs out while ink crawled over his body, about the new host staring like a deer already halfway gutted. About how many times we’ve said necessary evil with straight faces.

“There’s risk,” I said. “So we hand the bill to another village. We wrap ourselves in Iwa’s colors and let the world blame them.”

Murmurs. Not real murmurs, since all the mouths belonged to me, but echoes of doubt ping-ponging in my skull.

“Kiri? You sure? We don’t know their tells. What if they ask us to spit mist and we choke?”

Good point. A terrible point, but good.

A clone shifted behind a rock. “And what if a jonin sees through the Henge? Then what?”

Another me piped up right away. “Even if they notice it’s a Henge, so what? They don’t see the real face under it. Boss stays safe. Original stays safe.”

Safe. Funny word for shinobi work.

Still, the thought stuck. “Iwa makes more sense,” I said. “They’re a major village. Closest one here aside from Kiri. If anyone’s going to stick their fingers in, it’s Iwa.”

A clone crouched by the ridge shook his head. “Or maybe that’s too obvious. Anyone sees Iwa headbands, they’ll think frame job. We’ll be the kid caught with ink all over his hands standing next to the graffiti.”

Another me snorted. “And Kiri isn’t obvious? You want Mist? Then cough up the actual Mist Jutsu. Otherwise we’re tourists in cosplay.”

“So what then?” one muttered. “Disguise as missing-nin? Masked rogues?”

“Too vague,” I said. “Rogues draw questions. Villages draw blame. Iwa is a village people already expect to meddle. And if we’re lucky, it won’t just be Kumo pointing fingers at Iwa—it’ll get Kiri watching too. Or the other way around. Either works. Suspicion’s cheaper than kunai, and it cuts just as well.”

Agreement rolled through the group, not harmony, exactly, more like a coin tossed fifty-three times that just happened to keep landing the same way.

And once that many coins land the same way, you stop arguing probabilities and start acting like it’s fate.

They split because he said split.

Seven squads, seven lanes of trouble, seven wedges aimed at the ritual ring glittering down-valley. The boss stayed in the trees, hands already moving—one set to make more of them, one set to drop a few into meditation for reinforcement later. Fifty-three was a lot until it wasn’t. Numbers shrink fast in foreign country.

Masks on. Iwa faces. Headcloths, plates, the whole story. They moved.

They didn’t creep; they sprinted. Brush slapped their shins, slate grit slid under sandals, breath worked in time with the ground.

The first thing to break wasn’t a body, it was the silence. And when it broke, it broke into lightning. A thunderclap too close, not from the sky, Raiton jumped across the dirt like a thrown net. Four clones died wrong, bodies turning into chakra smoke mid-stride, momentum leaving nothing behind but a memory and scattered pebbles. The jonin who cast it stood up from a shallow ditch, fingers still locked at the last seal.

Squad Two reached him first.

Two clones met his kunai at once; a third came in low with a heel to the knee. The jonin flowed back, blade humming with chakra, batted the heel aside, cut through a wooden feint, pivoted into a short thrust that deleted a throat. A clone popped behind him, leaving a spray of glittering chakra dust.

He was good. Of course he was good. jonin are the answer to bad ideas.

They layered anyway. One clone flashed through seals—Katon: Gokakyu no Jutsu—and fire turned the ditch into a throat of heat. The jonin body-flickered out of the funnel and straight into the waiting space where two more clones were already moving. One dragged a forearm across the man’s wrist, chakra gathering thin and blue; the other went for eyes with a kunai feint and a snapping front kick.

Chakra Scalpel is quiet, which is why it’s unfair. It doesn’t scream. It just unthreads.

The jonin’s blade dropped for half a second when flexors lost the argument with anatomy. In that slip, the kick landed. His head snapped to the side, guard fractured, stance too square. The next clone’s tanto slid into ribs, angled up. He stabbed the clone’s face at the same time out of sheer professionalism; it still popped. He dropped anyway, because death also respects timing.

They ran on.

Squad Four hit a low stone rise and found three jonin waiting in a triangle. One launched Raiton: Jibashi—Electromagnetic Murder, a crawling sheet of crackle across the ground, while the other two flickered to the flanks, turning the approach into a funnel with teeth.

Clones scattered, then re-formed without a word: two up the middle to bait, two wide to draw angles, one high leaping off a trunk, three hanging back with shuriken already humming.

The two went in first, metronomes with fists. Their job wasn’t victory, it was percussion, keep the music loud enough that the real notes could slide in unnoticed. That was the point: to give the flanking clones a tempo to step into. A Kumo blade caught a forearm and stung it into smoke; the jonin stepped through the vanishing to finish the second bait, and that’s when a backline clone slid in on a low line and wrote a thin blue line across his hamstring. His stance died. He lived for three more heartbeats. Long enough to throw a kunai that erased another clone and make the finisher work for it.

The second jonin didn’t get greedy. He went to break contact—smart—but Squad Four had already turned the slope into a net. A clone with a short-sword opened with a straight-line iaidō draw, not to cut but to claim space; a second clone slammed a heel into the ground to throw grit up; the third clone came in on that micro-blind. The jonin parried steel and grit at once, then used Body Flicker to ghost a body-length away.

He flickered right into a fireball’s edge.

He tried to roll through it, and mostly did. Burned hair, smoking sleeve, eyes watering. One clone hurled three shuriken. The jonin slapped them aside, then realized the goal wasn’t to hit him; it was to make a path. Two clones sprinted that path and launched in perfect sync, a high fake knee, a low sweep, then an elbow that cracked into the clavicle. He grunted. The low clone’s hand flashed blue and drew a fast crescent across the jonin’s abdomen. Muscles failed to agree about what “brace” meant. The high clone’s tanto went home.

Two down at the slope. One more at that rise—still trading—no time to look.

Squad One found a jonin in a camo cloak hugging the base of a cedar. He dropped into their line like a thrown nail, lightning-laced kunai stitching the air. Two clones disappeared. The third clone stepped in with a boxing shell, shoulders tight, elbows carving, ate a shallow cut on the cheek and returned a hook under the ribs. The jonin didn’t flinch; trained bodies don’t flinch the same way. He punished the trade with a knee that erased the shelling clone.

A fourth clone slid by his blind spot and drew a scalpel across the back of the knee. The jonin twisted out and would have made it if a fifth clone hadn’t checked his hip with a driving shoulder. The angle stole balance for one breath. The sixth clone, who’d been waiting that entire time took that breath and made it final with a short blade to the kidney. The jonin jammed a kunai into the killer’s collarbone in the same moment. Both popped, one permanent, one temporary. Numbers still did the math.

They kept running.

They cut downhill through shin-high ferns where water flashed over stone. Lightning cracked again from the left—someone on the ridge throwing needles of current through the air. Three clones disappeared into white smoke as the needles found joints and throats. The rest hit the stream in stride and rolled to break line of fire, then surged up the opposite bank. A clone drew a tag-lined kunai and skated it under a root toward the ridge’s base. The explosion folded the earth. Close, but no funeral. Targets don’t stay down unless you make them, and these ones weren’t finished yet.

Squad Three climbed the broken slope in a flanking push. A jonin rose from the dust with a short staff and wrote a fast set of circles in the air, clean staff work, hips doing the math, enough to make clones regret being issued standard bones. He cracked one off the jaw, knocked a second out of a dash, stuffed a third with a toe-pick to the thigh, and reset with the staff tucked and his shoulders squared. Trained. Dangerous.

So they cheated properly: one clone went airborne as decoy, a second slid in low to tempt the staff down, a third got behind him by going the long way, and a fourth didn’t show at all until the moment he needed to, dropping out of a cedar with a down-cut. The staff tracked the airborne decoy and punished him into smoke, then bounced off the low slider’s forearms, then snapped toward the down-cut. It still bit—but the clone accepted the pain, rode the rebound close, and glued himself to the jonin’s chest as the clone behind laid a scalpel line across the man’s shoulder girdle. Power leaked out of one arm instantly. The staff went light. The next beat was pure Shotokan: snap punch, step, hip, thrust. A clone’s fist hammered the jonin into the trunk hard enough to rattle both. Bone met bark. Ugly, yes, but it ended the argument.

They bled numbers to speed.

Nine jonin wasn’t one enemy, it was nine. Each needed a separate answer, and every answer cost something. Two more Kumo veterans came in on cross angles, coordinated without speaking, one throwing Raiton through a throwing-knife pattern, the other closing to punish any dodge that looked lazy. Three clones died trying to do something clever; another two died doing something simple. The survivors stopped trying to be heroic. Heroism is what you call it when a tactic lacks a second step.

They went back to steps. Feint, layer, pry, cut.

A pair rolled in with basic taijutsu, nothing special—jab, cross, level change—except the footwork was honest and the hips stayed behind the strikes. The jonin parried both hands with the same forearm, rippling current along skin to punish contact. It worked once. It didn’t work the second time, because the second beat didn’t offer him flesh, it offered him steel: a tanto that kissed along the inside of his forearm, just shallow enough to demand attention. He gave it. The third clone’s scalpel traced the lat; the fourth clone’s heel stamped the ankle. When joints stop agreeing, balance becomes a rumor. A shuriken took his ear. The finishing thrust found the clean triangle between ribs.

The partner tried to grab the moment back with another Jibashi, current crawling across wet roots toward the clones’ sandals. One clone solved the problem the only way clones can, by dying first. He stepped into the charge, let the current chew him apart, and turned into smoke while the rest of us kept running. Disposable heroism, the cheapest kind.

The others were already moving; one clone closed while the jutsu was still arcing, slid in off-line, and cracked the jaw with a short hook. The jonin’s head bounced, and he tried to punish the crowd with a spinning slash, but the low clone inside his spin wrote a fast scalpel across the hip flexor and left. The spin ended early. The high clone placed a tanto behind the collarbone and pushed down. The close clone caught the wrist and wrenched it at the same time. Someone hissed through teeth. It might have been any of them.

They saw the ring.

The sealing site was a bright wound in the trees—ink lines, shouting, a stretcher, masks, the awful symmetry that only ritual creates in a forest. The clones kept moving; stopping is where fear lives. They flickered between trunks and boulders, used roots as springboards, treated gravity more like a suggestion than a law. Their breath was a rope. They hauled on it.

Two more jonin stood between them and the circle: one on a branch, one kneeling in ferns. The kneeler was the problem, hands mid-seal. He pointed. The branch-man moved.

Projectiles met midair, shuriken chattering in bright arcs. A clone body-flickered past that noise and straight at the kneeler. The branch-man’s kunai whipped down on a line that would have cut the clone in half, except that clone wasn’t there anymore: a puff of wood and smoke—their Substitution had traded him with a stump already tagged with low chakra. The real clone reappeared off-line and drew a blue line across the kneeler’s triceps. The seals broke. The kneeler slammed palms to earth to throw a shock, and the clone above him ate it and vanished. That left the jonin still kneeling, half-scorched, one arm gone to static.

The branch-man hit the ground like a hammer, lightning running the length of his forearm. He smashed through one clone, then two, then three—momentum plus technique makes messes fast. The fourth clone didn’t try to stop him; he redirected, shoulder to shoulder, turning the line into a slide. The fifth clone stole the ankle. The sixth drew scalpel across the back while the seventh opened the throat—so clean it looked like a lesson in anatomy, if lessons ended with people gurgling on the ground. The branch-man fell without a speech.

The kneeler tried to get up and didn’t. A clone helped him finish not getting up.

They counted on the run because not counting gets you killed. Twenty-eight. That number meant twenty-five clones ended as smoke on the wind in under a minute. They didn’t linger on it. Linger later, if later exists.

Screams bloomed from the clearing.

But they weren’t Kumo screams. They were ours.

The Third Raikage appeared—no, “appeared” was too gentle. He ripped into existence like a thunderbolt stapled into human shape. One blink, and clones were already bursting. Not cut, not broken—erased. His fist drew arcs of black lightning, and each swing collapsed five bodies into smoke before they even had time to remember they were supposed to hurt.

We screamed as we died, Twenty-eight mouths in stereo, all Shinji, all echoing through the clearing like a choir that never asked to sing. A sound nobody in Konoha would ever hear, and maybe that was mercy.

The wave was gone in seconds.

But the boss was cautious. The boss had always been cautious. He’d already stacked another twelve shadows, released them like arrows right behind the first. Weak arrows, though. Rushed. Half-filled, quarter-filled, sometimes just sparks wearing faces. Disposable in a way even clones rarely admitted.

Timing saved them. While the Raikage stormed through the first crowd, the second slipped by, like minnows darting past a shark’s teeth.

They hit the circle.

The sealing masters didn’t even have time to shout. Paper tags fluttered like snow, brushes snapped under sandals. A scalpel carved across one wrist, splintering the seals in his fingers. A kunai opened a throat mid-shout. Fireballs roared over the ink, boiling it into a black smear.

And the boy—the new host-to-be—was caught in the crossfire. He didn’t even look old enough to shave, eyes wide with terror and veins of sealing script still crawling over his skin. One clone’s blade slipped across his belly as the formation collapsed, and he opened like a wineskin. He died without meaning, but with plenty of blood. Enough blood to make the ground slick underfoot, enough blood to matter.

That was enough.

The Eight-Tails broke free.

There’s no polite way to describe it. The ink snapped like cut veins, light geysered from the boy’s corpse, and then the forest was full of it—flesh swelling, bones elongating, eight tails blooming like obscene flowers from a mountain-sized carcass that screamed louder than anything human has a right to scream.

The rampage was instant. The first sealing master was caught mid-step and swatted into paste. Just a red splash across a rock. The second tried to weave seals and was eaten, waist to head, by a mouth the size of a wagon. His legs fell twitching, still making half-seals. The third ran and got lanced through by a tail, pinned to the dirt like a butterfly, writhing until the ground caved under the pressure.

Clones died too, of course. Flattened by tails, drowned in chakra pressure, or simply erased by the beast’s raw hate. Their memories streamed back to the original like burning wires, one after another after another, until it stopped mattering which death was whose.

Everyone else on site? Gone. Sucked into gore, ground into mud, scattered like toys after a tantrum. The Eight-Tails painted the clearing with shinobi blood, and the only one left standing after the first minute was the Raikage.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t back up.

He charged.

Lightning poured down his body in a black cloak, making every muscle into iron, every step into thunder. The Eight-Tails met him with a roar that stank of rot and ozone, eight tails snapping forward like executioners’ whips.

And when flesh met lightning, the forest shook.

……

Meanwhile, in Fire Country near the Suna border.

I turned east without meaning to. The clone memories slammed in, screams, blood, the Raikage, and the Eight-Tails breaking free like a nightmare given muscle.

My mouth went dry. I honestly didn’t know whether to clap for them or slap myself. Great feat or reckless stunt? Both. Always both.

Sakumo gave me a look, and Tsunade’s brow dipped. I waved it off. “Nothing. Thought I heard something in the brush.”

Inside, though, I was speechless.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 53

Tsunade stood at the tree line, eyes fixed on the encampment spread out below us like a military infection. Four tents in a loose circle, cooking fires trickling smoke into the afternoon air, sentries wandering the perimeter looking bored.

My clone spam actually worked. I watched her study the layout for what had to be the third time in two minutes.

"Your clone spam wasn't half bad," she admitted, which from Tsunade was basically a standing ovation. "Produced results, even if it was far slower and far less efficient than using an actual sensor."

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks for the glowing endorsement, sensei."

"Get ready," she said, already shifting into a predatory stance that meant someone was about to have a very, very bad day.

I held up a hand. "Or hear me out, I could just send in some clones and blow the entire camp to oblivion. Take every shinobi inside with it. Quick, efficient, nobody has to get their hands dirty. Well, except for the people getting blown up, but that's really more of a them problem."

She stared at me in complete silence. Just... stared. Like I'd suggested we solve world hunger by teaching rabbits to cook themselves.

"That's plan Z," she said, using that tone teachers reserve for explaining why glue isn't food. "First we grab someone alive for intel. Preferably whoever's in charge. Then we can discuss the wholesale slaughter."

I sighed. "Too much labor. But fine, we'll do this the hard way."

"The professional way."

"Same thing."

Together, we approached the camp. She moved like a predator, and I tried to match her pace without making too much noise. The sentries never saw us coming, one moment they were scanning the forest for threats, the next they were out cold and bleeding in the dirt.

Sometimes I wondered if being a shinobi was just elaborate murder with better PR.

……

Katsuo smoothed out the crumpled letter, reading his daughter's sloppy handwriting for the third time that day. The paper was soft from handling, the edges worn from being folded and unfolded whenever he had downtime between patrols.

[Daddy, when are you coming home? Mama says you're fighting bad people but I miss you. I learned to write your name! See? KATSUO. I drew us a picture too. That's you with the big sword and me and Mama by our house. The flowers are for you because Mama says you like them.]

A crude drawing in charcoal covered the bottom half of the page, three stick figures standing in front of a lopsided house, with what might have been flowers scattered around their feet. His daughter had drawn him taller than the house, with arms that reached nearly to the ground. In the picture, all three figures were smiling.

He folded the letter carefully and tucked it back into his vest pocket, close to his heart. Two more weeks, maybe three, and this mission would be over. He'd go home to his wife's cooking and his daughter's laughter, teach her how to hold a kunai properly, listen to her practice writing letters.

Just had to keep his men alive long enough to—

The screaming shattered his peaceful thoughts like glass.

"Konoha!" someone yelled from across the encampment.

Katsuo had seen death before. Twenty-three years in Suna's military meant blood on your hands and nightmares that stuck around. But this? This wasn't war—this was butchery.

Two figures moved through his men like death itself. The blonde woman grabbed his man by the throat and slammed him into the ground so hard his ribcage folded with a wet crunch. Blood erupted from his mouth, painting the dirt red.

'My daughter's waiting for me,' he thought desperately, hand instinctively moving to the letter in his pocket. 'I have to get home.'

The blonde moved to her next target. Another chunin tried to run but she caught him in two strides. Her hand clamped down on his head like a vice, and she drove him face-first into the ground hard enough to crater the earth.

Katsuo burst from his tent, ninjato in hand, running through the numbers in his head. Every calculation reached the same conclusion: they were screwed.

'Think, think,' he told himself. 'Two of them. Fourteen of us. Has to be a way. Has to be. She's waiting for me to come home.'

One blonde woman who hit like a human wrecking ball. One dark-haired kid—looked maybe fourteen, weaving through Katsuo's people with a tanto that kept finding necks.

Fourteen Suna-nin. Mostly chunin, three jonin including himself. Against two enemies.

The numbers should have worked in their favor.

The reality was a slaughter.

The kid with the tanto was worse in some ways. Young but lethal, cutting down chunin like they were practice dummies. His blade found a chunin's throat in one clean stroke, and the man tumbled across the dirt, mouth still moving as his body collapsed in a geyser of blood.

'That could be me,' Katsuo realized, gripping his ninjato tighter. 'But it won't be. I have to get home. I have to survive this.'

He lunged for the kid, take out the smaller threat first, then deal with the monster. His blade swept toward the boy's neck, but somehow the tanto was already there. The blades danced, sparking and spinning.

The kid grinned at him. Actually grinned.

They traded strikes, thrust, parry, riposte, dodge. The boy fought like he'd been doing this his whole life. Every technique Katsuo threw at him got matched, countered, turned back. Their weapons clashed hard enough to rattle his bones.

'I have to win this,' he thought, the letter crinkling against his chest as he moved. 'She's waiting for me to come home.'

Feint high, slash low, Katsuo's blade swept toward the boy's ribs. The tanto dropped to block, but Katsuo was already moving, flowing into a thrust aimed at the kid's heart.

Steel punched through cloth and skin, sliding deep between ribs. Katsuo felt the familiar give of flesh parting, warm blood rushing over his hand.

"Got you," he breathed. 'I can go home. I can see my daughter again.'

The boy looked down at the ninjato buried in his chest. Then he looked up at Katsuo.

And smiled.

"Do you?"

No. No no no.

The kid's body started glowing. Chakra built inside him like a bomb about to go off.

The kid exploded.

The blast roared across the battlefield like bottled thunder. Katsuo used Shunshin at the last second, his form flickering away from ground zero, but the shockwave still caught him. His insides churned like someone had grabbed his organs and shaken them. His stomach twisted, blood rising in his throat with that metallic taste that meant things were broken inside. He dropped to one knee and coughed red across his lips.

The letter in his pocket felt warm against his chest, soaked with his own blood.

Through the haze, he saw another figure approaching. The same kid. Identical down to the last detail, except this one wasn't bleeding all over the dirt.

"Exploding clone," the kid said casually. "Pretty neat, right?"

Katsuo tried to speak, tried to say something, but only blood came out.

"Don't feel bad," the clone continued, kneeling beside him. "Lots of people fall for it. The exploding part usually comes as a surprise."

The tanto slipped between his ribs, angled up toward his heart. Katsuo felt the cold steel slide through flesh, felt his life draining out through the hole.

'I'm sorry,' he thought, hand pressing weakly against the bloodstained letter in his pocket. 'Daddy won't be coming home after all.'

Around the camp, the sounds of battle were dying down. Fewer screams. Fewer jutsu. Just the wet sounds of violence and the blonde woman's chill as she painted the forest in blood and bone.

In his fading vision, he could almost see his daughter's crayon drawing, three stick figures smiling together, flowers scattered around their feet. But now there would only be two figures in that house.

Fourteen Suna-nin had made camp that morning.

Zero went home.

……

From my perch in the tree, I watched Tsunade standing over a bundled-up jonin who looked like he'd been wrapped for shipping. The guy was trussed up tight enough that breathing probably counted as cardio. Blood dotted the bindings from a dozen shallow cuts, just enough to make him think twice about being difficult.

"This the leader?" my clone asked, prodding the unconscious shinobi with his boot.

She shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"He was giving orders when the fighting started. Could be the actual leader, could be some jonin with a loud mouth." She crouched down and checked his pulse. "Won't know until he wakes up and we have a chat."

The clone looked around at the carnage. Corpses scattered across the camp like broken dolls, blood soaking into the forest dirt, the smell of death already starting to mix with the lingering smoke from their cooking fires.

"Think he'll talk?"

She shot him a look. "Not my problem."

I sighed. "Just get him back to Konoha."

The clone mirrored my sigh, hauled the prisoner over his shoulder, and took off through the trees.

I dropped from the tree and hit the ground with a soft thud. Down here, the metallic stench of blood was thick enough to taste, competing with forest humidity and smoke from their abandoned dinner fires.

"So," I said, sidestepping what used to be someone's torso. "Mission accomplished?"

"Give the area another search." She was already heading for the tree line. "In case there's stragglers who were away from the camp."

"Stragglers." I nodded thoughtfully. "You know, that's an interesting word. Straggler. It implies someone who falls behind, but in this context, it means someone who got ahead. Ahead of the dying, that is. Which makes them behind in terms of participation, but ahead in terms of survival. So are they really stragglers, or are they the only ones who were paying attention?"

She paused and gave me a flat look. "Or maybe they just went to take a piss in the woods and got lucky.” She started walking again. "Some of them might have been out on patrol, or gathering intel, or doing any number of practical things."

"Speaking of practical things, shouldn't there be some kind of reward system for missions that go this well? Because let's be honest here, this went very well because of me."

"Did it? Because from where I'm standing, it went well because fourteen people are dead and one is tied up. The how was just window dressing."

"Window dressing that I provided. My clones, my intel—"

"Your job. Which you did adequately."

"Adequately?" I blinked. "That's it? Adequate? For what was basically a flawless operation?"

I created a dozen shadow clones with more force than necessary. "Fine. Then how about a nice dinner when we get back to civilization? You, me, somewhere with actual plates instead of camping gear. Consider it a mission celebration."

She rolled her eyes. "Let me guess, you're buying?"

"Obviously. What kind of gentleman makes his sensei buy her own victory meal?"

"The broke kind, usually."

"I'll have you know I'm financially stable. All that mission money has to go somewhere, and it's not like I have expensive hobbies. Unless you count good sake."

"So you blow your mission money on overpriced rice wine? Real mature financial planning there."

"Don't change the subject. Dinner. Yes or no?"

"Ask me again when you can make it through a mission without trying to negotiate rewards beforehand."

I sighed. "You're stingy, sensei. Here I am, offering to share quality time and good food, and you're acting like I asked you to adopt a stray dog."

The clones dispersed in all directions, and I turned back to her with a grin. "But the dinner offer stands. I'm very persistent when it comes to convincing stubborn senseis."

"I've noticed."

……

The stragglers turned out to be two chunin heading back from what looked like a scouting run. They saw my clones coming and tried to bolt, which would've been brilliant if they hadn't sprinted straight toward Tsunade's position.

The first guy made it maybe ten steps before she clotheslined him hard enough that his feet kept running for a solid second after his body quit. The second chunin went for the smart play and surrendered on the spot, which earned him an extra three seconds of life before she decided we were already carrying enough prisoners.

"That's probably all of them," I said. "Unless they sent someone really far out for supplies or—"

A scream echoed from the distance. Raw and desperate, someone was either dying badly or watching it happen up close.

"Or not." She was already heading toward the noise.

We found the source half a kilometer northeast, three more Suna-nin, freshly dead. Clean sword work, clean cuts that screamed professional rather than lucky. Standing over them was a Konoha jonin with white hair and a tanto that looked like it had just made some new friends.

"Sakumo." Tsunade's voice warmed up considerably. "Fancy meeting you out here."

"Tsunade-hime." He sheathed his weapon and bowed respectfully. "Wasn't expecting company."

"I was heading to the front lines, escorting a supply convoy through the area when we got hit." He gestured toward a cluster of rocks about fifty meters away. "A squad of Suna-nin came out of nowhere. My team’s securing the convoy, but a few of them broke off and ran this way."

"How many in the squad?" I asked.

He looked at me, then back at her. "Eight total. These three, and the five we dropped at the convoy site."

"Probably part of the group we just hit," she said. "We took down a fourteen-man camp about a kilometer west of here. Looks like they had people out on mission when we hit."

"Fourteen?" Sakumo raised an eyebrow. "That's a decent-sized operation for a harassment unit."

"That's what we thought. Captured their leader for intel." I created a dozen more clones and sent them fanning out. "Let me check if there are any more wandering around out here."

Watching someone my age casually throw around shadow clones definitely caught Sakumo's attention. I could see him reassessing—suddenly I wasn't just some kid tagging along. He was good at hiding it though, smoothly shifting his focus back to business.

"I count at least three more that scattered when we hit the convoy."

Within ten minutes, my clones had tracked down the rest, two more chunin and a jonin trying to circle back for another shot at the convoy. Between Sakumo's blade work and Tsunade's talent for turning people into corpses, the cleanup went fast.

"That should be all of them," I said as the last clone reported back. "Area's clear."

"Good." Sakumo sheathed his tanto and looked toward where his convoy was waiting. "We should move."

"Front lines?" Tsunade asked.

"Same direction you're heading, I assume. Mind if we travel together? Always better with backup."

She nodded. "Lead the way."

As we walked toward the convoy, I found myself replaying how Sakumo's blade had moved when he cut down those Suna-nin. Now that was real swordsmanship, not just swinging sharp metal around and hoping for the best.

The way he'd positioned himself when the first chunin charged, slight angle, tanto held in a middle guard that could go offensive or defensive in a blink. Classic European longsword principles scaled down for a shorter blade. Distance, timing, and that split-second read of when your opponent commits and leaves themselves wide open.

Wonder if he'd teach me if I asked. I immediately scrapped that idea. Probably not. Guy's got his own missions, his own problems, maybe even his own students. Can't just walk up to a master swordsman and ask for lessons like you're requesting directions to the bathroom.

Still, I could observe. Watch how he held the blade, how he moved his feet, how he transitioned between guards. Swordsmanship was like cooking in a way, you could learn a lot just by watching someone who knew what they were doing. The angle of the wrist, the timing of the step, the way the whole body moved as a unified system instead of just swinging an arm with steel attached.

Though observing and understanding are different things, I watched his stride, the way he carried himself. It's like seeing someone make perfect pasta and thinking you've got the technique down. You can see the motions, but the muscle memory, the tiny adjustments, knowing exactly when the timing's right, that only comes from actually doing it with someone who knows their stuff.

Maybe I could pick up a thing or two just from being around him. Sometimes the best lessons weren't formal instruction but just exposure to excellence.

And if nothing else, watching a master work was always educational. Even if I couldn't replicate it immediately.

……

The convoy wasn't much to look at, three wagons loaded with supplies, maybe twenty people total including civilians and escorts. We fell into formation with me walking beside Sakumo and Tsunade, trailing behind the main line while other shinobi spread out in a protective perimeter.

"So, Sakumo-senpai," I said, because calling him just 'Sakumo' felt too casual and 'Hatake-san' felt too formal, and there's a delicate social balance to these things that people don't appreciate until they get it wrong. "Are you returning from the front lines like Tsunade-sensei? Or is this your first deployment out there?"

He shook his head, adjusting his blade as we walked. "Actually, this is my first deployment to the western front. I was on a different mission before this—couldn't say where, obviously. Timing just worked out that I could escort the convoy."

Different mission. I nodded thoughtfully. Probably one of those mysterious ANBU things that involve a lot of sneaking around and very little paperwork afterward. The sort of mission where success is measured by how many people never find out it happened.

I glanced at Tsunade, who had this weird expression on her face. Like she was trying to remember something important but kept getting distracted by other thoughts. Or like she was holding in a burp.

"Sensei, what's wrong? You look like you're holding something. Do you need to use the bathroom?"

I was already dodging before I finished the sentence, years of experience had taught me to anticipate her reactions to my more helpful observations, but her hand still found the back of my head with a merciless thwack.

"That's what I get for caring," I muttered, rubbing my skull.

"Caring? You’ve got a strange way of showing it."

"You just had this look, like a puppy deciding whether to chew on the shoe or not."

"That was my thinking face."

"Puppies think too, you know. Very deeply, about chewing."

"You really don’t know when to stop, do you?"

"I'm not teasing. You just had that look like something was bothering you." I gestured at her face. "Brow all scrunched up, lips tight, pretty hard to miss."

She arched a brow. "So now I make funny faces?"

"Everyone does. Yours just happen to come with the threat of a flying fist."

Her mouth twitched. "Keep talking and you’ll find out how accurate that observation is."

Sakumo made a sound that might've been a chuckle. When we both looked at him, he cleared his throat and suddenly became fascinated with checking the convoy's formation.

"See?" I said triumphantly. "Even Sakumo-senpai thinks you're being unreasonable."

"I am not being unreasonable. You're being—" She stopped mid-word, exhaled, and shook her head. "Forget it. I lost track of what I wanted to ask Sarutobi-sensei about the situation up north. Too busy worrying about Danzo sniffing around my student."

"That’s...fair," I admitted, a little sheepish. "But hey, worrying suits you better than glaring. Glaring makes people think they’ve done something wrong."

"Maybe you usually have." She flicked my forehead with a finger.

"Ow. See? That’s exactly what I mean."

She gave me a sidelong look, equal parts exasperation and amusement.

"Don't encourage him," she warned when she noticed Sakumo’s grin.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, though his tone suggested he was absolutely encouraging me. "Though you two do bicker like siblings."

"Siblings?" I blinked. "I prefer to think of us as an old married couple. She's the long-suffering wife, I'm the—"

"Pain in the ass," she finished, smiling sweetly while cracking her knuckles with ominous pops.

"—devastatingly charming husband, but your version works too," I said quickly, taking a strategic step away from her reach.

She dropped her hands and turned to Sakumo, suddenly serious. "Speaking of things I should have asked earlier, what's the situation up north? It must be quiet if they’re pulling you away. I don’t think the other major villages are considering jumping into this mess, but…"

Sakumo considered this as we walked, his eyes automatically scanning the forest around us, a habit that probably explained why he was still breathing after all these years. "The situation up north has actually started to improve. The Hokage reached out to Uzushiogakure for support, and they agreed to supply us with sealing tools, scrolls, and specialists. That backing has helped stabilize the smaller skirmishes with Kumo."

He nodded toward the convoy ahead of us. "Some of those Uzu sealing tools are actually what we're transporting right now."

Ah. The pieces clicked together with an almost audible snap. Why waste the White Fang on glorified babysitting duty when you could point him at enemy lines and watch him work? Because sometimes the package is worth more than the delivery boy, even when the delivery boy happens to be a living legend.

It was like using a master chef to deliver takeout, completely backwards unless the takeout was more valuable than whatever he could be cooking. Which begged the question: just how dangerous were these sealing tools that they warranted Konoha's apex predator as a courier?

I found myself studying the wagons like I’d just realized they weren’t hauling dumplings but live snakes. Somewhere in those unassuming crates were weapons that had probably never seen a chunin's hands, let alone made it down to the rank-and-file stationed in places like Kitaura. The good stuff stayed with the heavy hitters, people like my bastard of a father or Orochimaru, the ones actually trading blows with Kumo's elite instead of playing border patrol.

Made sense. You don't hand experimental explosives to the guy barely qualified to handle standard kunai. That's how you end up with accidental craters and very awkward conversations with the next of kin.

Dan mostly stayed in town with us, So we never would have seen the fancy stuff anyway. Different tier of warfare I guess?

"That's... actually encouraging," Tsunade said, and I could hear genuine relief creeping into her voice. "Uzushio's sealing techniques are no joke. If they're backing us, Kumo might think twice about escalating."

"That's the idea," Sakumo agreed. "Though you never know with lightning country. They're not always the most... predictable."

……

[Second-gen Clone POV - Land of Lightning]

The malicious chakra hit mid-note—hot and greasy, like someone threw old blood on a furnace, and half a breath later one of my strings gave up. It snapped, flicked my cheek—rude—and dangled off the biwa like it was done pretending to be charming. A few coins still clinked into the bowl. People love tragedy as long as it costs pocket change. The old man with three teeth laughed. A snot-crusted kid stared like I’d invented a new art form called Failing Loudly.

“Guess the string quit before I did,” I said, smiling blind.

The crowd liked that. I get it. Blind monk makes joke, still humble, makes you feel generous about the coin you were already going to give even if his music died mid-note. Land of Lightning town audiences have tastes. Mostly for grilled river fish and gossip, but I work with what I’ve got.

The malicious wave kept rolling, past the rooftops, through pine smoke and lines of drying fish, and ran its hands down my spine.

I smiled too long. The old man with three teeth stopped laughing.

I didn’t move for three seconds. If my cover was popped, something sharp would be on its way to shake hands with my kidneys. Nothing came. The street stayed a street. The world kept chewing.

“String broke,” I told the kid, who was still staring. “Happens when it gets tired of working, kind of like school.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, which is kid for Go away or do something cooler.

“I’ll fix it.” I slid the biwa into its soft sleeve, threaded my cane back under my arm, bowed around at the blurs of people I wasn’t actually blind enough to bump into, and shuffled off. Blind monk shuffle: heel-toe, polite, apologetic, faintly musical. People make room for you. No one wants bad luck skin.

The alley smelled like damp rope and cat. I set the cane down, adjusted the blindfold hanging loose around my neck, and fished the spyglass out of a hidden pocket in the instrument case. Brass, not pretty. Dented like a shinobi’s conscience. I’d bought the lenses from a merchant who swore they came from the Land of Snow and toasted our deal with stale rice wine. You have to pretend to trust people so they’ll sell you the good lies.

“Alright,” I told my reflection in the tube, which was mostly my own eye looking back like a traitor. “Let’s try not to make the headlines today.”

I crab-walked up a back stair to a rooftop, slid over the far side, then moved across a ridge line to the town’s edge.

Past the last house, the land got jagged in a hurry. Land of Lightning isn’t subtle. Gray teeth of rock. Needly pines. Wind that slaps. Thunderheads bullied the horizon like they owned it, and honestly, they do. If you’re a ninja from here, you grow up thinking anger is weather, not a choice.

I lay on my stomach on a ledge and put the spyglass to my eye. The mountain clearing sat like a scraped knee in the forest. In it, a bulky tan man stood shirtless to the waist, the sort of build you get from lifting things that don’t want to be lifted. Not “fat.” Thick. Like a temple pillar that decided it needed a tan. He had the presence of a guy people don’t say no to. Two Kumo-nin flanked him, masks hanging at their throats, eyes scanning. In front of them knelt an old man and a teenager, both ringed in chalk-white fuinjutsu lines that curved into each other like snakes.

The bulky man wasn’t alone. Two more shinobi stood opposite each other, forming a loose triangle with him around the ritual. Each held a sealing brush, dragging ink that bled into the dirt like veins spreading under skin. The three moved as one, their strokes knotting together as though performing surgery on something unseen.

I couldn’t make out every detail, but the shape had the right bones, spirals, nodes, the skeletal frame of a real sealing array. Even blurred by distance, the strokes seemed to chew light instead of reflect it. Like the earth didn’t want those marks but couldn’t spit them out.

The old man’s breathing rattled. The teenager kept swallowing like his mouth had forgotten how saliva works.

The bulky man lifted his hands. A prayer-bead cord was wrapped around one wrist, but they weren’t prayer beads, seals shaped into beads. He began to sway, and chakra flared again, mean and immense, a storm rising beneath the floorboards.

Resealing. Of course. Not a ceremony for good luck with crops. The extraction kills the old host ninety-nine times out of a hundred, and that “one time” is fiction told to children so they’ll go to sleep. I was still new to fuinjutsu, barely scratching the surface compared to the real experts but I wasn’t clueless enough to miss what this was. A transfer, plain as day. The only question was which monster they were moving. Two-Tails? Eight? Whatever. They'd all burn the same.

I grinned and felt the grin turn thin.

"Perfect." The word came out like a promise. Kumo breaking the world to keep it safe. Me breaking Kumo because I wanted to take something back. Revenge isn’t a healthy food group, but I eat a lot of junk.

I hopped down into the tree shadow and formed the seal. Crossed fingers, breath held.

Four Shinji slid out of me like thoughts I’d been saving for when it got dark. Same face, same stupid eyebrow I should get trimmed, same monk robes gone a little dusty. They looked at me, then at the mountains, then at each other because this is what we do. We always check who we are today.

“Alright, fun time,” I said. “I’m the Boss. You’re One, Two, Three, and I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter.”

“Four,” said Four.

“I stand by my naming scheme. Meditate. Split. Repeat. I want five-zero minimum.”

“One” sat down immediately, palms together like a saint who sold incense on the side. “Battery first. Got it.”

“Two” stretched his shoulders and made a face. “We’re at thirty percent of a me who had breakfast.”

“Be grateful. Some guys are born as boogers,” Three said. “What’s the play after multiplication, Boss?”

“We disturb the ritual,” I said flatly. “Push it off just enough so it fails. No neat transfer, no tidy handover. Monster gets loose, Kumo learns what it’s like to be the nail instead of the hammer.”

I pictured the forest in blue fire, the town screaming, the sealing master’s face when his perfect work came apart in his hands. I liked that image more than I should, which is exactly why people like me don’t get retirement plans.

“Shoes in the gears,” I said. “Not confusion this time. Collapse. They don’t get a new cage.”

Two let out a low whistle. “You want the bijuu to throw a tantrum in their backyard?”

“Exactly. And while it’s stomping the furniture, one of you puts on a mask, plays the dutiful Kumo shinobi, and starts shouting for civilians to evacuate. Far enough from the mountain to look like a safety precaution. Just in case the rampage comes downrange.”

Four raised an eyebrow. “We saving people now?”

“We’re saving me,” I said. “Last thing I need is them pinning civilian casualties on a mystery monk. If half the town hears a ‘Kumo nin’ tell them to run, then the official story writes itself. Tragic sealing accident. Unfortunate loss of control. No outsider in sight.”

The clones rolled their eyes. Yeah, right. Like attacking a sealing ceremony wouldn't immediately scream 'outside interference' no matter what cover story they used. Peak tsundere behavior.

"Alright," I said, ears definitely not red. "Let's ruin their day."

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 52

"Pour me another bowl," Tsunade said, holding out her empty dish. "That was disturbingly good."

I ladled more soup from the pot, watching steam curl up from the surface. "Disturbingly?"

"It feels... wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"Bad food builds character. Good food makes you soft."

"So you're saying I'm making you soft?"

"I'm saying you're making me question everything I know about field cooking." She took a long sip and sighed contentedly. "And I hate how much I like it."

I settled back with my own bowl, letting the warmth seep into my bones. "So about this mission..."

"Right. Tracking down ambushers." She gestured vaguely with her chopsticks. "Classic wartime shinobi work. It's defensive, protecting our supply lines, and proactive, hunting the hunters before they can hunt us."

"Hunt the hunters who hunt the hunters," I said.

"What?"

"Never mind. Inside joke with myself."

"You tell yourself jokes?"

"Sometimes I'm the only one who gets them."

"That's sad."

"That's selective humor."

She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, supply line raids are Warfare 101. Suna knows it, we know it, everyone knows it. Question is who does it better."

I frowned, working through the logic. "But if supply convoys are this close to the front lines, they'd already have jonin escort squads, right? Multiple teams, rotating security, the whole professional bodyguard treatment. Why do we need to actively hunt when prevention should be enough?"

"Because convoys are slow." She gestured with her bowl. "Wagons, pack animals, civilian drivers who wet themselves when kunai start flying. They can't move like strike teams."

I tilted my head. "Then it’s not about winning the fight, it’s about denying resources."

A quick nod. "Exactly. Suna doesn’t need to defeat jonin guards or drag off a wagonload of rice. All they need is to torch the crates. Poison bombs, explosive tags, a little fire release—you can ruin days of rations in minutes and be gone before the escorts regroup. Even with jonin protection, a good squad with the right gear can wreck a convoy and vanish. Hit fast, burn everything, maximum damage with zero commitment."

I nodded slowly. "So the real threat isn’t losing people, it’s losing the supplies."

Her eyes flicked toward me. "Exactly. Most people think about protecting the convoy, not why the convoy needs protection in the first place."

"So we hunt them before they can ambush."

"Now you're getting it."

I finished my third bowl, brain already working the problem. Standard tracking would take days, maybe weeks to cover enough ground. But with shadow clones...

"Alright," I said. "How many clones do you want me to deploy?"

"All of them."

"All of them?"

"Every single one you can manage without keeling over."

"That's... a lot of chakra. What if we run into trouble and I'm tapped out?"

"Then I'll handle the trouble."

"Just you?"

"Just me."

I gave her a skeptical look. "No offense, but—"

"Do you not trust me?" She sounded almost hurt. Almost. If you ignored the fact that she was grinning like she'd just heard the world's best joke.

"It's not about trust."

"It sounds like it's about trust."

"It's about tactics."

"Tactics require trust."

"Since when?"

"Since always. You trust your teammates to do their jobs, you trust your equipment to work, you trust your sensei to keep you alive when you're doing something stupid."

"Am I doing something stupid?"

"You're about to empty your chakra reserves in hostile territory based on my say-so. What would you call that?"

"Following orders?"

"Same thing."

"How is following orders stupid?"

"Because you're following my orders."

"And your orders are stupid?"

"My orders are brilliant. Following them without question is stupid."

"So I should question your orders?"

"Only if you want to get hit again."

"So I shouldn't question them?"

"Now you're learning."

My head was starting to hurt. Conversations with Tsunade had this way of twisting around until you weren't sure what you'd originally been talking about. Like verbal jujitsu designed to leave you flat on your back wondering what had just happened.

"Fine," I said. "Maximum clones it is. But if I run out of chakra, you’re carrying me the rest of the way."

She didn't look up from her bowl. "I'm not carrying you."

"Not even a little?"

"Not even your sandals."

I leaned back, eyeing her generous curves. "You sure? I wouldn't mind the princess carry treatment. Even if we got jumped, honestly sounds like a pretty good way to go."

Her bowl stopped halfway to her mouth. Slowly, she lowered it and looked at me. "Don’t worry, if you collapse, I’ll carry you by the ankle and let your head bounce off every root between here and the front lines."

I winced. "That’s harsh."

"That’s generous. The alternative is I just leave you there and let the crows figure it out."

I gave her a hopeful look. "Still sounds better than missing the princess carry."

She drained her fourth bowl in one go. "Kid, the only thing you’re getting carried by is a stretcher, and that’s if I’m feeling generous."

"Fair enough." I sighed, and she launched into tracking techniques, disturbed vegetation, movement patterns, the usual shinobi bread and butter. We were halfway through the pot when she cut herself off.

"Alright, get started."

"Right away, boss." I wiped my mouth and set down the empty bowl, brushing off my pants. Cross-seal formed, chakra rushing out like water through a broken dam. The first four clones appeared in puffs of smoke, already moving toward their assigned search vectors before the smoke had even cleared.

"Team one, northeast quadrant. Stay in contact, avoid engagement unless absolutely necessary."

Four more seals, four more clones. Then another set. I kept going—create four, rest, sip soup, repeat. More clones, more rest. When the pot was finally empty, she looked up at me.

"How many is that?" She watched the steady stream of copies vanish into the trees, tilting her head like she was watching ducks march in a line.

"How many what?"

"Clones. How many clones have you made?"

"I... wasn’t counting." I scratched the side of my head, avoiding her stare.

"You weren't counting?"

"Should I have been counting?"

"How do you not know how many clones you made?"

"The same way you don't count your heartbeats."

"That's not the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

I formed another cross-seal, adding four more clones to whatever number I'd already deployed. "There. More clones."

"How many total now?"

"Still not counting."

"This is going to bother me."

"Then you count them."

"I wasn't watching from the beginning."

"Then we're both in the dark."

I was poking the fire with a stick, watching sparks float up toward the darkening sky, when the memory smacked me like a wet fish. One of my clones, northeast quadrant, maybe three kilometers out, had just popped itself after finding something worth reporting.

Faint traces, the memory supplied. Broken twigs at shoulder height, scuff marks on bark. People definitely passed through, but they cleaned up afterward. Maybe six hours old?

"Got something," I said, dropping the stick.

"What kind of something?"

"Tracks from earlier today. Then they just... disappeared."

"Disappeared how?"

"Like they knew someone might come looking. Professional cleanup." I paused. "Well, semi-professional. If they were really good at it, my clone wouldn't have found anything."

She nodded like this was old news. "Standard operating procedure. Leave just enough trail to confirm passage, scrub everything useful for tracking. Means they know what they're doing."

"Or think they do."

"Same thing, until someone proves them wrong."

I stared into the fire. This felt stupidly inefficient. If I could figure out when the next convoy was due, we could just camp the route and wait for the bastards to show up. Way easier than playing forest hide-and-seek. "Sensei, when's the next supply convoy coming through?"

"Tomorrow, maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Tomorrow." She poked the fire with a stick, sending sparks dancing.

"You said maybe."

"I meant tomorrow."

"But you said maybe."

"Maybe I meant definitely." She twirled the stick between her fingers.

"That's not how certainty works."

"How does certainty work?"

"Without maybes."

"Maybe." She tossed the stick into the fire and dusted off her hands.

I gave her a flat look. She grinned back like she'd just won something. I rubbed my temples.

"Fine. Tomorrow, definitely. Which raises the question, why are we playing hide-and-seek in the forest when we could just wait for them to come to us?"

"Because waiting is reactive."

"And this is proactive."

"Exactly."

"But reactive would be easier."

"Easier isn't always better."

"Sometimes easier is smarter."

"Smart people think that."

"I am smart people."

"That’s what all smart people say."

"Because they're smart."

"Or because they think they're smart." She smirked. She picked up another stick and began drawing patterns in the dirt.

"What's the difference?"

"About the difference between a genius and a dead-last."

I blinked. "Are you calling me overconfident?"

She shrugged. The stick kept moving, now drawing what looked suspiciously like a stick figure with a very large head.

"Okay," I said slowly. I leaned and squinted at her dirt artwork. "Why is hunting them down better than setting up a counter-ambush?"

"Because ambushes require the target to show up where you expect them to."

"And supplies convoys follow predictable routes."

"Do they?" She added what might have been a crown to the stick figure's oversized head.

"Don't they?"

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't?"

"Sometimes the routes change. Sometimes they get delayed. Sometimes they take detours." She was now adding little squiggly lines around the crowned figure. Possibly representing smugness.

"So we might wait all day for a convoy that never comes."

"While the enemy hits a different convoy somewhere else." She nodded sagely and added arms to her masterpiece.

"That we're not protecting."

"Because we're sitting in the wrong forest." The stick figure now had what appeared to be a very sad expression.

"Waiting for the wrong ambush."

"While the right ambush happens without us." She sat back and admired her work, then looked at me expectantly.

I stared at the dirt drawing, then at her, then back at the drawing. It was definitely supposed to be me.

Sighing, I thought it over. The logic was solid. "Still, there's another option. Why not just request a sensor? Someone who can actually track these guys instead of relying on my clone spam?"

"Because we don't have sensors."

"We don't have any sensors?"

"We have sensors. We don't have available sensors."

"What's the difference?"

"Sand got him two days ago."

"So when do we get a replacement?"

"Three days."

"Three days?"

"Minimum. That's if they can spare someone from the western front. Getting one reassigned means rescheduling which means time..."

"Bureaucracy. The enemy of getting things done. But surely for something this important—"

"This important?" she raised an eyebrow. "This is routine work. Supply line security is important, but it's not 'reorganize the entire sensor corps' important."

Is that so? Well, if these raids were really crippling our war effort, they'd be throwing sensor specialists and full jonin squads at the problem. The fact that they sent one jonin and one "genius" chunin—me being the genius, obviously—meant the raids were more nuisance than catastrophe.

Or maybe they just had faith in my exceptional abilities. Yeah, that was probably it.

"Which is exactly why they gave it to us," she continued. "One experienced jonin, one eager new chunin, minimal resource allocation for maximum coverage. Peak efficiency."

"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like they really know how to squeeze every drop out of their budget," I said, forming hand seals and popping another four clones into existence. "There. More coverage, peak efficiency."

She watched the clones vanish into the trees before looking back at me. "Has Moryo ever tried to mess with you?"

I raised an eyebrow. "The old man Hokage must have told you about that already, huh?"

"I'm your sensei." She shrugged. "Of course I need to know these things. It's standard procedure for the Hokage to brief me on anything that might affect your performance." She paused, watching my face. "What, don’t tell me you’re angry."

"I'm not angry," I said, using my stick to scrub out whatever she'd been doodling. "Just wondering what else—"

Her stick blocked mine, stopping me mid-swipe. "Stick to second-generation clones for now. Play it safe. Only break out the third-generation stuff if things go sideways or you absolutely need the extra juice."

I nodded. "Because third-generation clones draw more attention from... unwanted sources?"

"Exactly." She said. “Though 'unwanted' is such a quaint way to put it. Like calling a tsunami 'unwanted moisture' or a forest fire 'unwanted warmth.'" She paused, seeming to consider something. "You know, there's this old story about a fisherman who caught increasingly larger fish each day. Started with minnows, worked his way up to bass, then salmon, then tuna. Each catch made him prouder, more confident. Do you know how that story ends?"

"With him getting eaten by a whale?"

"Close. He attracted the attention of every fisherman, merchant, and pirate within a hundred miles. Suddenly everyone wanted to know his secret fishing spot." She jabbed her stick at my boot. "Third, fourth, whatever-generation clones don't just give you an edge—they paint a target on your back. Any shinobi worth their salt will pick up on the fact that not only can you create multiple clones, but your clones can create clones and maintain them. And once word gets out that there's a shinobi who's essentially a one-man army..."

"I become the tuna."

"You become the fishing spot everyone wants to raid." She flicked my stick out of my hand. "It's too early for you to reveal that capability. You need to get stronger first—strong enough to handle the kind of attention that ability will bring. Right now you're good, but you're not 'survive assassination attempts from three different villages' good."

"So I stay with the minnows for now."

"You stay with what keeps you breathing for now."

……

Tanzaku Quarters, Lotus House

The first thing that hit me when I woke up wasn't the sunlight streaming through paper windows or the distant sounds of Tanzaku Quarters coming alive for another day of debauchery. No, it was the smell.

Not bad, mind you. Just... distinctly feminine. Perfume and powder, silk and sweat, the kind of scent that clung to everything in a place where women made their living being soft and pretty and available for the right price. It was the smell of temporary companionship, of coins changing hands and promises that lasted exactly as long as you kept paying for them.

I blinked at the ceiling, taking a moment to remember where I was when the woman beside me stirred slightly, dark hair fanned out across the pillow. The blanket had slipped down to her waist during the night, because of course it had, blankets have no sense of modesty, exposing pale skin that caught the morning light.

I reached over and pulled the blanket back up to her shoulders, tucking it around her like she was my date instead of a working girl who'd probably forgotten my name the moment I'd paid her fee.

She mumbled something in her sleep and rolled away from me, burying her face deeper into the pillow. I took that as my cue to stop being a gentleman and start being a person with places to go and whiskey empires to build.

The room was small but clean, which was more than I'd expected from a pleasure house in a gambling town. Wooden floors that didn't creak when you walked on them, paper screens that actually blocked out light instead of just looking decorative, and a small writing desk in one corner that somebody had actually bothered to dust recently. Even had a little vase with fresh flowers, though I figured that was more about masking other smells than any real love of pretty things.

I pulled on my clothes and headed for the door, stepping carefully to avoid waking my temporary roommate. Girl had worked late and deserved her sleep.

The veranda outside overlooked a small courtyard where morning light filtered through the leaves of what looked like an old cherry tree. Someone had set up a table with a steaming teapot and two ceramic cups, probably the same girl who'd brought it yesterday morning when I'd wandered out here looking for something hot to drink. Nice touch, remembering a customer's habits after just one day. Either this place took customer service seriously, or I was a better tipper than I remembered.

I poured myself tea and settled into one of the wooden chairs, propping my feet up on the railing as I watched Tanzaku Quarters wake up around me. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of cooking food and fresh laundry from the buildings nearby. Down in the street, early-rising merchants were setting up their stalls while late-night revelers stumbled home with that satisfied smile that came from spending too much money on temporary pleasures.

Poor bastard, I thought, taking a sip of tea that was probably better than anything the original me had tasted in weeks. He got to be out there breaking his back in the wilderness while his clone sits on a veranda drinking tea and enjoying life.

Actually, that wasn't entirely fair. I mean, it was completely accurate, but it wasn't fair. The original had made his choice when he'd decided to send me to Tanzaku Quarters instead of handling this whiskey business himself. Could've come here personally, enjoyed the gambling and the women and the general atmosphere of organized vice. Instead, he'd stayed home to deal with whatever crisis was currently demanding his attention, leaving me to suffer through the terrible hardship of living like a king in a town where money could buy you anything and nobody asked awkward questions about your business.

Really, when you thought about it, I was the one making sacrifices here. Having to endure comfortable beds and good food and female companionship while he got to sleep on the ground and cook over a fire and pretend to care about whatever mission was keeping him busy. The poor bastard probably hadn't had a decent meal in days.

I raised my teacup in a toast to his suffering and took another sip.

But enough gloating. This was my second day drowning in debauchery, and I was starting to think it was time to actually work on the objective that had brought me here in the first place. Not that I was complaining about the delay, a man needed time to properly survey his surroundings and understand the local culture before making important business decisions, but even I had limits to how much luxury I could endure before guilt started setting in.

Well, not really guilt. More like... professional responsibility. Yeah, that sounded better.

The whiskey operation would need careful planning if I wanted to turn it into something more profitable than just a hobby that produced decent alcohol. I'd spent yesterday getting familiar with the town layout and general business climate, and today seemed like a good day to start laying groundwork for what would hopefully become a small empire of intoxication.

And when I said empire, I meant empire. A money-printing operation that could fund a private army of shinobi if we wanted, or buy enough political influence to make the Daimyo nervous, or just set us up as the sort of wealthy bastard who could afford to collect rare jutsu scrolls like other people collected stamps. Nobody in this world knew how to make proper whiskey, which meant we'd have a complete monopoly on something that would make sake look like children's juice once people got a taste for it. The profit margins on luxury alcohol were insane, and we'd be the only game in town.

First things first, I needed a proper fermentation setup. Nothing too fancy to start with, just something large enough to handle decent-sized batches without taking up so much space that people would start asking questions. A wooden vat lined with clay or lacquer to make it watertight would work for now. Big enough to be useful, small enough to be discreet, and common enough that ordering one wouldn't raise eyebrows.

Then I'd need a distillation still, which was where things would get tricky. Copper would be ideal for the pot and condenser, better heat distribution, easier to clean, less likely to add weird metallic flavors to the final product, but copper was expensive and took skill to work properly. Iron would be cheaper and easier to find, even if it wasn't quite as good for the job. And any blacksmith worth his hammer could work with iron, while copper required more specialized knowledge.

I drained my teacup and poured another, letting the warm ceramic settle in my hands as I thought through the logistics. The real challenge wouldn't be building the equipment or finding ingredients—grain was grain, yeast was yeast, and both were available in any town with decent agricultural connections. The challenge would be perfecting the process without anyone realizing what I was actually doing.

Whiskey wasn't just fermented grain mash. Any idiot could make that. Whiskey was fermented grain mash that had been distilled properly and aged in the right conditions to develop the complex flavors that made it worth drinking instead of just getting you drunk efficiently. The distillation process required careful temperature control and timing, while aging required the right kind of barrels stored in the right kind of environment for the right amount of time.

All of which meant I needed to not just build the equipment, but also figure out how to use it properly. And since nobody in this world seemed to know how to make whiskey, I'd be working from scratch.

This is either going to be brilliant or a complete disaster, I realized, watching a group of merchants argue over the price of silk in the street below. Probably both.

But that was fine. The original had sent me here to figure out whiskey production, not to succeed at it immediately. If I could establish a working distillation setup and produce something that didn't kill people, that would be more than enough for a first attempt. Everything else could be refined through experimentation and practice.

And if it worked out, we'd have the only whiskey operation in Fire Country. Maybe in all the elemental nations, depending on what other people were drinking in places I'd never been. That monopoly could be worth serious money to the right person with the right connections and enough sense to market luxury goods to people who'd never heard of them before.

Of course, monopolies never lasted forever. Sooner or later, someone would figure out the distillation process and start making their own version. But by then, we'd be the established brand, the original, the premium choice that everyone else would be trying to copy. Get in first, build a reputation for quality, and even when the competition showed up, we'd still be the name people thought of when they wanted the real thing. Like being the first ramen shop in a neighborhood. Sure, others would open eventually, but you'd always be the one everyone remembered.

I finished my tea, stood up from the table, and walked to the edge of the veranda. The cherry tree's branches stretched almost close enough to touch, leaves rustling gently in a breeze that carried the scent of cooking food and distant incense. Behind me, the door to the bedroom remained closed, and I could hear soft breathing that suggested my companion was still enjoying well-deserved sleep.

For just a moment, I let myself appreciate the scene, the quiet courtyard, the comfortable morning, the strange twist of fate that had landed me here instead of sleeping on dirt somewhere. Then I stepped off the veranda and disappeared into the wind, leaving only a few scattered petals drifting down where I'd been standing.

Time to get back to work.

……

The rabbit hung from my hands, its glassy eyes staring at nothing. Blood dripped from the clean cut across its throat, hitting the dirt with soft plops.

Death really is just biology giving up. I pulled out my knife. Disconnect the right parts, sever the right connections, and even the most complex life becomes tomorrow's dinner.

Speaking of disconnecting things, my Tanzaku Quarters clone still hasn't dispelled. It's been what, four days now? We agreed on daily dispersals after that whole Moryo conversation with the old man. Either the clone's having too much fun with sake and prostitutes to remember basic protocol, or something's gone wrong.

Who am I kidding? It's just a second-generation clone. The odds of it actually going rogue are pretty much zero. More likely it's just having too much fun playing house with working girls and quality alcohol to remember that dispersal schedules exist. Can't really blame it, if I had to choose between sleeping on the ground in a war zone or drinking expensive sake in a comfortable bed, I know which way I'd vote.

Still annoyed me though. I'd have to force-dispel the bastard once we wrapped this mission up.

I glanced at Tsunade as she sharpened her kunai with those deceptively delicate hands. Hard to believe that someone who looked like she could grace magazine covers could also punch through solid rock like it was made of paper. Those slender arms housed enough raw power to level buildings, and somehow she made it look effortless. The contrast between her appearance and her capabilities never stopped being fascinating.

I get the basic theory of channeling chakra into your limbs, but going from "hit a little harder" to "casually demolish a building"? That’s the part I’m missing.

"So about that Enhanced Strength you've been using," I said, working the blade under the rabbit's skin. The pelt came away easily, separating meat from hide. "The technique that turns rocks into dust and faces into very abstract art."

She glanced up from sharpening her kunai. "Not happening."

"Come on." I peeled back another section, exposing pink muscle. "I've got the chakra for it. My control's good. What's the problem?"

"The problem is you're not ready."

"Not ready how?" Slice, peel, separate. The rabbit was transforming into something much more useful—protein and sustenance. "I've been doing the medical training like you said. I could probably perform surgery at this point."

"Surgery and enhanced strength are completely different animals." She tested her blade's edge against her thumb. "One needs precision. The other needs control over forces that'll turn your organs into soup if you mess up the chakra flow."

I opened the rabbit, letting the guts spill onto the ground in a wet pile. "But I won't screw it up."

"Everyone says that right before they screw it up."

"Everyone isn't me."

She raised an eyebrow. "What makes you so special?"

"I'm asking you to teach me instead of figuring it out myself through trial and error."

She paused mid-sharpen. "That's... actually a decent point."

"See? I'm responsible. Mature. Forward-thinking."

"You're also annoying."

The rabbit was clean now, ready for the fire. I skewered it with the other four on the spit. "Annoying gets results."

"Annoying gets you punched in the face."

"You haven't punched me yet."

"The day is young."

I was about to say something when a memory flooded in, like water through a broken dam.

"Company," I said, dropping the rabbit.

She was up before I finished the word. "Where?"

"A few kilometers northeast. Clone's being chased by six unknowns."

"Show me."

We vanished.

The world turned into a blur of green and brown as we covered ground fast enough to make the trees look like brushstrokes. She moved beside me like liquid lightning, her feet barely kissing the earth before she was airborne again.

We'd been running for maybe two minutes when I felt the vibration through the soles of my boots. Subtle at first—just a tremor that might have been my imagination or an earthquake happening somewhere else. Then it built, becoming a deep, bone-rattling rumble that could only mean something very large had just met something very solid at high velocity.

Her eyes flicked toward me. "Your clone?"

"My clone."

The crater came into view about thirty seconds later.

It was beautiful, in the way that natural disasters are beautiful. Four meters across, maybe five, carved into the forest floor like someone had taken a giant ice cream scoop to the earth. The surrounding trees leaned away from the epicenter at drunken angles, their bark stripped and blackened. Chunks of stone and metal were scattered in a rough circle, some of them embedded so deep in tree trunks they'd probably be there until the wood rotted away.

I did the math automatically. The blast radius suggested roughly twenty-something kilograms of TNT equivalent. Not bad, considering standard exploding clones start at three and max out around ten kilograms on a good day.

The seal enhancement was working exactly as intended.

I nodded, satisfied with my seal-enhanced exploding clone jutsu. Wonder if I can increase the power even more.

Before I could get too pleased with myself, Tsunade had already moved past the crater. She crouched beside a twisted piece of metal, examining it closely, a warped headband protector with a waterfall symbol barely visible through the damage.

"Tanigakure," she said, holding up the mangled forehead protector.

I blinked. "River Country. That's... not what I expected."

She tossed the headband aside and continued scanning the area. "You said six were chasing your clone, then—"

"There." She was already moving toward a cluster of trees about twenty meters away, her posture shifting into that alert stance that meant she'd found something. "Still alive."

We found him propped against a boulder, conscious but in no condition to appreciate the scenery. His left arm hung at an angle that suggested several bones had given up their structural integrity, and his right leg was twisted in a way that made it very ugly. Blood soaked through his clothes in dark patches, a slow, steady bleeding that pointed to internal damage.

But he was alive. And more importantly, he was awake.

She knelt beside him, green chakra already flowing from her hands while knocking him out with a touch. After a few seconds of patching up the bleeding and anything that might kill him in the next hour, she stopped.

"We need to get him back to Konoha," she said, rocking back on her heels.

I made the cross-seal, chakra flowing out. A clone appeared in a puff of smoke and immediately crouched next to our unconscious guest.

"Delivery service?" the clone asked.

"Get him to the village. Hand him over to Intelligence, then you can disappear." I looked at the mess around us. "Just try to keep him breathing. Corpses are terrible conversationalists."

"Got it." The clone scooped up the wounded shinobi, careful not to jostle anything that looked important. "What's the story?"

"Tell them that Tanigakure and Suna are playing together in our backyard." I glanced at Tsunade. "And that we're staying to clean house."

The clone nodded and took off through the trees—fast, but at a pace that got you there quickly without turning your passenger into luggage.

I looked around at the crater, the charred scraps of body parts, the scorched trees. "So… what now?"

She stood up, wiping the blood from her hands with a piece of cloth. "Now we figure out how many more squads are out there, because I have a feeling six guys weren’t the whole party."

I sighed. "Yeah."

She started toward the edge of the blast zone, eyes sweeping for anything useful. "Your clones find anything else before this one got spotted?"

"Tracks from earlier today. Professional cleanup job, but not perfect. I'm thinking at least three squads working this area, maybe more." I followed her, stepping carefully around chunks of metal and stone. "Question is whether they're still here."

"Only one way to find out."

"More clones?"

"More clones."

I was halfway through the hand seals when she grabbed my wrist. "You forgot the rabbit."

My eyes went wide as I remembered the five rabbits I'd left roasting over our fire.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 51

The morning sun baked the training ground into a furnace, sweat already gathering at the base of Shohei's neck despite the early hour. Packed dirt stretched between him and the fresh meat they'd dragged out for his entertainment—some Academy graduate who'd apparently kissed the right asses to skip the usual years of grunt work. The kid stood there like he owned the place, twenty meters of yellow earth separating them, while the Third Hokage droned on about responsibilities and advancement.

Shohei cracked his knuckles and studied his target. Average height, black hair hanging in his eyes like he'd rolled out of bed, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The brat looked bored, not nervous. That would change soon enough.

'Three years of being a chunin,' he thought, rotating his shoulder until the joint popped. 'Dozens of missions where I've scraped blood and dirt out from under my fingernails, and now they want me to validate some pretty boy's promotion.'

"Shinji." The Hokage's voice carried easily across the distance. "You've demonstrated the necessary skills to advance in rank. This evaluation will confirm whether you're prepared for the responsibilities of a chunin."

The genin—Shinji—straightened slightly but didn't lose that irritatingly relaxed posture. "I'm ready, Hokage-sama."

Shohei's lip twitched. Ready. The kid had probably never seen real combat, never felt someone else's blood spray across his face or heard the wet sound of steel punching through muscle. Academy sparring matches and supervised missions didn't prepare you for the moment when someone actually wanted to kill you.

"Very well." the jonin beside the Hokage raised his hand. "The match ends when one participant yields or is rendered unable to continue. No fatal injuries."

'No fatal injuries.' Shohei almost laughed out loud. Like this Academy darling could manage that even if he grew a pair and tried. The whole thing reeked of clan politics, some influential family greasing palms to fast-track their golden boy past the years of grunt work that built real shinobi. Another spoiled brat who'd never had to dig graves for his teammates or explain to a widow why her husband wasn't coming home.

Shohei rolled his neck until it cracked like breaking bones. Time to give the kid a proper education.

Both fighters stepped toward the center of the training ground, boots scuffing against dirt. Shohei took his time now, really looking at his opponent. The kid's stance seemed casual at first glance, but his weight was balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to explode in any direction. Those dark eyes held a lazy glint that made Shohei's teeth clench—like this was just another boring afternoon instead of a test that could define his career.

Still just a genin, though. Shohei had been ending lives while this brat was probably still wetting his bed and crying for mommy.

They formed the seal of reconciliation and he felt the familiar rush of adrenaline flooding his system. His muscles coiled as he settled into his battle stance, already calculating how much damage he could inflict without crossing the line into "serious injury." A broken nose here, some cracked ribs there. Nothing that wouldn't heal, but enough to remind this nepo baby that real shinobi earned their ranks through pain and blood.

"Begin!" the jonin shouted.

Shohei grinned and launched himself forward. Twenty meters should've been nothing, close it fast, land a few good hits, wrap this shit up before anyone started timing him.

The kid didn't run.

‘What the hell?’

The genin stepped into range like he wanted this fight. Shohei's fist shot toward his gut, aimed to fold him over and—

Something cracked against his wrist. Hard. His punch went wide, elbow screaming as the block sent shockwaves up his arm. Before he could even think, knuckles were already driving at his ribs.

He twisted, felt them scrape his side instead of punching through. His vision blurred as he threw a wild hook, trying to reset, trying to—

The world tilted. His fist hit air. The kid had dropped low, and now there was a knee coming up fast, too fast, aimed right at his exposed ribs.

Shohei slammed his arms down. The impact rattled his bones, shot pain straight to his shoulders. They broke apart and he was breathing hard, too hard for a few seconds of fighting.

‘This isn't right.’

Blood sat metallic on his tongue. His forearms throbbed where he'd blocked that knee. Sweat ran cold down his back despite the morning chill.

"Alright," he panted, wiping his mouth. "Maybe you're not completely useless."

But tricks only went so far. Time to remind this brat what real violence looked like.

He surged forward with everything—straight punch, elbow, knee. Pure aggression. Overwhelm him with chunin speed!

The punch missed. Barely. Wind off his knuckles stirred the genin's hair.

His elbow caught shoulder instead of skull, jarring his arm. But the knee was perfect, no genin could—

Hands locked around his knee.

Then the genin's leg snapped up.

Bone met bone just above his ankle. White-hot pain exploded up his leg like lightning. His supporting leg crumpled and he was hopping, balance shot to hell, when the boot hit his stomach.

Air rushed out of him in a wheeze. The kick lifted him off his feet, doubled him over.

Something massive crashed between his shoulder blades—felt like a sledgehammer. The world flipped. Suddenly he was face-first in the dirt, eating packed earth that tasted of old sweat and blood.

His back screamed. Rocks pressed into his cheek. Copper flooded his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue.

‘How the fuck—‘

He rolled, expecting the finishing blow. But the genin stood exactly where he'd been, hands loose at his sides.

Like he was bored.

‘What just happened?’ Shohei's mind scrambled to piece together the last few seconds, but it was all fragments—impacts, pain, the blur of movement too fast to follow. He'd thrown everything he had and somehow ended up eating dirt while the genin looked like he hadn't even tried.

"You good?" the genin asked, voice casual as asking about the weather.

Shohei spat dirt and blood, his ribs screaming as he pushed himself up on his elbows. Around the training ground, he could hear the low murmur of the jonin observers—probably taking bets on how long it would take for an Academy graduate to finish off a chunin. His ears burned with something hotter than the morning sun, and his stomach churned with the sick realization that this wasn't going to be the easy beating he'd planned.

The taste of failure was worse than the dirt coating his tongue.

'Fuck this.' Heat burned Shohei's cheeks as he reached for his weapon pouch. Embarrassment twisted in his gut, but he shoved it down. Sure, the brat had a few taijutsu tricks. But there was more to real fighting than fancy footwork.

His fingers found three kunai. He threw them in a spread—force the kid to dodge into a kill zone. While the blades sailed through the air, his hands moved through seals. Rat, Horse, Tiger.

But Shinji's hands were already moving. Just a simple cross seal, nothing fancy.

‘Wait, what—‘

Smoke exploded between them. Two kids now, both moving. The original dodged his kunai like they were thrown in slow motion while the copy charged straight at him.

Shohei's jutsu finally sparked to life. Wind blade, sharp enough to cut bone, but he'd pulled the power back—just meat deep. He tracked the dodging genin for half a second before the clone got too close.

Shit. He redirected the jutsu, sent it screaming toward the charging copy.

The wind blade sliced clean through the clone's chest. Should've been over. Should've just popped like a soap bubble.

Instead, the damn thing grinned.

Then it exploded.

The world went white. Sound died except for the ringing in his skull. The blast picked him up and threw him like a rag doll across the training ground. His back hit packed earth hard enough to rattle his teeth.

When his vision cleared, Shinji stood in the exact same spot. Not a hair out of place. Like setting off tactical bombs was Tuesday routine.

"My bad," the genin said, scratching his head. "Thought I dialed it back enough, but guess not."

Shohei stared at him, then at the small crater where the clone had detonated, chunks of earth and concrete scattered like shrapnel across the training ground. Then back at the kid who'd just demonstrated A-rank ninjutsu like he was picking lint off his jacket.

Around the training ground, the observers had gone quiet. They were stunned as though they just watched something that shouldn't have been possible.

‘What the hell is wrong with this kid?’ Shohei's brain was still trying to process what he'd just witnessed. Some people were born lucky. This kid was apparently born terrifying.

The presiding jonin stood there for a moment like he was waiting for someone to tell him this was all a joke. When nobody did, he finally found his voice.

"Winner... uh, winner is Shinji. Match is over."

"Shit," Shohei breathed, then caught himself glancing around to see if anyone had heard.

The kid—Shinji—was already walking over, not even winded. That was probably the most annoying part. Shohei forced himself to straighten up and meet him halfway for the reconciliation seal.

"Hey, good fight," Shinji said, and he actually sounded like he meant it. No smirk, no false modesty. Just... normal.

"Yeah." he worked his jaw. "You too."

The Hokage approached, his weathered face showing the faintest hint of satisfaction. "Shinji, based on your demonstrated combat ability, you are hereby promoted to the rank of chunin. Report to the office later to handle the paperwork and receive your new credentials."

"Thank you, Hokage-sama." Shinji bowed.

That should have been it. Clean promotion, formal conclusion, everyone goes home and tries to forget they had just watched a genin casually use A-rank ninjutsu. Instead, a blur appeared directly behind the newly minted chunin, and a dainty female hand came crashing down on his head.

THWACK.

The kid's head snapped forward from the impact. He spun around, mouth already forming what was definitely going to be some very colorful language—then froze mid-syllable.

The woman standing there could’ve stopped traffic just by existing. Blonde ponytail, curves that defied several laws of physics, and a smile that said she was enjoying everyone’s sudden speechlessness way too much.

Shinji's mouth worked like a fish pulled from water. No sound came out.

"Go ahead," she said, voice honey-sweet with just a hint of poison. She crossed her arms, which somehow made everything worse for the poor kid. "Finish whatever you were about to say."

Shinji swallowed whatever he'd been about to say so hard his Adam's apple bobbed.

Then his face did a complete flip. The deer-in-headlights look vanished, replaced by a grin that had probably gotten him out of more trouble than it was worth.

"Sensei!" he said, and Shohei could actually hear the relief in his voice. "You're back! I was just telling everyone how much I missed you, and how the team hasn't been the same without you—"

"Save it, brat." Tsunade rolled her eyes. "Nobody's buying that crap."

She turned to the Hokage, dismissing everyone else like furniture. "I'm taking him to the front lines. He's chunin now, right? That makes him mission-ready."

She said it like she was discussing lunch plans. Shinji deflated, and a few jonin frowned at this.

"Tsunade-hime," one of the jonin started, "while we appreciate your... efficiency, there are protocols—"

"Protocols can kiss my ass."

Her tone was downright cheerful. The jonin's eye started twitching.

Another one tried diplomacy. "You only returned from the front three days ago. Perhaps you should rest while Shinji handles his administrative—"

She barked out a laugh. "Rest? Maybe you pencil-pushers need your beauty sleep. Some of us have actual work to do instead of standing around watching kids play dress-up."

The insult hit its mark. Several jonin stiffened, faces darkening with embarrassment and anger. One opened his mouth to fire back, then seemed to remember exactly who he was about to mouth off to—someone who could probably punch him into next week without breaking a sweat.

Smart man.

Danzo finally chimed in. "Tsunade. You can't simply requisition personnel without authorization. There are procedures."

"Is that right?" She didn't even glance his way.

"Yes. As his instructor, you may submit a request. But final approval requires command authorization."

"Sensei," Tsunade turned to Hiruzen, hoisting Shinji over her shoulder, "I'll get you the paperwork later."

And just like that, they were gone. Shinji's indignant "What the hell—" got swallowed by empty air.

Silence.

Danzo's jaw was tight. A couple of the jonin were shaking their heads like they'd seen this before.

"Well," someone muttered, "at least she's consistent."

Hiruzen just sighed, the expression of someone who'd stopped being surprised by Tsunade's antics years ago. "She'll file the paperwork eventually."

"Eventually," Danzo muttered, his grip tightening on his walking stick.

Damn woman. He’d been monitoring that boy for some time, watching his progress, waiting for the right moment to make his approach—and a few days ago, he’d finally made contact, gotten the kid’s attention, planted the right seeds. Shinji had exactly the kind of potential the village needed. But now Tsunade had snatched him away, bypassing protocol, ignoring the chain of command, treating village resources like her personal property. And Hiruzen would let her get away with it, just like he always did. The old fool was too soft on his students, too willing to indulge their whims.

Shohei watched this exchange with confusion. The jonin seemed mildly annoyed at worst, like dealing with a colleague who ignored protocols. But Elder Danzo looked genuinely furious.

"Does she do this often?" Shohei asked.

"Define often," one of the jonin replied dryly.

Shohei decided he didn't actually want to know and followed the others toward the office.

……

The world snapped back into focus just in time for me to hit my apartment floor like a sack of potatoes. My knees slammed against the wooden planks, and I barely managed to catch myself before face-planting into the welcome mat.

"Pack your stuff," Tsunade announced. "We're heading to the front lines."

I blinked up at her from the floor, still trying to process the fact that I'd just been kidnapped from my own promotion ceremony. "I'm sorry, what now?"

"Front lines. You know, that charming place where people try to stab you for money and politics." She'd already found my good sake—the bottle I'd been saving for a special occasion—and was reading the label like she owned it. "Chop chop, we leave in an hour."

"Where the hell did this even come from?" I pulled myself up, gesturing at the whole insane situation. "You just... appeared out of nowhere, smacked me around in front of the Hokage, and now you want to drag me off to war? When did you even get back? I thought Suna was still using you for target practice."

Her hand stopped halfway to the sake cup. When she turned, her smile could have put bodies in the ground.

Before I could blink, she had my face in her grip, squishing my cheeks together until I probably looked like a confused pufferfish. "I told you I was back three days ago. Mikoto and Tsume both got the message. Tsume was supposed to pass it along."

"Tsume never—mmph!" The words came out like I was talking through a pillow, thanks to my newly rearranged facial structure.

"Never what?" she asked sweetly, squishing harder.

"She never told me anything!" I forced out through my mashed face.

Meanwhile, across town at the Inuzuka training grounds...

Tsume dragged her arm across her forehead, watching Kuromaru nail another scent trail through the trees. The afternoon sun was doing that nice thing where it made everything look golden, and she was feeling pretty damn satisfied with their progress.

"Good boy." She nodded as the young ninken nailed another track. "One more round and we can call it a-a-a—Achoo!”

The sneeze came out of nowhere, like someone had just flicked her in the brain. She rubbed her nose, getting that nagging feeling she was forgetting something important.

"Eh, whatever," she said, shrugging it off. "If it was important, I'd remember."

Back at my apartment, I found myself doing a full dogeza on my own floor, face turned away from Tsunade's nuclear-grade death stare.

"Not visiting your sensei is one thing." A predatory smile flashed across her face. "But you've got some serious balls, taking the chunin exam and trying for ANBU without telling me."

"How did you even—wait, how do you know about that?"

"The old man told me, obviously." She poured herself a cup of my sake and downed it like water. "Lucky for you he did, because if I'd come home to find out you'd been playing footsie with Danzo..."

She cracked her knuckles meaningfully.

"Look, it's not like I wanted to, the guy basically handed me a promotion and a decent job offer. What was I supposed to do, tell him to shove it? That would've been a waste of a good opportunity."

"Heh, if only you knew. Anyway, stay away from that slimy bastard. Nothing good will come from associating with him—it would only make your life miserable. And not the fun kind of miserable ."

"There's a fun kind of miserable?"

"My kind." She grinned at me. "Now promise me you'll stop being an idiot and do what I tell you."

"What a tyrannical sensei," I muttered.

Her smile turned predatory. "Did you say something?"

I shook my head fast. "Nope. Not a word."

"Good." She settled into my kitchen chair like she'd conquered it. "Now pack. Make it snappy."

I glanced at the bottle in her hand, then at my rapidly emptying liquor cabinet, then back at her expectant face.

"You know, most senseis give their students a little warning before dragging them off to war zones."

"Most students don't need their sensei to bail them out of their own stupid decisions," she shot back. "Think of this as a learning experience."

"What exactly am I learning here?"

"That I'm always right and you should listen to your sensei more." She gave me a look. "Now get moving before I drink the rest of your good stuff."

"You're already drinking my good stuff."

"Exactly. Clock's ticking."

"What a tyrannical sensei."

"Gate. One hour. Don't be late," she called over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "And cook me something decent for the road. War food sucks."

"Of course you want me to cook too," I muttered, but she was already gone. "What am I supposed to whip up in under an hour..."

I stood there staring at my kitchen cabinets, trying to wrap my head around what just happened. One minute I'd been getting promoted in a perfectly normal chunin exam, the next I was getting kidnapped by my own sensei and drafted into active combat duty.

Sighing, I started pulling supplies together, stuffing everything into the storage seals built into my gloves. Thirty soldier pills went in first—I'd been hoarding those things, though my clones were still working on stronger experimental versions without much luck so far. Ration bars, medical supplies, extra weapons, spare clothes.

I grabbed what ingredients I had left and started throwing together something for the road. The dried miso paste in my pantry gave me an idea, so I started rolling it into little balls about the size of marbles. Into each one went dried wakame, tofu powder, and chopped dried scallions—basically everything you'd want in proper miso soup, just concentrated into tiny packages.

Instant comfort food. Just drop one in hot water and you'd have decent soup in a minute. Perfect for those freezing nights when you needed something warm that didn't taste like sadness.

I made enough miso balls to last us a few days.

The whole batch went into storage seals. If I was getting dragged into a war zone, at least I'd eat better than whatever garbage they were serving at the front lines.

So much for my carefully laid plans. I sealed away a bundle of explosive tags, shaking my head. The whole ANBU thing I’d been working on was completely shot to hell. I’d spent days trying to figure out the best way to string Danzo along without actually committing to anything, and now Tsunade had basically grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hauled me in the opposite direction.

Not that I was complaining. The thought of spending months under Danzo's thumb while he slowly turned me into one of his dead-eyed little puppets sounded about as fun as chewing glass. Still, it would've been nice to have some say in the timing.

The old bastard was probably having a stroke right about now. He'd gone through all that trouble setting up my early promotion, and now his shiny new potential recruit was getting dragged off to the front lines before he could get his hooks in properly.

I kept packing everything into storage seals. Sleeping bag, rain gear, that decent kitchen knife I'd picked up in Kitaura—all of it disappeared into the seals sewn into my glove. My apartment was starting to look weirdly empty with everything packed away.

Tsunade really was like a force of nature—unpredictable, destructive when she wanted to be, and completely impossible to argue with once she'd made up her mind about something. One minute you're minding your own business, the next you're getting swept along in whatever direction she decided to blow. And hey, at least I'd managed to make chunin before getting conscripted. The pay bump had to count for something.

I sealed away the last of my gear and gave the apartment one final look. Everything important was packed away, and I'd left enough supplies for my clones to keep things running while I was gone.

Time to get to the gate. Better not keep her waiting.

Knowing Tsunade, she'd probably find some wonderfully creative way to express her annoyance if I showed up late.

I was double-checking my gear when the door opened without so much as a knock. Tsunade strolled back in like she owned the place, holding something in her hand.

"Catch," she said, tossing it my way.

I snagged it out of the air and held it up. A flak jacket—standard shinobi vest, but in gray instead of canon green. Almost identical to the one she wore, complete with all the pockets and gear loops.

"Does this mean I get to boss around genin now?" I asked, pulling the vest on.

"Kid, you barely look old enough to be a genin yourself." She laughed. "Let's focus on keeping you breathing first."

The vest fit like it was made for me—someone had actually bothered to get my measurements right. Either that, or she just had a good eye for sizing up young men.

"Ready?" she asked.

"As I'll ever be."

We left the apartment together, and I made sure to lock up before following her toward the gates.

The afternoon sun was throwing long shadows across the village streets. A few people waved as we passed, though most greeted her with way more energy than I'd ever seen those lazy old-timers show anyone else. I knew she was famous as the Senju Princess, but damn, I hadn't realized she was this popular.

We cleared the gates and headed west. She set an easy pace, a steady jog that a shinobi could keep up for hours without breaking a sweat. Trees and open ground rolled past, dotted with the occasional stream or pile of rocks.

"So what happens to Mikoto and Tsume while I'm gone?" I asked after we'd been running for about ten minutes. "Are they getting reassigned or what?"

"Already taken care of." she didn't miss a step. "I've got someone lined up to handle their training. They'll stay in Konoha for a while, work on basics, maybe run some local missions. Nothing too exciting."

"Anyone I know?"

"Probably not. Good instructor though, specializes in taijutsu. They'll be fine."

That was a relief. I'd been worried about how Team 7 would handle things without me, especially since we'd just started clicking as a unit. Knowing they'd have real supervision instead of getting dumped into some overcrowded training program or having the team disbanded made this whole thing a lot easier to deal with.

"So that jonin at the training grounds mentioned you got two days of leave from the front lines," I said. "That's practically a vacation by wartime standards."

"Two days," she said absentmindedly, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

"Wait, two? I thought he said—"

"I said three." she corrected, snapping back to the conversation. "It's three days."

"But you just said two."

"I corrected myself to three."

"So it's three?"

"It's always been three."

"Then why did you say two?"

"I didn't say two, you said two."

"But if it's really three days, then why does everyone complain about short leave times? Three's practically generous."

"Because three days sounds like a lot until you realize day one is sleeping off whatever nightmare you just survived, day two is remembering you're human, and day three is dreading going back."

"So really it's zero days of actual rest."

"Now you're getting it."

"Which means calling it 'three days' is technically fraud."

"That's just how war works."

"Should I file a complaint?"

"Sure, right after you file your will."

We kept running west, the landscape blurring past in shades of green and brown. What had started as a casual jog gradually ramped up—Tsunade pushing the pace bit by bit until we were moving at full shinobi sprint speed. Trees became streaks, the ground disappeared beneath our feet, and my lungs started to burn.

One hour. Two hours. Three.

By the time she finally called a halt, I was operating on pure stubbornness and whatever dignity I had left. My chest felt like someone had set it on fire, sweat was streaming down my face in rivers, and my legs were about two seconds away from staging a mutiny.

Tsunade, meanwhile, had exactly one bead of sweat on her forehead. One. Like she'd been out for a light morning stroll instead of a cross-country death march.

"You're insane," I gasped, hands on my knees, trying to remember how breathing worked. "What if we get ambushed? What if I'm too tired to fight? What if—"

"What if you're too weak for chunin rank?" she interrupted.

"I'm not weak."

"Then why are you wheezing?"

"I'm not wheezing, I'm... breathing efficiently."

"That's wheezing."

"It's strategic oxygen intake."

"From 'simple running'?"

"That wasn't simple running, that was—" I caught myself before I could say something stupid like 'attempted murder by cardio.'

"That was what?"

"Nothing."

"Go on."

"I said nothing." I crossed my arms, which only made me wobble like I might pass out mid-stance.

"You were going to complain."

"I wasn't complaining."

"Sounded like complaining."

"It was... constructive criticism."

"About my pace?"

“About the way this pace violates basic human rights…”

"Maybe," she said sweetly, "you should crawl back to genin rank. Less running involved."

"I'm not going back to genin."

"Then stop whining."

"I wasn't whining."

"You were whining about being tired."

"I was expressing concern about combat readiness after... this perfectly reasonable... slightly brisk jog."

"Slightly brisk?"

"Totally manageable." I gave a thumbs-up that shook like a leaf in the wind.

"This was nothing for you?"

"Nothing at all. I was just... getting warmed up for the real running."

"I see." She leaned back, clearly enjoying herself.

"Yeah."

"So if I speed up—"

"Please don't." My voice cracked like a teenager’s, and I coughed to cover it up.

"What was that?"

"I said 'please proceed.' I'm ready for whatever pace you want to set."

She grinned like a shark that had just spotted a particularly juicy swimmer. My stomach dropped.

"Good to hear."

To my complete surprise, she didn't immediately launch into another death march. Instead, she plopped down on a fallen log and gestured at me.

"Lunch time. Feed me."

I sighed in relief, gathering dry branches and kindling from the surrounding area. "Thank god. I thought you were going to run me into the ground."

"I still might. Depends on how good the food is."

I got a small fire going and pulled out my travel pot, filling it with water from my canteen. While it heated, I retrieved the container of miso soup balls from my storage seals.

"What are those?" she asked, peering at the small spheres suspiciously.

"Instant miso soup. Just drop them in hot water."

"They look like rabbit droppings."

"Delicious rabbit droppings."

"That's not better."

"Trust me."

The water came to a boil, and I dropped the balls into the pot. They immediately began dissolving, releasing clouds of umami-rich aroma as the dried wakame expanded and the tofu powder dispersed through the broth. Within moments, we had proper miso soup steaming in the wilderness.

I ladled it into two bowls and handed one to her.

She took a tentative sip, then her eyes went wide. A visible shudder ran through her body, her face flushed, and she let out what could only be described as a deeply inappropriate moan of pleasure.

"This is..." She took another sip, practically melting into the log. "How did you get restaurant-quality miso soup from little brown balls? The wakame has the perfect texture, the miso balance is spot-on, and that hint of scallion—"

"Are you having a religious experience over soup?"

"Maybe."

"Should I leave you two alone?"

"Shut up and let me appreciate good food when I see it." She slurped loudly just to spite me.

After she’d finished moaning over her soup—loud enough that nearby wildlife was probably filing complaints, and definitely making me deeply uncomfortable down there—she finally got down to business.

"Alright," she said, setting the empty bowl on the log with a dramatic thud. "Time to tell you what we're actually doing out here."

"What do you mean 'actually doing'?" I leaned back, wary.

"You think I just dragged you out to the front lines for fun?"

"...Yes?" I offered weakly.

"This is your first chunin assignment before you hit the front lines."

I sighed, setting my bowl across my lap. "What kind of job?"

"The kind where we hunt down enemy squads."

"Enemy squads?"

"Suna teams. They've been hitting our supply lines."

"Ah. And we're going to...?"

"Track them down and eliminate the problem."

I blinked at her. "...Do you know how to track?"

"Of course I know how to track."

"Then why aren't you—" I stopped. "Oh no. You want me to track them."

"Very good."

"I don't know how to track."

"Sure you do."

"When did you teach me tracking?"

"I didn't."

"Then how do I know how to track?"

"Shadow clones."

"That's not tracking." I stared at her. "Let me guess. The old man told you about my clones."

She didn't answer, just smiled that infuriating know-it-all smile.

"He did, didn't he?"

"A good sensei knows everything about their student." She tipped the empty bowl toward me like it was some kind of toast.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 50

The building looked about as threatening as a tax office on a Tuesday afternoon. Three stories of weathered stone and mismatched windows, squeezed between a dumpling shop that smelled like heaven and what had to be a pharmacy based on the medicinal herb scents wafting from its doorway. If someone had told me this was where they processed merchant permits or handled civilian complaints, I would've nodded and asked where to take a number.

It was a smart choice of venue. You can’t exactly drag potential recruits to some underground torture dungeon and expect cooperation. Bad for the sales pitch.

The building itself was disappointingly ordinary. Three stories of gray stone with neat window boxes that someone actually watered. If I hadn't been personally escorted here by someone wearing a porcelain mask, I'd have walked right past it without a second glance.

The interior was just as mundane. Polished floors, generic landscape paintings on the walls that wouldn't look out of place in any building across the five great nations. Hell, they even had a living room with fake flowers.

My escort gestured toward a staircase. "Please."

I walked up, boots clicking against wooden steps that had been waxed recently enough to still smell like lemon polish. The hallway at the top stretched narrow and clean, with doors spaced evenly along both sides like a hotel for people with very nasty secrets. Most had frosted glass panels that revealed absolutely nothing, which was probably the point.

We stopped outside a wooden door. The Anbu knocked twice, and before long a voice from inside said, "Enter."

The door opened to reveal an office that could have belonged to any mid-level administrator in any village. Wooden desk covered in neat stacks of papers. Filing cabinets along one wall. A single window overlooking the street, with thin curtains that filtered the afternoon light into something appropriately mundane.

And there, standing by that window with his back to me like some discount villain from a stage play, was Danzo Shimura himself.

He turned as I entered, giving me my first real look at the man behind the reputation. About Hiruzen's age, maybe a few years older, with gray threading through dark hair that he kept pulled back in what was probably supposed to project dignity but mostly just made him look like someone's stern uncle who'd lecture you about financial responsibility at family dinners.

"Shinji, have a seat."

He gestured toward the couch while settling into the chair across from it like he was hosting a book club instead of whatever this actually was. Professional distance, but arranged to suggest a pleasant conversation rather than an interrogation. The man knew his staging.

I took the offered seat, sinking into cushions that were probably more expensive than my entire apartment. "Danzo-sama. I have to admit, I wasn't expecting to hear from an elder."

"I imagine not." A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "But your recent activities have been noteworthy. Despite your age, you've accomplished quite a lot."

I kept my tone modest, though the compliment felt like bait dangling from a very sharp hook. "I think you might be giving me too much credit, sir. My most recent mission was a complete disaster."

"Ah yes, the escort assignment." Danzo's expression didn't shift by so much as an eyelash. "A regrettable situation, certainly. But I think you're being too hard on yourself."

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled like he was about to deliver a sermon. "Simple missions have a way of becoming complex very quickly in wartime. What should have been a routine supply run became something far more dangerous. The fact that you not only protected your team but eliminated an entire Kumo squad..." He let that hang in the air for a moment. "That's something even seasoned jonin would struggle with."

"I got lucky." I met his gaze. "They underestimated us, and we managed to turn it around. But we still lost people. Good people."

"War is never without cost." He said it like he was discussing the weather. "The question is whether those costs serve a purpose. In your case, they clearly did."

Danzo shifted forward slightly, hands clasped. "Tell me, Shinji. Are you satisfied with your current position? Leading a team of genin, taking assignments appropriate for your rank?"

I tilted my head. "What do you mean, sir?"

This felt like the setup to a job offer I really didn't want to receive.

"I mean," he said, still looking out at the street, "that it seems like a waste. A genin with your capabilities, spending time babysitting teammates who can't match your level. Don't you find it... limiting?"

There it was. The opening gambit.

"My team's gotten pretty good," I said carefully. "We work well together."

"I'm sure they have their strengths. But consider the alternative. ANBU service would provide training more suited to your abilities. Missions that actually challenge you. The chance to serve the village in ways that few can."

I tilted my head slightly. "I thought you had to be chunin to join ANBU?"

His smile came quick and smooth. "You're absolutely right. But if you were interested, I could recommend you for immediate promotion to chunin. That would open the door to ANBU candidacy."

I let my eyes widen just enough to sell it. "That's... a pretty significant offer."

"For significant talent." Danzo's smile had this perfect balance—warm enough to seem genuine, controlled enough to make you think he didn't throw around offers like this every Tuesday. "The village needs shinobi who can handle unconventional situations, especially with all the chaos and wars Konoha's been dragged into lately. Your recent performance suggests you have exactly that capability."

Yep. It looked like I'd been underestimating the guy. No heavy-handed recruitment speech or barely-veiled threats about village loyalty. Just a clean, official recommendation through proper channels, making it look like natural career advancement instead of what it really was—a calculated move to get me under his thumb where he could work on me properly.

And he'd been clever enough not to mention the obvious elephant in the room - that Kumo might target my team again specifically because of their association with me. He could have pointed out how my presence put Mikoto and Tsume in danger, used their safety as leverage to push me toward accepting. But that would have sounded like a threat, even if it was true. Instead, he'd focused entirely on advancement and opportunity, letting me draw my own conclusions about the risks.

That restraint told me everything I needed to know about how dangerous Danzo really was. A cruder manipulator would have pushed harder, made it about protecting my teammates. Danzo had the patience to let me convince myself.

I thought about what I remembered from the show. Itachi had been in ANBU when Danzo started sinking his claws into him. Long-term exposure, gradual manipulation, turning that kid's dedication to the village into a blade he'd eventually drive through his own family's heart. The village elders probably did have some pull over ANBU operations, or at least Danzo had carved out enough influence to make his little pet projects work.

Once I was inside ANBU, keeping tabs on my every move would be child's play. Steering my missions toward whatever served his agenda. Turning me into another one of his useful little tools.

"What kind of training are we talking about?" I asked, leaning forward just enough to sell the interest. "Would there be access to advanced jutsus? S-rank jutsu, maybe something from the Scroll of Seals?"

Danzo went quiet for a second, and his smile shifted—less politician, more genuine amusement. Like I'd just asked exactly the question he'd been waiting for. "Simply joining ANBU doesn't grant access to the most restricted jutsu. Members receive specialized training, stealth, infiltration, interrogation, poisons, advanced seal work. Skills suited to their mission requirements."

I let my expression drop, shoulders sagging like someone had just crushed my dreams with a particularly heavy rock. "Ah. I was hoping..."

"However." He drew the word out slow, watching my face. "Jutsu of that caliber are controlled by the Hokage. And occasionally, by the village elders when circumstances warrant it." His smile stretched wider. "Exceptional service in ANBU has been known to earn special privileges. I might be inclined to speak on your behalf, should you prove yourself worthy."

Well, would you look at that. The old bastard really knew how to work an angle. If I were actually some ambitious genin looking for the fast track to power, I'd probably be mentally signing up already. Hell, the offer was tempting even knowing what it really was, ANBU training would definitely speed up my development, and the missions were exactly the kind of work I was already doing with my clone network anyway.

But here's the thing, I didn't actually need his shortcuts. Not with Moryo sealed up inside me, pumping energy to my clones and giving me capabilities that would only get stronger. Becoming as powerful as the Hokage wasn't a matter of if, just when. And I could get there without letting this walking war crime pull my strings.

More importantly, I genuinely liked hanging out with my team. Mikoto, Tsume, even dealing with Tsunade's mood swings—they were more entertaining than any jutsu he could dangle in front of me. The relationships I'd built weren't something I was willing to trade away just so some old hawk could have another pet shinobi to point at his problems.

"That's..." I rubbed the back of my neck, making sure to look like someone wrestling with a life-changing decision. "Really tempting... But I'm not sure. I never really thought about becoming ANBU."

Danzo's expression went softer, like a patient teacher watching some kid struggle through long division. "Of course it is. And this isn't a decision to make lightly. Take some time to consider your options. When you're ready, let me know your decision."

I nodded, giving him a polite bow. "Thank you for the opportunity, Danzo-sama. I'll give it some serious thought."

He nodded once. "Good. Until next time."

Right on cue, the door swung open from outside—his ANBU shadow holding it like some kind of creepy doorman.

I nodded at the masked figure and walked out into the hallway, my footsteps echoing off cheap linoleum as I headed for the stairs.

The afternoon sun hit my face when I stepped outside, and I took a deep breath, trying to wash away that suffocating feeling of being locked in a room with experienced predator. The whole conversation had been smoother than I'd expected from Danzo. Professional, calculated to make me feel special while keeping all the nasty bits buried underneath.

But knowing his game didn't make it any less creepy. Danzo had been watching me, studying my moves. He knew about the Kumo ambush, knew enough about what I could do to make targeted offers. Which probably meant he knew everything Hiruzen knew—and that pissed me off even more than the recruitment attempt. The old Hokage was supposed to be keeping village secrets, not letting his sus colleague build detailed files on me.

……

Twenty minutes later, I was sinking into the steaming water of Konoha's onsen, letting the heat work its way into muscles that had been wound tighter than I'd realized. The place was practically empty—just a few old guys at the far end, probably debating rice prices or complaining about their wives or whatever kept old men busy when they weren't being old men.

My mind drifted back to the Kumo ambush. That moment when the bastard's sword punched straight through my chest. The gut-punch feeling of watching Mikoto take steel to the ribs, seeing Tsume get ragdolled like she weighed nothing. How damn close we'd come to losing everything because I wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't ready for the real world to come knocking with sharp objects.

Sure, we'd survived. Hell, we'd won. But what about next time?

The thing was, I actually liked spending time with Mikoto and Tsume. More than liked it, if I was being honest with myself. The quiet moments between trying not to die, watching Mikoto's face light up when she tried something I'd cooked, listening to Tsume spin ridiculous stories about whatever stupid thing Kuromaru had done that day. Those moments felt... nice.

But they also scared the hell out of me sometimes.

Because every mission was another roll of the dice. Another chance for enemies to figure out that the best way to hurt me was to hurt them first and make me watch. Another situation where I'd have to scramble to keep everyone breathing while people I actually gave a damn about bled out in front of me.

What if Kumo sent another squad? What if they showed up better prepared this time, with more jonin, better intel, a plan that didn't bank on underestimating some genin team? What if next time I wasn't fast enough to save them?

Joining ANBU would fix that problem. More importantly, it would give me some distance from the team. Space that might actually keep them alive.

The ugly truth was that I'd painted a target on my back. Sure, I wasn't actually the Nine-Tails jinchuriki, but being mistaken for one wasn't exactly a distinction that mattered when people were trying to kill you. Kumo had sent a full squad of elite shinobi just to put me in the ground, and other villages would probably reach the same brilliant conclusion eventually.

I was basically Kushina now. A walking nuclear weapon that enemies would hunt, along with anyone unlucky enough to be in the fallout zone when they came calling.

The choice wasn't really about advanced training or political games. It was about whether I was willing to put distance between myself and the people I cared about. ANBU operated independently, took solo missions, worked in small specialized teams full of antisocial weirdos rather than sticking with the same three-person unit day after day.

But accepting meant dancing to Danzo's tune. Playing his games, following his agenda, potentially screwing over everything I actually valued about my current situation.

I dipped my head back into the water and let out a long groan, watching bubbles rise to the surface and pop one after another—a perfect representation of how my brain felt right now. The hot water was washing away the day's sweat and grime, but it wasn't doing shit for the knot of doubt sitting in my chest like a lead weight.

Either choice felt like stepping into a trap. Stay with the team and keep them in danger. Join ANBU and lose what made life here worth living. Win-win, except both wins were actually losses dressed up in different clothes.

The sound of footsteps on wet stone killed my internal pity party. Two kids, maybe thirteen or fourteen, slipped into the water about ten feet away. Brothers or cousins, judging by their matching features—those narrow eyes and black hair that practically had "Nara clan" stamped across their foreheads in permanent ink.

They settled into the water with those exaggerated sighs that only teenagers could pull off, immediately launching into full complaint mode.

"I'm so tired," the shorter one muttered, rubbing at his eyes like they were made of sandpaper. "Sensei's been pushing us twice as hard lately. Extra training every single day until my chakra's completely shot."

"Tell me about it," his cousin replied, sounding equally miserable. "And it's not just training. Have you noticed how weird everyone's been acting at home?"

The first kid nodded like his head was going to fall off. "Dad's been away on missions more and more, and when he's actually back home, he's having these long meetings that go way past midnight. And Mom keeps making these worried faces when she thinks nobody's looking."

"Same here." The other guy's eyebrows shot up. "You have any idea why?"

"No clue, but they look really nervous about something." The kid dropped his voice "You think it has something to do with the war?"

"Probably. But there's no way we lose, right? Konoha's the strongest—my dad said so."

"Yeah, that's what everyone keeps saying." The older one made air quotes, frustration dripping from every word. "But my mom just keeps brushing me off when I ask questions. Just says 'focus on your training' and 'don't worry about adult business.' Like they think we're too stupid to understand what's going on."

I kept my shoulders relaxed while continuing to blow bubbles, playing the part of someone just enjoying a soak while their conversation drifted over. But my interest was definitely hooked. I let out a soft groan and sat up slightly, stretching like I was working out some muscle kink.

"Sorry, couldn't help but overhear," I said, giving them the kind of sympathetic look that said 'I feel your pain.' "You guys sound about as frustrated as I've been lately."

They both turned toward me, faces going slightly red—caught bitching about their families to a stranger.

"Oh, uh..." The older kid shot a quick glance at his cousin. "We weren't trying to be loud or anything."

"Don't worry about it," I waved it off like it was nothing. "Trust me, I get it. My cousin's been dealing with the exact same kind of thing with his clan."

The younger kid's interest perked up immediately. "Really? Which clan?"

"Senju," I said, settling back into the water with a casual shrug. "Well, distant relations anyway. But yeah, apparently all the adults have been acting super weird lately. Secret meetings, hushed conversations, the whole package deal."

Complete bullshit, of course, but they didn't need to know that.

Both cousins exchanged one of those meaningful looks that siblings were so good at.

"See?" the younger one said to his cousin. "It's not just us."

"What kind of weird behavior?" the older kid asked, leaning forward like he was finally talking to someone who might actually understand.

I put on my best thoughtful expression, like I was digging through memories for the juicy details. Then I basically fed their own words back to them with a few creative additions thrown in.

They nodded along like I was confirming their worst suspicions.

"That sounds exactly like what's happening with us," the younger one said. "Except our parents keep insisting everything's fine and we should just concentrate on getting stronger."

"Yeah, because nothing says 'everything's fine' like clan meetings every other night," his cousin added sarcastically.

I chuckled like we were all suffering through the same bullshit together. "Adults, right? They think if they don't explain what's happening, we won't notice that they're all stressed out of their minds.”

"Exactly!" The younger kid waved his hands around, splashing water everywhere. "Like, we're not blind. We can see when something's wrong."

"So your elders have been acting strange too?" I asked, keeping my voice casual. "Any idea what they might be worried about? Notice anything weird?"

Wait, why am I even asking? It's not like these kids would know anything useful. But old habits died hard, I guess. Something about gathering information from unexpected sources, building a complete picture from fragments… probably leftover instincts from my previous life.

The older brother shrugged, water rolling off his shoulders. "Not really. I mean, I've tried listening at doors and stuff, but they're too smart for that. All I can tell is that they're worried about something, but they stop talking whenever we get too close. It's super annoying."

Now that was interesting. I nudged the conversation along with a few well-placed questions and sympathetic nods, letting them think they were just venting to someone who got it.

His cousin jumped in. "And Uncle Masao's been working late every night. I haven't seen him around much lately, and when he is home, he's buried in these huge piles of papers in his study. The clan head used to visit my house to talk with him all the time, but he stopped coming about a week ago."

"Sounds stressful," I said, filing away the names for later. "My friend mentioned his relatives have been doing something similar."

"Really?" The older kid looked intrigued.

"That's what he told me." I kept my face innocently puzzled, like I was just as confused as they were. "Honestly, I don't really understand what they're dealing with, but it seems pretty important."

The conversation died off, leaving us soaking in hot water while my brain chewed on what these kids had just handed me.

I sat there processing their little info dump. Some of it sounded like standard wartime bullshit—Konoha was neck-deep in conflict, adults getting shipped off to die in foreign dirt every week, everyone pulling double shifts just to keep the village from collapsing. Made perfect sense that the Nara would be stressed and holding emergency meetings until their eyes bled. But the part about Uncle Masao suddenly going MIA and the clan head suddenly stopping his visits? That felt like something more.

Still, the thing was, I didn’t really give a damn about whatever political mess the Nara had gotten themselves into. What bugged me was whether the Uchiha might be dealing with their own pile of shit, especially with Danzo’s obvious hard-on for screwing them over. Canon said nothing major should happen to Kushina or Mikoto at this point in the timeline, but the butterfly effect was as real as a heart attack, and I’d already stirred up enough trouble to make a hurricane look like a light breeze.

The thought of walking away from my team to join ANBU while some backstage political bloodbath was brewing made my stomach do unpleasant things. Sure, distance might keep them safer from the psychos hunting me, but what if it just left them exposed to a completely different kind of danger? What if Danzo was already making moves against the Uchiha, and I'd be too busy playing his assassin to notice until it was too late?

But then again, sitting here doing nothing wasn't exactly a winning strategy either. Every day I stayed on Team Seven was another day I painted a bigger target on their backs. Another chance for some foreign village to figure out that hurting them was the fastest way to hurt me.

And hell, if I was being honest, the ANBU training would be damn useful. Better skills, better missions, access to intelligence networks I couldn't even smell as a genin. Maybe even a shot at figuring out what Danzo was really cooking up before it exploded in everyone's faces.

Wait. I shifted in the water, steam curling around me as the gears finally clicked into place. Why the hell was I treating this like I had to pick one option? I had a clone network that could be anywhere, do anything, watch anyone without breaking a sweat. I didn't have to choose between joining ANBU and keeping my team breathing.

I could do both.

A few of my clones could shadow Mikoto and Tsume, staying close enough to intervene if things went sideways. Hell, they could even help with training, missions, whatever normal Team Seven stuff they’d be doing without me. The clones were getting stronger every day thanks to Moryo and Kage Bunshin, strong enough to handle most threats that didn’t involve S-rank shinobi showing up with genocide on their minds.

The water suddenly felt just right, and for the first time since walking out of that meeting with Danzo, I felt like I could actually breathe properly. So be it. ANBU. I’d wear the mask, walk the shadows, and let Danzo think he had me right where he wanted. In truth, it would put me right where I needed to be, close enough to protect my people, and close enough to see exactly what he was plotting.

Two birds, one very annoyed stone.

And just like that, the conversation devolved into typical genin complaints about training schedules and annoying missions. I listened politely, making the right sympathetic noises while my brain filed away the actually useful stuff they'd accidentally spilled.

After another fifteen minutes of listening to them bitch about chakra control exercises and enjoying the hot water working the knots out of my shoulders, I made my excuses and climbed out of the onsen.

"Good luck with the extra training," I told them as I grabbed my towel.

"Thanks," the older kid said with a grin. "Don't cry if your legs get sore."

"Same to you," I shot back. "Try not to pee your pants when your sensei yells at you."

They both cracked up and waved as I headed toward the changing room

……

The evening air bit at my skin when I stepped back onto the street, a sharp contrast to the onsen's warmth. My muscles felt loose and heavy from the hot water, and my brain had finally stopped running in circles now that I'd actually made a decision about something.

My thoughts wandered to sake, and then to my clone's progress, wondering if the bastard had made it to Tanzaku Quarters yet. My whiskey plan was still a pipe dream, so in the meantime I figured I'd stick with what worked.

My feet knew the way to the tavern without input from my increasingly sleepy brain. Tanaka glanced up from his glass-polishing ritual, already reaching for the shelf where he kept the decent stuff.

"Evening, Shinji. The usual?"

"Make it double." I dropped onto a barstool that had molded itself to my ass over the years.

His eyebrow went up, but he kept his mouth shut. Just wrapped the bottles carefully and slid them across the counter. "Rough mission?"

"Something like that." I left payment on the bar and tucked the bottles inside my glove. "Thanks, Tanaka-san."

"Take care of yourself, kid."

Back home, I stashed three bottles in the kitchen cabinet—insurance for darker days ahead—and cracked open the fourth, pouring myself a healthy glass before collapsing onto the couch.

The sake burned its way down my throat, the complex flavors lingering pleasantly as the warmth spread through my chest. Even though I'd decided to take Danzo's offer and join the ANBU, there was no rush. Tomorrow, next week—whenever. Today, I didn't want to think about any of it.

Rome wasn’t built in a day. Tomorrow could handle itself. Tonight belonged to me and this bottle.

……

Something was poking my cheek.

I groaned and tried to burrow deeper into my pillow, but whatever was attacking my face wasn't giving up. My head felt like someone had used it for taijutsu practice, and my mouth tasted like I'd been licking the bottom of a sake barrel.

"Shinji. Shinji, wake up."

That voice was familiar. Female, with just a hint of an accent...

My eyes cracked open to find Kushina hovering over my bed, one finger poised to jab me again. Her red hair spilled around her face like a curtain. She wore an amused look, probably from watching me drool into my pillow and finding it hilarious.

"Kushina?" I blinked, trying to get my brain working. "What... how did you get in here?"

"Your window was unlocked," she shrugged. "And before you ask, yes, I knocked first. You didn't answer."

I pushed myself up on my elbows, immediately regretting the sudden movement as my skull throbbed in protest and the empty sake bottles on my nightstand glared at me accusingly.

"What time is it?"

"Almost ten." She straightened up, crossing her arms. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"Forgot what?" I was still trying to piece together why she was in my bedroom at ten in the morning.

Her face scrunched up in that way that meant I was about to get lectured. "Our cooking lesson! You promised you'd teach me how to make that ramen broth, remember?"

Oh. Right. Our weekly cooking lessons had become something I usually pawned off on my shadow clones since actual missions kept dragging me out of the village.

"Right, cooking." I lazily swung my legs out of bed, suddenly very aware that I was wearing nothing but underwear. "Give me five minutes to get dressed.”

"Sure." she moved toward the door. "I'll wait in the kitchen."

She paused at the doorway. "And maybe drink some water. You look terrible."

"Gee, thanks."

I heard her laugh as she headed for my kitchen, followed by the distinct sounds of cabinet doors slamming and disappointed sighs. I grabbed clean clothes and started pulling them on, realizing I’d completely forgotten to buy ingredients for today’s lesson. She was probably staring at my pathetic collection of condiments right about now.

Four and a half minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom feeling significantly more human. Kushina had made herself at home in my kitchen, which wasn't hard considering it was about the size of a closet. She was perched on one of my two chairs, spinning it back and forth while she poked through the sad contents of my cabinets.

"What do we need?" she asked. "Your pantry's basically empty."

"Don't worry about it. I'll have a clone go shopping." I tossed the empty sake bottles in the trash. "So what are we making?"

"The one and only food masterpiece in the world." She hopped up from the chair, arms spread wide like she was announcing the winner of the Chunin Exams. "Ramen!"

I stared at her. "Ramen? Really?"

"What's wrong with ramen?" Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"It's not exactly... nutritious. Or healthy. Or anything resembling actual food."

"That's the whole point!" She grinned like she'd just solved world hunger. "You're supposed to teach me how to make it healthy. You know, add vegetables and stuff that would make me healthy."

I considered this. "Mm, I guess we could do a proper ramen. Bone broth, fresh noodles, vegetables. A long-simmered stock would be better, chicken bones for something lighter, maybe pork if we wanted it richer. Carrots, onions, garlic for depth, mushrooms for umami. Leafy greens would balance the heaviness, bok choy or spinach, even some bean sprouts for crunch. A soft-boiled egg, not just for protein but because the yolk thickens the broth. Fresh noodles so it carry the flavor better.”

She blinked a few times, as if trying to catch up.

"Um… wow. I was just thinking cabbage or something," she said, half laughing. "But sure, professor, let’s do it your way."

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 49

Consciousness came back in fragments—antiseptic smell, hushed voices, and a bone-deep ache that felt like someone had used my ribs for batting practice. The taste of blood lingered in my mouth, metallic and wrong, while something sharp dug into my ribs every time I tried to breathe properly.

I cracked my eyes open to familiar walls and the fuzzy shapes of medical equipment. Kitaura medical facility, I recognized the layout from previous visits. The trip back was mostly a haze of stumbling through forest paths and trying not to pass out, but somehow we'd made it.

Could’ve been a lot worse, all things considered. I ended up carrying Mikoto most of the way back while the patrolling chunin dragged Tsume and what was left of our squad. My clones had kept everyone from bleeding out, but hauling three half-dead people back to civilization was its own brand of torture.

"He's awake." A woman's voice, probably one of the medics.

I rolled my head to the side, felt like moving a concrete block, and saw Mikoto on the bed next to mine. She was conscious, propped up on pillows and looking like roadkill. Her skin had that gray, waxy look people got when they'd lost too much blood.

"Hey." My voice came out like gravel. "You look like shit."

She managed a weak smile. "You're one to talk. You've got more holes than a fishing net."

Tsume lay on the bed beside us, still out cold. One side of her face was swollen purple, and her left arm was in a splint. A medic knelt beside her, hands glowing green as he worked on what I assumed were internal injuries.

The surviving chunin from our escort was on the fourth bed, his skin was gray, and the rise and fall of his chest looked labored. Still alive, but it was touch and go.

"How did we get here?" Mikoto's voice came out thin and confused. "Last thing I remember was fighting those Kumo bastards, then..." She pressed a hand to her bandaged ribs, wincing.

"Patrol found us," I said. "Three chunin had been working the area when they heard the explosions. Took them about an hour to grow a pair and actually investigate the noise."

Couldn't blame them for being careful. When they'd first spotted me slumped against that tree with two unconscious teammates and a guy bleeding out, surrounded by what used to be a forest, they'd crept up like they expected the ground to explode under their feet.

Which, considering what I'd done to the landscape, wasn't entirely unreasonable.

"Explosions?" Mikoto's forehead creased as she tried to fill in the gaps in her memory.

"I might have gotten a little carried away," I said, staring at the ceiling tiles. Definitely not my finest moment.

I filled her in on the basics, how the ambush had gone sideways, the explosion fest that followed, and our stumbling march back to civilization. She listened with growing amazement, then started laughing despite the pain it obviously caused her ribs.

But when I finished, she went quiet, staring at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Her dark eyes had gone bright and wet, like she was seeing something that wasn't quite there.

"Hey." I studied her face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The words came out too fast, followed by a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just tired, I guess. These painkillers are messing with my head."

"Mikoto—"

"It's really nothing. It's just..." Her voice dropped to almost nothing. "You're alive. When I saw that blade punch through your chest, when you went down... I thought you were..." She turned away, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "God, I'm being such an idiot."

"Hey." I pushed myself up from the bed, my ribs screaming in protest, and shuffled the few steps to her bedside. "You’re not being an idiot. You saw me go down, you thought it was over. Of course you were scared."

I reached out and gently patted her head. "I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere." That was all it took—the dam burst. Her breath hitched, and the tears she’d been holding back spilled free, streaking her pale cheeks.

"Shinji..." My name came out broken as she grabbed my shirt and buried her face against my chest. Her whole body shook as everything she'd been holding back, the fear, the terror of watching me nearly bleed out, hit her all at once.

I wrapped my arms around her and held on, one hand stroking her hair while she cried. Across the room, I caught a medic pretending to check equipment while her face went red, clearly enjoying the free drama.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said into her hair. "Takes more than some Kumo assholes with sharp objects to kill me, remember?"

She nodded against my chest.

A medic approached my bed, a woman who'd been sneaking glances at our moment. When she asked how I was feeling, I told her it was like getting trampled by a herd of angry elephants.

She flipped through my chart without looking up, explaining that wasn't far off the mark. Punctured lung, three broken ribs, moderate blood loss. Whoever had done the emergency work had kept me from bleeding out on the forest floor.

My clones. Right.

I was still processing the medical report when heavy, tired footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. The door swung open, and Dan walked in looking like he’d been awake for thirty-six hours straight. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his uniform was wrinkled.

"Team 7." He stopped at the foot of Mikoto bed. "Good to see you're still breathing."

"Dan-san," Mikoto said, trying to sit up despite the obvious pain it caused.

"Don’t strain yourself," Dan said, then looked at me. "I need to know what happened out there. The patrol team said they found you in the middle of..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Well, a battlefield."

I glanced at Mikoto, who nodded slightly. I walked him through the whole mess, how the Kumo squad had hit the convoy without warning, butchered two chunin and all the merchants before we could blink. How they'd outnumbered us with multiple jonin and enough chunin to make it a slaughter. How I'd rigged explosive seals to my clones and started throwing them around like grenades when everything went to hell.

Dan's face got harder with each detail, his jaw working like he was chewing glass. When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.

"Get some rest," he said finally. "Don't worry about the mission.”

He turned and walked out.

After Dan left, I summoned a few clones and had them work on patching us up properly. A few hours later, Tsume finally came around. She was groggy at first, blinking at the ceiling like she couldn't figure out where she was.

"Where's Kuromaru?" she mumbled, trying to focus on my face. "Did we finish the mission?"

Her eyes widened slightly when she got a clear look at me. "Shinji... you're alive." Relief flooded her voice, then shook her head. "Should've known you're too stubborn to die."

Before I could respond, a familiar whine came from the doorway. Kuromaru padded into the room, tail wagging as he spotted his partner awake. The ninken hopped onto her bed and immediately started licking her face.

"Okay, okay!" she laughed despite her injuries. "I'm fine, boy. I'm fine."

When we filled her in on the ambush and its aftermath, her expression cycled through confusion, anger, and finally settled on pure rage.

"Those bastards jumped us?" She tried to sit up despite her arm being in a cast. "Where are they? I'm gonna rip their fucking throats out."

"Already taken care of," I said. "They're not jumping anyone else."

"Good." She fell back against the pillows, sweat beading on her forehead from the effort. "How long are we stuck in this place?"

"Few days minimum," Mikoto said, shifting carefully to avoid pulling her stitches. "The medics want to make sure we don't keel over."

Tsume made a disgusted noise. "I hate hospitals. They smell like death and bleach."

"That's the smell of medicine," I pointed out. "You know, the stuff keeping you from bleeding internally."

"Whatever. Still smells like shit." She wrinkled her nose. "And the food tastes like cardboard. I want a hangi!"

"Spoken like a true Inuzuka."

"Damn right."

…..

I woke up to find three medics clustered around our beds with expressions that ranged from confused to downright suspicious. The head medic, a stern woman in her forties named Ishida, was holding a clipboard and glaring at it like it owed her money.

"Something wrong?" I asked, though I had a pretty good idea what they'd discovered.

"Your wounds," Ishida said slowly, tapping her pen against the chart. "All three of you. They're healing way faster than they should be."

I blinked innocently. "Is that bad?"

"Not bad, exactly. But we don't have elite Iryonin here who could pull this off." She studied my face like she was looking for lies. "Makes me wonder if Dan brought in reinforcements we don't know about."

Across the room, Mikoto was fighting back a smile. Tsume sat up in her bed, glancing between me and the medics with barely contained laughter.

"Maybe we're just naturally tough," I offered.

"Nobody heals serious wounds that fast," another medic said. "And not all three of you at once."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I shrugged. "I just slept really well. Must be something in the water."

Just like that, word about my medical talent spread through the facility faster than a ninja with his pants on fire. Over the next few days, I found myself spending more time in the medical wing than in my hospital bed. Ishida had given me unofficial permission to assist with cases, partly because they were understaffed and partly because she seemed genuinely fascinated by my talent despite my age. I helped with everything from stitching up knife wounds to more complex procedures that left the other medics scratching their heads.

On the third day, our surviving chunin finally came around. He blinked at the ceiling like he couldn't quite remember how he'd ended up staring at it. When he asked about his teammates, the room went dead quiet.

"I'm sorry," I told him. "They didn't make it."

His face collapsed. "The merchants?"

"Gone too."

He stared at nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice came out like sandpaper. "What happened out there? Kumo ambush?"

I glanced at Mikoto. "Yeah. They hit us hard and fast. We managed to drive them off, but..." I let the sentence hang. "Too late for most people."

We didn't mention that the ambush had probably been meant specifically for me. No point making the guy feel worse about surviving.

…..

"Um, excuse me. Team 7, please report to the briefing room."

The messenger was some kid who couldn't have been more than twelve, probably fresh out of the Academy and already shipped off to this frontier shithole to run errands.

"Thanks," I told him. "We'll be right there."

After he scurried off, I looked at my teammates. We'd all been cleared for duty the day before, though Ishida had insisted on additional rest time for observation.

"Think this is about our next assignment?" Tsume flexed her recently healed arm, testing the range of motion. The bone had set perfectly, no stiffness, no weakness, like it had never been broken at all.

"Probably," Mikoto said. "We've been off active duty for a week. Dan's got to be running short on personnel."

The briefing room was the same one where we’d received our escort mission assignment. Dan was waiting for us, along with two other jonin I didn’t recognize. All three looked like they had been having a serious conversation, judging by their expressions.

"Team 7," Dan said as we filed in. "Good to see you back on your feet. How are you feeling?"

"Like we could take on the world," Tsume said, cracking her knuckles.

"Fully recovered," Mikoto said.

"Ready for whatever you've got planned," I said.

"Good. Because we have a situation." Dan paused, his eyes scanning each of our faces. "Your assignment here is finished. I'm sending you back to Konoha."

Tsume's jaw dropped. "What? But we just got cleared for duty. I thought—"

"Circumstances have changed," he said. “Pack your gear. You're out at first light."

I kept my mouth shut, already seeing the writing on the wall. This had been coming since our debrief about the convoy massacre.

"Just like that?" Tsume's voice rose. "We sit around in a hospital bed for a week and now you're kicking us out?"

Mikoto studied Dan's face. "This is about the ambush, isn't it?"

Tsume's eyes went hard as the pieces fell into place. "The botched escort mission... Are you pulling us because we screwed up?"

"No. Mission parameters have changed. That's all I can tell you. You'll get new assignments once you report back to the village."

I watched him carefully. The man was lying through his teeth, but I had a pretty good idea what he wasn't saying.

……

Dawn bled orange and pink across the horizon as I rolled out of bed and stood at the window, watching the first light spill over Kitaura's grimy rooftops. Time to plan my next move.

Dan wasn't shipping us back because we'd failed the mission. He was getting rid of us because we'd succeeded too well. Because I'd succeeded too well.

If Kumo managed to snatch the supposed "Nine-Tails Jinchuriki" on his watch, even though that wasn't what I actually was, the political shitstorm would destroy Dan's career and reputation. So he was covering his ass by yanking me out of the combat zone before anyone else came hunting. Smart play, honestly. I couldn't blame him for it.

But letting those Kumo bastards walk away without consequences? Not fucking happening.

I ran through the hand seals for shadow clone, feeling my chakra split as another version of myself took shape beside me.

"Lightning Country," I said quietly. "Deep cover, long-term infiltration. Build a network, gather intelligence, and make their lives miserable. Check in every week by dispelling."

The clone nodded, already moving toward the window. "Any specific targets?"

"Use your judgment. But remember, they started this shit by targeting civilians and coming after us specifically. Make sure they regret that choice." I paused. "Obviously, no killing innocents."

"Got it."

The clone slipped through the window and dropped into the alley below, vanishing into the pre-dawn shadows. By the time the sun cleared the mountains, it would be miles away, starting what might be years of work behind enemy lines.

I felt better already.

……

Three hours later, we were walking through Konoha's gates with the morning sun beating down on our necks. No ambushes, no drama—just a quiet march home through countryside that didn't want to kill us.

Tsume had spent most of the trip bitching about Kumo dishonorable tactics, while Mikoto stayed quiet, lost in thought and shooting me occasional glances.

"Home sweet home," I said as we passed under the village gates.

"God, I missed this, an actual civilization!" Tsume groaned, eyeing a fruit vendor's stall.

"First thing I'm doing is burning these clothes," Mikoto muttered, picking at a bloodstain on her sleeve that hadn't come out despite multiple washings.

I just wanted to collapse in my own bed and not think about anything more complicated than what to eat for lunch.

"We should probably check in first," she said, nodding toward the Hokage Tower. "Get the paperwork over with."

Tsume made a face. "Can't we pretend we got lost on the way back?"

"For about three minutes, sure."

A shower and a change of clothes later, we handed over our mission report—thick enough to choke a horse—and for once they didn't immediately slap us with another mission. Just told us to rest up and wait for orders.

So that's what we did. We split up and I trudged back to my apartment, already yawning at the thought of my Konoha clones doing whatever the hell they'd been up to while I was gone.

……

Sunlight crept through my bedroom window like an unwelcome houseguest, jabbing me in the eyes until I finally gave up on sleep. I'd been having the weirdest nightmare about my clones going rogue, not just developing opinions about breakfast, but actually forming their own version of the Akatsuki in every major village.

What time was it, anyway?

The apartment was quiet except for the usual morning noise from the street outside. No explosions, no screaming, no signs that my clones had decided to redecorate with fire while I was unconscious. Always a good sign.

I dragged myself out of bed, bare feet hitting cold wood. My hair was doing that thing where gravity had given up, and my mouth tasted like I’d been chewing on old leather. Just another beautiful morning.

The living room looked like a tornado had thrown a party—empty sake bottles clustered on every surface, medical textbooks splayed open with pages torn and bloodstained, and the sound of what was definitely two clones trying to murder each other somewhere nearby. Pretty typical morning, all things considered.

Sure enough, the wet smack of fists meeting flesh drifted from the dining area, followed by what sounded like someone getting their face introduced to my furniture.

I grabbed a sake cup from the kitchen and poured myself something to take the edge off. Then I collapsed onto my couch, balancing the cup on my chest as I watched two of my clones beat each other senseless on my dining table. Their punches came fast and ugly, connecting with wet smacks as they tried to knock each other into next week.

"Come on, lefty," I muttered, taking another sip. "Use your damn footwork."

Around the room, other clones sat hunched over books in various corners, quietly absorbed in everything from medical texts to whatever manuals they'd swiped from the library. The apartment had basically become my personal study hall and training ground, which beat the hell out of doing all the research myself.

But right now, my mind kept drifting back to the sake in my cup.

I'd never seen anyone in Konoha selling whiskey, rum, or vodka. Sake was fine—good, even—but sometimes a guy wanted options. The idea of brewing my own had been nagging at me for weeks, and today, with nothing pressing to do, it seemed less insane and more... doable.

The problem was nobody here seemed to make those drinks. I drummed my fingers on the couch, trying to remember what I'd need. Barrels for aging, obviously. A big pot for mashing grains. Some kind of fermentation setup—maybe wooden vats or clay jars.

The real headache would be the distillation still. A basic pot still might work, but that meant convincing some blacksmith to craft both the still and a condenser. Copper would be perfect, but even iron could get me started.

Doing it inside the village was completely out of the question. People would start asking too many questions.

But outside the village? Maybe somewhere like Tanzaku Quarters, with its gambling halls and endless booze flowing. That sounded more plausible. A place where people minded their own business and weird smells from workshops wouldn't raise eyebrows. And if I got it right, it could turn into serious money down the road.

I drained my sake cup and came to a decision.

"Alright," I said, looking at one of the reading clones. "Pack it up. I'm sending you to Tanzaku Quarters."

"Huh?" The clone glanced up from his book. "What for?"

I opened my mouth to explain the whole whiskey operation—scouting locations, finding equipment suppliers, figuring out local laws...

"You know what?" I waved him off. "Forget it."

The clone shrugged and went back to his reading.

I ran through the hand seals and a clone popped into existence next to the couch. He immediately grabbed my sake bottle, and tilted it back, draining what was left in one long gulp. "Back in a few days."

"Take your time and do it right."

He slipped through the window without another word, disappearing into the morning streets. That was the beauty of shadow clones—no need to waste time explaining shit when they already knew everything running through your head.

I settled back into the couch with a freshly filled cup, watching the table fighters try to keep their balance on the wobbling surface while they beat the hell out of each other. The wood groaned with every impact, probably close to giving up and dumping both idiots on the floor.

One of the clones who'd been reading in the corner suddenly tossed his book aside and dropped onto the couch next to me, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. "We finished those Soldier Pill experiments you wanted."

"Did I?" I paused, sake cup halfway to my mouth.

He let out a tired breath. "You mentioned wanting to understand how they work after seeing them used in the field. Something about knowing what we're dealing with if enemies start popping them during fights."

Right. That made sense. Soldier Pills were standard issue for most major villages, but I'd never bothered learning the details of how they actually worked.

"So what'd you figure out?" I took another sip, already knowing from his face that the results were both interesting and miserable.

"They work exactly like you thought, and they're exactly as shitty as we expected. The other clones are pissed about being guinea pigs."

"Details."

The clone sighed. "The pills are mostly medicinal herbs, chakra-rich foods, and sugar. Basic crap you could buy at any market. But the way they work is clever in a completely fucked up way."

He held up two fingers. "Two main effects. First, it's a metabolic booster, forces your body to burn through stored fat, muscle, whatever fuel you've got, and turn it all into energy. Second, it jacks up chakra circulation through your tenketsu, basically overclocking your entire system."

"Makes sense," I said, already thinking about applications. "Perfect for clones."

"Yeah, well, we're not exactly celebrating," the clone said flatly. "Normally, your body can only push combat-level chakra output for short bursts before it needs a break. These pills just ignore that completely by tapping into what the medical texts call 'emergency reserves.'"

He waved his hand dismissively. "That's why the books claim you can fight for three days straight. You're not getting new chakra—the pill forces your body to burn everything you have at maximum speed while shutting off all the warnings that usually tell you to stop."

I nodded. "And the crash?"

"Oh, where do I start? Dehydration, muscle breakdown, organ strain. When the effect wears off, you don't just get tired, you collapse. Your body basically shuts down to prevent permanent damage."

"How permanent are we talking? You did test them on clones, right?"

"Sort of. Clones aren't exactly built for long-term studies, so we only got rough data. But repeated use can fuck up your heart and trash your chakra coils permanently," he said. "The pills don't make energy out of nothing, they just force your body to burn through everything you've got stored up way too fast. It's like redlining a car engine for hours. Eventually, something snaps."

I set down my sake cup. "So Soldier Pills work by jacking up your metabolism, overcharging chakra flow, and blocking the signals that tell you to stop before you kill yourself."

"Basically. And before you ask, yeah, they'd be perfect for suicide runs or when you're completely screwed. And no, none of us want to go through that shit again."

The clone stood up. "The others are calling it 'scientific self-torture.' Hard to argue with that."

"Fair enough," I said. "Good work, though."

"Yeah, well, next time you want to figure out how something works, maybe pick something that doesn't make us feel like we're dying slowly."

"No promises."

The clone gave me a flat look and walked away, muttering about sadistic bosses. I couldn't help but smile, the intel was exactly what I'd wanted, even if it came with a heaping side of bitching.

"Good work," I said, taking another sip. "Now I want you to push it further."

The clone paused as his face shifted from uncomfortable to deeply suspicious. "Further how?"

"See if you can develop a stronger version. More potent effects. Maybe mix it with other stuff to boost the metabolic kick."

"You want us to make suicide pills," the clone said.

"Exactly. Current ones are built for extended combat over days. I'm thinking more like short-term overwhelming power. Something that could turn the tide in a critical fight."

The clone stared at me for a long moment, then let out a deep sigh that seemed to come from his soul. "So you want us to take something that already makes us feel like we're dying, and make it worse."

"When you put it like that, it sounds unreasonable."

"Because it is unreasonable!" The clone pressed his palm against his forehead. "Do you have any clue what we just went through? It felt like someone poured acid in our veins while making us sprint uphill."

"But did it work?"

"...Yes, it worked. Disgustingly well."

"Then imagine how much more effective a concentrated version could be. Quick burst of overwhelming power instead of sustained misery."

The clone closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I could see him doing the math, how much pain this would cause versus how useful it might be.

"The others are going to hate this," he said finally.

"They'll get over it. Besides, think of it as advancing medical science."

"Medical science." He snorted. "Right.”

"Hey, all the best discoveries require sacrifice. This time it just happens to be your sacrifice instead of mine."

The clone gave me a look. "I'm starting to understand why Konoha ban shadow clone jutsu."

"One more thing," I said, waving my hand at the disaster zone that used to be my apartment. "I want you to start buying up the empty rooms in this building. Set them up for experiments, training, research—whatever keeps this circus out of my bedroom."

The clone looked around, taking in the scattered books, the wobbling table with its ongoing brawl, and the general chaos that had consumed my living space. "What's wrong with it?"

I snorted. "Look around, genius. My apartment smells like a chemical plant, there are burn marks on the walls from your practice sessions, and I can't have anyone over without explaining why there's suspicious shit scattered everywhere."

The clone grimaced. "Point taken."

"What happens when I want company? What if Kushina comes over for another cooking lesson and finds you idiots testing weird compounds in my kitchen?"

"That would be awkward to explain," he admitted.

"Exactly. So buy out the empty units. Turn the third floor into a proper lab, set up training rooms, whatever works. Just give me my space back."

"That's going to cost serious money."

"Mission pay's been good. Besides, consider it an investment in our future operations." I gestured at the mess. "Right now we're operating like amateurs out of a single room. Time to upgrade."

The clone rolled his eyes but stood up. "Fine. I'll talk to the landlord about available units and start setting up proper workspace. Anything else, boss?"

"Yeah. Soundproof the lab. I don't want the neighbors calling ANBU because they think someone's running a torture chamber."

"We basically are running a torture chamber."

"Allegedly."

The clone shook his head and headed for the door. “I’ll get on it. But how the hell are we supposed to soundproof a lab, anyway? What materials do we even use for that?”

"Uh." I froze, sake cup halfway to my mouth. "Well, this isn't Earth, so new world problems need new world solutions. I'll ask Kushina if she knows any soundproofing seals."

Just as I finished talking, one of the table fighters finally managed to knock his opponent off balance. The losing clone crashed into my bookshelf, sending several volumes crashing to the floor with loud bangs.

"Alright, that's enough!" I snapped, glaring around the room. "All of you, stop what you're doing and clean this shit up. I want my apartment back to normal in the next hour."

The reading clones looked up from their books with mild surprise. The table fighter who'd won his match froze mid-celebration.

"Now!" I added when nobody moved fast enough.

"Where are we supposed to put everything?" one of the readers asked.

"I don't care. Just get it out of my living space."

The clone at the door shook his head. "I'll go talk to the landlord about those rooms."

……

I stepped out into the corridor, needing some fresh air after watching my clones tear my apartment apart. The sake was making my head feel fuzzy, and the constant noise of books being shuffled and furniture moved around was getting on my nerves.

Sure enough, old man Tetsu was standing near his door at the far end of the hallway, watering a small potted plant on his windowsill. When he spotted me, his weathered face broke into that familiar knowing smile.

"Ah, Shinji-kun!" He set down his watering can and shuffled over. "Good to see you getting some fresh air. You've been training very hard lately, haven't you? All day, all the time—such dedication to your shinobi studies!"

I cringed internally. Of course he had been hearing things.

"Sorry about the noise, Tetsu-san," I said, bowing slightly. "I'll make sure to tune it down. I didn't realize how much sound was carrying through the walls."

"Oh, don't worry about it!" He waved his hand dismissively. "It's good to see young people taking their training seriously. Better than the alternative—lazy kids these days, always complaining about hard work."

The old man leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Though I have to admit, some of those sounds… are you practicing a jutsu? It shakes my teacups sometimes. Might be safer to practice that sort of thing at the training grounds.”

"Ah, no, it's nothing dangerous like that," I said weakly. "But I promise I'll be more careful about the noise."

As I headed back toward the stairs, a thought struck me. Maybe I really did need to look into getting my own place, somewhere with more space, away from civilian neighbors who might ask uncomfortable questions about why my apartment sounded like a torture chamber half the time.

A house with a yard. Maybe even a basement for the really loud experiments. Somewhere far enough from pedestrian areas that my clones could blow things up without rattling anyone's teacups.

Yeah, that was definitely going on the priority list.

……

I walked through Konoha's familiar streets, sucking in air that didn't reek of antiseptic or burnt flesh for the first time in weeks.

God, it felt good to be home.

That peaceful feeling lasted maybe ten minutes before the familiar crawl of being watched started eating at the back of my neck. The same sensation my clones had been reporting—that obvious feeling of someone's eyes glued to your every move.

I kept walking like nothing was wrong, using storefront windows and quick glances to hunt for my tail. Nothing. Whoever was tracking me knew their business, staying invisible while keeping me in sight. Professional-grade surveillance.

At a dango stand, I bought a tray of the sweet rice dumplings and started chewing while I worked through who might want me followed.

First possibility: ANBU surveillance. Unlikely. I'd already sorted things out with the old man at Lady Mito's place. No reason he'd want to keep tabs on me now.

Second: Kumo spies. Also unlikely but possible, especially if they'd connected me to that crater-filled hellscape outside Kitaura. Which they probably would, eventually. But sneaking into Konoha just to watch one genin seemed like massive overkill, even for revenge-minded kumo bastards. Then again, they'd tried snatching Kushina before, so maybe stupid risks were their thing.

Third option: Root.

I bit into another dango, thinking it through. Danzo being Danzo, I could think of plenty of reasons he might have me watched. Most obvious was recruitment. Root was always hunting for talented shinobi to drag into their ranks. And after the mess in Kitaura and the forest, word had definitely gotten back about what I could do.

Question was whether he'd try the friendly approach or just disappear me one night. Given that I was technically a nepo baby, forceful kidnapping seemed unlikely. Too much political blowback if it went wrong. So probably the diplomatic route, a nice chat about serving the village in more... specialized ways.

Sure enough, after about ten minutes of wandering through increasingly quiet residential streets, a figure in a dark cloak stepped out from an alley. The ANBU mask was generic, but something about the way he moved screamed Root operative—all that emotionless body language, like someone had surgically removed his personality.

"Shinji," he said, "the elder wishes to speak with you. If you would follow me."

Not a request, despite the polite phrasing. But I'd been expecting this.

"Which elder?" I asked, taking another bite of dango.

"Danzo-sama is waiting."

I grinned around the stick. If Danzo wanted to play recruitment games, I could work with that. The old bastard thought he could just waltz in and recruit me, it would be too easy to mess with him. Why not see how much I could get under his skin before telling him to go screw himself? And if I could swindle some S-ranked or forbidden jutsu out of him in the process, all the better.

"Lead the way," I said, finishing off the last dumpling.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 48

The road to the capital was dusty and boring. Hours into the escort mission, and Mikoto was starting to zone out from the repetitive sound of wagon wheels and footsteps.

She walked alongside Shinji, half-listening to one of the older chunin spin tales about missions that should have killed him. The man's left hand was missing two fingers—old injury, by the look of the scarred stumps.

“…so there I was, right?” the older chunin was saying, gesturing with his mangled hand. “Hanging upside down from this tree, bleeding like a stuck pig, with my partner down below trying to scare off this bear.”

"Wait, a bear?" Tsume called from somewhere behind them.

"Big bastard. Anyway, I'm hanging there with kunai sticking out of my back, blood getting in my eyes, can't see shit, and this bear's just... standing there. Looking at my partner like he's deciding whether to eat him or not."

Shinji made a non-committal sound. "So what'd you do?"

"Smoke bomb," the chunin said, like it was obvious. "Right in the face. Bears hate that shit more than anything." He chuckled, showing teeth stained yellow from too much cheap coffee. "Thing took off running, nearly trampled my partner on the way out."

"Huh." Mikoto shifted her pack strap. "That actually worked?"

"Yeah, well..." The chunin shrugged. "Sometimes you get lucky."

Shinji was quiet for a moment. "I would've probably tried talking to it first."

"You would've been wondering how to cook it," Mikoto muttered.

A couple of the guys beside them chuckled.

Shinji glanced at her with a slight smile. "Bear steaks aren't that bad, actually."

"Of course you'd know that," she said, shaking her head.

The lead chunin glanced back from his forward position, sweat lines already marking his dusty face. "Speaking of food—you genin need to know something. Never trust what passes for 'edible' in other villages. I made that mistake in Earth Country once. Some of their ideas of nutrition involve ingredients that’ll strip the paint right off your taste buds."

"Water sources are worse," another chunin said. "Always check upstream for bodies. Contamination'll kill you slower than poison, but just as dead."

Tsume nodded. "Yeah, that makes sense."

The sun climbed higher, turning the dust into a fine coating of misery that stuck to everything. When hunger finally hit, everyone started digging into their supplies. The chunin pulled out store-bought bento from the market—rice that looked a day past fresh, vegetables that had seen better hours.

Shinji produced three neatly wrapped bento from his storage seal. He handed one to Mikoto, another to Tsume.

"Mm, this smells amazing," Tsume said, already tearing into hers like she hadn't eaten in days.

Mikoto and Shinji ate without comment, but halfway through her portion, Shinji wordlessly offered her half of his grilled fish. She took it just as naturally, passing him some of her pickled vegetables in return. They didn't say anything about it—he never made a big deal about his cooking, and she had learned not to refuse when he shared. She could tell he'd seasoned the fish differently this time, maybe with that new miso paste she'd seen him experimenting with. The vegetables had turned out well too, crisp and tangy. They ate in comfortable quiet, chopsticks occasionally crossing paths over the shared dishes.

The chunin caught the food exchange and one of them smirked. "You two do that a lot?"

"Do what?" she asked.

"Share food without asking. My squad never does that."

"We've been on a lot of missions together," Shinji said.

"Right." The chunin's grin widened. "Very professional."

Tsume snorted. "They do this all the time. Shinji makes sure everyone eats, Mikoto keeps us from doing anything stupid."

"I don't—"

"Remember when you stopped me from doing any more pranks during a mission?"

"That would've been a terrible idea."

"See?" Tsume gestured at the chunin.

Mikoto rolled her eyes. "Whatever."

The teasing died down as they finished eating and got back on the road. More dust, more heat, more walking. One of the chunin started explaining explosive tag placement, something about maximizing blast radius.

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, turning the road into a shimmering haze ahead of them. A strand of Shinji's hair had worked loose from the rest, sticking up at an odd angle. Without thinking, Mikoto reached out to smooth it down.

Her hand froze halfway there. What the hell was she doing?

'Focus, Mikoto,' she told herself firmly. 'You're on a mission.'

But it was hard to focus on potential threats when everything felt so routine, so ordinary. The road stretched empty in both directions, the weather was perfect, and the worst thing that had happened all day was running out of the decent travel tea.

"You know what?" one of the chunin said suddenly, his weathered face lighting up. "When we get back to Konoha, you two should come meet my son. Just had him last month. Kid's got the tiniest hands you've ever seen."

"You have a baby?" Mikoto asked, perking up with interest. "Congratulations! How's your wife handling it? I heard the first month is brutal."

"Exhausted but happy," the chunin grinned. "And you're right about brutal. He wakes up every two hours like he's got an internal alarm clock. But when he looks at you with those huge eyes..." He shook his head. "Makes every sleepless night worth it."

"Does he look like you?" Shinji asked, with just enough of a pause to make his meaning clear.

The new father caught it right away and laughed. "Yeah, he's mine, smartass. Got my nose, unfortunately for him. And this little wrinkle between his eyebrows when he's pissed off—that's all me." He held up his hands, grinning. "Seven pounds, two ounces. Kid eats like he's training for the chunin exams."

"The frown could be anyone's," Shinji said, completely straight-faced.

"Oh, screw you," the guy laughed, shoving Shinji's shoulder. "Just wait. When you finally have kids, I'm gonna be right there being a smartass."

"Kids are great," another chunin called out from behind them. "Just wait until yours starts crawling. That's when you really find out what hell looks like."

The father groaned. "Thanks for that."

"I'd love to meet him," Mikoto said warmly. "It's been forever since I've seen a—"

The words died in her throat.

Mikoto saw it before she felt it—steel sliding through Shinji's back with a wet, tearing sound, the point bursting out of his chest in a spray of red. He still wore the smile from their conversation, still looked like he was about to make another joke, when the blade punched through his chest.

Time stuttered.

The smile slipped from his face, replaced by confusion, then pain. His knees buckled. Blood poured from his mouth, from the hole in his chest, staining his shirt crimson.

"Shinji—"

Her voice sounded like it was coming from someone else, someone far away screaming through water. The world tilted sideways, colors smearing together into a sick blur. Sound collapsed into a high-pitched whine, the shouts and clash of metal becoming distant noise.

All she could see was red. Too much red.

Shinji hit the dirt hard, body jerking like a broken puppet. His hands scrabbled at the ground, fingers digging furrows in the dust as blood spread beneath him in an ever-widening pool. The blade—because that's what it was, she could see it clearly now—had gone straight through him, the tip gleaming wet and obscene in the afternoon light.

'No. No, no, no—'

Something ignited in her chest, clawing up her throat, burning hot behind her eyes. The world snapped back into focus, every detail suddenly crystal clear and completely wrong. She could see each individual drop of Shinji's blood hitting the dust. Could count the flecks of dirt stuck to the growing stain beneath his body. Could see the cold satisfaction in the eyes of the enemy shinobi stepping out from the tree line, more shadows moving behind them.

Her hand found Shinji's tanto without her telling it to, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip.

Everything after that became a blur of violence and blood.

Steel biting into flesh. Someone screaming—her throat was raw, so probably her. The Kumo-nin's face twisting in terror as her genjutsu grabbed him, turning his world into a waking nightmare of drowning in his own gore. More enemies sliding out from behind trees and rocks. Tsume's voice cracking with panic, yelling something about getting Shinji out of there.

Mikoto moved through the carnage like she was sleepwalking through hell, the tanto an extension of her arm. Her body knew what to do—all those hours sparring with Shinji had carved the movements into muscle memory. Now instinct took over, her hands finding their own way to the next kill.

"Uchiha!" someone shouted over the chaos. "It's a fucking Uchiha!"

She didn't care. Let them scream. Let them run. It wouldn't save them.

A Kumo chunin lunged at her with a kunai, and her eyes caught him for a second. His chest seized under the illusion, a rush of phantom liquid filling his lungs. He gagged, hacking air like it carried rust, but it was clumsy—he wasn’t drowning, just panicking. His grip slackened enough for her tanto to punch across his throat, the cut splattering her face with a warmth more convincing than the genjutsu ever could.

The second one tried his luck from the flank. For a flicker he saw his arm blistering, flesh peeling in strips, but the image stuttered and broke. He shook it off with a snarl, only to feel her blade tear reality open where the false burns had been.

Blood everywhere. On her hands, on the blade, soaking into the dirt around what used to be people. A shallow cut across her ribs leaked down her side, but she couldn't feel it through the rage. Couldn't feel anything except the need to keep killing. How many had she dropped? Three? Four? Didn't matter. Not enough. Would never be enough.

A larger figure loomed in her peripheral vision—a jonin, by his size and the way he moved. She spun toward him, tanto raised, ready to paint the world with more crimson.

But pain exploded through her neck, lightning racing down her spine. The world spun sideways and she was falling, tanto tumbling from fingers that suddenly wouldn't work. Her face smacked into the dirt, mouth filling with copper and grit.

She tried to move, to get up, to keep fighting. Had to get up. Had to make them pay. Had to—

The Kumo jonin looked down at her like she was a rabid dog he'd just put down.

Darkness ate her vision whole, and the last thing she saw was red.

Red on her hands.

Red in the dirt.

All that red, and still not enough.

……

Second-gen Clone POV

Konoha

The steam from our ramen bowls curled around our faces, warm and clinging, and I was perfectly content to sit there forever. Kushina was already on her second bowl, eating like she hadn't seen food in a week.

"So," I said between bites, "did you find out anything about that neighbor of yours?"

Kushina slurped up a mouthful of noodles before answering. "Fuwa Aika? Yeah, I looked into it."

"And?"

"Definitely not Senju." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "I was pretty sure before, but now I know for certain."

"Please tell me you didn't do anything crazy."

"What? No! I just asked around the compound. Some of the older members know pretty much everyone who's ever been connected to the clan."

"Okay, that's... actually pretty reasonable."

"I even asked Grandma Mito about her."

"What'd she say?"

Her face soured. "Told me to stop gossiping like some old auntie at the market and focus on my own training instead of poking around in other people's business."

I snorted. "So you got lectured for being a nosy old lady?"

"I wasn't being nosy!" Her cheeks turned pink. "I was just... gathering information. For you."

"Right. 'Gathering information.' That's totally different from what the aunties at the market do."

She kicked my shin under the counter. "Shut up. I was trying to help, and this is the thanks I get?"

"Sorry, sorry." I was still grinning. "Just go easy on the violence or I'll pop. You know how delicate us clones are.”

"Good. You'd deserve it," she shot back. "And you owe me big time for this."

"Sorry, sorry. I appreciate it. Really."

The tension broke after that. She launched into stories about Lady Mito's bizarre habit of collecting old masks, then somehow switched to a passionate defense of miso broth superiority. I countered that shoyu was the backbone of any decent ramen, but my heart wasn't in the argument. My mind kept drifting to darker thoughts, the way shadows seemed to linger too long in my peripheral vision, how every crowd felt like it held hostile eyes.

After a few minutes, she set down her chopsticks and studied my face. "Hey. What's wrong? You look like someone stole your lunch money."

I blinked and forced myself back to the present. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like dying flies. "Sorry. It's probably nothing, but..." I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off the creeping paranoia. "I've been getting this weird feeling lately. Like someone's watching me."

Kushina’s eyes lit up like she’d just discovered a bowl of ramen. “Ooh! Secret admirer?”

"What? No—"

"Some lovesick girl following you around, trying to work up the courage to slip you a love letter?" She wiggled her eyebrows at me. "Or maybe a creepy stalker planning to kidnap you and keep you chained in her basement!"

I grabbed my chopsticks and jabbed them toward her cheek. "You're way too excited about the idea of me getting stalked."

“Hey!” She blocked with her own chopsticks, laughing as wood clacked against wood. “You’re the one who attracts the stalker, not me!”

I thrust again and she parried like she'd been doing this her whole life. A businessman at the next table shot us a dirty look, probably thinking we were drunk teenagers making a mess.

"Right." I tried a different angle, aiming for her wrist. "Because I'm so well-known for my sparkling personality."

"Dream on." She knocked my chopsticks aside with a sharp click. "Oh, speaking of stuff you asked me about—that exploding seals thing?"

We both froze mid-strike.

"Yeah?" I lowered my chopsticks. "How's it going?"

"Finally got the exploding seal figured out." She stabbed at her remaining noodles. "Took forever to get the timing right, but I think I've cracked it. Though I'm still not sure how it's gonna mesh with shadow clone jutsu."

"Yeah? Want to test it out?"

"Right now?" Her eyes lit up.

"Sure, if you're not busy. And don't worry about whether it'll work or not—either way, we've already got exploding clones covered." I waved my hand dismissively.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"The clones back at the apartment already figured out how to make exploding clones without needing seals."

She blinked. "Wait, what?" Her expression shifted to confusion, then annoyance. "Then why did you bother asking me to work on the exploding seal in the first place?" Her knuckles cracked as she clenched her fists.

"Hey, easy there." I held up my hands. "I'll explain everything later, alright? Let's just head to the training ground. I'll tell you the rest there."

"This better be good." She stood up so fast her chair scraped against the floor. Other customers glanced over, probably sensing the violence radiating off her. "I spent weeks on those damn seals."

"Ha ha, don't worry. It will be." The laugh came out nervous.

…….

I stood across from Kushina in the training ground, watching her cross her arms with that expression that meant I was about five seconds away from eating dirt.

"Alright, smart guy." She stepped closer, close enough that I could see the muscle twitching in her jaw. "Explain. You just told me you already know how to make exploding clones, so why the hell did you ask me to help you figure it out?"

I scratched the back of my neck. "Well, it's pretty simple to create an exploding clone, technically speaking. You just destabilize the clone and force its stored chakra to detonate. Like tuning the chakra matrix to combust on dispersal instead of just dissolving into nothing."

Her eyebrows shot up. "That's it?"

"More or less. There are some nasty complications, but the basic concept isn't brain surgery." I shrugged. "You can get a shadow clone to explode if you mess with its chakra structure enough."

"Then why—" Kushina's voice dropped to that tone that usually preceded broken bones, "did you waste my time asking me to work on exploding seals when you already knew how to do it?"

"Because," I said quickly, holding up my hands, "the explosion you get that way depends entirely on whatever chakra the clone has left when it goes boom. If the clone's been running around for hours and only has scraps of chakra remaining, you get a pathetic little pop. Maybe enough to singe someone's eyebrows."

She paused. "Ah."

"Right. So if I send a clone on a long mission, or it gets jumped and needs to explode as a last resort, chances are it'll have burned through most of its chakra already. The explosion would be a joke, if it can still explode at all."

She uncrossed her arms. "But if you could supplement the clone with an exploding seal..."

"Exactly. You'd get real destructive force instead of a glorified firecracker."

"Huh." She finally stopped looking like she wanted to break my ribs. "Okay, that actually makes sense. Why didn't you just say that from the beginning?"

"Because watching you get progressively more pissed off is entertaining?"

The look she gave me suggested that violence was definitely back on the menu.

"Kidding," I said quickly. "I just didn't have time to explain properly, and honestly... I kind of forgot about it?"

After calming her down with promises of free ramen for a week, we finally got to work. She taught me everything she knew about seals—the specific knowledge I’d need before tackling exploding seals. We sat in the shade of a gnarled oak tree, its bark rough against my back as she spread her scroll across the dirt-packed ground. Her finger traced complex symbols while she explained how they worked, how one wrong stroke could turn a useful tool into a dud—or worse.

Days blurred together. I taught her the shadow clone jutsu, watching her struggle with the chakra control while trying not to laugh when her first attempts produced half-formed, twitching abominations that dissolved after seconds. She drilled me on seal theory until my head pounded and ink stained my fingers black.

Two days before the real me was supposed to leave for the escort mission to the capital, I finally cracked it.

"I think I got it right this time." I held up the seal against the sun.

"Really?"

"Yeah. The chakra flow feels stable, and the trigger mechanism should work."

"Why don't you test it?"

"Sure, why not?" I attached the seal to a clone and sent it toward the far end of the training ground. "What's the worst that could happen?"

The explosion that followed turned the evening sky orange and sent a shockwave rattling windows a block away. Birds erupted from the trees in screaming clouds, while chunks of earth rained down like hail. When the smoke cleared, we were both flat on our backs, ears ringing, staring up at a sky that suddenly seemed too bright.

The punishment came swift and brutal—three weeks of cleaning public toilets and a formal ban from using explosive seals within village limits. But true art demands sacrifice, and explosions are the purest form of artistic expression. Worth every minute of scrubbing shit-stained porcelain, honestly.

……

The three Konoha chunin moved silently through the forest, following their patrol route along the outer perimeter where trade caravans kept getting butchered by bandits.

The leftmost nin stopped dead when he felt it—a tremor running through the soles of his boots, like something massive had just hit the ground miles away. He glanced toward his teammates, catching their questioning looks. Earthquake, maybe?

The tremor lasted only a few seconds before subsiding, leaving the forest eerily quiet. Birds had stopped singing. Even the usual rustle of small animals moving through the underbrush had gone silent.

"That was—" the center nin started to say.

Another tremor cut him off—stronger this time, strong enough to make the trees creak and sway. The third chunin grabbed a trunk to keep from stumbling, his eyes sweeping the horizon for smoke or movement.

Then came another. And another.

Each tremor was larger than the last, the intervals between them growing shorter. The ground started shaking nonstop, broken up by massive jolts that sent rocks bouncing down the hillsides like marbles.

"That's not an earthquake," the leftmost nin said grimly.

"No shit." His teammate was already digging for his message scroll. "Those are explosions. Big ones."

None of them were rookies. They’d all felt the ground shake from explosive tags, seen what jutsu could do to human bodies. But this was different, like someone was carpet-bombing an entire valley.

The center nin scribbled his message while his partner summoned their hawk. The bird flapped wildly when it appeared, clearly spooked by the vibrations crawling up through the earth.

He tied the scroll to its leg and the hawk shot into the sky like its tail was on fire.

For the next several minutes, they crouched in a defensive triangle, weapons drawn, while the explosions kept coming. The rightmost chunin counted under his breath—twenty-seven separate detonations, each one strong enough to make his molars ache. Whatever was happening over there involved either a major battle or someone with enough explosive material to level a small town.

Finally, the tremors stopped. The forest went dead quiet in a way that made their skin crawl.

"How long do we wait?" The leftmost nin's voice cracked slightly.

"Maybe two more minutes?" The center chunin didn't sound confident. "Make sure whoever did that isn't still around..."

They all agreed it wasn't cowardice—just basic survival instinct. So they waited, ears straining for any sound that might mean death was headed their way. When the silence dragged on and normal forest noises gradually returned, the center ninja gave a curt nod.

"Let's move. Assume hostiles still in the area."

The three chunin started advancing toward the source of the explosions, trying to look professional while silently praying that whoever had just turned part of the landscape into a crater had already moved on to terrorize someone else.

They moved through the increasingly sparse treeline, the smell of smoke and scorched earth growing stronger with each step. Broken branches littered the ground, and more than one massive trunk lay split and blackened across their path.

"Holy," One chunin stepped around a boulder that had been launched so far from its original spot that chunks of earth still clung to its underside.

The leftmost chunin raised his fist, stopping the patrol as they reached a small ridge. Beyond the last standing trees, the forest just... stopped existing.

Where thick woodland should have stretched for miles, a hellscape of craters and destruction opened up like a wound in the earth. The ground looked like it had been chewed up and spat out by some giant beast—holes deep enough to swallow wagons, their edges still belching smoke and steam. Trees that had grown for decades were simply gone, not fallen or burned, but vaporized, leaving behind only splinters and gray ash that drifted in the wind.

"What the hell happened here?"

"I count at least twenty craters. Maybe more…”

"Any bodies?"

"Can't tell from here. If there were any, they're..." He lowered his eyes, his face pale. "There's nothing left to find."

They had never seen destruction on this scale, a systematic obliteration that had carved chunks out of the landscape itself. Steam and smoke rose from the larger craters, some still glowing red at their centers where the explosions had been intense enough to melt rock. The air tasted metallic, like blood and burnt copper.

…….

I slumped against the oak tree, each breath sending fire through my chest. The hole where that bastard's sword had punched through me was mostly sealed thanks to my clones' medical work, but "mostly" wasn't exactly confidence-inspiring. Blood still seeped through the half-closed wound, and something inside my chest definitely wasn’t sitting right.

Around me, the mess I'd made of the Kumo ambush looked like a butcher shop had exploded. Three of my clones knelt over my unconscious teammates, their hands lit up with medical chakra as they tried to keep everyone from bleeding out.

Mikoto was flat on her back a few feet away, skin white as paper but still breathing. The clone working on her had both hands pressed against a deep slice along her ribs where some asshole's blade had gotten lucky. Blood bubbled between its fingers with each breath she took.

Tsume looked like she'd been hit by a truck. Unconscious, with ugly purple bruises spreading across her left arm and the side of her face swollen shut. The clone patching her up kept cursing under its breath about broken bones and possible internal bleeding. She'd jumped in front of a Kumo jonin's attack meant for Mikoto—stupid brave or just plain stupid, depending on how you looked at it.

The surviving chunin was barely hanging on. Multiple stab wounds leaked red across his flak jacket, and he'd lost enough blood to paint a barn. My clone was pumping chakra into him just to keep his heart beating. The guy had a wife and kids back home. I wasn't letting him die in this shithole forest.

Too bad I couldn't say the same for his two teammates. Or the merchants we'd been hired to protect.

Complete fucking disaster didn't even cover it. We'd lost two chunin, all the civilian traders, and the western front supply run was probably screwed for weeks. Hell, there weren't even bodies left to send home—when those Kumo bastards had jumped us and someone shoved a blade through my back, I'd kind of lost my shit and started throwing explosive clones around like party favors. The convoy site was nothing but smoking holes in the ground now.

I should probably feel worse about that. But mostly I just felt tired and pissed off that we'd walked into another ambush.

The Kumo squad that had jumped us... well, they wouldn't be reporting back to their village. Ever.

My clones had made sure of that.

The worst part? I'd seen this coming from miles away. After weeks of my clones disrupting Kumo operations across the region, sabotaging their missions and generally making their lives miserable, it was only a matter of time before they decided I was worth hunting down personally. I'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop, staying paranoid and careful for weeks. But when nothing happened, when patrol after patrol went off without incident, I'd started to relax. Started thinking maybe they were too focused on other targets, or maybe they hadn't figured out it was me yet.

But nah of course they'd wait for the perfect moment—when I was away from Kitaura, traveling predictable routes with a small escort team. They'd probably been tracking us for days, waiting for the right spot to spring their trap.

Sigh…

At least one problem had solved itself today. I’d been racking my brain for weeks, trying to figure out how to awaken Mikoto’s Sharingan without coming off as completely cringe. Turns out watching me take a blade through the chest did the trick just fine.

The clone working on Mikoto glanced up, blood coating its hands up to the wrists. "She's stable, but she's going to be out cold for hours. Looks like activating her Sharingan for the first time burned through most of her chakra reserves."

"Trauma response," I said, tasting copper. "Seeing me get skewered probably flipped the right switches in her brain."

“Yeah, well, at least we don’t have to fake some cringy death scene now,” the clone muttered.

The clone patching up Tsume looked over. "This one's got a skull like concrete. Concussion and some busted ribs, but nothing that won't heal. She'll be back to being a pain in the ass by tomorrow."

"Wonderful," I wheezed. "Something to look forward to."

I let my head drop back against the rough bark, closing eyes that felt like they had sand in them.

First mission I'd ever completely fucked up.

But it wouldn't be the last time Kumo regretted targeting me. They'd wanted to send a message by ambushing my convoy? Fine. Message received.

Time to send one back.

My first failure, and Kumo was going to pay for every drop of blood spilled here.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 47

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the small clearing near the Kitaura forest. Mikoto wiped sweat from her forehead, already breathing harder than she'd like to admit.

She watched Shinji reset his stance—casual, like they were about to practice forms instead of trying to overwhelm him two-on-one. Again.

'He makes this look so easy,' she thought, noting how Shinji barely seemed to be trying. He could probably fight them while doing his taxes.

"You know," Tsume panted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, "for someone who's supposedly holding back, you're still annoying to fight."

"Thanks." Shinji stretched his neck to one side, then the other. "You're both improving though. That last combination actually worked."

"Again?" Tsume was already moving, shaking out her arms.

"Why not." Mikoto settled back into her stance. "Maybe this time we'll actually land something."

"Optimism. I like it." Shinji's grin was the kind that made her want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure—preferably in that order.

They kept going for another hour. By the time they finally stopped, Mikoto's stomach was growling loud enough to be embarrassing.

"God, I'm starving." Tsume flopped down cross-legged and immediately went for her water bottle, shooting a quick glance at Mikoto. "Hey, Shinji—when's the last time you actually cooked something?"

Mikoto blinked, grateful for the subject change. She gave a small laugh and said, “Seriously, we’ve been eating market food and ration bars for weeks. My mouth is bored.”

"Market food's fine—"

"Market food is okay." Tsume pointed at Shinji. "But you can actually cook. Like, really cook. And you've been holding out on us."

"I haven't been holding out," he said. "We've been busy."

"We're not busy now." Tsume gestured around the empty clearing. "No missions tomorrow either. And there's definitely a market in town."

Mikoto watched this exchange with growing amusement. She'd seen Tsume use similar tactics to convince reluctant civilians to cooperate during missions, but watching her deploy those skills to secure a home-cooked meal was somehow hilarious.

"I don't know," Shinji said, but he had that look. The one where he was already thinking about it. "What kind of cooking are you even talking about? Soup? Barbeque? You can find plenty of delicious food in town."

"I know the food here isn't bad, but it's not the same as your cooking." Tsume leaned forward like she was closing a business deal. "Seriously, I'm not picky. You could cook tree bark and it would probably taste better than most Fire Country cuisine."

Shinji chuckled. “You’re so exaggerating.”

"Well, she might be laying it on thick, but she's not completely wrong.” Mikoto said. “Your cooking is incredible."

"See?" Tsume gestured triumphantly. "Mikoto agrees. We're suffering here, Shinji. Suffering. Have you no compassion for your poor, undernourished teammates?"

"You're both terrible actors." Shinji shook his head, but Mikoto could see the exact moment he caved. His shoulders relaxed, and that thoughtful expression crept across his face. "Though I suppose... it has been a while since I did any real cooking."

"Is that a yes?" Tsume grinned.

"Fine. But I'm not promising anything fancy."

"Yes!" she pumped her fist. "This is going to be amazing."

"So what are we making?" Mikoto asked.

"Depends what's at the market." Shinji stretched his arms overhead. "I'm thinking something... traditional."

"Traditional how?"

"Hangi."

Mikoto waited for more explanation. When none came, she frowned. "What's hangi?"

"You'll see."

That smile again.

"Just tell us what you need," Tsume jumped to her feet. "We'll get it."

Shinji pulled out a scrap of paper and started scribbling. "Okay. Root vegetables. Sweet potatoes, regular potatoes, carrots. Onions. Honey, sea salt." He paused. "Sake if they've got anything decent. Fresh herbs—rosemary, thyme, whatever looks good." Another pause. "And banana leaves. Or big cabbage leaves if that's all they have."

Mikoto read over his shoulder. "This is a lot of stuff."

"Good food takes work."

"Hell yeah it does," Tsume said, snatching the list. "Come on, Mikoto. Let's go before he changes his mind."

"What about you?" Mikoto asked.

"Handling the meat. Meet me at the lake when you're done. The one with the big oak tree."

"The lake?" She stared at him.

"Just trust me." He was already walking away, waving them off. "You'll see."

Tsume tugged at Mikoto's sleeve. "Come on. Questions later, food now."

……

Mikoto followed Tsume toward town. The market bustled with people, vendors calling out their wares while customers haggled over prices. Without even thinking about it, Mikoto found herself slipping into a henge—after countless infiltration missions in foreign territory, disguising herself for a simple grocery run felt as natural as breathing.

"Okay." Tsume pulled out the list. "Root vegetables first. Should be easy enough to find."

They wandered through the food stalls, past displays of fresh vegetables, dried goods, and the occasional vendor hawking questionable-looking meat products that might have been edible a few days ago. Root vegetables turned out to be easier to find than expected, and soon their bags were heavy with sweet potatoes, carrots, onions, and regular potatoes that looked like they'd been pulled from the ground that morning.

Herbs came next, bundles of fresh rosemary and thyme that made the air smell like someone's grandmother had been very busy in the kitchen. The sake took longer. Most vendors only carried the cheap stuff that could probably double as paint thinner, but eventually they found a merchant with a few bottles that looked like they wouldn't require medical supervision to consume.

"Banana leaves?" Tsume asked the herb vendor.

The woman shook her head. "Wrong season. Got cabbage leaves though."

They bought the cabbage, along with honey and sea salt, and stood at the edge of the market square comparing their haul to Shinji's list.

"Think that's everything." Mikoto shifted her bag to a more comfortable position.

"Still no idea what hangi is." Tsume shouldered her bag. "But knowing Shinji..."

"Yep." Mikoto started walking. "Could be anything."

They made their way through the market, chatting about their haul and speculating about what Shinji had planned. Both girls had concluded it must involve fish since they were cooking near the lake.

Behind them, keeping a careful distance, someone in a brown cloak slipped between stalls. Never close enough to draw the eye, never far enough to lose them, the kind of tail job you wouldn’t notice unless you were already suspicious.

Mikoto and Tsume weren’t. They were headed for the lake, wondering what their teammate had planned, arguing over whether they’d bought enough food.

"Think this will be enough vegetables?" Tsume asked, completely oblivious to their new shadow.

"Yeah, I think so." Mikoto nodded, equally unaware that their shopping trip had apparently become someone else's mission.

Only when they disappeared down the path toward the lake did he finally step back into the shadows between buildings, melting away as quietly as he'd been following them.

……

The lake spread out below them as they crested the hill, afternoon sun glinting off the water. Mikoto spotted the oak tree easily enough—hard to miss something that massive leaning over the shoreline.

No sign of Shinji though.

"Where'd he go?" Tsume muttered.

They walked closer to the tree, and that's when Mikoto smelled it—the rich, coppery scent of fresh blood. Her hand went to her kunai pouch instinctively before she spotted the source.

A deer lay on the ground near the tree line, clearly freshly killed. Clean cuts, professional field dressing, and still warm from the looks of it.

"Well," Tsume said, staring at the carcass, "I guess that explains our main dish."

"Shinji?" Mikoto called out, scanning the trees.

"Over here," came his voice from somewhere in the forest, followed by the sound of branches snapping under someone's weight. A moment later, he emerged from the undergrowth carrying what looked like an armload of stones, bits of leaves still clinging to his hair. "Perfect timing. How'd the shopping go?"

"We got everything on your list," Mikoto said, then gestured toward the deer. "And apparently you got everything on yours."

"Fresh is always better," he said simply, setting down his load of stones.

Tsume crouched next to the carcass. "Clean kill. Didn't suffer."

"That was the idea." He started arranging his rocks in what looked like a pattern. "Did you find banana leaves?"

"Cabbage. Vendor said wrong climate for bananas."

"Cabbage works." He kept placing stones. "We'll need to start the fire soon if we want to eat before midnight. Oh right, have you guys ever heard of a hangi?"

Mikoto shook her head. Based on the stones, she was getting an idea though, maybe.

"It's underground cooking," He wiped his hands on his pants, then moved toward the deer. "Dig a pit, line it with stones, heat the stones with fire. Then you bury the food and let the hot stones do the work."

"We're cooking dinner in a hole?" Tsume sounded skeptical.

"Trust me." Shinji knelt by the deer and pulled out his knife. "Takes time, but it's worth it."

His knife work was efficient—clean cuts, no waste. He separated the best pieces from the rest, setting them aside.

"Mikoto, can you handle the vegetables? Cut everything so it cooks evenly."

"What about me?" Tsume asked.

"Dig. Three feet wide, two deep. We need a proper fire pit."

Mikoto started on the vegetables while Shinji worked on the meat. He laid the venison on cabbage leaves, seasoning with salt and herbs. Then came the marinade—honey, sake, more herbs than she'd ever seen used at once.

"That's a lot of seasoning," she said.

"It's got time to absorb." He worked the marinade into the meat with his hands. "Slow cooking means you can be generous with flavor."

Tsume was making good progress on the pit, dirt flying as she dug. "How deep again?"

"Two feet. We need room for stones and airflow."

The fire pit took shape under Tsume's enthusiastic digging, and soon they had a respectable hole lined with Shinji's carefully selected stones. The stones, he explained, had to be the right type—dense enough to hold heat, stable enough not to crack when heated and cooled.

"How do you know which is which?" Mikoto asked.

"Trial and error." He tossed another stone aside. "Lost a good meal once when half the rocks exploded."

He gave the pit a final glance, apparently satisfied. “Alright, now we build the fire. Grab whatever dry wood you can find—twigs, branches, the works.”

Mikoto and Tsume split off without complaint, combing the forest floor for fuel while Shinji started stacking the first armful in the pit. “Hot and fast to heat the stones, then we let it burn down to coals.”

The fire caught quickly, flames licking around the stones with increasing intensity. While it burned, he continued his preparation, wrapping the marinated venison in the cabbage leaves like elaborate packages, surrounding them with the prepared vegetables.

"Ah, this part," he said, working as he talked, "we should create layers. Vegetables on the bottom, they take longer. Meat in the middle, where it’ll cook gently. Then more vegetables on top to steam everything together."

"How long is this going to take?" Tsume poked at the fire with a stick.

"Few hours." he shrugged. "Maybe longer. Depends on how hot the stones get."

"Few hours?" Mikoto looked at the sun, still fairly high in the sky.

"Good food takes time. Trust me, it's worth it. Probably."

"Probably?" she raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, it usually works." Another shrug. "We'll find out."

The fire burned for nearly an hour. Shinji kept checking the stones, poking at them with a stick, muttering things like "almost" and "getting there."

Finally he nodded. "Okay, stones are ready."

They pushed the coals aside, revealing rocks that were definitely hot—hot enough that Mikoto could feel the heat from several feet away.

"Now we bury everything." Shinji started shoveling dirt back over the packages. "Four hours and we'll see if this worked."

Four hours. Mikoto leaned against the oak tree, watching him cover the last of it. Either they'd have an amazing meal later, or they'd just wasted a bunch of good food.

"So," she said, brushing a stray leaf from her sleeve, "what do we do while we wait?"

Shinji's grin was answer enough—the expression of someone who'd been hoping she'd ask exactly that question. "We practice patience. And maybe work on some more of that sparring. I'm thinking by the time dinner's ready, you two might actually be ready to force me to use both hands."

Tsume cracked her knuckles. "Oh, we’re not stopping until you do."

Mikoto pushed off from the tree. The sun was getting lower, they had hours to kill, and somewhere under their feet, dinner was either cooking or turning into expensive compost.

Might as well see if they could finally land a hit.

…..

Four hours later, as the sun painted the lake in shades of gold and orange that would've made a poet weep, Shinji called a halt to their sparring session. "That's enough for today," he said, brushing dirt from his hands.

Tsume and Mikoto dropped their stances and tried to catch their breath.

Mikoto wiped sweat from her forehead. "Is it done?"

"Should be." Shinji grabbed the shovel.

"Or we've just ruined a bunch of perfectly good food." Tsume chimed in from the side.

"Only one way to find out."

Mikoto watched with anticipation as he carefully began excavating their buried feast. The first thing that hit her was the smell—rich and earthy, with layers of aroma that made her stomach announce its presence with an embarrassingly loud growl. Steam rose from the pit as he uncovered the wrapped packages, and even Tsume stopped her restless fidgeting to lean forward.

"Holy..." she breathed as he lifted the first package from the earth. The cabbage leaves had darkened to a deep forest green, and savory steam escaped from every fold.

Shinji set the packages on a clean cloth he'd laid out, then carefully unwrapped the first one. Mikoto felt her mouth water as the venison was revealed—tender enough that it practically fell apart at his touch, with a deep, rich color that spoke of slow, perfect cooking. The meat glistened with its own juices, infused with the herbs and honey until it looked like something that belonged on a daimyo's table.

"This... this actually worked?" Mikoto stared at the perfectly cooked meat, then at the hole in the ground, then back at the meat. "How is that even possible?"

"It looks incredible," Tsume added, already reaching for her chopsticks. "But seriously, how did burying food in dirt not turn into a complete disaster?"

Shinji smiled as he unwrapped the vegetables, revealing sweet potatoes that had caramelized in their own sugars, carrots that looked like amber jewels, and onions that had become soft and golden. "The principle's actually pretty simple. Those stones we heated? They hold an enormous amount of thermal energy. When you bury food with them, you're creating a natural oven that maintains steady, gentle heat for hours."

Tsume scratched her head, looking completely lost. "Thermal what now?"

"What's thermal energy?" Mikoto asked, genuinely curious but clearly just as confused as her friend.

Shinji chuckled, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. "Think of it as heat that gets really excited and wants to spread itself around—kind of like how warmth builds up when you’re doing… intense physical activities in your bedroom."

Mikoto's cheeks flushed pink as she caught his meaning. "Shinji!"

"What? I'm just explaining basic physics," he said innocently, though his grin suggested otherwise. "Anyway, the point is—"

He reached for the plates and began arranging the food. "The earth acts as insulation, keeping the temperature consistent. No hot spots, no burning—just slow, even cooking that breaks down tough fibers and lets flavors develop."

Mikoto accepted her portion and took a bite. The venison practically dissolved on her tongue—impossibly tender, with honey-sweet richness and a deep smokiness that made her eyes flutter shut. Herbs had somehow been worked all the way through the meat, not just on the surface, and the fat melted slowly, coating her mouth with flavor that was more intense than anything she'd ever tasted.

She had to stop herself from inhaling the whole thing.

"This is..." she paused, searching for words. "I don't think I've ever had meat this tender. How did the ground not just... contaminate everything?"

"That's what the wrapping is for," Shinji explained, taking his own bite. "The cabbage leaves create a barrier, but they also add flavor and help steam the contents. And the earth doesn't actually touch the food—it's just providing the insulation."

Tsume was working through her sweet potato as though she were experiencing a religious revelation. "These vegetables are insane. They’re like… candy, but still vegetables. How does that work?"

Shinji sliced off a tender bite of venison, the juices running as he brought it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the rich, smoky flavor before answering. "Slow cooking breaks down the starches into sugars. That’s why they taste sweet. The low, steady heat gives the natural enzymes time to work, converting complex carbohydrates into simple sugars without burning them."

Mikoto blinked at the stream of technical terms, but she'd learned by now that asking for clarification usually led to either more confusing explanations or inappropriate analogies. She just nodded and filed it under 'Shinji knows things' in her mental catalog.

She tried the carrots next, and had to suppress a small sound of pleasure. They'd become intensely flavorful, almost caramelized, with a texture that was somehow both firm and buttery. "I can't believe this came out of a hole in the ground. When you first suggested it, I thought..."

"You thought we'd be eating dirt-flavored disaster?" he grinned. "Fair enough. It does sound crazy if you've never seen it done."

"More than crazy," she said. "It sounds like something desperate people do when they don't have proper cooking equipment. But this is..." She gestured helplessly at her plate. "This is better than anything I've had in fancy restaurants."

"That's because earth cooking does things regular methods can't," he explained, clearly enjoying their amazement. "The even heat, the long cooking time, the steam environment—it all works together to break down tough proteins and concentrate flavors. Plus, there's something about the mineral content in the earth that adds extra depth."

Mikoto watched him talk, noting how relaxed he seemed. Different from his usual careful composure during missions or training. Just... comfortable. Like this was something he actually enjoyed doing.

"The key is getting the stone temperature right," he was saying, gesturing with his chopsticks. "Too hot and everything burns. Not hot enough and it just sits there being expensive compost."

She found herself paying more attention to the way he explained things than the actual explanation. He got animated when he talked about something he cared about. It was... nice, seeing him like this.

"You listening?" Tsume nudged her.

"What? Yeah." Mikoto refocused on her food. "Stone temperature. Got it."

Shinji gave her a look but didn't comment. "Anyway, next time we do this I'll show you how to tell when the stones are ready."

"Next time?" Tsume perked up. "You mean this isn't a one-time thing?"

"If you want. It's good for when we have time to kill."

Mikoto nodded, though she was thinking less about the cooking technique and more about how he'd looked while explaining it. Which was probably not the point of the lesson.

But still.

…..

Tsume was working on seconds, apparently having decided that portion control was for people who didn't have access to earth-cooked venison. "Okay, but why doesn't everyone cook like this if it's so amazing?"

"Time, mostly. And convenience." Shinji gestured toward their setup. "This took all afternoon. Most people want dinner in an hour, not four. And you need the right stones, the right location, and enough knowledge not to accidentally poison yourself with the wrong kind of wood or stones that crack and contaminate everything."

"So it's actually dangerous if you don't know what you're doing?" Mikoto asked.

"Everything's dangerous if you don't know what you're doing. The trick is learning enough to do it safely." He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Though I'll admit, there's always a little anxiety when you're digging up something that's been buried for hours. You never know for sure until you unwrap it."

The sun had fully set while they ate. The combination of amazing food, good company, and the peaceful evening atmosphere made Mikoto feel more relaxed than she had in weeks since arriving in Kitaura.

"This is way better than anything in town," she said. "I might never be satisfied with regular food again."

"Don't say that," Shinji laughed. "I can't dig earth ovens on every mission. Sometimes you'll have to settle for town food."

"Your regular cooking is still better than most restaurant food," Tsume pointed out. "But this was different."

She had a point. The whole process had been... satisfying in a way Mikoto hadn't expected. The waiting, the uncertainty, then actually pulling decent food out of a hole in the ground.

"Well," Shinji said, dousing the remaining coals with lake water, "at least we know it works."

"Next time let's try fish.”

"Next time you can dig the pit."

"Deal."

Mikoto helped gather their supplies, already thinking about the walk back to town. Her stomach was full, she was tired in a good way, and tomorrow they'd be back to missions and training and whatever else Kitaura had waiting for them.

But tonight had been good.

"Come on," she said, shouldering her pack. "Let's head back before it gets too dark."

They walked back through the forest, talking quietly about the meal, about training, about nothing in particular. Just three teammates heading home after a good day.

…..

The next morning I stood on the roof of our temporary lodging, watching Kitaura wake up. The market was already busy below—vendors setting up, early shoppers haggling over prices.

Dan stood next to me, looking tired. The kind of tired that came from too many missions and not enough sleep. He'd been talking about local politics for the past ten minutes.

"Hey, Dan-san," I said, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Where are most of the Senju right now? I mean, aside from Miyabi who left ages ago, I haven't seen another Senju around Kitaura. Are they stationed in other towns, or...?"

Dan’s expression shifted, and I caught that telltale tightness around his eyes, a micro-expression most people would miss, but one that stood out like a neon sign to someone paying attention. "Most of the Senju clan members have been deployed to the western front."

"All of them?" I kept my tone casual. "Seems risky."

"Strategic necessity." He was already trying to change the subject. "The Senju are among our most effective combat specialists."

"Right." I paused. "Are you dating Tsunade-sensei?"

The sudden question hit him like a brick to the face. Dan's entire body went rigid, and his cheeks flushed red enough to rival a stop sign. "What? Where did you—how did you—!"

I scratched my head, trying to look innocent. I couldn’t exactly tell him about my previous life memories, so I went with the most believable lie I could manage. "It’s just a rumor I heard around the base. Some of the chunin were talking about it."

"Which chunin?" Dan demanded. "I'll have them running laps until they're too tired to spread gossip."

"I don't remember specifically. Just idle chatter, you know how it is."

Dan muttered something under his breath that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary about loose-tongued shinobi and their inability to mind their own business. Then he sighed, the fight going out of him like air from a punctured balloon.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, staring out over the town, "I have been... pursuing her recently. But she hasn't accepted my advances. Tsunade's always been focused on her work, and with everything that's been happening..." He shrugged, trying to look casual and failing completely. "I'm not a quitter, but just when I was working up the courage to be more direct about my intentions, the war started and we got sent on different fronts."

He went quiet, staring out over the town. I got the sense there was more to it, but pushing would just make him clam up.

"That's rough. Long-distance relationships are hard enough without adding war zones to the mix."

"Indeed." Dan straightened up, clearly trying to regain his professional composure. "Speaking of deployments, Nawaki has already departed with Orochimaru for the western front."

That got my attention. "Nawaki? From Team 10?" I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice, but the idea of that earnest, Mikoto-smitten genin heading off to an active war zone didn't sit well with me. "Isn't he still just a genin? Is the war going that badly?"

"Not exactly," Dan said, though his tone suggested the situation wasn't exactly good either. "Heh, don't worry, most genin aren't being sent into direct combat. They're being stationed at outposts and forward bases to handle support tasks, logistics, communications." He shrugged. "Command considers it wasteful to have chunin and jonin doing paperwork and supply runs when they could be fighting instead."

"So they're sending more and more genin?" The implications of that were starting to sink in, and I didn't like where my thoughts were heading.

"As support personnel, yes."

In other words, the war was going badly enough that they were pulling kids out of the village to handle menial tasks so the adults could focus on not getting killed. That was either very practical resource management or a sign that Konoha was getting stretched thinner than they wanted to admit.

Probably both.

"Any word on how things are going out there?" I asked, nodding toward the general direction of the western front.

"Officially? According to plan."

"And the unofficial word?"

Dan gave me a look. "Wars don't go according to plan. Ever."

Fair enough. We stood there for a while, watching the town wake up below. Normal people doing normal things, probably not thinking much about the war beyond how it affected food prices.

"Anyway," Dan said eventually. "Our job is to handle the situation here in Kitaura and keep these supply lines open."

"Right. Just another day."

"Something like that."

…..

Days passed in what could generously be called "mind-numbing routine with the occasional spark of excitement"—the sort of schedule that made me wonder if Dan had somehow confused Team 7 with his personal collection of rare pottery that needed to be kept safely behind glass. We'd somehow become his golden team, which apparently translated to doing only missions that kept us comfortably within Kitaura's walls while my clones handled all the actual dangerous work scattered across the countryside. Not that I was complaining, mind you. There's something to be said for missions where the biggest threat is paperwork-induced boredom.

Mornings meant briefings and clone assignments. Afternoons were patrols, training, investigating reports that usually turned out to be nothing. Steady work, nobody shooting at us. By shinobi standards, we were living the good life.

That should have been my first warning that something was about to go sideways.

"We have a problem," Dan said, walking into the briefing room looking irritated. "Half my teams are out on missions, three more just got recalled to the capital, and I've got a priority escort that needs to leave today."

He looked at me. "Can you make more clones for this? I need a full escort team."

'Thirty clones active right now, and they want more?' I kept my face blank while running the numbers in my head. Sure, I could probably squeeze out another ten or twenty without breaking a sweat. Hell, maybe even push it to fifty if I really wanted to show off. But that would be monumentally stupid for about a dozen different reasons.

First off, there was the whole memory processing nightmare. More clones meant getting hit with exponentially more experiences when they popped. Too many of those flooding back at once, and I'd spend my entire day sorting through clone memories like some kind of demented filing clerk. "Oh great, Clone #23 watched paint dry for six hours while Clone #31 had an existential crisis about whether surveillance counted as voyeurism." Yeah, no thanks.

Then there was the chakra reserve situation. People were already giving me weird looks and whispering about my 'stamina'. For now, I was letting them think the nine-tails was my little secret. Better they assume I was packing a giant fox than start digging deeper and asking the really uncomfortable questions.

Because the worst-case scenario? They find out about Mōryo. Two jinchuriki in Konoha would make every other hidden village collectively lose their minds. We'd go from "moderately concerning" to "existential threat" real fast.

I shook my head and put on my best 'sorry, but physics says no' expression. "I'm already running more than thirty clones on surveillance. Any more and I'll be useless for anything else."

"Damn." Dan rubbed his forehead. "Alright then. Standard supply run to the capital, but I'm short on personnel. I can give you two full teams. That's your team, and one chunin team."

"When do we leave?"

"One hour. Pack for a week on the road, meet at the south gate. You'll meet the rest of the team there."

A chunin I didn't recognize spoke up from the back of the room. "Dan-san, is it wise to send Team 7? They've been handling critical operations here in town..."

Dan paused, considering. The unspoken part was obvious—we'd become too valuable to risk on routine missions. Especially me, with my clone network keeping half of Kitaura's intelligence operations running.

"The last two supply runs went off without incident," Dan said finally. "Kumo's been quiet on the trade routes. They're probably focused on other targets right now."

"Still—"

"It's a milk run," Dan cut him off. "Standard escort, well-traveled route, plenty of backup. Besides, they need the experience outside Kitaura's walls."

The chunin didn't look convinced, but he nodded anyway.

"Any other concerns?" Dan asked, looking around the room.

Nobody spoke up.

"Good. One hour, south gate." He started gathering his papers. "Dismissed."

As we filed out, I caught the chunin's expression. He still looked worried.

That made two of us.

……

Three miles northeast of Kitaura, a Kumo jonin opened his eyes and turned to his squad. Eleven shinobi in total—himself, two other jonin, and eight chunin. All of them here for one target.

"Confirmed," he said quietly. "Our target is with the escort convoy."

The mission was simple enough: kill the Konoha jinchuriki. After weeks of sabotaged operations and an endless stream of enemy clones disrupting their work in the region, Kumo intelligence had finally traced the source. One genin with apparently unlimited chakra reserves and the ability to maintain dozens of shadow clones simultaneously.

The conclusion was obvious. Had to be the Nine-Tails container.

"How many in the convoy total?" one of the other jonin asked.

"Six. Our target’s genin team and a three-man chunin team. Standard escort formation."

One of the jonin spoke up. "Are we sure about the target? Our intelligence reports said the Konoha jinchuriki was female."

The squad leader shook his head. "That intelligence was clearly wrong. No female genin in Konoha can produce that many clones. Has to be the black-haired one—matches the chakra signature our sensors detected."

"Makes sense," the jonin agreed. "False information to throw us off."

The squad leader studied the distant road where the Konoha convoy had disappeared around a bend. Three days’ travel to the capital—plenty of opportunities to strike once they were away from Kitaura’s support network.

"We move in two hours," he decided. "Let them get some distance first. Then we follow."

Without another word, the Kumo-nin scattered to their positions, preparing for a hunt that had been weeks in the making.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 46

The smell of fresh bread and roasted chestnuts drifted through Kitaura's morning market as Nawaki and I made our way back toward the base, arms loaded with enough ingredients to keep the cooks happy for the next few days. The kid was practically bouncing on his feet, chattering about some jutsu Orochimaru had shown him yesterday while balancing three bags that looked ready to split at the seams.

"—so I've been trying to get it right, but something's off," he was saying, waving his free hand around. "I think I'm doing the hand signs wrong or something."

"You're probably overthinking it," I said, shifting my grip on a rice sack that felt like it had been packed with actual rocks instead of grain. "Just keep practicing the basics. You'll get it eventually—muscle memory and all that."

"Hell yeah I will. And when I do, I'm gonna be stronger than you, just wait and see."

"Sure you are. I'll try not to be too devastated when that inevitably happens."

The market was its usual madhouse—vendors bellowing about their wares like their lives depended on moving every last turnip, customers haggling over prices with the dedication of seasoned diplomats, and kids weaving through the crowd like they'd been born with some kind of supernatural ability to avoid getting trampled by adults who clearly had places to be.

That's when I spotted the old guy, and immediately knew this was going to become Nawaki's problem.

The man had to be pushing sixty at least, hunched over this beat-up wooden cart that looked like it had seen better decades, trying to load what appeared to be half a shop's worth of merchandise onto a frame that was already protesting under the weight. Cloth, baskets, ceramic jars, wooden carvings—the whole pile looked ready to stage a gravity-assisted rebellion against him at any moment. The poor guy was sweating bullets and clearly losing what was shaping up to be an epic battle between sheer willpower and physics.

"Oh man, that doesn't look good," Nawaki muttered. "That poor guy's gonna hurt himself."

Before I could even open my mouth to remind him that we had our own heavy loads to worry about, he was already jogging over, our carefully balanced bags bouncing with each step like they were personally offended by the sudden change in momentum.

"Hey, you need help with that?" he called out, setting down his stuff.

The old man looked up, and I could see the relief on his face. "Oh, bless you, young man. This cart's got more problems than I do these days, and that's really saying something considering my back."

I stayed put while Nawaki launched into full-scale good deed mode—again. The kid couldn't walk past someone who needed help if his life literally depended on it. It was either going to get him killed someday, or make him into exactly the kind of shinobi the world needed more of. Jury was still out on which.

While he and the old guy wrestled with the cart, I let my eyes wander around the market. Vendors, shoppers, some kids running around by the fountain—

Oh?

There was a guy leaning against the wall between two shops, trying to look casual. Middle-aged, nothing special about him except for the way he kept glancing in my direction.

When he caught me looking back, he jerked his head slightly toward the alley next to him.

Great.

"—honestly can't thank you enough," the old man was saying as Nawaki loaded the last bundle onto what I was now convinced was less a cart and more a mobile disaster waiting to happen. "My grandson usually handles all the heavy lifting, but the poor kid's been laid up with some nasty fever all week. Doctor says it's nothing serious, but you know how these things go."

"Don't worry about it," Nawaki said, dusting off his hands. "I'm glad I could help out. Hope your grandson feels better soon."

I waited for the old guy to wheel his engineering marvel away, then walked over to where Nawaki was retrieving our abandoned supplies. The kid looked annoyingly pleased with himself, which was pretty much his default expression after doing something helpful.

"Hey, why don't you take the supplies back? I want to check something real quick."

He blinked. "Check what?"

"Just... something I forgot to grab earlier."

"Okay, sure." He hefted our bags. "Meet you back at base in a bit?"

"Yeah, shouldn't take long."

I watched him disappear into the crowd, then headed for the alley. The narrow space between buildings was exactly as inviting as I'd expected—dim, cramped, and perfumed with that special urban bouquet of old grease, rotting vegetables, and things I probably didn't want to identify. The guy was already waiting about halfway down, hands shoved deep in his pockets, managing to look like he belonged in this particular slice of atmospheric squalor.

The guy pushed off the wall when I got close, giving me a casual nod. When he spoke, his voice was all rough and gravelly, like he'd been chain-smoking for decades.

"Boss, been keeping tabs on things. Found something you might wanna hear about."

"Seriously?” I rolled my eyes. "Drop the voice acting."

His whole demeanor shifted immediately. The gravelly voice disappeared, replaced by something that sounded exactly like me.

"Better?"

"Much. What've you got?"

"One of the clones spotted something weird. There's this local official who's been acting sketchy as hell."

"Sketchy how?"

"Weird meetings at odd hours. Expensive stuff showing up at his house that he definitely can't afford on a government salary. Pretty obvious someone's paying him off."

"Any connection to Kumo?"

"That's the thing—we don't know yet. Could be regular corruption, could be something bigger." He shrugged. "Want me to take it to Dan?"

I thought about it, running through the pros and cons. On one hand, suspicious officials definitely fell under our mission parameters. On the other hand, bringing Dan half-baked intelligence about a possibly corrupt bureaucrat would make me look like an idiot if it turned out the guy was just doing the time-honored tradition of skimming money from municipal projects—like every other sane politician in the civilized world.

"Not yet," I decided, shaking my head. "We need more than 'this guy's probably corrupt and also owns some nice things.' That's not intelligence, that's just Tuesday in local government."

"So what do you want us to do?"

"Dig deeper, but do it smart. I want to know who's paying him, what they want in exchange, who he's been meeting with, and whether any of those people have interesting connections to places that aren't supposed to be friendly with Konoha." I paused. "But keep it quiet—if he really is working with enemy forces instead of just being your garden-variety corrupt official, he might have people watching his back. The kind of people who notice when strangers start asking too many questions about their business arrangements."

"Got it. We'll keep at it until we have something solid."

I glanced back toward the street, making sure no one was watching. "Either way, I want to be sure before we bring this to Dan."

The clone nodded. "Got it."

He melted back into the crowd, and I waited a few seconds before heading back to the market.

…..

The next few days passed in routine tedium that seemed to define our current assignment. Team 7 got stuck with the usual grab bag of tasks that nobody else particularly wanted to do—recon missions at various government buildings around town that involved a lot of standing around looking official while memorizing floor plans, escort runs to nearby villages for officials who were probably important enough to warrant protection but not quite important enough to rate their own dedicated security detail, and basic supply line work that mostly consisted of making sure nobody was stealing from the convoys. Nothing particularly exciting, just the kind of boring but absolutely necessary jobs that kept the gears of international diplomacy turning smoothly.

When we weren't working, we trained with the dedication that came from knowing our skills might be the only thing standing between us and a very bad day. Mikoto spent most of her free time hunched over her clan's jutsu scrolls like they contained the secrets of the universe, methodically working through increasingly complex fire release techniques because she understood that sloppy fundamentals led to explosive accidents.

Tsume did her own specialized training with her dog, running them through coordination drills that looked more like elaborate dance routines than combat preparation, and when she wasn't doing that, she was enthusiastically trying to beat the crap out of me and Mikoto during sparring sessions, apparently considering violence a legitimate form of social bonding.

Between missions, I kept getting updates from my clones through their memories when they dispelled. Nothing earth-shattering—just steady surveillance of that official. Turned out the guy wasn't just taking bribes; he was actively screwing with trade agreements and meeting with people who definitely weren't locals.

But what my clones found on the fourth day was actually interesting.

I was lounging on some rooftop garden in the shopping district with Mikoto and Tsume, enjoying one of those rare moments where we didn't have anything urgent to do and nobody was expecting us to be anywhere in particular. The sun was pleasantly warm without being oppressive, the view of the town spread out below us wasn't terrible, and for once nobody was shooting at us or trying to blow anything up in our general vicinity. It was almost enough to make me forget we were technically on a mission that could go sideways at any moment.

Then one of my clones decided to dispel itself, and suddenly I was having someone else's afternoon.

The memories hit me all at once in that familiar disorienting rush—images, conversations, sensory impressions, everything my clone had experienced in the past few hours compressed into a few seconds of mental data transfer. I sorted through it quickly, skipping past the boring surveillance footage until I found the genuinely interesting stuff buried in the middle of an otherwise routine intelligence report.

"Huh." I sat up.

Mikoto cracked an eye open from where she was sprawled next to Tsume's dog. "What?"

"Just got some interesting intel." I stretched and grinned at them. "You two want to do something fun?"

Tsume pushed herself up, already raring to go. "What kind of fun are we talking about here? Please tell me it involves more action than watching people fill out paperwork."

"The kind involving that corrupt official I mentioned a few days ago. Turns out he's been even busier than we thought. And maybe we should consider messing with him a little. You know, in the interest of gathering more intelligence."

"Oh?" Tsume's grin promised someone was about to have a very bad day. "That definitely sounds like my kind of fun!"

"Remember Matsumoto? That merchant we helped escort to the Fire Country capital?"

"The paranoid guy who thought someone was out to get him?" she asked. "Yeah, what about him?"

"Well, turns out he wasn't being paranoid." I stood up and dusted off my pants. "One of my clone have been tracking this official who's been taking bribes. Standard corruption stuff, but then they found something interesting."

I waited just long enough to let them get curious.

"This guy's been helping some wealthy merchant systematically screw over his competition. Sabotaged shipments, canceled contracts, making trade routes 'dangerous.'" I grinned. "Guess who the target was?"

Mikoto's eyebrows went up. "Matsumoto?"

"Bingo. All those 'bad luck' incidents he kept complaining about? Someone really was out to get him."

"Shit," Tsume chuckled. "Poor bastard was right all along."

"Yep. And now we know who's been doing it."

"But why would they bother?" Mikoto asked. “Why would they waste their time ruining some random merchant's day? Seems like a lot of effort for a pretty small target."

"Could be lots of reasons, actually. Maybe they needed to control certain trade routes for operational purposes, or maybe Matsumoto saw something he wasn't supposed to see and they decided he was a security risk." I shrugged. "Point is, we've got solid proof now that this official isn't just skimming money from municipal budgets.”

Mikoto frowned, getting that look she always got when something was bugging her. "There's something weird about this whole thing."

"Like what?"

"Remember what Matsumoto said? It wasn't just his business getting hit. His family was getting targeted too. His daughter almost got hurt a bunch of times."

I thought back to the escort, remembering how scared the guy had looked when he talked about his family. "Yeah... the roof tiles, that runaway cart, the dog incident I think?"

"Exactly." Mikoto's expression hardened. "That's not business. That's personal. And it means they wanted more than just to destroy his career."

"Yeah, that's fucked up," Tsume said bluntly. "You don't go after someone's family unless they like... kicked your puppy or something equally heinous."

"I want to check this guy out personally."

"You sound way too excited about this," Tsume observed.

"Hey, I told Matsumoto I'd look into his problems if I ever got the chance. Plus I'm bored out of my mind with all this boring work, and this actually seems like it might be fun for once." I grinned at both of them. "So, anyone want to help me mess with a corrupt official who's been terrorizing innocent merchants and their families?"

Mikoto blinked. "Shouldn't we report this to Dan first? If this guy's actually connected to a larger spy network and we move on him without authorization, won't that tip everyone else off that we're onto them?"

"Oh shit," Tsume said, smacking her forehead. "She's right. We're gonna get our asses thoroughly chewed out if we screw up the bigger operation because we couldn't wait for proper orders."

"Relax. I've got a plan." I held up my hands. "Little breaking and entering, gather some evidence, you know, financial evidence. The kind that's... portable. And shiny. Evidence that might accidentally end up helping with our team’s logistics problem.”

"Shinji..." Mikoto's voice carried that warning tone suggesting she knew exactly where this was heading.

"Ah, don't worry, Mikoto. I'll also enact justice on behalf of Matsumoto—give his face a friendly introduction to my fist. Then I'll have one of my clones replace this corrupt official. Problem solved."

"Ooh, that's actually pretty smart!" Tsume gave me a thumbs up.

"You're both talking complete nonsense," Mikoto said flatly. "We're still gonna get in serious trouble for acting without explicit permission, regardless of how clever you think you're being."

"What? Why?" Tsume's eyes went wide.

"Because we're genin. We're not supposed to be running solo operations, especially ones that involve assault, theft, and impersonation of local officials. There are protocols for this kind of thing."

"Hey, a little scolding never hurt anyone," I said. "It builds character."

Tsume’s eyes lit up. "Damn right! Character building at its finest!"

Mikoto just sighed. "I can't believe I'm friends with you two."

…

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Kitaura's residential district as we made our way through the winding streets toward our target's neighborhood. The area was nicer than the merchant quarter—wider streets, better-maintained buildings, the kind of place where local officials and successful businessmen set up house. Trees lined the walkways, and most of the homes had small gardens that suggested their owners had both money and time to spend on appearances.

"Fancy," Tsume said, looking around at the well-kept yards and stone decorations. "Being corrupt must pay pretty damn well these days."

"Or he's got other sources of income that aren't exactly listed on his official tax documents," Mikoto said, keeping her voice low as she scanned the street.

I nodded toward a two-story house about halfway down the block. "That's the one. According to my clones, he usually gets home around sunset, stays in for dinner, then heads out again around nine for what he claims are evening business meetings."

"Convenient schedule for someone trying to maintain a respectable cover," Mikoto said. "Makes his nighttime activities look like normal professional obligations instead of whatever shadowy bullshit he's actually up to."

I glanced at the sky, trying to figure out how much time we had. "Probably an hour before he shows up. Should be enough."

"So, what's the plan?" Tsume asked, cracking her knuckles. "Front door, back door, or do we use the roof?"

"Back door's probably our best bet. Less visible from the street, and if anyone asks, we're just friends stopping by for a visit."

"Friends who break in when nobody's home," Mikoto pointed out.

"Hey, maybe he gave us a spare key and we forgot to mention it." I grinned. "Could happen."

At the back door, I turned to her. "Hey, can I borrow your hairpin?"

She immediately touched the one in her hair—the one I'd given her. "This one? No way."

"Seriously?" Tsume shook her head. "Shinji, you're an idiot."

"What? I was just gonna borrow it for a few minutes," I protested, though I was already realizing that asking someone to let me use a gift I'd given them as a lock-picking tool was probably not my most thoughtful moment. "It's not like I was going to break it or anything."

I sighed and dug around in my storage seal until I found some random looted paperwork held together with a standard paperclip. "Fine, whatever. I'll make do with this." I straightened the paperclip, then worked it into the lock mechanism. It took a few tries and some creative cursing under my breath, but eventually the satisfying click of success sounded.

"And we're in," I announced quietly.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Mikoto asked as we slipped inside.

"You pick up all sorts of useful skills when you read a lot,” I said, looking around.

The place was definitely several steps above what I'd expected on the inside. The kitchen alone probably cost more than most people made in a year—actual marble countertops that looked like they'd been imported from somewhere expensive, copper pots hanging from hooks like some kind of professional cooking setup, cabinet hardware that gleamed with a finish that screamed quality. Way fancier than anything a mid-level government salary should realistically afford, even with the creative bookkeeping that seemed rampant to local politics.

Tsume grabbed an apple from a bowl on the table and took a bite. "Kuromaru?"

Her dog sniffed around for a second, then made a quiet sound.

"Nobody's here," she reported.

"Good. I'm gonna check the study—that's where my clone said he keeps the important stuff. You two can look around, but don't touch anything obvious."

"This guy's definitely living beyond his means," Mikoto said, running her finger along the fancy stonework. "This kind of work costs serious money."

"Yeah, well, corruption pays." Tsume finished her apple and tossed the core in the trash. "Guy's got expensive taste, I'll give him that."

I headed toward the home office, which turned out to be a surprisingly compact but well-organized space. Desk made from what looked like actual hardwood instead of the usual cheap alternatives, filing cabinets that probably contained more interesting reading material than their official labels suggested, and a bookshelf that mixed legitimate government manuals with what appeared to be personal reading choices. Just like my clone had reported, there was evidence of financial irregularities practically everywhere I looked—receipts that didn't match declared income, correspondence that seemed suspiciously vague about actual business details, the kinds of things that painted a clear picture for anyone who knew what to look for.

But something else caught my eye, a big family photo on the wall, the guy we were investigating, along with what looked like a wife and kid.

"Find anything?" Tsume appeared in the doorway with Mikoto right behind her.

"Yep." I started pulling out papers and spreading them on the desk. "Letters. Between our guy and that merchant who's been screwing with Matsumoto."

"Let me see that." Mikoto leaned over the desk and started reading through the papers. "Oh wow, this is incredibly incriminating. 'Escalate pressure tactics on the target'... 'implement additional intimidation measures to ensure compliance'..." She looked up. "They're definitely talking about Matsumoto."

"And they're not even trying to be subtle about it," Tsume added, reading over her shoulder.

"So what's the plan now?" Mikoto asked, setting down the papers. "Wait for him to get back, beat the crap out of him, then drag him to Dan?"

"Pretty much." I made a quick hand seal and created a clone. "Alright, you're gonna be our corrupt official for the foreseeable future. Try to look appropriately bureaucratic and morally flexible."

The clone just stared at me. "Great. Lucky me."

"He doesn't look particularly happy about his new assignment," Tsume observed with amusement.

"Does Shinji ever look happy about anything?" Mikoto asked. “I'm pretty sure his default expression is 'mildly annoyed with the universe.'"

"Hey, I'm standing right here."

Mikoto had wandered over to look at a big family photo on the wall—the official with what looked like his wife and a little girl, maybe eight years old.

"This same picture's in the living room too," she said.

"And there's another copy in the hallway," Tsume added from where she was poking around. "Guy's really into this photo."

I shrugged. "Probably his family. Rich people have multiple houses all the time. They're probably somewhere safer while he deals with this shady stuff."

"Still weird to have the same picture everywhere."

"Maybe he misses them," Tsume said. "Or maybe he's trying to make himself feel better about all the shady shit he's doing."

"Doesn’t matter." I stuffed the letters into a storage seal. "The guy helped terrorize Matsumoto’s family, and he’s been doing a lot of shady stuff around town. That’s all we need to know."

I looked up from the desk. "Alright, that’s enough chatting. Tsume, keep an eye out for our target, let us know the second you spot him coming down the street. Mikoto, can you set up some subtle traps around the house in case he decides to bring friends to this little homecoming?"

"Sure thing."

"Got it."

They headed out to handle their respective tasks while I finished gathering intelligence in the study, making sure to collect anything that looked like it might be useful for understanding the broader scope of whatever operation this guy was involved in. A few minutes later, just as I was sealing away the last batch of suspicious financial records, Tsume's voice carried through the house.

"He's coming."

Mikoto was already at the window. "There—that's definitely him."

I checked the guy walking down the street against the family photo. Same balding head, same gut. "Yep, that's our target alright.

He fumbled with his keys for a bit before getting inside. We waited a few seconds, then made our move. I could hear him clanking around in the kitchen, probably getting dinner ready.

When we got closer, the guy was standing at the counter with his back to us, humming something terrible while he set up what looked like wine and fancy cheese.

Tsume had him down and tied up before he knew what hit him. One second he's reaching for a wine glass, the next he's eating floor with rope around his wrists.

"What the hell—who are you people?" He was struggling as Tsume dragged him to the living room. "This is illegal! I'll call the authorities—"

"About that," I said, dropping into his fancy chair. "We're kind of the authorities right now."

He got a proper look at us then—three teenagers in ninja gear sitting in his fancy living room like we owned the place, which I suppose we technically did for the moment. I could practically see the gears turning in his head as he tried to process what the hell was happening to his peaceful evening routine.

"You're just... kids," he said, and I could hear him relaxing slightly as he apparently decided that dealing with minors meant he could somehow regain control of the situation. "Look, whatever this is about, I'm sure we can work something out like reasonable people. You probably don't get paid much in your line of work..."

"Oh, here we go," Tsume said, shoving him down on the couch harder than necessary.

The guy tried to straighten his clothes despite being tied up, still acting like he was in charge somehow. "I have important connections in this town, you understand. People who depend on me for various services. If you let me go right now, I can make sure you're all properly rewarded for your... discretion regarding tonight's misunderstanding."

"Discretion," I repeated, glancing at Mikoto. "That's an interesting word choice, don't you think?"

"Very interesting indeed. Almost like he's automatically assuming we already know about his illegal activities and just need to be bought off."

"Exactly. Makes you wonder what kind of shady business he's been conducting that would require paying off random teenage ninja for their silence."

His face was starting to go pale as he realized his attempt at subtle bribery had just gone wrong. "Wait, no, you don't understand—I can explain everything! I have money, gold, whatever you need to make this whole thing disappear!"

"Whatever we need?" I raised an eyebrow. "That's pretty generous."

"Yes! There's a safe upstairs—combination's my daughter's birthday, easy to remember. Take everything in it! And I'll leave town tonight, I swear to you. Pack my bags and disappear, you'll never see me again!"

I let that offer hang in the air for a long moment, watching him squirm under the weight of his own panic while I pretended to consider his proposal.

"You know what I'm really curious about?" I said. "How professional interrogations actually work in practice. Think they'd let us observe a real one sometime? For educational purposes?"

The way his face went white was almost funny. Almost.

"Please," he whispered. "I have a family."

"If you cared about your family, maybe you shouldn't have worked with Kumo to target innocent people and their kids," Mikoto said.

The guy's eyes went wide with what looked like genuine shock rather than the calculated surprise of someone who'd been caught. "What? Kumo? What are you talking about? I don't have anything to do with Kumo! I just made some trade deals, picked routes that seemed safe for commerce—I was trying to help the town prosper!"

He was breathing hard now, words spilling out. "You must be from somewhere that's currently fighting with Kumo, but I swear I'm not involved in any of that political stuff! I'm just a town official! My job is keeping this place safe and profitable for everyone who lives here!"

I could see Mikoto and Tsume starting to exchange uncertain glances. His panic seemed pretty genuine, and the confusion in his voice didn't sound like the kind of performance someone could maintain under this kind of pressure.

"Keeping the town safe," I said. "Sure, that's noble. But what about what happened to Matsumoto's daughter? All those convenient 'accidents' that almost killed her?"

"Matsumoto?" He blinked. "Who?"

"The merchant," Tsume said, clearly annoyed.

"What merchant? What does any merchant have to do with this?"

"Don't play dumb. We found the letters."

"What letters?"

"The ones in your study," Mikoto said. "About using 'pressure tactics' on Matsumoto and his family."

The guy just stared at us for a long moment, his face cycling through confusion, concentration, and then something that looked like dawning comprehension. When understanding finally hit, he looked genuinely horrified in a way that was impossible to fake.

"Oh god. No, no, no.” He looked at us with wild eyes. "You don't understand—I never meant for anyone to get hurt. I just approved some permits and route changes! I never authorized violence against anyone, especially not children!"

"Right," Mikoto rolled her eyes. "You just happened to approve a bunch of permits and route changes that systematically destroyed Matsumoto's business while making your merchant friend incredibly rich. Pure coincidence, I'm sure."

"It was just business! Legal business, mostly!" He was starting to sound more defensive than panicked now. "Look, Matsumoto's deals weren't particularly competitive to begin with. When better options came along with more favorable terms for the town, of course I approved them! That's literally my job!"

"Better options that apparently involved threatening a little kid," Mikoto said quietly.

"What kid?! I didn't know about any kids!" His voice cracked. "I swear I didn't know! He told me it was just normal business competition, maybe a little aggressive marketing, but nothing involving families!"

"Who's 'he'?"

"Another merchant! Look, you have to understand how trade works in a place like this—it's absolutely cutthroat. People are always trying to undercut each other, steal contracts, find better deals." He was getting desperate now, words tumbling out as he tried to explain himself. "Even if I hadn't helped this particular guy, they would've just found another official to bribe. That's how these things work! But I swear I didn't know about anyone getting hurt! Why would I want that? What possible reason would I have to hurt some random merchant's family?"

I could see Tsume and Mikoto exchanging looks, starting to think maybe he had a point.

"Look," he said desperately, "I can give you names, everything I know about the trade deals, all the paperwork and correspondence. But I swear on everything I hold dear that I had no idea they were threatening people's families. I was just... I was just trying to make some extra money while bringing more commerce to the town."

"You mean make yourself rich while screwing other people over," Tsume said, kicking him in the ass.

"Ow! Look, I like money, okay? Everyone likes money!" He was practically crying now, the combination of stress and pain finally breaking through whatever composure he'd been trying to maintain. "But I'm not working against your village! I don't even know which village you're from! Please, I have a little girl who needs her father!"

"Tsume, that's enough." I held up a hand, and she backed off with obvious reluctance, still glaring at our prisoner like she was considering whether another kick might improve his attitude.

I looked down at the guy, who was now a mess of tears and snot. "Relax, Mr. Daigo. We're not gonna kill you."

His face lit up immediately. "Really? Oh thank you! I can pay you—"

"If you behave."

He nodded so hard I thought his head might come off. "Yes! I'll behave, I promise!"

"Good. As long as you're not actually working with Kumo, you'll be fine. Just tell our people everything you know later."

I turned to my clone. "What are you waiting for?"

The clone sighed and made another clone. The new one bent down, threw the official over his shoulder like a sack of rice, and headed for the window.

"Wait, what are you—" Daigo started to say, but the clone was already jumping out.

Tsume and Mikoto just stared at the now-empty window for a moment, like they were trying to process what they'd just witnessed.

"Did your clone just kidnap that guy?" Tsume asked.

"More like... temporary custody," I said. "Dan's gonna want to question him properly."

She flopped down in the chair with a sigh. "Well, that was anticlimactic."

"Still useful information," Mikoto pointed out. "Now we know there's a merchant who's been working with local officials to eliminate his competition, and we have a lead on who's actually behind the threats against Matsumoto's family."

My clone finished the transformation into Daigo and looked at me with his—now the official's—face. "So how long am I stuck being this guy? And just so you know, if I screw something up and blow my cover, that's on you."

"Just do your best impression of a corrupt government official until Dan's ready to move on the actual spies behind all this," I said with a shrug. "Once they start raiding safehouses and rounding up the real players, you can drop the act and rejoin the land of the living."

"Great. Living the dream."

Tsume stretched out in the chair. "So that's it? We barely did anything today."

"Hey, at least we solved a problem and got some useful intelligence," Mikoto pointed out. "Even if it wasn't as dramatic as we thought it would be when we started planning this whole operation."

"Speaking of which," she continued, "anyone up for hitting the hot springs tonight? I could use a soak after all this."

"Now you're talking," I said. "That sounds perfect."

…..

Word got around fast about my clones, because apparently having thirty identical surveillance operatives at your disposal was something that tended to make an impression on people who spent their careers worrying about intelligence gathering.

It started with chunin giving me weird looks during routine briefings, like they were trying to figure out if what they'd heard was actually possible or just an exaggerated rumor that had gotten blown out of proportion. Then jonin started asking casual questions during mission debriefs, seemingly innocent inquiries that were actually careful probes to determine exactly what kind of tactical asset they were dealing with. Before I knew it, Dan was pulling Team 7 aside for what he diplomatically called "special assignments," though what he really meant was "let's figure out how to use this kid's ridiculous abilities to make our lives easier."

"So," Dan said one morning, leaning back in his chair, "exactly how many of those things can you make without passing out?"

"Depends what they're doing. Just watching? Maybe thirty, forty. Actually fighting? Way less." I was lying through my teeth, but he didn't need to know that.

"Thirty," he said slowly, like he was doing math in his head. "And they all report back when they pop?"

"Every boring detail."

He glanced at the other jonin in the room. I could practically see the gears turning.

A week later, we'd been quietly moved from "regular genin stuff" to "special reconnaissance support," which was a fancy way of saying that Mikoto, Tsume and I still did normal missions together like any other genin team, but my clones had suddenly become everyone's favorite surveillance tool for the more sensitive operations that required eyes on multiple targets simultaneously.

"Think of it as advanced training," said a scar-faced jonin who'd been assigned to teach us proper infiltration techniques and urban surveillance methods. "Most genin don't get access to this kind of specialized instruction until they make chunin and prove they can handle more complex assignments."

"Lucky us," Tsume said, but she was paying attention.

"The trick to blending in," he continued, "is acting like you belong. People see what they expect to see, not what's actually there."

He wasn't wrong, and honestly, the training was turning out to be significantly more useful than I'd expected when this whole arrangement started. Within a few days of intensive instruction, we were all getting noticeably better at essential skills like moving through crowds without attracting attention, reading people's emotional states and intentions from their body language, and generally not looking like obvious outsiders who didn't belong in whatever environment we found ourselves in.

It definitely beat the hell out of escort missions and routine supply runs, that was for sure.

"Your clones are giving us better intel than half our official sources," Dan said during one of our evening briefings. "It's a shame other jonin can't spam shadow clones like you can. If we could field this kind of surveillance network across all our operations, we could really put the heat on Kumo's intelligence operations in this region."

"Happy to help," I said, though part of me was starting to wonder if this was how you ended up stuck behind a desk for the rest of your career, managing spy networks instead of actually doing adventure stuff.

Still, I had to admit the system was working better than anyone had expected. My clones had caught enemy agents attempting to poison grain shipments that were headed to Fire Country forces, followed suspicious individuals back to their carefully hidden safehouses, and when corrupt officials got a little too cozy with Kumo operatives... well, sometimes people had unfortunate accidents that looked perfectly natural to anyone who wasn't paying very close attention.

It left a distinctly bad taste in my mouth, but that was apparently what happened when two major powers decided to settle their differences through prolonged military conflict. Everyone else got caught in the middle and had to choose sides whether they wanted to or not. Traders especially were completely screwed no matter what they did—trade with Fire Country and Lightning Country intelligence might decide you were a strategic target, trade with Lightning Country and Fire Country forces might conclude you were collaborating with the enemy. Most neutral territories just picked whichever side they thought would hurt them less in the long run and tried to survive the experience.

The real game-changer came when Dan started embedding my clones directly into trade convoys as an early warning system. Not just as guards, but as merchants, drivers, cart loaders, whatever role would give them the best position to observe and report. When enemy agents finally decided to attack a convoy, the clone would immediately dispel itself and I'd instantly know exactly where the attackers were, how many there were, and what tactics they were using.

"Trade volume is still significantly down compared to peacetime levels," Dan explained during one of our strategic review meetings. "But it's stabilized at about sixty percent of normal commercial flow, which is actually better than we'd projected when this whole mess started. More importantly from a military perspective, critical supplies are getting through consistently to our forces on the western front."

Which meant our guys weren't running out of food, medicine, or weapons. In any prolonged military conflict, that kind of reliable logistical security could easily be the difference between eventual victory and complete disaster.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 45

Danzo stood perfectly still across from the Hokage's desk, hands clasped behind his back. From this angle, he could read the subtle tension in Hiruzen's shoulders—the way his old friend's pipe remained unlit between his fingers, forgotten. The war reports scattered across the desk told the story clearly enough: Konoha was winning, but winning slowly. Too slowly.

"The reinforcements are already in motion," Hiruzen said without looking up. "Additional forces left for the western front at dawn—including Shikaro's tactical unit, as you suggested we needed more strategic coordination out there."

“Good.” Danzo allowed himself the smallest hint of satisfaction. "A tactician of his caliber should accelerate our campaign considerably. What about supplies?"

Hiruzen finally set down his pipe, rubbing his temple. "That's becoming the real problem.”

"Merchant attacks?"

“They’ve increased threefold over the past two weeks. Despite our best efforts to protect the merchants, many of them still feel unsafe and fear for their lives. Several major trading companies are redirecting their routes toward Kumogakure and other, safer territories instead. They’re saying our western corridors are too dangerous for regular commerce.”

The irony wasn't lost on Danzo. Konoha's military success was strangling their own economy. Wars were expensive, and extended campaigns even more so. Every day the conflict dragged on meant more resources diverted from village development, more frustrated merchants, more pressure from the Fire Daimyo.

"We need this war finished quickly before the economic impact becomes irreversible."

"Agreed." Hiruzen leaned back in his chair. "The Senju reinforcements should help, but—"

"There's another problem." Danzo produced a slim folder from his robes. "Fresh intelligence from our border scouts. Iwagakure operatives have been spotted conducting reconnaissance near the western front."

That got Hiruzen's attention.

"Three separate sightings, different patrol teams, consistent descriptions." Danzo placed the folder on the desk but didn't release it immediately. "Their patrol patterns suggest they're mapping our supply routes and troop movements. If Iwa is preparing to intervene..."

He let that hang. A two-front war would be catastrophic, especially with their resources already stretched thin. Hiruzen reached for the folder, and Danzo released it, watching his friend's expression darken as he read.

"This changes everything," Hiruzen said. "We can't have Iwa hitting our flanks while we're fighting Suna."

"Which brings me to my recommendation." Danzo had rehearsed this carefully. "We need more ANBU for counterintelligence operations."

Hiruzen nodded absently, still reading. "I'll authorize three more teams immediately."

"Actually," Danzo said, "I have a better solution."

"Go on.”

"For the past two years, I've been developing a specialized network of operatives. Selected jonin and chunin trained specifically for covert operations—espionage, surveillance, counterintelligence. They operate outside normal command chains to maintain operational security. I call them Root."

Hiruzen's eyes narrowed slightly. "Outside normal command chains?"

"Think of them as shadow ANBU. Smaller, more specialized, deeper cover identities." Danzo moved to the window, looking out at the village. "ANBU are excellent for direct action, but too visible for long-term infiltration. These operatives can embed in enemy territory for months."

The silence stretched. Danzo could feel Hiruzen working through it, weighing implications.

"Why am I only hearing about this now?" There was an edge to the question.

"Because it was experimental. I wanted to verify their effectiveness before bringing it to you."

"How many operatives are we talking about?"

"Forty-three currently active. Small enough to maintain security, large enough to be effective." The number was exactly one-third of Root's actual strength. Never reveal everything—always leave room to maneuver.

Hiruzen stood and walked to his own window. "And you want to use them against the Iwa surveillance network?"

"They're perfectly positioned for it. Less visible than ANBU, more experienced than regular intelligence operatives." Danzo turned from the window. "They could establish monitoring positions, track Iwa movements, and if the opportunity arises, capture and replace enemy agents with our own people."

That was the hook. Replace enemy agents with Root operatives embedded in Iwa's network. Long-term strategic thinking that would appeal to Hiruzen.

"Capture and replace," Hiruzen repeated slowly. "That's ambitious."

"But achievable. These operatives are trained for deep cover. They could feed false intelligence to Iwa while gathering real intelligence for us."

Hiruzen returned to his desk, fingers drumming. Danzo watched him process the proposal, recognizing the signs of a decision forming. Cautious, but not stupid. The strategic value was obvious.

He folded his hands under his chin, staring at the open folder. “So what sets them apart? What makes these operatives different from regular ANBU aside from specialized training?"

Danzo didn’t blink. "They're bound by additional security measures that regular ANBU cannot be subjected to, for obvious ethical reasons."

"What kind of security measures?"

Danzo paused, like he was deciding how much to say. "We've developed a fuinjutsu technique—the Cursed Tongue Eradication Seal. Prevents operatives from revealing organizational information, even under extreme interrogation."

Hiruzen frowned. "You're talking about a seal that would kill them if they tried to speak."

"If they tried to betray the village's secrets, yes. It's a necessary precaution for deep cover work. Regular ANBU can't be subjected to such measures, but volunteers for this program understand the stakes."

"Volunteers."

"Patriots willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for Konoha's security." Danzo moved closer to the desk. "The seal ensures that even if captured, tortured, or turned, they cannot compromise our operations. It's perfect for the kind of long-term infiltration work we need against Iwa."

The silence stretched uncomfortably. Hiruzen stared at the intelligence reports, but Danzo could tell his mind was elsewhere—weighing the moral implications against the strategic necessity.

"How many of these... volunteers... do you currently have?" Hiruzen asked quietly.

"Enough for the mission parameters we're discussing. Each operative represents years of training and conditioning. They're not easily replaced."

"And they submitted to this seal willingly?"

"Of course they did." The lie slipped out easily. "They know conventional security can't handle what we’re up against—what Iwa’s interrogators can do to someone."

Hiruzen finally looked up from the reports. "This goes far beyond standard protocols, Danzo. What you're describing is creating soldiers who can never retire, and never leave service. You're asking me to authorize the use of operatives who are essentially living weapons bound by a death sentence."

"Hmm. You’re being overly dramatic, Hiruzen."

"Am I wrong?"

"No. But neither is it wrong to say that living weapons are what this war needs. You think Iwa gives a damn about our moral?"

"There are lines that shouldn't be crossed."

"I know, but how many of our people died because some spy found out where our troops were moving? How many operations went to hell because our agents couldn't keep their mouths shut under torture?"

The Hokage stared at the ceiling for a long moment. When he looked back down, his expression had hardened. The doubt was gone.

"What would you need?"

"They're already funded through classified research budgets." Another careful half-truth. "Just authorization to proceed and guaranteed operational independence."

"Independence from what?"

"Normal reporting structures. If they're constantly checking in through standard channels, their cover becomes compromised. They need to be able to act autonomously within mission parameters."

The request was bold—essentially asking for permission to operate without oversight. But it was couched in operational necessity, wrapped in legitimate security concerns.

"How long before we see results?"

"Two weeks for initial positioning. A month for full intelligence penetration." Danzo allowed himself a small smile. "If successful, we'll know Iwa's intentions before they do."

Hiruzen was quiet for another long moment, but Danzo could see the decision crystallizing. The war pressure, the economic strain, the threat of a second front—all of it created the perfect environment for accepting extraordinary measures.

"Very well," Hiruzen said finally. "Authorization granted for counterintelligence operations against Iwagakure reconnaissance. But I want regular briefings on their progress."

"Of course, but I can’t have it documented for security reasons. Classified, for your ears only."

“I know.”

……

The makeshift medical station at their base was cramped but weirdly efficient. Shinji watched as two medic-nin took over treatment of the wounded genin from his clone, their hands glowing with chakra as they worked to further stabilize the injuries. The three survivors were conscious now, which was more than he'd hoped for when they’d first found them bleeding out in that alley.

"Easy there," one medic said when a genin tried to sit up. "You're not ready for that yet."

Riku stood off to the side, absently pressing a fresh bandage against the gash on his forearm while keeping watch over the proceedings.

"Any word from Dan?" Riku asked one of the medics.

The medic shook his head without looking up from his patient. "Nothing yet. The raid operation is still ongoing."

Riku's jaw tightened slightly. Whatever Dan's team had walked into, it was taking longer than expected. In their line of work, that usually wasn't good news.

"Alright," Riku said, finally turning away from the wounded. "Teams 7 and 10, you've done enough for one day. Get some food, get some rest." He paused, his gaze settling on Shinji with an expression that was hard to read. Part gratitude, part confusion, and maybe a little bit of something that looked suspiciously like respect.

It was the kind of look you gave someone who'd just pulled off something impossible, except Shinji was supposed to be a genin who shouldn't have been capable of half the things he'd done today. The medical ninjutsu alone would have raised eyebrows, never mind the combat performance.

He held his gaze for a few more seconds, then walked away. Probably to write a very interesting mission report.

"Is anyone else injured?" The second medic finally looked up from his patient, scanning the group.

"We're fine," Shinji said, then added, "but some actual food wouldn't hurt."

Nawaki let out a tired laugh. "God, yes. I think I've had enough of ration bars." The brown-haired genin still looked a little shaken from the day's events, but he was holding it together better than Shinji had expected.

"They taste like cardboard had a baby with disappointment," Tsume added, wrinkling her nose. Kuromaru made a small whining sound that might have been agreement.

Mikoto stretched her arms above her head, working out the tension in her shoulders. "I want a bath more than food. I feel like I'm wearing half the dirt in Fire Country."

"Both," one of Nawaki's teammates said. "Food, then bath, then sleep for about twelve hours."

"Make it twenty," Tsume added.

Shinji took one last look around the medical station. The wounded genin were stable, and the medics clearly had things handled.

"Alright, let's go find something to eat."

Tsume's face fell. "Wait, you're not cooking?"

"After today? Not happening."

"That's just cruel." she groaned. "Do you know how long it's been since I had your cooking? I'm suffering here."

"Heh, you're a shinobi. Suck it up." he shrugged, then stopped as someone approached the camp perimeter.

Tall. Pale. Long black hair that moved like silk.

"Orochimaru-sensei!" Nawaki's face lit up like someone had just told him Christmas came early. He broke away from their group without hesitation, jogging toward the approaching shinobi.

"Nawaki-kun." Orochimaru's mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. "Still as energetic as ever, I see."

"How'd the raid go? You've been gone forever," Nawaki said, falling into step beside him. "Dan-san's team isn't back yet either, and some of the others..."

"The operation was successful. I'm sure the others will return soon."

That's when Shinji noticed the blood. Dark stains on Orochimaru's sleeve, a few drops on his pale skin that hadn't been wiped away yet. Still wet under the lights. No wounds on him, so obviously not his.

"Looks messy," Tsume said, wrinkling her nose.

Orochimaru glanced at her. "War tends to be messy, young Inuzuka. Though I suppose you're learning that firsthand."

"Yeah, we just got back too," Nawaki said, gesturing at their group. "Sweep and clear. Ran into some Kumo-nin who were attacking other teams. Shinji here saved them."

"Ah." Orochimaru looked at Shinji. "Shinji, was it?"

"That’s right. From Team 7."

"Tsunade's new student." A nod. Then, to Nawaki: "Get some rest. We have another mission soon."

"Yes, sensei."

Orochimaru walked away, and Nawaki watched him go with something like hero worship in his eyes.

Tsume urged, "Come on, let's get some food. I'm starving."

The eating area was nothing fancy—just a collection of wooden tables with a cooking station that looked like it had seen better days. The smell of rice and some kind of stew filled the air.

They grabbed bowls and got in line. The cook—some burly guy with arms like tree trunks—slopped food into their bowls without much conversation.

"At least it's hot," Mikoto said, sitting down.

"And it doesn't taste like cardboard," Tsume added, taking a spoonful. "That's already a step up from ration bars."

Shinji sat across from them, noting that Nawaki was still picking at his food.

"So Orochimaru's your sensei?" Shinji asked after a few seconds.

"Yeah." Nawaki's face brightened a bit at the question. "Has been since I graduated. He's... well, he's really something. Scary strong."

"But you don't go on missions with him anymore?" Tsume asked.

Nawaki's face fell slightly. "Not for a while now. His missions tend to be..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Let's just say they're usually too dangerous for genin teams. Especially lately, with him working with Jiraiya-san more often."

"Jiraiya?”

"Yeah, they work together sometimes on high-level missions—at least, that’s what the other chunin said." Nawaki stirred his rice absently. "Dan’s been handling most of our missions while Orochimaru-sensei is off doing... whatever they do."

After finishing their meal, everyone just sat there for a while. Too tired to move.

"Alright, I'm done," one of Nawaki's teammates finally said, getting up with a groan.

"Yeah, me too." Nawaki grabbed his bowl. "Hey, thanks for today. We would've been screwed without you guys."

"Don't worry about it," Shinji said, standing up. "We're all on the same side here."

"See you around," Mikoto added.

"Hopefully on something that doesn't involve so much blood next time," Nawaki said with a grin.

After a few more quick goodbyes, the teams split up. Shinji walked with Mikoto and Tsume toward the sleeping quarters.

"Get some sleep," he told them when they reached the hallway. "Tomorrow's probably going to be just as busy as today."

"Don't have to tell me twice." Tsume was already heading for her door. "I'm so tired I could sleep through anything." She disappeared with Kuromaru, leaving Shinji and Mikoto walking down the dim corridor.

"You should follow your own advice," Mikoto said. "You look dead on your feet."

"Planning on it. Soon as I find whatever they're calling a bed around here."

They stopped at her door.

"Night, Shinji."

"Night."

She went inside, and Shinji found his own room down the hall. Small space with a cot, a table, and one window. Nothing fancy, but it was clean and private. Better than he'd expected.

The day kept replaying in his head. Those chunin, the wounded genin, Riku's weird looks. And somewhere out there, Tsunade was probably still fighting in the Sand Country.

He hoped she was being careful. Though knowing her, careful wasn't really in the vocabulary. The woman punched through mountains for fun.

He didn’t like the thought. It wasn’t panic—just plain, stubborn worry.

And this whole mess with Kumo wasn't going away anytime soon. Today proved that. This wasn't some quick cleanup mission that'd be over in a week.

They were going to be stuck out here for months, weren't they?

The thought made him even more tired. He closed his eyes, trying to push it all away.

Sleep came fast, but it wasn't peaceful. Too many things churning in the back of his mind.

…..

Something poked his cheek. Shinji cracked an eye open to see his clone pointing at the door, where someone was knocking softly.

He blinked, still half-asleep. The room was dark, but light was creeping in around the window curtain.

'What time is it?'

He pushed the clone away and stumbled to the window. When he looked out, he was surprised to see it was still night—but the street was lit up with lanterns, people moving around like it was the middle of the day. The town never really slept, apparently.

More knocking. He walked over and opened the door to find Mikoto standing there, looking way too awake for someone who should have been sleeping.

"Hey," she said quietly. "Sorry. Want to take a walk?"

Shinji rubbed his face, still trying to wake up. She looked... restless, maybe? Like something was bothering her.

"Yeah, okay. Give me a second."

He grabbed his jacket from where he'd dropped it and followed her out into the hallway.

Even at this hour, the building was still wide awake. Muffled conversations bled through paper-thin walls, and I could hear someone's footsteps creaking overhead—probably heading to the bathroom. From the training yard came the steady thwap-thwap of someone working through kata, too wired to sleep.

We slipped through narrow hallways barely wide enough for two people, dodging around maintenance equipment left outside numbered doors. A chunin doing night rounds glanced our way but didn't bother stopping. He looked as tired as we probably should have been.

"Can't sleep either?" he asked, not really waiting for an answer before continuing his patrol.

The back exit spat us out onto a narrow side street, dimly lit and mostly empty. We walked in silence at first, boots scuffing against uneven cobblestones. The buildings on either side leaned like they were eavesdropping, their windows shuttered and dark. A stray cat darted past a stack of crates, vanishing into an alley with barely a sound.

As we kept walking, the silence began to thin. Distant noise crept in—the low murmur of voices, the clatter of something being hauled across stone, the faint clang of a bell. The light changed too. Pale lanterns gave way to warmer glows, strung across doorways and posts, their flickering reflections dancing on the windows.

By the time we reached the main road, the difference was obvious. The quiet gave way all at once to noise, color, and movement. Where the base had been all whispers and muted sounds, this place was alive.

"It’s so lively," she stared wide-eyed at the lanterns.

The street felt alive. Paper lanterns strung between buildings cast everything in warm, shifting light that made shadows dance. A ramen vendor was still ladling broth at this hour, steam rising from his cart while a few late-night customers hunched over their bowls. Kids weaved through the crowd—shouldn't they be in bed?—shrieking with laughter as they played some kind of tag game around the adults' legs.

"This place is something else," I said, raising my voice a bit to be heard over the merchants haggling nearby. "Do these people ever sleep?"

Mikoto was already getting swept up in it, her eyes tracking everything at once. "The other genin at the base said the shopping district stays busy, but I thought they meant during festival season."

She grabbed my arm when a street performer started juggling flaming sticks just a few feet away. "Look at that guy!"

"Careful," I warned, pulling her back as a cart full of pottery nearly clipped us.

We let ourselves get swept along with the crowd, moving down the main drag like leaves in a current. The air was thick with smoke from grilling meat and frying oil, and every few steps I'd catch a hint of sandalwood incense drifting from the little shrine tucked between a noodle shop and what looked like a gambling den.

"Shinji, look at all this," Mikoto said, craning her neck to see over a group of merchants. "There's a guy over there literally eating fire."

I followed her gaze and winced. "That can't be good for his throat."

We passed a bookstall where an old man sat reading by lamplight, books spread around him like he was conducting research at midnight. A street musician had set up near a tea house, plucking at something that sounded like a shamisen while people tossed coins without really stopping to listen.

"Oh, that smells amazing," she said, pulling up short.

An old woman was working a small cart decorated with paper flowers, dropping batter into hot oil. Whatever she was making came out golden and puffy, and she was dusting them with something that sparkled in the lantern light.

"Want one?" I asked.

"Are you kidding? Yes."

I bought us each one—they turned out to be some kind of sweet fritter filled with red bean paste. We squeezed through the crowd until we found a spot by a fountain, watching people stream past in both directions.

"Oh wow, this is perfect," she said around a mouthful. "Sweet but not too sweet.”

"Mm." I was busy trying not to burn my tongue. The thing was still steaming inside.

“Shinji…” She tugged gently at my sleeve. “Thanks for coming. I know you were asleep.”

"It's fine." I glanced over at her. "So, want to tell me what's really bothering you?"

She didn't say anything for a while.

I squinted at her. "You know, normal people don't usually wake someone up just to stand around saying nothing."

"I wasn't trying to wake you up." she crossed her arms, still not looking at me. "I just... wanted to walk around."

"Uh-huh. So you just happened to walk by my door and start knocking like the world was ending?"

"I didn't knock that loud."

"It sounded like you were trying to break it down."

She let out a quiet laugh.

I leaned in a little. “So? What’s really going on?”

She hesitated, then let out a small sigh. “…Nothing specific. Just… everything, I guess.”

"That's specific enough."

She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I just haven't been able to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, my mind starts spinning through all the things that could go wrong."

"Nightmares?"

"No, not nightmares. Just... restless, I guess. Too much thinking." She turned to watch the fountain. "When do you think we'll be joining Tsunade-sensei?"

The question caught me off guard, though I probably should have seen it coming. "She's on the front lines," I said carefully. "Unless we plan on heading to war ourselves, we won't be seeing her anytime soon."

She went quiet, staring at the water for a long time.

"I keep thinking about my parents. And Tsunade-sensei." She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Is it bad that I want to be out there with them? Even if it means..."

She didn't finish, but I knew what she meant. Even if it means going to war.

I watched the water ripple where a fish had jumped. The honest answer was complicated. If it was just me going into a war zone, I'd probably be fine. Hell, I might even do well. But with Mikoto and Tsume depending on me? That changed everything. One screw-up, one second where I wasn't fast enough or smart enough, and I could lose them both.

"Hey." I bumped her shoulder with mine. "Your parents are tough as nails. And Tsunade-sensei? She's practically indestructible. They've been kicking ass since before we were even born. Trust me, they're probably more worried about you than you need to be about them."

She glanced at me, and for the first time in hours, she almost smiled. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."

"Course I'm right."

That got me a small smile and a quiet "thanks," but I could see her mind was still elsewhere.

"Come on." I stood up and held out my hand. "Enough of this doom and gloom stuff. Let's go do something fun."

She hesitated for a second before taking my hand. "I guess moping isn't helping anything."

"Exactly. Plus, I'm starving."

“Again?”

We wandered back into the crowd, and honestly, it felt good to just... exist for a while. No missions, no training, no thinking about war. Just the smell of grilled meat and the sound of people laughing.

We grabbed some takoyaki from this guy who did dramatic poses every time he flipped one—which was hilarious because Mikoto tried to clap politely and just made it more awkward. Then we split a taiyaki that was way too hot and burned both our tongues.

"Ow, ow, ow." she was fanning her mouth with her hand.

"I told you to wait," I said, doing the same thing.

"You didn't wait either!"

"Yeah, well, I panic under dessert pressure."

By the time we got to the candied apples, we were both sticky messes. Mikoto somehow managed to get caramel in her hair.

"Seriously?" I couldn't help but laugh. "How do you even—"

"Ugh, don't make fun of me." She was still wrestling with the strand. "It's stuck, okay?"

"Here, let me—" I reached over to help, and she went completely still when my fingers brushed her cheek. "Got it."

"Thanks," she said, quieter now, not quite meeting my eyes.

We found the game section after that. She spotted the goldfish scooping and practically ran over.

"I haven't done this in forever," she said, settling down by the pool where dozens of little goldfish were swimming around.

The vendor—some older guy with laugh lines around his eyes—handed us each one of those flimsy paper scoops. "Just so you know, kids, these things are designed to break. That's the whole point."

"Thanks for the pep talk," I muttered, then turned to Mikoto. "Okay, so the trick is to go slow. Don't get greedy, don't rush, just—"

Rip.

My scoop tore the second it hit the water.

She doubled over laughing. "Oh my god, you didn't even get close to a fish!"

"That was... that was just testing the water." I could feel my face getting hot. "Making sure it was the right temperature."

"For the fish you didn't catch?"

"Shut up." I grabbed another scoop from the vendor, who was trying not to smile. "Watch and learn."

This time I managed to actually get the scoop under a fish before the paper gave out.

"Wow," she said, deadpan. "Such technique. Much skill."

"Your turn, smartass."

I watched her line up her next shot, biting her bottom lip in concentration. She moved the scoop so carefully through the water, like she was performing surgery or something.

And somehow, she actually got one.

"Ha!" She held up the little goldfish in triumph. "See? It's all about technique."

"Show off."

We kept taking turns for a few more minutes—she caught three more goldfish, and I finally got one before calling it quits.

"So what are you gonna call it?" I nodded at the fish she'd decided to keep.

"Koi."

I stared at her. "You're naming a goldfish... Koi."

"What? It's funny."

"That's not how funny works."

"Whatever. I like it."

I was about to argue when this little kid next to us started crying. She'd been trying to catch a fish for the past ten minutes while her mom crouched behind her, making encouraging noises that weren't helping.

Mikoto glanced over, then at her container.

"Hey," she said to the kid. "Want this one?"

The little girl looked up, tears still streaming. "Really?"

"Sure. But you have to promise to take good care of him, okay?"

The kid nodded so hard I thought her head might fall off. "I will! Thank you, onee-chan!"

Her mom shot us a grateful look as they walked away, the kid chattering excitedly about her new pet.

"That was nice of you," I said.

She shrugged. "I wasn't going to keep it anyway."

…..

As the night began to wind down and the crowds started to thin out, we made our way slowly back toward the base. The streets were quieter now, though still far from empty. A few late-night food stalls were beginning to pack up, and some of the smaller shops had already shuttered their windows.

"This was nice," she said. "I feel better."

"Good. That was the point."

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, our footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones. The base came into view ahead of us.

"Shinji?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For tonight, I mean. And for..." She gestured vaguely.

"You don't need to thank me for that."

"I know, but still." She looked over at me. "It helps.”

We stopped at the bottom of the steps leading back up to the base entrance. Neither of us seemed in a hurry to go back inside to the cramped building.

"You know," I said, "if things get really bad out there... if the war situation changes... we'll figure something out."

She nodded.

"But for now," I continued, "what we're doing here matters more than you think. These supply lines, the merchants we're protecting—every shipment that makes it safely to Fire Country means more resources for the frontlines. More medical supplies, more weapons, more food for our people."

I gestured toward the busy street around us. "This place might not look like much, but it's a crucial link in the chain. When your parents and Tsunade-sensei need equipment or reinforcements, a lot of that flows through routes we're helping to secure."

Her expression brightened slightly at this.

"So in a way," I added with a small smile, "we're already helping them. Just not with kunai and jutsu."

"Thanks," she said. "I needed that."

"Anytime."

We climbed the steps together and made our way back through the maze of corridors to our respective rooms. At her door, she paused and turned back to me.

"Get some sleep," she said. "Tomorrow's going to be another long day."

"You too. And if you can't sleep again..."

"I'll know where to find you."

I waited until she'd disappeared inside before heading to my own room. The clone was still there, sitting cross-legged on the bed with its eyes closed.

"How'd it go?" it asked without opening its eyes.

"Good," I kicked off my boots and dropped onto the mattress. "How are things on your end?"

"I've got thirty-five second-gen clones scattered around town. Market, bars, patrol routes, supply depot. Got pretty good coverage."

"Keep creating more. I want eyes everywhere."

That got one eye to crack open. "You sure about this?"

I didn't answer right away.

The clone sat up. "Look, I get it. But this could end badly. Right now it's just cat and mouse—small teams, limited engagement, everyone pretending this isn't really happening. But if you escalate the situation, Kumo might respond in kind."

It paused, letting that sink in.

"They could respond in force. Worst case scenario, we're looking at plunging Konoha into a second active conflict while half our forces are stuck in Sand Country." The clone leaned back against the wall. "Command's not going to be thrilled about that."

The sounds from the night market were getting quieter. People heading home, vendors packing up. I could still smell takoyaki on my clothes.

"I'm not trying to start anything," I said. "This is just... insurance. In case everything goes to hell."

"And if it does?"

"Then I want to know what's coming before it gets here."

The clone studied my face for a moment, then shrugged. "Your call.”

I stared out the window as the last of the festival lights went dark, thinking about goldfish and sticky caramel and the way Mikoto had smiled at that crying kid. Funny how normal moments like that felt so much more important when you were sitting in a foreign land.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 44

The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the Tsuchikage's office, but the golden light couldn't do much to warm the stone chamber that had been home to Iwagakure's leaders for generations. Onoki sat behind his heavy oak desk, his fingers tapping against the wood as he studied the intelligence reports scattered in front of him like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

"The casualty reports are confirmed?" he asked without looking up.

The weathered elder near the window gave a short nod. "Our observers counted at least forty Suna dead in yesterday's engagement alone. Konoha lost twenty-three, but they held the high ground near the eastern pass."

"What about the western settlements?"

"Two outposts have changed hands twice in the past few days," replied the female elder. "Neither side can maintain a solid hold. The fighting's grinding both sides down."

Onoki finally raised his head, his eyes moving between the assembled council members. "How much longer can they keep this up?"

The gray-haired commander flipped through his notes. "At this rate? Suna's got maybe three weeks before they'll have to pull back and start talking ceasefire."

Onoki leaned back in his chair. Everything was unfolding exactly as they'd anticipated. He rose and moved to the window, studying the village below.

"The longer this conflict continues, the weaker both villages become. That serves our interests well." He paused. "However..."

The female elder leaned slightly. "At the current pace, Konoha appears likely to emerge victorious. Should they succeed, they would gain control over River Country's territory."

"Indeed, that would prove... problematic for us," Onoki said, turning back to the council. "Konoha is already troublesome enough. If they gain access to River Country’s resources, they’ll have more than enough power to threaten the rest of us—including Iwa."

The intelligence commander spoke up. "What course of action do you recommend, Lord Tsuchikage? Do we maintain our current neutrality, or should we consider intervention?"

Onoki returned to his desk, hands clasped behind his back. "We must ensure this conflict continues until both sides have suffered significant losses. The optimal outcome would be mutual exhaustion—heavy casualties for both villages, with neither achieving a decisive victory."

One of the senior jonin nodded. "A sound strategy."

"But how do we guarantee such an outcome?" the male elder asked.

"We could provide support to whichever side appears to be losing," the commander suggested. "Not enough assistance to secure them victory, but sufficient to prolong the fighting."

The council members exchanged glances as they considered the implications. It was ruthless, but strategically sound.

The female elder nodded slowly. "Then we'll need better intelligence than what we're getting from border observers.”

"Exactly." Onoki settled back into his chair. "I want additional spy networks in that region immediately."

The elder gave a thin, knowing smile. “Let them rip each other to pieces. We’ll stay patient, grow stronger. When the dust settles, we’ll be the ones left standing.”

The intelligence commander scribbled notes on his scroll. "I'll work with the intelligence division. We can have new teams in place within forty-eight hours."

They spent another hour going over logistics and backup plans, but the real decision was already made. Iwagakure would wait, watch, and strike when the moment was right—patient and ruthless as always.

When the sun finally dropped behind the western mountains, leaving the office in gray twilight, Onoki felt genuinely pleased with how the day had gone. Wars always created opportunities, but only for leaders smart enough to see them coming.

……

The outskirts of Kitaura looked exactly like what you'd expect from a trading town trying really hard to seem important. A few decent shops, some warehouses, and enough foot traffic to make the merchants feel like they weren't completely wasting their time.

Our little convoy had made it through the town without anyone else trying to kill us, which was honestly more than I'd expected. The merchants seemed pleased enough with our escort service, though they kept shooting nervous glances at the treeline like they expected another squad of bandits to jump out at any second.

Can't say I blamed them.

"Well," Jiraiya said, clapping his hands together with way too much enthusiasm, "this is where I leave you kids."

I looked up from where I'd been walking alongside one of the wagons. "Already? But we were just starting to bond."

"Ha! You're a riot, kid." He stepped back, giving the whole caravan a quick once-over. "You did good work out there. Both teams." His eyes lingered on me for just a second longer than necessary. "Keep your heads on straight, and try not to get into any more trouble."

"Us? Trouble? I have no idea what you're talking about."

He let out a short laugh. "Right. Sure you don't." He started backing toward the forest edge with a grin on his face. "Remember what I told you about—"

"Yeah, yeah," I called after him, waving him off. "We got it, old man."

He stopped for a second, gave me one of those looks that was half-annoyed and half something I couldn't quite figure out, then shrugged. "Take care of yourself, brat."

And just like that, he was gone.

I held up my middle finger at the empty trees. 'See you never, sperm donor.'

"Did you seriously just—" Tsume shook her head. "You flipped off a jonin."

"So?"

"So? Shinji, you're dead. Like, actually dead."

"He's gone, isn't he?" I shrugged. "What's he gonna do, come back and bite me?"

Mikoto giggled, then covered her mouth when the sound came out louder than expected.

That’s when Miyabi appeared beside me, and I could practically feel the stress radiating off her. "So this is where we part ways."

The way she said it made everyone go quiet. Her teammates shuffled closer—Noboru trying to puff out his chest like he wasn't scared, Yua staring down the road like she could see trouble coming.

"Yeah." I scratched the back of my neck. "We're hitting the inn. You guys should probably do the same."

"Rest. Right." she nodded too quickly. "The merchants want to leave at dawn, so..."

"That's... yeah, that's smart. Long road ahead."

We stood there for a second. Nobody wanted to say what we were all thinking.

"Look," I started, then stopped. What was I supposed to say? Try not to die? "Just... you know."

"Yeah." Her voice was steady, but her hands weren't. "We know."

Noboru opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then closed it. Yua was doing that thing where she pretended to check her gear but was really just keeping her hands busy.

Before the silence could get any worse, Mikoto stepped in and pulled Miyabi into a hug.

"Don't be stupid out there."

"Wasn't planning on it." Miyabi hugged back, and some of the tightness in her shoulders loosened. When they separated, she looked at all of us. "Thanks. For... you know."

"Don't get all weird about it."

She almost smiled. "Right. No weird."

"Good." I kicked at a rock. "Try to make it boring from here on out."

"With our luck?" Yua finally spoke up, voice dry. "We'll probably run into bandits before lunch tomorrow."

They separated, and for a moment nobody seemed to know what to say. Then Noboru cleared his throat.

"Uh, thanks for everything. The backup, the medical stuff..." He gestured vaguely in my direction. "We probably would've been screwed without you guys."

"Probably?" Tsume snorted. "Kid, you would've been paste."

"Tsume," Mikoto said mildly.

"What? It's true."

I waved them off. "Just don't do anything stupid between here and the capital. These guys hitting trade routes aren't amateurs."

"We'll be fine," Miyabi said, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "It's just one more stretch of road."

‘Famous last words,’ I muttered, then louder. "Right. Well, see you around."

With that, the two groups split off. Team 4 headed toward the main road with their merchants, while we turned toward the cluster of buildings that made up Kitaura proper. I watched them go until they disappeared around a bend, then shook my head.

"Think they'll make it?" Tsume asked, apparently thinking along the same lines.

"Miyabi's smart and her team's gotten a lot better since the Academy. They'll be fine."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not," I admitted. "But there's not much we can do about it. Different missions, different objectives."

The inn turned out to be exactly what you'd expect from a trading town—clean enough, decent food, and rates that wouldn't bankrupt a genin team's mission allowance. We got a table near the back, ordered more food than we probably needed, and settled in to decompress from the past few days.

I was halfway through what might have been the best roasted chicken we'd had in weeks when the mood shifted.

"So." Mikoto set down her chopsticks. "We should probably figure out what we're doing next."

"Like what?" Tsume asked around a mouthful of rice.

"Our mission here. We're supposed to be helping other Konoha teams investigate these attacks and assist them with whatever problems they need solved in this area."

"Right." Tsume swallowed. "Haven't heard anything in a while though. Things still as weird as when we got here?"

"Actually..." I put down my tea cup. "One of my clones just dispelled. Something's happening."

Mikoto set down her chopsticks. “What kind of something?”

“The kind where everyone’s running around like their hair’s on fire.” I rubbed my temples. “Kumo’s pulling all their operatives out of the area—the ones behind these attacks on our caravans.”

"Shit." Tsume summed up what we were all thinking.

"How long do we have?" Mikoto asked.

I picked at my chicken. "The team my clone was with had been watching safe houses for days. Now they're being told to move on everything at once."

"Before the trail goes cold," Mikoto finished.

"Exactly."

"So what does that mean for us?" Tsume asked.

“Good question. Actually, the clone got some orders before it dispelled. We’re supposed to gather at our base—they’re planning to raid a couple of suspected safe houses on the east side of town. Apparently, they want extra bodies for containment in case anyone tries to run.”

"When?"

"Soon as we can get there." I tossed some coins on the table to cover our meal.

Mikoto gave me a long look. "How long ago did you get those orders?"

"Five minutes? Maybe nine."

"And you just... let us keep eating?"

I shrugged. "You looked hungry. What's nine minutes?"

"Most people would've dragged us out of here immediately," she said, but she was almost smiling.

"Yeah, well. Most people aren't me."

"True." She slung her pack over her shoulder. "Where exactly are we meeting them?"

"East side, by the old grain warehouse." I headed for the door, the other two falling in behind me.

We stepped out into the evening air, the temperature having dropped enough to make me wish I'd brought a heavier jacket. The streets were still busy with people finishing their day, completely oblivious to whatever was about to go down in their quiet little town.

"So what are we actually looking for?" Tsume asked as we started threading through the crowd.

"I'm guessing papers, intel, maybe someone dumb enough to still be hanging around." I dodged around a merchant hauling a cart. "Though if Kumo's really pulling out, I'd bet they probably torched anything useful already. That's what I'd do anyway."

"So this is just cleanup?"

"Pretty much." I grinned. "But hey, maybe we'll get lucky and find someone who overslept."

We jumped up to the rooftops, picking up speed as we headed east. The familiar thump of our feet on tile felt good after dragging our feet through dirt and gravel for hours.

Mikoto was quiet for a few minutes, just keeping pace beside me. I could tell something was on her mind from the way her face kept twisting into these little worried expressions, her eyebrows would furrow, then she'd catch herself and smooth out her features, only to start frowning again a few seconds later.

"You're worried about them," I said.

"A little." She was quiet for another moment. "I know Miyabi's capable, but her teammates... Noboru especially. He's gotten better, but he's still pretty green when it comes to real combat."

"They'll figure it out. Trial by fire and all that."

"Maybe." She paused. "Hey, I was thinking... why didn't you just send a clone with them?"

"What?"

"Why not have one of your clones tag along with Miyabi?" She said, then added quickly, "I mean, I know it's not really our mission, but I'm pretty confident that even a single clone of yours would be enough to handle a squad of chunin if they run into trouble."

"They won't be genin forever. They can handle themselves."

"But a clone would make it safer."

I shrugged. It would. But there were a lot of teams out there, and I couldn't exactly babysit all of them.

"Don't tell me you're too lazy to bother," she said with a pout that was probably illegal in at least three countries.

"Come on," she said, and there was something in her voice that made me glance over. "Please?"

"Why do you care so much anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"About Miyabi. You've been acting weird ever since she left. Worried, even."

Mikoto was quiet for a few jumps. "We're friends."

"Friends?"

"Childhood friends. Our families know each other."

"Huh." That was news to me. "You never mentioned that."

"It never came up." She shrugged. "We used to hang out before Academy. Lost touch when we got put on different classes."

I thought about it. If it were Mikoto or Tsume out there...

"Fine. I'll slip a clone into their caravan later."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Why not."

The old grain warehouse turned out to be exactly what it sounded like—a big, mostly empty building that smelled like dust and decades of stored rice. When we got there, a bunch of people were clustered around some crates that had been turned into a makeshift command post.

Several chunin, a few genin teams, some faces I recognized from Academy. The jonin running things had silver hair and looked like he needed about three more hours of sleep.

"—Team 6 takes the north entrance with Takami. Team 3, you're with Hibino on the supply depot." He looked up when we approached, pausing mid-assignment. "Team 7? About time."

"Sorry," I said. "Got here as fast as we could."

"Dan Kato," he replied with a brief nod, then continued with his assignments. "Team 8, backup position on the west side..."

A few more orders, some last-minute adjustments, and then he turned back to us. "Team 7, you're with Team 10, and Riku here will guide you to the remaining safe houses."

I glanced over at Team 10—three genin I vaguely remembered from Academy classes, though they'd graduated the year before us. Their leader, a smiling kid with short light-brown hair, gave me a small nod.

"What's the objective?" he asked.

Riku, a chunin with a scar across his nose, stepped forward. "Simple sweep and clear. Intelligence suggests they've been using these locations as temporary safe houses. We go in fast, secure any personnel or documents, and get out before anyone has time to react."

"Rules of engagement?" Mikoto asked.

"Capture if possible, but don't take unnecessary risks. These people are professionals," Dan said seriously. "Follow Riku's lead, do what he says, and try not to let anyone slip through the net."

We followed Riku out of the warehouse and into the narrow streets, moving at a pace that was just short of a full sprint. The chunin knew where he was going, leading us through back alleys and side streets that kept us away from the main foot traffic.

"Team leader's Nawaki," the brown-haired kid from Team 10 said as we ran, flashing a big smile. "Don't think we've met before."

"Shinji. That's Mikoto and Tsume."

"Hey." Mikoto gave him a small polite smile.

"Yeah, hi." Nawaki's smile got even bigger, and I caught him stealing a glance at her before quickly looking ahead again. "So, uh, we've been tracking these guys for three days now. Pretty routine surveillance stuff, but—"

His gaze drifted back toward Mikoto. "I mean, nothing too exciting until today. We've been doing a lot of, uh, reconnaissance work."

I caught Tsume rolling her eyes. The poor guy was completely smitten and had absolutely no idea how to handle it.

"Eyes up," Riku called back without turning around. "We're almost there."

"Right. Eyes forward." Nawaki straightened up, trying to look serious and professional. It lasted about ten seconds before he shot another sideways look at Mikoto. The kid had it bad.

"So," he said, "you guys been doing missions like this before, or...?"

"A few," she said.

"Cool. That's... that's really cool."

Tsume made a noise that might have been a snort. Nawaki either didn't hear it or pretended not to.

The first safe house turned out to be a complete bust. We went in fast, Riku leading while both genin teams covered exits and swept rooms, but all we found were empty spaces and the faint smell of burned paper.

"Damn," Riku muttered, kicking at some ash in what had probably been a small fireplace. "They torched everything."

The second place was the same story. A small apartment above a tea shop, cleared out so thoroughly it looked like no one had ever lived there. The only signs of recent occupation were some scuff marks on the floor and a few stray pieces of what might have been coded messages, but nothing readable.

"How long you think they've been gone?" Nawaki asked, then immediately looked at Mikoto like her answer would be the most important thing he'd ever heard.

"Not long." she crouched by the window, checking the dust. "Maybe a few hours."

"A few hours," Nawaki repeated, nodding like she'd just solved world hunger.

The third location was a small warehouse on the edge of town. Same result, empty shelves, clean floors, and absolutely nothing useful left behind.

"This is bullshit," Tsume said while Kuromaru sniffed around for scent trails.

"Word got out," Riku said. "First team hits their target, everyone else panics and runs."

We were heading toward the fourth spot when we heard it—the crash of metal, definitely jutsu, probably an explosion.

"That way." Riku was already changing direction.

We hit the rooftops, jumping toward the noise. Whatever was happening, it was loud and getting louder.

"Think somebody actually found something?" Nawaki asked, sounding hopeful.

"Guess we'll find out," I said, already wondering what we were about to walk into.

When we crested the rooftop, the scene below was a mess. Four genin and one chunin from our side were getting absolutely demolished by four Kumo chunin. One genin lay motionless in a pool of blood, while three more were on the ground, groaning and clutching wounds. The lone Konoha chunin was in full retreat, three of the enemy chunin hot on his heels, while the fourth seemed to be securing something from what looked like a destroyed building.

"Fuck." Riku's face went white. "Run back and get Dan! Now!"

He leaped down without waiting for a response, rushing toward the retreating chunin.

I made a quick hand sign and popped a clone. "Nawaki," I said, grabbing the kid's shoulder as he started to follow Riku. "I need you and your team to protect my clone while he heals the wounded."

"What?" His eyes darted between the bleeding genin and Riku, who looked like he was about to charge into a meat grinder. "But Riku—"

"Those kids are gonna bleed out if someone doesn't help them right now."

Nawaki stared at the bodies below, jaw working. "Shit. This is... shit."

"I know. But this is how we save the most people."

He looked at Riku one more time, then back at the wounded. "Yeah. Okay. We got your clone."

"Good." I turned to my team. "Mikoto, Tsume—we're helping Riku. Let's move."

We dropped into the mess, leaving Nawaki's team to get my clone to the casualties. The sounds of combat were getting closer, and I could hear Riku shouting something that definitely wasn't polite.

……

We hit the ground running just as the lead Kumo spotted us coming. He barked something in their direction, probably orders, definitely not a compliment, and two of his guys peeled off from chasing the retreating Konoha-nin to deal with us.

The two coming our way moved like they'd graduated from the "how to not die horribly" academy. Professional, coordinated, the kind of confident stride that said they'd buried plenty of cocky genin and weren't planning to break their streak today.

I popped a shadow clone without breaking stride. "Go."

The clone shot forward while I curved left, creating angles. Behind me, I heard Mikoto’s voice.

“Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!”

The jutsu wasn't meant to kill—too telegraphed, too easy to dodge at range. But it did exactly what we needed. Both chunin scattered like startled cats, and my clone used their split-second of distraction to close the gap.

Tsume's kunai whistled past, forcing subtle dodges. Smart girl. Keep them honest without overcommitting.

The first chunin recovered fast, pivoting into my clone with a vicious knee strike that would've rearranged internal organs. My clone twisted sideways, the knee skimming past, then grabbed the extended leg and used the chunin's own momentum against him—elbow driving into the exposed kidney like a piston.

The chunin hissed, stumbled, but rolled with it. These weren't academy dropouts.

His partner tried to flank me, hands already blurring through seals. Lightning jutsu, probably. I could see the chakra building, crackling between his fingers.

I didn't let him finish his light show.

The distance closed in three explosive steps. His eyes widened—genin weren't supposed to move like that—but credit where it's due, he had the reflexes to abort his jutsu and shift into a defensive stance. Forearms up, weight centered, ready to absorb or redirect whatever amateur hour garbage I threw at him.

Too bad for him I'd left amateur hour back in the academy.

My opening strike was pure misdirection—a telegraphed straight punch aimed at his sternum that screamed "predictable genin attack." He bought it completely, committing to a block that left his lower body wide open. The real strike came from my rear leg, knee driving upward in a tight arc that slipped under his guard and caught him just above the hip bone.

He grunted, staggered sideways, but kept his feet. Good recovery.

He countered immediately with a vicious backhand that would've rearranged my dental work. I dropped under it, feeling the wind from his knuckles ruffle my hair, then pivoted on my back foot to launch a spinning heel kick at his ribs.

He managed to get his forearm up in time, deflecting the worst of it, but I felt the solid impact travel up my leg.

'Definitely chunin level,' I noted, already repositioning. 'Way better than those bandit scrubs.'

The problem was, so was I.

I flowed with his deflection instead of fighting it, using the momentum to step inside his guard before he could reset. Too close for him to use his reach advantage, too close for him to see what was coming next.

My elbow found his solar plexus like a guided missile, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp, satisfying wheeze. Before he could even think about recovering, I grabbed his shoulder with my left hand and drove my knee upward toward his floating ribs.

He managed to drop his arm to intercept, forearm taking the brunt of the impact, but physics is a harsh mistress. The force still folded him forward, putting his head at exactly the wrong height.

Or the right height, depending on your perspective.

My hand shot behind my back, fingers curling around the hilt tucked horizontally at my lower spine. The tanto cleared its sheath in a whisper of steel, the blade singing in a quick slash across the back of his exposed neck.

His head separated from his shoulders in a splatter of blood and cartilage, the neck stump gushing like a burst wineskin as the spine snapped with a sickening crunch.

Blood painted an abstract masterpiece across the ground as his body crumpled, but I was already glancing toward my clone's fight. The chunin had seen his partner's sudden decapitation and was now pressing my clone with the frantic desperation of a man who'd just realized he might not be going home for dinner.

Panic made people sloppy. And sloppy people made excellent corpses.

He managed to tag my clone—a glancing blow but wasn't enough to dispel it. Close call, but close only counted in horseshoes and explosive tags.

"Mikoto!" I called out, already moving to flank. "Light him up!"

The chunin's head snapped toward me at the shout, eyes widening as he processed what that meant. Smart guy. Too bad smart wasn't going to save him.

He tried to disengage from my clone, probably planning to put some distance between himself and whatever Mikoto was cooking up. Tried-and-true tactic. Create space, assess threats, don't stand still when someone's about to barbecue you.

But my clone had other plans.

Instead of letting him withdraw, it lunged forward and locked both arms around the chunin's torso in a crushing bear hug. The man's eyes went wide with the sudden realization of what was about to happen.

"You crazy—" he started, driving his kunai between my clone's ribs in desperation.

The clone just grinned through the pain. "See you in hell."

It held on until the very last second, only dispelling when the kunai finally went deep enough. It vanished in a puff of smoke just as the roaring sphere of flame engulfed the chunin, leaving him with nowhere to run and nothing to hide behind except his rapidly igniting clothes.

His scream ripped across the clearing, shrill as a rusty saw through bone.

He staggered out of the flames, a walking torch stumbling in blind agony. His hair was gone, his clothes were melting into his skin, and the smell of charred meat filled the air with the kind of aroma that would put you off barbecue for a month.

Three more steps, then his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the stone floor with a wet thud. The flames kept dancing across his body for a few more seconds before finally dying down, leaving behind something that had recently been a person but now looked more like an overcooked steak.

"Well," I said, watching the smoke rise from what used to be a person, "that's one way to get a tan."

Mikoto was staring at the charred corpse with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"You okay?"

“Yeah.” She shook her head slightly. “Just... tired, I guess.”

"Yeah, tell me about it," I said, rolling my shoulders to work out the tension. "We've been on the road for what, days now? Nonstop action, barely any real rest. Starting to feel it."

I glanced toward where the other fight was still going on, four chunin trading blows in a messy brawl, all of them sporting various wounds and looking like they'd been at it for a while. Blood on the ground, torn clothes, the kind of exhausted desperation that came from a fight that had gone on too long.

That's when two of the Kumo chunin caught sight of their fallen comrades.

They went completely still for a second, taking in the headless body and the charred corpse. I saw the exact moment they did the math, two of their guys down, fresh reinforcements on our side, and their mission parameters probably didn't include a last stand in some random alley.

Without a word, they disengaged and bolted.

The two Konoha chunin Riku and another guy I didn't recognize watched them go but didn't give chase. They were both breathing hard and bleeding from multiple cuts. No point pushing their luck when they'd already won.

I turned away from the retreating figures, scanning the area for Nawaki's team. Found them crouched around my clone near the entrance to what looked like a small courtyard, the clone's hands glowing green as he worked on one of the wounded genin.

"How are they doing?" I called out as we approached.

Nawaki looked up, his face pale but determined. "Your clone says three of them should make it. The fourth..." He shook his head. "Too much blood loss before we got here."

I nodded. "Well, three out of four is better than zero out of four."

It wasn't much comfort, but it was the truth. In this business, you learned to take what wins you could get.

Riku limped over, pressing a cloth against a nasty gash on his forearm. "Good work, all of you. That could've gone a lot worse."

“Could’ve gone better too,” Nawaki said, but there wasn’t any real criticism in his voice—just the helplessness and exhaustion talking.

"Dan's going to want a full debrief," Riku continued. "But that can wait until we get these wounded back to base."

I looked around at the aftermath, two dead Kumo chunin, one dead Konoha genin, and enough blood on the ground to paint a small house. Just another day in the life of a shinobi.

As we started the slow process of moving the injured, I caught Mikoto looking back at the charred corpse one more time.

"You sure you're okay?"

She met my eyes and nodded. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how normal this is starting to feel."

I didn’t have a good answer for that one. Because she was right—it was starting to feel normal. Familiar, even. And I knew exactly why that didn’t surprise me as much as it should’ve—like slipping into an old coat I’d sworn I’d never wear again.

But that was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, we just had to get everyone home.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 43

The Kumo jonin stood beside the rough bark of an old oak, his eyes tracking the movements of the clone tending to the injured genin’s wounds. Behind them, the Uchiha girl had taken up a defensive stance, her eyes scanning him and the treeline for threats. Shohei had served Kumogakure for twelve long years, rising through the ranks on skill and experience alone, but what he was seeing now went against everything he thought he knew about combat.

Two shadow clones. That was it. Just a pair of replicas created by some Konoha kid who couldn't be older than thirteen, and somehow they had managed to cut through his entire chunin squad like they were fresh academy graduates. The bodies of his men lay scattered among the fallen leaves, and each one told the same impossible story.

'This doesn't make sense,' Shohei thought, his calloused fingers finding the familiar comfort of his sword's wrapped handle. Every shinobi worth their headband knew that shadow clones were nothing more than chakra constructs—fragile things that would dissolve the moment they took any real damage. They were useful for reconnaissance, maybe some basic distraction work, but in actual combat? Against experienced chunin? It should have been a massacre in the other direction.

But then again, he'd had that same nagging doubt when his ambush on the weird genin had somehow failed. Most chunin would have died from that kind of surprise attack, yet here the kid was, still breathing and being patched up by his clone.

He launched himself in a flash, the sun glinting off his blade as he ate up the distance between them. Forty meters disappeared in less than a second—most people wouldn’t even register the movement until he was already there. The first clone spun to meet him, tanto raised, but Shohei could already see the opening. The thing was protecting the injured original, which meant limited movement options.

His sword crashed into the tanto with a sharp ring. The clone's eyes went wide—probably hadn't expected the sheer force behind the strike. Shohei twisted his wrist, using his superior strength to lock the tanto's guard, then drove his knee toward the clone's ribs.

The clone twisted away, but not fast enough. Shohei's knee caught him in the side, lifting him clean off the ground. Before the clone could recover, Shohei spun and brought his sword around in a horizontal slash that should have cut the thing in half.

The blade met air. The clone had somehow twisted mid-flight, using the momentum from the knee strike to flip over the sword. It landed in a crouch three feet away, tanto still in hand, and had the gall to grin.

"Not bad for an old timer," the clone said. "You've got some speed on you."

Shohei's eye twitched. Old timer?

The second clone came at him from the left. Shohei shifted his stance, letting his body flow into the defensive pattern that decades of experience had drilled into him. He caught the clone’s tanto on the edge of his sword, redirected the force downward, and immediately countered with an elbow strike aimed at the clone’s temple.

The clone ducked under his elbow and came up with an uppercut that would have shattered his jaw if he hadn't jerked his head back. But that left him open for the first clone, who had somehow closed the distance again and was driving a tanto toward his spine.

Shohei spun away from the tanto, his sword coming around in a wide arc that forced both clones to retreat.

"Fast enough to be annoying," he muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders to work out the tension. "But you're still just clones."

He'd been taking it easy on them, trying to get a feel for what they could actually do. But standing around and playing defense wasn't going to win this fight. Time to remind them why the original was lying over there bleeding instead of standing up here with them.

Chakra surged through his body, and he clenched his legs as he picked his targets. The first clone was slightly off-balance from dodging his last attack. Perfect.

Shohei moved.

He crossed the distance in a blur, his sword aimed directly at the clone's neck. At this speed, with this much force behind it, there was no way the clone could—

His blade passed through empty air, again. The clone had somehow read his attack and shifted to avoid decapitation. But Shohei was already adjusting, bringing his sword back in a reverse cut that caught the clone across the chest.

The blade punched through the clone's chest with a wet sound. For a split second, Shohei felt satisfaction—finally, one down.

But that was when Shohei noticed something that made his blood run cold. Off to his left, near a cluster of boulders, two more clones had appeared. They hadn’t been there a moment ago—he would have sensed them. But now they stood watching the fight with the same unsettling grins as the others.

'New clones…' he thought frantically. 'How is this possible?'

His mind worked through the possibilities. Either this genin was some kind of prodigy, the next big Konoha name, or something deeply messed up was going on here.

His instincts didn’t waste time on theory. They answered with action.

“Raiton: Rainawa no Jutsu!”

Lightning burst from his palm, snaking out into a seething whip of raw current. He cracked it once—snap—and it sheared clean through a tree trunk, the wood exploding in a shower of splinters.

One clone ducked the strike and came up throwing a tight spread of shuriken. Shohei swept his whip through the air, the lightning snaring the projectiles and scattering them like ash. But the attack had done its job. The remaining clones had used that moment to reposition—now they were circling, cutting off angles, classic pincer setup.

'Time to thin the herd.'

He zeroed in on the one with the worst footing, a slight lean in the stance, too much weight on the front leg. Shohei blitzed in, whip coiled, then lashed it straight at the clone’s center mass.

The target barely managed to dodge his whip, but the clone next to it wasn’t so fortunate. The lightning whip sliced clean across its torso. The shock hit first—body locking up mid-motion, then the whole thing burst in a puff of smoke, the cooked air still crackling with static.

But before he could savor the small victory, he caught the sound that made his stomach drop, the whisper-quiet footfalls of approaching shinobi. He whipped around and felt his heart sink at the sight of not one, not two, but three new clones emerging from behind different trees, moving like they hadn’t just watched their buddy get fried.

Five clones. Five active clones, and when he glanced back toward where the original had been receiving medical attention, the space behind the moss-covered boulders was empty.

"Where—" he scanned the area frantically. Both the injured genin and the Uchiha girl had disappeared.

Creating new clones should have put the kid flat on his back, not given him enough strength to relocate while spawning more shadow clones like some kind of factory.

"What's wrong, old man? You look a little pale," one of the newcomers said, and Shohei could hear the amusement in its voice. "Don't worry, we're not going anywhere."

"What the hell are you?" Shohei tightened his grip on his sword. Twenty years of fights, twenty years of thinking he’d seen everything the shinobi world had to throw at him, and this genin was making him feel like a chunin all over again.

"Your worst day at the office," another clone replied, hands already moving through familiar seals. "Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!"

A roar. Then fire—searing, all-consuming, the size of a wagon wheel and just as fast. Shohei dove behind the boulder a half-second before it hit, the shockwave rattling the trees around him, the heat so intense it blistered the bark off the trees.

When the fire cleared, he took a glance.

Six.

Six clones now, spaced in a loose formation, surrounding his position like a kill box.

While he was dodging the fireball, another one had seemingly appeared out of nowhere!

'I need to get out of here,' he realized with growing alarm.

This wasn't a fight he could win—hell, it wasn't even a fight anymore. It was about to become a massacre, and he was going to be on the wrong end of it.

But when he heard the soft crunch of leaves under multiple sets of feet, he knew running might not even be an option. He turned his head and saw all six clones closing in from different angles, moving like they'd rehearsed this plan a hundred times before. They weren't rushing, weren't making any noise—just stalking him like a pack of predators who knew their prey had nowhere left to go.

And then more shapes started separating themselves from the shadows between the trees.

Shohei's mouth went completely dry as he did a quick headcount. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Ten clones, all wearing that same infuriating smile, all walking toward his little boulder like they had all the time in the world.

The smart play—the only play—was already clear in his mind.

He bolted.

…

Shohei pushed himself harder than he had in years, the forest becoming little more than a green blur as he moved at speeds that would leave most shinobi in the dust. Branches and roots that might trip up a chunin were nothing to him—his body flowed around every obstacle without conscious thought, decades of experience allowing him to navigate the terrain like he’d been born to it. The only thing that mattered was putting as much distance as possible between him and that monster in a genin’s skin.

He’d been running for maybe three minutes when his danger sense screamed a warning. He threw himself sideways just as a trio of explosive tags detonated where he’d been a split second before. The shockwave sent him tumbling, but he rolled with it and kept his legs moving before he’d even fully regained his balance.

More tags were scattered through the trees ahead of him, plastered to trunks and hanging from branches like some kind of festival decoration. There had to be dozens of them, maybe more, turning the entire path into a minefield. His experience told him most were probably fakes—basic clone copies with no substance. But some would be real, and he didn’t have the luxury of stopping to figure out which was which. He could either slow down and pick his way through like he was defusing a bomb, or keep running and hope he got lucky.

Instead, he cut hard to the left toward what looked like cleaner ground. But after another minute of running, he ran into the exact same thing, more tags, more death traps, same impossible choice.

Every direction he tried, every potential escape route, led to the same outcome. The entire forest had been turned into one massive killing ground.

“Shit! Is this the original’s doing?” he panted, changing direction again.

That's when he heard them—multiple sets of footsteps moving through the trees behind him, getting closer with each passing second. The clones were gaining ground, and why wouldn't they be? He'd been forced to zigzag through the forest like a rabbit in a snare, changing direction every few minutes when another wall of explosive tags blocked his path. Meanwhile, they could probably run straight toward wherever they'd planned to corner him.

He couldn't help himself—he looked back over his shoulder and felt his blood turn cold. Twelve clones were flowing through the forest after him, some of them actually grinning like this was the most fun they'd had all week.

Twelve. He'd seen several of them get destroyed during their fight, watched them explode into smoke with his own eyes. But somehow their numbers just kept growing, like he was fighting some kind of nightmare that got worse every time he thought he'd made progress. The only way this made sense was if there were multiple shinobi coordinating with shadow clones and transformation techniques, but who the hell would go to that much trouble for a single target?

Unless...

"Jinchuriki," he muttered under his breath, the pieces finally clicking into place. "Has to be. Is this kid the new Nine-Tails host?"

It was the only explanation that fit. The massive chakra reserves, the seemingly endless stream of clones. If Konoha had been hiding a new jinchuriki, it would explain everything.

The ground started rising beneath his feet as he entered more mountainous terrain. Maybe he could find some kind of defensive position up here.

The trees thinned out ahead of him, and he skidded to a stop at the cliff’s edge as he stared into empty air—a sheer drop that fell away into a gorge so deep he couldn’t see the bottom.

He'd been herded. Like a damn animal, they'd driven him exactly where they wanted him to go.

Shohei turned to face his pursuers. Behind him was a hundred-foot drop onto jagged rocks. In front of him, sixteen shadow clones emerged from the forest.

“End of the line,” one of them said, casually spinning a kunai on his finger. “Gotta admit, though—you gave us a decent workout.”

"Speak for yourself," another clone replied. "I barely broke a sweat."

"That's because you've been hanging back and letting the rest of us do all the work," a third accused.

"Hey, I'm providing support," the clone protested. “Someone had to help Mikoto set up the tags.”

“Yeah, and this whole trap wouldn’t have worked without us,” another added, puffing his chest like he expected a medal.

They were bantering. Not taunting, not posturing—bantering. Like this was a damn spar. Like he didn’t matter.

Shohei swallowed the spike of fury.

He raised both hands.

A string of seals flashed. Lightning burst from his left palm, snapping into a crackling whip of blue plasma. At the same moment, his blade cleared the sheath with a sharp shing.

The clones stopped their bickering and looked at him with what seemed like genuine appreciation.

"Oh, now that's nice," one of them said, nodding toward the lightning whip. "Very flashy. I like the way it sparks."

"Can we keep him?" another asked, like Shohei was some kind of stray dog they'd found. "I promise I'll take good care of him."

"Only if you're willing to clean up after him when he makes a mess," came the reply.

Shohei charged like a man possessed.

His lightning whip cracked through the air, slicing toward the center of the clone formation as he drove in with his sword in a vicious arc.

The first clone met him head-on, puffing out its chest—Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!

A fireball the size of a wagon erupted from its mouth, trying to overpower the whip. Bad move. The crackling whip sliced straight through the flames, then ripped the clone in half just as easily. The thing barely had time to look surprised before it went up in smoke.

The whip kept going, slamming into the second clone who tried to block it with his tanto. The blade popped as the lightning met fake steel—and then kept going. The clone screamed as the whip struck his chest. Another puff of smoke.

Two down.

A third clone learned fast. It dipped back, letting the whip sail past, then retaliated—six shuriken, three in each hand, flicked in a tight spread toward Shohei’s back.

He spun and brought his sword up just in time to catch another clone's blade, the two weapons ringing against each other. Without breaking the blade lock, he lashed his lightning backward in a wide arc, the crackling whip catching four of the incoming shuriken and popping them into charred smoke. The remaining two he caught on his sword's guard as he pushed the clone back, and they too vanished in puffs of dark smoke.

The clone was good, but Shohei had twenty years of experience on his side. He twisted his grip and drove his sword through the clone's guard in a backhand cut that split the thing from shoulder to hip.

Another burst of smoke.

Shohei’s eyes swept the clearing, breath hitching in his throat. Three down in as many seconds—but the numbers weren’t moving in his favor. If anything, they felt like they were mocking him.

Thirteen left.

Still.

Already, he could feel his chakra burning off like dry leaves in a bonfire. The lightning whip was brutal—visually terrifying, but keeping that much raw voltage writhing in one shape was draining him faster than he could adjust. Every second it stayed active was another second shaved off his lifespan in this fight.

And the clones weren't making the same mistakes twice. They were learning from each exchange, getting better at reading his movements, finding the gaps in his defense that he didn't even know were there.

A tanto scraped across his thigh, drawing a line of blood through his pants. Another blade caught his cheek, leaving a stinging cut that he felt more than saw.

Nothing serious, but the small wounds were piling up, and his body was starting to feel the accumulation of a dozen minor injuries.

Worse, every time he put one of them down, it seemed like another clone stepped out from behind a tree to take its place.

After what felt like half the day but couldn't have been more than a few minutes, his lightning whip finally gave out. The crackling sputtered once, twice, then died completely, leaving him holding nothing but air. His chakra was nearly empty, and his legs felt like jelly, with black spots creeping in at the edges of his vision. Just staying on his feet was taking everything he had left.

The remaining clones had spread out around him in a loose circle, and when he did a quick count his heart sank. He'd taken out a dozen of them in his last desperate push, but somehow there were still sixteen of the damn things staring back at him.

Yes sixteen.

Still sixteen.

He’d killed a dozen.

He knew he had.

But somehow, impossibly, they were still looking at him with identical eyes, like the effort hadn't mattered. Like none of this had meant anything at all.

And for the first time in the entire fight, Shohei felt it.

That cold, bitter edge of doom curling in his gut, whispering that this was it. He wasn’t getting out. Not this time.

“Nice,” one of the clones said, hands on his hips like a coach at the end of practice. “I knew he’d last more than five minutes.”

“Tch,” another muttered, pulling a rice ball out of a pouch and tossing it across the clearing. “I thought he’d fold after the sixth. That lightning whip was totally cheating.”

The clone caught the onigiri and took a huge bite. “Mmm. Salmon filling. Not my fault you lowballed the guy.”

“Next jonin we fight, I’m betting on ten minutes,” the grumbling clone snapped. “And I'm bringing two rice balls.”

Shohei was clenching his jaw so hard he could feel his teeth starting to ache, but before he could tell these clones to go fu*k themselves, the sound of footsteps made him look up. Two more figures stepped out from between the trees—the original kid and the Uchiha girl, both looking like they'd just finished a pleasant stroll through the park instead of orchestrating an elaborate manhunt.

"So, what gen did we reach this time?" Shinji said, surveying the circle of clones with interest. "Third? Fourth? And more importantly—do any of you have the sudden urge to, I don't know, stab me in the back or take over the world? If so, raise your hands now."

The clones exchanged glances, a few of them actually pausing to consider the question seriously.

"I'm third gen," one of them said, raising his hand partway. "And honestly? I do have this weird urge to put salt in your coffee instead of sugar."

"Fourth gen here," another chimed in. "Mostly I just want to tell everyone back in the village about that time you cried watching a movie."

"That was ONE TIME," Shinji protested.

"Still counts," the clone grinned.

Shohei stared at them, his mouth hanging open. "What... what the hell are you people talking about?" he gasped, looking back and forth between the original and his copies. "Generations? World domination? Are you completely insane?!"

"Oh right," Shinji said, glancing at the battered jonin like he'd forgotten he was there. "Sorry about that. Bit of internal quality control. Don't worry about it."

"So what do we do with this guy?" one of the clones asked, jerking his thumb at Kenji. "Pick up where we left off with his buddy?"

"Shame about the sensor," another clone said, shaking his head. "Guy's heart gave out way too early. We barely got started."

"This one looks tougher though," a third clone said, sizing up Kenji. "Bet he can handle more than his friend did."

"Yeah, definitely. The sensor was kind of a letdown." The first clone shrugged. "Died before we could really test our theories."

Kenji's face had gone dead white. He kept looking between the clones and the cliff edge, his breathing getting faster.

"Hey, don't look so worried," one of the clones said, noticing his panic. "We learned a lot from your buddy's... feedback. We'll take better care of you. Keep you alive longer."

Kenji stared at the eager faces surrounding him, then at the long drop behind him, then back at the clones.

He made his choice.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t curse. Just turned and threw himself off the ledge.

The wind rushed past his ears as he fell, and for a brief moment he felt something like peace. At least this way, his death would be quick and clean. No torture, no interrogation, no slow dismemberment at the hands of those grinning abominations.

Just a quick stop at the bottom and then nothing.

Behind him, growing fainter with distance, he heard someone laugh.

…..

"Well," Mikoto leaned over the cliff edge, watching the jonin's body disappear into the rocks below. "Can't say I didn’t see that coming."

I was already letting all the clones except the first gen disperse, no point keeping them around when they were starting to get weird ideas about messing with my coffee.

"Guy had some balls, I'll give him that. Most people just curl up in a ball or go out in a blaze of glory when they realize how screwed they are."

"You're awful," she chuckled.

"Hey, I didn't push him. That was completely his call."

"Shinji, you had eighteen copies of yourself surrounding him, all grinning like psychopaths and talking about torture experiments." She shook her head. "Poor bastard probably thought he'd walked into hell."

"Mikoto!" I gasped in horror. "Such language! Where did a proper Uchiha lady learn to talk like that?"

"From you, obviously," She didn't even blink. "I've been hanging around you too long. You're corrupting my vocabulary."

"Me? I'm a perfect gentleman with impeccable manners."

"You just drove a man to suicide by threatening to torture him."

"That's totally different. That was psychological warfare. Completely separate from my charming personality." I grinned at her. "Besides, you said 'bastard' with real conviction there. I'm proud."

She rolled her eyes. "We probably could have caught him alive, but I get why you didn't try. Never know what tricks a jonin's got up his sleeve."

"A dying jonin," I pointed out.

"Still a jonin."

"Yeah, I figured he'd either surrender or try to take us all down with him." I shrugged. "Didn't expect the cliff diving."

"Well, he probably would have fought if he wasn't staring down an army of the same smiling psychopath."

"Fair point."

She gave me and the remaining clones a curious look. "So what's the deal with your shadow clones? Are you trying out some kind of new jutsu?"

I found myself studying the clones still hanging around, thinking about their casual answers from before. Were they actually being honest about those harmless little urges, or were they smart enough to hide the darker stuff? Grandma Mito had warned me that clones beyond the third generation started getting unpredictable—maybe even hostile with each successive generation. But so far, none of them had shown any signs of that kind of degradation.

Then again, the clones weren't stupid. If I knew about the potential problems, they definitely knew too. They might just be doing their best to act like everything was perfectly normal.

Hard to tell if they were being straight with me or just really good at pretending

"It's complicated," I rubbed the back of my neck. Since I couldn't keep this from her forever anyway, might as well give her something. "I've got something kind of like what a jinchuriki has.”

She blinked. "A jinchuriki?"

“Uh, think of it as something sealed inside me that gives me massive chakra reserves. It’s like having an extra chakra source that never runs dry."

Her eyes went wide. "Something sealed inside you? What kind of something?"

"I'll explain it properly when we're somewhere more private," I said, giving her what I hoped was a reassuring look. "Just keep this between us for now, alright? It's not exactly the kind of thing Konoha wants people talking about."

"You're seriously going to leave me hanging?" Her expression shifted into a pout that was probably more effective than any interrogation technique. "Great, now you're starting to sound like the Uchiha elders with all their secrets."

"Hey, I'm still young! How can you compare me to a bunch of cranky old—"

That's when something large and white dropped out of the tree like the world's most unwelcome surprise delivery. The moment I saw that all-too-familiar wild white hair, my hand moved, three shuriken whistling through the air toward the legendary pervert.

Jiraiya deflected them casually with a kunai, the projectiles spinning off harmlessly into the underbrush.

"Whoa, easy there!" He raised his free hand. "Fellow Leaf shinobi here. Same team, same village. No need to keep throwing sharp objects at me."

"Oops!" I said, slapping on my most apologetic expression. "Sorry about that, Shinobi-san. Thought you might be another enemy. You know how it is—can't be too careful in hostile territory."

Jiraiya straightened up from his crouch, blinking at me with a completely baffled expression. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at me like I'd just told him the moon was actually made of cheese.

"Uh," he said, then stopped. Then tried again. "Right. That's... that happens, I guess?"

He scratched the back of his head, clearly at a loss for how to respond to his secret son who'd just casually tried to turn him into a pincushion and was now smiling like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Mikoto glanced between us, her eyebrows raised. "Do you two... know each other?"

"Never met him before in my life," I said cheerfully, still wearing that innocent smile.

"Uh-huh." She gave us both a long look, clearly not buying it but apparently deciding it wasn't worth the headache. "Right. Well..." She turned to Jiraiya. "Are you here about the caravan escort mission?"

"That's right!" Jiraiya straightened up, suddenly looking more professional. "Jiraiya, jonin of Konohagakure. You must be Team 7."

"Mikoto Uchiha," she replied with a small bow. "It's good to meet you, Jiraiya-san."

"Please, just call me Jiraiya-niisan," he said with a wave of his hand. "Or senpai if you prefer. No need for all that formal stuff."

"Niisan?" I snorted. "What are you, eighteen? You're way too old to be anyone's big brother. More like decrepit uncle at this point."

His eye twitched. "I'm not that old."

"You've got gray hair."

"It's platinum silver, and women love it."

"It's gray and it makes you look like someone's grandfather."

Mikoto looked between us with growing bewilderment. "Are you two sure you've never met before?"

"Never seen him before in my life," I replied with a serious face.

Jiraiya's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied my face. 'Does he know?' he thought, searching for any sign of recognition. 'Did sensei tell him about...? No, the old man said he was keeping it secret. So why does this brat act like I kicked his dog?'

The silence stretched uncomfortably before Mikoto cleared her throat.

"Well then," she said, gesturing toward the forest path, "shall we head back to the caravan? The others also got attacked by some bandits, so we should hurry.”

"Actually," Jiraiya said, raising a hand to stop her, "there's something more important I need to take care of first." His eyes shifted to me. "Shinji, I'm going to need you to take off your shirt."

I took a step back, eyeing him warily. "I knew it, hearing your vulgar voice, I knew right away that you were a pervert, but I never thought you'd be aiming for my body. What's next, asking me to call you daddy?"

SMACK.

"Ow!" I rubbed the back of my head where he'd whacked me. "What was that for?"

"It's for an examination, you little smartass," Jiraiya said, though I caught a slight wince at my 'daddy' comment. "Hokage's orders. Now strip."

"An examination?" Mikoto looked confused. "Is Shinji injured? I didn't see him take any serious hits during the fight."

"It's... medical stuff," Jiraiya said vaguely. "Routine checkup."

I grumbled but started unbuttoning my jacket. "This better be actually medical and not some weird old man thing."

"Trust me, kid, you're not my type."

Once I'd stripped down to the waist, Jiraiya stepped closer and placed his fingers on my stomach. The moment his chakra made contact, dark markings began to spread across my skin like ink seeping through paper—a complex seal array centered around my navel.

Mikoto gasped softly. "Shinji, is that?"

"Remember when I told you I had some kind of something sealed inside me?" I said. "This is what keeps it contained."

Jiraiya studied the markings for a long moment, his expression serious. Finally, he nodded and stepped back, letting the marks fade.

"Everything looks normal," he said, then muttered under his breath, "Damn old man and his cryptic letters. 'Immediate assessment required,' my ass. Thing's barely even active."

"So I'm not dying?" I asked, tugging my shirt back on.

"Not today," Jiraiya said, but his tone had turned serious. "Just... don't get too reliant on that thing, alright? I know it's tempting when you've got that kind of power at your fingertips, but there are consequences—always consequences. Just rely on your own power."

I met his eyes and nodded. "I know. Don't worry about it."

"Good." Jiraiya's expression softened slightly, then he turned to Mikoto. "And I hope I don't need to mention that what you just saw is classified Konoha intelligence. S-rank secret. The fewer people who know about this, the better."

Mikoto straightened up and nodded seriously. "Of course, Jiraiya-san. I won't tell anyone."

"Smart girl." Jiraiya turned back to me. "Oh, and heads up—you'll probably need to make a trip to the Land of Demons sometime in the next year or so.”

"Land of Demons?" Mikoto looked even more confused. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"The seal needs periodic maintenance," I explained. "And apparently my mother's family are the only ones who know how to do it properly."

Jiraiya's expression grew more serious as he looked at me. "Listen, kid, I need you to understand something. What you pulled back there with that jonin—the psychological warfare, driving him to the point where he'd rather jump off a cliff than face you—that might seem clever right now, but you're walking a dangerous line."

"It was effective," I said with a shrug. "Mission accomplished, enemy neutralized, no unnecessary casualties on our side."

"This time, sure. But you keep playing with your enemy like that, and eventually you're going to run into someone who doesn't break so easily. Someone who'll turn that sadistic streak of yours against you." His voice had an edge to it. "There are shinobi out there who've been through hell and back, veterans who'll exploit your need to show off and gut you while you're busy being clever."

I considered his words for a moment. "Fair enough. Though I'd say there's a difference between playing it smart and just being cocky."

"Is there? Because from where I'm standing, it looked like you were having a little too much fun with it." He stepped closer. "Listen, kid, the second you start thinking you're hot shit is the second someone reminds you that you're not. And in this line of work, that reminder usually comes with a body bag."

The silence stretched between us for a moment before Jiraiya straightened up and turned to Mikoto.

"Alright, enough lecturing for one day. Think you could show me where this caravan is? We should move before any stragglers decide to take their frustrations out on your team."

"Right, of course." she nodded. "It's five minutes from here. We're camped near the main road."

"Lead the way then." he gestured for her to go ahead.

…

When we reached the caravan clearing, the first thing I noticed was that the merchants were clustered together near their wagons, looking shaken but unharmed. The second thing I noticed was the blood.

Two of Miyabi's teammates were down—one propped against a tree while my clone worked over her with glowing green hands, the other lying flat while Tsume and Miyabi pressed cloth bandages against what looked like a nasty gash across his shoulder.

"—keep pressure on it, don't you dare let go—"

"It hurts like hell—"

"I don't care if it hurts, you're not bleeding out on my watch—"

Miyabi's head snapped up when she saw us. "Shinji! Are you okay? We heard explosions and—" Her eyes flicked to Jiraiya, then back to me. "What happened out there?"

"Kumo-nin," I said, already moving toward the wounded genin. "But they're dealt with now." I knelt beside Noboru and placed my hands on the kid's torso. He'd taken what looked like a slash to the shoulder—nasty burns and some internal damage from the look of it.

"How long has he been like this?" I asked my clone without looking up.

"About fifteen minutes?" My clone looked up. “Had to stabilize the worst of it first, but he's lost a lot of blood."

I nodded and increased my chakra output, watching as the burned tissue began to knit itself back together. "This is going to suck, but try not to move."

"Thanks," Noboru managed weakly. "Thought I was done for there."

Mikoto glanced around the clearing, taking in the scattered bodies. "There were chunin mixed in with the bandits?"

“Yes, at first it was just genins that came at us," Miyabi explained. "But then some chunin showed up as reinforcements. If we hadn't had Tsume and Shinji's clone with us, I don't know what would have happened. Thanks to them we managed to drive some of the chunin off, but not before they got Noboru and Yua."

"Wait, they retreated?" I looked up from healing Noboru. "They just left?"

"More like they figured out something was wrong when their communications went dead and none of their people came to back them up," Miyabi said. "After your clone took down one of their chunin, the other two grabbed their wounded and ran for it."

I felt the worst of Noboru's internal damage seal under my hands. "Alright, he's stable. Needs rest and food, but he'll live."

"What about Yua?" Miyabi finally looked toward the other injured genin.

My clone wiped sweat from his forehead. "She's fine. Gonna have some nasty scars, but nothing life-threatening."

Miyabi's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you. Both of you." She looked directly at me. "I mean it. If you hadn't left your clone with us..."

"Don't mention it." I stood up, brushing dirt off my hands. "Besides, can't have you dying on my watch. Would look bad on my record."

Despite everything, Miyabi actually smiled at that. "Still a smartass, even when you're being helpful."

"Hey, I just saved your teammate's life. That earns me at least three more days of smartass privileges."

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 42

The Intelligence Division Archives smelled like old paper and dying ink. Three floors below ground level in the Administrative Building, the air never quite moved right—thick and stale, like breathing through wet cloth. Most shinobi avoided the place unless they absolutely had to be there.

Masao Nara didn't mind it. The quiet helped him think.

He sat at a scarred wooden table in one of the smaller rooms, surrounded by enough documents to paper a small house. Patrol logs, communication transcripts, resource allocation reports, mission debriefs—everything he could get his hands on without raising too many eyebrows.

Across from him, two other members of the Nara clan worked through their own stacks of papers. The older of the two was maybe forty, with gray already threading through his black hair and the kind of tired eyes that came from reading too many classified reports. His younger colleague looked to be in his late twenties, still eager enough to actually enjoy this kind of detailed analysis work.

"Just like Shikaro-sama suspected," the older man said, not looking up from a communication log. "This border patrol report says they spotted River Country forces on the fifteenth. But the intelligence briefing Danzo presented to the council was dated the thirteenth."

"Could be a transcription error," the younger one suggested, though he didn't sound convinced. "Maybe someone mixed up the dates when they were copying reports."

Masao shook his head. "Not likely. Look at this." He slid a mission debrief across the table. "Same patrol, different incident. Date alignment is perfect—down to the hour. Whoever filed these reports was meticulous about documentation. They wouldn't suddenly get sloppy with something this important."

The older man leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in that unconscious gesture all Nara seemed to share. "So either our patrol discovered time travel, or somebody went back and doctored these intelligence reports to make them fit whatever story they were trying to sell."

"Oh, it gets so much worse than that," Masao said, the frustration clear in his voice as he pulled out another thick stack of documents. The papers were already dog-eared from handling, covered in his careful annotations. "You remember those wounded shinobi who gave us all those detailed testimonies about River Country's attack patterns? Well, I spent the last two days cross-referencing their field logs with their official statements. Take a look at what I found."

"Alright, let's see..." The older man accepted the documents, his eyes scanning the pages. After a moment, he let out a low whistle. "Well, that's definitely not good. In fact, I'd say we've got ourselves a real problem here." He sighed. “Individual discrepancies happen all the time—people make mistakes, memories get fuzzy, paperwork gets lost in the shuffle. But when you start seeing this kind of pattern emerge, when the inconsistencies all point in the same direction, that's when you know someone's been deliberately manipulating intelligence data."

Masao nodded grimly. "I've found at least twelve instances where reports were either backdated, testimony was fabricated, or patrol logs don't match official mission records. Every single one of them relates back to the River Country situation somehow."

"Question is, who has the access and authority to manipulate this much information without anyone noticing?"

The three of them looked at each other. The answer was obvious, but none of them wanted to say it out loud.

"Maybe we should try approaching this from a different angle," the older man suggested after a long moment, his fingers drumming thoughtfully against the table's surface. "Let's focus on pattern recognition across multiple theaters of operation. If someone's going to all this trouble to manipulate intelligence reports about River Country, chances are pretty good they're not stopping there. Are we seeing the same kind of systematic discrepancies showing up in other regions?"

They spent the next hour digging through reports from other border regions. Cloud Country. Stone Country. The small nations that served as buffer zones between the major villages.

What they found was worse than what they'd expected.

"Here," the younger Nara said, spreading out a series of reconnaissance reports. "These are from missions near the Stone Country border over the past six months. Look at the resource allocation requests."

Masao studied the documents. "ANBU deployments for 'routine surveillance' that required three times the normal personnel complement. Supply requests for operations that don't appear in any official mission logs. And all of it authorized by..."

"Elder Danzo," the older man finished. "Every single one."

"It's not just about River Country," Masao realized. "He's been building some kind of independent operation network. Using official channels but operating outside normal oversight."

The younger Nara was already pulling out more files. "Look at these financial records. Budgets for 'classified research projects' that don't correspond to any known R&D initiatives. Payments to contractors whose names don't appear in our personnel database."

"And look at this pattern. These ANBU casualty reports from these shady operations—they list agents as killed in action or missing, but there are no body recoveries. No confirmation from medical teams."

Masao leaned over to examine the documents. "And here," he said, pointing to another set of papers. "The personnel numbers don't add up. We've officially lost twelve ANBU operatives in these 'surveillance missions,' but the payroll records show payments to twelve new 'contractors' starting right after each reported death."

The younger Nara's eyes widened. "You think he's faking their deaths? Making ANBU agents disappear from official records and recruiting them into his private network?"

"It would explain the massive personnel requirements," the older man said grimly. "You need extra agents to cover for the ones you're secretly transferring. And it gives him experienced operatives who officially don't exist."

"How long has this been going on?" the older man asked.

Masao did quick mental calculations. "Based on what we've found? At least two years. Maybe longer."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of what they'd discovered settling over them like a heavy blanket.

Masao said. "I need to report this to the clan head. You two keep digging, but be careful. If someone realizes we're onto them..."

"Don't worry about us—we know how to keep our heads down," the older man said. "We're not going to go charging in like a couple of academy students."

The younger Nara's grin was almost mischievous. "Besides, as far as anyone else is concerned, we're just two incredibly dedicated shinobi investigating filing system inefficiencies. We're trying to streamline document organization procedures to improve retrieval times and reduce administrative overhead." He spread his hands innocently. "Trust me, that's boring enough that nobody's going to want to stick around and ask for details."

For the first time since this whole mess started, Masao felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "Right. Well, when you put it like that... I'll be back in a few hours.”

He made his way through the corridors of the Administrative Building, his mind already organizing the information he'd need to present to Shikaro.

…

Twenty minutes later, Masao found himself kneeling on the familiar cushion in his clan head's study. Shikaro sat across from him, and while the shogi board sat between them as always, tonight the pieces remained untouched—a sure sign that whatever they were about to discuss was serious business.

"Well?" Shikaro asked. "What did you find?"

Masao took his time laying out everything they'd discovered, walking through each piece of evidence carefully. Shikaro didn't interrupt once—just listened silently. As the full scope of what they'd uncovered became clear, Masao could see his expression shift from curious to genuinely concerned.

"So your pattern recognition is telling you what, exactly?" Shikaro asked once Masao had finally finished laying out the whole mess.

"We're looking at systematic manipulation of intelligence data across multiple theaters of operation. This isn't just about what happened in River Country—Danzo's been building some kind of independent intelligence network for at least two years, maybe longer."

Shikaro was quiet for a long moment, studying the shogi board. When he finally looked up, his expression was grim. "You're thinking too small, Masao. This isn't just about building an independent network."

"What do you mean?"

"Fake death reports for ANBU, immediate hiring of 'contractors'—that's not intelligence gathering, that's building a private army." Shikaro said. "He's not just stealing information, he's stealing our most elite operatives and removing them from official oversight. Whether he's planning something specific or just consolidating power, the result is the same."

Masao felt a chill run down his spine. "You think he's planning to move against the Hokage?"

"I think he's been positioning pieces for years, and the River Country situation was just the opening gambit. The challenge isn't proving what he's done. It's that we don't know how many of our own people are actually his people now. How do you arrest a traitor when you can't trust the forces you'd use to arrest him?"

"So what should we do?"

"His real power isn't just his elder position—it's this shadow network he's built. We need to neutralize that network before we can safely move against him. We can start by isolating him politically first—make the council members who aren't part of his operation start questioning him."

Masao nodded. "I see. We first fracture his political support base. Once he's isolated, he becomes just another rogue unit instead of an elder with institutional protection."

"And we'd need to be selective about who we approach first. Start with the council members who already have their own reasons to be wary of Danzo."

"What about going straight to the Hokage?"

Shikaro was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the shogi board as he thought it through. "We have to. This kind of evidence... we can't sit on it. But we need to be smart about how we present it."

"What do you mean?"

"Hiruzen and Danzo have been friends since they were Academy students. They've fought together, bled together, made impossible decisions together for decades. You don't just walk into the Hokage's office and casually accuse his oldest friend of treason."

Masao winced. "Right. That's... that's a conversation that could go very badly very quickly."

Shikaro nodded. "Best-case scenario, he thanks us for our diligence and promises to look into it quietly. Worst-case, he thinks we're being paranoid, and word gets back to Danzo that someone's investigating him. It's too early—Danzo could spin it as clan politics or wartime paranoia. For now, keep digging into this, but I want you to cast a wider net so we can start convincing others to withdraw their support for Danzo, in preparation to destroy his foundation. Then we can make a move on him."

"Understood." Masao nodded and stood to leave.

"And Masao," Shikaro added, already reaching for a stack of documents on his desk. "I'm being called to the western front in two days. I won't be able to oversee this investigation for a while."

"How long will you be gone?"

"At least two weeks, possibly longer. So be careful while I'm away. Don't take any unnecessary risks, and if Danzo starts asking questions..." Shikaro's expression grew serious. "Lay low. This investigation can wait if it has to. Better to move slowly than to end up dead."

Masao swallowed hard. "Understood, sir."

…

We moved fast through the trees, jumping from one thick branch to the next as the forest rushed by below us. Mikoto stayed right beside me, her hair whipping around as we pushed toward the last location my clone had seen the Kumo-nin.

"What about those enemy genin going after the caravan?" she asked between jumps. "Shouldn't we be helping Miyabi's team deal with them?"

"Miyabi can handle whatever's left hanging around the caravan," I said, launching myself across the space between two huge oak trees. "She's got plenty of backup for any stragglers still causing trouble."

Mikoto gave me one of those looks. "You sure about that? People are going to get hurt."

"Casualties happen. Those kids need to figure out how to deal with real fights and handle losing people, even if the whole mission goes sideways." I hit the next branch and pushed off immediately, but even as I was saying it, my hands were already moving through the familiar signs for Shadow Clone. A copy appeared next to me mid-jump and took off toward the caravan without me having to say anything.

"Thought you said they could handle it themselves," Mikoto said, and I could hear her trying not to laugh.

"It's just backup. You know, strategy and all that," I said, avoiding her gaze.

"You're such a softie."

"I have absolutely no clue what you're talking about."

She actually laughed then. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you actually care about keeping your fellow genin alive."

We'd been traveling through the forest for maybe ten minutes when that familiar itch started crawling up my spine. You know the feeling—like someone's got their eyes on you, but you can't quite figure out where they're hiding. It's like having an annoying little brother, except the annoying little brother probably wants to kill you.

I raised my fist and we both dropped into a crouch on a thick branch about thirty feet up. Mikoto was already going for her kunai pouch before we'd even come to a complete stop. I had to admire her reflexes—most people would still be asking "what's wrong?" while she was already armed and ready.

"We've got company," I said quietly, letting my eyes drift across the surrounding trees. "At least three of them, probably more."

The signs were subtle but they were there once you knew what to look for. A freshly broken twig, scratches on bark that were too clean to be from animals, branches that hung a little too low like they'd been used as stepping stones recently. Either we were being tracked by enemy ninja, or the local squirrel population had suddenly developed opposable thumbs and a taste for espionage.

"They've been tracking us for a while, keeping pace but staying hidden. Points for effort, I guess."

"How do you want to play this?"

I grinned, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline that came right before a good fight. "You can have the one that looks the least scary—I'll take the rest."

"Gee, thanks."

Before she could give me any more grief about it, I was already running through the hand seals. Three shadow clones popped into existence around us, each one immediately bounding off to different positions in the trees. The jutsu hit my chakra reserves like a freight train driven by someone who'd clearly failed their driving test.

For a few seconds, I felt completely drained, like someone had just unplugged me from the wall and left me running on whatever battery power I had left. But then, almost before I could really start feeling sorry for myself, my chakra started flowing back. Not the slow, gradual recovery that Hiruzen and Grandma Mito had described as typical for most shinobi, but something much faster, like having a direct hotline to some kind of cosmic energy drink dispenser.

After everything those two oldies had told me, I was beginning to think that maybe my "natural talent" wasn't quite as natural as I'd always assumed—and my clones were reporting the same thing.

That's when the Kumo chunin decided they were done being subtle. The first one dropped from the tree like he'd been planning this moment his entire ninja career—silent descent, sword raised high, legs positioned just so. I had to give him points for technique. This wasn't some sloppy ambush thrown together over breakfast. Someone had definitely practiced this in front of a mirror.

He shouted mid-air too—maybe to psych me out, maybe just to hear himself sound cool. “YAA—”

I sidestepped. Casually. Like I was dodging a leaf.

His blade missed by inches, which would’ve been impressive if I weren’t already grabbing his wrist and flipping his air-time acrobatics against him. Momentum’s a cruel mistress. I barely had to help.

He went from ninja to concussed woodpecker in half a second—face-first into the nearest tree. The impact cracked like a firework going off in a sack of soup bones. Bark sprayed, a tooth bounced off my foot, and the tree now had a suspiciously forehead-shaped dent.

To his credit, he didn’t scream. But that might’ve just been the brain damage.

The second one came from below—literally. He burst up through the forest floor in a spray of dirt and roots, already mid-throw, five shuriken slicing through the air in a tight, arcing fan. Good elevation, excellent timing. His angle was clean, and for a split second, I almost respected the commitment.

Unfortunately, he’d picked the wrong person.

I flicked three shuriken from my sleeve and let the math take over. Basic physics, for every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction. But if you tweak the angle just right, that reaction comes with perks.

The first clash was textbook—my shuriken met his at a forty-five-degree angle, edge to edge, with a satisfying ting of steel. The resulting deflection didn’t just cancel his throw—it hijacked it. Now it was my shuriken, with his force and my aim, arcing back toward him with booster rockets of shame.

The second one I caught broadside, using the flat face like a makeshift paddle. His rotation reversed in an instant—momentum redirected, torque inverted. Newton and I were practically high-fiving.

The third was pure spite. Point to point, tip to tip, both blades flying at full velocity. The impact was clean. The momentum hit a wall—and rebounded straight back.

All three collided with him almost simultaneously—shoulder, thigh, gut—with a wet series of thunks that sounded like someone trying to staple raw meat to a tree. He screamed, lost his balance mid-air, and spun out like a broken drone, crashing into the dirt hard enough to snap a branch on the way down.

"Newton’s laws," I said, casually flicking one last shuriken toward his forehead. "They’re not just for nerds."

Crack. His skull split like a dropped gourd. The gasping stopped.

The third chunin’s Lightning Release cracked through the air, jagged arcs chasing me as I ducked behind a tree. Bark exploded where I’d just been, but I was already moving.

My clone appeared behind him, tanto drawn low, aiming for the ribs. The chunin sensed it and twisted on the ball of his foot, ducking just in time. His leg shot out in a tight spin-kick that caught the clone in the side, sending him tumbling through the air to crash against a nearby tree trunk.

Okay. Not a scrub.

I clicked my tongue, already palming another three shuriken. I threw the first one cleanly, then immediately hurled the second to intercept it mid-flight. When the second hit the first at a perfect forty-five-degree angle, it didn’t just nudge it—it flung it sideways like a pinball with a grudge, redirecting it toward his exposed left side.

At the same time, I launched the third shuriken high and fast, adding a vicious backspin. Gyroscopic stabilization curved its path, and just as it left my fingers, I formed a quick seal.

The air shimmered. That single spinning blade split into ten, arcing like a flock of birds diving on prey. Nine illusions, one real. No time to guess which.

He tried. I’ll give him that. Lightning still crackled at his fingertips as he twisted into a defensive stance, sword flickering with arcs of blue—cutting down two, three, four—five of the fake blades in a burst of speed and flair. But you can’t cover both sides when the attack doesn’t play fair.

The ricocheted shuriken punched into his left shoulder with a wet chunk, making him stagger and knocking his guard open.

Then the spinning shuriken found its mark—or almost did.

His reflexes kicked in just enough to keep him alive—barely. One hand snapped up in blind panic, and the blade buried itself in his palm with a noise like someone trying to dice meat using a ceiling fan.

Blood sprayed. Not elegantly.

He screamed, then bit it back—probably for pride. But it didn’t help as his knees wobbled like ramen noodles.

And then came my kicked clone—the one he’d punted earlier like a sack of potatoes. It had crawled back around like an ex-wife with a grudge. Blade low, tucked just beneath the ribs—then a good, clean gutting.

The chunin froze, lungs hitching, because the blade was now playing the xylophone on his organs. His mouth opened—probably to scream, maybe to curse—but only blood came out, bubbling up like a smoothie gone wrong.

He turned his head, slow and jerky, just enough to see the clone’s face.

Same grin as mine.

“The clone didn’t pop?” he wheezed.

I walked over to the wet symphony of his dying—all ragged gasps and bubbling fluid—and casually started picking up my shuriken while whistling JoJo’s Pillar Men theme.

After wiping them clean with a scrap of cloth, I glanced around to check on my clones.

One of them stood beside a female kunoichi crumpled on the forest floor, her neck twisted sideways at an angle that necks really shouldn’t go. The clone looked mildly impressed with himself. Another clone stood next to a man clutching his throat, eyes wide and glassy, windpipe thoroughly collapsed. That clone was scratching his head like he’d just remembered something he forgot to buy.

Meanwhile, Mikoto was still in the middle of a fight. Her kunai clashed with a Kumo nin’s, sparks flying as steel screeched on steel. She had good form, good timing—but so did he. For a second, it looked even.

Then one of my clones casually lobbed his tanto over like he was passing a kitchen knife. She snatched it, spun, and slashed at him.

The Kumo nin managed to block—good instincts, fast hands—but then froze as my clone slammed a fist into his spine like he was trying to convince a vending machine to give up that last can of soda.

The guy jerked, mouth opening in a soundless scream, knees buckling as his nerves scrambled.

Mikoto added a clean, brutal follow-up—carved him open from collarbone to hip, making him crumple like wet laundry someone had given up on folding.

My clone stepped over and offered her a clean handkerchief. "Blood spatter's a pain to get out of hair," he said helpfully.

"Thanks," Mikoto said, wiping blood spatter from her cheek. "He was getting annoying."

I walked over to check the bodies, making sure we hadn't missed anyone. Four enemy chunin, dead in under three minutes. Not bad for a warm-up.

"Think that's all of them?" she asked, scanning the surrounding trees.

"Should be. My clone would have—"

That's when every nerve in my body lit up like a fire alarm. I dove sideways hard enough to scrape my knees raw on the dirt. A tanto blade whistled past where my head had been, close enough that I felt the steel part my hair.

Some bastard in black gear stepped out of nowhere—literally nowhere, like he’d been invisible—and the killing intent dropped on me like a lead blanket. Jonin. Shit.

The tanto whipped back around in a nasty reverse cut aimed at opening my throat. I jerked back but the fucker was fast. The blade caught my forearm as I threw it up to protect my neck, slicing through skin and muscle like I was made of paper. Hot blood immediately soaked through my sleeve and started dripping onto the ground.

"Jonin!" I barked, already rolling away from the follow-up strike.

Two of my clones dropped in before I'd even finished the word—one high, one low.

The first caught the jonin’s blade mid-swing, tanto grinding against tanto with a screech of metal that sent vibrations up both arms. The second clone slid beside him, turning with sharp footwork and cutting low toward the ribs.

The jonin reacted fast—too fast. He spun on his heel, let the strike pass close enough to brush his flak vest, and came around with a tight reverse grip, parrying the second blade with a sharp clang.

The third clone landed beside me a second later, crouched low, hands already glowing green. "Hold still," he muttered, locking his fingers against the gash. Warmth surged through the torn muscle, tingling and crawling like static under my skin. My nerves twitched with the flood of chakra, but I kept still.

I spat out a mouthful of blood—grit and iron on my tongue, probably from when I kissed the dirt dodging that last swing. My jaw throbbed. My ribs ached. My patience was on life support.

"This is exactly why we need a goddamn sensor on this team," I muttered, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Preferably one who blinks before people try to assassinate us."

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 41

AN: btw if anyone was confused, the demon thing is actually the main antagonist from naruto shippuden the movie. figured i should mention it in case not everyone’s seen it lol.

The forest clearing smelled like blood and piss. A young man in a black jacket was crouched next to his patient, humming some random tune while he poked around at the guy's body.

The sensor was still breathing, though he definitely wasn't having a good time. Shinji had been careful about that part, the guy had to stay conscious for any of this to be useful. You can't learn much about how someone's brain handles sensory input when they're knocked out or bleeding to death.

This wasn't some sick hobby of his. Shinji was good at plenty of things, chakra control, hand-to-hand fighting, cooking something that didn't taste like garbage, bullshitting his way out of trouble—but sensing? Absolutely nothing. Most ninja never picked up that skill anyway, but it really got under his skin. Especially since he kept bumping into enemy sensors during missions, getting caught off guard because he couldn't spot them coming, and having to scramble for backup plans instead of just sensing them right back.

But this wasn’t just about getting the upper hand in a fight. Anyone who knew their way around medical stuff would look at sensing abilities and start wondering about the obvious things. How does that information actually make it to someone's brain? Is this something people are just born with, or can you actually train yourself to do it? Any researcher worth their salt would be pushing for real anatomical studies and proper experiments. He'd never asked the medical people in Konoha for their opinion, but he had a pretty good feeling they weren't doing much actual investigating.

Crouching next to the squirming sensor, he wiped blood off his scalpel—well, kunai—like he was just cleaning up after dinner prep. His old surgical instructors would probably be horrified, assuming they could get past the whole "torturing people in the woods instead of helping them in a hospital" thing.

The sensor was tied to a tree trunk with enough ninja wire to restrain a bear. Both his eyes were gone, blood streaming down his face in thick red lines. The guy was still breathing though, which was what mattered. Dead people don't have active chakra networks to study.

He pulled out another kunai and tested how sharp it was against his thumb. His theory was pretty basic, really. Chakra sensing had to work through the brain somehow—probably the sensory cortex, maybe the temporal lobe if he got lucky. But the signals had to come from actual physical receptors first. You can't just magically detect energy without some kind of biological hardware to pick it up.

His best guess was that it happened in nerve-heavy spots where chakra naturally pooled. The spinal cord looked promising—those cervical and thoracic sections were crammed with nerve clusters that could potentially relay chakra data straight up to the brain.

He made a careful cut along the sensor's neck, going just deep enough to get through to the muscle. The man's muffled screams came through the gag as he thrashed against the restraints like he was having a seizure.

"Relax, buddy," he said, like he was talking to a nervous patient. "I used to be a doctor. Well, kind of." He pushed the kunai tip deeper, working through the tissue like he'd done a thousand times before on actual patients who weren't tied to trees. "I mean, sure, those people were usually unconscious and I was trying to help them, but the anatomy's the same, right?"

Behind him, one of his fellow clones let out this long, dramatic sigh that sounded like he was about ready to die of boredom. "Are you seriously going to keep him all to yourself the whole time? Some of us want to try stuff too."

"Get in line," he said without bothering to look up. He'd found what he was looking for—a bunch of nerve fibers running right next to the guy's spine. "Besides, this takes some actual skill. Can't have you screwing around and ruining our poor patient."

"Screwing around?" The clone's voice shot up like a teenager whose mom just embarrassed him in front of his friends. "I'll show you screwing around, you stuck-up piece of—"

"Guys," another clone interrupted from where he'd been leaning against a nearby tree. "I've got to get back and fill the boss in on what happened. This whole thing with the bandits attacking us is probably something he needs to hear about."

The complaining clone pointed right at the one hogging their prisoner. "Fine, but when you get back there, make sure you tell him that his precious research clone over here won't let anybody else have a turn. This was supposed to be a team project."

"Oh, it absolutely is a team project," he said, carefully cutting away a piece of flesh to get a better look at the nerve cluster underneath. "I'm doing all the actual work while you guys stand around complaining. Really pulling your weight there, team."

The sensor tied to the tree made this gross, wet choking noise that was probably him trying to beg for his life. The clone doing the cutting paused to check the man's pulse—still going pretty good, though the guy was definitely starting to go into shock. He'd have to finish up pretty soon.

The annoyed clone just stared at him for a few seconds, then threw his hands up. "I hate you so much."

"Feeling's mutual," he called back happily as the guy started stomping off toward the town. "Try not to trip over your own feet on the way back!"

The third clone shook his head and started toward the caravan. "Oh, the boss is going to absolutely love hearing about this mess."

"Make sure you tell him I'm getting some really good results," he said, turning back to what he was doing.

Now that it was just him and his lovely patient, he could really get down to some serious experimenting. After all, you couldn't buy this kind of hands-on learning experience.

Even if all the screaming was starting to get on his nerves.

……

The clone followed the ANBU operative down a hallway that screamed "old money". The wooden floors were so polished you could probably see your reflection in them, and everything looked like it had been maintained by generations of people who were way too obsessed with keeping their house perfect. Traditional sliding doors lined both sides of the corridor, and each one probably cost more than most people made in a year.

They stopped in front of a door that looked exactly like all the other doors they'd passed, except this one had so many sealing marks around the frame it would've made a fuinjutsu master cry tears of pure joy. The ANBU gestured toward the entrance with a gloved hand.

The clone nodded, straightened his jacket, and stepped inside. The door slid open without making any noise at all.

The room on the other side was pretty impressive. And also kind of scary.

Sealing marks were everywhere—covering the walls, the ceiling, even parts of the floor. They formed these complicated patterns that seemed to glow a little bit, creating this whole network of chakra containment that probably cost more than a small village's entire yearly budget. Right in the middle of it all was a simple stone slab that looked way too much like something you'd find in a morgue.

Two people were waiting inside. One of them he recognized right away, Hiruzen Sarutobi was standing near the stone slab. The other was an elderly woman with bright red hair that immediately reminded him of Kushina.

"Hokage-sama," the clone said, offering a respectful bow. Not too deep—he wasn't a civilian—but enough to show proper deference to the man who could probably erase him from existence with a strongly worded memo.

A moment of silence stretched out between them, and the clone felt his stomach start to twist up in knots. The quiet, all those sealing marks covering the walls, the way Hiruzen was looking at him with those sharp eyes of his... He cleared his throat, feeling awkward.

"Am I... am I in trouble?" he asked, and immediately wanted to kick himself for how lame he sounded. Like some little kid who'd been caught stealing cookies and was asking his dad if he was about to get grounded.

Seeing his response, Hiruzen's expression softened slightly. "While your recent... activities have certainly caused quite a stir among the ANBU, that particular discussion can wait. We have more pressing matters to address first.”

Part of him relaxed. The rest tensed even more. Whatever this was about, it was apparently more important than his village-wide spying operation. He turned his attention to the elderly woman with striking red hair.

"Lady Mito," he said, bowing deeper this time. "It's an honor."

The elderly woman's eyebrows rose slightly, and she glanced at Hiruzen with what might have been amusement. "My, my. Kushina wasn't exaggerating when she mentioned this particular boy had manners."

"She mentioned me?" he asked, then immediately regretted how eager he sounded.

Lady Mito's smile grew more pronounced. "Oh yes. Quite extensively, actually. Though I have to say, you’ve certainly made an impression on her." Her eyes gleamed with amusement. "She went on this whole rant about how it’s totally unfair that you can cook better than most chefs, and that you're ridiculously good at everything for no good reason. I think the word 'show-off' might have gotten thrown around a few times too."

The clone felt heat creep up his neck. 'Kushina, what exactly have you been telling people?'

Hiruzen cleared his throat, and suddenly the room felt all serious again. "Shinji, do you understand how the Shadow Clone jutsu works?"

"Yes, sir." The clone nodded. "I've got the technique down pretty well. You split your chakra evenly, transform it into solid constructs that can think and act on their own. When they get destroyed, all their memories come back to the original."

"And have you changed the jutsu at all? Modified the hand seals, messed with the chakra flow patterns, anything like that?"

The clone shook his head. "No changes at all. I followed the scroll exactly like it was written. Just regular old Kage Bunshin." He paused, looking at Hiruzen's face. "Is there something wrong with the jutsu?"

Hiruzen and Lady Mito looked at each other in a way that made the clone's stomach drop.

"Your clones," Hiruzen said slowly, "have been seen regenerating chakra. That shouldn't be possible."

The clone blinked. "Wait, it shouldn't?" He sounded genuinely confused, like someone had just told him that breathing wasn't supposed to be automatic. "But mine do it all the time. I just figured that was how the jutsu worked.”

"Shadow clones don't regenerate chakra," Lady Mito said, her voice gentle but serious. "They're made out of chakra, not actually alive. They can't make new energy any more than a rock can start growing like a plant."

The clone's face scrunched up as he tried to process this. "Huh. Well, that's weird because..." He trailed off, then let out a long breath. "Actually, now that you mention it, I've had some questions about stuff that didn't really add up. Guess this explains a few things."

Hiruzen’s expression grew more serious. "What I'm about to tell you is an S-rank secret. You're not to repeat this information to anyone. Understood?"

The clone straightened. "Yes, sir."

"There's something sealed inside your body," Hiruzen said. "Lady Mito is here to examine whether that seal might be failing."

The clone's eyebrows shot up. "Something sealed inside me? But I'm just a clone. Can you even examine a seal through a copy?"

Lady Mito nodded. "Examining the seal is possible, yes. However, if repairs are needed, I'll have to work on the original." She gestured toward the stone slab. "Please remove your jacket and shirt, then lie down."

The clone shrugged out of his jacket, folded it up nice and neat, and set it aside. His shirt came off next, and he settled down onto the stone slab.

Lady Mito put her hand on his stomach, and right away the clone felt something change. Chakra started flowing from her palm in these complicated patterns, spreading across his skin like someone was drawing on him with black ink. Dark markings appeared all over his stomach, forming these complex geometric shapes.

The feeling was... strange. It didn't exactly hurt, but it was like having someone mess around with his insides while he was still conscious and using them.

Lady Mito's eyes widened as the last of the markings materialized across the clone's skin. "Well, I'll be damned," she murmured, leaning back in her chair. "Now that's something you don't see every day."

"Is that your way of saying we're screwed?" the clone asked, trying to crane his neck to get a better look at the patterns sprawling across his chest.

"Quite the opposite, actually." Mito bent for a closer examination. "This is some seriously impressive work. I've been dealing with seals for longer than most people have been alive, and I can tell you right now—whoever put this together knew exactly what they were doing. The seal isn't malfunctioning at all. It's operating precisely the way it was designed to."

Hiruzen leaned closer. "So there's nothing wrong with it?"

"Nothing at all. In fact, it's working perfectly. The ten-year renewal cycle prevents the host's chakra pathways from suffering permanent damage. It's actually brilliant—taking an already remarkable piece of seal work and making it sustainable." Mito ran her finger along one of the intricate patterns. "Whoever modified this was a true master."

"But if it's all working like it should," Hiruzen said, "then why are his clones pulling chakra out of thin air? Is there a problem?"

"Well," Mito said, glancing between them with a slight smile, "that depends on what you consider a problem." She paused. "Tell me, have you ever been in a state where you were running low on chakra?"

The clone nodded. "Sure. During training, missions, that kind of thing."

"And what happens when you reach that state?"

"Well..." The clone frowned, thinking back. "Whenever I get close to being completely drained, I start feeling better almost immediately. Like I said, I thought it was just natural talent."

Lady Mito nodded slowly. "That's because there's an entity sealed inside you that's been feeding you energy this whole time. Its power mixes with your natural chakra and gets converted into something you can actually use. In that sense, you're not too different from other jinchuriki—they all function along similar lines."

"Uh, did you just say entity? What the hell kind of entity are we talking about here?"

But Mito was already moving on, turning to address Hiruzen instead. "Here's where things get interesting, though. Most jinchuriki can't share their tailed beast's chakra with clones over long distances, the connection just doesn't work that way. But whatever's sealed inside this boy has the ability to send energy to his clones no matter how far away they are. That's not normal, even by jinchuriki standards."

His head was pounding like hell. "Okay, seriously, what the hell is living inside me? Because you're making it sound like it's not exactly your run-of-the-mill chakra battery."

Hiruzen had gone completely still, staring down at the floor like he was trying to see through the planet’s core. When he finally looked up, there was something resigned in his expression that made the clone’s stomach drop.

"Your mother was a priestess from the Land of Demons, the entity that's been sealed inside you is called Mōryō. It's an ancient demon that tried to wipe out the entire world—this was long before the Warring States period. Your mother's family line has been responsible for keeping it contained for more generations than anyone can count."

The clone stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, trying to wrap his head around what he'd just heard. "So let me get this straight. I'm basically a walking, talking prison for some ancient apocalypse demon. That's just... that's absolutely wonderful."

"The seal is stable," Lady Mito assured him. "Mōryō can only passively send out small amounts of energy and attempt to influence the host. Nothing more."

"Influence?" Hiruzen asked, his tone suddenly becoming sharp.

"The original version of him should be fine when it comes to resisting any mental interference," she explained. "His natural mental defenses are strong enough to handle whatever whispers Mōryō might try to send his way. But clones are a different story. They're more vulnerable to the demon's influence, they could end up becoming more aggressive, more prone to violence than they normally would be."

The clone was already nodding before she finished. "And that influence comes through the same energy transfer that lets my clones recover chakra. They're getting energy from this Mōryō thing, but they're also getting a dose of whatever nastiness comes with it."

"Exactly right." Mito looked pleased that he'd connected the dots so quickly. "What the sensors picked up wasn't actually chakra regeneration at all—it was energy being funneled directly from Mōryō. The good news is that the seal itself isn't going anywhere. You don't need to worry about it suddenly failing and releasing an ancient demon into the world." She glanced toward Hiruzen. "But I would strongly recommend putting some limits on how many clones you create. And under no circumstances should your clones ever be allowed to make copies of themselves."

"Why's that?" the clone asked.

"Because each generation would have even less resistance to Mōryō's corruption. The malicious energy would build up with every layer of clones you add. A clone of a clone would be significantly more susceptible to the demon's influence than a first-generation copy. By the time you get to fourth-generation clones and beyond, they could be downright dangerous."

The clone pushed himself up to sit properly, processing what she'd told him. "So I can still use shadow clones, I just need to be smart about it. Keep the numbers reasonable and make sure they don't go making more of themselves."

"That's the idea," Mito confirmed. "Now, as for the seal maintenance—you're going to need it handled within the next few years. I could try to work on it myself, but there's a problem. This particular seal was designed specifically to work with the priestess bloodline's unique bloodline. If you need it done quickly and safely, your best bet would be to make a trip to the Land of Demons and find someone from your mother's family line."

"You really can't do it yourself?" Hiruzen asked, though there was something in his tone that suggested he already suspected what the answer would be.

Mito let out a long breath. "I could probably cobble together a replacement seal that would do the job, but it wouldn't be the same thing at all. The original was crafted specifically to work with the bloodline traits that get passed down through the priestess families. Anything I put together would be a pale imitation at best, and honestly, I have no idea how Mōryō might react to having its prison suddenly renovated by someone who's never dealt with it before."

The clone tugged his shirt back over his head. "So let me see if I've got this right. I'm carrying around an ancient demon that wants to destroy the world, my clones might lose their minds if I'm not careful with them, and every ten years I need to take a little vacation to the Land of Demons for some supernatural maintenance."

"Unfortunately, that about covers it," Hiruzen said. "But right now, what I need from you is to make absolutely certain the original understands what we've discussed here. No clones creating additional clones, period. This isn't a suggestion."

The clone straightened up and gave him a proper nod. "No clones making clones. Got it. The original will comply."

"Good." Some of the tension seemed to leave Hiruzen's shoulders. "And Shinji? Everything we've talked about in this room stays between us. The fewer people who know about Mōryō, the better."

"You don't have to worry about that, Hokage-sama. I'm not exactly eager to spread the word that I'm a walking demon container."

The clone took one final look around the room, taking in all the seal work covering the walls and the serious expressions on both their faces. He committed every detail of the conversation to memory, then closed his eyes and let himself dissolve in a small cloud of smoke.

Halfway across Fire Country, the original Shinji was perched in the canopy of a tall pine, keeping watch over the merchant caravan winding its way through the forest below. He'd grown accustomed to the sensation of memories flooding back from dispelled clones, so when the familiar rush of information hit him, he barely shifted his position on the branch.

"Ancient demon sealed inside me," he murmured, watching as one of the merchants below adjusted his pack straps. "And here I thought having bandits pestering us was going to be my biggest problem today."

He ran through the memories again, sorting through everything grandma Mito had explained. Ancient demon, energy transfers, clones being more susceptible to influence—it was like finding out your whole life had been sponsored by some cosmic horror entity. But it did explain why his clones could keep regenerating chakra and spawning more copies like some kind of ninja pyramid scheme while everyone else had to actually, you know, manage their resources like responsible adults.

"No wonder the old man doesn't spam shadow clones," Shinji muttered, watching another merchant stumble over a perfectly visible root. "Here I was thinking he just lacked imagination. Turns out he's just not powered by an apocalypse demon."

The restriction on second-generation clones was going to completely torpedo his entire combat strategy. No more exponential clone multiplication, no more drowning his problems in sheer numbers until they went away. It was like being told his favorite cheat code had been permanently banned from the game.

Then another part of the conversation came back to him, and his face twisted into an expression that could have curdled milk. Hiruzen had been very specific about needing to dispel any existing clones immediately, something about not wanting them marinating in demonic influence like some kind of evil chakra marinade.

"Oh, come on," Shinji groaned, staring up at the sky. He had some clones spread out around the caravan's perimeter and so many more outside in the World Map, probably having a grand time not dealing with ancient demon revelations. Now he was going to have to recall them and handle his mission solo like some kind of peasant.

……

Jiraiya leaned against the rooftop's edge, watching the usual market madness playing out below. Merchants haggled over prices while porters hauled goods between warehouses, and somewhere in that mess of everyday business, enemy agents were quietly working to screw over the Leaf Village. It was always the way—the most dangerous stuff happened right out in the open, disguised as nothing more than people going about their lives.

His contact shifted around beside him, clearly wound up about something. The kid was good at his job precisely because he looked like every other twenty-something you'd pass on the street, but right now his nerves were showing.

"Alright, what've you got for me?" Jiraiya asked, still keeping his eyes on a particularly heated argument between a spice trader and some official who was probably getting paid off by three different people.

"It's the Cloud Village, just like we suspected," the operative said, pulling out a worn notebook that had seen better days. "Three of their people have been making friends with the local bigwigs all week. Nothing obvious, mind you—they're way too smart for that."

(AN: Can't decide if I should use Japanese village names or English ones (Kumo vs Cloud?) Sometimes I literally forget which is which between Kumo and Iwa and end up googling the map while writing. What do you guys prefer reading?)

Jiraiya finally glanced over. "Friends, huh? What kind of friends are we talking about?"

"The expensive kind. They've been taking city council members out for fancy dinners, showing up at the same tea houses as the trade officials, sending gifts to people's wives and kids." The kid flipped through his notes, and Jiraiya could see the guy had been thorough. "They're not just throwing money around randomly either. They did their homework first, found out who's got gambling debts, whose daughter needs a dowry, which officials have been skimming a little off the top and might be worried about getting caught."

"Course they did." Jiraiya scratched his chin, thinking it over. The Cloud Village didn't mess around when it came to this kind of operation. "Let me guess—they want these guys to start making life difficult for Fire Country merchants. Maybe jack up the tariffs, slow down the inspections, find excuses to reject our goods at the border."

The operative nodded. "That's what it looks like. And with us tied up dealing with that mess on the western border, they figure now's the perfect time to choke off our trade routes through here."

Jiraiya took the notebook and flipped through it himself, scanning the details. Three names, all specialists in exactly this kind of political manipulation. He'd heard of at least two of them from previous incidents in smaller countries. "These same guys pulled similar stunts in the Land of Tea a couple years back, didn't they? And that business in the Land of Waves before that."

"Yeah, they're practically running a playbook at this point," the operative confirmed. "Question is, what do we do about it?"

"Mm." Jiraiya rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble that had been accumulating since last week. He'd meant to shave this morning, but then the reports started coming in and somehow the day had gotten away from him. "And they think nobody's watching them?"

"They're being careful, but not paranoid," his operative replied. "Seems like they figure their cover story's holding up just fine."

"Alright then," Jiraiya said, his mind already working through half a dozen different approaches they could take. "Here's what we're going to do—"

The soft thud of someone landing on the rooftop cut him off mid-sentence. Both men spun around to see a shinobi crouched at the edge of the building, still catching his breath from what had obviously been a hard run across multiple rooftops. The messenger straightened up and approached them, pulling a scroll from his vest.

The operative's eyes went straight to the official seal on the scroll. "That's from the village."

Jiraiya untied the message and unrolled it, scanning the contents quickly. Whatever he read there made his whole expression change. "Shit."

He stared out over the town again, but this time he wasn't seeing the merchants or the trade negotiations or any of the careful political maneuvering they'd been tracking. Instead, he was thinking about a kid who'd grown up believing he was just another orphan, never knowing that his father had been one of the most important and handsome people in the village's history. A kid who was apparently walking around with something sealed inside him that could reshape the entire war if the wrong people got their hands on it.

"Ogiwara," he said, turning to face his operative.

"Yes, sir?"

"I need to leave. Tonight. While I'm gone, I want you to move on neutralizing the Cloud Village network. All the confirmed operatives we've identified, take them down."

Ogiwara's eyes went wide. "Sir, that's going to blow our cover. If we move that aggressively, any other agents they have in the area will know we're onto them and disappear."

"Yeah, there's definitely going to be more of them hiding out there," Jiraiya agreed, already moving toward the edge of the roof. "Just flush out the ones we can flush out. We'll deal with the rest later."

"What about you? Where are you going?"

He paused, looking back at Ogiwara. "I've got another assignment. Something that can't wait." He thought for a moment. "Team 7 and the other squads—they're still stationed around Kitaura, right?"

"Uh, yes, Team 7's one of the groups assigned to that area. Far as I know they should still be there, unless their mission parameters changed."

"Good." Jiraiya stepped up onto the edge of the building, then dropped over the side and by the time Ogiwara leaned over to look down, the white haired man had already vanished into the shadows.

…..

Several hours into the caravan’s crawl along the road, we finally got something more interesting than potholes and migrating deer. The clash of metal rang out from the forest floor—Miyabi’s team had just blundered into a group that was very clearly not your everyday bandits.

"Shouldn't we do something?" Mikoto asked, leaning on our branch as we watched Miyabi take on two attackers while her teammates each struggled with one of their own.

I watched the mess play out below us. The merchants had huddled together by their wagon, looking about as useful as you'd expect, while Miyabi's genin teammates tried not to embarrass themselves too badly.

"They're doing fine," I said.

Mikoto gave me one of those looks. "Fine? Noboru looks like he's about to piss his pants."

"Yeah, but he's scared smart, not scared stupid. See how he's keeping his distance? Making the guy chase him around instead of rushing in like an idiot." I flicked a piece of bark off the branch. "They need to figure this stuff out on their own anyway."

"That's pretty harsh, don't you think?"

"It's realistic. What happens when we're not around to save their asses every time?" I nodded toward the fight as Miyabi dodged a swing and drove her elbow into her opponent's ribs hard enough to make him stumble backward. "Look at that—she's already dropped one and she's working on another. Her teammates are still breathing. This is good for them."

Mikoto watched for another moment, then pointed at Noboru. "Alright, but if that kid actually goes down, I'm jumping in and you can lecture me about it later."

"Deal." I shifted my attention to the tree line on the opposite side of the clearing. "Though we might have bigger things to worry about."

"Like what?"

"My clones picked up some interesting intel before I dispelled them. These guys didn’t come alone." I kept my voice low. "At least two more groups somewhere in the area—probably more."

Mikoto's eyes narrowed. "So they're definitely not just missing-nin pretending to be bandits. What the hell are they thinking, being this obvious about it? Are they trying to pick a fight with Konoha?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, but yeah, things are heading in that direction." I rubbed the back of my neck. "Either way, we're about to get busy ourselves. Let Miyabi handle the genin scrubs down there, and help me deal with the chunin."

"Got it." She glanced back down at the clearing where the fight was wrapping up. Miyabi had finished off her second opponent while her teammates managed to actually stall their fights without dying. "You know what? They actually did better than I thought they would."

"Told you they could handle it."

"But can they handle more of these guys?"

"As long as it's more genin scrubs like these, they should be fine."

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 40

The tabby had been sitting on the Academy's clay roof tiles for almost two hours now, and his ass was starting to go numb. Well, technically it was a cat's ass, but Clone #15 still felt every cramped muscle and hot tile pressing against fur that was getting way too warm in the climbing sun.

He flicked his tail in annoyance and kept watching the training yard below, where a bunch of second and third-years were beating the crap out of each other in what their instructors generously called "basic taijutsu practice."

A chunin wandered between the sparring pairs, barking corrections and occasionally grabbing some kid to show them how not to get their face punched in. Standard Academy stuff. Nothing worth reporting back to the boss about.

Clone #15 was about ready to call it quits when his attention snagged on a group near the far corner of the yard.

There she was. Had to be.

The girl couldn't have been more than nine or ten, with long brown hair and this ridiculous smile that seemed to turn on like a light switch every time she opened her mouth. Even from way up here, #15 could tell she was one of those kids—the ones everyone just naturally liked. Hell, she had half her class clustered around her right now, hanging on whatever story she was telling.

'Fuwa Aika,' he thought, remembering the boss's conversation with Kushina-san about their new neighbor. 'That's gotta be her.'

The kid was in the middle of some animated tale, hands flying around as she talked, when her whole audience burst out laughing. Natural born entertainer. The kind of charisma you either had or you didn't, and this girl had it in spades.

Nothing weird about that. Kids liked funny kids. Water was wet. Sky was blue.

But then something happened that made Clone #15's fur stand on end.

The girl finished her story, still grinning at her friends' laughter, and her eyes did this casual sweep of the training ground. Just normal situational awareness, the kind any Academy student learned after a few months of getting ambushed during "surprise" combat drills.

Except her gaze stopped. Right on the rooftop. Right on him.

For maybe two seconds—three at most—those dark eyes locked onto his position with an expression that made his stomach drop. Not the "aww, kitty" look most people got when they spotted a cat. This was different—like she was trying to figure out if he belonged there.

Then she turned back to her friends like nothing had happened, that same easy smile still plastered on her face, and picked up whatever conversation they'd been having.

Clone #15 felt ice water replace the blood in his veins.

Normal Academy brats didn't just casually spot surveillance. Hell, most chunin would walk right past a well-hidden shinobi cat without giving it a second glance. But this kid had picked him out while she was in the middle of entertaining half her class, then dismissed him without so much as a blink.

Either she had the best luck in the world, or he'd just been made by a ten-year-old with sensor potential.

Neither option made him feel particularly good about his career prospects.

…..

Clone #22 clung to the edge of a bakery's awning, tiny sparrow claws digging into wood that had seen better decades. From his perch, he had a perfect view of Hokage Tower's main entrance, where something that looked suspiciously like actual business was about to go down.

Danzo Shimura hobbled out first, that walking stick of his click-clacking against the stone like a metronome nobody wanted to hear. Two ANBU shadowed him—standard babysitting duty for the war hawk. Nothing worth writing home about.

Until they started walking.

Instead of taking the main drag like any normal person with functioning legs, the trio hung a left at the first intersection. Then a right. Then another left, weaving through the village like they were trying to lose a tail or find the world's most inconvenient ramen stand.

Clone #22 launched himself off the awning with a flutter that would've made his sparrow ancestors proud. He caught an updraft and glided to the nearest lamp post, landing with just enough wing-flapping to sell the act.

The three kept up their scenic tour of Konoha's back alleys, threading through streets that got narrower and more deserted with each turn. Past the herb shop where some old-timer was haggling loud enough to wake the dead. Around the corner where a bunch of kids were spinning wooden tops and yelling like it was life or death. Through the little plaza where vendors hawked everything from hair ribbons to the kind of kitchen knives that definitely weren't just for vegetables.

#22 played hopscotch between perches, bouncing from a merchant's cart to a windowsill to the fancy arch over some noodle joint. Just another hungry bird looking for dropped rice balls in the marketplace hustle.

They finally wound up in one of the older districts, where traditional houses hid behind wooden fences and cherry trees gave everything a postcard-pretty look. Clone #22 found himself a nice thick branch about fifty meters out—close enough to see the show, far enough away that nobody would wonder why a sparrow was being so damn nosy.

That's when the taller ANBU—the one wearing a porcelain mask that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent—leaned in close to Danzo's ear and whispered something.

Clone #22 tilted his tiny head and strained every sense he had, but his ears weren't exactly built for long-distance eavesdropping.

Then Danzo went still.

The silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap. Then the old bastard's mouth started moving in what was clearly a response, lips forming words that Clone #22 couldn't make heads or tails of.

He squinted at Danzo's face, trying to piece together meaning from the shape and the way his mouth moved. Unfortunately, lip reading hadn't exactly been covered in the Academy and it sure as hell wasn't something the boss had bothered practicing during their training sessions.

Probably should've seen that oversight coming.

….

The ANBU Squad Captain leaned over the makeshift table, studying maps that looked like someone had spilled blood across them. Red marks dotted every sheet—too many red marks for his liking.

"Captain." Another operative appeared out of the shadows. "All units are in position and ready. Do we engage?"

"Give me a status report first." The Captain didn't look up from the maps. "Weasel, what's our count looking like?"

The sensor ninja said, "Fifteen confirmed surveillance operatives, all using transformation jutsu. Every single position has been marked and verified."

"And you're absolutely certain we've found them all?"

"Yes, sir. But there's something else." Weasel's voice carried that particular tone that meant bad news was coming. "Their chakra readings are... weird."

The Captain finally looked up. "Weird how?"

"Every single target is showing identical chakra reserves. Same signature, same capacity, same everything. It's like we're tracking fifteen copies of the exact same person."

Rabbit, the third operative in their little circle, straightened up like someone had shoved a steel rod down his spine. "Has to be shadow clones. No other explanation."

"That's what I thought too," Weasel agreed. "But here's the thing, sir—they're regenerating chakra."

Every ANBU in that cramped space went dead silent.

"Come again?"

"I've been monitoring multiple targets for the past three hours. Their chakra reserves keep going up. Consistent regeneration patterns across the board. I've triple-checked the readings."

Rabbit found his voice first, though it came out rougher than usual. "That's not possible. Shadow clones don't generate chakra. They can't. It's basic jutsu theory."

"Yeah, well, tell that to my sensors." Weasel's frustration bled through her professional tone. "I know what's supposed to be impossible. I also know what I'm seeing."

The Captain felt something cold settle in his gut. In twenty years of active duty, he'd learned to trust that feeling. "I need to report this to the Hokage. Now. Maintain visual contact on all targets, but nobody moves until I get back. Understood?"

A chorus of "Yes, sir" followed him as he vanished.

Ten minutes later, he reappeared.

"Orders, sir?"

"The Hokage has given authorization. We eliminate all surveillance operatives. No exceptions, no prisoners."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"Execute."

…….

The tabby cat stretched lazily on the Academy rooftop, eyes half-lidded as it watched the training grounds below. It had been there for three hours, unmoving, pretending to nap like any other cat on a hot afternoon.

Then something flashed.

A glint of silver skimmed the edge of its vision.

There was no noise, no warning. One moment the clone was organizing notes on chunin patrol routes—then the world tilted. A blade slipped through its neck, clean and silent. The last thing it saw was a blur of green fabric before everything went white. A breath later, it was gone in a puff of smoke.

Elsewhere in the village, a sparrow hopped along the flagstones near an old shop, pecking crumbs from a bakery bag. It looked up just as something blocked the sun. A tanto glinted as it fell. The bird saw gray—then nothing.

In the market district, what had passed for a forgotten ornament tucked behind a vendor’s awning was suddenly gripped by pale fingers. The clone caught sight of the white robes and the faint pulse of a Byakugan—just before it was crushed like a bug. The woman passing by didn’t even glance in its direction.

And so it went. One after another, across every corner of Konoha, the surveillance clones started vanishing. A mouse near the administration building caught a glimpse of approaching boots—gone. A beetle perched beneath the mission assignment board noticed the curve of a porcelain mask—then white.

……

Back in a quiet second-floor apartment, Clone #7 was halfway through his coffee, a book open on the table beside him, when he heard boots pounding up the stairs. The rhythm was off—too fast, too urgent to be routine.

Seconds later, the door slammed open.

The lead clone from the Intelligence Division stood in the doorway, out of breath and not bothering with greetings.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said. "Someone's taking out our surveillance network."

The apartment fell silent, save for the soft clink of #7 setting down his coffee cup. He glanced up from his book—a dense analysis of fuinjutsu theory he’d only been pretending to read while mentally sorting patrol schedules—and studied Clone #11, now standing in the doorway.

“How bad?” #7 asked.

“Bad.” #11 stepped inside, shut the door, and flicked the lock without thinking—same way Shinji always did. “We’ve lost twelve in the last hour. Might be more.”

Clone #9, who’d been sprawled on the couch working through a medical book, sat up and frowned. “Twelve? That’s not random.”

"No shit it's not random." #11 crossed to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. “They’re moving fast. They know what they’re after.”

Clone #7 closed his book and leaned back in his chair. "Walk me through it. Start from the beginning."

"First was the cat on the Academy roof. Missed its check-in time by twenty minutes." #11 drained half his water glass. "Then the sparrow near Hokage Tower stopped responding. After that, it was like dominoes falling—one after another just... gone."

#9 rubbed the back of his neck. “What about the inanimate posts?”

"Same thing.” #11 said. “The ornament behind the fruit stand, the fuma shuriken at the weapons shop—all missed their scheduled reports within the same timeframe."

“So we’re compromised,” #7 muttered.

“Looks that way.” Clone #11 finished his water and set the glass down with a sharp clack. “Whoever hit them was fast and they hit multiple districts at the same time."

Clone #9 let out a slow breath. “Which means they’ve been watching us. Long enough to map out the whole network.”

“Definitely ANBU,” Clone #7 said. “Probably had us marked for a while.”

"Yeah, and it's way too damn early for this shit." #9 ran a hand through his hair. "We haven't even found the rat's hideout yet. We were so close. Hopefully the boss can squeeze something useful out of whatever's left of their memories."

"Better hope so. Those clones were probably lighting up like festival lanterns," Clone #9 said. "They probably let us run around just to see what we were up to."

"Then decided to sweep the board clean once they figured out how big the operation was," #7 finished.

#11 leaned back in his chair with a sigh that seemed to come from his bones, then shrugged like it was just another Tuesday. "Could be worse, I guess. At least we know why now. And hey—twenty-four hours without getting our asses handed to us? Not bad for a first run."

"Boss is gonna be pissed when he gets hit with all these memories."

“Nah, he’s gonna be annoyed, but he'll get over it. Besides, this is useful intel. If nothing else, we just confirmed that village surveillance isn’t as sloppy as we thought.”

"Great consolation prize," #9 said dryly. "But when they got taken out—the clones didn't fight back, right?"

#11 gave him a look like he'd asked if water was wet. "Course not. They're Shinji's clones, same as us, so they think the same way. Fighting back against Konoha shinobi would be the stupidest move possible."

"Exactly. Especially since they're gonna find out about our little party sooner or later anyway," #7 added.

#9 sighed and slumped on the table. "Maybe so, but we can't just pack up and go home empty-handed. Before the Hokage slaps a ban on this whole operation, I want to find that rat's hideout."

#7 looked up at the others. "So what's our play here? Pull back all the remaining clones and call it a day?"

“No point,” Clone #11 said. “If they’ve been watching this whole time, they already have a map. Anything still out there is either gone or on a countdown. Pulling them now just gives them a line back to us.”

"What about the civilian disguises?" Clone #7 asked. "You said those were getting hit too?"

"Some of them, yeah. Not as many as the animals and objects, but enough to show they're not safe either." Clone #11 said. "Lost the old man near the tea shop, the merchant by the bridge, and that woman pretending to sell flowers."

“So chakra signatures again,” Clone #9 said. “Even when we’re in human form, we still feel like shinobi. Probably sticks out in a crowd of actual civilians.”

Clone #7 nodded. “Makes sense. Real civilians barely have chakra. Ours are crammed full of it—there’s no way to fake that kind of density.”

“Exactly.”

They sat for a few moments, quiet, each of them turning over the same conclusion.

"Alright," Clone #7 said finally, "new strategy. From now on, we only disguise as human shinobi."

“Yeah,” Clone #9 said. “In a group of other ninja, having shinobi-level chakra won’t raise any alarms.”

"And there are plenty of shinobi in the village at any given time," Clone #7 continued. "Off-duty chunin, genin teams training. We'd blend right in."

"Only real risk is someone recognizing our specific chakra signature," Clone #9 said. "But that's a lot harder to spot than a mouse with genin chakra."

“Much better odds,” Clone #11 said. “I’ll take it.”

…

The late morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the Hokage's office, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk where a stack of reports waited. Hiruzen Sarutobi sat back in his chair, pipe forgotten between his fingers as he stared at the documents with growing unease.

Three separate ANBU patrols. Three different sensory specialists. All reporting the same impossible thing.

He picked up the first report again, rereading the neat handwriting. "Shadow clones observed regenerating chakra reserves over extended observation period. Confirmed by secondary sensor. Recommend immediate investigation."

The second report was more detailed, but the conclusion was identical. The third included timestamps and chakra level measurements that made Hiruzen's frown deepen into something approaching alarm.

"This shouldn't be possible," he muttered, setting the papers down and reaching for his pipe.

Everyone knew the fundamental limitations of shadow clone jutsu. It was one of the first things taught to anyone advanced enough to even attempt the technique. Shadow clones were chakra constructs—sophisticated ones, yes, but constructs nonetheless. They possessed a fixed amount of chakra determined at the moment of creation. Once that chakra was depleted, the clone dispersed.

The idea of a shadow clone regenerating chakra was like expecting a painting to start breathing.

Hiruzen set the reports down and finally remembered the pipe in his hand. Struck a match, drew in slowly. The scent of burning tobacco settled his nerves just enough to think.

Chakra formation required two components: physical energy drawn from the body's cells, and spiritual energy generated by the mind. When molded together in proper balance, they created the chakra that powered all ninjutsu.

Shadow clones replicated the user's body, mind, and existing chakra reserves, but they lacked the biological foundation necessary for true chakra generation. It was why shadow clones worked in the first place—they mimicked both body and mind. But that’s all it was. A mimic.

No real cells. No real nervous system. Nothing to draw new energy from. Just a shell of chakra shaped to look alive. Sure, they could bleed if injured, but it wasn’t real blood. Just chakra made to act like it. That’s why the sensors and Anbu were spooked.

So how were these clones doing the impossible?

Hiruzen’s mind immediately went to the genin who had asked for clearance to learn the Shadow Clone Jutsu just a few days ago.

Shinji.

The boy had shown exceptional chakra control and reserves that didn’t quite add up for someone his age. Not without a reason. Hiruzen had known it likely traced back to his background. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have handed over the forbidden scroll.

But these weren’t normal circumstances.

And Shinji wasn’t a normal case.

Still, that didn’t make it any easier to ignore the pit in his stomach. In hindsight, maybe giving him access had been a mistake.

He felt the pipe stem creak slightly between his fingers as his grip tightened. The boy's mother had been a priestess from the Land of Demons—skilled in fuinjutsu and carrying knowledge that most would consider dangerous.

More importantly, she'd sealed something within her son before her death and Hiruzen had hoped the seal would hold indefinitely. But if these reports were accurate, if Shinji's shadow clones were somehow regenerating chakra on their own, then perhaps the seal was beginning to fail.

He stood suddenly and moved to the desk, pulling out a sheet of official stationery.

--Priority reassignment. The late priestess's containment work may be failing. He is currently on assignment in your sector. Anomalous readings detected.

Require immediate assessment. This supersedes all current objectives.--

He folded the note, sealed it, and turned toward the ANBU nearby.

“Send this to Jiraiya. Priority dispatch.”

The operative nodded, took the message without a word, and vanished through the open window.

That handled the long-term problem. Now for the immediate one.

Hiruzen stepped over to the window and made a subtle hand signal. Within seconds, an ANBU operative appeared on the floor behind him, crouched and waiting.

“You called, Hokage-sama?”

“I need a quiet retrieval,” Hiruzen said, still facing the glass. “There are shadow clones active in one of the residential blocks. Operating from an apartment, likely under a low-profile cover. Bring one in—intact. Take it to the Senju compound. Then arrange a meeting with Lady Mito.”

“Understood.”

Hiruzen finally turned to meet the operative’s gaze through the mask. “And this conversation never happened. S-rank secret.”

The ANBU nodded once. “Understood, Hokage-sama.”

Then she was gone. The room was silent again, save for the faint ticking of the old wall clock and the rustle of leaves beyond the window.

Hiruzen looked back at the war reports, still spread across his desk, daring him to look away.

He didn’t return to them.

Instead, he stepped out of the office, and made his way down the corridor, pipe tucked back into his sleeve.

……

Renji's hands balled into fists as he stared at what was left of Kota. Blood pooled around the mangled body, and the air reeked of burnt chakra, and something else that made his stomach turn.

"Those little bastards," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm going to tear them apart!"

"Boss, hold on." Their sensor raised his hand, and Renji noticed the guy looked like he was about to be sick. Sweat dripped down his face as he stared at the two clones.

Renji said. "What's the problem?"

"There's something wrong about those clones." The sensor's voice came out tight with a frown. "Their chakra's all wrong. There's something else mixed in with it—something that shouldn't be there."

"The hell does that mean?"

The sensor dragged a hand across his forehead. "I don't know how to explain it. It's like there's this dark shit wrapped around their chakra, feeding off it or pumping it up. That might be how some genin brat can pull off shadow clones in the first place."

Both clones turned toward them then, wearing smiles that looked all wrong. The expressions didn't match their eyes at all.

"Two against three," Renji said, drawing his sword. "Hell, should be easy enough as long as we're careful."

"Boss," their medic spoke up, keeping her voice low, "maybe we should pull back. Get word to the other squad about this and bring reinforcements. Something about this kid feels off."

“No.” Renji’s grip tightened on his weapon. “These are just clones—we just need a solid hit to win this…”

He looked at what was left of his team—the sensor and the medic.

"Standard formation," he said. "You two hang back and track their movements. Give me medical support and ranged attacks when you can. I'll handle the front."

"Got it, boss."

The clones spread out, moving together like they were reading each other's minds without saying a word.

Renji made his move first.

He shot forward, sword slicing through the air in a silver line aimed right at the nearest clone's throat. The thing ducked without even looking up, bringing a tanto around that almost opened up his ribs.

Before he could get his balance back, the second clone was already on him, driving an elbow at his spine. Renji twisted away and used the momentum to sweep the clone's legs.

It hopped over his sweep, spinning midair to hammer a heel kick down at his skull. Renji rolled to the side, popped up into a crouch, and had to block a kunai strike from the first clone.

The second was already running through hand seals.

Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!

A roaring ball of flame shot toward his remaining team. The sensor threw up his own jutsu.

A wall of dirt and rock burst up from the ground, taking most of the blast. But the clones were already moving, disappearing into the smoke and debris.

"Can't get a clear shot!" the medic yelled, her hands locked in seal position. "They're moving too damn fast!"

The sensor stretched out his awareness. “One coming at you from the left, boss! Another up high behind that tree!”

Renji spun around just as a clone exploded through the tree line, grinning like this was all some kind of game. The clone's hand was glowing with that same sick green light.

Renji's sword crashed against a tanto in a burst of sparks. The impact sent vibrations up his arm, but the clone didn't even flinch. It twisted the blade, using the leverage to slide his sword off to the side, then immediately came back with a vicious upward slash that would have opened his throat if he hadn't jerked his head back.

The clone kept pushing, never giving him space to reset. Every time Renji tried to bring his sword around in a proper cut, the tanto was there to knock it aside or catch it at an angle that killed his momentum. The clone's free hand darted out, fingers raking across his forearm and drawing blood through his sleeve.

"Shit!" Renji hissed as the claws bit deep. His grip on the sword handle grew slippery with blood.

He stepped back and tried a horizontal slash, putting his full weight behind it. The clone ducked under it, came up inside his guard, and drove the tanto toward his ribs. Renji barely got his elbow down in time to block, but the blade still carved a line across his side.

"Gah!" The burning pain made him stumble backward, breath coming in short gasps. Then another step back as the clone followed him like a predator that smelled blood. The tanto moved in quick cuts that kept finding gaps in his defense. A slice across his thigh made him grunt and nearly buckle. Another across his shoulder that had him gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

Nothing deep enough to drop him, but enough to let him know he was bleeding out fast. His vision was starting to blur at the edges, and his sword arm felt heavier with each swing.

The worst part was how the clone kept smiling through all of it, like it was enjoying every second of watching him fall apart.

"Your friend screamed real nice," the clone said. "Want to find out how you sound when I start peeling the muscle off your bones?"

"Go to hell," Renji snarled, twisting his blade to lock the clone's weapon and driving his knee up toward its stomach.

The clone hammered its elbow down and Renji felt something pop in his knee, pain shooting up his leg like he'd been struck by lightning.

"Argh!" He nearly went down, gritting his teeth against the agony. But pain was nothing new. He'd been a chunin for eight years.

He grabbed the clone's wrist and yanked, giving himself enough space to bring his sword around in a brutal horizontal slash.

The blade met the tanto with a screech of metal, but the clone just smiled wider as it slashed its free hand across Renji's chest. The chakra scalpel didn't even cut through his jacket, but Renji felt it slice through his muscles and tendons like they were made of wet paper.

He coughed, blood hitting his lips and running down his chin. His legs buckled and he stumbled backward, gasping, pressing his hand against his chest.

"Boss!" The medic was beside him in seconds, her breathing ragged with fear. Green chakra flowed from her shaking hands. "Don't move, I've got you."

"Watch—watch out!" he wheezed, scanning the battlefield.

The sensor was fighting for his life against another clone, dodging a tanto while trying to keep his distance. "Can't—can't get away!" he panted. The clone grabbed him by the arm, and Renji heard the wet crack of bone breaking.

"AHHH!" The man's scream ripped out of his throat as he clutched his ruined limb, tears streaming down his face. "My arm! Oh god, my arm!"

"This is really bad," the medic gasped, her hands trembling violently as she worked on Renji's wound. "Boss, we need to—"

A tanto blade punched through her throat.

The steel erupted from the front of her neck in a spray of crimson. She made a horrible gurgling sound, her eyes going wide with shock as she stared down at the blood-slicked metal. Her hands flew to her throat, trying to stem the flow, but blood poured between her fingers in thick streams. It bubbled from her mouth as she tried to speak, mixing with saliva and making wet, choking sounds.

Her legs gave out and she fell hard onto her hands and knees before toppling over, hitting the ground with a wet thud. Her body convulsed for a few seconds, hands still clutching at her ruined throat as blood pooled beneath her head. Then she went still, the light in her eyes flickering out like a dying flame.

"Hey, don't leave me out of the fun," the third clone said cheerfully.

The clone facing Renji shot an annoyed look at the one that had just killed the medic. "Really? You just killed her like that? We could have used her for practice. Do you know how hard it is to find test subjects for the more... experimental medical ninjutsu?" It shook its head in disappointment. "Such a waste. We could have kept all three of them alive while we worked on our medical skills. The screaming helps us understand pain thresholds better."

"How the hell—when did you make another clone?!" Renji's eyes went wide, then he roared and swung his sword in a wild arc. The clones stepped back easily, letting the blade slice nothing but air.

"Now, now," it said. "No need to get all worked up. You guys will be joining your friends soon enough. Well, except for you. Being the leader and all, I bet those sick weirdos from T&I would love to hear you sing."

A scream tore through the forest. The sensor's scream.

Renji whipped around to see one of the clones holding up something bloody—the sensor's eye, still connected to a mess of dangling nerves. The man was on his knees, one hand clamped over his ruined socket, blood pouring between his fingers.

"Sensory jutsu," the clone said, turning the eye this way and that like it was studying a bug. "I wonder if it really depends on these little things? Only one way to find out, right?"

"You sick freaks!" Renji forgot about the clone behind him and threw himself forward, the fire in his chest be damned.

The clone behind him swept his legs out easily, sending him crashing face-first into the dirt. Before he could get up, it had grabbed a handful of ninja wire from its pouch.

"Let's try something different," it said. "All this killing is getting old."

The next few minutes were nothing but pain and screaming. The clones worked together like they'd done this a hundred times before, wrapping him up in ninja wire until he couldn't move anything but his head. They stuffed a gag in his mouth—cloth ripped from the medic's jacket, still warm with her blood.

His teammates were gone. The sensor had bled out after they'd taken his other eye. The sounds he'd made at the end were going to stick with Renji for however long he had left.

If he had any time left at all.

…

Back at Shinji's apartment, two clones sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by medical books and anatomy diagrams. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Empty tea cups and crumpled papers suggested they'd been at this for hours.

"—but that's assuming you can keep the chakra modulation stable," Clone #3 was saying, rubbing his temples. "If it fluctuates too much, you’ll fry the myelin or miss the fascicle."

Clone #7 flipped through a worn medical text, frowning. "What about cases where the nerve damage comes and goes? Like with trigeminal neuralgia—the pain hits in waves because the damaged nerve keeps misfiring. You can't just cut the whole thing or they lose all feeling."

"That's where selective denervation comes in. You find the specific fascicles that are screwing up—usually the ones with bad blood supply or getting squeezed by something." Clone #3 pointed to a detailed cross-section of nerve tissue. "Cut only those pathways while keeping the healthy ones intact. Patient keeps normal sensation but loses the pain signals."

"Easier said than done. How do you even figure out which fascicles are the problem ones during surgery?"

"Electrical stimulation testing, maybe? Send tiny currents through different sections and see which ones set off the pain response." Clone #3 leaned back in his chair. "Though that would mean keeping the patient awake during the whole thing."

"Holy hell, that's messed up. There has to be a better way to—"

Clone #7 held up a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. His eyes were locked on something behind his buddy's shoulder.

"What?" Clone #3 asked, seeing the look on his friend's face.

Clone #7 slowly raised his finger, pointing toward the window.

Clone #3 turned around.

An ANBU operative sat on the fire escape outside, her porcelain mask glinting faintly in the afternoon sun. She remained perfectly still, watching them through the glass like a cat watching mice.

"Oh shit," Clone #3 said.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 39

The rain had finally let up, but everything was still soaked. Water dripped from every branch, and the bark was slippery as hell under my feet. Mikoto and I were making decent time through the trees, keeping maybe half a mile between us and the caravan below.

But something was off.

She was keeping pace, sure. Still sharp. Still fast. But her face was set tighter than usual, her eyes just a little too far away.

"You doing okay?" I asked as we landed on a thick, mossy branch.

"I'm fine," she said, but her voice was flatter than usual. "Just tired."

"Tired? You?" I gave her a look. "Uchiha don't get tired. Pretty sure it's against clan rules or something."

That got a small smile out of her. "Yeah, well, guess I’m defective, then.”

We jumped in silence for a while, but I could tell something was eating at her.

"Mikoto," I said finally, during another pause. "What's going on?"

She was quiet for a long moment, staring off through the trees. "It's nothing. Just... family stuff."

"Family stuff that has you looking like someone kicked your cat?"

"I don't have a cat."

"You know what I mean."

She sighed, running a hand through her damp hair. "We got word from the Suna front yesterday. My cousin was in the latest engagement in the River Country."

I felt my stomach drop. "Was?"

"He's alive," she said quickly. "But barely. Took a hit to the chest and lost half his squad." Her voice got quieter. "Three other Uchiha didn't make it back at all."

"Shit, Mikoto. I'm sorry."

"It's war, right? People die." But her hands were clenched into fists. "It's just... we're supposed to be the best. Genjutsu, Sharingan, all that clan pride bullshit. And we're still losing people to Suna and River shinobi."

I didn't know what to say to that. The Uchiha were supposed to be untouchable—that's what everyone believed, probably what they believed about themselves too.

My first instinct was to roll my eyes a little. Of course the clan princess was having trouble with the reality that her family wasn't invincible. Welcome to the real world, where even fancy bloodlines couldn't stop a kunai to the throat.

But then I actually looked at her. Really looked.

And it hit me—she was a teenager.

I'd been thinking of her as this confident, skilled Uchiha who happened to be on my team. Someone who could keep up with me in the trees, who had decent instincts, who didn't slow me down. I'd been treating her like... well, like an equal.

But she wasn't. She was a teenager who'd probably grown up hearing stories about how great and powerful her clan was, how their Sharingan made them nearly unstoppable, how they were the pride of Konoha. And now people she'd grown up with—people she'd probably looked up to—were coming back broken or not coming back at all.

For all her skill, she was still just a genin dealing with her first real taste of what war actually meant.

"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. "I bet you knew those guys, didn't you? The ones who didn't make it back."

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"That sucks. It really does." I shifted on the branch, trying to find the right words. "For what it's worth, being upset about it doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."

"The clan doesn't really do 'human,'" she said with a bitter little laugh. "We do 'strong' and 'victorious' and 'bringing honor to the Uchiha name.'"

"Yeah, well, the clan can go stuff it for a minute. You're allowed to be sad when people you care about get hurt."

That got a snort out of her—half laugh, half sob. "You realize you just told one of the most powerful clans in Konoha to 'stuff it,' right?"

"What are they gonna do, glare at me really intensely?"

"With the Sharingan, actually, yeah." But she was almost smiling now. "Though knowing you, you'd probably find a way to make that backfire too. Like showing up to a genjutsu duel wearing a blindfold or something."

"Hey, that's not a terrible strategy. Can't get caught in a genjutsu if you can't see it."

"That's..." She paused, actually considering it. "That's still completely insane, but also kind of brilliant in a very you way."

I reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "For what it's worth, you being here instead of there probably means someone else gets to go home tonight. That caravan we're protecting? Those are real people too."

She nodded, taking a shaky breath. "I know. It's just hard sometimes."

"Yeah. It is."

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the water drip from the leaves around us. The heaviness was still there, but it felt more manageable now.

"How you holding up?" I asked, shifting the conversation to lighter ground. “Y’know—besides the existential crisis.”

"My hair's going to be sticky tonight." She wiped rain off her face, seeming grateful for the change of subject. "But I'll live. You?"

"Same. At least it's not pouring."

"Don't even think about jinxing us," she warned, already moving toward the next tree. "We've still got hours to go."

“Don’t worry, we-“

Suddenly the memories hit me like a pillow to the skull—soft, but still weirdly personal.

—Clone moving through brush near the road, maybe three hundred meters out from town. Something's wrong. Movement in the trees above. Six figures dropping down—bandits, weapons already out, no time to—

The surprise hit me like a punch to the gut. My vision blurred, and suddenly I wasn't seeing the branch in front of me anymore, I was seeing steel flashing and blood and—

My left foot went out from under me on the slick bark.

I twisted around, grabbing for anything, and managed to slap my palm against the trunk. I swung around it, using the momentum to flip myself back up onto another branch.

"Shinji!" Mikoto was right there, looking me over. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay." I caught my breath. "One of my clones just got hit. Wasn't expecting the memory dump right now."

She dropped beside me on the branch, frowning. “Memory dump?”

"Yeah, when a clone gets taken out, everything they experienced just..." I made a vague gesture at my head. "Floods back all at once. Usually I have them dispel on a timer so it's not so jarring, but this guy got jumped."

She studied my face. "You sure you're okay?"

“Yeah.” I gave a short nod. “No pain—just the memories. Caught me off guard, that’s all.”

I blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the messy swirl of secondhand adrenaline and jumbled visuals.

Steel. Bark. Leaves stained with blood. The smell of wet grass.

Then I saw them—six figures moving like pros despite their rough clothes.

These weren’t desperate bandits out for easy coin.

"Six of them, at least chunin level," I said. "Dressed like bandits but fighting like trained shinobi. And they had a sensor with them—my clone never even saw it coming."

Mikoto's face went tight. "A sensor?"

"My thoughts exactly." I stood up, testing my balance. "We need to warn Miyabi. Have her find a good spot to make camp and set up proper watches. Maybe scout some backup positions while they're at it."

"How much time do we have?"

I ran the numbers in my head. "Four hours, maybe five. Close enough that they might try something tonight."

"I'll have Tsume get word to the caravan."

"And make sure they know about the sensor. Last thing we need is someone wandering off to take a piss and walking into an ambush."

I leaned back against the trunk, letting the bark dig into my shoulder while my brain spun through the mess we were in.

They had the upper hand—no question there. They knew the terrain, had been watching the roads for days, and that sensor of theirs meant we couldn’t so much as sneeze without getting flagged. Stealth was off the table.

Still… we weren’t completely screwed.

My clones had been working the past few days in Kitaura, the little trading town where the rest of the Konoha teams were stationed. Quiet recon, mostly. Listening, watching, dropping info with the squad leads when they could.

I sifted through the memory dump, filtering out the ambush flashes and digging for the intel my clones had picked up from town.

Four teams assigned to this mission. Two already deployed, chasing reports of merchant caravans getting hit. My guys had checked in with the others still in Kitaura, swapped updates, and filed observations.

The picture wasn’t pretty.

These guys weren't even pretending to be random bandits anymore—they were hitting merchants who traded with the Fire Country while letting everyone else through untouched. Someone was definitely directing this, and if we didn't shut it down soon, it was going to become a nasty problem real quick.

The timing was what really pissed me off. With most of our forces tied up fighting Suna, we couldn't spare the manpower to properly patrol every trade route. Whoever was behind this knew exactly what they were doing—hit us when we were stretched thin, make it costly enough that neutral countries would start thinking twice about doing business with us.

And it was probably working. It didn't take a genius to see where this was heading. Keep hitting Fire Country merchants while leaving everyone else alone, and pretty soon the neutral traders would start avoiding our routes entirely. Rice Country, Hotspring Country, all the smaller nations that depended on steady trade—they'd start looking for safer options.

It wasn't just about the money, though that would hurt bad enough. During wartime, those trade routes were lifelines—medical supplies, raw materials for weapons, food to keep the civilian population fed while our forces were off fighting. Cut off enough of that trade, and suddenly we'd be fighting a war on two fronts: against River-Suna's forces and against our own supply shortages.

Worse, if this pattern kept up, other countries might start seeing Fire Country as a liability. Why risk your merchants getting killed just to trade with us when you could do business safely with Earth or Lightning Country instead? Once that reputation stuck, it would take years to rebuild those relationships after the war ended.

This wasn't random violence. This was economic warfare. Someone was trying to strangle us while we were too busy bleeding on the front lines to notice the knife at our throat.

We needed to break the pattern. Show that Fire Country could protect its trade partners. Maybe start running false flag operations—have our own people pose as merchants, let word leak about valuable cargo, then ambush whoever showed up to hit them. Turn the hunters into the hunted.

Or we could try to trace the attacks back to their source. These weren't random bandits, which meant coordination, which meant supply lines and communication networks. Find those, and you could roll up the whole operation from the inside.

Better yet, if we could figure out which country was backing the operation, we could hit their trade routes in retaliation. Make it cost them as much as it was costing us. Turn it into a proper economic war instead of just taking hits...

"Are you okay?" Mikoto had finished with Tsume and was settling back down next to me. "You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"That face you make when you're cooking up some weird plan."

I couldn't help grinning. "Just thinking through our options. That clone that got jumped was part of my little spy network in Kitaura—you know, the town where the other teams are hanging out. Also the same place we’re supposed to drop this caravan.”

"Spy network," she repeated, shaking her head like I’d just told her I raised pigeons in my spare time. “Sometimes I forget you’re not like the rest of us.”

“Hey, I’m totally normal.” I shot her a deadpan look, then made a quick seal and popped another clone. I jabbed a thumb toward the direction of town. “Point is, I’ve got eyes and ears down there. While we’re out here babysitting merchants, they’re gathering intel. If this guy makes it back and checks in, we’ll know whether we can expect backup.”

"And until then?"

“Until then, we don’t do anything stupid.” I pushed off the trunk and stretched a little, getting ready to move again. “Come on. Miyabi’s probably knee-deep in tents and bad tempers by now.”

We started moving through the trees again, but something kept bugging me. Shadow clones were great for intel and keeping in touch with people, but they had one major problem—once I sent them out, that was it. No way to talk to them until they came back or got killed.

If things went sideways fast, or if the other teams needed to coordinate something right now, my clones would be working with old information. That could get people killed.

There’s gotta be a workaround, I thought, ducking a low-hanging branch. Maybe something with seals... relay tags, or a burst trigger on the memory link—

"You're doing it again," Mikoto called out.

"Doing what?"

“Thinking so loud I can practically hear the gears grinding.”

……

The clone disappeared in a puff of white smoke, leaving nothing but the sharp smell of burned chakra in the air.

One of the shinobi flicked blood off his kunai before sliding it back into its sheath. "Well, that was disappointing."

"Clone," another one said, spitting into the dirt. "Should've known when it didn't bleed right."

The six of them stood around where their target had been, looking convincingly scruffy in their bandit gear. Weeks of playing the part had left their clothes properly torn and dirty, their weapons looking like they'd been scavenged rather than issued. It was good cover for what they'd been doing in these parts.

"Kid knowing shadow clones though," their tracker muttered, scratching at his fake beard. "That's not normal Academy stuff."

Renji, their team leader, shifted his grip on his sword and scanned the trees. "Konoha's been switching things up, I guess." He didn't sound convinced. "Question is, how many more of those things are running around?"

"And where's the real brat," someone added.

That's when Kota made a weird choking sound and dropped to one knee.

“Hey—” Renji was on him fast. “Kota? What’s going on?”

“I can’t…” Kota’s face had gone paper white, sweat already breaking out across his forehead. “My arm—I can’t move my arm.”

His left arm just hung there, limp and useless. When Renji shoved up the sleeve, there wasn’t a mark on it—no blood, no swelling. Just skin. Normal, untouched skin.

“When the hell did this happen?” Renji snapped. “You were fine thirty seconds ago.”

"I don't know!" Kota stared at his arm like it wasn't his. "It doesn't even hurt. I just... I can't feel anything. From the elbow down, it's like it's not even there."

Their medic dropped her pack and knelt beside them. "Let me see."

She ran her hands over his arm, green chakra flickering around her fingers as she worked. After a moment, she sat back on her heels, frowning.

“These aren’t normal injuries,” she said. “The muscle fibers are cleanly severed—but there’s no trauma around the cuts. No tearing, no bruising.”

Her eyes flicked up to Renji. “This was done with a chakra scalpel.”

“A what now?” the tracker asked, crouching beside her.

“Medical ninjutsu,” she said, already channeling chakra again. “It turns your chakra into a blade—surgeons use it for operations. It’s incredibly precise. This kind of damage doesn’t just happen. You have to know what you’re doing.”

She began stitching the chakra threads back through the fibers, her brow tight with concentration.

"Wait, hold up." One of the others stepped closer. "You're saying that kid did surgery on him? In the middle of a fight?"

“Not surgery.” The medic didn’t even glance up. “This was an attack. A weaponized version of medical ninjutsu.”

Renji felt his stomach drop. Medical techniques weren't Academy material. Hell, most chunin couldn't pull off a chakra scalpel. The kind of control it took, the training...

"The clone did this to you," he said, looking down at Kota.

"I guess? I mean, I thought I had it cornered. We were going at it pretty hard, and then after it poofed..." Kota stared at his limp arm. "I don't even remember when it happened. Everything was moving so fast."

That's when it clicked for Renji. During the fight, when they'd had the clone surrounded—there had been something. A quick flash of green light around its hand, gone almost before he'd noticed it.

He'd figured it was just the light playing tricks on him.

"Son of a..." he muttered. "It used a chakra scalpel. A genin clone used a chakra scalpel in combat."

"That's not possible," another team member said. "Medical ninjutsu takes years to learn. Even basic healing is chunin-level."

"Yeah, well, tell that to my dead arm," Kota said weakly.

The medic kept working, green chakra steady around her hands as she carefully reconnected the damaged muscle.

"How long?" Renji asked, watching her work.

"Five, maybe ten minutes. I can fix the damage, but I need to do this right or he'll have problems with that arm forever."

Renji rubbed his forehead, trying to think this through. They'd been hitting caravans for weeks now—standard harassment ops to mess with Fire Country's trade routes. Make it look like regular bandits, squeeze the merchants, force the smaller nations to think twice about doing business with Konoha.

Boring work, really. The kind of assignment they gave to chunin teams when all the real missions were tied up elsewhere.

Except now they had some genin brat slicing people up with medical ninjutsu like it was nothing.

"Boss," one of his subordinates said, "at this rate, why are we still bothering with the bandit act? Anyone with half a brain can figure out that either Kumo or Iwa is behind all these attacks. The pattern's too obvious."

Renji's expression darkened. "Because the moment we drop the pretense, this stops being a deniable operation and becomes an act of war. Our job is to make Fire Country's trade routes unprofitable, not to give them an excuse to march on our borders. Stop asking stupid question."

The guy's jaw tightened. "Right. Got it, boss." There was just enough bite in his tone to make it clear he didn't appreciate being talked to like an idiot, but not quite enough to be insubordination.

Renji caught the attitude but let it slide. They were all on edge after what had just happened.

He turned to their tracker. "What are you picking up out there?"

The man closed his eyes, going still as he extended his senses. "Caravan's still moving southeast, couple kilometers out." He frowned, concentrating harder. "But there's definitely more people than there should be. I'm counting... six distinct chakra signatures."

"Konoha shinobi?"

"Has to be."

Another guy nudged a dead branch with his foot, watching it tumble into the underbrush. “So what now?”

"Mission stays the same," Renji said. "We hit the caravan, make it look like bandits, get out clean."

"Boss," the medic said, still working on Kota's arm, "a genin pulling off combat medical ninjutsu? That's not normal."

"No kidding," the tracker muttered. "Kid this good now, what's he gonna be like in a few years?"

That silenced them.

They were solid chunin—experienced, competent. But this wasn't really about the medical ninjutsu. Sure, chakra scalpels weren't great for killing people, but that wasn't the point.

The point was that any genin who could master something that advanced was probably the kind of freak who could learn anything you put in front of him.

"How common is this?" Renji asked the medic. "Genin knowing medical ninjutsu?"

"It's not." She didn't look up from her work. "Most villages won't even touch medical training until chunin rank. The control you need, the theory..." She shook her head. "I’ve been at this for eight years, and even I couldn’t pull off cuts that clean during live combat."

"So either this kid's some kind of prodigy," another team member said, "or he's not actually a genin."

"But if he is..." He didn't finish the thought.

Everyone knew what he meant. A talent like that wouldn't stay genin for long. Give him a few years, and he'd be the kind of shinobi that made operations like theirs suicide missions.

The smart play might be to end this problem while they still could.

"We're moving," Renji said. "That kid's going to be a problem for us down the line. Better to deal with it now while we can."

The medic pulled her hands back from Kota's arm. "Good enough for now. You'll be sore, but it'll work."

"Alright." Renji looked around at his team. "We hit them fast and hard. No messing around, no drawn-out fights. Get in, eliminate the threats, get out."

They took off through the trees, moving in sync like they'd done this a hundred times. The forest was a blur of green as they closed the distance to the caravan.

“Wait,” the tracker said suddenly, raising a hand to stop them. His eyes squeezed shut, chakra flaring faintly as he concentrated. “One of the signatures just broke off. Heading toward town. Fast.”

“Damn it,” Renji muttered. “They’re calling for backup.”

“You want us to split up?”

“No.” Renji was already calculating. “If that runner gets there and calls in help, we’ll be looking at multiple squads instead of one. We take him out first—then double back for the caravan.”

"What if they change course while we're chasing him?"

"Then we track them down after." Renji checked his gear. "But we can't let word get out. Konoha already knows someone's been hitting their trade routes—they're not idiots. But as long as we maintain the bandit cover, they can't officially retaliate while they're tied up fighting Suna and Rivers."

He glanced toward Kota, still pale but stable. “Splitting up just makes us easier to pick off. And I’ve got a bad feeling about this mess already.”

They changed direction, angling toward the lone signature racing through the forest. No matter how fast the messenger had, they'd catch up soon enough.

And once they cleaned up that loose end, they could deal with the problem kid.

They darted through the canopy, branches whipping past as they pushed their pace. The tracker kept his eyes locked ahead, reading the chakra signatures.

"Shit," he said suddenly, nearly stumbling on his next landing. "The signature just split. Now I've got three."

"Shadow clones again," the medic said grimly.

"Has to be the same brat," another team member said. "How many genin do you know who can spam that jutsu?"

The tracker's expression got more worried as he focused. "One's still booking it toward town, moving even faster now. The other two are hanging back, staying in range but keeping their distance."

Renji’s jaw tightened. The whole thing was starting to look less like a chase and more like a net—and they were right in the middle of it. "Smart little shit. If we go after the one heading for town, the two behind will hit our backs. If we engage the two clones, we give the messenger time to reach reinforcements."

"It's actually pretty solid," another muttered, almost impressed. "Kid knows what he's doing."

"Yeah, too well." Renji's mind was racing. "This isn't some fresh Academy grad fumbling around. This is someone who actually knows tactics." He made his call. "We split. Two of you take the runner—don't let it reach town. Rest of us deal with the tail."

"Thought you said splitting up was dumb," Kota pointed out, still flexing his healing arm.

"That was before this kid started playing us like a damn chess game," Renji shot back. "Now we don't have a choice. Go!"

The team broke apart, two peeling off to chase the town-bound clone while the rest wheeled around to face the other two.

A few minutes later, the four of them closed in on the clones in a small clearing, spreading out to form a loose circle. Renji raised his hand, keeping his team at a distance.

"Stay back," he ordered. "Stick to ranged attacks. Force them to burn chakra on defense—clones run dry fast."

Two of his shinobi moved fast, hands blurring through seals. Wind blades and jagged earth projectiles shot toward the clones in rapid succession.

One clone dove behind a thick oak just as a wind blade carved a deep notch into the trunk where his head had been. The second clone was right behind him, already yanking two smoke bombs from his pouch. He hurled them at the advancing Kumo team before retreating deeper into the woods.

Gray smoke exploded outward, thick and clinging, obscuring their line of sight—but it wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Pursue, but keep your distance,” Renji barked. “Use kunai and shuriken—keep the pressure on.”

The clones moved like a well-rehearsed unit, exploiting every twist of the terrain. They ducked beneath low branches, wove through tight knots of undergrowth, always just a step ahead. Every time the Kumo team closed the gap, another smoke bomb hissed out, blinding them and forcing a choice—charge in blind, or lose the target.

…..

Kota had been doing missions like this for three years. Track targets, maintain distance, use ranged attacks to wear them down. Shadow clones didn't have much chakra to work with, so you made them waste it on defense until they popped.

Simple stuff.

He slipped into position behind a cluster of trees, eyes on the two clones retreating through the smoke. His partner swung wide to the left, while the other two advanced, closing the gap. Textbook formation.

The clones were decent, he had to admit. Using the terrain, throwing smoke, making them work for every meter. But it was all stalling. They'd run out of tricks eventually.

That's when he spotted the tags.

Explosive seals stuck right to the tree trunks ahead, barely hidden. Kota almost snorted. Really? "Hey, obvious trap up front," he called to his team. "Going wide."

Kid was trying way too hard. Funneling them into a choke point with tags that screaming "look at me"? That was some Academy bullshit right there.

He repositioned to get a better angle through the canopy, keeping his distance like a good chunin should. That's when something moved in his peripheral vision—up in the branches above.

Kota looked up just in time to see the clone dropping straight down at him.

Oh shit—

Muscle memory took over. Aerial assault, rule one: never let them pin you down. He launched himself forward and right, textbook evasion, putting distance between himself and the drop zone.

Perfect form. Just like they'd drilled it a thousand times.

Except as he rolled to safety, his hand hit something that definitely hadn't been there before.

A wire.

When did they—

The tripwire was strung between two trees at exactly the height a chunin would roll to when evading an aerial attack. And it was connected to explosive tags that weren't in the obvious choke point ahead—they were hidden in the underbrush right here, right where any competent shinobi would move to avoid the "obvious" trap.

Realization hit the same moment a seal marked "explode" (爆, baku) flared to life.

Everything went white, then spinning. The blast picked him up like a rag doll and slammed him down hard enough to bounce. Something wet splattered across his cheek—he didn’t know if it was blood or brain matter, and he wasn’t sure it mattered. His ears were screaming, clothes scorched, and the scent of burnt hair and cooked flesh clung to the back of his throat.

He couldn’t tell up from down anymore. His sword was gone. He hadn’t seen it leave his hand. He couldn’t feel the hand either.

Through the static in his skull, Renji was yelling. Maybe orders. Maybe his name. Kota couldn’t tell—his brain kept skipping like a scratched record.

He tried to stand. His limbs didn’t agree. When he looked down, his right leg was bent sideways at the knee—but the bone was out. Jagged, wet, white. A flap of muscle hung loose like a torn sleeve.

That’s when he saw the glow—green? No, blue. Flickering, like chakra caught in water.

The clone was smiling as it approached, fingers wrapped in something pulsing and alive. Its footsteps were light. Eager.

The pain didn’t come all at once. First was a crack—then a wet slide as something cut into his sword arm, fast, deep, right through the muscle. He felt things snap. A ligament coiled back into his elbow like a live wire. Blood fountained up—hot, bright, and fast enough to make him dizzy.

He choked out a breath. Tried to scream. Nothing came. His jaw worked like a fish’s—just spit and panic.

The clone shifted again.

There was something in its other hand now. A blade. Not clean. Slick with someone else’s blood.

This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

That thought rose up right before the blade shoved deep under his jaw and dragged sideways. His throat opened with a bubbling noise he felt more than heard, warm liquid pumping down the front of his vest. He saw his own blood on the clone’s arm. On the leaves. On his lips.

He’d been a chunin for three years. He’d done dozens of missions like this.

It was supposed to be simple.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 38

I walked back toward my apartment, mentally running through the checklist of things that needed doing before tomorrow's mission. Joint operation with Team 4, escort duty, potential foreign shinobi encounters—the usual cheerful prospects that made up my career as a leaf shinobi.

Should probably let my team know about the delay, I mused, stepping around a puddle from the morning rain. 'They're expecting to meet up this afternoon, and finding out their mission got pushed back a day might actually qualify as good news for once.

The morning crowd was starting to fill the streets. Shopkeepers setting up, Academy kids dragging their feet to class, the occasional jonin moving with that urgent pace that usually meant someone was having a bad day.

Speaking of Academy—

"Takada-sensei!"

The Academy instructor turned at my call, a tired smile crossing his face. "Shinji. You're up early."

"Early? Ha. This is me sleeping in." I fell into step beside him, noting his direction toward the Academy. "Off to wrangle the little monsters?"

"Educate the little monsters," he corrected, though he was smirking. "Some days I'm not sure there's much difference."

"That bad?"

"You could say that." He adjusted the stack of papers under his arm. "Don't you have a mission today?"

"Got pushed back to tomorrow. Figured I'd grab breakfast, then hunt down my team." I stopped walking. "You eaten anything yet? I know a good place."

Takada slowed his pace, glancing toward the Academy. "Ah, I should really get to class..."

"Come on. When's the last time you had actual food instead of whatever you live on? Rice balls and that sludge they call coffee in the faculty room?"

He laughed despite himself. "It's not that bad."

"Right. You look like you haven't slept in a week." I nodded toward the Academy. "Those kids aren't going anywhere. Probably prefer their sensei shows up a few minutes late anyway."

"Shinji..."

"My treat. Quick breakfast, I promise. Besides, beats eating alone."

He hesitated, clearly weighing duty against the fact that he was probably starving.

"Fine," he said finally. "But just quick. I really do have classes to teach."

"Deal. And trust me, you'll be way more useful to those kids when you're not dead on your feet."

…..

Twenty minutes later we were sitting across from each other at a small restaurant that served the kind of simple, well-made food that kept you going without emptying your wallet. Rice, miso soup, grilled fish—nothing fancy, but filling.

"This is really nice," Takada said, actually relaxing as he ate his soup. "I honestly can't remember the last time I sat down for a real breakfast instead of scarfing down whatever while I'm grading."

"See? I'm basically doing community service here." I picked at my fish. "Keeping Konoha's teachers fed so they can properly educate the next generation."

"Very noble of you."

We ate quietly for a while. The morning light coming through the windows made everything feel calmer, less rushed.

"So," I said eventually, "how's the new school year going? Any promising kids this time around?"

Takada glanced up from his bowl. "You know how it is. Some have potential, others..." He shrugged. "They'll get there eventually."

"Any new faces? Kushina mentioned someone moved into the neighborhood. Thought maybe they had kids."

His chopsticks stopped moving. He set them down carefully and reached for his tea. "New students? I mean, we get transfers now and then."

"Why do you ask?" he added.

That was weird. I'd asked a pretty normal question and he'd clammed up like I'd touched a nerve. I kept eating, trying to figure out what the hell that was about.

"Just curious. You seemed less stressed lately. Thought maybe you got some easy kids to balance out the hellions."

"Ah." He poked at his rice. "Well, you know how it is. Some years are just... easier than others."

I could see him pulling back, getting that look people got when they realized they'd said too much. Better drop it.

"Speaking of hellions," I said, reaching for the sake bottle and topping off both our cups, "please tell me none of your current batch have tried to set anything on fire lately."

That got a laugh. "God, you jinxed it. Yesterday I caught two of them with explosive tags they'd somehow gotten hold of. Trying to see who could make the biggest crater in the practice yard."

"Explosive tags? How the hell did Academy students get their hands on those?"

"That's what I'd like to know." He shook his head. "Had to confiscate them and send a very uncomfortable letter to their parents."

"At least they're motivated?"

"Motivated to accidentally destroy the school, maybe."

We drank, and I steered the conversation somewhere safer—weather, training ground maintenance, how one of his students had tried to pass off water balloon throwing as legitimate shuriken practice. Easy stuff.

I topped off my cup and gestured at his. "Come on, have another. It's not like you're teaching anything dangerous this morning, right?"

"I guess one more won't kill me." He let me pour, shoulders relaxing a bit.

We finished eating in comfortable quiet after that, Takada telling me about his more creative students and the increasingly ridiculous excuses they came up with for missing homework. By the time we said goodbye outside the restaurant, he looked like an actual human being instead of a zombie.

"Thanks for this," he said, patting his stomach. "Didn't realize how hungry I was."

"No problem. And hey—eat actual meals once in a while, yeah? Can't have our teachers passing out in class."

"I'll work on it." He grinned, then paused for a moment, his expression growing thoughtful. "You know, Shinji... you've really grown up, haven't you? I remember when you were just another troublemaker in my class, and now here you are worrying about whether your old teacher is eating properly."

I shrugged, suddenly feeling awkward. "Just returning the favor. You put up with all my smart-ass comments for years, remember?"

"Still." He shook his head with a small smile. "You turned out well, kid. Really well."

Before I could figure out how to respond to that, he headed off toward the Academy while I turned back toward home.

The morning was getting warmer, and I had a few hours before I needed to worry about tomorrow's mission.

Still bugging me though, that whole weird reaction about the student. Maybe I'll send a clone to poke around later. Quietly, of course. Just to satisfy my curiosity.

I was still turning over the conversation as I approached my building, automatically checking the little signs I'd left to see if anyone had been messing around while I was gone. Everything looked normal at first glance—until I stopped by the door.

Someone had definitely opened the door.

My clone? I straightened up and flexed my glove, listening for sounds before slowly pushing the door open.

"—swear these prices are insane. Like, what do they think kunai wire is made of, gold or—oh, hey Shinji."

I stopped in the doorway. My single clone had somehow become three, and they were sitting around my kitchen table with Mikoto, Tsume, and Kuromaru. Maps were spread across the surface along with what looked like a fresh pot of coffee.

"Uh," I said, closing the door behind me and hanging up my jacket, "should I be worried right now?"

Mikoto glanced up with a small smile. "We stopped by to see if you wanted breakfast before we meet up this afternoon. Your clones said you were out getting supplies."

"And they made coffee," Tsume added. "Beats hanging around the training grounds."

"Yeah, about that..." I said, moving to pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot. "We've got some changes."

"Changes?" One of my clones raised an eyebrow. "What kind of changes?"

"Good news first—we're not leaving today. Mission got pushed to tomorrow." I settled into the remaining chair. "Other news is we're now babysitting Team 4."

"What?" Tsume frowned. "Joint op?"

"Yeah. Turns out Miyabi's team is escorting some merchant caravan to the Land of Hot Water. Same area we're supposed to be poking around." I sipped my coffee. "Ran into her this morning, figured we might as well work together."

"She actually agreed to that?" Mikoto sounded surprised.

"Took some convincing. But she's not stupid—extra backup means less chance of getting jumped by whoever's been hitting the trade routes. Plus now we've got actual bait instead of just poking around old crime scenes." I leaned back in my chair. "Should make things easier."

"More dangerous, you mean," Tsume said, but she didn't sound particularly worried about it.

"That too." I sipped my coffee. "At least Team 4 won't be going in blind. Told them what we know about these guys."

"Think they'll actually listen?"

"Miyabi's not stupid. She knows these aren't just bandits."

"So what's the play here?” Mikoto was already looking at the map. "We splitting up?"

"Has to be." I traced a finger along the route. "They stick close to the caravan, we work the perimeter."

"Circle around, pick off any nasties before they get close." she nodded approvingly. "If things go to hell, they keep the merchants breathing, we deal with whatever's trying to kill everyone."

One of my clones glanced up from his book. "Assuming we don't trip over each other when it hits the fan."

"We'll make it work," I said.

Tsume had been eyeing my clones for the past few minutes, and finally her curiosity got the better of her. "Okay, I have to ask—how the hell are they actually talking? Like, having real conversations?"

"I think..." Mikoto said slowly, like she was trying to remember something. "My older cousins mentioned something like this once. Some kind of forbidden jutsu."

"Not forbidden, just..." I shrugged. "Chakra-intensive. Most people try it once and pass out." I gestured toward the clones. "These guys are solid, they think on their own, and when they poof, I get all their memories."

"That's crazy." Tsume blinked. "Why didn't you tell us about this?"

"Just learned it."

Mikoto was still watching one of my clones like it might disappear. "So they're actually... you? Like, really thinking their own thoughts?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Same brain, different... I dunno, angles on things."

The clone she'd been staring at rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks for making this weird, boss."

I stood up, stretching. "Anyway, since we've got time to kill, anyone want to train? Might be good to work on coordination before tomorrow."

Tsume perked up immediately. "What kind of training?"

"I don't know. Drills? Some sparring? Just... figure out how we're gonna mess this up while we can still afford to mess up."

"I'm game." Mikoto was already checking her gear pouch.

"Hell yeah." Tsume stretched and grinned. "Kuromaru's been getting lazy anyway. Haven't you, boy?"

The dog opened one eye and huffed, clearly unimpressed with the accusation.

…..

After the apartment door closed behind Shinji and his teammates, the three remaining clones sat in comfortable silence for exactly thirty seconds. Then the one sitting closest to the bookshelf cleared his throat and stood up.

"Alright," he said, "I'm calling dibs on being in charge."

The other two clones looked up from where they'd been cleaning the table.

"In charge?" one of them asked. "Seriously?"

"Someone's gotta keep things organized while boss is out training." He moved to the bookshelf and pulled out a thick book on fuinjutsu. "Besides, we've got stuff to do."

"Like what?"

"Making more of us." He settled into the most comfortable chair and opened the book. "You two start meditating, churn out some more clones. I want at least six more running around here in an hour."

"And you're gonna do what while we're doing all the work?" the second clone asked.

He waved the book. "Research. Boss keeps bitching about chakra costs with the clone jutsu. Maybe there's something useful in here."

The third clone snorted. "Of course you give yourself the reading job."

"Hey, I called dibs first." He was already flipping through pages. "Now quit bitching and get to work. These seals aren't gonna figure themselves out."

The other two clones exchanged looks, then shrugged and found spots on the floor to begin their meditation. Within minutes, the apartment was filled with the soft sounds of controlled breathing and the occasional rustle of turning pages.

Just another normal day in the life of Shinji's apartment.

……

I settled onto an old wooden trunk with Tsunade's medical book that I'd been putting off since our last mission. Dense stuff—the kind of reading that made most people's eyes glaze over, but sometimes you'd find something actually useful buried in all the technical jargon.

About twenty feet away, Tsume and Mikoto were sparring. What had started as light practice was turning into something more serious, judging by how hard they were both breathing. Kuromaru was sprawled in the shade, lifting his head every now and then when one of them landed a particularly good hit.

"You're dropping your shoulder again," I said without looking up. "Might as well put up a sign that says 'punch coming from the right.'"

Tsume grunted and immediately threw the exact same telegraphed punch. Mikoto saw it coming a mile away, slipped to the side, and tagged her with a quick elbow that Tsume barely got her guard up for.

"What did I just say?" I flipped a page. "That wasn't fixing it, that was doing it louder."

"I'm trying," Tsume panted, resetting her stance.

"No, you're overthinking it. Big difference." I glanced up to watch Mikoto move—smooth, controlled, the kind of technique that came from years of clan training. "Quit trying to muscle through her defense. She's quicker than you, so be smarter instead."

Tsume's next attack was better—started low like she was going for the body, then drove her knee up when Mikoto committed to the block. Actually made her give some ground.

"Yeah, like that," I said, already back to my reading. "Don't let her get comfortable."

But Mikoto was already adapting, using Tsume's forward momentum against her with some fancy throw that sent her teammate flying through the air. Tsume hit the ground hard enough to rattle her teeth.

"Ugh." Tsume rolled to her feet, spitting out grass. "Damn it."

"Better though," I said. "At least she had to work for that one."

"Your pep talks suck."

Mikoto straightened up, barely winded despite the extended exchange. "You want to try giving advice from inside the ring instead of from your comfortable reading spot?"

I looked up to find both of them staring at me with that look. The one that said they'd been planning this.

"What, me? I'm perfectly happy over here with my book." I marked the page and tucked it away. "But if you really want a challenge, maybe you should team up. Make it interesting."

Tsume's eyes lit up. "Both of us?"

"Sure. You two have been working on that teamwork thing, right? Good practice." I stood up, stretching out the stiffness from sitting too long. "Besides, I'm just one guy. How hard can it be?"

The look they shared was pure trouble.

I walked to the middle of the training area and rolled my shoulders. "Alright, let's see what you've got."

They didn't waste time talking about it. Tsume came straight at me like she always did—all forward momentum and rapid-fire punches. Mikoto went wide, circling to get behind me while Tsume kept me busy.

Not bad. They were actually thinking about this.

I slipped past Tsume’s opening salvo, using just enough movement to let her strikes miss without taking the full brunt. Blocking her head-on was like trying to win a headbutt contest with a rhino. Her whole style screamed momentum and brute force, making redirection a much safer bet than trying to out-muscle her.

Unfortunately, while I was busy playing matador to Tsume’s bull impersonation, Mikoto decided now was the perfect time to introduce my supporting leg to the floor.

She came in low, smooth as oil on marble, and aimed a sweep that would’ve taken me down hard if I hadn’t lifted my foot just enough to let her leg pass underneath. Then I pivoted to intercept her rising elbow with my forearm. The impact stung, but I used the connection to steer her momentum away—like rerouting a rogue shopping cart. At the same time, I stepped back just in time to narrowly avoid Tsume’s follow-up, which had all the subtlety of a flying cinderblock.

"Better," I said, easing back into stance. "But you're still thinking too much instead of maintaining pressure."

They didn’t argue. They reset like pros, and this time, they came at me with tighter coordination. Tsume’s new combo flowed cleanly into Mikoto’s sequence, like they'd rehearsed it in secret just to ruin my day. The result? A non-stop barrage that pinned me in a dance of constant defense.

I ducked under Tsume’s high kick—her heel slicing through the air just above my head—then twisted hard to the side as Mikoto’s knee came whistling toward my ribs. What followed was a rapid exchange of blocks and redirections, their attacks coming fast enough that I couldn’t find an opening to counter without risking getting caught by the other.

Tsume’s next punch was all drama and zero commitment—a bait if I’d ever seen one. She pulled it short at the last second, dropped her weight, and swept low just as Mikoto aimed high. I had about half a second to decide between dignity and survival. Naturally, I chose survival and hopped up, which left me—briefly—hovering like a very vulnerable, very airborne target.

Mikoto’s uppercut came fast, but I twisted mid-air, pulling hard with my core to get just enough clearance. Her fist skimmed past my ribs instead of rearranging them. I landed on one hand, then launched sideways as Tsume’s heel slammed down hard enough to make the ground reconsider its life choices.

“Much better,” I said, flipping to my feet. “You’re starting to fight like a team instead of two strangers who met in the waiting room.”

“How about a knuckle sandwich?” Tsume grinned, already mid-swing.

This time, they weren’t just coordinated—they were synchronized chaos. Tsume came in hard and fast, throwing combinations designed to push me exactly where Mikoto wanted me. And Mikoto was right there, staying just out of the way, waiting to capitalize on whatever opening Tsume created.

I bobbed and slipped through Tsume’s flurry, but Mikoto had clearly started reading me like a well-loved book. When I ducked a hook, she was already moving with a knee. When I stepped back from an elbow, she cut off my retreat with a kick aimed right at my ribs. I twisted just enough to let it slide past.

"Good," I called out between exchanges. "Mikoto, don't chase—you're close enough to counter, so trust your distance."

The pace was vicious. Attack, defend, reposition, repeat. All three of us were breathing hard now, sweat dripping, but nobody let up.

"Tsume, mix up your timing. You're getting predictable—keep me guessing."

Then Tsume threw a particularly mean combination, all power and pressure, and I had no choice but to give ground. Except I didn’t keep giving. Mid-step, I shifted in, threading inside her guard and catching her wrist just as she committed to another punch. With a quick twist, I redirected her momentum and spun her around like a very confused, very violent door.

“Now that’s how you funnel momentum! Mikoto—don’t trail her, angle out and control my flank.”

Mikoto, to her credit (and possibly my growing regret), took that suggestion and turned it into a full-on acrobatic stunt. She didn’t bother trying to get around. Instead, she vaulted over Tsume with a one-handed flip that could’ve won her a talent show—and maybe caused a few heart attacks on the judging panel.

I ducked under her flying kick and had just enough time to bring my arms up before her follow-up drove me back—right into Tsume’s incoming punch.

What followed could only be described as choreographed chaos. We traded blows like overly aggressive dance partners on a stage made of grit and bruises. They weren’t just fighting better—they were thinking together now.

And I’d apparently coached myself into trouble.

The exchanges got faster, sharper. They were starting to anticipate not just what I was doing, but what I was going to do. It wasn't flawless yet, but it was good enough that I had to work to stay ahead of them.

Eventually—after what felt like the longest “just a few minutes” of my life—I carved out just enough space to lift my hands in truce.

“Alright, alright,” I said, breath coming a little harder than I liked to admit. “That’s enough murder practice for one day. You two are getting way too good at this."

Tsume grinned, wiping sweat from her forehead. "Scared we might actually land a hit?"

"Terrified," I said, grabbing my book from storage. "I was starting to worry you might figure out how to actually catch me."

"Starting to?" Mikoto raised an eyebrow. "We nearly had you a couple times."

"Nearly counts for something, right?" I settled back on the trunk and cracked open the book. "But seriously, that was impressive. Your timing's getting much better."

Tsume flopped down on the grass next to Kuromaru, who lifted his head to give her an approving tail wag. "Still feels like we're missing something though. Like we're almost there but not quite."

"That's how it goes. Teamwork's weird like that." I found my page. "You guys have only been doing this for, what—a few days? Weeks? That's nothing."

"What about you?" Mikoto settled into the grass a few feet away. "How long did it take you to get that good?"

"At what?"

"All of it. Reading us, knowing what we're gonna do before we do it. You make it look ridiculously easy."

I glanced up. "I don't know. It's not like there was some magic moment where I suddenly got it. Just... happens over time, I guess."

"That's not really an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." I shrugged. "Some things you learn without realizing it."

Tsume was giving me that look she got when she thought I was holding out on her. "Must be nice, being naturally good at everything."

"Natural talent's overrated. Most of it's just paying attention and putting in the work." I grinned at them. "Besides, give it another month and I might actually have to try."

"Oh, screw you," Tsume said, but she was laughing.

Mikoto threw a clump of grass at me. "Might have to try? We just spent ten minutes trying to murder you."

"And you did great! Very committed homicide attempts." I ducked another grass missile. "Really coming along nicely."

"You're awful," Mikoto said, but she couldn't keep the smile off her face.

"Alright, I'm heading out," I said, closing the book and getting to my feet. "Don't kill each other while I'm gone."

"No promises," Tsume said, already eyeing Mikoto like she wanted another round.

"We'll be fine," Mikoto said. "You should probably get some actual rest instead of whatever it is you do at night. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

"Oh, hang on." I pulled a couple of wrapped bundles out of my storage glove. "I made extra food for the mission before it got pushed back. You want them? They'll just go bad otherwise."

Tsume's eyes lit up. "Seriously? What kind?"

"Rice balls, vegetable tempura, miso soup. Nothing fancy." I tossed the bundles over. "But it beats having to scrounge for dinner."

"You're amazing," Tsume said, already unwrapping hers. "I was not looking forward to figuring out what to eat tonight."

Mikoto caught her bundle and gave me a small smile. "Thanks. You really didn't have to."

"Better than throwing it out. Hate wasting food."

Tsume had already bitten into a rice ball and made a happy sound. "Oh man, this is really good.”

I gave them a lazy wave and headed home, already looking forward to a quiet evening and maybe getting some actual reading done. The sun was starting to set, painting the sky in those orange and pink shades that made even Konoha's more run-down districts look pretty decent.

Twenty minutes later, I was standing outside my apartment door, key in hand, when I heard voices inside. Multiple voices. A lot of them.

'Oh, right. The clones.'

I opened the door to find my small apartment absolutely packed with copies of myself. They were everywhere—sitting on the floor, perched on counters, leaning against walls. Had to be at least a dozen of them, maybe more.

"Hey, boss," one of them said without looking up from the scroll he was reading. "How'd training go?"

"Fine," I said, squeezing through the crowd toward my bedroom. "What are you all doing?"

"Research," another clone replied. "Figured we'd get some studying done while you were out having fun."

I pushed open my bedroom door to find three more clones sprawled on my bed with books and scrolls scattered everywhere.

"Out," I said.

"But we're in the middle of—"

"Out."

They grumbled but gathered up their reading material and filed out. I closed the door behind them, kicked off my indoor sandals, and flopped face-first onto the bed.

Finally. Some peace and quiet.

Except I couldn't shake the feeling I was forgetting something. Something important. I rolled over and stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was nagging at me.

Mission supplies? Check. Training my team? Done. Equipment maintenance? Pretty sure that was handled.

Through the bedroom door, I could hear my clones talking in the main room.

"...so if you adjust the chakra flow ratio..."

"...but that would make the seals too unstable..."

Seals… seals…

Oh, shit.

I smacked my forehead. Fuinjutsu supplies. I'd been planning to practice some of the seals Kushina had shown me, but I'd completely forgotten to buy the special paper and ink I needed.

I lay there for a moment, weighing my options. I could get up, get dressed, walk all the way back to the shopping district, buy supplies, walk back home...

Or.

"Hey!" I called out to the clones in the living room. "One of you go buy fuinjutsu supplies. Special sealing paper, chakra-conductive ink, the good stuff. You know what we need."

"Which one of us?" came the reply.

"I don't care. Figure it out among yourselves."

There was some muffled discussion, then the sound of the front door opening and closing.

I pulled a pillow over my head and settled in for the night. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and I needed all the sleep I could get.

One of the benefits of having clones—delegation.

…

I woke up to the sound of my own voice saying, "Boss is awake!"

Before I could even figure out what that meant, there was a series of soft pops from the living room, followed by what felt like someone dumping a filing cabinet directly into my brain.

I groaned and pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes. Clone memories were always disorienting, but this was ridiculous. Intelligence networks, research divisions, organizational charts, supply chains, a second-in-command—

"What the hell were you idiots doing all night?" I muttered, sitting up and trying to sort through the mental chaos.

The smell of cooking food drifted through the bedroom door. Really good cooking food. My stomach rumbled in response, which at least gave me a reason to get up and investigate.

I shuffled out of the bedroom to find my kitchen transformed into what looked like a small restaurant. The table was absolutely loaded with food—rice, miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, tamagoyaki, the works. Off to the side, I counted at least six neatly packed bento boxes.

Three clones were still bustling around the kitchen, putting finishing touches on what appeared to be enough breakfast to feed a small army.

"Okay," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I have the memories, but I'm still confused. What exactly is all this?"

"Breakfast," one of the clones said cheerfully, setting down a plate of perfectly grilled fish. "And lunch for the road. We figured you'd want something decent to eat before the mission."

"That's not what I'm asking about." I gestured at the mountain of food. "This is enough to feed half the village. Why did you make so much?"

The three clones exchanged glances, then the one who'd been stirring the soup straightened up with an oddly formal expression.

"Well, boss, we've been discussing the ethical implications of our existence, and we've reached some conclusions."

I blinked. "Ethical implications?"

"Indeed. Simply put, it's unreasonable to expect us to prepare food while being denied the basic right to consume it ourselves." He adjusted his stance like he was giving a lecture. "The act of cooking creates anticipation and desire for the meal being prepared. To suppress these natural responses would be a form of psychological torture."

"We have a right to happiness," another clone chimed in, waving a pair of chopsticks for emphasis. "And good food contributes significantly to overall well-being and morale."

The third clone nodded sagely. "Furthermore, the arbitrary restriction of sustenance based solely on our status as shadow constructs constitutes a clear violation of basic humanitarian principles."

I stared at them. "Did you just... argue for clone rights? Using philosophy?"

"We prefer to think of it as applying logical reasoning to workplace fairness issues," the first clone said. "Also, we were hungry."

"You're literally going to dispel in a few hours anyway."

"That's beside the point. The experience of eating is what matters, not the long-term existence implications."

I looked around at the ridiculous amount of food, then at my clones who were standing there looking proud of their intellectual arguments for why they deserved breakfast.

"You know what? Fine. Whatever. Eat all you want." I sat down at the table and picked up a pair of chopsticks. "Just... try not to develop a labor union while I'm on mission, okay?"

"We make no promises," one of them said solemnly, settling down across from me with his own plate.

The tea was perfect, the fish was grilled just the way I liked it, and the rice had exactly the right texture. I had to admit, even if my clones were apparently developing delusions of personhood, at least they were useful delusions.

"So," I said, taking a sip of tea, "this whole 'commander' business. Please tell me you didn't actually try to set up a military hierarchy in my living room."

"Why wouldn't we?" The clone next to me shrugged. "You try coordinating a dozen people all researching different stuff without some kind of organization."

"We rotate leadership between divisions," another one explained, waving his chopsticks. "Second-in-command comes from research, then when he dispels, third takes over from intelligence, then logistics, and so on."

"Each division gets a say in the big decisions," said a clone from across the table. "Then we cycle back to research. Keeps things balanced."

I stared at them. "So you've... organized yourselves into a functional command structure with checks and balances. I honestly don't know how to feel about that."

"Relax, boss. We're not idiots." Another clone grinned. "Just because we're copies doesn't mean we lost our common sense. Leave the details to us."

"We had all night to work out the kinks," another added proudly.

I sighed. "Just... try to keep the apartment in one piece, okay?"

"We'll do our best, boss."

Somehow, that didn't make me feel any better.

…..

I finished breakfast and headed for the bathroom, grabbing a towel and clean clothes on the way. A hot shower sounded perfect before spending the next few days on the road with merchants.

I was just settling into the warm water when I heard voices from the living room getting louder.

"I'm telling you, 'The Shinji Squad' sounds good."

"That's awful. What about 'Clone Force Alpha'?"

"Too serious. How about 'The Magnificent Seven'? Oh wait, there's more than seven of us now."

"The Magnificent... Twelve?"

"We're not all magnificent. Did you see Clone #4 face-plant into the doorframe this morning?"

I scrubbed shampoo into my hair and tried to ignore them. This was what happened when you left copies of yourself unsupervised.

"Shadow Battalion?"

"We're not big enough to be a battalion."

"Shadow Platoon, then?"

"Eh."

"Just Shadow Squad?"

"Better, but kind of generic."

I rinsed the soap out of my eyes and let out a long breath. Of all the things they could be doing with their time...

"What about Shadow Company? Simple, sounds professional."

There was a pause.

"Actually... that's not bad."

"Yeah, I like it. Sounds legit without being over the top."

"Shadow Company it is. All in favor?"

A bunch of voices called out "aye" at the same time.

Great. Now they had a name.

I finished washing and got dressed, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. My clones had formed their own organization and were now apparently branding themselves.

'Shadow Company,' I thought, rolling my eyes. 'Of course they'd pick something that sounds like something from a bad action movie.'

"So what do you think of the name, boss?" one of them asked as I walked through the living room.

I rolled my eyes. "It's fine. Whatever makes you happy."

"That's not exactly enthusiastic approval, boss."

"It's the best you're getting." I grabbed my jacket from beside the door. "Just don't burn the place down while I'm gone. And you intelligence guys—be careful out there."

"Don't worry, boss. We've got it handled."

"Famous last words," I muttered, but I was already heading for the door.

…

The main gate was busy when I got there. Team 4 was already set up around three loaded wagons, with Miyabi barking orders while a bunch of nervous merchants hovered around making last-minute adjustments. She spotted me first and nodded.

"You're actually on time," she said, sounding genuinely surprised.

"I'm always on time for important things."

"Since when?"

"Since today, apparently." I looked around at the organized chaos. "Where's my team?"

"Right here," Mikoto called from near the gate, walking over with Tsume and Kuromaru behind her. "Just arrived."

"Perfect timing." I watched Noboru and Yua finish tightening cargo straps under Miyabi's watchful eye. "How's it looking?"

"Miyabi's got her shit together," Tsume said. "Seems like she actually knows what she's doing."

I nodded, taking in the whole setup. Team 4 managing their caravan, my team ready for security, and four merchants who all looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. For a split second I considered just sending my clones and staying home, but I couldn't do that to my team.

"Looks like you've got everything well organized," I told Miyabi as she finished explaining something to one of the merchants.

"We've run escort jobs before," she said. "Just making sure we don't hit any surprises down the road."

"Better to catch problems here than out there."

"Exactly." She glanced at my team. "You guys ready?"

"Ready as we'll ever be," I said, glancing back at Mikoto and Tsume, who were doing their own final equipment checks.

"Everything secured?" Miyabi asked, turning to her teammates.

"Should be," Noboru said, finishing his check of a wagon wheel. "Double-checked all the straps and axles."

"Good work," Miyabi said. "Yua, how are the supplies?"

"All accounted for," Yua replied from where she was organizing their gear. "Extra rations, medical supplies, replacement equipment."

One of the merchants—a thin man with nervous eyes—approached Miyabi with a clipboard.

"Miss, about the route..." he started.

"We'll make good time," Miyabi assured him. "The roads are clear, and we're taking the most direct path to Hot Water Country."

"What about the... the security issues?" he asked hesitantly.

"That's why we're here," I said. "Nothing for you to worry about."

The merchant nodded a few too many times and scurried back to his wagon.

"Alright, people," Miyabi called out. "Let's get moving. The sooner we start, the sooner we get everyone where they need to go."

The wagons started rolling, wheels bumping along the packed dirt road. I fell into step on the left flank while Tsume and Mikoto took positions on the right and rear.

For the first few minutes, everything felt almost normal. Just another escort mission on a quiet road.

Of course, that probably wouldn't last long.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 37

The moon hung outside my window like a drunk trying to find his keys, casting pale silver light across the kitchen table where I'd spread ou

The moon hung outside my window like a drunk trying to find his keys, casting pale silver light across the kitchen table where I'd spread out the Kage Bunshin scroll. A single candle flickered beside me, adding just enough warm glow to read the cramped handwriting without squinting myself blind.

Kushina had passed out about an hour ago, her head pillowed on her arms right next to her fuinjutsu materials. My jacket was draped over her shoulders like a blanket, and every few minutes she'd make these tiny sleep sounds that were way too adorable for someone who could probably punch through solid rock when she was awake.

I turned back to the scroll, scanning the technical details. The first thing that jumped out at me was how different this was from regular clone jutsu. Normal clones were just illusions—smoke and mirrors designed to confuse your opponent for a few seconds. But this was different. According to the scroll, shadow clones were actual bodies made of chakra, somehow transformed into something that could mimic flesh and matter.

‘Chakra constructs,’ I read, raising an eyebrow. Shape transformation, also known as Keitai Henka, was apparently the key to the whole thing.

I'd heard the term before, but seeing it written out like this made it sound way more complicated than just "make your chakra look like stuff." The scroll went on to explain that it was an advanced form of chakra control, something about controlling the form, movement, and potency of your chakra to determine the size, range, and purpose of a technique.

I kept reading, trying to wrap my head around the mechanics. Apparently, the chakra somehow "hardened" into a stable form that could mimic the user's physical structure down to cellular details. The clones could bleed, sweat, and physically interact with the environment as if they were actual living bodies.

"Cellular details," I whispered, staring at the scroll. "It's not just making a copy—it's making a perfect biological replica using nothing but chakra."

That was... actually terrifying when you thought about it. The level of control required to replicate every cell, every organ, every tiny detail that made a human body function? No wonder this was classified as a forbidden jutsu.

And no wonder it required massive chakra reserves.

I glanced at Kushina again, remembering our conversation about her "absurdly large chakra reserves." Yeah, she'd probably love this jutsu. Probably create an army of herself just to get her chores done faster.

The thought of multiple Kushinas running around made me smile. The village probably couldn't handle one of her, let alone ten.

I turned back to the scroll, looking over the hand seal sequence. Just one seal—a simple cross with both hands. Hell, it was easier than half the Academy jutsu I'd learned.

The scroll had basic step-by-step instructions that were pretty straightforward: form the seal, split your chakra evenly, push it into the technique framework. Simple enough that you could probably brute-force it without really understanding what was going on.

'If Naruto can eventually pull this off, he's basically just running the Second Hokage's program,' I thought. The guy had already figured out all the impossible stuff—how to make chakra turn into actual living tissue. All you had to do was dump enough chakra into it and not screw up the trigger.

But being me, I couldn't help trying to reverse-engineer what was actually happening. The scroll only gave basic instructions - form the seal, split your chakra, push it into the technique framework. But there had to be underlying principles at work. Shape transformation theory, cellular replication matrices, energy-to-matter conversion ratios.

Naruto could eventually brute-force his way through the basic instructions with raw chakra reserves. But if I could figure out the technical framework behind it? That would let me modify the technique, optimize it, maybe even create my own variations.

Like knowing how to use a phone versus actually knowing how to build one. Except I was trying to figure out the code just by watching the thing work.

But whatever. That was a problem for later. Right now I had other stuff to deal with.

I set the scroll down carefully, making sure not to disturb any of Kushina's fuinjutsu materials. Her brushes were arranged in perfect order, and there were neat little piles of paper covered in her attempts at the storage seal modifications.

Standing up slowly, I moved to the center of the room where I'd have space to work. The hand seal was simple enough—just crossing my fingers in front of me.

I took a breath and pushed chakra into the jutsu, trusting the Second Hokage's framework to handle all the impossibly complex stuff. It was like running a program someone else had written—I didn't need to understand how chakra transformed into living matter, I just needed to provide the chakra and let the jutsu do its thing.

The chakra flowed through the technique, shaped itself into something recognizable through whatever brilliant mechanisms Tobirama had built into it, and suddenly there were two of me standing in my kitchen.

"Well, shit," I said.

"Yeah," my clone said, looking down at his hands. "That actually worked."

We stared at each other for a moment. It was like looking in a mirror, except the reflection was scratching its head independently.

"So," I said. "You're me."

"Yep. And you're... also me." He paused. "This is weird."

"Super weird. Do you remember everything I remember?"

"Up until you made me, yeah. After that..." He shrugged. "I'm thinking my own thoughts."

"Huh." I walked around him, checking him out from different angles. "You look exactly the same. Even got the stupid cowlick in the back."

"Hey, we have great hair."

"We really do."

The clone glanced toward the table where Kushina was still sleeping. "Think we should wake her up? Show her the jutsu worked?"

"Nah, let her sleep. Besides, two of me might be more than she can handle right now."

"Fair point. She'd probably make some crack about there being twice as much ego in the room."

I snorted. "She absolutely would."

My clone wandered over to the window, peering out at the moonlit street like he was getting used to having his own perspective on things.

"So," my clone said, "what now?"

"Now we experiment."

I had him sit down at the table while I grabbed a spare kunai from my gear pouch. The clone watched me with interest that felt both familiar and strange.

"You're not seriously going to stab me, are you?"

"Just a little," I said reassuringly. "For science."

"I don't like this plan."

"Neither do I, but we need to test the limits."

I made a small cut on the clone's arm—just deep enough to draw blood. He winced and cursed under his breath.

"Okay, that's... unsettling."

The cut bled real blood. It looked real, felt real, and when the clone touched it, he came away with red fingers.

"The scroll wasn't kidding about the cellular detail thing," he said, examining the blood. "This is actual hemoglobin."

I was about to test something else when Kushina shifted in her chair, making a sleepy sound. My clone suddenly went poof and turned into a scroll that clattered onto the table.

I stared at the scroll. "What the hell?"

She lifted her head, blinking sleepily. "Shinji? What time is it? Did something fall?"

"Late," I said, still staring at the scroll. "And yeah, just... knocked something over."

"Mmm." She rubbed her eyes, my jacket slipping off one shoulder. "Did you say something? I thought I heard voices."

"Just talking to myself," I said, which was technically true. "You know how I get with this stuff."

"You're so weird," she mumbled, but she was half-smiling. "Figure out the clone thing yet?"

I glanced at the scroll, which had somehow managed to look smug despite being an inanimate object. "Yeah, actually. Got it working."

"Really? That's amazing!" She stretched, then seemed to realize how late it was. "I should probably head home, but..." She yawned widely. "Actually, you know what? I'm exhausted, and it's the middle of the night. Mind if I crash here? I can take the couch."

"You can have the bed," I said. "I'll take the couch."

"Are you sure? I don't want to impose."

"It's fine. Besides, you promised to help with the seal work, remember?"

"Mmm, right. The explosive clone research." She stood up, swaying slightly from tiredness. "That's gonna be fun."

I got her settled in the bedroom, and when I returned to the kitchen, my clone had transformed back and was sitting at the table like nothing had happened.

"Okay," I said. "What was that about?"

He shrugged. "Felt like it."

"Felt like it," I repeated. "You just randomly decided to become a scroll."

"Hey, you made me. Blame your own weird brain."

I sat down across from him, suddenly aware of how surreal this whole situation was. Having a conversation with myself about my own motivations was definitely going on the list of 'Things I Never Expected To Do.'

"Whatever." I leaned back in my chair. "Back to business. How much damage can you take before you dispel?"

"Only one way to find out."

What followed was probably the weirdest twenty minutes of my life. We tested the clone's durability with increasingly creative methods—punches, cuts, blunt force trauma from falling off chairs.

The clone could take a surprising amount of punishment, but there were definite limits. A solid punch to the gut made him wheeze but didn't dispel him. A kunai thrust to the shoulder made him curse colorfully but kept him standing.

It was when I accidentally put a little too much force behind a punch to his gut that finally did him in. He flew back a couple feet, still airborne, when—poof. Smoke.

The memories hit me like a freight train.

Everything the clone had experienced flooded back in vivid detail. The memory of pain from the cuts I'd given him. The weird disorientation of being a copy. The way Kushina's fuinjutsu notes had looked from his perspective.

But more importantly—and more alarmingly—I could feel exactly how much chakra I'd lost the moment I created him.

Half. Half of my total reserves, gone the moment the clone formed.

"Well," I said to my empty kitchen, "that's a problem."

The Kage Bunshin was incredibly powerful, but it was also incredibly wasteful. In a real fight, you'd burn through your chakra reserves just making the clones, never mind what happened when they got taken out.

I picked up the scroll again, scanning for any mention of chakra conservation. Maybe there was a way to create clones with smaller chakra investments—ten percent instead of fifty.

But this scroll only contained the basic user instructions—how to trigger the Second Hokage's jutsu, not the underlying framework he'd built. It was like having a user manual for a computer without access to the source code.

The real research notes are probably locked away somewhere I'll never get access to,' I thought. No way Hiruzen's handing over classified jutsu development materials to a genin, even if I did get this as a mission reward.

I'd have to experiment on my own, try to reverse-engineer what the Second Hokage had built.

I spent the next few hours doing exactly that—poking at the jutsu's framework, trying to understand how Tobirama had structured the chakra transformation process. It was like trying to debug someone else's code without comments or documentation. I'd make tiny modifications to how I channeled chakra into the jutsu, looking for variables I could adjust, then watch as my attempts either failed completely or produced horrifying malformed clones that dispelled immediately.

Most of my notes were just frustrated scribbles about how the jutsu seemed to resist any modifications. The candle burned lower as I worked, casting shifting shadows across pages of increasingly illegible theories about chakra compression ratios and structural integrity thresholds.

By the time exhaustion finally caught up with me, the eastern horizon was starting to lighten.

I must have dozed off at the table, because the next thing I knew, I was jerking awake to the sound of movement from my bedroom. My hand was already reaching for a kunai before my brain caught up—old habits from sleeping in hostile territory.

Just Kushina getting up.

I quickly gathered the scattered scrolls and notes from the table, shoving them onto a nearby bookshelf between some cooking manuals and sake guides.

A few minutes later, she appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair sticking up at odd angles and eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Morning," she mumbled, rubbing her face. "You look terrible."

"Thanks. Coffee?"

"Please."

I moved to the stove, going through the familiar motions of grinding beans and heating water. The routine was oddly comforting after a night of experimental jutsu work.

"Sleep okay?" I asked, measuring out the grounds.

"Better than I have in weeks. Your bed's way more comfortable than mine." She stretched, yawning. "What time is it?"

"Early. Sun's barely up." I poured hot water over the grounds, watching them bloom. "And yeah, I may have splurged a bit on the mattress. Life's too short for sleeping on what feels like a wooden board with delusions of comfort."

She snorted. "Is that why half the Academy thinks you're secretly rich? Because you actually invest in things like decent bedding?"

"Hey, I like being comfortable. Call me crazy, but I believe sleep should involve actual rest, not endurance training." I grinned. "You don't have to be anywhere, do you?"

"Not until this afternoon. Grandma Mito's got me scheduled for more seal practice, but that's not till later." She slumped into a chair at the table. "What about you? When do you leave for your mission?"

"Couple hours." I handed her a steaming cup. "Plenty of time."

She wrapped her hands around the mug, inhaling the steam. "Thanks."

I leaned against the counter, sipping my own coffee. "So what's been happening around the village? I've been on mission for over a week, feels like I'm out of the loop."

"Not much, honestly. Everyone's a bit on edge about the war, but it's not like Suna's knocking on our gates."

"Yeah, that makes sense. Any actual changes, or just people being nervous?"

"Mostly just nervous. More patrols, I think, but nothing dramatic." She took a careful sip. "Oh, we got a new neighbor though. Some girl named Fuwa moved into the Senju compound a few houses down from Grandma Mito's place."

I raised an eyebrow. "Senju or Uzumaki?"

Kushina scrunched up her face. "That's the weird part. I have no idea if she's actually Senju, but she's definitely not Uzumaki. Trust me, I'd know."

"Huh. Random civilian getting housing in the Senju compound seems unlikely."

"Right? That's what I thought too." She shrugged. "Maybe she's some distant cousin or something. The Senju family tree's pretty sprawling."

"Yeah, I've noticed that about them," I said, taking another sip. "Unlike other clans, they seem pretty relaxed about intermarriage. Uchiha keep it in the family, but Senju marry whoever they want."

"True. Grandma Mito always says the clan's strength comes from diversity, not purity." Kushina tilted her head thoughtfully. "Why, you think that's a problem?"

"Not a problem, just… a bit outside the box, I guess." I leaned back against the counter. "Spreading the bloodline around means more people with Senju traits, but it also means those traits get diluted over generations. Eventually you might have hundreds of distant cousins with maybe a tiny bit of Senju chakra, but no real connection to the clan."

"Huh." She frowned slightly. "You think they could actually die out that way? By spreading too thin?"

"Maybe. It's like..." I gestured vaguely with my coffee cup. "If you pour a bucket of water into a lake, the water's still there, but good luck finding it."

"That's kind of depressing," she said. "Though I guess it depends on whether you care more about the name or the legacy."

"Fair point. Maybe having your influence spread everywhere is better than keeping it concentrated in one small group."

"Maybe," she said, stretching and looking more awake, "So, ready for our cooking lesson? I've been thinking about it all week."

I set down my coffee cup. "Definitely. How about dashimaki tamago? It's basically a rolled omelet, but fancier than regular scrambled eggs."

"Sounds complicated."

"Nah, just requires a bit of technique. Good for building confidence without too much risk of setting things on fire." I moved toward the pantry. "Plus, if you screw it up, we can still eat the evidence."

"Very reassuring," she said, but she was already rolling up her sleeves. "Oh, before I forget, I finished working on your glove."

"Really? What did you change?"

"Try it. See those smaller marks around the main seal? Each one's a separate compartment now."

I looked down at my glove, noticing for the first time that there were indeed several smaller seal marks arranged around the central design.

"Just focus a bit of chakra on whichever mark corresponds to what you want," she continued. "Top left is where I put your spare kunai."

I pressed my thumb lightly against the indicated mark and channeled a small pulse of chakra. Only the kunai appeared in my palm.

"Holy shit, that actually works."

"Of course it works. I know what I'm doing. Each compartment's got limited space though, maybe enough for a few kunai or some shuriken, but you're not fitting a full weapon rack in there."

"This is incredibly useful." I tested another mark, retrieving a single shuriken. "How many compartments are there?"

"Six total. Should be enough for basic gear organization." She picked up one of the eggs, examining it like she was planning its demise. "Took forever to get the seal matrix right, but the theory was sound."

"You're a genius."

"I know." She cracked the egg with entirely too much force, sending shell fragments flying. "Oops."

"Okay, lesson one," I said, moving to stand beside her. "Eggs are not your enemies. You're not trying to execute them."

"They feel like enemies. They always break weird when I do it."

"Here, like this." I demonstrated with another egg, tapping it gently on the counter edge. "Just enough force to crack the shell, then use your thumbs to open it cleanly."

She tried again, more carefully this time. Better, though she still managed to get a piece of shell in the bowl.

"Close enough. We'll fish that out later." I started whisking the eggs with dashi and seasonings. "So this compartment thing..."

"I tried to think about what you'd actually need to carry around. Kunai, shuriken, some coins, emergency stuff." She was watching me whisk like she was studying for a test. "Left space so you can organize it however you want."

"Good. I'm sick of having to dump everything out just to find one thing."

"Yeah, that was the main improvement. You get a little more storage overall, but the real thing is being able to grab what you need without messing up everything else." She picked another bit of eggshell out of the bowl. "Way better for actual missions."

"This is gonna be so useful." I heated the pan, adding a thin layer of oil. "Okay, here's where it gets tricky. You want the pan hot but not smoking. Too hot and the eggs cook too fast to roll properly."

"How do you know when it's ready?"

"Test drop." I flicked a tiny bit of egg mixture into the pan. It sizzled gently without spattering. "Perfect. Now watch this part carefully."

I poured in just enough egg mixture to cover the bottom of the pan in a thin layer. "The key is working in thin layers. Let each one set just enough to hold together, then roll it toward you."

"That looks impossible."

"It's not, just takes practice." I used chopsticks to gently roll the cooked egg into a loose cylinder, pushing it to the far end of the pan. "See? Now you add more mixture, lift the cooked part so it flows underneath, and repeat."

"Damn, you're good at that," she said, watching me work. "Makes it look way easier than it actually is."

"Just practice. Same as your seal work, once you get the muscle memory down, it becomes automatic." I added another layer, repeating the process. "The goal is building up layers until you get a nice thick roll."

She leaned closer to watch. "It's like... folding the egg onto itself?"

"Exactly. Each layer adds to the roll." I finished the third layer, the omelet now a proper golden cylinder. "Want to try the next one?"

"You sure? I'll probably mess it up."

"It's just eggs. We've got plenty." I handed her the chopsticks. "Pour in another layer, thinner than you think you need."

She did, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. The layer was a bit thick, but not terrible.

"Now wait for it to set. See how the edges are firming up but the center's still wet? That's when you roll."

Her first attempt at rolling was... a little aggressive. The egg folded over itself in a way that defied geometry.

"Well," I said, "that's... interesting."

"It looks like I killed it."

"It's not that bad. Kind of abstract." I grinned. "Besides, ugly food can still taste good. Here, try once more. Gentler this time."

The second attempt went better. Not perfect, but recognizable as an actual roll instead of an egg crime scene.

"Not bad," I said as she carefully transferred it to a plate. "A few more tries and you'll have it down."

"This is way harder than it looks." She poked at her creation with a fork. "How do you make it look so easy?"

"Practice. And a lot of ugly first attempts."

She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Okay, that's actually really good. Even if it looks weird."

"See? Doesn't matter what it looks like." I started cleaning up the pan for another round. "Want to try again? Or we could do something easier."

"One more try. I think I'm getting it."

"Cool. Though we should probably wrap this up soon, don't you have training with Mito-sama later?"

"She'll be fine with it. This is educational." Kushina grinned. "I'm learning life skills. That counts as training, right?"

"I'm sure she'll see it that way."

"She will once I bring her some of these. Grandma Mito's got a serious sweet spot for good food."

"Smart. Bribe her with breakfast."

"It's not bribing, it's... sharing. Educational sharing."

"Right. Educational."

Twenty minutes and two slightly lopsided but edible omelets later, Kushina was wrapping her creation in a bento box.

"Thanks for this," she said, heading toward the door.

"Yeah, thanks for the upgrade. This is going to make missions way easier."

"Just... don't do anything stupid out there, okay?" She paused at the door. "Seriously. Come back in one piece."

"I'll do my best."

After she left, I spent the next hour cleaning up my apartment. Dishes went in the sink, all my scattered notes got filed where they belonged, gear got checked and put away properly. I loaded up my new seal compartments one by one—tanto in the top left, extra kunai and shuriken in their own spots, emergency stuff spread across the other slots. The shadow clone scroll and my research notes went into the bottom right.

Much better than the old system.

With my gear sorted, I headed back to the kitchen. Team meals on missions were usually terrible—travel rations, whatever we could scrounge, maybe some sad campfire cooking if we were lucky. Most missions stretched on for days, sometimes weeks, with barely enough downtime to heat up a can of something, let alone prepare an actual meal. We'd be moving constantly, sleeping in shifts, living off protein bars and whatever field rations command had deemed "nutritionally adequate." But I had time to prepare something decent, and my teammates had earned a proper meal after our last assignment.

I started with the rice, washing it until the water ran clear—three rinses minimum for good texture. While that soaked, I began prep work for tempura. The key was keeping everything cold and not overworking the batter. Cold ingredients, cold oil, minimal mixing. Most people ruined tempura by treating it like regular frying.

For vegetables, I selected what would travel well—sweet potato, eggplant, bell peppers, shishito peppers. The sweet potato needed to be cut thin enough to cook through but thick enough to hold its shape. Eggplant in half-inch rounds, bell peppers in strips, shishitos left whole with just a small slit to prevent bursting.

The batter came together with ice water, flour, and just a touch of cornstarch for extra crispness. I mixed it with chopsticks in broad, gentle strokes, leaving it lumpy. Smooth batter was overworked batter, and overworked batter meant tough, chewy tempura.

Oil temperature was critical—340 degrees, hot enough for immediate bubbling but not so hot it burned the batter before the vegetables cooked through. I tested with a drop of batter, watching it sizzle and rise to the surface immediately.

Perfect.

The vegetables went in one by one, each piece carefully coated but not drowning in batter. Sweet potato first since it took longest, then eggplant, peppers, and finally the delicate shishitos. I turned each piece once, watching for that pale golden color that meant done without being greasy.

While the tempura drained on a wire rack, I moved on to the dipping sauce—a simple blend of dashi, soy sauce, and mirin in a 4:1:1 ratio. The proportions mattered. Too much soy and it overpowered the vegetables. Too much mirin and it became cloying.

Rice went into the pot with the proper water ratio—one part rice to 1.2 parts water. Bring to a boil, reduce to low, cover, and don't touch for eighteen minutes. The hardest part of cooking rice was resisting the urge to check on it.

Miso soup was straightforward but required timing. Kombu kelp steeped in hot water for the dashi base, then removed before it made the broth bitter. Wakame seaweed rehydrated separately, tofu cut into neat cubes. The miso paste went in at the very end, whisked gently to dissolve without boiling—boiling killed the beneficial bacteria and turned the flavor harsh.

Daikon radish grated fine, squeezed lightly to remove excess moisture, then formed into small mounds. A few drops of soy sauce on each portion, ready for mixing with the tempura at serving time.

Finally, the tea. Good sencha leaves, water heated to 175 degrees—hot enough to extract flavor but not so hot it pulled out excessive tannins. Steep for ninety seconds, no longer.

I packed everything in containers designed to keep hot food hot and cold food cold. The tempura went into ventilated containers to prevent steaming and sogginess. Rice and soup in insulated thermal containers. The tea in a proper flask that would keep it at drinking temperature for hours.

By the time I finished, I had enough food for six people. I sealed the containers into my storage compartments—they'd stay fresh until we were ready to eat. The upgraded glove made packing so much easier; everything I needed fit into the six compartments without any bulk or weight.

I was doing a final check of my gear when my ear twitched. Familiar footsteps on the stairs outside—quick, light, with that particular rhythm I'd learned to recognize over the past few weeks.

Kushina.

Sure enough, my door opened without a knock. She poked her head in.

"Forgot something," she said, stepping inside and pulling a thick book from her seal. "Figured you might want this since I can't teach you Fuinjutsu while you're gone."

The book was clearly well-used, pages marked with dozens of small tabs covered in her neat handwriting. Fuinjutsu Theory and Applications.

"This is..." I flipped through a few pages, seeing detailed diagrams with her notes explaining everything. "You sure about this? This looks like some pretty heavy stuff."

"All my notes from the past year are in there too." She grinned. "Consider it a loan."

"Thanks. This is perfect."

"Just don't blow yourself up experimenting." She was already heading back toward the door. "And bring it back in one piece."

"I'll guard it with my life."

"You better."

After she left, I stored the book in one of my seal compartments, then moved back to the center of the room. Time to put the shadow clone jutsu to practical use.

The first clone materialized with that now-familiar puff of smoke.

"Scouting mission," I told him. "Head to the rendezvous point ahead of schedule. Get a feel for the area, check for anything suspicious. Standard reconnaissance."

"Got it." The clone headed for the window. "Anything specific I should watch for?"

"Just get the lay of the land. I'll be along in a few hours with the team."

He nodded and disappeared into the morning light.

I took a moment to gauge my remaining chakra reserves—still plenty, but creating clones was expensive. The second clone cost me another significant chunk, but it was worth it for what I had planned.

"Different job for you," I told the new clone. "Meditate, build up chakra, then start making more clones. Have them henge and spread out around the village."

[AN: Just in case anyone's wondering, Shinji's clones being able to regenerate chakra isn't a plot hole. It's connected to his mother's side of the family and some shenanigans that'll be explained properly later. For now, just know there's a reason his shadow clones don't follow normal rules.]

"What am I looking for?"

"Root operatives. Anyone who doesn't belong, weird patrol patterns, general suspicious stuff." I scratched my head. "Just keep your eyes open. See what's happening while we're gone."

The clone was already settling into a meditation pose. "How many clones we talking?"

"As many as you can manage without burning through everything. But here's the important part—every clone dispels before twenty-four hours. Set a mental timer or something."

"Memory overload concerns?"

"Yeah. Twenty-four hours of memories dumping back all at once sounds like a recipe for a massive headache." I headed toward the door. "I don't want to find out what happens when too much gets dumped back at once."

"Fair enough. Brain damage from jutsu experimentation isn't exactly on my bucket list either."

"Oh, and set aside a few clones for research. Have them work on the kage bunshin modifications and study that fuinjutsu book Kushina gave me."

"Already thinking the same thing. Separate the intelligence gathering from the technical work." The clone cracked his knuckles. "I'll call it the research division. Sounds official."

"Four or five should cover it. Two for clone jutsu, two for the fuinjutsu, maybe a backup in case someone screws up and dispels accidentally."

"I'll find them a quiet spot where they won't get interrupted by curious neighbors." He was already planning locations. "Your apartment should work for most of it."

"Perfect. Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone." I stepped outside, already planning my next stop. The weapons shop would have what I needed before meeting up with the team.

…..

I stepped out of my apartment, squinting slightly as the early sun hit my face. Already mentally cataloging what I needed from the market—kunai, shuriken, maybe some wire if they had the good stuff in stock. The upgraded storage seal meant I could actually carry a decent arsenal without looking like a walking armory.

But first things first.

Hanako's dango shop sat on the corner where my street met the main market road, and the sweet smell of grilled rice dumplings was already drifting from her tiny storefront. The old woman had been running that place since before I was born, and her dango was legendary among anyone with functioning taste buds.

"Morning, Hanako-san," I called out as I approached her stall.

"Shinji-kun!" Her wrinkled face creased into that perpetual smile that made her look like someone's favorite grandmother. "Off on another adventure?"

"Something like that." I leaned against her counter, watching her expertly flip skewers over the small charcoal grill. "How's business?"

"Can't complain. Though with all this war talk, people are buying more sweets. Nothing like impending doom to make folks crave comfort food." She chuckled, pulling a fresh batch of mitarashi dango from the grill. "These just finished. Want some for the road?"

"Always."

She handed me three skewers, the dumplings still steaming and glazed with that perfect sweet-salty sauce that somehow made everything else in life seem manageable. I paid her with exact change and took a careful bite, savoring the way the soft rice flour melted against the tangy glaze.

"Mmm. Still the best in the village."

"Flatterer. Now get going before you're late for whatever trouble you're planning to get into."

I waved goodbye and headed toward the market proper, working my way through the first skewer as I walked. The dango was perfectly chewy, with just enough char from the grill to add complexity to the sweetness. Some people rushed through food like it was an inconvenience, but good dango demanded proper appreciation.

The shopping district was already bustling despite the early hour. War had a way of making everyone suddenly interested in sharp objects. I made my way to Tsumura’s shop—not the fanciest place in the district, but the owner kept quality gear and didn't try to sell you garbage just because you looked young.

"Shinji," he nodded as I approached, barely glancing up from the kunai he was sharpening. "Heard you made chunin pay on your last mission."

"News travels fast."

"Good news travels fast. Bad news travels faster. And gossip about genin teams making A-rank pay? That's practically breaking news." He set down his sharpening stone. "What do you need?"

"Standard resupply. Kunai, shuriken, whatever throwing weapons you've got in good condition."

"Planning to fight an army?"

"With my luck? Probably." I took another bite of dango, chewing thoughtfully. "Better to have too many than not enough."

He started pulling weapons from his organized displays, setting them on the counter for my inspection. The steel was clean, the edges properly maintained, the balance points where they should be. Tsumura knew his business.

I was testing the weight of a particularly nice kunai when familiar voices drifted over from the next stall.

"—don't see why we need so many ration packs. It's just an escort mission."

"Because you never know how long these things will actually take, Noboru. Better to have too much food than not enough."

I turned, spotting a head of pale blonde hair that I recognized immediately. Miyabi stood with her back to me, examining travel supplies while her teammates clustered around her, fidgeting with gear and asking way more questions than normal. Definitely gearing up for something longer than their typical missions.

'Well, well. Fancy meeting Team 4 here.'

I paid Tsumura for my weapons, sealing them into the appropriate compartments of my glove, then wandered over with my remaining dango skewers.

"Morning, Miyabi. Getting ready for a big adventure?"

She turned, amber eyes taking in my appearance with that calculating look she'd perfected during our Academy days. "Shinji. I should have guessed you'd be haunting the shopping district."

"Nice to see you too, Miyabi." I took a bite of my dango. "Always such a warm welcome." I nodded toward her team. "Speaking of which, hey there Spy-boy, Yua. Still letting your fearless leader drag you into trouble?"

Noboru—the civilian-born kid who'd tried to spy on my flag during the survival exercise—scowled. "It's Noboru."

"Right, sure." I took another bite of dango, not looking particularly apologetic. "Though judging by the amount of ration packs you're stocking up on, this isn't a day trip. What's the mission?"

Yua snorted quietly. "He only remembers girls' names."

"That's not—" I stopped. "Okay, maybe there's some truth to that."

“Unbelievable,” Miyabi shook her head with obvious exasperation. "Anyway, it's an escort assignment. Small merchant caravan heading to the Land of Hot Water, then back to the Fire Country capital."

I nearly choked on my dango.

"Escort mission? For merchants? Right now?" I swallowed carefully, my brain immediately jumping to all the intelligence reports I'd been reading. "That's... interesting timing."

"What do you mean?" Yua looked up from the pack she'd been examining.

"Well..." I tried to sound casual. "I don't want to freak you out, but merchant caravans haven't exactly been having the best time lately."

Miyabi's eyes sharpened. "Explain."

"Foreign shinobi have been hitting trade routes all over the neutral states. Coordinated attacks, professional operations. We ran into some of them on our last mission." I let that sink in, watching their expressions shift from curiosity to concern. "Apparently it's been getting worse."

"How much worse?" Noboru's voice had gone up half an octave.

"Bad enough that most merchants are pooling resources for large caravans with heavy security. The ones still trying to make small runs..." I shrugged, taking another bite of dango. "Well, let's just say the casualty reports make for depressing reading."

Yua shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe we should ask for backup."

"Backup? For a C-rank escort?" Miyabi sounded almost offended. "We can handle some bandits."

"These aren't bandits." I dropped the casual act. "These are trained shinobi from other villages. We're talking chunin-level operatives with mission parameters that go way beyond simple robbery."

The mood shifted instantly. Noboru went pale. Yua's eyes went wide, like she was trying not to panic.

Miyabi, to her credit, didn't flinch. "You're saying this is connected to the war."

"I'm saying merchants getting hit by coordinated attacks from foreign shinobi during a time when supply lines are critically important probably isn't a coincidence." I finished the second skewer and started on the third. "Could be Suna trying to strangle our resource flow. Could be other villages taking advantage of the chaos. Either way, it's not the kind of thing you want to walk into with just a three-man genin team."

"So what, we just bail on our mission?" Miyabi's voice had an edge to it.

"I'm saying maybe you want some backup who actually know what they're doing." I grinned. "And as it happens, my team is heading to the same general area. Investigating these attacks is literally our assignment."

Noboru perked up immediately. "You mean you could come with us?"

"Well, I'd have to check with my team, but if we're going to be operating in the same area anyway..." I spread my hands. "Makes sense to coordinate our efforts."

"That's..." Noboru started, then caught Miyabi's look and shut his mouth.

Miyabi was staring at me with her usual drill-right-through-you stare, probably trying to figure out if I had some angle or if I was actually being helpful. Smart of her. With me, it was usually both.

"Your team," she said after a moment. "That would be Team 7? Tsunade's students?"

"Yep. Just got back from an A-rank, we've all seen real combat, and we've got one of the best medics in the village." I took another bite, looking way too casual. "But hey, if you'd rather take on foreign shinobi with just your genin squad, totally up to you. I'm sure it'll work out great."

The silence stretched for several seconds. I could practically hear the gears turning in their heads—especially Noboru and Yua, who were probably calculating their survival odds with and without backup.

"What exactly are you proposing?" Miyabi asked.

"Pretty simple. You're escorting merchants through dangerous territory. We're investigating attacks on merchants in dangerous territory." I waved my skewer around. "We travel together, watch each other's backs, everyone makes it home. Plus if we do hit trouble, you get an extra genin who actually knows what he's doing instead of just hoping teamwork saves the day."

"And what's in it for you?"

I could see her trying to figure out my angle - she knew me well enough to know there had to be one. "Other than the warm fuzzy feeling of helping my fellow Konoha shinobi?" I grinned. "Look, I know you think I'm an ass, but this makes sense. We need intel. If someone's hitting merchant caravans, having an actual caravan to observe gives us better data than just investigating crime scenes."

Miyabi was quiet for a long moment, amber eyes flicking between her teammates and me. Noboru was practically vibrating with nerves, like he was trying to sink into his own shoulders. Yua was squinting so hard I was worried she'd give herself a headache.

"When do you leave?" I asked finally.

"Tomorrow morning. Rendezvous at the main gate, then pickup our caravan and head out," Miyabi said, then gave me a knowing look. "And your sensei is okay with this arrangement?"

"She's on the frontlines, so as long as we get the job done, she won't complain."

Miyabi nodded slowly, like she'd been expecting that answer. "Frontlines. Yeah, figured as much."

"Your sensei too?"

"Also deployed. All the experienced jonin are getting pulled away. Leaves us genin to handle the 'routine' missions."

"Routine," I said with a laugh. "Right. Because escorting merchants through hostile territory is super routine."

"Exactly." Her eyes had that grim look, but then she was studying my face again. "Still doesn't explain why you're suddenly so helpful though."

"Miyabi," Noboru said quietly, "maybe we should—"

"I'm thinking," she cut him off, still staring at me. "This feels like you're not telling me something."

"I'm not scheming anything." I tossed the empty skewer into a trash bin. "Just makes sense for our teams to work together."

"Just makes sense," she repeated, like she didn't buy it.

"Shinobi's honor."

"You don't have any honor."

"Wow. Rude."

Despite herself, I caught the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth that might have been amusement. "Fine. But we keep separate command. You don't boss around my team, I don't mess with yours."

"Wouldn't dream of it. You're way too scary when you're angry."

"Good." She turned to her teammates. "Finish getting supplies. Main gate tomorrow at two."

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused, though Noboru looked significantly more relieved than he had five minutes ago.

"Excellent," I said, already planning how to break this news to my own team. "This should be fun."

Miyabi's expression hardened. "Fun? This isn't a game, Shinji. I've got three teammates depending on me to keep them alive."

"Right, sorry. Poor choice of words." I held up my hands. "I meant it should work out well for everyone involved."

"It better. Because if your 'fun' gets any of my team hurt..." She didn't finish the sentence.

"Hey, I have a decent track record for keeping people alive."

"Decent isn't good enough. These are my teammates, not expendable resources." She turned back to examine their packs, clearly done with the conversation. "Get going, Shinji. Don't be late."

"Right. See you at the gate."

I headed back toward the market proper, feeling like I'd just stepped on a landmine. Okay, lesson learned, Miyabi took the whole 'team leader' thing way more seriously than I'd given her credit for.

But honestly, having Team 4 along might not be the worst thing. Miyabi was competent and more eyes meant better security. Plus, if things went sideways—and knowing my luck, they probably would—having extra backup never hurt.

More importantly, having an actual merchant caravan could be useful for our investigation. Nothing like live bait to draw out whatever foreign shinobi were hitting trade routes. If we could capture some of these "bandits" and send them back to T&I for questioning, we'd get a lot more intel than just examining crime scenes.

I finished grabbing the last few things and started heading back to the apartment, mentally checking off my shopping list.

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.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 35

The moment Goro’s men charged, I made a tactical decision that would’ve gotten me court-martialed in any respectable army.

I stayed exactly where I was—thirty feet up in the trees.

Not out of laziness, mind you. I just wasn’t about to interrupt what was shaping up to be a front-row seat to a masterclass in synchronized violence. Mikoto and Tsume had been training together for over a week now, and it showed.

From up here, it was like watching a ballet—if ballet included blood, snarling, and a lot more sharp objects. Mikoto went straight for the guy with the biggest sword—because of course she did—while Tsume zeroed in on the one who looked like he hadn’t bathed since the village was founded.

Steel rang against steel as Mikoto made quick work of her opponent's overconfident swings. Meanwhile, Tsume was introducing her target to the wonderful world of close-quarters combat, Inuzuka style.

Nothing says “I’m having a bad day” like getting mauled by a girl and her dog.

Two more bandits learned that truth the hard way.

The bodyguards were holding their own—which mostly meant staying alive and occasionally jabbing someone with a sword when the opportunity looked safe enough. Matsumoto, bless his civilian instincts, had wedged himself behind the supply wagon and hadn’t moved since.

That’s when my lazy afternoon got interesting.

Goro wasn’t fighting.

Oh, he was making all the right noises—shouting orders, waving his sword around like he meant business—but he wasn't actually engaging anyone. Instead, he was backing away from the fight, step by careful step, like a man looking for an exit.

Smart bandits ran when things went sideways. It was basic survival instinct.

But something about the way he moved didn't sit right with me.

Then, when he thought no one was watching, Goro bolted.

I spat out the leaf I’d been chewing and started after him, following at a distance. The sounds of combat faded behind us as we moved deeper into the forest, leaving my teammates to clean up what was left of his crew.

They'll be fine, probably won’t even notice I’m gone until they’re done beating them black and blue.

For the first few hundred meters, Goro moved exactly like you'd expect from a panicked bandit chief—stumbling through underbrush, crashing through branches, generally making enough noise to wake the dead. Classic civilian-in-the-woods behavior.

Then he stopped.

And jumped thirty feet straight up into the trees.

"Well," I muttered. "Someone's been holding out on their resume."

The lazy bandit chief was gone, replaced by someone who moved through the canopy like he'd been born there.

That wasn’t a bandit.

That was a shinobi.

And not the washed-up, third-rate kind either. No, this one had a resume.

My brain started connecting dots I didn't like.

A bandit leader who could afford to keep a dozen men fed and armed. Who somehow always knew which routes were most profitable. Who'd managed to avoid capture despite having a bounty on his head.

And now, apparently, could tree-hop like a chunin on his morning jog.

“Son of a bitch isn’t just a bandit,” I muttered. “He’s a shinobi cosplaying as one.”

The real question wasn’t how. It was why. Because if someone with that kind of training was out here playing small-time outlaw, either he’d screwed up badly—or he was running a game big enough to make the Daimyo blush.

I picked up my pace, abandoning stealth for speed. If this guy was what I thought he was, letting him get away would be a bad idea.

He must have sensed the pursuit, because suddenly his casual tree-hopping became a full sprint. Branches blurred past as we raced through the canopy, and I had to push myself to keep up.

Alright, fun’s over.

I pulled a shuriken from my pouch and sent it flying straight at his back.

He twisted mid-air, faster than I expected, and batted it aside with a kunai that seemed to appear in his hand out of thin air. The clang of steel rang out through the trees, and my shuriken vanished into the underbrush like it knew it had embarrassed me.

“Running already?” I drew three more shuriken between my fingers. “And here I thought you were the big, scary bandit chief!”

He landed on the next branch and turned, casual as a cat, both hands now armed with kunai. The wide-eyed panic he’d been faking was gone—like someone had flicked off the idiot switch.

"Cute," he said, his voice carrying none of the rough bandit accent from before. “Little genin thinks he’s clever.”

“Maybe I am.” I spun a shuriken on my finger, watching his stance shift. “So what’s the deal? Missing-nin running a side hustle? Undercover op with a flair for the dramatic? Or are you just really into live-action roleplay?”

He didn’t answer. Just smiled like I’d said something adorable and threw both kunai in the same breath.

The first sliced past my ear with a whisper of cold steel and bad intentions. I twisted out of its path.

The second came in lower. I met it with my own blade, redirecting the force just enough to send it tumbling off-course and thunking into a nearby trunk like it belonged there.

“Not bad,” I said, fingers already moving through hand seals. “But let me show you a party trick I picked up recently.”

Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!

The fireball that erupted from my lips wasn’t huge, but it didn’t need to be. It was aimed perfectly. Goro dove sideways off his branch—exactly like I'd hoped he would.

While he was still airborne, I snapped three shuriken into a tight spread and launched them after him. In the same breath, I triggered a basic Clone Jutsu—just smoke and mirrors, but enough to flood the air with a dozen fake projectiles trailing behind the real ones.

From Goro’s point of view, it probably looked like I’d just emptied an entire armory at him.

Then I pulled one last shuriken from my pouch, drew a breath, and threw it faster than the rest—straight and silent, riding the chaos like a sniper shot behind the curtain.

Goro didn’t hesitate. “Doton: Doryū Heki!”

A wall of earth burst from the forest floor, intercepting most of the projectiles. The clones winked out. Two shuriken bounced harmlessly off the wall. But one went wide. My final throw caught up with it mid-flight—clipping it, redirecting it. One embedded itself in a tree trunk. The other curved and flew low, slipping just past the edge of the wall—

—and hit.

I heard him grunt in pain. Good.

While the earth wall crumbled, I was already airborne, closing the distance fast. Tanto in hand, blade angled down at his spine, momentum behind me.

He rolled at the last second, clutching his bleeding shoulder as he dropped low.

My blade carved through empty space where his neck had been, slicing only leaves.

“Little bastard,” he snarled, rising into a crouch, blood seeping through his shirt.

“Hey, I don’t appreciate the name-calling.”

We circled for a breath—half a second, maybe less—both of us looking for an opening.

He moved first. A lightning-quick kunai jab aimed straight for my throat.

I leaned back, felt the blade kiss the underside of my chin, and drove my knee up toward his exposed ribs.

He twisted, caught my leg against his hip, and hammered his elbow toward my trapped leg.

Bad news for my knee.

So I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled myself up, driving my other knee straight into his face.

Crunch.

His nose exploded in a spray of blood and cartilage. He staggered back, eyes watering, but somehow managed to keep hold of my leg.

“My turn,” he growled through the red dripping from his chin.

He yanked hard, trying to whip me into the dirt.

I didn’t fight it.

I let the motion carry me, twisted in midair, and slammed my heel into his wounded shoulder on the way down.

He screamed—short and raw—and his grip finally snapped.

I hit the ground in a roll, came up fast, and threw a punch for his solar plexus. He got his arms up in time, but it still rocked him.

I didn’t let the moment breathe.

An uppercut for the broken nose. An elbow meant for his temple.

He caught the first on his forearm. Slipped the second by a hair.

His counter came fast—a brutal backhand that would’ve sent my brain spinning if I hadn’t ducked under it.

His knee came next, rocketing toward my ribs.

I twisted, let it glance off my hip, grabbed the leg mid-swing, and drove my shoulder into his chest like I was trying to spear him through the tree behind him.

Crack.

Something in his chest gave—ribs, probably. But he didn’t fold.

He latched on instead, pulling me into a clinch like we were old lovers with trust issues. His elbow came swinging around in a tight, brutal arc, aiming right for my temple.

I had maybe half a second. Long enough to die if I got fancy.

So I didn’t.

Time to test that thing.

I channeled chakra into my right hand. The familiar green glow of the medical jutsu sparked to life—unstable, flickering at the edges, but there.

Chakra scalpel.

Great for slicing muscle and tendon. Terrible for clean sparring. Not that this counted.

The glow shimmered, pulsing like a cheap lightbulb. Half-formed, twitchy, and a little embarrassing—but apparently still threatening enough.

Because the moment Goro saw it, his eyes went wide. “What the—”

He bailed on the elbow, fast. Threw himself backward like I’d pulled out a live explosive.

I blinked as he scrambled away like I'd suddenly sprouted fangs.

'Oh. Right. Glowing hand probably looks pretty threatening when you don't know what it does.'

Unlike the Hyuga’s Gentle Fist which was practically invisible until your organs gave out—my medical chakra lit up like I was trying to perform surgery at a fireworks show. Subtle? Not even close.

But if it spooked him?

I’d take it.

I grinned and immediately started forming hand seals.

Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu

This time I didn’t hold back. I poured chakra into it until the fireball blazed like an angry sun, lighting up the forest with searing heat. Goro’s eyes widened as the massive sphere roared toward him.

"Doton: Doryū Heki!"

His earth wall erupted from the ground, bigger, thicker, and meaner than before. The two jutsu collided with a thunderous boom, fire slamming into stone—sending superheated debris flying in every direction. Smoke and dust exploded into the air, swallowing the battlefield in choking gray.

I moved the second the smoke thickened, circling wide through the haze while his ears were still ringing and his lungs were full of regret. Somewhere in the cloud, he coughed—a wet, hacking sound that gave him away.

Tanto in hand, I slipped through the fog.

Found him crouched behind the remains of his earth wall, kunai raised defensively as he tried to peer through the swirling gray mess. Blood was trickling from a cut on his forehead where a piece of heated stone had caught him.

He hadn’t seen me.

He turned—too late.

My blade came in low, cutting toward his ribs. He dropped his arm to block.

I twisted at the last second, redirected mid-swing, and drove the tanto past his guard.

Steel should’ve met flesh.

Instead, it passed clean through—no resistance. No blood.

He popped like a soap bubble.

Clone.

'Of course.'

I felt the real Goro's presence behind me a split second before his kunai came whistling toward my spine.

Instead of dodging, I stiffened—let my shoulders jerk like I’d been caught off guard.

"Got you," he breathed, putting his full weight behind the strike.

I spun at the last moment. My hand clamped around his wrist as the blade skimmed past my ribs. His eyes flicked wide.

“No,” I said, grinning. “I got you.”

I wrenched his wrist down and twisted hard, forcing his forearm to turn and bare the soft underside. My tanto flashed up in my other hand, slicing deep.

Steel cut through flesh and tendon with a wet snap. He screamed as blood sprayed across the forest floor, and his arm went slack.

Severed tendons meant no more grip. His kunai hit the dirt.

“That’s gonna need stitches,” I muttered, already stepping in.

He staggered back, clutching the shredded limb to his chest. Blood streamed down his forearm, soaking his shirt in red.

"You little—"

I didn't let him finish.

My second strike came low and fast, cutting through the back of his knee. More tendons snapped with slick, rubbery pops—and just like that, his leg gave out.

He went down hard, face-first into the dirt. When he tried to push up with his good arm, I stepped on his wrist and drove it down until his palm ground into the forest floor.

"You know," I said conversationally, pressing down until I heard small bones crack, "this would've been a lot easier if you'd just stayed a regular bandit."

I knelt beside him and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. But instead of finishing him, I held my tanto just close enough for him to feel the cold steel against his skin.

“Now then,” I said, settling into a more comfortable crouch. “Let’s have a chat. What village are you actually from? Because let’s be honest—you’re a terrible liar, and an even worse bandit.”

He spat blood and glared at me through pain-glazed eyes. "Go... to hell."

“Been there,” I said. “Didn’t like the weather.”

I pressed the blade a little deeper, just enough to draw a thin red line down his neck.

“So here’s the deal. You’re bleeding out. One arm’s useless, one leg’s gone. And I’m the only person in this forest who might be persuaded to keep you breathing. So which is it—information, or do I sit here and watch you leak into the grass?”

His breathing hitched—blood loss, maybe pain—but the fire hadn’t gone out yet. Stubborn bastard.

“What’s your real mission?” I pressed. “Because playing bandit king out here in the sticks? Doesn’t make sense. Someone sent you. Iwa? Kumo? Missing-nin trying to start their own fantasy village?”

He sneered through cracked lips. “Fuck... you.”

I sighed.

“Your funeral.”

The blade swept clean through his throat.

Blood surged from the cut in thick, pulsing bursts, splattering the leaves and soaking into the dirt. He gargled once, legs twitching, then went still as the light drained from his eyes.

I stood and wiped my blade on his shirt before sliding it back into its sheath.

Well, I thought, glancing down at the body. That was educational. Shame he wasn’t in a sharing mood.

Actually, now that I was thinking about it, this was becoming a trend. Every shinobi I’d faced so far had opted for death over conversation. The Kumo spies in the forest. Those missing-nin in Yugakure. And now this guy.

Maybe I needed to work on my tone. Or grow a more trustworthy face.

Then again, these weren't cartoon villains who'd spill their evil plans the moment someone threatened them. These were professional shinobi who'd probably been trained to die before revealing sensitive information. My whole "maybe I'll spare you" routine was about as effective as threatening to take away their dessert privileges.

But the real question was why I kept running into enemy operatives in the first place. First Yugakure—where Konoha apparently had intelligence assets keeping an eye on things—and now here, a foreign shinobi playing dress-up as a bandit.

Add Jiraiya’s sudden disappearance for some top-secret “sensitive mission”—right when I’d been ready to hand him Tsunade’s message—and the pieces started forming a picture I didn’t particularly like.

This whole northern land was crawling with spies and fake bandits. And if River Country was a powder keg, maybe it wasn’t the only one waiting to blow.

Are the surrounding villages making moves on the northeastern frontier?

A distant shout snapped me from the thought.

The others were calling.

…

The walk back gave me just enough time to get my story straight.

Simple lies worked best. Stick close to the truth, leave out the inconvenient parts.

Like the one where I slit a guy’s throat.

I found them clustered around the overturned wagon, efficiently stripping weapons and coin purses from the bodies. The merchant's hired guards were nursing various wounds but looked more relieved than anything else. Matsumoto himself was sitting on a rock, hands shaking as he stared at the carnage.

“There he is,” Tsume called out, swiping a smear of blood from her cheek. “What happened to the boss man?”

"Got away," I said with a casual shrug, settling down beside Mikoto. "Bastard was faster than he looked. Lost him in the forest."

Mikoto's eyes flicked to mine for just a moment—long enough for me to catch the slight narrowing, the way her lips pressed together. Probably wondering why I'd let a civilian bandit escape when any of us could have run him down easily.

She glanced at the bodyguards, then back at me with that perfect Uchiha blankness. "Shame. Would’ve been nice to wrap this up clean.”

"Yeah, well," I said, matching her casual tone. "Can't win ’em all.”

The look she gave me said she had plenty more questions, but with Matsumoto and his guards listening, now wasn't the time to ask them.

One of the bodyguards limped over, clutching his ribs. "Doesn't matter now. We drove 'em off, got most of their gear. Should be enough to discourage them from trying this route again."

'If only you knew.'

Matsumoto stood up slowly, looking around at the bodies scattered across the path. "My wagon's damaged, but it'll hold together. We should... we should keep moving. Get away from here before they come back."

"Good thinking," I said, already moving to help right the overturned cart. "How much farther to the capital?"

"Six hours. Maybe less if we push it." He ran a hand through his graying hair. "Assuming we don't run into any more trouble."

The next few hours passed in relative quiet. We got the wagon moving again, loaded up the wounded, and kept a steady pace through the forest. The guards took turns riding and walking, eyes on the tree line in case the dead had left behind any angry friends.

Matsumoto kept to the front, reins in hand, muttering prayers under his breath like he was trying to buy spiritual insurance.

Which gave me plenty of time to work.

“Hell of a thing, bandit attacks,” I said, falling into step beside the wagon. “I’m guessing this wasn’t the kind of excitement you signed up for when you got into hauling goods.”

Matsumoto let out a short, bitter laugh. “Excitement. Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

“Been doing this long?” I kept it light, just idle conversation.

“Fifteen years,” he said. “Used to be a decent living. Buy low in one village, sell high in the next. Honest work. Simple. Now?”

He gestured vaguely at the busted crates and blood-streaked canvas. “This is the fourth attack in six months.”

I raised my eyebrows. “That bad?”

“Worse. First two were just thugs. One group didn’t even have weapons—picked up farm tools and thought they could play bandit. The last two, though?” He shook his head. “Organized. Trained. Like they knew where we’d be.”

I made sympathetic sounds. "That's rough. Can't be good for business."

"Business." He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. "What business? Nobody wants to hire a merchant who can't deliver safely. Word gets around fast when your caravans keep getting hit."

"People blame you for getting robbed?"

"They blame me for everything." His knuckles went white where he gripped the reins. "Failed deliveries, damaged goods, late shipments. Doesn't matter that half of it's not my fault. All they see is the end result."

I nodded, chewing that over. “Sounds like more than just bad luck.”

“That’s what I keep thinking.” Matsumoto cast a quick glance toward the guards, making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop. Then he dropped his voice. "You want to know the truth? I'm starting to think someone's got it out for me."

“What makes you say that?” I asked, pulling a piece of dried fruit from my pack and taking a bite like we were just swapping travel stories.

"Little things. Cargo manifests that don't match what gets loaded. Supplies that spoil faster than they should. Contacts who suddenly don't want to do business anymore."

He paused. His eyes flicked to the road, the trees, the pale line of sky above. “Then there’s the personal stuff.”

"Personal stuff?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared ahead for a long moment, watching the pass narrow between two worn cliffs.

"My wife left. Three months ago. Took our daughter and went back to her family in Wave.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it.

“She told me…” His throat worked as he swallowed. “She said she couldn’t watch me fall apart anymore. That every job was more dangerous than the last. That I was gambling with our future.”

I waited. Sometimes the best thing to say was nothing at all.

"The thing is, she wasn't wrong. Everything I touch turns to shit these days. But it's not... I'm not doing it on purpose. It's like someone's working against me. Sabotaging my routes, spreading rumors about my reliability."

"Sounds like you've given this a lot of thought," I said, tossing the fruit pit into the bushes.

"Too much thought, probably. My friends always said I was seeing conspiracies where there was just bad luck." His hands were shaking again. "But when you look at the details, the timing... it's hard to believe it's all coincidence. Could be competing merchants, maybe. Or someone who thinks I screwed them over on a deal. Hell, could be my own hired help, feeding information to bandits for pocket change.”

"That's paranoid thinking," I said gently. "But it doesn't mean you're wrong."

"Right?" He turned to look at me with desperate eyes. "You get it. Everyone else thinks I'm losing my mind, making excuses for my failures. But the pattern's too consistent. Too organized."

"Must be frustrating." I kept my voice sympathetic. "Especially when it's your livelihood on the line."

For the next hour, as we made our way down the mountain path, Matsumoto laid out a story that painted a picture of systematic destruction. Shipments that went bad early. Business contacts who ghosted him without explanation. Routes that were suddenly—conveniently—overrun with bandits.

And then—

“The worst part,” he said, voice rough and cracking, “is the accidents.”

I turned my head slightly. “Accidents?”

“My daughter. Sweet girl. She’s eight. Just turned. And in the past year?”

He held up a shaking hand.

“Three close calls. A roof tile that fell right where she was walking. A runaway cart that missed her by inches. A dog that went berserk and tried to maul her in our own street.”

He wiped his face with his sleeve, like the words alone left a mark.

“I didn’t think anything of it at first. Just freak things. But now? I don’t know. Maybe I’ve gone crazy. But it’s starting to feel like someone wants to hurt me. And they’re willing to use my daughter to do it.”

"That's..."

"Too much coincidence, right? My wife thought so too. That’s when she decided we were leaving Yugakure. Said she didn’t care if I came with her or not—she wasn’t raising our daughter in a place where a falling roof tile might be a message.”

"Smart woman."

"The smartest. And I was too stubborn to listen." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Now I'm here, hauling cargo for triple rates because I'm desperate enough to take risks nobody else will. And they're probably still out there, waiting for the next chance to make my life hell."

"They?"

“Has to be,” he said. “This kind of coordination doesn’t happen with one angry rival. Someone’s feeding info, pulling strings. Maybe even with official backing. Someone with reach.”

"You know what?" I said. "When we get back to Yugakure, I might ask around. See if anyone else has noticed similar problems."

Matsumoto's eyes lit up with something that might have been hope. "You'd do that?"

“Sure. Can’t promise much, but if I’ve got time to kill, I might as well put it to good use.” I let my gaze flick toward the bodyguards, then back to him. “That only works, though, if you and your men keep our real identities to yourselves. Far as anyone’s concerned, you hired a few capable travelers for protection. No mention of us being shinobi. If someone is watching you, knowing who we really are might spook them into changing tactics.”

The guards nodded in agreement. My eyes lingered for just a moment on the lean one with the scraggly beard.

Matsumoto also nodded quickly. "Of course, of course. Just fellow travelers who helped out."

"Good man."

"I... thank you. Really. Just knowing someone believes me—hell, that means more than you think.”

The rest of the journey passed without incident. By late afternoon, we could see the sprawling outline of the Fire Country capital spread across the valley below—a massive city that made even Konoha look small by comparison. Matsumoto's mood improved considerably as we approached civilization.

"This is where we part ways," he said as we reached the outskirts. "My business is in the merchant quarter. You folks probably want the inn district."

"Probably," I agreed. "Thanks for the ride. And the conversation."

"Thank you for listening. And for... for what you said about looking into things. Even if nothing comes of it."

"Don't mention it."

We gathered our gear and said our goodbyes. The guards shook our hands with genuine gratitude—apparently having three shinobi along, even genin, made everyone feel safer. Matsumoto pressed a small bonus into my palm and made me promise to find him if I ever learned anything useful. I nodded, smiled, and shook his hand in return.

He never noticed the small, folded slip of paper I slid into his pocket.

Then we were on our own again, standing in the dusty street as the wagon disappeared into the crowd.

"So," Tsume said, shouldering her pack. "Ready to head home?"

"More than ready," Mikoto said, already looking toward the road that would take us back to Konoha.

Once we were well out of earshot, she slowed her pace and gave me a pointed look. "Alright, what really happened back there with the bandit boss?”

I glanced around to make sure we were alone, then shrugged. "Goro's dead. Left him bleeding out in the forest about two miles back."

"I knew it," Tsume muttered. "You don't come back from chasing someone looking that relaxed unless they're not coming back. But why lie about it?"

I shrugged. "Because word gets around, and that bounty's not worth the headache."

Mikoto nodded slowly, then frowned. "Do you think Goro was specifically sent to target Matsumoto? All those 'accidents' and sabotage he mentioned?"

"Doubt it," I said, kicking a loose stone down the path. "Goro was definitely more than just a bandit—guy moved like he was a chunin. But if someone wanted Matsumoto dead or ruined, they wouldn't need to hire missing-nin or active shinobi to do it." I paused. "Course, that's just my guess. Could be completely wrong."

"Makes sense though," Mikoto said with a shrug. "Why use a sledgehammer when a scalpel works better?"

"Yeah, and it's not like we'll ever know for sure anyway," Tsume added, already losing interest in the topic. "Dead bandit's a dead bandit, whatever his story was."

No one argued. We picked up the pace, falling into that old travel routine that didn’t need words. Tsume ranged ahead with Kuromaru darting through the underbrush. Mikoto kept a steady stride just ahead of me. I trailed behind, quiet, doing my best not to think too long about the corpses cooling somewhere behind us.

The way home was familiar. A few hours through worn paths and whispering trees, past all the same trunks I’d memorized over the years. By the time the village gates came into view, I was sore, filthy, and ready to trade every single memory of this mission for a hot bath and enough sake to scrape the taste of blood off the back of my tongue.

"Home sweet home," Tsume said, grinning as we approached the gate.

"About damn time," I agreed.

The guards barely blinked, just the usual rundown—team number, destination, injuries. The kind of questions they could ask half-asleep, and probably did.

As we walked through the village streets, I couldn't help but notice the subtle changes. More shinobi patrols than usual. Conversations that seemed to stop when we passed. And something tense in the air that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

The old men were still arguing over shogi, but even they seemed more on edge than normal—like everyone was waiting for something to happen.

"Well," I said as we reached the point where our paths would diverge, "it's been real, ladies. Try not to get into too much trouble while I'm gone."

"Where are you going?" Mikoto asked.

"Home. Bath. Mission report." I grinned. "Meet me in front of the Hokage Tower in one hour. Time to officially close this thing out."

"An hour?" Tsume groaned. "Can't we just report tomorrow?"

"The sooner we debrief, the sooner we're officially done. Besides, I'd rather get it over with while everything's still fresh."

"Sounds like a plan," Mikoto said. "See you at the tower."

"See you there."

I watched them head off toward their respective clan compounds, then turned toward my own apartment.

…

An hour later, we reconvened in front of the Hokage Tower, all of us looking considerably more human after quick baths and fresh clothes. I’d managed to scribble together a mission report that hit all the important points while carefully omitting certain details—like throat-cutting, bounty collection, and other dubious stuff we’d done.

"Ready to make this official?" I asked, waving the scroll.

"Let's get it over with," Tsume said.

We headed inside and made our way to the mission administration office. The receptionist—a middle-aged woman with graying hair and the patient expression of someone who'd processed thousands of these reports—looked up as we approached.

"Mission report," I said, placing the scroll on her desk.

She unrolled it quickly, scanning the opening lines. Then her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.

"C-rank escort mission... combat with enemy shinobi..." She looked up at us with new interest. "Border conflict with Suna operatives?"

"That's the short version," I said.

She rolled the scroll back up and stood. "Please wait here."

Then she disappeared through a door marked Administration and returned a few minutes later with a chunin wearing the expression of someone whose quiet afternoon had just been ruined.

"The Hokage wants to see you," he said. "Follow me."

The chunin led us up two more flights to the top floor of the tower, past two others who barely glanced at us, and stopped in front of a pair of heavy wooden doors.

"Wait here," he said, then disappeared inside.

A moment later, the doors opened again.

"The Hokage will see you now."

We stepped into the Hokage’s office, and I knew something was wrong the moment the door closed behind us.

The room looked nothing like what I’d expected.

Papers were everywhere—stacked across the desk, fanned out on side tables, even arranged in neat rows across the floor like stepping stones. One entire wall had been taken over by maps, each marked with colored pins and lines of string webbing between key locations. It didn’t look like an office anymore. It looked like a war room that someone had tried—and failed—to disguise as a place of work.

What the hell is going on?

Hiruzen glanced up from a thick bundle of mission reports, his ever-present pipe perched between two fingers. Smoke curled slowly above him, drifting past the ceiling beams in lazy ribbons.

Despite the late hour, he looked alert and focused, though I caught the slight tightness around his eyes.

"Team 7," he said, gesturing for us to approach. "I've just finished reading your mission report. Quite eventful for what was supposed to be a simple escort mission."

"Yes, hokage-sama," I said, taking a half step in. "The situation at the border turned out to be more complicated than the briefing suggested."

"So it seems." He set the scroll down and gave us a long look. "What I’m curious about is the delay. According to this timeline, you should’ve returned four days ago."

I gave him the most polite version of ‘not my fault’ I could manage—raised brows with just a hint of the weary look of a genin trying to survive his jonin’s whims. "Tsunade-sensei had an additional task for us after the primary mission was complete. We had to make a detour."

"A detour?"

"To Yugakure. She needed us to deliver something." I shrugged slightly, playing up the long-suffering student angle.

Hiruzen's eyes narrowed slightly, and I could practically see him processing something. Tsunade sending messages by hand, during a border crisis, to Yugakure? Even I thought it sounded shady.

"I see," he said after a moment. "And this errand of hers—was it completed successfully?"

"Yes, Hokage-sama. No complications."

Another pause. More pipe smoke. I could feel Mikoto and Tsume standing silently behind me.

"Your mission is being reclassified as A-rank," Hiruzen said finally. "The engagement with enemy shinobi, the strategic intelligence gathered, and the successful protection of civilians in a war zone all warrant the upgrade. You'll receive compensation accordingly."

A-rank pay. That was a significant bump from what we'd expected.

"Thank you, Hokage-sama," we said together with a slight bow.

"You've earned it." He set his pipe down and leaned back in his chair. "Under normal circumstances, I would grant you extended leave after such a successful mission. You've more than proven yourselves, and you deserve time to rest and process what you've experienced."

I felt a 'but' coming.

"However, these are not normal circumstances. I'm not sure you've fully realized it yet, but as of a few days ago, the Hidden Leaf Village is officially at war."

Well. There it was. I'd been expecting this announcement for weeks, but it still felt weird hearing it made official. Behind me, Mikoto shifted slightly—probably not surprised, given what the clans had likely been discussing. Tsume just grunted softly.

He picked up another scroll and laid it across his desk. “Which means we’re mobilizing all available personnel. I’ll need to send you back out sooner than I’d like. Tell me—did you run into any bandit activity on your detour to Yugakure?”

I paused. “Yes, Hokage-sama. On the way back. We were ambushed by a group of bandits.”

He nodded like he’d been expecting that answer. "You’re not the only ones. We’ve received multiple reports of so-called 'bandit' attacks—disruptions targeting major trade routes between Fire Country and the neutral states.

He slid the scroll toward me. “These are the details. I want you to join an ongoing investigation. Another team is already working the case. You’ll resupply and rendezvous with them immediately. I know this isn’t ideal—but war doesn’t wait for anyone.”

"Understood," I said. "We’ll move out as soon as we’re ready."

"You're dismissed."

We bowed and turned toward the door. Just before stepping out, I stopped and glanced at the girls. “You two go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Mikoto slowed, eyes narrowing slightly as they met mine. I gave her a quick smile.

“Let’s meet later at the barbecue.”

The door closed behind them with a muted thud.

Hiruzen didn’t speak right away. He set his pipe aside, eyes lingering on the tangle of scrolls across his desk. Then he looked up and raised a brow. “Is there anything you need, genin Shinji?”

I smiled—just a little. A habit more than anything.

“Actually—”

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 34

The morning market was already in full swing by the time I arrived, vendors shouting prices over each other while customers poked through everything from hand-thrown pottery to questionably fresh fish. The whole square smelled like a mix of grilled meat, fresh bread, and that sulfur tang from the hot springs that seemed to follow you everywhere in this village.

I'd henged myself into a middle-aged man with graying hair and the kind of soft build that screamed "desk job." The transformation felt comfortable—loose enough around the edges to suggest someone who'd given up on impressing people but still cared about being respectable.

The merchant cluster had claimed the plaza around the fountain, wagons arranged in a loose ring like grazing beasts, canvas flapping in the breeze, the air thick with the scent of dust and trade. This was where deals were made—not at stalls, but in murmurs and handshakes, over crates still nailed shut.

I slipped between the wagons with the slightly too-fast walk of someone bearing bad news.

"Excuse me," I said to a burly man counting coins beside his wagon. "I'm hoping to find passage to Fire Country. My sister's taken ill, and..."

The man looked up, taking in my appearance with the practiced eye of someone who sized up customers for a living. "Fire Country, eh? When you looking to leave?"

"As soon as possible. Today, if anyone's heading that direction."

He scratched his beard, already shaking his head. "Not likely, friend. Roads have been hell lately—bandit activity up three-fold in the last month. Most of us are pooling resources, hiring proper security. But that takes time to arrange."

A woman with ink-stained fingers leaned over from the next wagon. "There's a big caravan forming for next week. Twenty merchants, dozen guards, the works. But that's the earliest anyone's willing to risk it."

"Next week?" I let disappointment color my voice. "I... I'm not sure she has that long."

"Sorry to hear it," the bearded merchant said with genuine sympathy. "But better a live brother than a dead one, yeah? No coin worth getting gutted over."

I nodded sadly, then made my first purchase—a small pouch of dried fruit I didn't need. "You know the merchants around here pretty well, I imagine?"

"Been trading in these parts for fifteen years," he said, pocketing my coins with satisfaction. “Know most of the regulars, sure.”

"I'm thinking of hiring someone for future runs, assuming my sister..." I let my voice trail off. "Who would you recommend for reliability?"

That opened the floodgates. For the next twenty minutes, I worked my way through the market like a man gathering options. A travel compass from a leathery old craftsman, who rattled off which caravans hired real guards and which ones faked the numbers. A bag of fragrant spices from a grandmotherly woman with sharp eyes and no patience for merchants who skimped on protection. A bottle of decent sake that I shared with a particularly chatty weapons dealer.

“Matsumoto?” The weapons dealer took another sip, then shook his head. “Used to be reliable. Solid, even. But lately... let’s just say the guy’s been making some questionable choices.”

“Oh?” I refilled his cup, wearing the concerned-customer mask. “Like what?”

“Word is, he’s neck-deep in debts. Gambling, maybe worse. Even his wife and daughter left him.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Between you and me, I wouldn’t trust him with anything valuable right now. Not even a fruit cart.”

Perfect.

I bought one more item from a gossipy fabric merchant who confirmed the details. Matsumoto lived on the eastern edge of town, was behind on payments, and had been seen arguing with some unsavory types in the market.

By the time I'd finished my circuit, I had a complete picture of my target and enough small purchases to look like a legitimate customer rather than someone fishing for information.

'Time to make a desperate man an offer he can't refuse.'

…

The house matched the description perfectly—a decent-sized place that had clearly seen better days, with the kind of neglected upkeep that screamed "financial problems." Paint peeled from the shutters, the garden had gone wild with weeds, and roof tiles sat crooked where they hadn't been properly maintained. This was the home of someone who'd once done well for himself but could no longer afford to keep up appearances. I knocked with the right mixture of politeness and urgency.

The man who answered looked like he'd aged ten years in the last month. Thin, nervous, with the hollow-eyed look of someone who'd been losing sleep over money. His clothes were clean but worn, and he kept glancing over my shoulder like he expected creditors to materialize.

"Mr. Matsumoto?" I asked.

"Depends who's asking." His voice carried the wariness of a man who'd learned not to trust unexpected visitors.

"A potential customer. I heard you might be traveling to Fire Country soon."

His expression shifted immediately—suspicion giving way to desperate hope. "Fire Country? You... you need passage?"

"My sister's dying," I said simply. "Lives outside Konoha. I need to get there fast, and I'm willing to pay well for it."

He stepped aside, gesturing me into a living room that had clearly seen better days. The furniture was decent quality but showed signs of things being sold off—empty spaces where expensive items used to sit, lighter patches on the walls where paintings had hung.

"I wasn't planning to leave for another few days," he said carefully. "Roads are dangerous right now, and—"

"Triple rate," I interrupted. "Cash upfront."

He blinked. "Triple?"

"My sister doesn't have a few days. And frankly, you look like a man who could use the income." I kept my tone sympathetic rather than insulting. "Sometimes taking a risk pays off."

Matsumoto’s hands trembled just enough to notice.

I could see the gears turning behind his eyes—triple rate wasn’t just tempting, it was salvation. That kind of coin would cover whatever debts had him looking over his shoulder and maybe even buy him a week without creditors breathing down his neck.

“It wouldn’t be a real caravan,” he said slowly. “Just me, the wagon, and whatever guards I can scrape together. Six men, maybe. Tough guys with swords, that’s all.”

"That's fine. It’s not like we’re trying to fight off an army."

"And we'd have to take the northern pass. Less traveled, but safer. Bandits usually stick to the main roads."

"Whatever route you think is best. You're the expert."

He was quiet for a long moment, internal debate playing out across his features. Desperation won, as it usually did.

"When do we leave?" he asked.

"Tomorrow morning. Dawn."

"Done." He stuck out his hand, and I shook it with a smile that suggested everything was going to work out fine.

For both of us, probably.

...

The next morning found us walking alongside Matsumoto's wagon as it creaked and groaned through the mountain pass. The horse pulling it was a sturdy-looking mare with the kind of patient temperament that made for good traveling, though she kept shooting suspicious glances at Kuromaru whenever he got too close.

The six bodyguards were exactly what you'd expect from budget security—tough-looking men with well-maintained weapons and the slightly bored expressions of professionals doing a routine job. They'd spread out in a loose formation around the wagon, eyes scanning the tree line with casual vigilance.

"Thanks again for agreeing to take us on such short notice," I said to Matsumoto as we walked alongside his wagon. "I know the timing wasn't ideal."

"Don't mention it," Matsumoto replied, though he kept wiping sweat from his forehead despite the cool mountain air. "Your payment made it worth the risk. Just hope we don't run into trouble."

"That's what you hired those guards for, right?" Mikoto said in her disguised voice—older, motherly, the kind of woman who'd raised kids and had opinions about everything.

“Fair point.” Matsumoto glanced at the six hired swords spread out around the wagon. “Still, can’t say I mind having a few more eyes. These roads aren’t what they used to be.”

He shook his head, the lines in his face deepening. "Bandit activity's gotten worse every month. Used to be you could make this run with maybe two guards. Now I need six just to feel confident, and even that's not a guarantee."

"Business must be suffering," Tsume added in her own disguised voice.

"Suffering's putting it mildly." He gave a bitter laugh and kicked a stone off the path. "Cost of security's eating into profits something fierce. But what choice do we have? Lose money on guards or lose everything to bandits."

"That's terrible," Mikoto said sympathetically. "Are there any safer routes? Or do all the merchants have to deal with this?"

"Safer routes? Ha! The bandits know all the main roads now. Some merchants try going through the mountain passes, but that takes twice as long and costs just as much in guide fees. We're all dealing with it - anyone moving goods between countries is getting hit. That's why most of us only do the long runs in caravans now. Safety in numbers and all that."

She raised her eyebrows. "What kind of goods are worth risking all that? Must be pretty valuable to make it worthwhile despite the bandits."

"It's mostly raw materials. Iron ore, quality steel, hardwood for weapon crafting. Bulk orders, too." Matsumoto's expression grew thoughtful. "Strange thing is, most of the orders are coming from Fire Country. Used to be they had their own suppliers.”

'War preparations. Konoha's gearing up for extended conflict.’

I kept my expression neutral while filing away the information. “Maybe they’re just stockpiling. Smart merchants like to plan ahead.”

"Maybe." He didn't sound convinced. "Though when you're talking about quantities like this, makes you wonder if someone's expecting serious trouble."

The conversation drifted toward safer topics after that—weather, road conditions, complaints about tax collectors. Normal merchant chatter that helped pass the time while I kept part of my attention on our surroundings.

The northern pass was beautiful in a cold, indifferent way—jagged slopes scattered with scrub brush and wind-twisted trees that had survived more seasons than they should’ve. The path snaked between towering stone outcrops, each one the kind of place an ambush could happen if someone had the patience to wait.

Which, no doubt, was part of Matsumoto’s reasoning. Less traveled meant less likely to run into the kind of organized bandit groups that plagued the main roads.

It was a good plan.

Shame it wasn’t going to work.

I’d been noticing signs for the last hour—broken branches at shoulder height, disturbed earth where someone had tried to cover tracks, the faint charcoal tang of old fire smoke carried on the wind. Someone had been through here recently. Multiple someones. Moving in groups.

Then I saw it.

Movement—barely visible—tucked behind a knot of trees off the trail. A flash of fabric. The glint of metal.

Bandits.

“Hold up,” a minute later, one of the guards called from up ahead, raising a hand. “Something’s up there.”

We all stopped, the wagon's creaking fading into mountain silence. Through the trees, I could see figures emerging from concealment with the casual confidence of people who held all the cards.

"Well, well," a familiar voice called out. "What have we here?"

Goro stepped into view, that same ugly smile from the wanted poster spread across his scarred face. Behind him, his crew appeared from the rocks and trees like they'd been part of the landscape. More than the six we'd seen before—at least a dozen bandits, all armed and looking comfortable with the idea of violence.

Apparently, the universe had a sense of humor.

Beside me, I didn’t need to look to know they’d spotted him. Mikoto shifted her stance like someone mentally calculating the quickest way to break a jaw. Tsume’s breathing picked up—shallow and twitchy, like a kid two seconds away from punching someone just because. And judging by their reactions, this reunion was going to be personal.

“Bandits!” Matsumoto yelped, voice cracking like dry wood. “We—we don’t have much! Spare me, please—”

“Oh, I think you’ve got exactly what we’re looking for,” Goro said, his eyes sweeping over our group with the lazy hunger of a man already picking out his prize. “Been hearing stories about a well-funded bunch of travelers—triple-rate pay, north pass, all real hush-hush.”

I blinked.

He knows.

About the payment. About the route. Which meant—

I looked at Matsumoto.

Pale. Sweating. Hands trembling. But there was something else behind the panic—surprise. Genuine, sharp-edged surprise.

So it wasn’t him who leaked the info.

But then…

The longer route through the mountains. The timing. The way these bastards had set up shop exactly where they needed to be.

Yeah. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

For bandits to be this good—so good they’d racked up a bounty—meant they weren’t just lurking in the woods. Some of them were inside the village. Mingling with the crowd. Watching. Feeding intel to the ones with knives.

And now it was obvious.

These bastards had eyes in Yura. Someone picking out the fat targets. Big spenders. Easy marks with too much coin and not enough sense.

"Now, now," Goro continued, stepping closer while his men fanned out to surround us. "No need for anyone to get hurt. We're reasonable people. Hand over your valuables, and you can all walk away with your lives."

The bodyguards reached for their swords, but the fear in their eyes gave them away. Six hired blades facing down a dozen seasoned killers—on ground the enemy had likely chosen hours ago.

This was about to go sideways fast.

I met Mikoto’s eyes and gave her the barest nod. Tsume caught it too. A flick of my fingers followed—a silent signal with an old, familiar meaning:

‘Do whatever you want. Bonus points if you collect the boss’s bounty.’

Matsumoto was already shrinking into himself. The guards were clenching their weapons. The bandits were grinning.

But my teammates?

They were smiling.

“You know,” Mikoto said, stepping forward just enough to draw attention, “this is really inconvenient timing.”

Goro cocked an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Yeah.” She smiled—pleasant, almost apologetic—as her henge shimmered and vanished, revealing her real face. “We were just talking about you.”

Tsume followed her lead, dropping her disguise and casually drifting to the side, flanking them like it was all part of a friendly chat. “Small world, huh?”

The moment recognition hit, Goro’s expression curdled. His hand moved to his weapon, slow and instinctive. “You,” he spat. “The brats from Konoha.”

"That'd be us," Mikoto said, her hand moving to her kunai pouch. "And you're under arrest."

"Arrest?" Goro laughed harshly. "Listen here kid—"

"Goro Matsuda," she continued calmly, "wanted for banditry, highway robbery, and manslaughter. Bounty of seventy-five thousand ryo." Her dark eyes never left his face. "You can come quietly, or we can do this the hard way."

I stayed perfectly still in my middle-aged merchant disguise, clustered with Matsumoto and the bodyguards. Just another civilian caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. The guards were looking between my ‘cousins’ and the bandits with growing panic, hands on their weapons but clearly out of their depth.

Around us, the mountain pass had gone dead silent, except for the sound of weapons being drawn. Matsumoto and the bodyguards looked confused, and the bandits... well, their reactions were split.

The newer recruits—young, reckless, hungry for blood—were already reaching for their blades, convinced they’d stumbled into easy prey. But the older ones, the veterans who’d ridden with Goro long enough to know better, were hesitating.

"Boss," one of them muttered, voice uneasy. "aren't those the kids we walked with? The ones heading to Yugakure? Maybe we should—”

“What? They’re just brats,” another said. “Even if they’re shinobi, they’re barely grown. Why the hell are you acting like they’ve got your balls in a vice?”

The hesitation was spreading. Their hands hovered near hilts, but no one moved. Because deep down, they all knew—fighting shinobi wasn’t the same as robbing travelers. It was a gamble. And these two weren’t panicking. They were smiling.

Goro saw it too. Saw the noose tightening around his neck. He knew their faces. Knew they knew his.

There was no walking away now.

Not with a bounty on his head.

Not with a dog-faced kunoichi grinning like she could already smell the reward money.

And that’s when he made his choice.

“Look at them!” he barked, his voice snapping like a whip. “They’re just kids, shinobi or not. And where’s their third? There were three of ’em before. Now there’s two. Either they’re scared, or one’s already dead.”

That got the men’s attention.

“We’ve got twelve blades. They’ve got two hands each. Do the math. Shinobi or not, they bleed the same.”

His voice hardened as fear twisted into fury. “Kill them all.”

…

Maps covered every surface—walls, desks, even the sides of the filing cabinets—each one speckled with red pins that seemed to breed when no one was looking. Around the central table, six jonin leaned in close, their voices a tense murmur over the static buzz of the overhead lights.

"—western pass engagement cost us eighteen, but we took out twice that," one of them was saying, marking positions on the map. "Standard attrition rates for this sector. Suna's pushing harder, but nothing we can't handle."

“Supply lines are still holding,” another said, thumbing through a notepad smeared with graphite. “Their raids are getting bolder—reckless, even. We’re bleeding them for it.”

"Long as the numbers stay in our favor."

The conversation died as the door burst open with enough force to rattle the hinges. Tsunade swept in like a small hurricane, her blonde hair swishing as she flashed a grin that could've lit up the entire outpost—or burned it down.

"Uncle Minoru!" she called out, completely ignoring the three jonin who were now staring at her with expressions ranging from confusion to outright irritation. "Perfect timing! I need to borrow you for just a tiny little favor."

The man in question—a weathered Senju with graying hair and laugh lines that suggested he'd spent years dealing with Tsunade's particular brand of chaos—looked up from a supply manifest with the patient expression of someone who'd learned not to be surprised by anything. As the regional commander for the western front, he'd inherited both multiple outposts and the headaches that came with fighting a border war.

"Tsunade," he said mildly. "We're in the middle of an important meeting."

"Oh, this'll just take a second!" She bounced on her toes, hands clasped behind her back in a way that made her look about fifteen years younger. "Pretty please? With extra sugar on top?"

One of the jonin cleared his throat pointedly. "Tsunade-hime, we're discussing casualty reports. Perhaps this could wait—"

"Casualty reports are super important," she agreed with the kind of earnest nod that suggested she was taking this very seriously. "But so is family! And family always comes first, right Uncle?"

Minoru set his papers down, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, when you put it like that...” He turned to the others with a small shrug, half-apology, half-dismissal. “Give me five minutes, gentlemen. If my niece has something to say, it’s probably worth hearing.”

"Sir, with respect, we really need to finalize these deployment schedules—"

"Five minutes," Minoru repeated, his tone still pleasant but carrying the kind of weight that ended arguments. "The schedules will wait."

The jonin exchanged looks—

the kind that said, This is exactly why family and war don’t mix.

But none of them said it out loud.

They stepped back, hands off the maps, tension tucked behind their eyes.

Tsunade beamed like they'd just handed her a festival prize, then threw a quick wink toward Hideo—the outpost’s commander, who was watching her with the expression of a man expecting a detonation any second.

“You’re all so understanding! I’ll be super quick, promise!”

Minoru motioned toward a side room with a tilt of his head. “Come on then. Before these three start filing reports on nepotism.”

“You totally are playing favorites,” Tsunade said brightly, already on his heels. “But that’s what makes you the best uncle ever.”

The smaller room was his private office—spacious enough for a proper desk, several chairs, and shelves lined with maps and supply ledgers that showed the wear of constant use. Minoru closed the door behind them and settled into his chair.

"Alright," he said, folding his hands in his lap. "What's got you bouncing around like a sugar-drunk Academy student?"

Tsunade dropped into the opposite chair, suddenly looking more serious but still maintaining that bright energy. "I want to take on a mentorship project."

"A what now?"

"There's this girl at the Academy. Nine years old, really bright, shows a lot of potential." She leaned forward, eyes sparkling with what looked like genuine enthusiasm. "I think she could benefit from some special attention, you know? Maybe some clan guidance."

Minoru's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "You want to mentor an Academy student? Since when do you have time for that?"

"Since I realized how much talent we're probably letting slip through the cracks!" Tsunade waved a hand dramatically. "Think about it—how many kids with real potential never get the right opportunities because they don't have the right connections? It's tragic!"

"Uh-huh." Her uncle's expression had shifted from amused to mildly concerned. "And this sudden passion for education came from where exactly?"

"I've been thinking about it for a while," Tsunade said, which was technically true if 'a while' meant 'the last few hours.' "You know how Grandpa always talked about nurturing the next generation? Well, this could be my way of doing that!"

"Your grandfather also talked about the importance of duty and not getting distracted by pet projects during wartime."

Tsunade's smile flickered for just a moment before brightening again. "This isn't a distraction! It's an investment! Besides, you're always saying the clan should take a more active role in Academy affairs."

"I don't recall saying that."

"You totally did. Last month, during that thing with the supply shortage."

"I said we should make sure the Academy gets proper funding. That's not the same as taking random students under our wing. Besides, don't you already have your hands full with that genin team of yours?"

"That's totally different!" she said quickly. "My genin are practically jonin-level already. They barely need supervision. This would be more like... community outreach!"

Minoru gave her a look that suggested he knew exactly how much 'supervision' her genin actually didn't need. "Uh-huh."

Tsunade deflated slightly, sticking out her lower lip in a pout that had been getting her out of trouble since she was old enough to walk. "It's not random! I told you, she's got real potential, shows natural aptitude for chakra control, comes from a good family..."

"What family?"

The question came out sharper than Minoru had probably intended, and Tsunade blinked in surprise. "Why does that matter?"

"Because I'm not stupid, Tsunade." His voice was still gentle, but there was steel underneath now. "You burst in here during a war council, bouncing around like you're asking for permission to skip chores, wanting to take on some random Academy student. Either you've had a complete personality transplant, or there's something you're not telling me."

For a moment, the mask slipped. Tsunade's cheerful expression cracked just enough to show the worry underneath before she caught herself and fixed her smile back in place.

"Her name's Fumi," she said quietly. “Hideo’s her father. He’s been stationed here for months—you know that. Good shinobi, solid record, but he's been under a lot of stress lately."

"Stress from what?"

Tsunade glanced away, eyes skimming the shelves like they held better answers than the ones in her head. “Well... um, being separated from his daughter? The war? You know how it is.”

Her fingers tapped against the armrest—restless, unthinking. A nervous tick she never quite grew out of. "I just thought, if the clan could extend some protection to her, maybe offer some additional training opportunities..."

"Protection from what?"

The question lingered in the air like smoke—thin, inescapable. Tsunade held her uncle’s gaze, and this time there was no grin, no glib deflection. Just her, bare-eyed and serious. "You know how dangerous things are getting. For everyone. Especially kids who might be... vulnerable."

Minoru studied her face for a long moment. "Tsunade, if someone is threatening a child—"

"No one's threatening anyone!" The words came out too fast, too sharp. She caught herself and softened her tone. "I just want to make sure she's safe. That's what family does, right? We look out for people who need looking out for." Her smile returned, but it was gentler now, more genuine. “Come on, Uncle. You taught me that. About responsibility. Protecting the innocent. All that noble Senju wisdom you’re always going on about.”

Minoru arched a brow. “I also taught you not to manipulate your elders with guilt trips.”

"I would never! I'm just appealing to your better nature. Completely different thing."

Despite everything, Minoru found himself smiling. "You always were too clever for your own good."

"Hey, I learned from the best." She leaned forward, eyes bright with hope. "So you'll do it? Official clan protection for little Fumi?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you're thinking about it. I can tell. You get that little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you're considering something."

"That wrinkle is from years of dealing with you."

"See? I knew you loved me." she clapped her hands together, grinning like she'd already won. “So it’s settled! The Senju clan formally takes Fumi under its wing. I’ll handle all the paperwork, set up proper accommodations, maybe arrange some tutoring—you just need to convince the stubborn elders—”

"Tsunade." Minoru’s voice stopped her cold. Not angry. Just enough weight to pull her back down to earth. "I haven't agreed to anything yet."

Her face fell. "But—"

"But," he continued, holding up a finger, "I also haven't said no." He leaned back in his chair, studying her with the careful attention of someone who'd learned to read between the lines. "You know, in all the years I've known you, you've never once asked me for clan protection for a random child. Not once."

She shifted uncomfortably. "There's a first time for everything?"

"Mm-hmm. And you've also never been this worked up about an Academy student you barely know." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Which tells me this isn't really about mentorship at all, is it?"

"Uncle—"

"No, let me finish. I don't know what's really going on here. Maybe I don't want to know. But I've watched you your whole life, and when you get that look in your eyes, it means someone innocent is in trouble and you're the only one who can help them."

The hope flickered back to life in her eyes. "So you'll do it?"

"I'll handle the paperwork, make it official. If you think Hideo's daughter needs clan protection..." He gave a small shrug. "That's good enough for me."

She blinked. "Just like that?"

Minoru's expression softened. "You're family, Tsunade. And you've got good instincts about people. When it's not the usual buttering me up, I trust you've got a damn good reason. Even if you can't tell me what it is."

"Especially when you shouldn't. That's what makes you the best." She stood up, already moving toward the door before he could change his mind. "I'll have everything arranged by tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow?" Minoru called after her. "Tsunade, we're in the middle of a war! There are procedures—"

"Details!" she called back, already halfway through the door. "I'll handle all the details! Love you, Uncle!"

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Minoru alone with his thoughts and the growing suspicion that he'd just agreed to something far more complicated than mentoring a promising Academy student.

In the hallway outside, Tsunade allowed herself a moment to lean against the wall and breathe. One crisis down. About a dozen more to go.

But at least Fumi would be safe. Whatever else happened, that little girl would never again be used as leverage against her father. The Senju clan's protection wasn't something even the Konoha elders would challenge directly.

Now she just had to figure out how to extract the girl without triggering a full investigation into Hideo's activities. And how to deal with the elders who'd put this whole nightmare in motion.

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 33

The morning sun slanted through Yugakure's steam-kissed streets as I walked arm-in-arm with my "wife," discussing the absolutely earth-shattering topic of whether we should buy the expensive rice or stick with the cheaper stuff.

"I'm telling you, Hiroshi," Mikoto said in a voice that wasn't quite her own—older, with the worn edges of someone who'd been married long enough to have the same argument about groceries every week. "The premium rice is worth it. Your mother always said—"

"My mother said a lot of things," I interrupted with the perfect mix of affection and exasperation that came from years of practice. "Doesn’t mean she was right about all of them."

She swatted my arm playfully, and I had to admit—she'd nailed the henge this time. Mid-thirties, laugh lines around her eyes, the kind of comfortable prettiness that came from a life well-lived rather than youth. Even her posture had changed, shoulders a little rounder, steps a little shorter.

Damn, she's good at this.

"You’re impossible," she muttered, smiling like she meant it. "Fine. Cheap rice. But when you whine that dinner tastes like bathwater, don’t come crying to me."

An old woman walking beside us gave a knowing chuckle. “Sounds just like my husband,” she told Mikoto with a warm look. “Thirty years, and the man still swears all rice is the same.”

"Thank you!" Mikoto said in exasperation. "Finally, someone who understands."

The woman laughed and continued on her way, while a group of younger locals passed us with barely a glance—just another middle-aged couple having the kind of domestic argument that played out in every household across the village.

The market was already bustling despite the early hour, vendors calling out prices while customers poked and prodded their way through the morning's selection. Steam rose from hot food stalls, mixing the scent of grilled fish with the mineral tang that seemed to follow you everywhere in this village.

"What do you think?" Mikoto asked, holding up two different cuts of fish at the first vendor's stall. "The red snapper or the mackerel?"

“Depends what you’re planning to do with it,” I said, crouching slightly to give them a closer look—at the fish, sure, but more so at the vendor’s conversation with the customer beside us.

"—telling you, they had the whole eastern district cordoned off until dawn," the other customer was saying, voice low but not quite low enough. "My cousin lives over there, said she counted at least six patrol teams sweeping through."

The vendor nodded grimly. "Bad business, having foreigner causing trouble in our village. Makes everyone nervous."

I straightened with an easy smile. “The mackerel,” I told Mikoto. “Looks fresher.”

She nodded and began haggling with the vendor—nothing too aggressive, just the kind of back-and-forth any local might get into. While she worked the numbers, I let my gaze drift to the next stall over, where an older woman was animatedly airing her grievances to a small circle of equally grumpy shoppers.

“—don’t care what the council says about being ‘welcoming’ to visitors,” she snapped, brandishing a bundle of scallions like a weapon. “When outsiders start fights in our streets, maybe it’s time to stop being so damn polite.”

Outsiders starting fights.

Yeah. That’d be us.

I drifted closer, pretending to study the produce with the discerning eye of a local. “These radishes look good today. Way better than those sad excuses they were selling yesterday.”

The old woman looked up, beaming with pride. “Well, I should hope so! Been growing these since before you were born. I know what I’m doing.” She picked up one of the radishes and gave it a quick swipe with her apron. “That Yamamoto fella’s still trying to pass off limp, wilted garbage as fresh. It’s daylight robbery.”

"Tell me about it," I said, shaking my head sympathetically. "Though with all the excitement lately, I'm just glad the market's still running normally."

She clucked her tongue. “Ah, so you heard about that mess last night?”

“Some kind of fight, right? Scuffle outside the village or something?”

“Right in the streets!” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Down near the inn district. Woke up half the neighborhood with all that racket. My nephew’s with the patrol—he says they found blood, burn marks, the whole nine yards. Could’ve hit anyone. Could’ve hit me, if I hadn’t been home!”

I nodded sympathetically while calculating exactly how much the local authorities had pieced together. "That's awful. Do they know who was responsible?"

“Foreigners,” she said darkly. Then, with a quick glance around, she leaned in. “They think some of them are still in the village. That’s why you’ve got patrols crawling all over the place.”

Well, they're not wrong.

"Really?" I tried to look appropriately shocked. "That's... concerning."

“You bet it is.” She straightened up, brushing off her apron. “Anyway, you want those radishes or not?”

I bought the radishes—and a few other vegetables for good measure—while filing away everything I'd learned. Increased patrols. Heightened suspicion of outsiders. Blood and burn marks that meant they'd definitely found the scene of our little ambush.

Mikoto had finished with the fish vendor and was moving on to a spice stall, so I followed, slipping back into my role as devoted husband with concerns about the household budget.

“Find anything interesting?” she asked under her breath, barely moving her lips as she inspected a jar of turmeric.

"The locals are definitely on edge," I murmured back, pretending to sniff a jar of curry powder. "Last night got their attention in a big way."

"And our target?"

"Nothing yet." I swapped out jars, making a small show of checking the label. "We might need to expand our search."

She gave the smallest of nods, then slipped back into character like flipping a switch. “Hiroshi, what do you think about this ginger?” she asked, holding it up with a skeptical look. “It’s a little pricey, but—”

“Whatever makes you happy, dear,” I said with the long-suffering patience of a man who’d lost every grocery debate since the wedding. “You know I trust your judgment.”

The spice vendor—a heavyset man with turmeric-stained fingers and a voice like gravel—chuckled as he reached for a paper wrapper. “Smart husband. Mine still argues about everything, even after twenty years.”

“The secret,” I said, flashing a grin, “is knowing when you’re already beat.”

That got a laugh from both the vendor and Mikoto, who played her part perfectly—rolling her eyes like she'd heard this routine a thousand times before.

We made a few more stops, gathering supplies while I continued my subtle intelligence gathering. The story was consistent everywhere we went: foreigners had caused some kind of disturbance and the patrols were on high alert.

By the time we finished shopping, I had a much clearer picture of the situation. Yugakure’s authorities weren’t just rattled—they were taking things seriously. But they hadn’t pinned it on us. Not yet. The patrols felt more like a public show of strength than an active manhunt—a warning to would-be troublemakers.

Which, ironically, worked in our favor. The same heavy presence that made locals nervous would also make it harder for any outside assassins to move openly. At least for now, the chaos we’d caused was keeping us safer than silence would’ve.

“Ready to head back?” Mikoto asked, slipping the basket into my hand with a smile that looked every bit the part.

"Yeah, let's—"

I paused.

Something was off.

Not obviously wrong, just... off. The kind of subtle shift that made the hair on your neck stand up without any clear reason why.

Someone's watching us.

I kept walking, maintaining the casual pace of a married couple finishing their morning errands. But my eyes were already working, scanning reflections in shop windows, checking shadows, looking for anything that didn't belong.

There. Third stall back, pretending to examine pottery. He'd been in roughly the same position when we'd started shopping twenty minutes ago, just at different stalls. Following our route but trying to stay casual about it.

I caught Mikoto’s eye and gave a faint tilt of my head toward a narrow alley branching off the main market street. She didn’t react—but I saw the flicker of understanding in her gaze.

"You know what?" I said, loud enough for our tail to hear. "I think I left my coin purse at that first stall. Let me just double back and—"

"Oh, for crying out loud," Mikoto huffed, nailing the tone of a long-suffering wife who’d had this conversation too many times. "How do you keep losing things that important?"

"It happens! I'll just be a minute."

We turned as if heading back—but instead of retracing our steps, I steered us smoothly into the alley.

The moment the crowd vanished behind us, I moved. One quick breath, a flash of seals, and two perfect clones of our disguised selves shimmered into being. Without hesitation, they continued down the alley at a casual pace—just another bickering couple trying to salvage a morning errand run.

Mikoto and I melted into a recessed doorway, tucked beneath a sagging awning heavy with shadow. We waited in silence, breaths low, our presence smaller than the space around us.

Now we wait.

It didn't take long. Footsteps echoed off the narrow walls as our tail entered the alley, moving carefully but with obvious purpose. He was good—keeping to the shadows, checking corners, all the right tradecraft.

But not quite good enough.

I dropped from the low roof above him, tanto already drawn.

Steel met steel in a bright, ringing clash as he twisted with startling speed, his own blade snapping up like it had been waiting for mine. Sparks danced. The sound of the strike bit into the silence.

I stepped back into a ready stance, smirking. “Following married couples into alleys? That’s a new kind of creepy—even for this village.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just reset his footing. "Not bad. You've got some training."

“Do I know you?” I asked, circling.

“Doubt it,” he said. “But I’ve been tracking a Konoha genin team in the area.”

“Good intel.” I slipped a kunai into my off-hand, gave it a lazy spin. “Want to tell me who gave it to you?”

He didn’t move. Just raised one open hand, palm facing me. “Relax. This is a misunderstanding.”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been tailing us through half the market.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “But not for the reasons you think.”

"Enlighten me."

He hesitated, then slowly reached up with his free hand and formed a single hand seal. The henge dissolved around him like mist, revealing someone who definitely wasn't a Yugakure local.

Konoha headband. Land of Fire features. And the kind of gear that screamed active duty shinobi.

"My name's Tanabe," he said, lowering his kunai. “And just so you know—you three have been causing quite a stir. Local patrols, village security, the works. When something like that happens in our area of operations, we investigate."

"We?"

"Konoha operatives working in the area.” He paused, flicked a glance toward the alley mouth. “Look, can we take this somewhere else? Standing around in an alley with weapons drawn isn’t the most subtle move.”

I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I flicked my gaze toward the shadows.

Mikoto was already there—half-hidden behind a stack of crates, still cloaked by her disguise.

I gave the smallest nod.

“Mikoto,” I called. “It’s okay.”

She stepped into the open, her expression wary. “You sure about this?”

"No," I said honestly. "But I'm curious. And curiosity's gotten me this far."

Tanabe tilted his head toward the alley mouth. "Come on. Let's get off the street before the patrols make their next sweep."

The walk back to our safehouse was quiet, but not exactly comfortable.

Tanabe moved like someone who knew the village layout intimately. He picked back routes, avoiding main streets and skirting blind spots in the patrol patterns I’d clocked earlier. He wasn’t just lucky—he was informed.

Either he had connections here, or he’d been embedded long enough to know which corners to avoid by instinct.

When we reached the building, I went in first, checking to make sure Tsume and our genjutsu-trapped hosts were exactly where we'd left them. Everything looked normal, so I waved the others inside.

“Cozy,” Tanabe said, giving the place a once-over. “Creative solution to the lodging problem.”

“It works.” I dropped onto the couch. “Now. Start talking.”

Tanabe eased into the chair across from me without protest. Mikoto didn’t sit—she positioned herself against the wall, close enough to reach both him and the door in two strides.

Professional paranoia. I approved.

“You said you were working in the area,” I began. “So… Intelligence Division?”

Tanabe didn’t answer, but the twitch of his mouth said enough.

“Then maybe you can help us with something. I’m looking for someone—white-haired guy, probably been asking inappropriate questions about the hot springs. Goes by Jiraiya.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s… a very specific request.”

"Do you know him or not?"

"I might." He crossed his arms. "Depends on why you're asking."

"Because I have something to deliver to him."

"What kind of something?"

"The kind that's none of your business. Unless you're him or work for him."

Tanabe studied me for a long moment, clearly debating how much to reveal. "Even if I did know him, I wouldn't just give out his location to random genin."

"Random genin?" I leaned forward. "We're Tsunade's students. This is an official delivery."

That got a reaction. His eyes widened slightly before he could control his expression.

"Tsunade sent you?"

"That's what I said."

He was quiet for another moment, then seemed to reach a decision. "I work for him," he said finally. "And you just answered a question I didn't know I should be asking."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning if Tsunade is sending messages through back channels instead of official ones..." He shook his head. "That's concerning."

“Okay,” I said flatly. “So where is he?”

Tanabe's expression grew serious. "That's... complicated."

"Uncomplicate it."

"He's on assignment. Deep cover, very sensitive. Can't say more than that."

"When will he be back?"

"Unknown."

I felt my jaw clench. "That's not exactly helpful."

“I know. But it’s the truth.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look—I can get a message to him. Let him know you’re here, that Tsunade sent you. But after that, you’re going to have to wait.”

"For how long?"

"Could be days. Could be weeks. His current mission... it's not the kind of thing you walk away from halfway through."

Mikoto spoke up from the wall. “And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, you keep your heads down. The local authorities are still on edge after what happened last night. The last thing any of us need is more foreign shinobi stirring up trouble.”

"We didn't start that fight," Mikoto said.

"I know. Those missing-nin showed up in the area yesterday—we'd been keeping an eye on them since they crossed into our operational zone. You actually did us a favor by eliminating them." He paused. "Though your methods were a bit... messy."

“Sorry,” I said dryly. “Next time I’ll ask them nicely to stop trying to kill my teammates.”

That got a slight smile. "Fair enough. Can't argue with results."

He scratched his chin. “Speaking of results... there are bounties on those three. Decent ones. Since you did the heavy lifting, seems fair you get a cut.”

My eyebrows went up. “Now you’re speaking my language. What kind of cut are we talking?”

“Thinking twenty percent. We handle the paperwork, collection, verification—”

“Twenty?” I scoffed. “We did all the dangerous work. You just sat back and watched from a safe distance. Fifty-fifty.”

"Fifty-fifty? Come on, kid. We've got overhead, operational costs—"

"Operational costs?" I grinned. "What, the cost of lurking in shadows and looking mysterious?"

Kenji actually laughed at that. “Thirty percent. And that’s me being generous.”

"Forty. Final offer."

He gave me a look. “Thirty-five. And I throw in a bottle of decent sake.”

I pretended to consider this seriously, stroking my chin like I was negotiating a major trade deal. "What kind of sake we talking about here?"

"The good stuff. Not the swill they serve tourists."

“Tempting...” I turned to Mikoto, who was watching the exchange with a raised brow and a barely suppressed smile. “What do you think? Thirty-five percent and premium sake?”

“I think you’re both ridiculous,” she said—but she was smiling now, arms loosely folded. “Still… the sake does sound nice. We could use it for cooking.”

She lingered just enough on cooking to make sure I caught the hint.

“Deal,” I said, and extended my hand to Tanabe. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

"So what now?"

"Now you wait. I'll get word to him that you're here. In the meantime, keep your heads down, avoid the patrols, and try not to kill anyone else."

"No promises on that last part."

Tanabe stood up. "I'll be in touch when I have news. Don't try to find me—I'll find you."

"How?"

"The same way I found you today." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Word of advice? The local patrols are good, but they're not great. Stay smart, keep those henges active, and you should be fine."

"And if more missing-nin show up?"

"Then you handle them the same way you handled the last ones." His expression hardened. "But if you can avoid it, do. The village is already on edge."

"Understood."

He nodded and slipped out the door, leaving us alone with our unconscious hosts and a whole lot of new questions.

"Well," Mikoto said after a long moment. "That was unexpected."

"Yeah." I rubbed my forehead, trying to process everything. "So Jiraiya's not here. Could be gone for weeks. And we're stuck playing hide-and-seek with local patrols while we wait."

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

I looked over our meager supplies, thought about the patrols tightening their net, and came to a decision.

"Pack up," I said, picking up the medical book I'd been skimming the night before. "We’re leaving the safehouse. Time to start scouting for a new one."

She looked up, brows tightening. “Why? I thought you trusted him.”

“I do,” I said. “Mostly. But not enough to hand him the exact location of our bedrolls and hope no one gets clever.”

She didn’t argue. Just gave a quiet nod and started gathering her gear.

“Before we go, dispel the genjutsu on the owners,” I added. “We’ve stayed long enough. They’ll wake up thinking they dozed off after dinner.”

Mikoto moved to comply while Tsume quietly slung her pack over one shoulder, already scanning the window for signs of movement.

We’d gotten what we needed.

Now it was time to move.

No reason to make it easy for anyone to ambush us.

…

The next few days fell into a routine that was equal parts tedious and nerve-wracking.

Every morning, we'd pack up our gear, release the genjutsu on our hosts, and slip out before they fully woke up. By the time they'd shaken off their confused dreams about winning the lottery or finding true love, we'd already be three streets away scouting our next temporary home.

"Why can't we just stay in one place?" Tsume complained on day three as we strolled through the residential district like any other locals going about their morning business. I nodded politely to a middle-aged couple tending their garden, mentally noting their early rising schedule and the fact that their house had a back entrance.

"Because," I said, pausing to admire some flowers while getting a better view of their daily routine through the open kitchen window, "staying in one place gets you caught. And because if we keep someone unconscious for more than twelve hours, they're going to wake up with questions."

"Questions?" she asked, casually checking out the narrow alley that ran behind the row of houses.

"The kind that involve, 'Why do I feel like I've been asleep for three days?' and, 'Should I be worried about this?'" I waved goodbye to the gardening couple and continued down the street. "The last thing we need is some concerned citizen telling the authorities about mysterious sleep disorders."

"Makes sense," Tsume admitted grudgingly. "But this constant moving is exhausting."

"Better exhausted than dead."

Our third safehouse was a small apartment above a pottery shop. The owners—an elderly pair who spent their days bent over clay wheels—went to bed early and slept like rocks. Perfect targets for Mikoto's genjutsu.

"They're kind of sweet," she said as we settled in for the night, watching the old couple through a crack in the door. They were holding hands as they walked to their bedroom, probably a habit from fifty years of marriage.

Day four brought us to a small house near the village outskirts. The owner was a widower who lived alone with his cat—a grumpy orange tabby that took an immediate dislike to Kuromaru.

"Why is it hissing at me?" Tsume asked, watching the cat arch its back from across the room.

"Because you smell like dog," I said, settling down with my medical texts. "And because cats are naturally suspicious of anything that might eat them."

"Kuromaru wouldn't eat a cat!"

The puppy in question was currently staring at the cat with obvious fascination, tail wagging hopefully.

"Maybe not on purpose," Mikoto said diplomatically.

I watched the standoff for another moment—Kuromaru's hopeful expression versus the cat's territorial glare—then clapped my hands together. “Alright, that’s enough nature documentary for one day. Let’s get cooking before the fur flies.”

"Thank god," Tsume groaned. "I'm starving, and those onigiri are looking less appealing by the hour."

“Give me ten minutes and you’ll forget onigiri were ever invented.” I made for the kitchen, already assembling the meal in my head.

The kitchen in our current safehouse was about the size of a closet, but I'd worked in worse. The elderly widower who owned the place clearly wasn't much of a cook—his spice rack looked like it hadn't been touched since the village was founded, and the cutting board had seen better decades.

Still, the ingredients we picked up at the market were solid. Fresh mackerel. Bright, crisp vegetables. Proper short-grain rice. I could make this work.

“Alright,” I said, tying my hair back with a piece of string I’d scavenged from a drawer. “Time to turn this sad excuse for a kitchen into something edible.”

Mikoto rolled up her sleeves, revealing the pale skin of her forearms. "What do you need me to do?"

"Can you handle knife work without taking off a finger?"

She gave me a flat look. "I'm a kunoichi. I think I can manage to cut vegetables without injuring myself."

“Point taken.” I unwrapped the mackerel and laid it out on the counter. “Start with the radish. Thin slices, as even as you can make them—we’re quick-pickling to balance the fat in the fish.”

She picked up the knife and got to work, fingers curled properly on the guide hand, blade slicing down in smooth, straight lines. I shouldn’t have been surprised. She had that quietly domestic air about her—like someone who knew how to run a household without making a big deal of it. Still, there was something oddly compelling about watching her work. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t overthink. Just cut each piece like she’d been doing it her whole life.

“You’re good at this,” I said, turning back to the fish and beginning the cleaning process.

“My mother used to make me help with dinner. She said cooking was just another form of training.”

“Smart woman.” I slid my own knife along the fish’s spine, the edge gliding through flesh and cartilage. “Besides, it’s one of the few ninja skills that makes people happy instead of dead.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

She finished with the radishes and reached for the carrots, glancing toward the living room where another crash echoed, followed by Tsume's voice coaxing Kuromaru away from something.

“So,” she said, moving on to the carrots, “how long do you think it’ll take Tsume to give up on befriending that cat?”

From the living room came another suspicious rustle. I didn’t even have to look.

“At this rate? Never. She’s got that classic Inuzuka persistence.”

“Poor cat probably thinks it’s being hunted.” Mikoto sliced as she spoke. “Though I’ll admit, it’s been fun watching her throw every trick she’s got at it.”

“Earlier she tried bribing it with fish scraps.” I set a pan on the stove and drizzled in oil, watching for the first shimmer. “Maybe tomorrow she’ll move on to disguising herself as a giant cat.”

She let out a quiet laugh. “Don’t give her ideas.”

From the living room, Tsume’s voice drifted in, smug and unbothered.

"Joke all you want. If I meow and it purrs back, I win."

"That's a pretty low bar for victory," I called back, laying the mackerel skin-side down in the pan. The fish hit the heat with a sharp sizzle, and the scent of sizzling oil and salt filled the kitchen like a promise.

The rustling stopped. Then came footsteps. Tsume appeared in the doorway with Kuromaru trotting close behind, both of them staring at the pan like it held the meaning of life.

"Okay, forget the cat," Tsume said, inhaling deeply. "How much longer until that's ready?"

"Even your dog's abandoning the peace talks for dinner," Mikoto said, laughing.

“Ten more minutes,” I told Tsume, flipping the fish with a soft crackle. “Go entertain yourself. Maybe try teaching Kuromaru not to stare at our dinner like he’s planning a heist.”

“Want me to help with anything? I can stir stuff or—”

“Kitchen’s barely big enough for two,” I said, waving her off without turning. "Besides, you'd just get in Mikoto's way."

“Rude.” But she backed off, padding into the living room with exaggerated footsteps. I could still hear her, though—settling down just far enough to be out of the way, but close enough to monitor our progress like a suspicious landlord.

I turned to the rice pot, lit the flame beneath it, and adjusted the heat. Beside me, Mikoto had edged a little closer, eyes on the countertop.

“Hand me that bottle of mirin?” I asked, nodding toward the sweet one on the left.

She passed it over, her arm brushing mine for the briefest second.

“Just a splash in the rice water. Gives it a glossy finish. Adds a bit of sweetness.”

“My... someone taught me that trick a long time ago,” I added, stirring gently.

"Someone?" There was curiosity in her voice, but not pushiness.

“Just someone who knew their way around a kitchen.” I stirred the rice gently, then reached for the vegetables. “Here. Try this.”

I held out a slice of pickled radish with my chopsticks. She leaned in, lips brushing the wood as she took the bite, and I had to focus on the seasoning just to keep my eyes from lingering.

“Oh, that’s perfect,” she said, eyes lighting up. “How’d you get it so crisp?”

“Salt timing,” I said, maybe a little too quickly. “You draw out just enough moisture to concentrate the flavor, but not so much that it softens.”

She nodded, dead serious—like I’d just walked her through a high-level jutsu instead of a pickling trick.

“Your turn,” I said, gesturing toward the second pan where the oil had just started to shimmer. “Think you can handle the vegetables without setting anything on fire?”

“I think I can manage,” she said, laughing as she took the spatula from my hand.

I watched as she added the vegetables to the pan, the oil crackling as they hit the heat. Her movements were careful but confident, and I found myself standing closer than strictly necessary—supposedly to supervise, but really just enjoying the way she concentrated on the task, the tip of her tongue poking out slightly as she focused.

“Perfect,” I said. “Just keep them moving so they don’t stick.”

The fish was ready—golden, tender, the skin crisped just enough. I plated everything carefully: rice tucked into ceramic bowls, fish arranged neatly, pickled radish stacked along the edge. For a kitchen that barely fit two people, the space felt full—warm with scent, color, and the kind of attention that makes simple things feel good.

“Not bad for a closet-sized workspace,” I said, stepping back to admire the spread.

"Not bad at all," she agreed.

"Food's ready!" I called toward the living room.

The response was immediate—the sound of Tsume scrambling to her feet, followed by Kuromaru's excited yips.

We gathered around the small table, bowls steaming in front of us. The first bite hit like comfort in a storm—crisp-skinned fish, perfectly seasoned; fluffy, faintly sweet rice; pickled vegetables bright and sharp, their tang waking up every other flavor on the plate.

“Holy shit,” Tsume mumbled around a mouthful of fish. “Looks plain, but it’s way better than I expected.”

“Language,” Mikoto said automatically, though she didn’t even glance up—too busy chasing another bite.

I shrugged. “Had to make do with what we had.”

We ate in the kind of silence that didn’t need explaining—real hunger, real food, and nothing else to distract from either. Outside, the last traces of daylight slipped away, and the village settled into that quiet lull between dinner and sleep.

“You know,” Tsume said after a while, “I’m actually gonna miss this.”

“We’ll still be a team when we get back,” Mikoto pointed out.

“Yeah, but it won’t be the same. We’ll be back to drills, rules, missions where we actually have to follow orders...” She waved her chopsticks vaguely. “This has been like a vacation. A stabby, paranoid, constantly-moving vacation.”

That got a laugh out of both of us.

“And,” she added, pointing at me, “Shinji’s probably not gonna cook for us every night once we’re home.”

“Don’t count on it,” I said. “I get bored easy. Might keep feeding you two just to amuse myself.”

The conversation wandered from there—speculation about our next missions, trash-talking the Academy’s cafeteria, increasingly absurd theories about what our classmates were doing back in Konoha. It was normal team banter, the kind that softened the edges of a long week and made the world feel a little less sharp.

Then the tapping started.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

All three of us froze, chopsticks suspended midair. The sound came from the window—steady, intentional. Not wind. Not an animal. Someone knocking, politely enough not to break glass, but firmly enough that it wasn’t a mistake.

No words were needed. Without speaking, we all activated our henges. The transformations settled over us like second skins—three different faces, three different bodies, three locals having a quiet dinner after being invited by the old man who had suddenly grown sleepy and gone to bed early.

I moved to the window and peered down carefully.

A frog sat on the windowsill. Not just any frog—this one was wearing a tiny vest and had an expression that suggested it had better things to do than sit on random windowsills.

Jiraiya's summon.

I cracked the window open. “Evening.”

The frog looked up at me with obvious impatience. "You the kid with a message for the old pervert?"

"Depends who's asking."

“I’m asking.” Its voice was pure gravel—like it had been chain-smoking through a war. “The head sent me to collect whatever Tsunade wanted delivered. So either hand it over or I hop back and report a failed mission. Up to you.”

Behind me, Mikoto and Tsume had moved in closer, just out of the frog’s line of sight. I tapped my fingers on the frame, scanned the street—nothing unusual—then pulled off my storage glove. A quick pulse of chakra to the seal, and the scroll popped free… along with what looked like a half-eaten onigiri.

"Just the scroll," the frog said dryly. "Keep your lunch."

I handed over the scroll. The frog tucked it into its vest quickly.

“Any message for the boss?”

“Yeah. Tell him we want hazard pay for the overtime.”

“Noted.” The frog gave what might’ve been a nod—if a three-inch amphibian could be said to nod—and vanished in a puff of smoke.

I closed the window and turned back to my teammates, dropping the henge as I did. They followed suit, our real faces settling back into place.

"Well," I said, picking up where I'd left off with my plate. "That's that."

Tsume, who'd been remarkably quiet during the whole exchange, finally spoke up. "So... we're done? Mission complete?"

“Looks like it.” I reached for the pot and scooped out a second helping of rice, refilling my bowl and the others’. The grains were still warm, just sticky enough to hold together. “Which means we pack up and head home.”

“Today?” Mikoto asked, accepting her refill with a nod.

“Today.” I divided the remaining fish between our bowls and added what was left of the quick-pickled vegetables. “After this, I’ll swing by the market. See if any caravans are heading toward Fire Country.”

Tsume frowned, picking at her new portion. “Why the rush? I mean, whoever was targeting us was probably after the letter, right? Now that we don’t have it anymore…”

"Maybe," I said with a shrug. "But maybe the letter wasn't their only objective. Maybe they just wanted us dead, and the letter was a bonus—or the other way around."

"That's paranoid," Tsume said, but she didn't sound like she entirely disagreed.

"Paranoid keeps you breathing." I took a bite of the fish. "We’ve been here long enough. No reason to rush, but no reason to stick around either.”

Mikoto nodded slowly. "Better safe than sorry."

"Exactly." I gestured with my chopsticks. "It’s not like I don’t miss Konoha. Real beds, actual training grounds, familiar sake..."

"You say that like you haven't been having fun," Tsume said with a grin. "I saw you enjoying yourself during that market shopping trip with your 'wife.'"

I coughed into my rice. “That was just good cover.”

“Mm-hm. Very convincing cover. Real method acting.”

“Shut up and eat your fish.”

“It’s really good, by the way,” Mikoto said quietly, trying—and failing—to hide the blush behind her bowl.

We ate until we were full—the kind of full that left you warm and a little heavy, like your body had finally realized it could stop bracing for trouble. When the last bites were gone and only the soft clink of empty bowls remained, we sat in comfortable silence.

I set my bowl aside and pushed back from the table.

“Alright,” I said. “Pack your gear. I’ll be back in an hour with travel arrangements.”

"What if there's no caravan today?" Mikoto asked.

“Then we wait for tomorrow. If nothing by then, we run.” I stood up, already mentally shifting into travel mode. "But one way or another, we're going home."

...

...

Hidden Leaf, Hidden Talents 32

Looking back, I think Tsume handled the situation about as well as anyone could expect from someone who'd just watched death miss her by inches.

Which is to say, she completely froze.

Her face went chalk white, eyes wide as dinner plates, staring at the three assassins I'd just intercepted like her brain was still trying to process what the hell had almost happened.

Mikoto wasn't much better. She'd gone rigid, one hand halfway to her weapon pouch, the other clutching her yukata like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to reality.

Combat shock.

Perfect timing, ladies.

The three assassins were already recovering from my interception, shifting their stances, preparing for round two. In about three seconds, this room was going to turn into a blender with all of us inside it.

Time for the nuclear option.

"KILL EVERYONE AND LEAVE NO SURVIVORS BEHIND!" I roared at the top of my lungs, with enough force to rattle a jonin’s spine.

The effect was immediate. Both my teammates' heads snapped toward me, their training kicking in like a slap to the face. Team 7's emergency trigger phrase—the one we'd drilled until they could recite it in their sleep. It meant exactly two things: run like hell, and regroup later.

Mikoto moved first, her hands diving into her pack with the smooth panic of someone used to dodging detention. Two smoke bombs hit the floor and immediately began belching thick gray clouds that filled the room faster than you could blink.

Tsume was right behind her, grabbing both our packs while Kuromaru somehow managed to snag a third smoke bomb in his teeth. All three of them bolted for the door without hesitation, disappearing into the corridor beyond.

Good girls. They remembered their training.

Now for the finishing touch.

In the chaos of the smoke, I formed the hand seals for a clone jutsu. Three basic copies of Team 7 flickered into existence beside me, all wide-eyed and flailing like rookies mid-panic. I sent them sprinting through the garden entrance, their footsteps silent, their movements just convincing enough to draw the eye.

The assassins took the bait instantly. Their real footsteps thundered after my illusions, chasing ghosts into the night.

I slipped out the main door and down the stairs, following the route my teammates had taken. The inn's main floor was in chaos—guests poking their heads out of rooms, staff rushing around trying to figure out what all the noise was about, the general confusion that came with a peaceful evening suddenly going to hell.

I found Mikoto and Tsume crouched behind a decorative fountain in the inn's courtyard, both of them on alert.

"Plan B," I said simply, settling down beside them.

They both nodded without question. We'd covered this scenario during our planning sessions—if we got ambushed, we split up to make tracking us harder, then regrouped at a predetermined location once the immediate threat was handled.

"Five minutes," Mikoto whispered, already checking her gear and testing her wires.

“Make it four,” I said.

Tsume glanced at me "Be careful."

"Always am," I said with a grin that probably looked more confident than I felt. "Go."

I stuck to the shadows at street level, moving through narrow alleys and side streets while tracking the sounds of pursuit above me. The assassins had taken to the rooftops, chasing my clones across the traditional tilework, their muffled footsteps bouncing between buildings like a trail of crumbs.

From the ground, I could follow their progress by the occasional creak of roof timbers and the soft scrape of sandals on clay tiles. They were fast, but rooftop movement had its limitations—they had to follow the building lines, while I could cut through gardens and courtyards to stay parallel with their chase.

After a few minutes, the pursuit sounds changed. Instead of three sets of footsteps moving in the same direction above me, I heard them spreading out—one continuing straight overhead, the other two branching off to cover adjacent blocks.

They’re not that stupid.

They’d finally figured out the bait were clones.

I crouched behind a low chimney and watched them from a rooftop as they split up, each taking a different slice of the village like they’d drawn up a grid.

'Time to even the odds.'

One of them was heading down the main street, cutting through foot traffic toward the commercial district. I slipped after him at street level, hugging the shadows between vendor carts and alley mouths. When he veered into a narrow gap between two shops, I saw my chance.

I quickly formed the hand seals for another clone, sending it sprinting directly at him from the front while I circled around to his blind spot.

He reacted fast—his tanto came up in a flash, body already shifting into a counter stance. Blade met empty air.

The clone flickered and vanished.

His eyes widened. Just a clone.

I was already there.

My tanto slammed into his back, punching through the soft gap beneath his ribs. I felt it hit bone, then tear through as it sank deeper, muscle and lung folding around cold steel.

He didn’t drop.

The bastard twisted—violently, recklessly—on the blade. I felt it tear sideways inside him, but he didn’t care. His elbow came whipping back, raw desperation behind the swing.

I ducked. His arm clipped my clothes as he spun, and the motion yanked my blade free with a wet sound and a spray of blood across the alley wall.

He spun to face me, crimson bubbling at his lips, tanto trembling in his grip. "You little—"

I stepped in fast, blade flashing for his throat. He got his weapon up just in time, but it was a sloppy parry—his strength was already bleeding out with every heartbeat.

He lunged to grab my wrist, but I twisted out of reach and slashed across his forearm. Steel tore through muscle, opening a deep gash from elbow to wrist. Blood sprayed across the cobblestones in a hot arc.

“Who sent you?”

Instead of answering, his free hand darted to his vest, fingers fumbling for something in his gear pouch. I caught the glint of an explosive tag just as he started to pull it free.

'Oh hell no.'

I drove my knee into his wounded side, making him scream and double over. The explosive tag slipped from his blood-slicked fingers, fluttering to the ground unactivated. Before he could recover, I grabbed his wrist and twisted until I heard bones snap.

With the last of his strength, he lunged—tanto flashing straight at my chest in one final, desperate strike.

I sidestepped and brought my blade up hard in a rising arc. It caught him under the chin.

The steel punched through soft tissue, sliced past cartilage, and kept going—right up through his jaw, through the roof of his mouth, through his skull. A wet burst of blood and brain matter sprayed the alley as the tip of my blade punched out the top of his head.

He went limp instantly.

The body toppled forward and crumpled to the ground with a meaty thud. Blood pooled fast beneath his head, thick and dark, mixing with bits of bone and gray matter.

His mouth hung slack, tongue drooping past broken teeth.

The sound of running feet echoed from two different directions—his buddies had heard the commotion and were converging fast. Time to go.

I bolted from the alley just as the first kunai embedded itself in the wooden wall where my head had been. Another whistled past my ear, close enough that I felt the wind from its passage.

"There!" one of them shouted. "Northeast!"

I vaulted a low stone wall and dropped into a private garden, feet barely hitting the ground before I rolled hard to the side. A sharp crack split the air behind me—an explosion scorched the dirt where I’d landed, showering me with smoking debris.

Explosive tags. These guys weren’t playing around.

Yugakure’s hot springs turned out to be perfect for losing a tail. Steam hissed up from cracks in the stone, billowing in thick white plumes that twisted through the air like they had minds of their own.

I darted between the columns, letting the mist swallow my outline. Shouts echoed behind me, disoriented and off-target. A burst of fire jutsu ripped through the fog to my left—a searing arc of heat that missed by inches. I felt the burn along my jacket’s sleeve, the fabric curling at the edge.

The heat slapped me, but I didn’t slow.

Hopping a garden wall, I landed on a tiled rooftop and kept moving—boots slipping for half a step before finding grip. Another leap took me over a narrow alleyway, steam still curling between every roof and awning.

My brain was already churning.

The timing. The coordination. This wasn’t some offhand ambush—it was clean, professional. A hit.

Someone wanted us dead.

But how the hell did they know where to find us?

We’d only been in Yugakure for a few hours. It wasn’t like we’d rolled in waving flags.

Sure, I’d asked around about Jiraiya—but always under a henge, voice filtered, face borrowed. No names. No tells.

Unless…

Unless someone had eyes on us before we even got here.

And if that was true—if they knew our route, our timing—then there was only one name that made sense.

Another explosive tag detonated behind me, close enough to shower me with debris. I rolled with the blast and came up running.

A shadow dropped from above—fast.

I caught the flash of steel too late for a clean dodge, but I twisted hard, grabbed his wrist mid-swing, and used his own weight to slam him into the stone wall. The impact cracked mortar.

But he didn’t crumple.

He twisted with the blow, snapping an elbow toward my ribs. I braced and caught it on my forearm, the jolt rattling up to my shoulder.

Then I stepped in and drove my knee straight into his gut.

His breath fled in a wheeze. He doubled over, and I raised my elbow to drop it on the back of his neck—

The air shifted behind me.

I dove sideways just as a slicing wind jutsu tore through where I’d been. Compressed air smashed into the alley wall, exploding it in a spray of dust and stone shards.

I hit the ground, rolled, and came up in a crouch.

Another figure landed beside the first. The wounded one was still hunched over, blood on his lips, but his eyes locked onto mine with fury.

"You're faster than expected, genin," he said, already forming hand seals for another jutsu.

"And you're uglier than expected," I replied, backing toward the alley mouth. "But hey, nobody's perfect."

The wounded one straightened up, still wheezing but very much alive. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"Kill him," he rasped.

“My pleasure,” said the second, already charging.

Two against one, in a narrow alley with limited escape routes. Time to even the odds the fun way.

"Catch me if you can, ladies!" I called out, then bolted toward the main street.

They gave chase immediately, their footsteps pounding behind me as I weaved between buildings. I could hear them gaining ground—they were fast, especially the wounded one. Either adrenaline or spite had kicked in, because he was gaining.

Good.

I pulled them through a maze of tight alleys and sudden corners, keeping the gap just wide enough to stay out of reach—but close enough to keep them biting.

The street opened up, lined with familiar storefronts and paper lanterns swaying in the wind.

And there it was.

A faint glint of steel stretched low between two buildings, barely visible in the shadows.

There's my girl.

I vaulted the tripwire clean, tucked into a roll, and came up running.

Behind me, the first assassin spotted the glint of steel at the last second. He leaped high, clearing the wire by inches—only to land directly on the second tripline positioned three feet beyond the first.

"What the—"

The backup wire snapped taut around his ankles, yanking him sideways into the wall of a shop. Before he could recover, more wire sprang to life from hidden anchor points—whipping around his limbs, pinning him like prey in a web.

The second one had sharper instincts. He leapt over his partner, clearing the trap in a smooth arc and landing in a crouch, tanto drawn and eyes scanning.

But he'd forgotten about the fire user on our team.

"Katon: Ryūka no Jutsu!"

Mikoto's voice rang out from a rooftop above, and I watched as she breathed a concentrated stream of fire that raced along the wire trap like a living thing. The flames followed every strand of steel, turning the entire web into a blazing inferno.

The trapped assassin started screaming. He writhed, the wire digging deeper with every thrash as fire ate through flesh and cloth alike. The stink of burning meat filled the air, thick and choking.

"Kuroda!" the second assassin shouted, spinning toward his partner.

He took one step toward the burning trap before freezing mid-stride, his head snapping around as new danger registered behind him.

Tsume burst from the shadows with Kuromaru at her side, two kunai extended as she lunged for his shoulder. "Piercing Fang!"

The assassin spun just in time to catch the attack—tanto colliding with her kunai in a shower of sparks. Tsume blew past him with raw momentum, hit the ground in a roll, and came up ready.

But Kuromaru was already mid-leap, jaws aimed straight for the throat.

The assassin ducked low, avoiding the bite, and snapped out a brutal backhand that caught Tsume across the jaw. The hit sent her stumbling sideways with a grunt. He didn’t hesitate—closed the gap and came in swinging.

Steel flashed. She blocked high. Another strike forced her back.

Two exchanges—that’s all it took to see the gap.

His swordplay was too sharp. Every block left her more off-balance, more exposed. She was fighting to keep up.

The third exchange wouldn’t be a block.

It’d be a kill.

Time to crash the party.

I burst from the shadows, tanto gleaming as I closed the distance. The assassin's blade swept toward Tsume's throat—I grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back, the steel whistling past where her neck had been.

My tanto came up fast, driving for his ribs. He twisted away, bringing his blade around toward my gut. I leaned back and palm-struck his elbow, knocking his guard wide.

"Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!"

Mikoto’s fireball screamed for his shoulder, forcing him to dodge into Tsume's range. Her kunai raked across his back, drawing blood. He snarled, spun, and threw a brutal elbow—but I kicked his leg out just as it would’ve connected.

He didn’t go down, but his footing was wrecked. Now he was cornered, blade snapping between all three of us in desperate, erratic arcs.

Steel clashed—Tsume blocked a slash meant for her head, deflecting it just wide.

"Nice form!" I called out to her, then stepped in and slammed my boot into the assassin's ribs, cutting off his momentum—and opening him up. "Though you might want to work on your follow-through."

Mikoto didn’t waste the opening. Her kunai bit deep into his forearm, carving down to the bone.

He jerked back, stumbling away and landing hard on his wounded leg. Blood darkened his pants, thick and spreading. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one edged with panic.

Then his hand drifted to his vest.

Fingers curled around something small. Cylindrical.

Explosive tag.

"Really?" I sighed, already moving. "An explosive tag? In a nice place like this? Do you have any idea what the cleaning deposit's going to cost?"

He was still trying to activate it, chakra sparking along the paper as his tanto came up in a sloppy guard. Desperation all over his face.

I feinted high, blade flashing toward his eyes.

He took the bait—bit hard—raising his weapon to intercept.

His other hand kept feeding chakra into the tag.

At the last second, I dropped low and stepped inside his guard. My free hand snapped up, striking his wrist with a sharp crack—the chakra flow sputtered out on impact.

At the same time, I twisted my blade under his, locking our weapons in a spiral bind. One twist. Two. Steel scraped. His balance broke.

Wide open.

Before he could restart the tag, I spun on him like a barstool on bad flooring—fast and loose—and drove my elbow straight into his gut. Air left his lungs in a single, ugly grunt.

He folded.

I followed through without hesitation—brought the tanto around and up, the point slipping clean under his ribs.

"Sorry about this," I said casually, driving the blade deep. "Nothing personal.”

Then I paused.

“Well, actually, it's completely personal since you tried to kill my friends, but you know what I mean."

The steel found his heart.

He gasped, blood bubbling from his lips—then dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

The alley went still.

I nudged him with my foot to make sure he was actually dead, then looked around at the carnage. Smoke curled around us. The air stank of blood, fire, and the cooked stench of his burning partner down the street.

"Everyone okay?" I called out.

"Could've handled him myself," Tsume muttered, rubbing her jaw.

"Sure you could have," Mikoto said with a smirk.

I wiped my tanto clean. "Come on. Let's go before the locals show up."

…

…

The safe house was quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages and the occasional irritated grunt from Tsume. I’d claimed the couch, one of Tsunade’s medical books open across my lap, while our reluctant hosts snored away on the futon behind me. Mikoto’s genjutsu would keep them locked in happy dreams—probably something about winning the lottery and opening their own hot spring resort.

The book was actually pretty fascinating, though not for the reasons its author probably intended. The text itself was standard medical doctrine—dry as sand and twice as boring. But Tsunade's notes scattered throughout the margins made it come alive. Her handwriting was terrible, the kind of confident scrawl that belonged to someone who'd never doubted her own brilliance for a second.

"This is bullshit—cartilage doesn't regenerate that way," she'd written beside a particularly optimistic diagram. A few pages later: "Author clearly never tried this on a real patient." My personal favorite was scribbled in what looked like different ink, as if she'd come back to it later: "Tested this on a pig. Pig died. Don't be the pig."

Reading her annotations felt like getting a private lecture from the legendary medic herself. Each note revealed the woman behind the reputation—someone who'd learned medicine not from textbooks but from getting her hands dirty, one bloody lesson at a time. Her personality bled through every correction, making it feel like she was sitting right there explaining things, probably with a drink in one hand and a scalpel in the other.

Even her corrections were educational. She'd crossed out entire paragraphs and rewritten them in half the space, somehow managing to be both more accurate and more brutal than the original author.

I turned another page, the paper making that satisfying whisper that only good books managed. The lamplight caught the detailed anatomical diagrams, and I found myself getting lost in the complexity of the human body. How chakra pathways intertwined with blood vessels like some impossible highway system. How the smallest disruption could cascade into system-wide failure. It was like reading the blueprint for the most sophisticated machine ever built, except this one bled when you screwed up.

The warm glow from the lamp carved out a little island of peace around me, just enough to forget the ambush for a moment. If I squinted past the bloodstains on my pants, it almost felt normal—like I was just another student cramming for exams, not a genin hiding from assassins.

“Ugh! This is stupid!”

I glanced up from a particularly interesting section about cell regeneration to see Tsume glaring at her reflection in a hand mirror. The reflection stared back with my face—mostly. The nose was off by a few millimeters, the eyes weren’t quite symmetrical, and the jawline looked like it hadn’t decided what it wanted to be.

"You know," I said, returning to the page, "it's a decent attempt, but any chunin worth his headband would spot the inconsistencies from twenty feet away."

"Shut up," she grumbled, releasing the jutsu with obvious frustration. "I can do henge just fine. I graduated, didn't I? Why do I need to make it all fancy anyway?”

"Because normal disguises don't fool chunin." I flipped to the next page, scanning Tsunade’s notes on chakra drift during rapid healing. "And right now, we've got people hunting us who probably know what we look like. Even if your henge isn't perfect, a better one means less chance of being recognized on the street."

“So what’s wrong with it then, Mr. Perfect?”

“Everything.” I finally looked up and set the book aside. “You’re treating transformation jutsu like it’s just a mask. Something to hide behind.”

“That’s... what it is, isn’t it?”

“No.” I stood, brushing off my pants as I formed the seals. “It’s not.”

The chakra swirled and settled over me like a second skin. One breath later, Tsume found herself staring into her own face—but the change went deeper than bone structure. My stance shifted, casual and predatory. I rolled one shoulder just like she did when she was sizing someone up. And when I spoke again, it was her voice, down to the clipped rhythm and barely restrained snarl.

“See the difference?” I asked—in her tone. “It’s not just looking like you. It’s thinking like you. Moving like you. Being you.”

I dropped the jutsu, and the illusion peeled away like mist.

“You’re hung up on the visual,” I said, meeting her eyes. “But appearances don’t hold up under pressure. Behavior does. That’s what’ll get us through the next checkpoint without a kunai in the ribs.”

Her scowl faded as she stared, eyes narrowing—not in annoyance, but curiosity. Like she was trying to figure out how the hell I’d pulled it off.

“You want to stay alive?” I added. “Then start thinking like someone who isn’t a shinobi. Remember the Yugakure locals we passed a few hours ago—what did they wear? How did they move? How did they look at the locals? Civilians have habits. Posture. Pick it up, mimic it. You don’t need to be perfect, just forgettable.”

I picked the book back up and flipped to the page I’d dog-eared. “Blend in. That’s the mission now.”

Tsume stared at me for a moment. "That was... really creepy. But also kind of amazing."

"Creepy's good. Means it's working." I settled back onto the couch. "Try it again, but this time don't just change your face. Change everything—how you hold your shoulders, how you breathe, even how you think. We need to be able to walk through Yugakure tomorrow without anyone giving us a second glance."

She gave a small nod, then closed her eyes. I could see her replaying the faces we’d passed on the road earlier, sorting through the details—clothing, posture, the way the villagers had looked at one another: brief, familiar glances, casual and unguarded, never lingering too long.

This time, when she activated the jutsu, the improvement was immediate. Still rough in places, but the difference was night and day.

“Better,” I said, flipping another page. “Your left eye’s still a little off, and you’re clenching your jaw too much. But yeah—this version might actually fool someone who’s not looking too closely.”

She frowned. “How do you even notice stuff like that?”

“Practice, and a disturbingly good eye for detail.” I murmured, scribbling a note in the margin. “Keep working on it. The more natural it looks, the less likely those assassins are to spot us."

She was just starting another attempt when Mikoto stepped into the doorway, holding a small plate like it might break if she moved too fast. On it sat what could only be described as the world’s most apologetic sandwich.

“Sorry,” she murmured, setting it down on the low table beside the couch. "That's all I could manage with what they had in the kitchen. Some kind of fish paste and pickled vegetables."

I glanced at the sad little thing—uneven bread, fillings sliding out like they were trying to escape—and smiled. “You kidding? After the night we’ve had, this looks like a feast.”

“You’re allowed to call it sad. I won’t be offended,” she said, easing down beside me. Her shoulder brushed mine for just a second. I caught the faint scent of her shampoo beneath the clean, mineral bite of hot spring steam. “You already paid, and we haven’t even touched our ryokan dinner. They probably had real food. Meat. Fresh vegetables. Not something scraped out of a jar.”

“Hey,” I said gently. “We’re alive. We’ve got a roof over our heads, and someone who cared enough to make me a sandwich even when she was tired. That counts for something.”

Her lips tugged into a small smile. “It’s just fish paste.”

“It’s perfect,” I said, picking up the sandwich and taking a bite. The fish paste was salty and rich, the pickled vegetables sharp enough to cut through it. Rough around the edges, but strangely comforting.

“See?” I said, mouth half full. “Perfect.”

Mikoto let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. The tension eased from her shoulders. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not. Though I’ll admit,” I said, licking a bit of fish paste from my thumb, “I’ve already started planning what I’m going to cook once we get actual ingredients. Real spices. Fresh garlic sizzling in oil. Maybe some thick slices of pork belly—crispy on the edges, dripping with fat, the kind that melts on your tongue.”

Across the room, Tsume let out an audible whine.

“Stop,” she groaned. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

I grinned. “A hot pot, maybe. Rich broth, tender meat, vegetables that haven’t been pickled to death... Oh—and rice. Real rice. Steaming, fluffy, slightly sweet.”

“You monster, now you're just being mean, I’m trying to focus here.”

“Then focus on your breathing,” I called, leaning back into the couch and thumbing the corner of the book.

Mikoto smiled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, but then her expression grew serious again. "Shinji... who were those men? The ones who attacked us?"

I chewed thoughtfully, considering how much to tell her. "I have some ideas, but I'm not sure if I should—" I paused, a thought occurring to me. "Actually, did you happen to grab a bingo book when you packed our gear?"

"I did." She reached into her pack and pulled out the familiar booklet. "Why?"

I took it and started flipping through, skimming the rows of faces and inked descriptions. “Just want to check something.”

It took a few minutes, but then I found him. The last assassin—the one who’d bled out in the alley. The photo was older, his hair shorter, eyes a little less dead, but it was definitely him. Same sharp cheekbones. Same predator’s gaze.

“Koichi Ando,” I read aloud. “Missing-nin from Kirigakure. Charged with assassination, espionage, and theft of village secrets. Bounty: 85,000 ryo.”

Mikoto leaned closer to look at the page. "That's one of them?"

“The last one we killed, yeah.” I snapped the book shut. “Which means we weren’t just jumped by nobodies—we were dealing with professionals. Hired killers.”

“But why would missing-nin want to kill us?” Tsume had stopped practicing altogether, her focus now locked on me. “We’re just genin. Did someone hire them?”

"Missing-nin don't usually work for free," Mikoto said quietly, her brow furrowed in thought. "And they definitely don't target random genin teams unless..." She looked at me with dawning realization. "Could this be connected to your secret mission from Tsunade-sensei?"

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. “You’re too sharp for your own good, you know that?”

“So that’s a yes,” she said, voice flat.

"It might be the case," I admitted, setting the bingo book aside. "Which is exactly why we can't leave Yugakure until we complete the mission. We need to find our target as fast as possible, deliver the message, and get home before more of these bastards show up."

Tsume blinked. “Wait. More of them?”

"Where there's one missing-nin, there's usually more," I said. "And if someone's paying good money to have us killed, they're not going to stop after one failed attempt."

Silence settled over the room. Tsume looked like she had a dozen questions bubbling behind her teeth. Mikoto sat back, her lips pressed in a thin line, eyes distant. Thinking.

"Right then," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "All the more reason to get stronger while we can. Knowledge is power, and right now, I've got some reading to catch up on, and then some sleep. Hopefully in that order."

I glanced at Tsume. “Keep practicing your henge. Get it tight, then get some rest. We’ll need every edge we can get tomorrow.”

She gave a faint nod, still distracted.

I turned back to the medical text, flipping pages with one hand while holding the half-eaten sandwich in the other. Tsunade’s notes were savage but layered with insight—hidden threads tying chakra theory to living anatomy.

I didn’t just read them. I studied. Connected dots. Mapped chakra threads onto nerves, imagined how they pulsed through tissue. Flexed my fingers and watched the diagrams like they might move if I understood them well enough. The technique demanded incredibly precise control—too little chakra and nothing happened; too much, and you could actually damage the patient’s cells.

I set the sandwich down, wiped my fingers, and began forming the seals described in the margins.

The chakra moved differently than before. Warmer. More precise. Like threading silk through a needle in the dark.

When I opened my eyes, my right hand glowed with a faint green light.

“Holy...” Tsume had frozen mid-practice, eyes locked on my glowing hand. “Did you just learn that from a book?”

“Looks like it.” I flexed my fingers, watching green chakra swirl around them in soft spirals. It didn’t hurt—just felt different.

I needed to test it, see if it actually worked. Without really thinking about it, I reached for one of my kunai and made a small cut on my left forearm. Nothing deep, just enough to draw blood.

"Shinji!" Mikoto grabbed my wrist. "What are you doing?"

“Testing,” I said, gently pulling free. “Don’t worry.”

I pressed my glowing right hand to the wound. The effect was instant.

A warm, tingling sensation bloomed beneath my skin, as if the chakra were stitching the wound together thread by thread. Blood welled up, then stopped. The cut pulled shut on its own, smooth and clean. New skin formed in its place, soft and pale.

In less than thirty seconds, it was over. Only a faint pink line remained—and even that was already fading.

“That’s incredible,” Mikoto breathed, brushing her finger across the spot where the wound had been.

“And incredibly dangerous if you screw it up.” I let the jutsu fade and flexed my hand, trying to shake off the odd warmth still lingering in my skin. “The book says if you use too much chakra, you can kill the cells. Too little and nothing happens. It’s all about walking the edge without falling off.”

I leaned back into the couch, eyes on the fading mark along my arm. The sandwich sat untouched beside me, forgotten as my thoughts drifted—not to the jutsu, but to the bigger problem. Danzo. No amount of healing would fix what was coming if I didn’t figure out a way to deal with him first.

Then, without a word, Mikoto reached over and picked up the half-eaten sandwich, taking a bite like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She gave me a quick glance and said, “Well… if you're learning to heal yourself, I guess I don’t have to stress about accidentally killing you with dinner anymore.”

I smirked. “Comforting. Remind me to keep my jutsu ready whenever you offer to cook.”

Across the room, Tsume was staring at us, eyes wide in a mix of disbelief and something that looked a lot like secondhand embarrassment.

"What?" Mikoto asked, noticing Tsume's expression.

Tsume blinked, then rolled her eyes like she couldn’t believe what she’d just witnessed. “Nothing,” she muttered, shaking her head. Before either of us could respond, she turned back to her corner with a dramatic sigh. “Going back to practicing. At least chakra doesn’t flirt in front of me.”

Mikoto leaned back beside me, brushing a few crumbs from her lap—clearly choosing to ignore the comment. “So. What’s next? Do we go looking for your contact, or start figuring out who sent the assassins?”

"We find Jiraiya and deliver the message," I said finally. "The sooner we complete this mission, the sooner we can get back to Konoha and out of whoever's crosshairs we've wandered into."

She bumped my shoulder again. "Think we'll actually find him tomorrow?"

I thought about it for a moment—tracking down a legendary pervert in a village full of hot springs while avoiding professional assassins.

"We'll find him," I said, settling deeper into the couch with the medical text. "How hard can it be to locate one white-haired pervert with a giggling problem?"

"Famous last words," Tsume muttered from across the room, finally getting her henge to look almost right. Almost.