Naruko was strong.
She was far stronger than her skinny frame suggested—stronger than me, at least. Granted, I wasn't exactly a powerhouse, but she even outmuscled Hinata, a taijutsu specialist. And while the Gentle Fist didn't rely on brute force, raw strength still mattered in taijutsu. Hinata had been trained rigorously since childhood.
And yet, Naruko surpassed her.
I chalked it up to more sorcerer nonsense. The point was: I wasn't strong enough to hold Naruko back without using jutsu. Thankfully, Hinata was there to pick up the slack, keeping her pinned in place.
Jiraiya watched the struggle with a sad frown, his gaze flicking between us.
"Let her go."
I blinked, certain I had misheard. Hinata, however, released Naruko immediately.
She wasted no time, slipping from my grip and charging straight at Jiraiya.
I winced, bracing for the one-sided beating that was sure to follow. And I was right—just in the wrong direction.
Naruko's fist slammed into Jiraiya's stomach, folding the legendary sage in half. Her follow-up hook snapped his head sideways, spraying blood and spit. What came after was less a fight and more a savage thrashing.
By the end, Naruko stood panting, bloodied knuckles trembling. Jiraiya looked like he'd just been dragged through T&I. Which should have been impossible—unless…
"Feel better?" Jiraiya rasped through the one eye that wasn't swelling shut.
He had let it happen. And judging by his state, he hadn't even bothered reinforcing himself with chakra.
Naruko didn't answer at first. She just stared at his battered face, guilt worming its way into her anger. Finally, after a long silence:
"A little."
"Glad I could be of service," Jiraiya said, flashing a bloody grin that only deepened the pit in her stomach.
"What are you doing here?" Naruko asked, her fury giving way to something worse—betrayed sadness.
"I'm sorry."
The words hit like a shuriken. Naruko froze, eyes wide. A part of her rage had always come from the certainty that he would never apologize—that he wouldn't even feel bad about abandoning her. The very concept of someone regretting how they had treated her felt alien.
"Your father… he was very special to me. The day he made me your godfather was one of the happiest of my life. I'm sorry I didn't live up to that." Jiraiya bowed his head, voice low and remorseful.
"Then where were you?" Naruko's voice cracked.
He searched for words, then muttered only one:
"Running."
"Why?" Naruko demanded, anger flashing again.
"I screw up a lot, kid. And screwing you up… that would've been more than I could take."
Which was ridiculous. She was a demon container, in a village where every third person had lost someone to the very demon she carried. And his solution was to abandon her so she wouldn't become one of his fuck ups?
What a wonderful way to outsource your fuck ups.
"Who?" Naruko snapped.
"…Huh?"
"Who was he?" Her eyes bored into him, sharp as kunai.
Jiraiya opened his mouth, closed it again, then turned to our sensei. The old man kept a calm exterior, though faint hope simmered beneath his chakra. Hope for what, I couldn't say.
"If you intend to keep your word, you must make such choices yourself," our sensei said evenly. "I have taught you all you need to walk your own path."
Jiraiya's face twisted in inner conflict. Naruko waited, unusually patient, eyes locked on him like a hawk.
Finally, he closed his eyes, drew a breath, and looked upward as if searching for strength. His gaze shifted, settling on the distance. We all followed.
The Hokage Monument.
Naruko's pulse spiked through our bond. Disbelief and desperate hope warred in her mind as her eyes fixed on the last face carved into stone.
Minato Namikaze.
The Yellow Flash.
"…The Fourth Hokage," Hinata whispered, shock matching my own. Even with Kurama's hints, hearing the truth left me reeling.
"He was your student," Naruko croaked, staring at the stone face.
"That he was." Jiraiya nodded. His eyes softened, distant. "When I first took him in, I only wanted another student. I didn't expect the bond to… to mean so much."
"My mom?"
"Kushina Uzumaki was a wildfire," Jiraiya said with a faint smile. "Head over heels for your father with nerves of steel. You're more like her, honestly—more Uzumaki than Namikaze."
"Why me?" Naruko whispered.
We all knew what she meant. The Nine-Tails.
"Because he believed—if anyone could bear that burden and turn it into strength—it was you." Pride radiated from Jiraiya's voice.
…Which was insane. Who seals a mountain-sized demon inside a newborn out of faith? Who gambles a child's life on "they're special, they'll endure it"?
I wanted to scream at the stupidity of it. But Naruko's feelings gave me pause. Yes, there was rage at the burden forced on her. But deeper than that was awe. Love.
No one had ever truly believed in Naruko, the dead last. Some had high hopes, but no one had staked anything real on her. She had always carried that belief in herself, because no one else would.
Until now.
Her parents had believed in her before she was even born. When she was nothing but hope, they had entrusted her with everything.
Tears blurred my vision—hers, not mine—as she gazed up at her father's face, carved in stone. A man who had died believing his village, his dream, was safe in her hands.
I felt her spirit steady. The chaotic storm of her emotions went still. For a moment, she was razor-focused.
"Jiraiya?" she whispered.
"Yeah?"
"You taught him everything, didn't you?"
"Every single thing. Then he turned it around, taught me a few lessons too."
"Teach me." Her voice was firm.
Jiraiya's eyes widened, surprise flashing before he masked it with bravado.
"Who do you think I am? I made a bet, didn't I? And the great Jiraiya, Toad Sage of Mount Myōboku, never goes back on his word! Haha!" His booming laugh, undercut by a broken face, only added to the moment's strange charm.
Though Hinata, whose face had remained scarily placid throughout this entire interaction beside the revealing of Naruko's parentage, did not react. She watched Jiraiya with eyes that were not quite cold but did not hold their usual warmth. Hinata could hold a grudge, who knew?
"Good," our sensei said, cutting in, drawing every eye. He smiled.
"Then let us begin."
XXXXXXXXX
I heaved ragged breaths, sweat pouring down my forehead as I collapsed into the grass of the training ground. My bo staff still rested firmly in my grip—never let go of your weapon. Sensei had drilled that lesson into me along with the basic forms of bo staff combat in this little session.
He was an absolute taskmaster.
Every mistake was punished with a sharp strike to the body or limbs, the brutal pace pushing my endurance to the limit. At least I wasn't suffering alone. Himebuta, who had also been enduring bo staff drills from a crotchety old monkey summoned by my sensei, lay sprawled beside me just as exhausted.
"C'mon, sonnies! I've seen tougher hides on red-cheeked newborns!" a rough, elderly female voice croaked from the treetops above.
Despite our aches, Himebuta and I instinctively rolled aside just in time to avoid the descending staff strike that cracked the earth where we'd been lying. Perched in our spot was an elderly baboon, cloaked in an ashen dress and adorned with golden jewelry—a circlet inset with red rubies gleaming on her brow.
I sprang to my feet, bo staff in hand, keeping my distance. My chakra network—sealed and recovering as it was—left me with only scraps, barely enough for minor jutsu. No battlefield zipping around for me this time. I'd have to stay patient. Wait for an openin-
"Aaahhh!" squeaked Himebuta, charging forward in blind panic, all form abandoned.
I sighed. If nothing else, his beatdown would give me an opening.
Our opponent's weapon wasn't a wooden staff but a monk's khakkhara—metal, ringed, and maddeningly musical. Every swing sent golden chimes ringing through the air. Perhaps meant to be calming, but today's thrashing forever ruined windchimes for me.
A sharp chime accompanied Himebuta getting clocked in the face. I lunged in, thrusting forward, but the old baboon slipped under and swept my legs. I landed hard, head perfectly aligned for the swinging golden ring.
Then I saw stars.
When I came to, I was lying under a tree's shade. Groaning, I rolled to my knees and spotted my sensei calmly puffing his pipe. Beside him sat the old baboon, Fumiyo-san, waving away the smoke with a scrunched face.
"Must you?" she asked, voice cracked with age yet smooth as velvet.
"Are you interested in this hat?" Sensei replied without pause.
The look on her face suggested she'd rather eat glass.
"Then don't judge my methods of relaxation." He exhaled another smoke ring.
"You were better behaved as a young'n," Fumiyo scolded, brow furrowed.
"And you were prettier," came Sensei's immediate reply.
Fumiyo gasped, staff lifting in outrage—until Sensei added smoothly, "Prettier doesn't mean you aren't still quite fetching, Fumiyo-san."
The old baboon blinked once, twice, then lowered her staff with a giggle. "Oh, Hiruzen, you sly devil."
Watching her suddenly eye my sensei's robes with curiosity, I wondered if the Sarutobi clan didn't, in fact, have a bit of monkey blood.
A loud pop drew my gaze to Naruko and Jiraiya a few feet away. Naruko stood proudly in a puddle of shredded water balloons.
"I did it!" she beamed.
"Yeah, you did. It's only the first step but you did it." Jiraiya replied cautiously, though the smile tugging his lips betrayed his pride.
Naruko flushed under the paternal approval, still wary of him but unable to ignore it. To cut the awkwardness, I chimed in:
"First step to what?"
Naruko's face lit up when she noticed I was awake. She ran over and hugged me, muddy and soaking wet, and I returned it just as fiercely. We hadn't spent a moment outside the other's presence but I can see how she would need some affection after the morning's revelations.
"The Rasengan—Lord Fourth'-...my father's signature jutsu."
I let the turmoil in her tone slide. We'd deal with that later.
"'Spiral ball,' huh? What does it do?" I asked.
Jiraiya grinned, holding out his palm. Slowly, chakra swirled from his tenketsu, whirling into a compressed sphere of grinding energy. The forest filled with the sound of air tearing against itself.
"The Rasengan!" he declared, lunging backward and ramming it into a tree. Bark and sawdust erupted, the orb boring a hole into the tree before imploding into itself. When the dust settled, the tree trunk was gone—obliterated.
Damn. My Vortex Bullet didn't even come close.
"That was so cool!" Naruko squealed.
Jiraiya laughed. "That's right. And if you master this, it'll be you soon."
"What's next?" she asked eagerly.
"Now you pop a rubber ball!" He unsealed a barrel of them.
"Ugh," Naruko groaned but got to work.
"Fascinating. All that from compressed, rotating chakra," I muttered.
"You got that from seeing it once?" Jiraiya asked, staring.
"To be fair, I already made a similar jutsu," I said casually.
Jiraiya stared at me like I was a zoo exhibit.
Sensei's eyes narrowed. "And when were you going to tell me about this, Izuku?"
"When my chakra system recovered and I could show you?" I hedged, hoping that sounded better than 'I forgot'.
He gave me the look—the one that said he knew exactly what I was doing—but let it slide. For now.
"Show me."
I took his hand and cast the Mind-Meld, sharing knowledge of my Vortex Missile. Sensei flashed through sixteen signs—more than my twelve for the base magic missile—and unleashed a bus-sized tornado that gouged a trench through the forest, annihilating trees in its path.
Holy shit. That would erase anyone in front of it. I wanted that.
Note to self: find ways to increase chakra capacity.
Naruko gaped. "Izuku made that?!"
"Yeah," I said. "But it's less impressive when I do it."
"I wanna learn it!"
"You lack the chakra control," Sensei shut her down bluntly.
I patted her shoulder as she sulked. Meanwhile, Jiraiya's sharp eyes locked onto me. "Have you tried adding nature transformation?"
"Unwise," Sensei cut in. "It's unstable enough. Adding volatility risks the caster's life."
Yeah—mental image of my head vaporizing in red mist. Hard pass.
"Izuku," Sensei said dryly, "any other projects to confess?"
"…Well…"
Deadpan stare.
I shook Himebuta awake. "Up and at 'em, buddy. Sensei wants to see our project."
Groaning, he dragged himself up. "It is completed, Izuku-sama."
"Really?"
"Yes." He unrolled a scroll, unsealing a small wooden box. Inside: a wooden slab with carved buttons labeled in Arabic numerals. The presence of such numbers in Edo-like Japan always bugged me—nobody ever explained their origin. Not the academy, not the library. Still, convenient. I wouldn't have to explain inventing a numerical system for my future inventions.
"Behold—the first fuinjutsu computer."
Sensei, Jiraiya, and Fumiyo inspected it.
"How does it work?" Sensei asked.
"You know how processors are just vast networks of on-off switches?" My sensei and Jiraiya nodded. This wasn't a surprise while Konoha had not been able to decipher the programming language that the machines run on, they were able to determine how the computer was constructed.
"Well, fuinjutsu already works in two states: seal and unseal. So I built a programming language inspired by that. Binary." which was somewhat true, but there were very large differences between the dual states of fuinjutsu and coding. Fuinjutsu mostly focused on sealing something in one form and unsealing it in another form or in another time or place. While binary was more focused on forming complex flowcharts of multiple permutations of binary options to create increasingly dynamic systems ad infinitum.
Still, it was a good enough justification for a young prodigy to make a mental leap to the invention of a number system that would form the basis for a programming language.
The silence that followed my statement was deafening.
Fumiyo's eyes glowed with an almost predatory interest. Sensei puffed larger clouds of smoke. Jiraiya suddenly looked like he needed sake.
"Of course you did," Sensei muttered, smiling despite himself.
I popped open the device, revealing a slot for the "processor." I unsealed my processor—a small rolled up piece of paper containing many dots formed from hundreds of logic gate seals compressed into singular ink dot seals—seals within a seals, the fruit of many laborious chakra control sessions—and slotted it inside.
Sensei tested it then handed it to Jiraiya. Both were stunned.
"It's only a proof of concept," I said. "It just does calculations for now."
Sensei's voice grew solemn. "Izuku, this is monumental. Programming has been a guarded corporate secret for decades. You've just given Konoha a wellspring of wealth."
"…You're welcome?"
"You will be well rewarded," he said, resting a hand on my head.
"Good work too, Himebuta."
The little monkey squirmed, cheeks red. Fumiyo barked, "Stand tall, sonny! Be proud!" though her chakra radiated maternal pride.
Fumiyo eventually excused herself, claiming she had some books to organise—aparently she was the librarian of Huaguo mountain—vanishing in smoke.
Sensei turned back to us, a malicious smile spreading across his face as he drew his staff.
"Impressive inventions aside, your training is not over. Not for either of you."
It was not a pleasant afternoon.
XXXXXXXXX
He followed Lord Third into the deep, dark depths of the subterranean tunnel network that made up the Root area of operations within the village. His hopes of never having to see this place again had been thoroughly destroyed. It seemed he could not rid himself of this place, but Konoha required a new leader in the dark, and Lord Third had chosen him.
He did not relish the task ahead of him, but he did not shy away from it either. He would no doubt be committing many heinous acts in the course of his stay in this office, but it was all for Konoha.
All for Sasuke.
"Here," Lord Third said as he led them into a room. Itachi recognized the room—it was a place he had not wished to ever return to. The hissing noise of the apparatus that kept one Danzo Shimura among the living, despite his severe lack of vital organs, grated on Itachi's nerves in a special way.
It was the unwellness of it. The way it blurred the lines between life and death, the perpetuation of an end that should have been painful yet swift. It felt… unclean.
Yet the Third watched this abomination with fond remembrance instead of gut-churning horror. How one man could be capable of such kindness and forgiveness one moment and unholy retribution the next, Itachi would never understand.
"What the hell is that?!" voiced one of the companions on this trip. Anko Mitarashi did not seem in any way disturbed by this. No—she was interested, a sort of professional curiosity gleaming in her eyes like a blacksmith inspecting a particularly well-made blade.
"Damn, old man, this is some good work," she said, leaning in and carefully inspecting where Danzo's head met the wood of his pedestal.
"Thank you, Anko-chan," Lord Third said with a humble smile.
"Ooohh, is he awake? Can he still… feel?" came the overly enthusiastic question of Itachi's new student.
Korumaru Hidachi inspected the former Yami no Shinobi with barely contained excitement and poorly concealed sadistic glee. Glee she shouldn't have bothered to conceal. Lord Third and Anko-san clearly approved of her thirst for pain and suffering.
"Yes, he can. In fact, he is perfectly cognizant, and I will be using him as a teaching aid to make you all aware of your duties moving forward," Lord Third said.
"Really?" Anko-san asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "He doesn't seem very talkative to me."
"Don't worry, that is no hindrance," Lord Third replied. Then, without any hand signs, he cast an unknown jutsu. Suddenly, Itachi could sense the thoughts of everybody present. The Third was calm and inscrutable as always, even while sharing headspace with three other people. Anko-san seemed similarly confused, as he himself felt, but the youngest member of this meeting of minds was not put off at all—she seemed to carry some sort of familiarity with this jutsu.
"We will be getting our information straight from the source."
Then Itachi felt his mind come into contact with the shattered remnants of Elder Shimura. His vision shifted as they were all sucked into his demented mind.