"No good!"
"Still no good!"
"This is all garbage!"
Konoha Weekly headquarters.
President's office.
Homura Mitokado sat behind his desk, eyes bloodshot, surrounded by mountains of crumpled paper. Ever since Hiruzen had handed him the newspaper to run, Homura had thrown himself into it completely. He was done playing second fiddle. He was going to crush the Sand Village's Ninja World Big Events Weekly and prove he could deliver results.
He had copied their format exactly—half hard news, half serialized story. The news section was easy. The war had just ended; there were plenty of fresh stories to print. The real problem was the fiction.
He had scoured the entire village for writers. Dozens of people had submitted drafts. None of them came close to matching The Basilisk Scroll. Not even in the same league.
Homura slammed another rejected manuscript onto the floor.
"Konoha is supposed to be the greatest village in the world. We've got more talent, more money, more everything. How the hell can we not beat a bunch of desert rats when it comes to telling a story?"
He paced, muttering to himself.
"That bastard Rasa must have found some hidden genius. I need to steal him. A guy who pours this much time into writing novels can't be some elite jonin. Probably just a civilian with a hobby. I can make him an offer he can't refuse."
He called in an ANBU operative.
"Contact our spies in Sunagakure. Find out who this 'Kagetsu' really is. I want a name by tomorrow."
The operative bowed and vanished.
Homura stared out the window, jaw tight.
"But I can't put all my eggs in one basket. Worst case… I'll write the damn thing myself."
A slow, confident smile spread across his face.
"My life story will crush that made-up ninja garbage. Who wouldn't want to read about the real adventures of a Konoha elder and direct disciple of the Second Hokage? That's legendary shit. Way more exciting than some fictional daimyo forcing ninja to kill each other."
He summoned a young Chunin with decent handwriting.
"Write this down. Every word. My real life. No embellishment needed—the truth is already better than fiction."
The young ninja hesitated, then nodded quickly. Arguing with an elder and newspaper president was career suicide.
For three straight days they worked. Homura dictated. The Chunin wrote, rewrote, and polished. They barely slept. When they finally finished the first arc, Homura read it aloud, nodding in satisfaction.
"This is gold. Far superior to that Sand Village trash. It's real. People will eat it up."
The first issue of Konoha Weekly rolled off the presses and flooded the village and the Land of Fire. Merchants helped distribute it. Homura stood on the roof of the newspaper building, arms crossed, watching the papers spread.
"Now we wait for the feedback. I'm going to bury Rasa's little rag."
It didn't take long.
Several messengers sprinted back to the office, faces pale. They stood in front of Homura, none of them wanting to speak first.
Homura's patience snapped.
"You. Talk."
The unlucky ninja swallowed hard.
"Lord Homura… the readers hate the story. They said it's boring garbage. No tension, no excitement. Just some old guy bragging about his past. They're asking for refunds and demanding we bring back The Basilisk Scroll."
Homura's face went rigid. The color drained from his cheeks, replaced by a deep, furious red. His hands clenched into fists so tight the knuckles cracked.
"Those ungrateful bastards…"