Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Uzuki Yugao sat cross-legged on the polished wooden floor of the ANBU HQ’s Rō Room. The soft rustle of fabric accompanied her movements as she tucked a storage scroll into her bag—one that already held numerous others. Her fingers worked quickly but precisely. Without missing a beat, she turned and unfurled a fresh scroll, sealing away two additional katanas before storing that one as well.

Raising her head, she glanced at the man across from her—the one clad in the standard ANBU uniform, his fox-shaped mask concealing his features. Strands of jet-black hair draped messily over the| mask, partially obscuring the sharp eyes she knew lay behind it.

“Kitsune-senpai,” Yugao addressed him with calm reverence, “I’ve packed supplies for up to eight months—kunai, shuriken, and two extra katanas.”

A sudden voice chimed in, breaking the focus.

“Senpai, with all that extra gear, people might think you’re going rogue.” Tenzo stepped into the room, smirking at his own joke.

Kitsune didn’t even glance up from his own equipment. His voice was gravelly, irritated, and clearly not in the mood for jokes. “What the hell are you talking about? Did you not read the report?”

Tenzo deadpanned, mentally kicking himself for trying to lighten the mood. Even with her face hidden behind her mask, Yugao’s silence felt scathing, as if her eyes were boring straight through him in annoyance.

“Ever since that war against a so-called god five years ago, those damned Zetsu are still scattered across the world,” Kitsune continued, his voice laced with venom. “Hiding like rats in a sewer. Disguised. Lurking.”

He let out a bitter exhale before continuing, his voice edged with frustration. “According to Naruto’s report, the Kyūbi’s ability to detect negative emotions was key in locating them. That gave me an idea—I’ve been working on a new seal ever since."

Kitsune formed a hand sign, and a shadow clone poofed into existence beside him. Without a word, it walked over to his locker and retrieved three paper seals etched with intricate patterns. The clone handed one to Tenzo and another to Yugao before dispersing in a puff of smoke.

“This seal—once placed over your heart and activated with a half-tiger hand seal—will resonate through your chest, then channel into your eyes,” Kitsune explained, his voice now tired but determined. “

"At first, I tried making a seal that'll allow you to 'sense'—noting the advantages of what sensing holds—but it kept failing during field simulations,” Kitsune admitted, his tone heavy with the weight of sleepless nights. “The problem is, sensing relies too much on personal chakra flow, intuition, and environmental chakra—none of which can be easily standardized or stabilized through a seal.”

He stood, adjusting the strap of his bag as his gaze fell on the seal in Tenzo’s hand.

“Every shinobi's chakra reacts differently. Too many variables. For some, the seal would flood them with false positives. Others felt nothing at all. Worse, in high-density chakra zones, the feedback loop was overwhelming—some testers blacked out entirely. It was too unstable.”

Kitsune tapped his temple lightly.

“That’s why I shifted gears. Instead of trying to 'feel' what’s hidden, I developed a seal that lets us 'see' the world differently—through layers. Chakra patterns, disturbances, inconsistencies. It’s not perfect, but it filters visual data instead of sensory input. That made it safer, and more reliable.”

He turned to face them fully now, his tone settling into the cold confidence of a seasoned operative.

“It’s not like a Byakugan or Sharingan. But if a Zetsu masks itself with henge or burrows into a clone, this seal will distort that illusion. It turns camouflage into static. Lies into light. And that,” he said with finality, “might just give us the edge we need.”

A quiet beat passed as Tenzo rotated the seal in his hand, eyebrows furrowed. “This is beyond conventional fūinjutsu... it’s practically optical encoding.”

Kitsune nodded once. “Exactly. That’s what makes it superior to the old hexagon field seals used during the Fourth War.”

At that, Yugao glanced up. “You mean the sensory hexagon?”

Kitsune walked over to the corner of the room where a folded canvas scroll was tucked between gear racks. He unraveled it to reveal the classic hexagon sensory seal—six overlapping glyphs arranged in a circular formation, each one representing a different chakra orientation: spatial pressure, density, elemental presence, emotional output, pulse fluctuation, and ambient chakra distortion.

“The hexagon seal was revolutionary during the war,” Kitsune admitted. “Drop it in the center of an area, and you get a six-point reading field that triangulates chakra irregularities. But it was static—fixed to its deployment zone. And it was too general. It couldn’t distinguish a Zetsu from a civilian if the readings were similar enough. The smarter ones learned to mimic normal chakra pulses to blend in.”

He tapped his newer seal again. “This? It’s personal. Mobile. Adaptive. It draws calibration from your own chakra signature and feeds it through a controlled visualization filter. What you see is shaped by your intent. If you’re looking for clones, you’ll spot patterns in repetition. If you’re hunting hidden chakra sources, you’ll notice overlays that shouldn’t be there.”

Yugao looked back down at hers, grip tightening. “So this seal doesn’t detect like the hexagon—it interprets.”

Kitsune smiled faintly. “Exactly.”

Tenzo spoke next, voice lower. “This kind of seal... it could change recon protocol completely.”

“It will,” Kitsune said, turning back toward his locker. “Assuming it doesn’t get us killed first.”

He gave Yugao and Tenzo a moment to absorb the weight of his words before moving back to his gear.

With practiced movements, he pulled out three ninjatō, sealed them into another scroll, and stowed it in a pouch labeled Weapons.

Tenzo studied the seal in his hand, raising it toward his chest—but a calm, familiar voice halted him.

“Don’t even think about it, Tenzo.”

Kakashi’s unmistakable figure leaned casually against the doorway, Icha Icha Paradise open in his hands, eyes never leaving the page.

“Rokudaime-sama!” Tenzo and Yugao snapped to attention, bowing deeply, completely caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the Hokage himself.

Kakashi waved a hand lazily, sighing. “Maa… drop the honorifics already. Just call me like you used to.”

Yugao cocked her head, curiosity lacing her tone. “Roku—, senpai, why are you wearing your old uniform?”

“Maa… Kitsune said I was needed for the mission. Knowing him, there wasn’t much of a choice.” Kakashi closed his book, walking toward an old locker and pulling out his Inu mask. “Tsunade agreed to handle my paperwork for the time being. Situation’s that serious... apparently."

“So that’s why Sai’s babysitting Orochimaru,” Tenzo muttered under his breath. His comment didn’t go unnoticed.

“But why is Genma here?” he asked aloud.

"Don't mind him," Kitsune said, brushing off Genma’s mock-hurt tone with the indifference of someone long past exasperation. “Genma, Raido, and Iwashi are still working on enhancing their Flying Thunder God Formation using seal matrices.”

A weary sigh escaped him—heavy, as if burdened by countless hours of pestering. Kitsune could vividly recall how the trio had hounded him nonstop, begging for lessons on advanced sealing techniques. It was like training stubborn stray dogs—relentless and loud.

"And what the hell are you standing around for?" he snapped, his masked face turned sharply toward Tenzo.

Even without seeing Kitsune’s expression, Tenzo felt the weight of his senpai’s glare—it hit like a kunai to the back.

“Y-Yes, sir!” Tenzo replied instantly and vanished in a blur of motion using the Body Flicker Jutsu, leaving behind only the faint rustle of disturbed air.

“Maa, Kitsune… you’re too harsh on him,” Kakashi murmured from where he leaned casually against the wall, nose still buried in Icha Icha Paradise.

“Huh?” Kitsune turned his masked face toward him with a scoff. “Are you suffering from brain damage, Kakashi? Did you forget you were the one who constantly bullied Tenzo back in the day?”

“Maa, maa, those were the good ol’ times,” Kakashi replied with a nostalgic shrug, as if verbal torment had been some wholesome team-building exercise.

Kitsune's eye twitched beneath his mask. He stared at Kakashi for a long moment, then exhaled sharply and turned back to organizing his scrolls. Arguing with Kakashi was a battle not even worth picking.

Finally, Kitsune slung his packed bag over his shoulder. The rest of the team was assembled and ready—save for one missing member. Two and a half hours passed before Tenzo returned, clad in his old ANBU Tora mask and shouldering a full gear pack.

“About time,” Kitsune muttered, rising from his seat. “Let’s move.”

Just as the group was about to head out, a sudden shout split the air.

“Guys, dodge!” Genma's voice cracked with urgency.

Yugao, Tenzo, Kakashi, and Kitsune froze in place, startled.

Dodge? Yugao thought, puzzled. We’re inside ANBU HQ. This place is locked tighter than the Daimyō’s treasury. What could we possibly be dodging?

“Shit!” Genma cursed again, louder this time. “Underneath!”

Their eyes snapped downward—and there it was. A spreading blot of black ink, slick and serpentine, slithered across the floor like spilled blood. It traced a path directly to the seal Genma had been working on.

Yugao tried to move her legs. Nothing.

“Wha—my legs!” Tenzo grunted.

They were paralyzed from the knees down. The ink pulsed ominously as the lines connected to the half-finished fuinjutsu array.

“Genma!” Kitsune roared, the name sharp as a kunai’s edge.

Genma winced at the fury in his voice. Kitsune was supposed to be his junior—age-wise speaking—but in this moment, the title meant nothing under the weight of that commanding tone.

“What the hell did you do?!”

“It was an accident! I spilled the ink!” Genma yelped.

Silence.

Then the whole team erupted in unison:

“You spilled the fucking WHAT now?!”

Every shinobi knew the golden rule of fuinjutsu: never spill chakra-infused ink on an active or incomplete seal. The results were always volatile, unpredictable—and often catastrophic.

Before Genma could even offer a half-baked excuse, the room was consumed by a sudden, blinding light. A high-pitched screech tore through their ears like steel scraping steel. Their stomachs churned as vertigo took hold.

Then, the sensation hit—like being yanked through the eye of a cyclone.

Yugao’s breath was ripped from her lungs. Kitsune’s fingers clawed instinctively for the ground. Tenzo shouted something, but it was lost in the chaos. And Kakashi… Kakashi simply muttered, “Tch. I knew trouble is bound to caught up to us sooner or later."

And in the blink of an eye—

They were gone.

Team Ro materialized with a violent crack into the middle of a dense forest, the air shimmering faintly where they appeared. Trees stretched high above, their thick canopies casting mottled shadows over the mossy forest floor. Birds scattered from the treetops in alarm, sensing the sudden disturbance.

The moment their feet hit the ground, all four shinobi collapsed to their knees.

Kitsune, Kakashi, Yugao, and Tenzo doubled over, hacking violently. The world spun around them like a top. Kitsune ripped off his mask just in time to vomit onto the dirt, retching with all the grace of a rookie Genin on their first D-rank mission. Kakashi wasn’t far behind, though he held onto his precious Icha Icha like it was a lifeline, even as he emptied his stomach. Yugao clutched her sides, her body trembling as her chakra flared and sputtered erratically, like a flame in a storm.

Tenzo was the first to recover—barely. He knelt with one hand braced against the earth, panting, his face ghost-pale beneath his mask. Sweat beaded down his temple. His stomach churned but nothing came up; he'd already emptied himself on arrival. He blinked rapidly, trying to force the spinning world to still.

Around him, the others were still recovering.

Kitsune groaned, his vision blurring as he clutched at his chest. “Chakra… flow’s messed up…”

Yugao collapsed beside him, eyes fluttering shut as her body shivered from the internal chaos. Her finely honed control was breaking down, her chakra coils spasming from the sudden dimensional shift.

Kakashi let out a breathless chuckle, half-dazed. “Ugh… remind me to kill Genma… slowly…”

And then, like leaves falling one by one, they dropped.

Yugao curled slightly as she passed out, her breathing shallow but steady.

Even Kakashi—ever the unshakable—gave in to the vertigo and the chakra dissonance, his body going limp as he fell face-first into the forest floor with a soft thud, book slipping from his hand.

Kitsune slumped sideways, unconscious.

Only Tenzo remained awake, barely. He crawled forward, dragging himself toward the nearest tree, his senses reeling and his chakra circuits burning like they’d been short-circuited.

He leaned against the bark, eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings, throat dry and pulse thundering in his ears.

Where the hell were they? Was the last thought he had before he succumb to exhaustion.

Kakashi awoke feeling like he’d been dragged across every rocky incline between Konoha and Suna. His body screamed with exhaustion, every muscle aching as though his kidneys had been twisted with a kunai. His vision swam, but he forced himself upright and took stock of his surroundings.

He was in... an apartment? At least, it looked like one—an oversized, single-room layout with a kitchen shoved into one end and two doors on the other. One hung open to reveal a small bathroom. The other was bolted shut, multiple locks gleaming in the dim light. Out the grimy windows, more strange, blocky buildings stretched in every direction, their windows dark and silent.

Kakashi’s eyes swept across the room—and froze.

Yugao and Kitsune lay nearby, both clearly younger than they should be. No older than ten, if he had to guess Yugao's body structure. Kakashi glanced down at his own hands—small, child-sized. Panic flickered in his chest.

What the actual fuck?

He tried to draw on his chakra, only to feel it twist and buck inside him like a wild animal.

Completely scrambled.

Was this some kind of side effect from the seal? It had to be—but he couldn’t find a logical answer. Not yet.

“S-senpai!”

His head whipped toward the sound. A pale-faced Yugao—also a child—sat up slowly, blinking at him with wide, frightened eyes. “What happened to your appearance?” Her voice cracked, high-pitched and unfamiliar to her own ears. “And... what happened to me?”

Kakashi winced, rubbing his lower back. “Looks like we found the side effect of Genma’s little ‘experiment.’” His voice was dry, but even humor felt too heavy to lift right now.

“Senpai...” Yugao said, tone laced with something unreadable.

“Hm?”

“Where’s Tenzo?”

Ah, Kakashi thought, so it’s worry.

He forced himself upright and scanned the apartment again. Tenzo was nowhere to be seen. His instincts were deadened, chakra senses useless. Even his sharp nose, usually reliable, picked up nothing in this strange place.

Yugao moved to stand, but a subtle creak snapped both of them to attention.

Kakashi spun, exhaustion forgotten. His hand instinctively reached for a kunai—thankfully still strapped to his leg—while Yugao unsheathed her katana with smooth, practiced grace. For a brief moment, the two of them were pure instinct, bodies trembling but ready for combat.

Then a familiar figure dropped lightly through an open window—ANBU mask with the Tora design unmistakable.

Kakashi and Yugao sagged with relief, collapsing back onto the floor. “Tenzo...” Kakashi muttered.

Tenzo pulled off his mask, revealing a youthful face—same age regression, it seemed. "Senpai! Yugao! You’re awake!”

Kakashi gave a weary sigh. “You look ten.”

“So do you,” Tenzo retorted, then added sheepishly, “But you wear it well.”

“Where did you even go, Senpai?!” Yugao asked, eyes narrowing in concern. “We were worried you’d been abducted.”

Oof. That’s a bit much, Tenzo thought, slightly wounded. Did they think so little of his ability to stay alive? Still, he pushed the irritation away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Nothing like that. I’ve been doing some recon. And... well, this place is weird.”

Kakashi and Yugao exchanged a look. Weird was never a good sign. “Weird how?” Kakashi asked warily.

Tenzo scratched his head. “This place is called Tokyo. And it’s huge. Way bigger than Konoha. I’ve been exploring for the past week, and I still haven’t found the edge of the city.”

“A week?” Yugao repeated, eyes wide. “We’ve been unconscious for a week?!”

Tenzo nodded in affirmation. “And they’ve got buildings taller than the Hokage Monument. I climbed several for recon—nothing but more city as far as the eye can see. There’s water to the east, but the west...” He shook his head, clearly baffled. “It just keeps going. I don’t know how we’ve never heard of this place.”

Kakashi frowned. That doesn’t add up. Konoha might’ve grown over the years, but its borders were clearly defined. Even from the Hokage Monument, one could see the village’s edge. For a city this big to go unnoticed?

“And the architecture,” Tenzo continued, “It kind of reminded me of Amegakure—but on steroids. You remember how the Hidden Rain’s skyline is full of those cold, metallic towers, right? Well, this place has thousands of them, only sleeker and taller. Amegakure always felt oppressive, boxed in by steel and rain. But Tokyo feels... overwhelming in scale. The buildings here stretch into the clouds, and they light up at night. Entire towers flash with color—some even display moving images on the sides.”

Yugao blinked. “Moving images?”

“Yeah. Like Genjutsu, but real. And the lights don’t come from chakra. It’s... technology, I think.”

Kakashi’s eye narrowed. “That means this place runs on something else entirely.”

“That’s what I figured. I’ve been watching the civilians too.” Tenzo’s voice lowered slightly. “They don’t behave like the people in our world. Most of them seem... blissfully unaware. No chakra usage, no awareness of basic self-defense. They rely completely on tools—tiny glowing devices, strange talking boxes, automated transports. I saw these machines zooming down roads faster than any shinobi, but no horses or chakra beasts pulling them. They even have floating signs.”

“So, civilians with no chakra… running a village larger than the Five Great Nations combined?” Yugao muttered.

“That’s what it looks like.” Tenzo scratched his head. “I couldn’t feel a single flare of chakra for days—until I saw those costumed weirdos fighting. That’s when I realized: these ‘shinobi’ don’t use hand seals or chakra control like we do. Their powers come from somewhere else, maybe innate abilities or another energy source altogether. One guy literally exploded fire from his skin—not his hands, not a jutsu. His skin. No hand seals. Just raw power.”

Kakashi leaned back slightly, rubbing his temples. “If that’s true, we may be dealing with a civilization that evolved completely separate from chakra.”

“And their terrain’s different too,” Tenzo added. “There’s no forest coverage like the Fire Country, no wide stretches of nature between districts. Everything’s paved, boxed in. The trees are grown in tiny squares of soil or in pots. It’s like they bent nature to their will.”

“They've replaced nature with machines,” Yugao murmured.

“And they live comfortably with it,” Tenzo said, half in awe, half wary. “But for a place this massive and secretive… I have to ask—why go to such lengths to stay hidden?”

Yugao and Kakashi exchanged another glance, concern tightening in both their features.

"Their shinobi are also wild." Tenzo continues, waving his arms, "They all dress in these crazy costumes and I guess they also work like police? Because the one I saw was arresting a robber, or maybe they’re some kind of like, clown police, and the real shinobi don’t wander the village here like they do in the Five Great Villages?”

Yugao blinked. “Shinobi... clown police?” Her lips twitched in spite of herself.

“If the village is that large,” she added, regaining composure, “someone from the Elemental Nations should’ve known about it.”

“I agree,” Kakashi said, thoughtful. “I was Hokage for four years. I would’ve heard something.”

“Maybe Tsunade-sama knew but didn’t tell you?” Yugao suggested, though her voice faltered under Kakashi’s pointed stare.

“I mean, you’ve only been Hokage for four years,” she offered quickly. “It’s possible she didn’t think you were ready to know.”

Tenzo nodded. “I agree with Yugao, senpai.”

Kakashi considered the theory, but shook his head. “If the Sandaime, Yondaime, and Godaime knew about this, they would’ve told me. I had full access to Konoha’s classified records.”

The silence lingered for a moment before Yugao murmured, “If they’ve gone through this much effort to hide themselves, they probably won’t be too happy to find outsiders wandering around.”

That was a fair assessment.

Kakashi’s gaze turned serious. “Tenzo—report. What happened during the week we were unconscious?”

Tenzo straightened his spine immediately, slipping back into mission mode. “Yes, sir.”

FLASHBACK....

First Day of the Week

Tenzo jolted awake, his body coiled in a reflexive crouch as his hand flew to his kunai pouch. The rustling of leaves, the scent of damp earth, and the soft chirping of distant birds told him one thing immediately—they were no longer in ANBU HQ.

Forest? How the hell—?

He paused. His muscles ached, his chakra coils throbbed, and his memory flickered—bright light, blinding noise, the sudden, crushing pull of a vortex.

Right. The seal. The mistake. Genma.

His eyes darted to his unconscious comrades—Kakashi slumped against a tree root, Yugao half-curled beside a moss-covered log, and Kitsune laying with one arm draped over his eyes. All still breathing. Good.

Closing his eyes, Tenzo tried to center himself, reaching inward. Half his chakra had returned. That much was promising. But… it felt off. The pathways felt smaller, tighter. Restrained.

A sinking feeling began to churn in his gut.

He opened his eyes, reached for the object he'd seen lying half-buried in the leaves: a cracked shard of a mirror. In the middle of a forest? he thought, narrowing his eyes. It was old, the frame rusted, the edges chipped—but clear enough.

The reflection staring back at him made his stomach drop.

A ten-year-old boy. His ten-year-old self. The same face he hadn’t worn in decades.

Tenzo swallowed hard.

This must be the effect of Genma’s seal—damn it!

He stared at the mirror again, a frown tugging at his lips. What’s a mirror doing out here in the middle of the forest, anyway? 

He didn’t know—and right now, it didn’t matter.

Shaking his head, he tossed the mirror aside. Priorities. First, protect the team. Second, assess the area.

He formed a hand seal, summoning a wood clone to guard the others, and slipped on his old Tora mask. Silently, he moved through the forest, stepping lightly along bark and stone until he reached higher ground.

When he finally emerged from the tree line, he stopped dead in his tracks.

"...What the fuck."

Before him sprawled a city—no, a metropolis—unlike anything he’d ever seen. Towering buildings pierced the sky like steel mountains, their sides gleaming with glass and strange signs. The city lights flickered and buzzed even under daylight, and streams of metal carriages zipped through winding roads without chakra or horses.

It made Amegakure look like a quaint village in comparison. The Hidden Rain had always struck him as industrial and imposing—but this? This was beyond comprehension. These buildings weren’t just tall—they were outrageous. Curved, bent, twisted into impossible shapes, like the architects were actively challenging gravity—or sanity.

"Are they trying to prove how rich they are or just... showing off?" he muttered to himself.

He transformed into a generic civilian boy and masked his chakra, descending through a dark alley between the buildings.

He was halfway across a crosswalk—still trying to comprehend a glowing red stick figure sign—when a hand jerked him back by the collar.

“Oi, kid! Don’t you know you’re supposed to look both ways before crossing the street?!”

Tenzo blinked up—and nearly reached for his kunai again.

A humanoid creature with the head of a cat stared down at him in stern disapproval. Not a genjutsu. Not an Inuzuka. Something... else entirely.

“I—I know,” Tenzo muttered, playing along.

The cat-person gave him a skeptical look, muttered something under his breath, then wandered off.

Tenzo watched him go, brain racing. What the hell kind of village is this?

Second Day of the Week

Tenzo ate in silence, finishing the last bite of the strange rice-wrapped snack he'd bought with the pocket change he'd quietly "acquired." The food was passable—not ramen, but it filled his stomach. His chakra had nearly finished replenishing itself, the flow in his ten-year-old body slowly stabilizing.

Fun fact, Tenzo thought dryly as he stepped back onto the street, those “carriages” are actually called cars—powered by engines, not chakra, not chakra-conductive animals. Just... machines. The sheer concept was baffling, but undeniably impressive.

Yesterday, after hours of quiet recon and dodging suspicious locals, he’d confirmed the name of this massive, unfamiliar village: Tokyo.

He made a single hand sign and a wood clone popped into existence beside him. The clone transformed into a middle-aged civilian with a different face, then silently took off toward the river Tenzo had spotted during his rooftop exploration. You follow the water. Rivers usually mean borders... or something hidden.

Meanwhile, the real Tenzo blended into the slow-moving crowd, his chakra still cloaked. The buildings loomed around him, cold steel and glass stretching into the sky. He still couldn't believe humans lived in those towering structures.

As he turned the corner of a street, he flinched. A squirrel darted across the road—just as a speeding car thundered past. A sickening crunch followed.

Tenzo winced.

The small body lay broken, twisted unnaturally against the pavement. And yet, no one reacted. A few people glanced, made a face, and moved on without another thought.

No one buried it. No one checked to see if it could be saved. No emotion. No hesitation.

Tenzo frowned. This place is clean, efficient... and disturbingly numb... somewhat.

He stopped outside a shop with a large display window. Inside, a glowing screen hung on the wall—thin, flat, and mounted like a scroll. The picture quality was absurdly sharp, almost like real life frozen in motion. Tenzo recognized it instantly as a television, but the form was almost alien. In Konoha, TVs were bulky, cumbersome cubes stored in elite facilities—not thin, glass-like panels humming quietly in public stores.

He shifted his gaze to the people passing by.

One man leaned against a wall, tapping and sliding his fingers across a small, glowing screen in his hands. It looked like a miniature version of the wall-mounted one. Tenzo narrowed his eyes. The man laughed quietly, typed something, then scowled when the screen changed. Some kind of communication device? Or maybe it’s a genjutsu focus tool?

Tenzo raised an eyebrow, utterly baffled. What are they doing? Talking to spirits? Poking the screen like it owes them money?

This place made less sense the more he learned about it.

And worst of all—not a single trace of chakra so far.

XxX

The clone, now disguised as a middle-aged civilian with graying hair and a face worn by time, moved steadily along the riverbank. His footsteps were measured, his posture relaxed—nothing that would draw attention. The city’s noise slowly dulled the farther west he traveled, replaced by the gentle trickle of the river and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind.

The river carved a graceful path through the landscape, flanked on one side by concrete and steel, and on the other by stubborn greenery reclaiming whatever space it could. It reminded the clone of Hidden Rain Village in its structure—dense, winding, tight. But here, the rain didn’t fall, and the air wasn’t heavy with chakra-laced moisture. No. This place was dry, static. Lifeless, in a shinobi sense.

Buildings loomed all around him, and the further he went, the more diverse they became. Towering glass monoliths gave way to older-style homes, some with curved rooftops and bamboo fencing. It was like watching time collide—modern and ancient living side by side, with no chakra to bind them.

This place is like Amegakure without chakra, he thought. Crowded, artificial, and oddly impersonal. The buildings rise like weapons, but they have no life to them.

The clone passed rows of strange buildings, most with bright glowing signs covered in a foreign characters it couldn’t decipher. The clone narrowed its eyes. This script... it’s not any language from the Five Nations.

It paused near a signboard with large block letters scrolling across a screen. Judging by the context, it might’ve been announcing something important—maybe a schedule or a warning—but the clone could only guess. It tilted its head, committing the symbols to memory for the original to decode later—if there was anyone capable of deciphering them back in their world.

As he followed the curve of the river, he passed under a pedestrian bridge. Beyond it, a tall fence came into view—chain-link, topped with barbed wire. Faded signs in foreign script. Behind the fence were squat buildings, dull in color, with blinking red lights and long antennae that poked into the sky like fingers.

The clone crouched by the edge of the fence, pressing his palm lightly to the ground. He waited, listening with his senses.

No chakra.

No seals.

No life.

It’s like the land itself is dead but it's not dead... perhaps asleep, he thought, unease prickling at the back of his neck.

He retreated from the fence and moved along the edge of the river a bit more, noting the behavior of people nearby. None of them seemed wary, as though there was nothing strange about sealed-off zones like this. They moved with purpose, eyes locked to small glowing devices in their hands, entirely absorbed.

The clone glanced at one of the “carriages”—what locals called “cars”—rolling past on the road beside the river. Fast, noisy, powerful. Machines with no chakra. Even more bizarre was how normal they were to everyone else. No one questioned them.

With a hand seal, the clone dispelled itself.

XxX

A pulse of information hit Tenzo’s mind—images, impressions, and conclusions flooding in.

He blinked as the world came back into focus around him. A river that didn’t breathe. A sealed facility in a chakra-dead zone. A village bigger than any shinobi nation, yet somehow entirely unaware—or unacknowledged—in their world.

This place wasn’t just big… it was hiding something. Or everything.

He exhaled slowly and turned to keep walking.

By the third day, Tenzo had already built a rudimentary mental map of the central area of Tokyo. His chakra reserves had nearly fully recovered, allowing him to sustain multiple clones for longer periods and stretch his surveillance radius.

He dispatched two wood clones at dawn—one headed deeper into the city’s industrial zones, while the other trailed a group of uniformed locals he suspected might be some kind of military or organized defense force. They wore matching black outfits with equipment that looked like tools, not weapons, and carried themselves with authority. One clone kept to the rooftops, observing their patterns.

Meanwhile, the original Tenzo moved with more ease, blending into crowds and mimicking the local behavior—walking on designated paths, stopping at bright walk signals, not reacting too strongly to the deafening honks of cars or flashing billboards.

He stood before a tall building with massive windows, reflecting the morning sun like polished metal. On the side of it was a huge screen, playing what looked like a dramatic fight—people in bizarre costumes wielding glowing energy. Some civilians paused to watch, but Tenzo couldn't tell if it was real footage or some strange form of entertainment.

If this is their way of depicting warriors… maybe the clown-police thing wasn’t too far off, he thought with mild amusement.

His clone in the industrial area slipped inside a fenced-off zone by hiding beneath a delivery truck. It peeked around the stacks of crates and machinery, noting the presence of large wheeled vehicles with cargo containers, automated arms, and workers shouting commands he couldn’t understand. They moved like clockwork—efficiency was clearly prized here.

At midday, the clone following the uniformed personnel returned, relaying everything it had seen. They had gone into a strange square building where lines of people filed in and out. Some held small booklets or cards. One man held a dark blue folder with characters the clone couldn’t read. Frustrated, Tenzo etched one of the symbols into the ground with a twig—he’d ask someone later, if they found a translator or got lucky.

That evening, the original Tenzo perched on a high-rise rooftop, arms crossed as he overlooked the horizon. Skyscrapers blinked with lights, a glowing jungle of steel and neon. In the fading sun, he couldn’t help but compare the chaos below to the artificial stillness of Hidden Rain.

Amegakure was built in layers—order in its disorder. But this place… it’s like a giant organism, pulsing and changing without warning. His gaze hardened beneath the Tora mask. And somehow, it’s hidden from our world.

They were far from Konoha, far from anything familiar. But shinobi adapts—that’s what they did.

Fourth Day of the Week

Tenzo had learned two things by the fourth day: first, that the city didn’t sleep—not really. It just dimmed slightly. Second, that he could walk among thousands of people, and still feel utterly alone.

He spent the morning tailing an emergency vehicle. It had screamed through the streets the night before with flashing red lights and a strange electronic wail. The clone he'd assigned to follow it lost track when it entered a large building filled with sterile white light and people in colored coats. He wanted to call it a hospital, but it didn’t resemble Konoha’s in the slightest—too much glass, too little chakra.

At midday, the clone he sent beyond the river returned with an odd report. Past the outer city border, there was more construction. Vast bridges spanned over water, leading to other segments of the massive landmass. And still—no visible walls. No gates. No obvious defenses.

Tenzo had been raised in a world of hidden villages, protected perimeters, and chakra-based surveillance. This place had none of it. And yet… it seemed to function.

Where are the ANBU? The ward seals? Are they just so confident? Or are they hiding something deeper? he wondered as he crouched on a rooftop, watching a pair of children walk home alone under the glow of a streetlamp. There were also police officers patroling around the area but Tenzo doubts it's enough. Some of the clowns were also accompanying them. And, perhaps their version of ANBU's are those people hiding in the dark.

The night was cold, and Tenzo sat atop a rooftop wrapped in the shadows of a vent, thinking. It had been four days. Kitsune, Kakashi, and Yugao were still recovering. He couldn’t risk waking them prematurely while their chakra remained in flux.

I need answers, but I'm not enough. This place is too big for one shinobi to understand alone. I'll have to wait for the others to wake up.

Fifth Day of the Week

The city breathed.

Not with chakra, but with motion, light, and noise. On the fifth day, Tenzo finally stopped hoping it would quiet down. He had adapted instead—sleeping in brief shifts, and moving from rooftop to alley like a ghost. And after he's finished, he'd return to the hideout and take care of his knocked out comrades.

That morning, his wood clone returned from deeper within the commercial sector. It had observed a peculiar building—tall and oddly shaped, surrounded by people moving in and out rapidly. On its walls were massive images of humans in strange suits, often posing dramatically against colorful, chaotic backdrops.

"Entertainment center?" Tenzo muttered, crouched on the rooftop of a department store, the clone’s memories still fresh in his mind. Or propaganda? It reminds me of the old Root indoctrination rooms—images everywhere, narrative inescapable.

He shook off the thought.

Another clone had trailed a group of uniformed individuals wearing dark blue and white. They didn’t move like shinobi. No subtle chakra control, no seamless blending with crowds. But they carried authority. People listened. People moved aside.

"Law enforcement," Tenzo concluded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. But civilian. Not trained for war. Not for assassination or sabotage. This whole city functions on rules, not fear.

That’s when he saw it.

On a large vertical screen mounted to the side of a glass tower, a video played in vibrant color. A creature—a massive, hulking being of scale and teeth—crashing through a part of the city while humans ran in terror. A man in a red suit and cape flew across the sky, punching the beast with explosive force.

Tenzo’s breath caught.

It wasn't the fantasy that alarmed him.

It was the people.

No one panicked. No one reacted in fear or disbelief. Other's barely spared the screen a glance and most look at it in awe.

This isn’t new to them. The realization settled in his gut like a stone. Either they’ve seen it before—or they see it so often that it no longer matters.

That night, Tenzo sat by a canal, silently observing the reflection of those same towers in the water.

He gathered his thoughts.

He had seen a city like this only once before—Amegakure, in the time of Pain. But this was larger. More alive. And, somehow, more empty. No chakra networks, no jutsu traces in the infrastructure, no sensory fields.

Just technology. Cold, efficient, and overwhelming.

If we ever return home… Konoha needs to know this place exists. We’re not the center of the world like we thought.

A noise caught his attention.

A child’s voice. Laughing.

He turned and spotted a boy and girl—perhaps eight years old—sitting beneath a streetlamp eating snacks and arguing about which "hero" was the strongest.

Sixth Day of the Week

By the sixth day, Tenzo had memorized the rhythms of Tokyo’s surface life.

The rush of people at morning and evening. The way they flowed around each other like water—impossibly fast, yet never colliding. He moved with them, invisible in plain sight, his chakra hidden, his expression blank. His Tora mask remained tucked away in his belt. It drew too much attention.

His clones had begun mapping the grid. There was a pattern to the city: an underground system of trains, lightposts that glowed without flame, and towers that seemed to hum softly even at night. Tenzo suspected there was energy running through this place—artificial, not chakra-based. It powered everything.

But today, he had a new plan.

Direct observation.

He entered a tall, clean building labeled with large, foreign symbols. He couldn’t read them—but he had tracked enough foot traffic to assume it was important. Inside, he was greeted by strange, filtered air and a soft melody playing overhead.

He walked past into the building, mimicking the body language of the locals. Soon, he found himself in what looked like a café—small tables, people sitting alone or in groups, drinks steaming in cups. Screens were embedded in the walls showing colorful people talking rapidly in a language he didn’t understand.

Tenzo took a seat by the window.

He watched.

Not the city—he’d seen enough of that—but the people.

A man sat across from a woman, leaning forward, laughing. Their body language was open, relaxed. Friends or lovers? Hard to tell. A child tapped away at a glowing device, face illuminated in flickering blue. An old man read a folded sheet with images—a newspaper, Tenzo realized, though some of the text in big font were unreadable but he found that it is also imbeded (mostly) in a Kanji logographic characters.

Everyone seemed content. Safe.

It was… alien.

Tenzo had grown up in a world where people flinched at shadows. Where silence could mean an ambush, and trust was a luxury rarely afforded. This? This was something else.

They don’t act like they’re afraid. Not of war. Not of death. Not even of being watched.

It struck him, suddenly, that the people of this city didn’t hide. They didn’t know how to hide.

That could mean one of two things: either they were incredibly naïve…

Or incredibly protected.

Tenzo took a sip from a bottle of what he had learned was called "green tea"—though it tasted far sweeter than any he remembered from Konoha. His ears were tuned in to the crowd around him, effortlessly picking up conversations in Japanese. At first, the fluency of the locals had startled him—so different in dialect and vocabulary, yet familiar enough to follow.

He could understand them perfectly, but the things they talked about left him baffled.

“I saw All Might on the news again. He saved an entire train from derailing!”

“Did you hear about the new UA entrance exam results?”

“My phone’s dying—where’s the nearest charging station?”

Tenzo’s brow furrowed. All Might... UA... charging station... These weren’t terms used in the Elemental Nations. And it wasn't just language—these people lived in a completely different reality.

He observed the glass-fronted store across the street, where rows of miniature screens played the same looped footage of a blonde man with an impossibly wide grin and exaggerated proportions. That must be All Might, he guessed. The man had saved a train—no hand seals, no jutsu, just raw strength. At least, that’s what the broadcast seemed to imply. He was clearly revered by the people, like a Hokage… or perhaps a taijutsu master masquerading as a clown police.

At the same time, his wood clone continued its sweep along the western side of the city. It returned later with troubling observations: even at night, the city never slept. Glowing lights lined every street, towers blinked red atop their spires, and surveillance devices—cameras—were mounted on almost every corner. Stealth would be difficult to maintain for long. Fortunately, chakra suppression still worked as a natural cloak.

More disturbingly, the clone had followed a group of clown police as they cornered a man who, by Tenzo's assessment, was a civilian with strange mutations—perhaps a Kekkei Genkai. The man fought back using fire and tendrils of darkness. He was powerful.

The encounter with the mutated civilian had stuck with him. He replayed the memory transmitted by his clone again and again—angles, timings, chakra flow—or rather, lack of it.

The man they fought had power—no doubt. Flames erupted from his arms in thick, erratic bursts, and shadows coiled from beneath his feet like living tendrils. But there was no discipline. No strategy. His movements were fueled by emotion—rage, fear, desperation.

Tenzo had seen dozens like him back home—missing-nin with raw power but no control. Shinobi who relied on strength instead of skill. They never lasted long.

The police, however, were a different story.

Their gear looked like a joke—bright blues, reds, badges, and helmets that caught light like mirrors—but their formation was precise. One moved in to distract. Another flanked. A third launched a net that sparked with energy—not wire, but something like electrified thread. And the others fell into step like a practiced squad.

It was, surprisingly, effective.

But not flawless.

Tenzo could see the weaknesses—one officer left his back open during the net deployment. Another stepped too close to the hostile without proper guard. Their coordination was reactive, not instinctive. They hadn’t trained for survival in the same way shinobi had. They hadn’t fought wars. Their cohesion was learned… not earned through blood and fire.

“ANBU would’ve had him unconscious in five seconds.”

“A single genjutsu would’ve dropped half the squad.”

The thoughts came naturally. Not from arrogance—but assessment.

What struck him most wasn’t their strength. It was the intent behind their fighting.

They didn’t move to kill.

They moved to subdue.

In his world, hesitation was death. Mercy came after victory—if at all. But these officers held back, even when the man scorched their uniforms and launched darkness like spears. They fought with caution. With rules. As if bound by invisible chains.

It made them predictable.

But also strangely... admirable.

They didn’t fight to win. They fought to protect.

Still processing everything, Tenzo leaned back on the bench. This world isn’t just modern… it’s prepared. Structured. Militarized in ways we don’t fully grasp.

He would need to report all of this when the others awoke. For now, he made a note—mentally and literally—on every strange term and entity he encountered. Then, when the opportunity arose, he’d bring those words to a library or some civilian and feign ignorance for answers.

Seventh Day of the Week

Tenzo walked calmly along the sidewalk, hands tucked into the pockets of his borrowed hoodie. The city buzzed with activity as always—cars roared by, lights flickered from digital billboards, and people crowded the streets with practiced disinterest in each other’s lives.

He passed a group of reporters huddled around one of the flamboyantly dressed “clown police". The man was posing dramatically, giving statements to a sea of flashing cameras and microphones. Tenzo edged closer, casually leaning against a nearby pole to eavesdrop.

"—the villain was apprehended late last night after resisting arrest and murdering a civilian," a reporter said. "Authorities confirmed that he’ll be processed for multiple charges. A tragic incident, but one that underscores the importance of Hero vigilance."

Tenzo blinked slowly. Villain? A ridiculous term to describe someone for killing just one person.

The public reaction was... intense. People passing by were shaken, clutching at their companions or muttering angrily under their breath. If his teammates saw this, they’d assume someone had massacred a classroom of children.

He stepped away from the crowd and stopped a woman lugging a heavy grocery bag. “Excuse me,” he said, mimicking the polite tone he’d picked up from locals. “What do you think about the person who killed?”

The woman exhaled sharply, clearly irritated. “Child, don’t concern yourself with such awful villains. He’s going to jail, and that’s what matters.”

Tenzo nodded politely, stepping aside and letting her vanish into the tide of pedestrians. His expression, once composed, creased with confusion. Villain, she had said, as if it were fact—as if one death was enough to strip someone of their humanity entirely.

It struck him as absurd.

In the Elemental Nations, a single kill could be just the start of a long mission. Shinobi lived in shades of gray. He had fought men who slaughtered entire villages, burned families alive, assassinated daimyo, and more. But even the most notorious among them—Orochimaru, Obito, even Madara—weren’t dismissed with one label. They had motives. Twisted, sometimes monstrous, but understandable in their own logic. Some sought revenge. Some peace. Others power. And a few, like Madara, believed in peace through oblivion.

Tenzo didn’t agree with them—but he understood them.

Yet here in this city, a single act of killing instantly turned someone into a “villain,” judged by a society that never knew war in the way shinobi did. There was no nuance. No exploration of intent. Just black and white.

He scoffed under his breath. If that’s all it takes to be a villain, what would they call someone like me?

He continued walking, watching the flashing screens across buildings where another hero posed for a photo. The society here was powerful, clean, and efficient—but there was something brittle about its judgment.

A world this quick to label might also be quick to condemn.

FLASHBACK ENDS...

"That's stupid," Kakashi muttered, frowning deeply.

"I agree," Yugao said with a sigh. "It’s utterly ridiculous."

The two exchanged looks, united in their quiet disdain for the black-and-white idea of calling someone a villain for a single act, no matter the context.

A groan interrupted their thoughts. They turned quickly to see Kitsune sit up abruptly, eyes sharp and burning with frustration. Relief flickered in their chests—until his expression contorted with fury.

"You idiots," Kitsune snapped, running a hand through his hair. "We’re in a fucking different dimension—because of one stupid mistake!"

"What?!" Yugao gasped.

"That's bullshit!" Kakashi barked, fighting the nausea to sit upright.

"How?!" Tenzo demanded, eyes wide, completely blindsided.

Kitsune’s gaze flicked to Tenzo with pointed irritation. His one visible eye narrowed behind the mask.

"You’ve been here for a damn week, Tenzo. You couldn’t figure any of this out?" he bit out, incredulous. “You had time to scout a city bigger than Konoha, eavesdrop on their weird clown police, watch their square glass TVs, and not once did it occur to you we’re not just in another country—but a whole other world?"

Tenzo flinched under the glare, glancing away with a guilty scowl. In his defense, he couldn't astray far away from the hide out. He had to make sure that they were within his senses.

Kitsune huffed and slammed his hand against the floor. “Genma. That shit.”

"Sooo, a theory about a new continent hidden away is completely out of—???"

"Yes, Tenzo! It's out of the picture!"

Chapter Text

“S-Senpai, what do you mean by transported to another dimension?” Yugao asked, her voice trembling slightly with disbelief.

Kitsune let out an exasperated sigh. He removed his mask, pulling off the black wig attached to it in one smooth motion. Beneath it, his pale skin and tired, droopy indigo eyes came into view. He looked utterly drained—because he was. All thanks to one stupid mistake. His long, silky red hair—unmistakably Uzumaki—fell down to the middle of his back, with shoulder-length strands framing either side of his face.

“It means exactly what you think, Yugao,” he confirmed tiredly, then turned to Tenzo with a pointed glare. “And you—you should’ve figured it out already. No one here uses chakra.”

Tenzo blinked, realization dawning slowly. He’d never seen anyone form hand seals—not even once—when the so-called clown police used their powers.

Kakashi, seated nearby, unsealed a bottle of water from one of his scrolls and drank deeply before speaking. “Since when have you been awake, Kitsune?”

“The moment Tenzo arrived,” Kitsune answered bluntly. Then, without preamble, he slipped into a meditative state. Silence settled over the group until Kitsune spoke again, voice calm but focused.

“All of us—except Tenzo—need to replenish our chakra. Tenzo, you should work on expanding your reserves. You won’t be able to use the Wood Dragon Jutsu with what you’ve got right now.”

Tenzo gave a quiet nod. “Understood.”

“Kakashi,” Kitsune continued, “once your chakra’s stabilized, I want you to attempt Kamui.”

The room fell still.

“…What are you talking about?” Kakashi asked, wary now.

“You might want to check your reflection,” Kitsune said, eyes still closed. “We’ve reverted to our younger bodies.”

“…That’s impossible,” Kakashi muttered. “I lost the Sharingan after the war.”

“Kakashi-senpai…” Yugao hesitated, her eyes fixed on his face. “Kitsune-senpai’s right.”

Without another word, she unsheathed her katana and held the reflective surface out to him. Kakashi took it silently, angling the blade until his own face came into view. His breath hitched as he caught sight of the Sharingan—the eye Obito had given him—glinting crimson in his reflection.

“…You’re probably in your fourteen-year-old body,” Kitsune noted dryly. “The scar on your right shoulder looks newly healed, I was the one who inflicted that wound twenty-one years ago."

Tenzo, exhausted beyond measure, had already fallen asleep, curled up on the floor like a soldier resting between missions. Kitsune spared him a glance—he’d train when he woke.

Kakashi returned the katana to Yugao, who sheathed it with practiced ease. Wordlessly, he sat down and began to meditate alongside Kitsune.

Yugao took a deep breath, concentrating. Her chakra felt pathetically low—barely Genin-level. She winced. It would take serious work to get back to form.

Kakashi chewed on a piece of jerky from his rations as he settled into his breathing. The silence that followed was filled only by the soft wind outside and the subtle tension of sodiers preparing for a new kind of war.

As soon as Kitsune had finished replenishing his chakra, he stood and stretched his stiff body, muscles aching slightly from remaining still for too long. He ignored Yugao and Kakashi’s presence and moved toward his bag. Without a word, he retrieved a cup of instant ramen and a bottle of water from his storage scroll.

He tore open the lid and heated the water with a quick, low-level fire-style jutsu. The flames hissed quietly. His stomach growled.

“How long will it take you to build enough chakra to use Kamui?” Kitsune asked, his tone rhetorical, his attention mostly on the food. He couldn't shake the impatience clawing at his nerves. I want out of this dimension, immediately. The filtered, artificial air of this world felt wrong.

Kakashi hummed lazily, leaning back with a thoughtful expression. “Hmm… maa, it should be… maybe three weeks. But with eating, sleeping, bathing… could take two months.”

Kitsune stopped stirring. “You think?”

“Uh-huh,” Kakashi nodded like a schoolboy.

You've got to be shitting me, Kitsune thought, biting back a sigh. Genma, that bastard! I'll kill him the moment I get back— He shoved a mouthful of noodles in, chewing furiously. By the time he finished, the cup was incinerated with a short burst of fire.

“Senpai, where are you going?” Yugao asked.

“To gather more intel about this world,” Kitsune replied without glancing back. He formed a half-ram seal, releasing a puff of smoke as his appearance shifted into that of an average civilian—short brown hair, dull eyes, and clothes that screamed ‘invisible’. But his expression remained cold as ever.

“From what we've heard from Tenzo, people here react differently to death,” he added, stepping toward the window. Unlike our world, where death walks beside us daily. He didn’t say it out loud, but Kakashi and Yugao heard it anyway.

“And people here don’t mind their own business,” he muttered.

Yugao cringed. “I hate the kind of people who stick their noses where they don't belong."

Kakashi gave a shrug. “The same could be said for all of us.”

Kitsune didn’t linger. He slipped through the cracked window and down into the city.

I should’ve asked Tenzo where the nearest library is, Kitsune thought dryly.

He navigated the crowded street, his eyes darting to a civilian whose head resembled a dog. Kitsune’s gaze didn’t linger. He approached and asked in his usual monotone, “Excuse me, sir. May I ask where the nearest library is?”

The dog-man pointed without hesitation. “Straight ahead, then turn right. You’ll see it.”

Kitsune gave a slight bow. “Thank you.”

Soon, he was inside the quiet structure. A bell above the door chimed softly. The place had an odd sterile scent—sanitized, processed, modern.

He approached the front desk. “Excuse me, madam. I’m looking for a history book. Any suggestions?”

The elderly librarian blinked and smiled. “Which history, sweetie? Hero history? Quirk history? Japan history? Or world history?”

Kitsune raised a brow at sweetie, but let it go. “All of the above.”

“Ambitious. I like that,” the librarian chuckled and disappeared among the shelves.

While waiting, Kitsune’s eyes swept the library. It was cleaner than Konoha’s but far less used. Few civilians wandered between the shelves. Either they rely on different media… or reading really has died here.

The librarian returned pushing a cart with five thick tomes.

“Here you go, sweetie.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Do you have a library card?”

Shit. “No, ma’am, I do not.”

“Oh dear. One moment.”

Kitsune watched her type into a computer—sleek, polished, faster than what he was used to. He resisted the urge to scowl.

She turned the screen toward him.

He typed in: Shiranui Genma, age fourteen. I don't care if he finds out. This mess is his fault anyway. For address: Tokyo, Japan.

The librarian printed a card and handed it to him. “Here you go, sweetie. Don’t forget to bring the books back.”

Kitsune gave a short nod, scanned his card, and retreated to a secluded corner.

He set the books down and picked up the thick volume titled The History of Japan. He opened it and began reading—but within ten pages, something odd caught his attention.

A section of the book suddenly shifted languages. It wasn’t kanji or hiragana. It looked… Romanized. The words flowed differently, the sentence structure unfamiliar.

What the hell is this?

He flipped back. Then forward again. The next book—World History—was worse. Almost half of it was written in the same alien script.

Kitsune frowned. He dug through the pile and found a small beginner’s textbook: Basic English for Middle School Students.

So this is the foreign language Tenzo mentioned.

He opened it and scanned a few lines:

“Hello. My name is John. What is your name?”

“This is a cat.”

“The boy is eating an apple.”

English, he realized. It must be the secondary or even dominant language here…

His eye twitched. Great. Not only are we in another dimension, I have to re-learn grammar like a toddler.

Still, if there was one thing Kitsune knew how to do, it was adapt. He pulled the English book closer.

Fine. I’ll learn your stupid language.

He had work to do.

It was nighttime, and Yugao lay her head on her bag. She had been so busy replenishing her chakra that she hadn't given a second thought to being transported to another world via the seal Genma, Raido, and Iwashi had worked on. Her thoughts couldn't keep up with the current situation she and her comrades were now in. She gave a slight nod to Tenzo—who had just returned from training, sweat lining his temples and darkening his hair—and he nodded back.

"Genma, that shit," she muttered without thinking.

"Maa, Yugao, you shouldn't pick on Genma so much," Kakashi said, not even bothering to look up from his favorite book, Icha-Icha Paradise—in particular, the riveting third chapter, 'Shut Up and Follow Me,' widely regarded as the peak of paradise in the series. He shot Yugao a distinctive eye smile, and she couldn't help but shiver slightly.

"Knowing Kitsune, he sure as hell won’t let Genma off easily."

Letting out a huff, Yugao said, “Hundred-thousand ryo says Kitsune-senpai makes Genma clean dog and cat shit for ten months.” She raised her voice loud enough for Tenzo to hear and grinned as she placed her bet.

Kakashi played along. “Sixty-thousand ryo says Kitsune will make him eat spicy food—Genma hates spicy.”

“Fifty-thousand ryo he’ll hang Genma-senpai upside down at the Hokage Monument. Naked,” Tenzo added, pulling off his happuri-style forehead protector. Kakashi snorted at the mental image.

“That’s not nearly extreme enough,” Yugao muttered.

“Heh?” Tenzo blinked. “Did you forget that time Senpai found that annoying ‘rat’?”

Kakashi and Yugao grimaced in unison. They remembered exactly what ‘rat’ Kitsune had found. The man had been strung up naked at the Hokage Monument, tongue split in half, mouth sealed shut. In the middle of winter.

“Maa, Sandaime-sama’s still getting complaints from civilians. They say the stench ruined the morning air,” Kakashi said casually.

“This is shit.”

The trio fell silent immediately.

Kitsune landed without a sound, the shimmer of his transformation jutsu fading around him. One look, and they could tell—he was not in a good mood.

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he muttered, “Genma that shit,” over and over, like a mantra.

“Senpai, did something happen?” Yugao asked, cautious.

“Great question, Yugao,” Kitsune replied flatly, sarcasm clinging to every syllable. “Let me tell you what I fucking found.”

Good thing I put up that noise-proof seal, Kakashi thought. If I hadn’t, Kitsune’s voice would’ve attracted half the city by now.

“We’ve been transported to a world where people don’t use chakra. They have... quirks. Eighty percent of the population has them, the rest don’t. The world’s obsessed with this black-and-white idea of heroes and villains.” Kitsune sighed in frustration. “And the so-called ‘clown police’—”

Tenzo’s attention sharpened.

“—they’re called heroes. Graduated from some ‘hero school’ at eighteen. Licensed to use their quirks for civilian protection, natural disasters, blah blah blah. Personally, I think they’re a bunch of self-absorbed assholes. Attention whores, every last one of them.”

Tenzo and Yugao snickered. “Attention whores” had a certain ring to it.

“And the villains—better labeled idiots—aren’t much better. Honestly, they remind me of Uchiha Sasuke pre-war.” Kitsune ignored Kakashi’s glare. “Oh, and get this: people here consider anyone under seventeen to be children.”

“That’s unreasonable,"

“Inefficient.”

“Even a civilian would find that ridiculous.”

“Exactly.” Kitsune sounded far too calm now. He clicked his tongue. “Shit. Be right back—I forgot something.”

He vanished through the window.

Moments later, he returned—carrying an unconscious man over his shoulder.

I have a bad feeling about this, Kakashi thought.

“Uhm... Kitsune?” he asked.

“What?”

“What are you doing with that body?”

“Experiment. Seal. Suppress. Quirk,” Kitsune replied bluntly.

“Won’t people notice he’s missing?” Yugao asked.

“He’s a low-tier idiot. No one will care,” Kitsune assured her, laying the body flat. He unrolled a scroll marked with the kanji for Fuinjutsu Equipment, then turned to Kakashi.

“Roku—ehem, I mean Kakashi, try inspect this guy’s body with the Sharingan.”

Kakashi finally closed his book, lifted his headband, and activated his Sharingan. “So what’s this guy’s quirk?”

“Claws. Three of them. Each hand. They extend from the backs.”

“Maa... there’s something like a thread connected from his hand to his stomach,” Kakashi observed. “Similar to a chakra coil, but the energy source isn’t evenly distributed—it’s centered in the stomach. That’s where the quirk originates.”

So suppressing these quirks will be like suppressing chakra, Kitsune thought. But the seal has to be placed at the stomach, not just anywhere.

He took out a firm, silky brush, dipped it into ink, and drew a perfect circle on the floor. Within it, he carefully wrote the kanji for Seal, then surrounded it with a complex array of supplementary glyphs.

The man’s body lay still in the center of the seal, the faint light from the abandoned apartment’s window casting long shadows across his face.

Kitsune crouched beside him, brush in one hand, a sealed chakra scroll resting beside his knee. His amber eyes sharpened as he examined the unconscious subject.

“There’s a pattern,” he murmured, half to himself. “The stomach is the core. That’s where the energy builds—Kakashi already confirmed it. Not a chakra system, but something... synthetic. Reactive. Probably genetic.”

Kitsune reached over and tapped lightly against the man’s abdomen, just above the navel.

“I’m theorizing this is where the quirk pathway begins. Like the tenketsu system in chakra users, but more linear. Less refined. Less... spiritual.”

Kakashi observed quietly from a distance, arms crossed, the Sharingan still active.

“So it’s not flowing through the entire body like chakra?”

“Not in the same way. It activates only when triggered. The source is centralized, most likely connected to a hormone or adrenal spike. Which means...”

He paused, glancing at the man’s wrists where the claws had previously emerged.

“...we suppress the source, we suppress the ability. Cut off the fuel, the engine won’t run.”

Kitsune dipped the brush in ink once more. This time, his strokes were deliberate and focused, forming intricate kanji around the original seal. A ring of suppression characters encircled the primary glyph, forming a layered fuinjutsu matrix.

He whispered each step under his breath.

“Layer One: Identification. Isolate the quirk’s anchor point.” 

"Layer Two: Containment. Prevent activation spikes from spreading through the body.”

“Layer Three: Nullification. Drain residual energy and keep the core dormant.”

As he worked, the brush’s movements became more complex—each stroke feeding into the last. Chakra flowed into the seal, glowing faintly blue under the dim light.

“The hard part,” Kitsune muttered, “is binding the seal to a non-chakra-based system. This world doesn’t recognize chakra as a natural energy. That’s why the seal needs a bridge.”

He produced a small vial from his pouch—a thick, almost luminescent powder inside.

“Crystallized chakra residue,” he explained without being prompted. “From the Land of Iron. It stabilizes foreign energy systems.”

He poured a small amount into the seal’s center. The reaction was immediate—the ink shimmered, then dulled, anchoring itself to the man’s body like it had sunk into his skin.

Kitsune placed two fingers on the man’s stomach, closing his eyes.

“Bind.”

The seal lit up in full—brilliant, then quickly faded to a soft glow.

For a moment, silence.

Then the man twitched.

His fingers spasmed as though trying to summon claws again. Nothing happened.

Kakashi stepped closer. “Quirk activity?”

“Flatlined,” Kitsune replied, voice calm but satisfied. “His energy isn’t gone—but it can’t activate. Not without me undoing the seal.”

He stood, rolling his shoulders as he glanced back at the seal work. “I’ve just suppressed a quirk using chakra-based fuinjutsu. On a biological level... the systems are incompatible. But that’s what makes it possible.”

“Impressive,” Kakashi muttered, lowering his headband.

“Sleep, Yugao,” Kitsune said without looking up. “Your body isn’t the same as before. Even if you force it, it won’t adjust.”

Yugao didn’t argue. He was right—her body couldn’t handle the old four-hour routine anymore. Pushing herself would only lead to collapse.

This is shit. Everything is shit. All of this is shit, Kitsune thought with infuriating calm. Behind his composed expression, he was seething.

Genma... oh, I’m going to make you pay.

Yugao woke with a silent yawn, the morning chill creeping under her uniform. Her body ached faintly—sleeping on worn tatami wasn’t ideal, but it beat being unconscious in a war zone. She blinked against the pale light seeping through the window’s cracked blinds and sat up, her gaze sweeping the room.

Kakashi sat cross-legged, hands resting lightly on his knees, his chakra rhythm steady. Still in recovery mode. The low-time villain’s body was gone, as was Kitsune. She didn’t bother asking. If it involved Kitsune and a corpse, it was best left unspoken.

Tenzo stirred beside her, his movement precise but slow, almost groggy. He looked up at her with mild alertness.

“Good morning, Senpai. Yugao.”

“Morning,” she muttered, her tone only half-present. Kakashi offered no response, deep in silent chakra meditation.

Yugao pulled a scroll from her pouch and unsealed it. With a soft puff, food appeared on the floor—sealed ration packs, jerky, steamed buns, and a thermos of broth. She picked up a pack of jerky and casually resealed the rest.

She turned her eyes toward Tenzo.

“Where do you usually train?”

Tenzo didn’t miss a beat. “Westside forest,” he replied between slurps of steaming Ichiraku ramen.

“I’ll join.”

“I know.”

“You know, Senpai will be disappointed when he finds out you’ve been neglecting your physical training.”

“I haven’t been neglecting anything.”

Yugao raised an eyebrow. “Right. And I’m the Hokage.”

“You’re certainly loud enough to be.”

“Oh, cute. You have jokes now?” She narrowed her eyes. “Tell me, when’s the last time you did actual taijutsu drills instead of babysitting your mokuton?”

“Yesterday. While you were asleep drooling on your bag.”

“That bag is waterproof. Try again.”

“Your reflexes are getting soft.”

“Soft? I outmaneuvered you yesterday's spar.”

“I tripped on a branch!”

“Then maybe next time, use your damn eyes.”

“You knocked it loose with a kunai!”

Kakashi let out a deep, almost pained sigh.

He opened one eye, Sharingan-less and tired. “Children,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve both regressed.”

Yugao gave Tenzo a smug smile. “See? Even senpai agrees.”

Tenzo raised an eyebrow. “Says the woman who fell asleep mid-watch.”

“I was meditating. You think I’d let my guard down with Kitsune-senpai stomping around like an angry tanuki?”

“You were snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“You absolutely do. You whistle through your nose like an angry kettle.”

“Shut up.”

“You asked.”

Yugao took a large bite out of her jerky and glared at him while chewing. Tenzo calmly took another sip of ramen.

Kakashi leaned back with a sigh, tugging his hitai-ate further down his face. “This is going to be a long one."

Kakashi sighed mentally, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Morphing back into their younger bodies was having an unexpected side effect—it was making them act their age too. Or at least... close enough.

Shit, he thought, almost.

Banri—once Kitsune—had long decided he wanted nothing to do with this monochrome world.

Black and white, hero or villain. There was no nuance here. No balance. It grated on his every nerve.

Still, despite his personal disdain, he knew one thing for sure: if he returned to their world empty-handed—especially without gathering valuable intel on advanced medical science—Tsunade would punch him across the entire Fire Nation. And if she didn’t get to him first, her apprentices surely would. Sakura, especially.

“That brat could bench-press a mountain and still scream about discipline,” he thought grimly.

So Banri compromised. Begrudgingly.

He’d begun visiting the library daily, slipping in under a false name and an extremely polite tone that earned him odd but approving looks from the librarian. He used money he'd quietly lifted from half a dozen wallets—the currency was different, of course. Took him a week to figure that out and start pickpocketing with purpose. He had no guilt. The self-righteous idiots in this world practically bled arrogance. Consider it a public service.

Today, like the others, he crouched at a small desk buried in the back corner, thick notebooks open. Rows of books towered next to him. Medical science, epidemiology, gene therapy, pathogen behavior. His brush moved fluidly, scribbling it all down in shinobi cipher. Their kanji match this world's script, so he coded everything. If anyone tried to steal his notes, they’d think it was calligraphic gibberish.

He only paused when the kindly librarian tapped his desk.

“Sweetie,” she said warmly. “The library’s closing. You can borrow those books, you know. Bring them back when you’re done studying.”

Banri blinked. It wasn’t often people were… nice.

He gave a small nod and thanked her quietly, taking the offered books with mechanical grace.

Back at the apartment, Banri tossed the books on the floor and immediately made five shadow clones. They snapped into action with synchronized precision, each taking a thick notebook and flipping to a fresh page.

Tenzo walked into the room with a half-eaten onigiri. He eyed the stack of books.

“Senpai… why does it look like you robbed a hospital’s archives?”

“Medical knowledge,” Banri replied, not looking up. “Tsunade-sama and Sakura might want to see it when we get back. Might save someone’s life if this world has a disease ours hasn’t encountered yet.”

“Huh,” Tenzo said thoughtfully. “Smart.”

“Of course it’s smart. I’m not doing it for fun.”

Kakashi ambled in next, hair more disheveled than usual, half-reading a book. “You know, maa… you could’ve just used the photocopier.”

Banri glared. “What the hell is a photocopier?”

“It’s like a clone,” Kakashi said casually. “But for paper.”

Yugao walked in stretching, then leaned against the wall. Banri choose to ugnore Kakashi and turned his gaze toward her.

“Yugao. Are you able to use ninjutsu yet?”

She shook her head. “Chakra system’s still misaligned. My body’s adapting, but slowly.”

Banri’s jaw tensed. He didn’t say anything, but his frustration was obvious.

Kakashi chuckled, flipping a page of Icha Icha Tactics. “Maa, seems like I’m the only one aside from Yugao who can still use genjutsu in a pinch.”

Banri rolled his eyes. “You’re one misstep away from your chakra coils backfiring.”

“Still better than being surrounded by chakra-less ducklings.”

Yugao and Tenzo sweatdropped.

The roles had definitely reversed. Kakashi was usually the disinterested slouch. Banri, the calm storm. But now…

Banri was obsessively copying books like a medic-nin with a grudge.

And Kakashi was making snide comments with an open Icha Icha book in hand.

“…This world really is shit,” Tenzo muttered under his breath.

Banri didn’t disagree.

Chapter Text

People didn’t expect a Hokage—or any Kage, really—to take on missions personally, unless they were dire emergencies that directly affected their village. Life-or-death situations. Political upheaval. Imminent war.

In short, not often.

And yet, Kakashi Hatake, The Sixth Hokage of Konohagakure, had somehow managed to slip away from his mountain of paperwork—paperwork that, no matter how much he completed, seemed to multiply like a chakra-fueled plague. He claimed he was being forcebly dragged into an urgent eight-month-long mission by Kitsune.

Dragged was generous.

Truthfully, Kakashi had left his post with all the guilt of a cat caught on the windowsill—mild shame, quickly buried under laziness and convenience. Kitsune had barely needed to tug on his sleeve. They were joined by their old ANBU teammates, and just like that, Kakashi was off. The stack of scrolls on his desk forgotten, abandoned to the one person he never imagined would agree to Hokage-level babysitting: Tsunade.

Now, some may be wondering how Tsunade even agreed to the fact of looking after the village while the current Hokage is out on a mission. Knowing her fiery personality and having grown tired of being a shinobi, and thus retiring as soon as possible after crowning Kakashi, all she wants to do is to enjoy her golden days.

It's simple, honestly. Kakashi mused, Kitsune had given—bribed—her a high-class sake that was over a thousand years old, one that she hadn't heard or tasted before, and a pill he discovered on one of his missions in the past. From what Kakashi heard, the pill allows the individual who swallows it to turn back into their body from thirty years prior.

Needless to say, Tsunade was delighted at the prospect of turning back into her thirty-year-old self.

Just as they were about to depart for the mission, Genma accidentally spilled ink while working on a high-rank space-time seal. As a result, he and his team were teleported to an unknown dimension with advanced technology and medical knowledge. In this dimension, people walk around with animal or mechanical features that aren't the result of human experimentation. They view everything in this world as black and white, with no shades of gray.

Honestly, if you were to ask him, it's ridiculous.

Letting out a sigh, Kakashi thought back to the moments before he had arrived at the ANBU HQ. He should have known that something bad was about to occur with the mirror cracking itself while he was checking himself out, his toe repeatedly tripping against a table leg despite his ability to dodge it effortlessly, and the countless black cats that seemed to cross his path. It was as if the universe was conspiring against him, with every twist and turn leading him to this moment.

And here he was, standing in a different world, his fourteen-year-old self with the Sharingan. The sudden change was disorienting, to say the least. He couldn't help but wonder how Sakura would react to seeing him in his younger body. He could already picture her excitement and teasing remarks.

Despite the chaos and confusion, Kakashi found himself amazed that he was able to keep his mind sane amidst the unfamiliarity of this new world. Unlike a certain someone he knew, who would probably be losing their mind in this situation. It was a testament to his training and resilience, adapting to a world where everything worked differently from the one he was raised in.

(Though, truth be told, the only reason his sanity held intact was because of the presence of his comrades. The familiar presence of his ANBU team kept the unraveling thread of disorientation from snapping completely. Their bond—tempered in blood, duty, and sacrifice—was the anchor that held him steady in this surreal  world.)

As Kakashi walks through the bustling streets, he can't help but feel a mixture of awe and confusion. The sights and sounds of this new world are unlike anything he has ever experienced. He wanders around, his eyes scanning the surroundings, searching for any clues or information that could help him make sense of this strange place.

Quirks. That's what they call the unique abilities possessed by the people in this world. No matter how much he tries to wrap his mind around it, Kakashi struggles to comprehend a world that exists without the presence of chakra. It goes against everything he has known and learned as a shinobi.

Still, he adapted. Observed. Learned.

Although Kakashi may not be an expert in sensing abilities, he can still sense something unique about each individual in this world—their powers. It's simple. Though his sensing abilities may be faint, they are still present. For instance, during one of his walks, he found himself clashing against a villain in a dark alleyway. In that intense moment, he could faintly feel an energy that seemed to emanate from their fingertips. And, as it turns out, that energy was the source of their quirk.

The realization both fascinates and perplexes Kakashi. He wonders how these quirks came to be and how they function in a world devoid of chakra. It's a puzzle he is determined to solve, for the sake of understanding and adapting to this new reality.

Where have you been, Kakashi?” Banri asked, arms crossed.

“Maa, didn’t know you were that curious about my schedule,” Kakashi replied, teasing. He slid out his worn copy of Icha Icha Paradise and flashed Banri a signature eye-smile, fully aware it would poke at his teammate’s nerves.

Banri’s eyebrow twitched. He let out a slow breath, grabbed his bag, and slung it over his shoulder with visible restraint.

“Senpai, are you heading out?” Yugao asked as she methodically cleaned her blade, her voice calm but curious.

Banri nodded. “Yes. We’re all going to Yokohama.”

Yugao tilted her head slightly. “What’s Yokohama?”

“It’s one of Japan’s bigger cities,” Banri explained. “According to intel, there’s an information broker operating there. Well, not really a broker but someone who might know about quirks—especially dimensional transportation quirks. Maybe even a way to turn us back into adults.”

At that, a spark of hope lit up in everyone’s eyes. The weight of operating in underage bodies had been more than inconvenient—it was downright dangerous.

“And what if they don’t cooperate?” Yugao asked.

Banri’s smirk widened, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Then we’ll make them cooperate. We’ve got options.”

Kakashi chuckled, closing his book with a snap. “Classic Banri,” he muttered.

“Yugao,” Kakashi added, slipping into his command tone, “stick close to Banri. We don’t know how shady this informant’s circle might be.”

Yugao nodded sharply.

“Tenzo and I will scout for a base once we arrive,” Kakashi continued, already mentally scanning Yokohama’s layout.

“But…” Tenzo hesitated, his brow furrowing. “I get trying to find a way to reverse our age, but why look for another dimensional quirk? We already have Kakashi-senpai’s Mangekyō Sharingan.”

Banri gave a slow, thoughtful nod. Kakashi and Yugao also turned to listen, clearly wanting to hear Banri’s reasoning.

“True,” Banri said, “but there’s always the chance Kamui won’t work as expected. It’s tied to Kakashi’s chakra and visual clarity—it’s not exactly stable for something like cross-dimensional travel.”

He paused, voice dropping lower. “So I’m working a backup plan. If we find nothing, I’ll have to reconstruct the Flying Thunder God formula from memory.”

Tenzo’s face darkened with understanding. “That’s... not going to be easy, is it?”

Kakashi, Yugao, and Banri turned in unison and gave him a look.

Not just a look—a glare.

It said everything.

“Obviou-fucking-ly.”

“Kitsune, three tails on us—six o’clock,” Neko’s voice crackled in his ear, calm but alert.

Kitsune clicked his tongue. “Noted,” he muttered. Then, louder: “Your orders, Hokage-sama.” There was no sarcasm in his voice—just a begrudging acceptance that this wasn’t his call. He’d asked, after all.

Kakashi’s voice came through the comm, dry as ever. “Confront them. Pretend to be one of the heroes.”

Kitsune stared blankly for a second. What kind of a dumbass plan is this?! Who even asked for his—oh, right, my idea. Shit. He sighed. Orders were orders, especially when you requested them.

They touched down on a nearby rooftop, and with a burst of speed, Kitsune vanished in a flicker of motion. He reappeared just in time to block a high-velocity kick aimed at Tori, his forearm catching the impact with a dull thud. The force rippled up his arm, but he didn’t budge. A slow smirk crept across his face.

“Wrong target,” he said, tone almost taunting.

Inu let out a low whistle. “Well, they saw through our little act. Can’t say I blame them.”

“So much for acting…” Neko muttered, sliding beside them.

"We haven't even started our act..." Tori adds.

Tori, unbothered, formed a rapid flurry of hand seals. In a sweeping motion, he thrust his arms forward—towering trees erupted from his sleeves, thick trunks arcing toward the white-haired woman to bind or knock her away. But she was faster than she looked, leaping back with smooth precision, landing out of reach.

“Damn, these villains put up a fight,” she said, voice laced with either grudging admiration or tired sarcasm—Kitsune couldn’t tell which.

Moments later, two more heroes arrived, positioning themselves beside the bunny woman. One wore a mask.

What the actual fuck? Kitsune blinked. Is that… Kakashi 2.0? The budget version?

The masked hero launched into a monologue: “Stealing money and using quirks without a license—”

Kitsune’s ears went into automatic shutdown. He had heard enough of this sanctimonious drivel on the news. If he wanted a lecture, he’d dig up a scroll from Konoha’s Ethics Department.

Inu turned to the others, grinning. “Looks like we’ve wandered into a full-on hero circus. Hope they hired a decent scriptwriter for all this.”

Kitsune snorted. “Yeah, I cannot-fucking-wait to hear about justice and saving the damn day.”

Neko rolled her eyes. “I’m sure we’re moments away from an inspirational speech. Maybe a trademark pose or two.”

Tori chuckled. “At least we’re good for comic relief. Someone has to be.”

Kitsune didn’t bother with a warning. “We don’t have time for your monologue shit,” he snapped—and with that, Neko and Tori tossed down a pair of smoke bombs. Plumes of white burst across the rooftop

In the blur of smoke and silence, Team Rō vanished in a flicker of movement.

“Shit! They got away!” one of the heroes shouted, frustration echoing uselessly into the smoke-thick night.

.

.

.

.

The team regrouped on the rooftop of a bustling train station, the architecture reminding them of something familiar—Kaminarimon Company, maybe. Banri stood at the edge, his hair flaring slightly in the breeze. He turned to face his comrades, eyes sharp with focus. A single swift hand sign conveyed his plan.

“This train’s heading toward Yokohama,” he said. “We’ll ride on top. Conserve our energy.”

No one argued. As skilled as they were, outrunning a train across city infrastructure was inefficient, and every drop of chakra might matter soon. Heroes, villains—it didn’t matter. A storm was brewing, and they’d need to be ready for it.

Without a word, they leapt into motion. With grace honed through years of training, they vaulted onto the roof of the train just as the horn sounded—
Paaaaaaaang───!!!

The train roared to life beneath them. Shadows cloaked their movements. Chakra sealed them to the roof as wind whipped through their hair and clothes. The rhythmic clatter of tracks beneath echoed like a war drum in the distance.

“No wonder Senpai always whined about those clown cops and their damn monologues,” Tori muttered, his fingertips twitching as if still trying to shake off the echo. “I can't unhear it…”

“Is that even a word?” Inu asked, smirking behind his mask.

Neko sighed, her hand casually brushing her katana’s hilt. “I’d take a rogue shinobi’s delusional rambling over one more numbered list of our so-called villainy.”

“Maa,” Kakashi said, resting his chin in his hand with a practiced eye-smile, “let’s just hope and pray to the Sage of Six Paths that we don’t run into any more heroes.”

“Yeah, right,” Kitsune muttered.

He’s being sarcastic! someone thought—or maybe all of them did.

As the cityscape blurred into streaks of neon and concrete, their minds turned toward Hosu. Danger waited there, but so did answers. And maybe even a path home. Their chakra, skill, and sarcasm would be their weapons—and their armor.

.

.

.

.

Banri and Yugao, two skilled ANBU operatives, stealthily made their way through the bustling streets of Yokohama City. The sun had just set, casting a warm glow on the display boards that adorned the storefronts. The vibrant lights illuminated the faces of the countless people who filled the streets, creating a mesmerizing scene.

Using their mastery of the Transformation Jutsu, Banri and Yugao seamlessly blended in with the crowd, becoming indistinguishable from the ordinary citizens around them. Their disguises were so convincing that even if someone happened to catch a glimpse of them, they would quickly forget about them.

Their mission was to locate an elusive information broker rumored to be hiding in a bar on the outskirts of Kamino Ward. As they ventured further into the ward, the streets gradually grew quieter, with fewer people around. Sensing that they were nearing their destination, Banri and Yugao dispelled their Transformation Jutsu, revealing their ANBU uniforms.

In a dimly lit side alley, Banri's sharp eyes caught sight of the entrance to the bar. Without hesitation, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, Yugao following closely behind. The atmosphere inside was thick with smoke and the murmur of hushed conversations. The scent of alcohol lingered in the air, creating an ambiance of secrecy and intrigue.

As they made their way through the establishment, Banri's senses heightened, scanning the room for any signs of their target. The patrons seemed oblivious to the presence of the two ANBU operatives, engrossed in their own conversations and activities.

The room behind the bar was a stark contrast to the lively streets outside. It exuded an air of neglect and decay, with its dim lighting casting eerie shadows on the dark wooden floor and brick walls. Yugao couldn't help but notice the layer of dust coating the room—a testament to its lack of care. The only well-maintained aspects were the counter, the bar stools, and the impressive collection of alcohol bottles adorning the shelves behind it.

As Yugao’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, they were drawn to two figures in the room. The first was a man perched on one of the bar stools, his presence emanating an unsettling aura. His red eyes pierced through the darkness, glinting with a hint of bloodthirstiness. Pale blue hair framed his face, adding to his enigmatic appearance.

Behind the counter stood another figure, their form obscured by a swirling purple mist. Yugao squinted, trying to discern their true nature. Was it a person, or something else entirely? The mist seemed to dance around them, adding an element of mystery to their presence. Yugao couldn't shake the feeling that this individual might be the result of some twisted experimentation—their appearance defying the norms of the natural world. Then again, almost every person's appearance of this world defy the norms of the natural world.

And then there was the person on the screen, their image flickering with static. They appeared disheveled and out of shape, their body connected to various pieces of equipment.

The man on the bar stool hissed, his voice laced with suspicion and hostility. "Who are you?" he demanded. Yugao estimated him to be around twenty years old, but his mental age seemed far from mature.

A man-child, then.

"I heard there's an information broker here," Banri began, signaling subtly for Yugao not to act unless absolutely necessary. "I need information."

"And what the hell makes you think we'd gladly tell you anything?" the pale-blue-haired man snapped.

Banri didn't flinch—he's a shinobi through and through, other's say he's on a different league as a shinobi. So, whatever the man-child throws at him, he'll merely think of it as an act of an insect's tantrum that isn't worth his attention.

"My team and I will do six jobs. Six," Nonetheless, he repeated firmly. "Think of us as mercenaries. But instead of payment in money, we want you to do as we ask."

"Bold of you to just walk in without even knocking! You're just a damn brat!" the man barked, springing up from his stool, all five fingers outstretched as he rushed toward Banri.

He didn’t make it far.

Yugao’s eyes glinted with cold steel behind her mask as her sword slid free, aimed directly at his throat. The deadly metal gleamed under the dim light, halting the man in his tracks.

"Keep your filthy hands off Kitsune," she warned, voice colder than ice. She noted the sweat forming at the base of his throat.

"Ah, not so fast, Shigaraki," came a voice from a flickering TV screen nearby. The man—Shigaraki—wilted at the sound and backed off, allowing the speaker to continue.

"What is it you need from us?" the voice asked.

"I need a quirk with access to dimensional travel, and another that can return us to our original body size," Kitsune replied vaguely.

"Original body size?" The voice didn’t sound confused—just curious. Kitsune preferred that. Confusion was ignorance. Curiosity was the desire to learn.

Still, should he be really giving crucial information regarding their circumstances to a broker they aren't familiar with? There will always be a possibility (a consideration) that it'll be used against Team Rō.

The question echoed in Kitsune's mind like a blade unsheathed too early. This entire setup—it stank of manipulation, of predators hiding behind layers of smoke and faux civility. Every seasoned shinobi knew that intelligence was currency, and giving it away, even in vague pieces, was the same as handing your opponent a blade to stab you with later.

(They're shinobi's. They must adapt.)

Kitsune kept his face unreadable, his body loose but ready. But his mind was a calculated storm.

(They're shinobi's. They must adapt.)

They're not in the Elemental Nations anymore. The rules here are warped. 'Quirks' instead of chakra, no shinobi code, no Five Great Nations, and worst of all—too many unknowns.

(They're shinobi's. They must adapt.)

He glanced subtly at the mist-wreathed figure behind the counter. Even without relying on his sensory, Banri’s instincts screamed at him. That… thing. It wasn’t just strange—it felt wrong. Like someone had broken the rules of nature and stitched something together that shouldn’t exist. There was a pattern to chakra. A rhythm. Whatever this was, it had none.

(They're shinobi's. They must adapt.)

Then there was the pale-haired man-child—Shigaraki. Emotionally unstable. Reactionary. But dangerous in the way a cornered animal is. The kind of person who kills not because it’s strategic—but because it’s easy.

(They're shinobi's. They must adapt.)

He’d make a poor shinobi, Banri thought coldly. Too much rage. No discipline. A threat, but predictable.

(They're shinobi's. They must adapt.)

(They're shinobi's. They must adapt.)

(They're shinobi's. They must adapt.)

(They're shinobi's. They must adapt.)

(They're shinobi's. They must adapt.)

(They're shinobi's. They must ad—... BE QUIET. Compose yourself.)

His eyes flicked briefly to the flickering monitor and the voice that emerged from it—calm, patient, and too amused.

And that one’s worse. That’s the real leader. Smart enough to let the children bark while he listens. Collects data before acting. A snake hiding behind glass and wires. That voice… Banri's hand twitched near his pouch instinctively. He’s the one to watch.

Still, Banri forced his tone to stay measured, calculating.

He glanced at Neko from the corner of his eye. She was ready to kill without hesitation, standing so still her presence barely registered in the dim room. But if we say nothing… we get nothing. No quirks. No answers. No leads. They'll waste time. They don't have he luxury to waste time. They must return to their own dimension. Where their love ones are waiting—

(He's not even sure if they are waiting. H e doesn't know how their own dimension is reacting to the circumstances they're put in.)

His mind ticked through the risks, years of black ops missions and political sabotage making the process automatic.

Pros of a half-truth:

They believe we’re vulnerable. Might underestimate us.

Keeps the real secret intact: how we got here, who we are, and what we're really capable of.

Opens the door to get what we need—quirks, resources, leverage.

Cons:

They’ll know we’re hiding something. Bastards like these always do.

Curiosity turns into obsession. And obsessed people dig.

Could bite us later if we need to renegotiate, or worse, if they piece together the truth.

Still, Banri thought as he kept his face neutral, half-truths are a shinobi’s currency.

"For reasons unknown, my older body reverted back to my fifteen-year-old self," he said, offering a half-truth.

"The same applies to my team."

He watched the screen carefully for a reaction. Bite, you bastard. Take the bait.

Because if they believed that was the whole truth, then Team Rō still had the edge. And Banri intended to keep it that way.

"How interesting."

Banri’s eye twitched. He had a feeling whoever was behind the screen was far too intrigued by their age regression. The whole vibe reminded Neko of that snake—a certain pedophile who has a fanatic obsessed with the Uchiha and their eyes..

At least, he took the bait.

"And how old were you before you were reverted?"

"Who knows," he shrugs, "Maybe about hundreds?"

(He's thirty-six years old, but he doesn't plan on revealing it for the sake of making the man overthink.)

"..."

"..."

"Now that's interesting."

"How?" He asks, he feels that there is a speculation going in that man's head.

"How have you never heard of me before?"

Kitsune's eyes narrowed behind his mask as a sudden realization dawned on him.

Shit. It’s either this guy has been around for a century—or even centuries—or he’s just a widely known villain. Though Kitsune doubted the latter; if the man were truly that infamous, he would’ve heard about him long before now. Especially considering the intel that had led him here in the first place. Fuck, this guy could be an Orochimaru 2.0.

Kitsune and Neko shared a look. Seems like we're thinking the same thing.

Kitsune cleared his through and opted for an improvised but misleading answer. In profanity language: bullshit his way through.

"You could say, we were put in a long rest, physically. Mentally? Not so much."

"But why the need for dimensional travel?"

"That’s none of your concern. We do six jobs—you give us the two things we need," Kitsune said curtly, barely restraining the urge to summon his chains and smash the screen. "Be thankful we’re only asking for two."

"Hmm, you’re right. I should be thankful," the voice mused. "Then, welcome to the League of Villains…"

The sentence hung, expectant.

Banri understood. "Call us Team Rō. The other members are currently occupied. You may call me Kitsune. The woman beside me is also a victim of the phenomenon. Call her Neko."

"What a peculiar team name."

"And you don’t get a say in that."

"Fair enough. It may take me a while to get access to such a Quirk, do you understand?"

Kitsune cursed under his breath. Of all the things he wanted to avoid, dealing with heroes topped the list. And now he had to waltz into the most prestigious hero school in Japan.

"My quirk is Shadow Clones."

"I assume you’re not on any birth registry. I’ll create a new identity for you."

"Before we leave, we still don’t know your name," Neko said flatly.

"You can call me… All For One."

Without another word, Neko and Kitsune vanished in a puff of smoke.

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Meanwhile, Yugao and Banri both wore the same flat, displeased expression.

“What’s with the sour face?” Tenzo asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Yugao replied dryly. “Just the fact that Senpai’s shadow clone volunteered us for six jobs for the information broker-slash-Orochimaru 2.0 called All for One—in exchange for the quirks we were asking for, and future information. For the first one, we need someone around fifteen years old to infiltrate a hero school called U.A.”

Everyone slowly turned to look at Banri.

“Ah, great,” he groaned. “Fine, I’ll do it.” He waved them off with a tired flick of his fingers. “What were we doing again?”

“Shopping for new clothes,” Yugao said.

“With stolen money,” Kakashi added without looking up from his book.

“Right.” Banri turned to Tenzo. “Who stole it?”

“Maa, I did.”

“Figures... Why do we even need new clothes?” Banri grumbled, already regretting asking.

“Because,” Kakashi said, flipping a page, “people are staring at us like we’re escaped lunatics. Probably because we’re still in ANBU gear.”

“I don’t judge the brainpower of civilians,” Yugao muttered.

“At least we’re using different faces,” Tenzo chimed in.

“Well, the important thing is getting books and clothes,” Kakashi said.

“Do you even have enough money for all that?”

“Of course,” Kakashi said smoothly.

Banri sighed and pulled a massive cart from the front of the store. Kakashi followed suit, humming. Banri wasn’t sure if the thing was big enough to hold everything they were buying. Then again, if it wasn’t, they could always make Tenzo fetch another one or more.

The sliding doors parted with a soft chime.

Team Rō stepped inside, their movements subtly cautious but their eyes wide. The mall stretched out before them like a polished labyrinth of lights, glass, and commercial dreams.

Banri let out a low whistle. "Alright. I'll give them this. Packing half a village's worth of shops into one building? Smart."

Yugao’s head tilted ever so slightly. “This place is… efficient,” she admitted. “One building. Dozens of vendors. Minimal exposure risk.”

"Efficient," Tenzo agreed, taking in the layout. “It’s like a supply depot. Only shinier. And louder.”

“Maa, it’s the genius of civilian logistics,” Kakashi said, stepping forward with his usual lazy gait.

Kakashi hummed. "And the atmosphere's not bad either. Smells like cinnamon and capitalistic temptation. Centralized commerce. A cultural stronghold. If I were to rate their planning skills, this is definitely A-rank.”

“Whoever designed this layout deserves a commendation,” Banri muttered, almost grudgingly impressed.

Yugao narrowed her eyes but eventually nodded. "It's... organized. I can respect that."

They wandered forward like pilgrims. Escalators hummed beside sleek elevators. Electronic billboards displayed limited-time deals, while holographic kiosks displayed 3D projections of sale items. Yugao, ever the skeptic, frowned—but even she found herself eyeing the sheer coordination it must’ve taken to run a place like this.

“A public-facing fortress of capitalism,” Yugao quipped. “I approve.”

They moved toward the food court, finding a quiet corner to plan. One bowl of noodles sat in the center like a peace offering. Kakashi had already acquired three pamphlets and a bag of pens, somehow.

"Aside from clothes, what else will we be getting?" Asked Banri, slurping a chopsticks of noodles.

“Well, books and anything else that catches our eye," Kakashi said. “As the Hokage, there's a need and want inside of me to improve our world. We’ll buy books about construction, medicines, food science, agriculture, mathematics, and science knowledge.”

Tenzo raised a hand. “Can we get plants?”

Kakashi looked up from his lists. “Agricultural samples. Good idea.”

Yugao pointed to a nearby store. “That’s a bookstore-slash-stationery shop. We can split there—get science, medicine, construction, social norms.”

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Banri huffed as he stacked another box of academic texts into the cart. “Okay, so—books on agriculture, medicine, engineering, food chemistry, first aid, and cooking. Why not throw in philosophy while we’re at it?”

Kakashi, browsing a display of thick hardcovers, looked up casually. “Already did.”

Banri stared. “Seriously?”

“And that’s not enough. We’ll need more on construction, advanced medicine, agricultural systems, mathematics, architecture, and general sciences. Plus governance, urban planning, education theory, economic development, and cultural integration.”

Banri shot him a sideways glance. “That’s not a shopping list. That’s a nation-building curriculum.”

“It’s both,” Kakashi replied, deadpan. “We’re gathering blueprints for the future. Might as well throw in a few books on ethics, emotional intelligence, and maybe playwriting while we’re at it.”

Yugao blinked. “Playwriting?”

“For theater class,” Kakashi said seriously. “The kids could use it. Pretending they’re okay is practically ANBU 101. Might as well formalize it with a script.”

Tenzo gave a thoughtful nod, as if it made perfect sense.

“Mmm.” Kakashi held up a book titled Modern Ethics: Navigating Power with Responsibility and placed it on the pile. “Also picked up child psychology, trauma studies, educational theory, and something called Creative Emotional Regulation Through Art Therapy.”

Tenzo blinked. “Art… therapy?”

“For the Academy,” Kakashi said. “Painting, sculpting, music. Let them express their feelings before we teach them to bury them.”

Yugao narrowed her eyes. “You’re planning something.”

Kakashi nodded once, his gaze distant but resolute. “I’m rebuilding everything. Moral philosophy. Child development. Civic structures. Comparative histories between conflict and peace-driven societies.”

The others fell quiet. The buzz of the mall dimmed beneath the weight of his words.

“I’ve been Hokage long enough to see every crack in the system. And even if I hadn’t, I saw enough as a shinobi. We built a village on strength and forgot compassion. Demanded loyalty but never taught how to grieve. We made heroes out of children—none of whom ever had a choice.”

He turned to the cart and adjusted the books with quiet precision. It was more than paper. It was intent.

“I’m going to restructure the Academy. Expand the curriculum. Add literature, ethics, critical thinking, diplomacy, sciences—even theater.”

Banri raised an eyebrow. “Theater? Mind explaining this one to me again?”

Kakashi shrugged. “Lying is part of being a shinobi. Might as well teach them how to act like people, too.”

Tenzo chuckled quietly.

“More importantly,” Kakashi continued, “I want them to understand what it means to live before they’re trained to die. No more orphans who only know survival. I want them to grow up with friends, hobbies, dreams that aren’t shaped by war.”

He picked up a book on childhood development, flipping through it with surprising familiarity. “This chapter’s about how early trauma rewires a child’s brain. We need to stop the damage before we create another generation of broken prodigies.”

Yugao looked away, arms folded tightly.

“And that,” Kakashi added, tone lightening, “is why we’re shopping like over-caffeinated parents during exam season. If we’re stuck in a world that knows how to build peace into its systems—even flawed ones—we’d be fools not to steal a few blueprints.”

Banri muttered, “You’re planning a damn educational coup.”

“Maa,” Kakashi said, chuckling. “Is it a coup if it’s for the kids?”

Banri gave him a flat look. “So now you want to turn shinobi into schoolteachers?”

“I want to give kids time to be kids,” Kakashi said simply. “Extend the academy years. Add courses that build character, not just kill-counts. Let them learn about peace before war. Let them live long enough to decide what kind of ninja they want to be.”

Yugao frowned. “And you think this world has the answers?”

“I think,” Kakashi said, “this world has options. And as broken as it might be, they didn’t raise their children in war camps. That alone makes it worth studying.”

He gently closed the book in his hand and placed it in the cart—Understanding Moral Development in Youth: A Modern Framework.

“For once,” Tenzo said softly, “I think I’m glad you’re the Hokage.”

Banri rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue.

“Besides,” Kakashi added with a grin, “while we’re here, might as well drag home a few improvements.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Tenzo spoke quietly. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been thinking about it since the war,” Kakashi said, eyes shadowed. “All the shinobi we lost. All the children we failed. I won’t waste the peace they died for. Not again.”

Banri sighed and picked up a thick science textbook. “Alright, fine. Let’s get more books.”

Kakashi’s expression turned smug. “Good. I still need materials on renewable energy, sustainable agriculture, urban planning, and therapy animals.”

“Wait—therapy animals?” Yugao asked.

“Pakkun has agreed to be the guest speaker,” Kakashi said solemnly.

Tenzo just laughed.

Kakashi smiled faintly. “I’m tired of sending children to kill.”

Banri looked away, jaw tight. He remembered too many cold nights, too many funerals, too many empty dorm beds.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But I’m not carrying any more damn therapy books.”

“Understood,” Kakashi said solemnly. “Yugao will carry them.”

“What—?”

But she was already rolling her eyes and reaching for another stack of psychology manuals.

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Banri paid for the clothes with the “liberated” money. No one would ever trace it back. Tenzo returned with another set of large box filled with thick agricultural manuals and handed it off.

“Here, Senpai.”

Banri placed it in the cart without complaint. Yugao followed, arms loaded with more boxes. He took them, stacked them in with practiced efficiency.

“Where’s Kakashi?”

“EVERYONE, RUN!”

The three turned toward the shout—Kakashi was sprinting toward them, his cart loaded and balanced. Behind him, two very familiar figures were closing in fast.

“You little shits! Get back here!” shouted the white-haired bunny woman.

"Shit," Banri muttered, grabbing the back of his two kohais and placing them on the same cart, not caring at all if he had broken any of the mall rules. Banri pushed the cart as Kakashi picked up their pace, Tenzo understood the assignment, just from the stare Kakashi gave him, as he used body flicker to appear on Kakashi's cart.

“Kakashi! What the hell did you do?!”

“Maa, I was just shopping,” Kakashi replied casually, “then these two heroes spotted me.”

How the hell did those two even managed to recogni—ah, no wonder... Banri groaned, eyeing the mask dangling on Kakashi's belt. “I hate this world.”

It was the same mask they wore when they first encounter the heroes. No wonder they recognized Kakashi, thankfully they were still in henge.

"You couldn't not get chased for our first and probably the last shopping trip?!"

“I didn’t expect them to be this fast,” Kakashi said, still somehow reading while running. “And besides—how could I resist?”

He reached into his cart and held up.

“A life-sized bunny stuff toy?!” Banri barked.

Kakashi tilted his head. “It's cultural research. My ninken approves of its fluffy quality."

"Your ninkens are wannabe old men despite being ten years younger than you!"

“There’s a difference in human and dog age, you know!”

Banri squints his eyes in annoyance. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“I think he’s trying to justify his degeneracy,” Yugao muttered.

Tenzo, ever loyal, added helpfully, “Technically, in Inuzuka culture—”

“Stop,” Banri groaned. “Just stop. I’m going to burn that pillow.”

"Wait!" Yugao stared, slack-jawed, she was still in a realization. “You were being chased by a bunny woman and that shinobi wannabe... while buying a bunny stuff toy?”

“She looked offended,” Tenzo added. “Like, genuinely hurt.”

“I told her it was a coincidence!” Kakashi defended, dodging a thrown trash can.

“Coincidence my ass,” Banri grunted. “Next time, you're shopping alone.”

“I regret nothing,” Kakashi muttered, hugging the stuff toy protectively as they burst through the emergency exit and into the alleyway.

"How the hell did you encountered them, anyways, senpai?"

“Maa,” Kakashi drawled, “and I was just admiring a book sale and said something about hero society hypocrisy, and then the bunny lady called me a menace.”

Yugao muttered, “Technically correct.”

"While holding that fucking toy?" Banri snarled.

"While holding the toy..." Kakashi nods in affirmation.

Banri groaned.

Behind them, Mirko skidded to a halt, glaring through the door. “Cowards! I’m breaking your knees by the time I'll catch you!”

Kakashi gave a casual two-finger salute. “I’ll hop to it.”

Banri nearly dropped him right there. “We’re so screwed.”

Yugao’s sharp eyes flicked to the mall’s overhead surveillance cameras. A quick tilt of her head was all it took—Tenzo caught the signal. Their years in ANBU had forged a silent language between them, one born not of words but of glances, breath shifts, and the twitch of a single finger.

Tenzo tapped his index finger twice against the cart’s handle. Confirmation.

The plan wasn’t complicated—there wasn’t time for complicated—but it was efficient: divide their attackers’ focus, cause environmental chaos, and use the crowd’s panic as natural cover.

Classic ANBU misdirection.

Yugao made the first move.

As they neared a row of promotional stands, she twisted her body and grabbed a full display rack of toy weapons—plastic swords, ninja stars, and absurdly large foam hammers. With one graceful spin, she hurled it backward like a cyclone of distractions. The rack exploded across the polished floor, sending the clown police tripping over novelty swords and rubber shuriken.

Tenzo followed seamlessly. His hand darted out, snagging an open crate of loose merchandise—condiments, souvenir mugs, random kitchenware—and launched it behind them using chakra-enhanced strength. Ketchup packets burst midair, painting the tiles red. A coffee mug labeled “#1 Hero” shattered near Mirko’s foot, causing her to snarl in rage.

From a bystander’s perspective, it looked like pure chaos. But to Yugao and Tenzo, it was a calculated distraction: clog the pursuit path, smear the ground with slick substances, and keep the enemy’s attention disoriented.

"You goddamn villains! You better pay for it!" the bunny woman screamed, wiping a thick streak of ketchup from her white hair, courtesy of an airborne condiment bottle.

"Hell no!" came Kakashi’s infuriatingly cheerful voice.

Oh, Kami, someone shut Kakashi's mouth, Banri silently begged. Yugao and Tenzo, reading his mind like good little soldiers, both stiffened—but neither dared take on the legendary troll that was Hatake Kakashi.

Tenzo threw back another item—a squeaky toy—which bounced once, twice, and then honked directly under the foot of the shinobi wannabe hero, sending him flailing into a display of anime figurines.

“Oh, come on!” Kakashi 2.0, cringy version shouted as he was buried in limited-edition collectibles.

Yugao turned mid-run, hurling a handful of glitter from a decoration aisle. “Ninja vanish!” she declared.

It exploded mid-air, showering their pursuers in shimmering gold. Mirko sputtered, now looking like a disco ball of fury. “I hate glitter!”

Banri barreled the cart around a corner, narrowly avoiding a stunned janitor and plowing through a display of “Buy 2, Get 1 Free” hairdryers.

The carts veered sharply around the corner and out through a maintenance gate. But their freedom was short-lived—the heroes were still coming, relentless.

“Can we just lose them?!” Banri shouted, nearly tipping the cart.

“Already on it,” Tenzo said, jumping out and body flickering behind them. He reappeared seconds later with a fire extinguisher, pulled the pin, and unleashed a cloud of white smoke across the corridor.

“Stage smoke for our dramatic exit,” he said proudly.

They burst through the mall’s emergency exit, carts loaded, hearts pounding.

“WOOOO!” Kakashi cheered, arms raised like a kid on a roller coaster.

"Wood Style: Giant Wall Jutsu!" Tenzo shouted, slamming his hand against the ground. In response, thick wooden pillars burst upward, forming an imposing barrier.

"Heh, a wall like this is nothing!" the bunny woman declared, kicking forward with the full might of her legs, expecting it to crumble beneath her assault.

Crack.

Not the wall. Her foot.

She staggered back, wide-eyed. “What the hell—did I just kick a mountain?”

Edgeshot beside her, silent until now, examined the wall and then her expression. He slowly shook his head. “Nope. That’s not normal wood.”.

Mirko glared at the wall again. “What kind of twisted forest magic is this?”

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Author’s Note:

For those who are curious about the timeline

Before they were transported—
Five years after the war.

Ages:
Banri – 36 years old
Kakashi – 35 years old
Tenzo – 31 years old

Yugao – 30 years old

After they were transported—
Banri – 15 years old
Kakashi – 14 years old
Tenzo – 10 years old
Yugao – 10 years old

P.S. For those who may be wondering why I refer to Tenzo as Tenzo and not Yamato—both are codenames, as we all know. However, Tenzo is the identity he built during his time in the ANBU, while Yamato was the codename he used as Team 7’s captain. That’s all.

Chapter Text

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The lights in the safehouse buzzed quietly overhead. The shopping bags were everywhere-piled across tables, sofas, and one unfortunate corner where Kakashi had apparently started organizing them by "potential nation-building relevance."

Tenzo, fully rested but not quite with half of his chakra still replenish, was cataloging medical supplies with the precision of a seasoned quartermaster, as always, being the team's designated target. Yugao sat on the windowsill, sharpening a kunai more out of stress than necessity. Banri stood at the whiteboard, glaring at a rapidly growing list of "Things Kakashi Is Not Allowed to Do Again."

Item #7: No toys similar to enemies.
Item #8: No provoking Pro Heroes during grocery runs.
Item #9: No shopping while unsupervised.

Kakashi lounged upside-down on a worn out couch, the stuff toy bunny perched smugly on his chest.

"She's named Mochiko, by the way," he announced.

Banri didn't even look up. "Of course she is."

Tenzo, without glancing away from a textbook on immunology, added, "It's not the worst name he's come up with."

"That was 'Sir Fluffytail the Third,'" Yugao said flatly.

Kakashi nodded. "May he rest in peace."

There was a pause.

Banri finally turned, arms crossed. "You planning to start a revolution or a toy merchandise collection?"

Kakashi's tone shifted-still light, but edged with something deeper. "Can't it be both?"

Yugao glanced over, catching that flicker of sincerity beneath his usual smirk. She didn't say anything, just let the moment hang.

"I mean it," Kakashi said. "If we're stuck here, we might as well study how this place survives without turning children into soldiers. We can't fix our world by copying it-but we can learn."

Tenzo closed his book, nodding slowly. "Then we rebuild smarter. Safer."

"With better pillow defenses," Kakashi added.

Banri threw a pen at him.

It missed. Mochiko did not.

"She's learning," Kakashi murmured proudly.

While the others bantered, Tenzo sat cross-legged near the largest table, surrounded by a chaotic sprawl of goods. His expression was one of pure, focused calm-like a librarian amid a riot.

He held a small brush in one hand, ink pot in the other, delicately inscribing kanji onto an unfurled sealing scroll. One by one, he categorized the items:

"Medical supplies: Slot A. Rations: Slot B. Toiletries... C. Disguises and casual wear... Slot D through G." His voice was barely audible over the scratching of ink and the faint hum of chakra.

He glanced at a bundle of heavy textbooks-Modern Soil Management, Hydroponics for High-Risk Environments, and You and Your Urban Chickens.

"Slot H. Agricultural research." He added it without blinking.

Yugao arched a brow from her spot on the windowsill. "You're really sealing all of it?"

Tenzo nodded without looking up. "We have no idea how long we'll be stuck here. Logistics come first."

"And the... body pillow?" she asked, dryly amused.

Tenzo paused. Then, deadpan: "Sentimental equipment. Slot Z."

Kakashi gave a solemn thumbs-up

Banri wandered over and peered down at the scrolls. "You actually managed to fit a rice cooker in there?"

"Two. One's a backup."

Banri blinked, then muttered, "Kami, this guy's unbelievable..."

Tenzo simply continued, unbothered, sealing the last of the vitamins and protein bars into their respective sigils. Once done, he rolled the scroll tight and slotted it neatly into his vest pocket.

"All set," he said, standing. "If we need to move fast, we won't lose anything. Mission readiness at 87%."

Kakashi clapped lightly. "You even sound like a logistics officer. Proud of you, Tenzo."

"I was one," Tenzo replied. "For three months. Right before you burned down our field base."

There was a brief silence.

Banri pointed to the whiteboard. "Item #10: No Kakashi near flammable supplies."

Kakashi gave a wounded look. "That was a sabotage op."

"You set your own tent on fire."

"With style," Kakashi muttered.

Banri slumped into the armchair like a man defeated by bureaucracy. "Alright," he muttered, grabbing a marker. "Let's talk curriculum. If we're rebuilding the shinobi system, we do it without the death cult parts."

Kakashi flipped upright, the bunny pillow still clutched protectively. "Step one: fewer mass orphanings."

"Step two," Yugao said, deadpan, "no secret child murder exams."

"Step three," Tenzo added, "an actual retirement plan."

Kakashi tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Do we allow genin team names based on emotional trauma or stick to color coordination?"

"Wha- no. We stick with numbers," Banri said flatly. "No shitty teams named 'Loss' or 'Vengeance Squad Delta.'"

He whined. "Can I at least assign tragic backstories?" Kakashi asked.

"You create tragic backstories," Yugao shot back.

Tenzo, ever the responsible one, pulled out a fresh notebook. "Alright. Let's break it down. Core curriculum should include: chakra fundamentals, defensive jutsu, evasion tactics-"

"-emotional literacy," Kakashi interjected.

Banri raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

Kakashi shrugged. "You ever seen a jōnin try to talk about their feelings without dying inside? Half our problems come from emotionally stunted war orphans bottling trauma until it explodes into a bloodline massacre."

Banri paused mid-scribble and turned, incredulous. "You? You want to teach kids how to talk about their feelings?"

Kakashi raised an eyebrow, tone still mild. "Yes."

Banri scoffed. "That's rich, coming from a man whose idea of processing grief is reading porn on a gravestone."

The air shifted.

Kakashi didn't flinch. He just tilted his head and said, calmly, "And you think any of us here aren't hypocrites?"

That stopped the room cold.

"You lecture about safety but you still throw yourself in front of danger first. Tenzo preaches peace, but he hasn't had a full night's sleep since that War Hawk took him in. Yugao tells others not to bury their pain, but she still keeps eight years of mourning hidden in the lining of her coat."

Yugao stiffened. Tenzo lowered his eyes.

"And me?" Kakashi added with a bitter smile. "I want kids to grow up without trauma while I still can't say half my friends' names without choking on silence."

Banri stood still. No retort came. Just a slow exhale as the weight of it sank in.

Tenzo and Yugao both froze.

Banri exhaled through his nose. "...Okay. Emotional literacy stays. But I swear, if you turn it into interpretive dance, I'm defecting."

"Too late," Kakashi said. "I already wrote a unit called 'The Chidori Within: A Journey of Internal Screaming.'"

Yugao snorted. "God, the Academy's going to be chaos."

"The good kind of chaos," Tenzo said. "The kind where no one's throwing six-year-olds into trench warfare."

Tenzo cleared his throat. "We should add something on emotional regulation. Not suppression-management. The ability to pause, reflect, and not immediately explode into a bloodline-fueled vengeance arc."

"Oh!" Kakashi perked up. "And a whole unit on how not to adopt stray trauma cases until you're mentally stable."

"Looking at you," Yugao said without turning her head.

"Guilty as charged," Kakashi replied cheerfully.

Banri muttered something about needing a drink, then sat back down and started scribbling again. Across the board, beneath Fail Forward, he wrote:

Unit 1: Breaking the Cycle.

They all fell quiet again. Not the heavy silence of grief-something warmer. A sense of fragile hope.

Yugao looked down at her sharpening stone. "You think we can actually do it? Build something better?"

Kakashi glanced around the room-at the shopping bags, the whiteboard, Mochiko.

He nodded once.

"If we fail, we fail forward."

Banri sighed and scribbled the phrase 'fail forward' onto the board, underlining it three times. "This is how cult slogans start, you know."

"Or shinobi doctrine," Tenzo offered. "Depends on the font."

Yugao smirked. "Let's pick one that doesn't scream 'psychological damage.'"

Kakashi leaned back, eyes half-lidded but thoughtful. "No more soldiers. No more tools. Just people. With skills. And choices."

Mochiko squeaked softly, seemingly in agreement.

Banri rubbed his temples, already regretting everything, but knowing he'd show up tomorrow with a list of textbook recommendations anyway.

"...Fine. We'll write the damn syllabus. But if Kakashi brings up chakra alignment yoga, I'm lighting him on fire."

Kakashi raised a finger. "Actually, that's Unit Five."

Tenzo flipped the page of his notebook without looking up. "I'll prepare the fire extinguisher."

Silence filled the room.

Banri exhaled through his nose. "We're getting ahead of ourselves."

Yugao gave a slow nod, the kunai forgotten in her lap. "We can't start building a future for our world when we're still stuck here—when we still need to figure everything out."

Kakashi leaned back against the couch, expression thoughtful. "Still... it's nice to pretend. Just for a bit."

Tenzo lipped the notebook shut, his pen resting across the cover. "Yeah, well... pretend long enough, and you start making plans. Dangerous habit."

"Then we shelf it," Banri said. "For now. When we go home—if we go home—then we try. We take everything we've seen here, everything we've learned, and we build something better."

"Wiser," Yugao added.

"More humane," Banri muttered, surprising even himself.

Kakashi smiled faintly. "And with better pillow regulations."

Banri threw a stress ball at him. "You're lucky I'm too tired to kick your ass."

The silence that followed was softer. Tired. But no longer heavy. A quiet understanding hummed beneath the fatigue.

Eventually, Yugao spoke. "We'll revisit it. When the mission's done. When we're home."

"Home," Tenzo echoed, as if testing the word. "Yeah."

Kakashi tucked the bunny pillow under his arm like a mission scroll and stretched. "Then it's settled. Operation Fix the World—on hold."

Banri scratched a final note on the board beneath all the sarcastic rule violations.

Note to Self: Try Again, When We're Done.

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Kakashi sat on the edge of a crumbling windowsill, the filtered light of late afternoon casting long shadows through shattered panes. In his hands, a familiar orange book rested open, though his eyes hadn't moved over the page in minutes.

Once, he'd been known as cold-blooded. A weapon carved into the shape of a man by war and duty-lethal, unreadable, and precise. That version of him had belonged to ANBU. The silent operative. The perfect shinobi. A phase of his life etched with grief, cloaked in silence, and haunted by mistakes he never spoke of.

He hadn't wanted to leave ANBU.

But he knew why Hiruzen had forced him to retire.

The excuse had been noble: "You'd be a good teacher, Kakashi. Help raise the next generation."

He knew the real reason.

They didn't want another Itachi.

Another genius broken beneath the weight of the lives they took. Another mind caught in a storm of regret and self-loathing. Kakashi had been staring too long into the dark. And the village had stared back, worried about what might stare out of him.

Still, he hadn't protested. Not really. Maybe because deep down, he'd felt the shift himself. Maybe because Banri—stern, grounded, blunt Banri—had stayed close during those unstable days, nudging him back to earth with quiet looks and unspoken loyalty.

Kakashi had never said it aloud, but Banri's presence had steadied him more than he let on.

And then came Team 7.

Brats. Loud, emotional, stubborn brats. He'd failed nearly a hundred before letting any through, sending them marching back to the Academy like a cranky old gatekeeper. But then Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura broke through his defenses-not because they were perfect, but because they were everything he wasn't at their age.

Hopeful. Untamed. Willing to scream, cry, and dream.

And somehow, they'd become his everything

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"We're going to have to depart again."

The announcement broke through his thoughts. Kakashi didn't look up immediately, but Banri knew the subtle shift in his posture meant he was listening. Always listening.

"Reason?" Kakashi asked lazily, turning a page he hadn't read.

Banri leaned against the support beam, arms crossed. "That League of Assholes I mentioned? The so-called villains? UA is in Musutafu. They're the basically epicenter of this world's hero nurturing academy, which means it's either our best chance at answers or the stupidest death trap imaginable."

Kakashi finally glanced up, one brow raised. "You're not inspiring confidence, Banri."

"I'm not here to inspire," Banri said. "I'm here to get us out alive."

Kakashi's gaze flicked to Tenzo. "Think you can travel on foot?"

Tenzo, still pale but upright, took a slow breath. "Half my chakra's back. I'll manage." He accepted a water bottle from Yugao with a nod of thanks.

"Then it's settled. We'll resume this discussion later." Kakashi stood and slipped the book into his pouch with a quiet snap. He reached inside and pulled out a scroll-dull brown paper with his handwriting etched carefully across the seal. "I made a backup supply scroll last night. Didn't want to rely on just Banri's boring emergency kit."

Banri rolled his eyes. "You labeled yours 'Team Rō, Survival Kit - Do Not Touch (Except Me)'."

"Well, yes," Kakashi said with a grin, "but that's just good labeling."

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Tenzo had always struggled with his sense of morality. He didn't see himself as inherently good or evil—only as someone existing somewhere in between. The weight of his past pressed on him constantly: the missions he carried out in the name of duty, the lives he'd taken, the infants he'd stolen away from their homes. He had nearly killed his own senpai once. These weren't the acts of a good man.

After the Fourth Great Shinobi War, he was assigned to monitor Orochimaru. It was a mission that offered no glory, no end, and certainly no comfort. He watched the Sannin's every move for years without rest. It consumed him, and in time, the assignment became less of an order and more of an obsession. Tenzo couldn't allow himself to look away—not even for a moment.

Then, one day, Sai approached him with unexpected news.

"Kitsune-sama is in need of your presence. I'll be replacing you temporarily... for about a year or so, I think?" Sai's words were casual, but they hit Tenzo like a stone through glass.

He didn't answer right away. Relief warred with confusion. A year-long reprieve from this cursed vigil should have felt like freedom. Instead, he found himself questioning everything—why now? Why him? And what exactly did Kitsune need from him?

His thoughts spiraled as he stood silently, watching Orochimaru mutter to himself in the distance, scribbling frantically about experiments and mutating theories on human development. Whatever was left of the man's sanity was slipping, and Tenzo had been the one standing watch as it happened.

Frustration gnawed at him. Years wasted babysitting that twisted excuse of a human being—a pedophile who somehow still walked the halls of Konoha as if he hadn't burned it once. Tenzo's orders had come from above, and he followed them. Always.

Still, when Senpai called, he didn't hesitate. He arrived at headquarters with the discipline expected of him.

There, he was greeted by familiar faces from his old ANBU team. Not all of them were present—some were gone, some dead, and others scattered across the wind—but the reunion still carried weight.

That weight didn't last long.

Before the mission could even begin, disaster struck. Genma—who for reasons that escaped Tenzo had been trusted with developing a space-time seal triggered a catastrophe.

(A "skilled seal expert," Tenzo had noted dryly. He had doubts about the 'skilled' part.)

One mistake was all it took.

Tenzo could still remember it: the flash of unstable chakra, the deafening screech of a rift tearing open, the sensation of being pulled apart molecule by molecule. The nausea was overwhelming-far worse than any travel sickness he'd experienced. His instincts screamed at him to shut down, but the training that had kept him alive for years forced his eyes to stay open. Shinobi didn't collapse, even when they were spinning into the unknown.

Time lost all meaning. He had no idea how long he was trapped in that vortex, only that he hadn't blacked out, unlike the rest of his comrades, and likely had his Hashirama cells to thank for that.

It felt like the Land of Purgatory, some space between realities where pain was constant and everything else was uncertain.

Tenzo's jaw tightened.

He would survive this. He always did.

And when he returned, he was absolutely going to add 'agony' to whatever punishment Kitsune had planned for Genma.

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"Alright," she said. "Okay..."

He nodded.

As he turned to leave, Yugao stepped toward her desk. She reached for Hayate's sword and ran her hand gently across the scabbard.

This time, she didn't flinch.

This time, she didn't look away.

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Banri, a skilled shinobi, had always been known for his anti-social nature. Many—including Banri himself—speculated that it was a lingering influence of the ANBU, the elite covert force he had spent a significant portion of his life serving. He had been forged in its shadowy crucible, shaped by countless missions and secrets too heavy for most to bear. But Banri was far from oblivious. If anything, his quiet nature masked an almost preternatural sense of awareness. He could discern the atmosphere of a room the moment he stepped in, read the tension behind a glance, and decipher the subtext in every pause between words.

This ability, crucial for a shinobi, allowed him to distinguish between ally and enemy with frightening precision. It kept him alive in a world where loyalty was as thin as paper, and deception was a survival skill.

Banri knew the thoughts of his comrades the moment he dragged them into this mission—one that would span no less than eight months, possibly more. And though he didn't care to voice it, he understood their complaints, apprehensions, and grudging acceptance. Despite being anti-social, he was not slow-witted. He had spent a quarter of his life within the ANBU. He had grown up there. He knew everyone-veterans and fresh recruits alike-not just through personal interactions, but through their files. And when Banri said he "knew" someone, he meant he understood them to their core.

As the mission progressed, Banri could predict their reactions before they made them. He anticipated their thoughts, their frustrations, their bursts of recklessness. He could gauge their motivations, the cracks in their convictions, and the subtle ways fear manifested in each of them. It wasn't just a talent. It was a tool-one that allowed him to lead the team with quiet efficiency, choosing the right moments to push, to restrain, and to let go.

But his insight extended beyond teammates. Banri's true gift was reading his enemies. Their tells. Their patterns. Their smallest shifts in breath or posture. It was what made him a dangerous opponent-an ANBU specter who always seemed to be one step ahead, surviving encounters others wouldn't walk away from.

His reputation as cold and reclusive had made him a mystery, sometimes even a cautionary tale. But that detachment was part of what made him effective. He didn't need connection to understand people. In fact, connection would only cloud his judgment. And in a world of shinobi, where emotions could be a liability, Banri stood firm in solitude.

He would rely on this clarity-this perception-for the mission ahead. To ensure success. To protect his team. And to keep himself alive in the chaos that was sure to follow.

Banri also knew about Kakashi's assumption-the quiet theory brewing in his mind. Kakashi, with his perpetual slouch and narrowed eyes, believed that Banri had somehow bribed Tsunade into approving the mission. Sake, money, and the infamous pill Banri had stolen from a mad scientist during an A-rank mission. A pill that could reverse the body's biological age by thirty years.

No, not Orochimaru. This was someone else—another deranged mind whose research had ended in a lab torn apart and files wiped clean. The pill had been among the classified spoils, locked away... until Banri had used it. Or more precisely, handed it to Tsunade.

She had been delighted. Banri, however, didn't dwell on it. That wasn't the point

While there may be some parts of Kakashi's story that held true, it wasn't exactly the whole truth.

Here's what actually happened:

Banri stood before Tsunade, expression unreadable, posture straight-backed like always. He spoke with the flat, measured tone he reserved for truths that couldn't be ignored-truths you didn't need to like, just accept.

"Tsunade-sama."

She paused mid-sip, the sharp note in Banri's voice slicing clean through the quiet hum of her office. She narrowed her eyes, recognizing that subtle shift in his cadence. This wasn't a routine report.

Setting her sake down with a quiet clink, Tsunade leaned forward, arms resting on the desk, ready for the briefing-though already dreading what it would cost her.

Banri didn't flinch under her gaze. He rarely did. "The mission I'm proposing isn't just any S-rank operation. Technically, it surpasses the known threshold. If we're speaking formally, we're looking at a level beyond standard classification."

He let that settle before continuing. "But with the team I've assembled, the odds are manageable."

Tsunade's eyebrow arched. "Manageable," she echoed, tasting the word like it offended her. "And what team would that be?"

"Kakashi, Tenzo, Yugao... and myself."

She frowned. "You're activating all three of them for one mission? That's almost a quarter of the ANBU's remaining elite."

Banri nodded. "This mission requires it."

He hesitated, just briefly. It wasn't uncertainty. It was caution. "And it requires a Hokage to oversee it."

Tsunade's fingers twitched.

"Not to participate directly," he added, reading her reaction instantly, "but to authorize and protect its framework. The sealwork involved is unstable. The planning requires flexibility you won't find in any textbook. This can't go through official channels."

Banri's eyes locked with hers. "And you can't be the one to go."

Tsunade exhaled slowly, reaching once again for the cup, but not drinking. She cradled it in both hands, gazing into the amber liquid like it might offer comfort or courage. Maybe both.

"You're saying it straight this time," she muttered.

Banri shrugged slightly. "You already knew."

She didn't deny it. "Hmph."

Her silence stretched for a moment too long.

He met her gaze, unblinking. "This mission needs a Hokage to oversee it. And you know why that's not possible, even if you don't want to admit it."

Tsunade exhaled slowly. The silence between them stretched for a beat. She didn't argue. She couldn't. Deep down, she knew the truth. Despite appearances, she was getting older. Her chakra control and regenerative skills could maintain her youthful form, but not forever. She was nearing the point where more missions would mean tempting fate. She had lived through two great wars. She had buried too many. And she did not want to die the way her grandfather and granduncle had—noble but consumed by duty.

Banri was careful not to voice that thought. She already knew.

"Let's not pretend," Banri said softly. "Naruto's skills might be on par with a Hokage, but his experience is lacking. He's not ready to be a vessel—not for this. And you know what else."

Tsunade scoffed, but didn't counter it. She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temple with a tired hand.

"Kakashi," Banri continued, "is the only logical candidate. Even without the Sharingan, he's still the best fit. You trained him yourself—under my request. His intellect and versatility are what this mission demands."

Tsunade didn't respond immediately. She looked away, eyes fixed on the distant wall of her office, the silence between them filled with unspoken acknowledgements. Then, with a final sigh, she nodded.

She hated this part. The slow, creeping surrender to time. The whispering ache in her joints when she trained too hard. The way her chakra control needed more precision now, more conscious effort to keep up the youthful façade.

She remembered how her grandfather and granduncle had died—stoic, weathered, shinobi to the end. She remembered how it broke her. And she wasn't going to follow that path. Not anymore.

"I'm done dying for this village," she said finally, voice hushed. "I've buried too many of my own. I deserve peace."

Banri didn't respond. He didn't need to. The room didn't need sympathy-it needed truth.

"So Kakashi will be your proxy."

She sipped the sake this time. "As per your request, I trained him after the war. Even without his Sharingan, he's the sharpest mind we have. He's stable now. Grounded."

Banri offered a small nod. "He'll function as the keystone. Tenzo's discipline will anchor the team. Yugao's... quiet resolve has been reawakened."

"And you?" Tsunade asked, giving him a look. "What do you bring to this suicide pact?"

Banri's lips twitched, a shadow of a smile. "The poison."

That earned a tired snort from Tsunade.

"Fine," she said. "But don't expect me to clean up if this goes sideways. I want reports. Sealed and hand-delivered. Anything goes wrong and I drag you back myself, understood?"

Banri inclined his head. "Of course, Hokage-sama."

She caught the deliberate formality and scowled. "Don't you start with that 'Hokage-sama' crap. I'm not in uniform anymore, even if I'll have to resume temporarily."

"You still wear the weight," he said, and left it at that.

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Now back in the dim quiet of their hideout, Tenzo sat in silence, propped against a wall with a blanket draped loosely over his shoulders. His breathing had steadied, and most of the chakra exhaustion had passed, but the dull ache in his bones remained-less from the battle, more from the dissonance in his thoughts.

He scanned the space around them. Cracked plaster. Dusty floorboards. Makeshift shelves stacked with supplies he'd helped categorize and seal. Kakashi, for once, was reading in silence. Yugao was checking over their perimeter wards, while Banri paced-always planning, always watching.

It felt like they were back in the war, making shelter from nothing, planning their next move with no assurance they'd live to make it.

But it wasn't the same.

This world... it was wrong. Not in a way he could articulate, but in the way it moved. The people smiled more freely. Heroes fought in daylight and signed autographs afterward. Children dreamed of saving lives instead of surviving them. It was too bright, too public-too hopeful.

Tenzo didn't trust it.

His shinobi instincts itched at the thought. Not because the system here was flawed-it was. But because it was idealistic in a way he couldn't reconcile. He had once believed in the Will of Fire, in serving something greater than himself. Yet what had it made of him?

A tool. A weapon. A man who kidnapped children and justified it as duty.

He leaned his head back against the wall and let out a slow breath.

If this world raised its children with pride instead of paranoia.

Would they ever have created someone like him?

He didn't know. And he wasn't sure he wanted to.

For now, he would rest. Observe. Record.

There was nothing else to be done-yet.

Tenzo's quiet thoughts were broken by the sound of soft footsteps. Yugao approached, crouching beside him and offering a canteen. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes flicked toward the gauze still wrapped around his wrist.

"You should've told me you were still bleeding," she said quietly.

"It wasn't critical," Tenzo replied, accepting the canteen. He took a sip, then added, "Thank you, though."

She didn't respond right away, just sat beside him for a moment. The silence between them was familiar-comfortable in a way only old comrades could afford.

"You thinking about it again?" she asked eventually.

He didn't need clarification. "Always."

"You're not him anymore," she said.

"No," Tenzo said. "But I was."

He looked down at his hands-steady now, but stained by too many memories. "And even if this world doesn't know what I've done, I do."

Yugao didn't argue. She never did when it came to this. Instead, she said, "You could've let it consume you. But you didn't. You chose to do better. That matters."

"Does it?"

Yugao opened her mouth, paused, then nodded once. "To me? Yes."

Before Tenzo could respond, Banri's voice rang out from the other room. "Team meeting. Five minutes. Bring your moral crises and whatever's left of our lunch."

Kakashi's voice followed with mock enthusiasm. "Don't forget Mochiko. She's our spiritual anchor now."

Tenzo sighed and stood, joints stiff but functional and of course, didn't forget Kakashi's fucking Mochiko.

"Guess it's time," Yugao said, standing with him.

"Time for what?"

"To pretend like we're not five steps from falling apart."

Tenzo glanced at her. "You really think we're that close?"

She gave a small smirk. "No. You've held worse together."

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In the main room of their hideout, Kakashi was already drawing a crude map on the back of a cereal box with a marker. Banri had several notebooks open, flipping through a list of potential relocation sites.

"Musutafu," Banri said, stabbing the makeshift map with his pen. "That's where U.A. is. The League operates around there too. If we want intel or leverage, that's where you Kakashi, and Yugao need to go."

Kakashi nodded, snapping his book shut. "That school's security is tighter than a Hyūga's discipline. Breaking in won't be easy."

"You are certainly not breaking in," Banri corrected. "You'll just observe—for now. Gather intel on the academy's structure and key figures."

Tenzo stood behind them, arms crossed, already calculating variables. "I'll need a proper vantage point. Rooftop sightlines. If they're using tech surveillance instead of chakra-based wards that we're uses off, we'll need to scout thoroughly."

"And who said you're going with them?"

"Huh?" Kakashi and Yugao shared a look while a dumbfounded expression settled on Tenzo's face.

"I swear, this shitty body of ours is messing with your prime abilities," Banri muttered, cursing under his breath before composing himself. "Kakashi and Yugao are heading to Musutafu. You're coming with me."

"What?"

"You heard me the first time," Banri said, voice stern.

Tenzo shot the other two a look—clearly a plea for rescue from this cruel fate.

Yugao ignored him. Kakashi didn't even look up from his book.

Fucking traitors.

"And disguises," Kakashi added helpfully. "We still haven't figured out how to walk into a crowd without Yugao looking like she's about to assassinate someone."

Yugao gave him a flat stare. "That's just my face."

Banri ignored them both. "We leave at dusk. Pack light, travel quiet. Stick to shadows, rooftops, back alleys."

Tenzo nodded once, begrudgingly accepting his fate.

As the team dispersed to prepare, he lingered a moment longer, watching them-Kakashi still half-joking, Yugao sharpening blades out of habit, Banri scribbling strategies faster than he could execute them.

This was all they had now.

But they'd survived worse.

Chapter Text

Yokohama – Dusk

The orange hue of the setting sun streaked across the sky, casting long shadows over the rooftop where two figures stood, packs slung over their shoulders. The city buzzed softly beneath them—ignorant of the two ANBU operatives preparing to vanish into the night.

Inu adjusted the hem of his hoodie, a civilian disguise over a tactically concealed loadout. “It’s been a while since I had to walk out of the front door instead of just sneaking out of a city.”

Neko, arms folded, didn’t look at him. “You wouldn’t be sneaking if you didn’t stir chaos everywhere you went.”

“I’m misunderstood,” he replied casually, turning left into an alley as they walked on the wall and arrived on the rooftop before leaping onto the next rooftop without missing a beat.

They moved in silence for several blocks, the old rhythm of ANBU infiltration returning like breathwork—soft landings, quick glances, no wasted motion and rest in between leaps. By the time they reached the edge of the city, the low-rise skyline of Musutafu was faintly visible in the distance, blinking under neon signs and cheap floodlights.

“Kitsune-senpai gave us the freedom to choose our base once we get there,” Neko finally said, eyes scanning ahead. “You thinking abandoned or rented?”

Inu gave a low hum, thoughtful. “Depends on what we want: quiet and mold, or nosy neighbors and rent?”

“Mold doesn’t ask questions,” Neko replied. “And it doesn’t panic if I sharpen my blade too loudly at 2 a.m.”

“True,” Kakashi said, eye narrowing in mock consideration. “But abandoned buildings don’t come with plumbing. And I’m not bathing in a river again. I’m too old..."

"Mentally."

"— and my hair's too legendary.”

She side-eyed him. “You’re more concerned about shampoo than security?”

“Listen, if I’m going to be tailing hormonal teenagers and pro heroes all day, I deserve at least a decent sink.”

Neko sighed, jumping onto the last stretch of utility lines that marked the end of Yokohama’s reach. “So, are we gonna be sleeping with rats or in debt?"

Inu grinned behind the mask. “You make it sound like I can’t haggle. I could charm a landlord into giving us a discount just by reading them a poem.”

“Right. And then they call the police because a teenager with one eye and war crimes for hobbies asked for a lease.”

He shrugged. “Fair.”

"Okay, how about this? We assess both. Infiltrate the area first, then decide. I don’t want to waste chakra keeping up a genjutsu over a hole in the ceiling.”

“And we make sure the building has roof access,” Inu added. “You always complain when there’s only stairs.”

“That’s because you always take the high ground and make me deal with the front door ambushes.”

“Teamwork,” he said dryly.

They paused at the final building before the stretch of forest and train-access tunnels that would carry them closer to Musutafu. Ahead, the city loomed faintly, alive with unfamiliar heroes and dangerous questions.

“Same plan?” she asked.

“Same as always,” he replied. “Enter unseen. Watch everything. Report only when necessary.”

“And if we’re spotted?”

Inu smiled beneath the mask. “Then we make someone else’s week very inconvenient.”

Neko nodded once.

"Or~"

Neko does not like the tone Inu is indulging himself with.

"You let me handle the roof access," Kakashi dramatically clapped his hands, "You know what? It's final, I'm the Hokage and I'll be the one to decide where we'll be staying." He declared, as though he was passing on a newly forged law.

I knew this shit is bound to happen, Neko exhaled slowly, looking at her senior acting as though he hadn't abused his power.

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(Case File: 27-C, Subject Unknown.

Case Name: Absolute Nonsense)

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they too were trying to leave the building.

Naomasa Tsukauchi leaned over his cluttered desk, knuckles pressed into the wood, eyes squinting at the latest field report like it might rearrange itself into something sane if he stared long enough.

It didn’t.

“So…” he said slowly, voice flat with disbelief, “...a cat and a dog walked into the warehouse. Knocked out two guards. Stole industrial-grade welding equipment. And then the cat stood on the counter and recited a haiku about melting steel while the dog howled in harmony. And the other couldn't stop humming that god-awful sound."

Across from him, Aizawa barely looked up from the paper cup of coffee he’d been nursing for the last ten minutes.

“Don’t forget that one of the witness swore the cat bowed before it left.”

Tsukauchi dragged a hand down his face. “I’m a rational man, Aizawa.”

“I know.”

“I went to university. I trained for years. I took my job seriously.”

“You still do.”

“Then why,” he snapped the folder shut, “am I investigating what sounds like a rejected fairy tale from someone high on sleeping pills?”

Aizawa shrugged, resting his chin in his palm. “Maybe it’s performance art. The kind with criminal intent.”

Tsukauchi scowled and tossed the folder on top of the rest. “We’ve had five of these reports in the last ten days. And they’re escalating. One incident involved a hot spring and two stolen bathrobes. Another had an unregistered civilian helicopter that no one remembers landing. And now this.”

“I liked the one with the vending machines,” Aizawa said mildly. “Those two wtiness' claimed they started arguing and didn't even noticed that the vending machines were gone."

“Because someone stole them. Six vending machines. All gone. No tire marks. No forklift trails. Just a note taped to a lamppost that read: ‘Consume less sugar. Obey the dogs.’”

Aizawa blinked again. “They’re not wrong." He adds, "'Talking 'bout consuming less sugor not the dog."

“Oh, don’t you start.”

“They make a good point. Sugar’s a killer.”

“They stole vending machines, Aizawa.”

There was a long pause. Then Aizawa added, “At least they’re thematic.”

Tsukauchi sat back and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“This is the sixth incident. Sixth. And they’re all escalating in weirdness. Two nights ago, a pet store was robbed of all their available dog food, salt licks, and a chew toy shaped like All Might’s face. Clerk swears a dog walked in together with a cat, got into an argument, and then they both left through the roof."

“You're putting too much emphasis on dogs and cats." Aizawa snorted. "Still, it's a classic one. Dogs and cats never do get along."

Tsukauchi glared at him. “Do you want to help or not?”

“Depends. Am I being paid?”

“You’re a hero.”

“I’m underground.”

“…You’re impossible.”

Aizawa shrugged and gestured for more reports. Tsukauchi tossed one over like it was a hot potato.

Tsukauchi let out a long, slow exhale and stared blankly at the ceiling tiles. “If this turns out to be a new cult movement, I’m quitting.”

“No you won’t,” Aizawa said.

He was right.

Still, Tsukauchi sat down slowly and flipped through the collected files again. “No prints. No DNA. Security systems either shut down or looped mid-incident. Guards and clerks report different details, but they all agree on one thing: they felt like they were being watched before anything happened. Some kind of sensory manipulation?”

“Or a hypnosis quirk,” Aizawa offered under his breath.

Tsukauchi blinked. “What?”

“Hypnosis. Subtle. Passive. Doesn’t leave behind signs like a typical illusion-based quirk. Makes people doubt their own memory.”

He rubbed his temple again. The headache had moved behind his eyes.

“This doesn’t feel like a quirked-up teenager doing a prank. It feels… deliberate.”

“Coordinated,” Aizawa said. “But not malicious.”

“Yet.” Tsukauchi leaned back. “We’re talking about break-ins, minor theft, and mental manipulation. And no one gets hurt. Not really. That’s the part that’s bothering me.”

“You think they’re scouting?” Aizawa asked.

“I think they’re either testing the waters… or trying to blend in.” He looked at the map pinned to the board beside them, red marks scattered across Musutafu. “Whatever’s going on, they know what they’re doing.”

Aizawa sipped his coffee. “Sounds like professionals.”

“Right. Professionals who dress up as animals, steal erotica literature, and make dramatic exits through ceiling panels.” Tsukauchi paused, "That's seven, from the library."

“You’re saying that like it makes less sense.”

Tsukauchi leveled him with a look, then sighed. “God, I hope this isn’t turning into one of those months.”

“It already is.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The hum of the old office heater buzzed in the background.

“…You still think it’s just one person?” Aizawa finally asked.

“No.” Tsukauchi opened a drawer and pulled out a small sketch pad one of the witnesses had been encouraged to use. Tsukauchi pointed to a grainy photo from the last scene. A pug with white hair and a mask hanging upside-down from a ceiling pipe, while a teenage girl with a neko mask who seems to be screaming in the background with her arms thrown up. Beneath the dog was a red scrawl of graffiti: 'Inu was here.’ with the addition of: 'And so is Neko.' with a smiley dog face on the side.

“And now we have nicknames. Inu and Neko. Great. We’re being mocked by pets.”

Aizawa smirked faintly. “You’ve got a type.”

“Shut up.”

Tsukauchi closed the folder and rubbed his eyes.

“We’re no closer to solving this than we were a week ago. We’ve got rumors, hallucinations, and a growing pile of evidence that refuses to behave like actual evidence.”

Aizawa tilted his head. “I know a someone who use those names.”

“Inu and Neko?"

"No, just Neko."

"..."

“Good fighter, I think. Landed a scratch on me or a two, lost count. Total weirdo. Disappear mid-sentence.”

“Sounds like the henchman of this guy. You know, this girl behind.” Tsukauchi jabbed the photo. “This dog—man, or whatever it is committed a B&E, stole ten thousand worth of socks, and then left a review card 'bout the quality of their socks, specially the pug-size socks. Signed it with a paw print.”

Aizawa nodded sagely. “Except, it's not her."

"How are you sure it's not hee? It could be her but you're—"

"That someone is just a stray cat."

Tsukauchi slammed the file shut. Shooting Aizawa with a glare, who looked far too amused for his liking.

“This is not a joke. We’re clearly dealing with professionals here. Quirk control. Psychological manipulation. Tactical evasion. No blood, no injuries, no mistakes. They don’t want to hurt anyone—they just want to cause mayhem."

“You want my advice?” Aizawa asked.

“God, yes.”

“Take a nap. You’re starting to argue with metaphorical cats.”

"How rich, coming from you."

"You need it more than I do."

Tsukauchi raised an eyebrow at his remark, then looked at the reports one more time, then dropped his head into his arms with a groan.

“Fine. But if another witness says anything about ‘a man wearing a green jumpsuit who appeared upside-down on the ceiling and called me youthful,’ I’m going to scream.”

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The sound of cheap instant coffee dripping filled the narrow silence in the precinct office. Tsukauchi sat hunched over a desk littered with manila folders, loose pages, and a growing number of headache tablets. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, tie loosened, and his expression somewhere between “burnt out” and “one more weird report away from early retirement.”

“You look like a raccoon that gave up on digging through the trash halfway through,” Aizawa remarked as he dropped into the seat across from him, pulling his scarf off like someone shedding the weight of civilization.

Tsukauchi grunted, rubbing his temples. “I’d be flattered if the raccoons in this metaphor weren’t smarter than half the people we’ve interviewed today."

Aizawa reached for the half-empty cup beside Tsukauchi and took a sip. “Yikes. What is this? Battery acid?”

“Hope,” Tsukauchi muttered. “I ran out of decent coffee two hours ago. That’s all that’s left.”

Aizawa flipped open the nearest file. “Alright, hit me with the summary.”

Tsukauchi sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “It started a week and a half ago with a weapons dealer found webbed to a stop sign. No memory of how he got there. Said he was attacked by ‘a guy with a mask and a soothing voice’ who read him a lullaby until he blacked out.”

Aizawa blinked. “A lullaby?”

“Then there was the vet clinic break-in,” Tsukauchi continued. “All the dog tranquilizers were stolen, but instead of wreckage, the place was mysteriously clean. The receptionist says she had a conversation about metaphysical reincarnation with a talking cat before losing consciousness.”

Aizawa let out a long sigh. “Talking cat, huh.”

“And don’t get me started on the bakery warehouse incident. Someone stole three crates of flour and a forklift, replaced them with bags of rice, and left behind a single haiku written in chocolate frosting.”

“What did it say?”

Tsukauchi flipped a page. “‘The sugarless dawn / breathes through yeast and stealthy steps / hunger, not a crime.’”

Aizawa stared.

Tsukauchi nodded grimly. “They used icing to write that on the countertop.”

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “So, your mystery suspects are literate, poetic, and possibly suffering from chronic insomnia.”

“Also experts in infiltration, cover their tracks flawlessly, and possibly have a hypnosis quirk that makes victims either forget or invent hallucinatory nonsense.” Tsukauchi slapped the file shut. “I don’t know who they are, but I want to punt them into the sun.”

Aizawa snorted. “Sounds like your kind of romance.”

“You want to hear the latest one?” Tsukauchi said, grabbing another report and shaking it like it had personally insulted his family.

Aizawa raised an eyebrow.

“Local workshop reported a break-in. When asked for details, the witness claimed a dog and cat entered, ransacked the shelves, then proceeded to recite Shakespearean insults before leaving out the back.”

A beat.

“…A dog and cat...”

“I wish I were joking,” Tsukauchi muttered.

“Shakespeare?”

“‘Thou spongy knotty-pated hedge-pig’—those were the exact words. In iambic pentameter.”

Aizawa blinked slowly. “Okay. That’s impressive.”

Tsukauchi buried his face in his hands. “I’m going insane, aren’t I?”

“Nah. If you were hallucinating this, it’d probably be more coherent.”

Tsukauchi huffed, then sat up, pointing dramatically. “There’s a pattern. All the targets are low-profile. Nothing flashy, no massive damage. They’re striking weak points—supply routes, small-time criminals, minor materials—and they always vanish without a trace.”

“No camera footage,” Aizawa added, flipping through pages. “No consistent witness memory. But each one leaves behind something—either poetry, obscure phrases, or minor misdirection.”

“It’s deliberate,” Tsukauchi confirmed. “Too calculated for random vigilantes or idiot thrill-seekers. But whoever they are… they’re careful. Underground-trained. And gods help me, one of them might be an artist.”

Aizawa smirked. “You sure this isn’t just Mic screwing with you?”

“Unless Mic suddenly learned how to silently disable a bank alarm while hypnotizing three guards into believing they were shopping for antique spoons? I doubt it.”

A long pause settled between them.

Aizawa leaned forward. “So what’s your move?”

“I’m going to cross-reference this behavior with any records we have,” Tsukauchi muttered. “Quirk registration mismatches, military contractors, ghost agents—anyone that could pull this off and not leave behind a shred of evidence.”

Aizawa narrowed his eyes. “You okay?”

“Fine. Just… felt like I was about to say something weird. Probably all the flour haikus getting to me.”

A dry chuckle slipped from Aizawa. “Want me to follow up on the chemical trace report?”

“No need. I’ve got a guy at tech cross-checking it. But if this keeps up…” Tsukauchi rubbed his face, groaning. “I’ll need you on call. If these people escalate—”

“Already assumed I’m in,” Aizawa replied with a yawn. “I’ve got nothing better to do than chase poetic criminals.”

“…I never thought I’d hear that sentence in my life.”

Aizawa grabbed another file and lazily flipped it open. “Let me know when one of them starts quoting Bashō. Then I’ll worry.”

"The witness' claims were not even making any sense! One of them couldn't stop humming nyan cat and pokémon theme."

"And that's a problem."

---

Somewhere Else... Different Time

On a rooftop several prefectures away, Kakashi adjusted his mask and stretched.

“That vet was tough,” he said casually, “but I think she appreciated the reincarnation metaphor.”

“Until you put her under your nonsensical theatrics and stuffed the tranquilizers into your hoodie,” Yugao muttered beside him, checking their next destination on a folded map.

Kakashi tapped the haiku notebook tucked into his flak vest. “Well, at least she didn’t scream.”

“She meowed, Kakashi. She meowed. Like she was trying to make sense of you being a hallucination.”

Kakashi shrugged. “It’s called performance art.”

Yugao pulled her mask back over her face. “If I have to knock out one more civilian because you won’t shut up during a heist—”

“Oh come on, you can’t tell me you didn’t laugh at the hedge-pig one.”

She turned slowly to him. “I did not.”

He smiled behind the mask. “Liar. You even ransacked their shelves."

"The store that the so-called weapons dealer provided were shit."

"At least give my genjutsu a nice rating, I had to personally think of the lullaby lyrics."

.

.

.

.

In the half-lit clutter of their temporary hideout of a warehouse, the scent of instant coffee mingled with stolen bathhouse soap and flour dust. Yugao stood rigid, arms-crossed beside a table piled with an increasingly damning collection of loot: six half-dismantled vending machines stacked awkwardly against the wall, two stolen premium bathrobes (what the fuck does premium even mean?)—one of which Kakashi currently wore with smug contentment— drying on a makeshift rack, lots of dog food and salt licks on the table, and a single chew toy — that looked a lot like that one loudmouth of a clown police with yellow antennas. It fell to the floor with a pathetic squeak before Kakashi casually picked it up and three crates of stolen flour stock on a forklift between them like a white elephant in the room—literally.

It had burst open slightly, coating the rooftop in a fine dusting of powder that gleamed under the moonlight. Kakashi was crouched beside it, one of his hands on his knees and the other absent-mindedly squeaking the toy, staring at the bag like it had betrayed him.

“Explain to me,” Yugao said, exhaling slowly, voice dangerously calm, “why we’re now in possession of industrial welders, a forklift carrying three crates of flour, two bathrobes, dog food, bathrobes, and everything else in this godforsaken pile?!"

Kakashi didn’t look up from the All Might-shaped chew toy he was absently squeezing. “Because I’m a visionary.” His eyebrows then furrowed and turned to look at her as though he had just notice the lack of courtesy on Yugao's tone. "And who gave you the right to spea—!"

"Kitsune-senpai did." Yugao shot with a deadpanned tone.

Kakashi signed, Can't argue with that now, can I? He thought.

“You realize this looks like the mess an unhinged circus left behind?” Yugao said flatly, jaw tight.

Kakashi grinned under his mask. “If the circus had a fondness for tactical flair and flour-based distractions, sure.”

Yugao let out a few breaths before she lost her mind. Literally. I should've switched with Tenzo. He's used to this senpai of ours' antics.

"You stole three crates of flour! And that machine is just a plus one!"

"Correction: I stole two and the machine, the other crate is just a plus one."

"And what the fuck are you exactly gonna do with three fucking crates of fucking flours?!" Yugao was now practically yelling at Kakashi who merely waved her anger off. "Open a bakery?!"

Kakashi looked thoughtful at Yugao's suggestion (wasn't really a suggestion more of a sarcasm, but you how Kakashi is....). "You think it's too soon to brand ourselves?"

Her eye twitched.

“You said we needed a little flour,” Yugao hissed. “Not a whole warehouse shipment!”

Kakashi tilted his head. “I said we needed enough for pancakes.”

“This is enough to supply a small bakery for a year.”

“...So I wasn’t wrong.”

She slapped a hand to her forehead. “You hypnotized a whole shift of workers for this.”

“It was a minor suggestion. Very humane. And besides, I replaced it with rice. Isn't rice here expensive nowadays? They should be thanking us. No one expects a saboteur to be that considerate."

“You made them form a conga line into the alley while humming the ‘Pokémon’ theme."

Kakashi straightened, clearly pleased with himself. “Team morale is important.

“You don’t even bake,” she snapped. “So why—why—would you think this was necessary?”

Kakashi stood, brushing flour off his sleeves. “Because, dear Neko, you said—and I quote—‘we’re out of supplies.’ So I did what any logical operative would do in an alternate dimension full of heroes and surveillance: I restocked the most inconspicuous, versatile, and untraceable substance known to man.”

“Flour?”

“Yes. Not suspicious at all. You can cook with it, track footprints, obscure motion sensors, blow it into someone’s eyes—it’s like the duct tape of dry goods.”

Yugao marched up and jabbed a finger into his flak vest. “You’re the reason we may be on six separate watchlists right now!”

“I thought we were going for seven,” he said. “Lucky number.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’re supposed to be low profile. Stealth. Observe and gather data."

"We'll go hungry without flour."

"I'd rather have the rice!" Yugao groaned and turned to rummage the table they'd stashed at.

She reached out, grabbed one of the salt licks from the table, hefted it with one arm, and chucked it at Kakashi with the full-body commitment of a javelin thrower fueled by repressed trauma and flour-induced fatigue.

Kakashi’s head tilted just enough for the block to whistle past and slam into a stack of vending machine parts with a heavy THWUNK, collapsing them like a sad game of ninja Jenga.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he slowly turned his head back to her and blinked, expression unreadable behind the mask.

“That was excessive,” he said, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder.

“You’re excessive,” Yugao snapped, snatching the squeaky chew toy from his hand and throwing it across the warehouse like a cursed shuriken. It bounced off the forklift and squeaked again. Loudly.

"You stole salt licks."

“For morale.”

“Of what?!”

Kakashi straightened. “The squirrel rebellion needed resupply. You’re welcome.”

“Now you're balming squirrels!? Inu!”

“I got the idea from the vet clerk. I just gave it narrative structure.”

She dropped the salt lick with a thud and rounded on him. “Do you know how much heat we’re drawing? There may be case files stacked on some police or some clown police desk right now, and I guarantee they're losing sleep trying to figure out whether we’re a bunch of circus clowns or just unmedicated.”

"I didn't peg you to be the type to worry of some nobody police or those clown."

"I don't," she hissed out, "I'm concerned that we'll be uncovered."

"Maa, it's a good thing Kitsune left Anko behind. Try toning down the hissing," Kakashi leaned back on a crate, ignoring another glare from his kouhai, flipping through a stolen bag of vending machine snacks. “Look, everything we took was non-lethal. Strategic diversions. We got in, got the data, tested response time, and left them questioning their grip on reality.”

Yugao just stared at his so-called explanation.

"Goshhh," he groans. "Okay! Okay! Fine! Salt licks are healthy and the pack have always wanted to try one, but you know me, always busy... here and there..."

"Uh huh," Yugao looked unimpressed with Kakashi's so-called pitiful story about his ninken.

Kakashi groaned theatrically, raising his gloved hands in a mock surrender. “Fine. You want the truth? You want the real, top-level, classified reason I took the salt licks?”

Yugao folded her arms. “This should be good.”

He stood up, serious now — or at least, what counted as “serious” on Kakashi's scale, which often included elaborate nonsense delivered with gravitas. He paced once, picked up the salt lick Yugao threw earlier like it was evidence in a court case, and then turned to her with the poise of a man who had just decided to win a debate he invented himself.

“Salt,” he said, holding the block aloft like it was the Sage of Six Paths' legacy, “is one of the most basic, yet vital minerals in the human diet. It's essential for hydration, nerve function, and chakra conduction. But this—” he tapped the lick, “—this is industrial-grade, mineral-fortified salt, slow-releasing and pressure-packed. Not your average table seasoning. You know what that means?”

Yugao blinked. “No. But I assume you’re going to keep talking until I regret asking.”

Kakashi nodded solemnly. “Exactly. This is a passive chakra-charging mineral storage medium.”

“…It’s livestock feed.”

“To the untrained eye. But to someone with an intimate understanding of shinobi logistics and transdimensional nutritional inconsistencies, it’s a strategic supplement delivery system.” He tapped the side of his head. “What if chakra conversion in this world is partially mineral-dependent? What if our systems start breaking down due to trace mineral incompatibility? Boom. Salt licks. Emergency backup.”

Yugao stared.

“And,” he added, lifting a second block for emphasis, “they double as non-lethal blunt weapons, environmental distractions, and impromptu barricade supports. You toss one of these onto a marble floor mid-chase? Instant havoc. Clang. Skid. Hero down. That’s three utility functions right there, and I’m not even counting the morale bonus from having them on hand.”

“Morale.”

“They sparkle in the dark, Yugao. Have you ever seen a salt lick under moonlight? It’s majestic. Comforting. Reminds people of home.”

Yugao looked at him like she was considering her life choices. “So, to summarize, you’re telling me you stole livestock supplements because you think they’re mystical chakra batteries, potential concussion grenades, floor traps, and emotional support minerals.”

Kakashi nodded once. “Precisely. Also, I liked the texture.”

“…You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot with reinforced mineral rations and a tactical advantage.” He puffed out his chest with pride. "And you'll be thanking this idiot who'll save your life with salt licks."

"You picked them up thinking it was snacks!"

"In my defense, the horse on the label was smiling as like it was assuring civilians the product was completely healthy."

"That was a drawing!" She reasoned out, exasperated with her senpai, "You picked it up saying, 'it's basically a soldier pill in brick form,' just...," she took a long breath, "just how exactly did you get to that conclusion?!"

"Well—"

"You know what? I don't even want to hear your so-called logical explanation," she deeply exhales, "And what's up with the ridiculously large pile of dog food?!"

"And regarding for the dog food, I wanted them to try another brand, a different one instead of the standard treat."

"What about that annoying toy?!"

"A treat for all my hard work."

“And the sock store?”

“That was an accident. I blacked out, and when I came to, I had socks."

"And I'm just suppose to believe whatever shit you're spouting?"

"It happens.”

Yugao exhaled through her nose. “We are supposed to be discreet!"

"I, at least, had the decency to left a review card and hopefully it helps the poor man to flourish his business even more." Kakashi had the nerve to smile at her, if she's reading it correctly, and show her a copy of the said review card with a... paw print? "Pakkun appreciated the comfort of their dog pug size socks."

“How is being discreet—” Yugao snapped, voice climbing in pitch, “—winking at every CCTV camera, engaging civilians in full-blown conversations while they’re still under genjutsu, and leaving reviews—actual written reviews, Kakashi—or paw prints at the scene?!”

She inhaled sharply through her nose and counted to ten. She had killed people with far less patience than this.

"But, hey! I got what you wanted didn't l?" Kakashi pointed at the welding equipment, "You should at least thank me for it."

"I wanted go test it discreetly and see if it works any differently on my sword!" She points a finger at him, "And you even have the nerve to have your shadow clone transformed into me and had your clone recite a haiku, while wearing my face!"

“About melting steel,” he said proudly. “It had depth.”

“It also rhymed. Haiku doesn’t rhyme.”

“Art is subjective.”

For the upteenth time, she shot her senpai a glare. Seniority be damned.

"I was being subtle abou—"

"And pray tell? What part of being discreet involves you howling in harmony on top of a warehouse counter?!”

"Okay, now you're just overusing the word wayyy too much." He pointed out, unhelpfully, “And for the record, I was blending in with the theme. Dogs howl. It's immersive theater.”

She glared. “You don’t need to improvise. You made one of the clerk sing the Nyan Cat theme. For thirty minutes."

“I was buying us time! Also, it’s catchy.”

"You made your clone bow! Bow! While having my face!"

They stood in silence for a beat, a bag of flour slowly sliding off the crate and hitting the floor with a soft puff.

“…You even placed those two poor men in a genjutsu and got them to argue about shit that I hadn't payed attention to just so you could steal six, six fucking machines with snacks imbedded in them like a refrigerator which I just now found out that it's actually a vending machine,” she added.

“Well,” Kakashi mused, “the way they treated each other—emotionally, I mean—I think it was mutual.”

Yugao sat down and buried her face in her hands. “I used to run black-ops missions. I was respected. Feared.”

“You’re still feared,” Kakashi offered helpfully. “Just... by grocers.”

"We were caught Kakashi! By your stupid traces of leaving haiku, and you just had to officially announce your existence in a graffiti and dragged my name into it with a doodle of a smiling pakkun on the wall!"

"No on—"

"There were witness', Kakashi!"

"If it helps you ease a teeny weeny bit, I placed the witness' in a genjutsu."

She groaned again. “One of these days, they’ll put our faces on a bulletin board and not for commendations.”

“Which is why,” he said brightly, “we wear masks.”

He gestured to their pile of loot with grandiose flair. “This, Neko, is psychological warfare. Urban disruption. Culturally destabilizing theater. Chaos with nuance.”

“You stole bathrobes,” she hissed.

“What? They're comfy.”

"I. Don't. Care."

Kakashi groans like a child being defied of his candy, "Puh-lease, just turn a blind eye to the bathrobes. You didn't even let me do the interpretive dance routine I planned for the hot springs incident.”

“Regardless of my protest, you still have done that shitty interpretive dance of yours under those who were influenced by your genjutsu—and that includes me." She pinched the bridge of her nose, "And do you even have any idea who perform that dance of yours?! It was fucking Guy and his green jumpsuit! Thankfully, I got out of it before I could entirely witness Guy sliding in soap and screaming ‘youthful liberation'."

"Maa~ what can I say? That I miss our monthly sauna bath so much so that I lost control of my genjutsu and accidently projectile Guy in the illusion?"

"That doesn’t erase the part where he posed dramatically with a loofah and said, ‘Let the cleansing begin.’”

“...Context is everything.”

Kakashi then stood completely still.

Like a deer in the headlights. Like a thief caught mid-cookie heist. Like a senpai who had just been violently reminded of a very crucial detail.

Because Yugao had not—not—mentioned the Tobishachimaru 2.0.

Not once.

He watched her warily as she continued her tirade, gesturing violently toward the salt licks and broken vending machines, completely unaware that just a week ago, her idiot of a senpai had—hypothetically—taken a short, unsanctioned joyride in what he may or may not have believed to be a civilian sightseeing helicopter.

She pinched the bridge of her nose again, pacing now, muttering about “bathrobes, snacks, and genjutsu-induced synchronized swimming routines,” and he nodded along with the well-honed expression of a man appearing appropriately scolded while internally cataloging his sins and praying she never learns about the one that involved Tobishachimaru 2.0.

She didn’t know.

She. Didn't. Know.

Praise the Sage.

Behind the mask, he slowly exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Kakashi tilted his head, noting Yugao’s steadily unraveling sanity, and very wisely chose not to press his luck any further—especially not by mentioning the flying machine.

The machine.

He leaned back ever so slightly, arms crossing with the kind of composure that could only be described as suspiciously rehearsed. The chew toy squeaked beneath his heel. He shifted off it casually.

“So... uh,” he ventured slowly, “we good now? You’ve screamed at me, assaulted me with livestock minerals, accused me of artistic sabotage—therapeutic, really—and I’ve taken it all like the composed professional I am.”

Yugao narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you sound like you’re ending a mission report?”

“No reason.”

There was absolutely a reason.

He felt the cold sweat at the base of his neck.

The last thing he needed was for her to bring up that incident. The one with the flying steel bird. Or whatever it was. Probably an advanced Tobishachimaru variant.

Maybe.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Anyway, it's not like I flew off with any classified military equipment or—”

Yugao looked up suddenly. “What?”

“What?”

She stood straighter. “What do you mean ‘flew’?”

Kakashi blinked. “Did I say ‘flew’? No, no, you misheard. I said glue. Like, I didn’t glue anything together. With the vending machines. No fusion at all.”

Yugao’s stare could curdle steel.

“Glue?”

“Yeah. Sticky business, very—very grounded stuff. Nothing airborne. Hah.” He tried a disarming chuckle.

It didn’t work.

Her arms crossed. “Kakashi. I swear on the Nara clan’s collective will to live. Did you fly something?”

He panicked. Just a little.

“N-no. I mean, define ‘fly,’ right? Like... metaphorically? Emotionally? Spiritually? Who’s to say I wasn’t lifted by the beauty of urban transportation innovation?”

Yugao stepped closer, her voice dangerously soft. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m evading,” he corrected brightly. “Different skillset.”

“Did you or did you not operate that massive flying metal beast we passed by on the roof last week?”

"What metal beast?" He looked at her, morphing his lone eye to be as innocent as it could possibly looked. 

"The one you were ogling at."

He should've known it won't work on her. Not when almost the entirety of his face is covered.

Kakashi opened his mouth. Closed it.

A pause.

Then, too quickly: “Technically, I wasn’t the one piloting it.”

Yugao’s eye twitched. “Who was?”

He straightened, chest puffing in relief. “Tenzo.”

“Please, stop embarrassing yourself any further. Tenzo's not even with us!"

He blinked. “Oh. Right. I forgot we separated.”

“Kakashi,” she growled.

“Pakkun, then.”

There was silence.

A long, long silence.

Yugao stared at him as though he had just confessed to teaching squirrels how to wield kunai. Which he had. Once. Possibly twice.

“You put a ninken in control of a flying machine.”

Kakashi raised a finger. “Assisted control. My clone was there. Technically, it was a partnership.”

“Kakashi, let me guess, it's what you used to tranport one of these things here when you could have just used a seal.”

“Symbolic distraction,” he said, nodding sagely. “A message, really. To strike fear in the hearts of flourless institutions.”

Yugao inhaled deeply, then sat back down on the crate, buried her face in both hands again, and muttered something obscene about transferring to another timeline.

Kakashi, now free from the worst of her wrath — for now — let out a soft sigh of relief and muttered to himself, “Still better than the time we weaponized dango skewers in the Wind Country.”

Yugao groaned louder.

From the ceiling, a slow drip of flour floated down like snow. It landed on her shoulder like karma.

“…And you doodled a smiling Pakkun riding it on the rooftop in chalk, didn’t you?” she mumbled through her hands.

Kakashi coughed. “Why hadn't I thought of that?" He muttered to himself.

She didn’t respond. Just raised one finger.

Kakashi wisely stood, turned, and headed toward the snack pile.

“…Want a sock?” he offered weakly over his shoulder.

She threw the chew toy at his head. It squeaked. Again.

.

.

.

.

Chapter Text

Tsukauchi's Office — Morning

The headache arrived before the officer did.

His office smelled like  coffee and bureaucracy.

Inspector Naomasa Tsukauchi rubbed his temples, a fresh stack of reports slumping sideways on his desk like exhausted witnesses. His inbox had three new urgent tags. His last cigarette was a pen. He was certain someone had filed a vending machine theft report twice—and one of them included a hand-drawn sketch of a dog in goggles.

Detective Shindo knocked once, entered without waiting, and dropped a file onto Tsukauchi’s desk like it was cursed.

“Sir. We have… witnesses.”

Tsukauchi didn’t look up. “If they’re about the vending machines again, I swear to every quirk god—”

“They’re parrots.”

That made him look up.

Shindo nodded solemnly. “Three parrots. One cockatoo. All reported by a civilian passing by from a veterinary clinic yesterday. They’ve been repeating... phrases. Operational phrases. Could possibly be related to the case you’re currently working on.”

Tsukauchi stared at him. “How accurate?”

Shindo opened the file. “One bird repeated: ‘Clone B intercepts at quadrant six. Neko neutralizes clerk. Mission objective: flour confirmed. Exit through ceiling.’”

There was a beat of silence.

Tsukauchi leaned back. “Secure them. Full surveillance. Interrogation first thing tomorrow.”

---

Hideout — Same Morning

Yugao sat hunched over a sleek, flat-screen LCD monitor salvaged from a secondhand electronics shop Kakashi had somehow bartered for with a packet of flour and an autograph. The screen’s surface was smeared with flour fingerprints and cluttered with half-open windows—security footage feeds, decrypted police radio logs, and a tab labeled “Cute Dog Videos.” Despite the chaos, her eyes tracked data with sharp precision.

A jumbled pile of receipts for salt licks, feather dye, and suspiciously large quantities of dog food sat beside her keyboard. With a few deft taps and a suspiciously graceful swipe, she rewound footage from the veterinary clinic’s parking lot camera, zoomed in with two fingers—she’d mastered touchscreen tech fast—and bookmarked a suspiciously familiar tuft of silver hair ducking into the back entrance.

Across the room, Kakashi lounged on a crate, humming cheerfully while he snipped bright purple feathers and threaded them into what was clearly meant to be a flamboyant boa. His disguise pile was growing by the minute: glittery gloves, a sequined hat, and a bird whistle shaped like a flamingo.

Yugao didn’t look up. “At the animal hospital.You hypnotized the receptionist.”

“You were there, but I’ll still answer your question. Yes, I lightly encouraged her subconscious with subtle, flower-based imagery,” Kakashi replied, not missing a beat as he glued a feather to his hat with unnerving precision. “We even had an exchange of knowledge about metaphysical reincarnation. Very enriching exchange.”

“You didn’t break the genjutsu.”

“…I thought you would.”

Her head turned slowly. Too slowly.

Kakashi raised a finger in his defense. “But on the bright side, she seems very happy! Surrounded by cats, lots of conversation. Good vibes.”

Yugao exhaled through her nose and, with surgical precision, snatched a printed police report from beneath a glittery sock. She slapped it onto the keyboard tray between them. In bold, official lettering, it read:

“MILITARY CODE PHRASES RECORDED BY TALKING PARROTS AT LOCAL CLINIC – POSSIBLE TERROR CELL?”

Beneath it was a photo: a cockatoo mid-squawk, beak wide, eyes menacing. The subtitle read: “Quadrant Six secure. Flour acquisition confirmed.”

Kakashi leaned in. “Wow. Great resolution. Did you enhance this yourself?”

Yugao muttered something obscene in ANBU code and tapped a few keys. The printer on the floor spat out another image—this time, the same cockatoo perched on top of the receptionist’s desk, flanked by three others, all mid-squawk. Each bird had a label:

“Status green.”

“Seal integrity 93%.”

“Inu is banned from hot springs.”

Yugao pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’re going back.”

“But I haven’t finished the hat—”

“We’re going back now. You’ll wear what you have.”

Kakashi looked down at his half-assembled bird handler outfit: sequins, mismatched feathers, and an absurdly sparkly vest.

“…Bold. I like it.”

Yugao shut the laptop with a snap, stood up, and grabbed her utility belt.

“Parrots. Clinic. Extraction. Quietly.”

.

.

.

.

.

At first, it began—as these things often did—with a tip-off from a concerned local hero.

“There’s a woman,” a mere concerned civilian had said over comms, “whose parrots keep shouting things like ‘silent kill formation’ and ‘eliminate the target, Neko.’ I think they’re part of a villain cell. Or a very weird bird club.”

Yugao had thought nothing of it at the time and continued leaping from one rooftop to another.

Then came the LCD monitor, showing the parrots—and a cockatoo.

And thus, once again, Yugao found herself crouched on the rooftop of Happy Paws Pet Paradise, scanning for threats with a pair of binoculars she was absolutely not trained to use.

Below, the vet’s backroom window glowed ominously red from the infrared feather warmer. Inside: the flock. What was supposed to be only three parrots and one cockatoo had now expanded to include two more parrots and a disturbingly well-fed pigeon—all fluent in tactical ANBU code.

Kakashi crouched beside her in a glittering, feathered unitard. A cape trailed behind him like plumage. The words “World’s #1 Avian Behaviorist” were stitched across his chest.

"Kakashi!" she hissed. "She now owns seven parrots, all trained to chant ANBU code.”

A pause.

He blinked. “I mean—seven is a lucky number?”

"Fuck you!" She stared. “You look like a sentient disco ball.”

“Correction,” he said proudly, adjusting his rhinestone monocle. “I am Kakariko Tsubasa, elite bird empath and showman. No one will question me.”

A pause.

“They should,” Yugao muttered. 

She pulled a folded map from her sleeve—hand-sketched, color-coded, and annotated with highlighters stolen from a convenience store during their first week in the city.

“We go in quiet,” she said. “I’ll infiltrate through the roof vent and neutralize the birds. You,” she glanced sideways at Kakashi, who was now gluing glitter onto his elbow, “will create a distraction at the front desk. Minimal damage. No exposure.”

“No problem,” Kakashi said, holding up a finger smugly. “Kakariko Tsubasa never repeats a performance. This one will feature... interpretive feather ballet.”

Yugao looked at him for a long moment. Then turned back to the map. “Extract all birds. Replace with identical non-tactical parrots from the pet store on 9th. Ensure the original flock disappears without leaving a trace. And absolutely no—no—ANBU phrases within five meters of birds and children.”

Kakashi raised his hand. “Define ‘child.’”

“Anyone who can hold a phone and make your life hell on social media.”

He lowered his hand.

XxX

Kakashi burst through the front door in a flurry of sparkles and birdseed.

“Darlings!” he sang. “Your feathered friends—they called to me!”

The receptionist blinked, visibly dazed from lingering hypnotic effects. “...They did?”

“Oh yes. They spoke of betrayal. Regret. Formation Delta-Tiger-Foxtrot.”

The clerk clapped. “They do say that one a lot.”

Kakashi, now fully committed to the role of “Kakariko Tsubasa: World-Renowned Avian Whisperer and Tap-Dancing Philosopher,” glided into the waiting room with a flourish of his cape. A trail of glitter followed him as he tossed seeds dramatically and spoke in an accent that defied both borders and good taste.

“Ladies and gentlemen, and small children with juice stains! Today, I present to you the wisdom of wings!”

He unleashed a small cage of perfectly ordinary decoy birds, all trained to squawk affirmations like, “Peace begins with perches,” and “Eat your vegetables or the crows win.”

The receptionist and the four kids clapped with delight.

Meanwhile, Yugao slipped through the roof vent, masking her chakra. She dropped behind the cage room with the grace of a shadow and the expression of someone who had not, until recently, believed parrots could compromise national security.

She had one mission: extract the talking birds before they could blab again.

Too late.

From inside the cage room, one of the birds shrieked:

“Mission Report 729: Entered civilian food mart. Secured thirty-two bags of tactical carbohydrate powder. Encountered local resistance in aisle five. Applied clone misdirection.”

Yugao slapped a hand over her face. “That’s the flour theft,” she whispered.

From the front room, Kakashi caught the squawk. He blinked once. Then made an apologetic spin away from the crowd, muttering something about “bird indigestion,” and slipped casually through the hallway as if on cue, all theater vanishing from his posture.

He reappeared beside Yugao moments later, still glittering but considerably less smug. “My sweetlings,” he muttered to the birds. “Who wants to play ‘shut up forever’? Oh yes, you do.” He cooed.

Yugao crouched beside the large metal cage, opening a file on the burner phone Kakashi had given her—titled Operation Featherfall – Containment Log. The room buzzed with flapping wings and raucous squawks.

She carefully opened the cage door. The flock erupted into a chorus of calls, feathers flying.

“Bird One: Blue-and-gold macaw, scar over left eye, tends to say ‘Quadrant secure’ after sunflower seeds.”

“Bird Two: Red eclectus, overly fond of ‘Interrogation phase initiated.’”

“Bird Three: Green conure, missing half a toe, mumbling ‘Plan B was a mistake.’”

“Bird Four: Yellow-naped Amazon, repeats ‘Silent kill formation’—a bit much.”

“Bird Five: African grey, sharp-eyed, parrots ‘Extract immediately’ at high volume.”

“Bird Six: Sulphur-crested cockatiel—wait.”

Her voice caught.

She scanned again: five parrots... the pigeon, fat and cocky, pecking indifferently at a bag marked “Combat Rations: Sunflower Mix.”

…and no cockatoo.

The white-feathered bird with the yellow crest—the cockatoo—was missing.

She turned to where Kakashi had crouched, now casually humoring the receptionist again. She passed out a quick code.

Cockatoo. Missing.

Kakashi froze mid-curtsy, glittering arm outstretched in an elaborate flourish. His eye twitched behind the rhinestone monocle.

He straightened, smiled wider, and turned to the receptionist with the kind of calm only elite shinobi and award-winning bird performers could fake.

“Oh, by the way, my darling sunflower,” he cooed, “I do believe one of your... radiant sky-poems—er, birds—is missing. The white one. Large, regal. Bit dramatic.”

The receptionist blinked owlishly. “Oh! You mean Peaches?”

“Yes. That one,” Kakashi said with forced cheer, his hands twitching toward the pouch that definitely did not hold smoke bombs. “Where's the little rascal?”

“Oh, I sent him out this morning!” the receptionist said brightly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to lend a highly-trained, code-spouting parrot to public events. “My niece’s school was having a Hero Orientation Day. I thought he’d be good for morale.”

Yugao’s face, from behind the cracked doorway, went completely still.

Kakashi’s voice dropped half an octave. “You what.”

“Mm-hmm!” The receptionist beamed. “They even asked for a speech!”

Yugao leaned in, pale and furious. “He’s giving a public address?!”

The receptionist nodded. “He’s very inspirational.”

Kakashi turned his head slowly, as if the very fabric of the mission was unraveling before him. “You sent an emotionally unstable cockatoo with access to half our mission logs... to speak to children?”

“Don’t worry,” the receptionist chirped. “He even wears the tiny scarf you left him!”

Kakashi ignored the glare Yugao shot him, the word forming on her lips painfully clear despite her silence.

“Where is this school?”

The receptionist cheerfully pointed across the map taped to the wall. “UA Course Orientation for Children Inspiring To Be Heroes. They said bring something educational.”

There was silence. The kind that suggested impending violence, poetic irony, or both.

Yugao vanished from the doorway in a blur of chakra-enhanced movement. Kakashi followed after a single, deeply weary sigh.

“Right,” he muttered, shedding his monocle. “Time to intercept a motivational speaker before he tells a bunch of middle schoolers about the flour heist and Genjutsu interrogation tactics.”

As they launched up through the roof vent, Kakashi added, “On the plus side... at least they’ll get a memorable orientation.”

Yugao didn’t answer. She was already ten rooftops ahead, promising violence to one very talkative bird.

.

.

.

.

They tracked the bird via Kakashi’s nose, while Yugao stayed behind to set up a digital perimeter. From her concealed position in a shaded alley near U.A.’s power junction, she crouched beneath a maintenance hatch and connected her compact tool to the school’s fiber-optic infrastructure—a gadget cobbled together from salvaged support gear and reinforced with encryption seals carved in microscopic fuinjutsu.

She had considered having Kitsune oversee the fuinjutsu Inu had placed for her. It wasn’t that she doubted Inu’s skill—it was just that Kitsune was more proficient with seals. It was in his blood, after all.

Her fingers moved with mechanical precision, eyes scanning dense code as she bypassed the motion-triggered firewall and spoofed the security node’s handshake protocol. Within seconds, she looped corridor feeds, suppressed motion alerts, and injected false temporal logs—ghost data that reported everything as perfectly normal. Even the anomaly detection protocols—AI-backed, cross-referenced against heat maps and behavior analysis—saw only a flawlessly mundane school day.

The U.A. system was formidable. Its defense grid included biometric locks, redundant sensor networks, AI-assisted surveillance, and real-time behavior profiling. It should have been impenetrable. But Yugao didn’t break in like a hacker. She flowed in like a shinobi.

She treated it like ninjutsu.

Where others saw firewalls, she saw barriers; where they saw passwords, she saw seals; and where they fumbled with lines of code, she crafted subroutines like genjutsu patterns. Years of chakra control had taught her finesse. Surveillance missions had taught her how to think like an intruder. Now she applied both through fiber optics and root access.

It surprised even her how naturally the transition had come. In two weeks, she’d gone from chakra flowcharts to OS kernel manipulation, absorbing everything she needed with the same relentless precision she’d once used to master silent takedowns and stealth insertions. For her, the leap from kunai to keystroke wasn’t a leap at all—it was just another tool, another system to infiltrate.

She didn’t need to disable the system. She became invisible to it.

By the time Kakashi burst flamboyantly onto the stage in full avian-handler disguise, the school’s network had already logged the event under a registered orientation performance—complete with paperwork, security clearance, and timestamped guest credentials, all inserted an hour prior.

On every screen, every camera, U.A. saw only what it expected to see:

A normal school day. A guest performer. A motivational parrot.

Nothing more.

.

.

.

.

Kakashi—somehow, along the way—had layered on another costume upgrade: a sequined tailcoat, elegant gloves, and a peacock-feather fan. Even the monocle had sprouted rhinestones. He made his grand entrance at U.A., right in the middle of the event. Parents, students, and a scattering of pro heroes were gathered in the courtyard, where folding chairs, a stage, and a balloon arch on the e trance proudly proclaimed:

“SO YOU WANNA BE A HERO?!”

Special Guests: Rescue Dog | Nurse Pawsy | Peaches the Motivational Parrot!

The orientation—about children aspiring to be one of the clown police—speech still continued.

On stage stood Present Mic, gesturing to the incoming students.

“AND THAT’S WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A—”

“—FLANK LEFT, HENSHIN CIRCLE!"

"—STEAL THE FLOUR!”

Peaches, as though it had sensed Kakashi's arrival, graced its presence from backstage by landing on the mic stand.

“Peaches!” called out a little girl, presumably the receptionist’s niece. “Get down from there!”

There was a collective pause.

The children stared. The parents stared. And in the monitoring room, Eraserhead slowly lowered his coffee cup while Midnight focused more on the bird than Present Mic’s speech. The trio had been picked by a simple game of “pick-three-names-out-of-the-box-to-oversee-ten-year-old-kids-hero-inspirational-orientation-speech.”

Eraserhead didn’t even bother to hide his displeasure at having to oversee the orientation, held every year for fifth graders, while the other two were more than slightly delighted to handle it.

On the other side,

Kakashi, mid-cartwheel onto the stage, scooped up Peaches and struck a pose. “My deepest apologies, friends! Kakariko’s most daring bird—Peaches!—got a little carried away with her spy movie impressions!”

The children erupted in applause.

“What! Who is that...” Eraserhead muttered, narrowing his eyes. "How the hell did he get here?”

He looks at Midnight. "Is he part of any list?"

“No, contacting security at the moment,” Midnight informed him quietly. “Let’s approach this carefully, lest we put the children and civilians in danger.”

Eraserhead clenched his jaw, unwilling to agree with Midnight’s cautious plan but knowing it was the only reasonable approach. The last thing they wanted was for the public to know that an unknown circus clown had somehow managed to bypass their security.

Meanwhile, the cockatoo made a mistake to eyed Kakashi’s Sharingan just in time for him to slip the bird into an illusion and whisk it backstage, where the other special guests waited.

Kakashi sprang from the ledge with a glittering twirl and a dramatic flourish.

“BEHOLD!” he announced. “Birdsong and ballet! Elegance and espionage—I mean, aviation!”

He launched into an exuberant performance, twirling and sparkling, waiting for Yugao’s arrival. Even casting a few illusions here and there as visual props, some either popped out of nowhere or were thrown at him by his clones.

At that moment, Yugao finished setting up and traced the trail of glitter to the edge of the crowd. Concealed and poised, she cast a sweeping genjutsu veil over the audience. The once ominous “espionage phrases” morphed into a gentle PSA on street safety. One child imagined “flour extraction” was a baking lesson.

Back on stage, Kakashi finished a dazzling pirouette, arms spread wide beneath the spotlight.

“Good afternoon, my sparkling seedlings of heroism!” he boomed into his glitter-coated mic.

“I am Kakariko Tsubasa—avian whisperer, feather prophet, and international ambassador of squawk!”

The crowd fell silent, eyes wide in bewilderment.

“I bring tales from the windswept branches of destiny—and from the backstage green room, where destiny currently perches, chewing dried mango.”

Yugao, perched in the catwalks high above, twitched at the words.

Kakashi swept his arm stage left with a flourish. “Behold! The golden quadrant of bird-kind—where my dearest, most melodious muse awaits in silence... ready to drop truth bombs from the heavens!”

Yugao’s eyes narrowed. Golden quadrant meant “rear left.” Truth bombs? Definitely Peaches.

With a sharp pivot and cape flaring, Kakashi whispered dramatically: “But hush! He shall not emerge until the hour is precise, the moon metaphorical, and the codes—yes, the codes—are once again secure.”

He scattered sunflower seeds like sacred relics. “Until then, my hatchlings, enjoy the dance of deception!”

Yugao dropped silently into the backstage corridor, slipping past lighting rigs and racks of props. Mask off but hood up, she blended like a disgruntled crew member. For extra safety, she put up a henge.

Tapping her earpiece linked to Kakashi’s glitter mic frequency, she listened.

Kakashi: “And now! While Peaches contemplates life in the bamboo grove of wisdom, I shall perform the interpretive dance of ‘Operational Contingency Bravo!’”

Yugao rolled her eyes. That’s your big distraction?

A stagehand nearly collided with her, so she ducked and flipped behind velvet curtains with a grace that looked rehearsed. Her gaze swept the backstage: cages, crates, and a cardboard All Might in a tuxedo. There—on a perch, wings majestically spread—was Peaches.

The cockatoo bobbed and squawked at full volume: “SURVEILLANCE LOG 243: SUBJECT NEKO AND INU ENGAGED IN STATION INFILTRATION—OPERATION FLOUR SACK—FORKLIFT MISAPPROPRIATED!”

Yugao lunged, slapping a seal tag over his beak like a sticky note of silence.

“Enough of that.”

Peaches flapped once, then went still with a muffled ‘brrrk.’

“Good bird,” Yugao muttered, wrapping him in a towel like a suspiciously chatty burrito. She moved fast, stuffing him into a guitar case Kakashi had labeled “Definitely Not A Bird.”

Hoisting the case over her back, she slipped away just as a group of U.A. faculty rounded the corner.

“Hey—did anyone hear a weird noise back here?” one asked.

Without missing a beat, Yugao dropped into a civilian accent. “Yeah, the fog machine backfired. The sparkle guy’s handling it.”

The faculty member paled. “Say no more.”

With Peaches secure and her path clear, Yugao vanished into the catwalks above.

Back in the monitoring room, Eraserhead stood rigid, eyes dark with grim resolve.
“How did someone unknown get this far inside? This isn’t a joke. Someone compromised our security protocols, and that means a threat to every student and faculty member here.”

Midnight nodded solemnly. “We’ll have to tighten perimeter defenses immediately and lock down all access points. No more distractions.”

Eraserhead’s jaw clenched harder. “This ‘Kakariko Tsubasa’ character is not to be underestimated. I want all hero units on high alert until we find him.”

Back on stage, Kakashi ended his dance with a confetti cannon blast, bowed deeply, and whispered into the mic:

“And lo—the sacred parrot of truth has taken flight once more.”

Yugao’s voice crackled in his earpiece.

“Shut up before I tranquilize you.”

Kakashi grinned beneath his mask.

.

.

.

.

Night – Back Entrance, Happy Paws Pet Paradise

The vet clinic was dark, save for the faint hum of the feather warmer and the soft cooing of a well-fed pigeon. Yugao crouched by the loading dock, holding a large duffel bag. Kakashi stood beside her, holding what could only be described as five parrot decoys, cockatoo and a pigeon sporting sunglasses among them.

“You know these aren’t convincing,” she muttered.

“They’re emotionally convincing,” Kakashi replied. “I modeled their expressions after Danzō.”

Yugao blinked. “That’s the most terrifying thing you’ve ever said.”

They slipped inside. Security was minimal—mostly because Yugao had looped the cameras, and Kakashi had taped a sign to the front door reading “Temporarily Closed for Emotional Healing.” Classic fieldwork.

(Despite the fact that it was completely unnecessary)

Inside the bird room, the original flock stared at them from their cages, heads tilting in synchronized paranoia.

“All right,” Kakashi whispered. “Operation Swap Feather begins.”

She pulled out a list. “Bird One: Macaw. Repeats quadrant alerts. Decoy: painted plush with Bluetooth speaker—check.”

Kakashi gently placed the decoy in the cage while Yugao scooped up the real bird, who squawked:

“They used the forklift.”

“Shhh,” she hissed.

“Bird Two: Red eclectus. Parrots interrogation methods. You named his decoy Lieutenant Squawkface?”

“He insisted.”

They worked methodically, replacing each bird with increasingly questionable substitutes.

When they reached the pigeon, it stared up at them, its beady eyes filled with judgment and cholesterol.

Yugao held up a small mechanical replacement pigeon with retractable legs. “This one’s voice-activated to scream ‘coo’ when someone says the word ‘flour.’”

Kakashi nodded solemnly. “That’s how you know we’re professionals.”

Moments later, the real birds were loaded into Kakashi’s newly-acquired Bird Relocation Van—an ice cream truck with ‘Feathers First Sanctuary’ written in glitter glue across the side.

As they drove off, Yugao sighed.

“I can’t believe this mission started with a parrot and ended with national subterfuge.”

Kakashi flicked on the jingle switch. “And it’s not even Thursday.”

The truck blared a distorted tune of “Hot Cross Buns” as they disappeared into the night.

.

.

.

.

Interrogation Room – The Next Morning

The interrogation room was unusually tense for a session involving birds.

Tsukauchi entered with his coat still damp from the early rain, a recorder in one hand and a migraine blooming behind his eyes. Two junior officers stood awkwardly by the mirrored wall, clearly unsure how to handle their current... detainees.

On the cold metal table sat four cages, each housing a parrot.

Or rather, something parrot-shaped.

None of them were talking. None of them were moving either.

Too quiet.

Tsukauchi's eyes narrowed. “What happened to the chatter?”

One of the officers cleared his throat nervously. “They, uh, they’ve been silent all morning, sir. No ‘Quadrant secure.’ No ‘Interrogation phase initiated.’ Just…”

He trailed off and pointed at the cage on the far left.

Inside, the parrot tilted its head 180 degrees and let out a disturbingly accurate meow.

Tsukauchi blinked. “That’s a cat.”

The bird meowed again, blinking slowly.

Tsukauchi stepped closer, eyeing the large macaw in the next cage. It was perched stiffly, feathers oddly textured, and—

Squeak.

“…That’s not a real bird.”

He reached into the cage and gave it a tug.

The entire upper half of the “bird” popped off with a gentle pffff, releasing a puff of powdered flour. Beneath the facade was a heavily modified plush toy with rudimentary internal wiring and a tag that read: “EMERGENCY THERAPY BIRD – CERTIFIED. DO NOT WASH.”

A second parrot deflated when an officer sneezed too close to it.

The others remained still, but now that Tsukauchi was looking for it, he saw the signs: mechanical seams, sewn-on eyes, even one that was suspiciously leaking sunflower oil from its foot.

Shindo appeared in the doorway, pale and holding a clipboard.

“Sir... the vet just called. The birds from the incident are gone. Every single one. Replaced sometime during the night.”

Tsukauchi turned slowly to look at the cages. The yellow-naped Amazon had a slight dent in its forehead. The African grey looked like it had been painted by someone who had only ever seen birds described in a poem.

He sighed. “They were here. Swapped the entire flock out under our noses. Probably before dawn."

"Sir, I think it's connected to the noise complain issued earlier about a van playing Hot Cross Bun about ten blocks from the area. This complaint was reported 2:49 am."

As if on cue, the sulphur-crested cockatoo turned its head sharply toward him, leaned forward, and in a cheerful but poorly disguised  voice, chirped:

“This is the parrot you’re looking for.”

Tsukauchi inhaled slowly, set down the recorder, and resisted the urge to walk directly into the wall.

“Put out a notice,” he said at last. “They’ve escalated to avian-level subterfuge. Full sweep of the city block. Every veterinary clinic, pet store, and plush manufacturer in a ten-mile radius.”

He turned toward the mirrored window.

“I want eyes on all wildlife permits issued this month. Cross-reference for glitter glue and vans playing Hot Cross Buns. We’re looking for signs of a mobile sanctuary front."

The mic sparked again. One final bird squawk echoed through the room:

“Caw-caw. Neko out."

Tsukauchi did not scream.

He simply pulled out his notepad, flipped to a fresh page, and calmly wrote:

Addendum 47B: Suspects may now include: – Sentient birds
– Weaponized plush animals
– One (1) tactical ice cream truck
– No solid leads.

He looked up at the ceiling. “God help us if they start targeting aquariums.”

.

.

.

.

U.A. Staff Lounge – Evening Meeting

The staff room was unusually quiet. The usual clinking of coffee cups and casual chatter was replaced by a heavy, collective focus on the wall-mounted monitor, which displayed a still image from a blurry security feed.

Principal Nezu sat at the head of the table, calmly sipping tea, his eyes sharp with polite concern. Aizawa slouched in his chair, arms crossed. Present Mic nervously adjusted his shades. Midnight idly picked glitter out of her sleeve.

Aizawa’s voice cut through the silence, flat and direct. “So. Who the hell is Kakariko Tsubasa?”

He tapped the tablet on the table. The screen showed a flamboyant man in outlandish performer’s clothes, his face masked with feathers, wielding a cane, surrounded by cheering children and a parrot perched on his shoulder. Behind him, the U.A. Welcome banner sagged, defaced with the phrase “FLEW WITH PRIDE” scrawled in gold marker.

Midnight squinted. “Is that… a bird trainer? Or a magician? Or both?”

“That,” Cementoss said slowly, pointing at the screen, “is not one of our scheduled acts.”

“Correct,” Nezu confirmed, steepling his fingers. “And according to our vendor list, ‘Kakariko Tsubasa’ doesn’t exist.”

Midnight frowned. “Are we sure he wasn’t a last-minute addition from the Entertainment Committee?”

“We triple-checked,” Cementoss rumbled. “They booked three acts: a band, a magician, and the Hero Course presentation. No birds. No sparkles. No circus.” He paused. “Plus three special guests brought by the elementary school.”

Power Loader scrolled through surveillance logs, flipping between entrances and exits. “What’s strange is, he appears nowhere. No record of walking in, no gate crossings, not a single quirk sensor triggered. No vehicle logs. It’s like he just materialized onstage.”

“That stage was sealed off except for certified personnel,” Vlad King muttered, arms folded. “And yet he got in and took over like he belonged.”

“Wait, he just appeared?” Present Mic asked, eyebrows raised.

“Worse,” Snipe said, folding his arms. “No warp signatures. No breach alerts. No perimeter disruption. I inspected every nook and cranny. Only faint signs of subtle tampering — no forced access. Like someone knew exactly how to step through blind spots.”

Midnight pulled up another image: the same man mid-performance, dramatically tossing sunflower seeds while parrots squawked coordinated phrases — “Coo-chaos initiated!” and “Flour protocol live!”

All Might, unusually quiet until now, rubbed the back of his neck. “I… may have applauded.”

Aizawa shot him a look. “Why?”

“He juggled three pigeons, then disappeared in a puff of feathers. Felt disrespectful not to.”

Tsukauchi, sitting beside the screen with a stack of reports, cleared his throat.

“No students or parents reported anything unusual, even the heroes present didn’t note suspicious behavior. The interviews Eraserhead sent out, disguised as surveys, showed everyone recalled the event. But their descriptions diverged wildly.”

He flipped to the next slide:

“He was a majestic eagle man in a rainbow leotard.”

“He had a puppet show with penguins on fire.”

“He made a bird talk backwards in Latin.”

“I don’t remember a bird show. I thought we had karaoke?”

“True,” Aizawa added, narrowing his eyes. “Everyone remembers the event fondly, but their details contradict each other. Some say the performer danced on wires. Others say the birds juggled fireworks. One kid swore there was a falcon in a top hat singing show tunes.”

“They’ve all been tampered with,” Tsukauchi said grimly. “Some quirk-based memory rewriting. Subtle. Precise.”

A beat of silence.

“Do we have a face scan on this ‘Kakariko Tsubasa’?” Snipe asked.

“Ran it,” Power Loader replied. “No matches. The disguise was elaborate—prosthetics, voice modulation, the works.”

Nezu’s voice was calm but grave. “We’re dealing with someone who can spoof quirks, subvert surveillance, and rewrite memories. If they’re this careful eight months before the entrance exam…” before All Might officially starts working. 

Aizawa narrowed his eyes. “They’re laying groundwork.”

Nezu smiled faintly. “I suggest a quiet investigation. No public announcements. If Kakariko Tsubasa bypassed every security layer at U.A., he’s not acting alone. It’s impossible for him to enter without assistance.”

Aizawa sighed. “We’re being stalked by a bird-themed weirdo. Fantastic.”

Midnight drummed her fingers on the table. “If they’re this good, they’re probably long gone.”

A pause.

Present Mic leaned in.“Unless… they’re still watching us. Disguised. Among us.”

Everyone froze.

Then, from the air vent overhead, a faint coo.

Every head snapped up.

A single feather fluttered down.

Nezu calmly sipped his tea.

“Let’s add a budget line for avian surveillance countermeasures.” He paused, then summarized, voice steady: “No records of ‘Kakariko Tsubasa’ in our guest list. Surveillance shows no breaches or distortions. And yet...” He flicked to a photo of glitter, feathers, and confetti left onstage. “They were here.”

“I’ve never seen kids so entertained by a pigeon,” Present Mic muttered.

Nezu finally broke the silence with a composed nod and addressed the detective. “Detective Tsukauchi, thank you for joining us on such short notice. Your insight—particularly on memory tampering—has been invaluable.”

Tsukauchi smiled modestly and dipped his head. “No worries, Principal Nezu. I’ve been meaning to discuss this incident anyway.”

He reached into his coat and slid a USB drive across the table.

Nezu connected it. A video of a familiar cockatoo appeared.

“Furthermore,” Tsukauchi said, “this parrot—identified by several children as ‘Peaches’—was repeating unusual phrases before Kakariko interfered.”

He played the clip.

[SUBJECT NEKO! FLANK LEFT! HENSHIN CIRCLE! SUBJECT INU! STEAL THE FLOUR!]

The room fell silent.

Tsukauchi stepped forward, eyes on the cockatoo.

“That bird... I was supposed to interrogate it earlier this morning.”

Everyone blinked.

“I know how that sounds,” he raised a hand, “but I’ve been working on a bizarre case—pet store hypnosis, vending machine thefts, stolen welding equipment... and now this.”

He gestured toward the feather-covered, glitter-strewn photo of Kakariko.

Eraserhead exhaled slowly. “You’re saying it’s connected to the flour theft and helicopter incident.”

Everyone looked surprised.

“Correct,” Tsukauchi explained. “Eraserhead’s been helping me crack this case. I believe ‘Kakariko Tsubasa’ is connected to ongoing incidents—small-scale infiltrations, unexplained supply thefts, suspects leaving no trace. All lead to the same two people: ‘Inu’ and ‘Neko.’”

“Are you saying Kakariko is affiliated with Inu and Neko?” Midnight asked.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Two days ago, we received a report about three parrots and a cockatoo from a local vet, Happy Paw Pet Paradise, repeating what sounded like operational phrases—military codes, but unfamiliar ones.”

Tsukauchi paused, handing a file to Nezu.
“One bird repeated: ‘Clone B intercepts at quadrant six. Neko neutralizes clerk. Mission objective: flour confirmed. Exit through ceiling,’ and more.”

“I had my men arrange a meeting with the birds, but…” Tsukauchi hesitated. “They were all replaced. Before dawn.”

He exhaled, reaching into his worn briefcase.

“As I said, replaced—presumably by Inu, Neko, or Kakariko Tsubasa.”

He clicked a remote, bringing up a final video: five birds stiffly perched in a large cage.

One parrot tilted its head 180 degrees and let out a meow.

Mic blinked. “That’s a cat.”

The bird meowed again, blinking slowly.

One macaw’s upper body was cut away, revealing mechanical innards. Powdered flour puffed out around it, and inside was a modified plush toy with wiring and a tag reading: “EMERGENCY THERAPY BIRD – CERTIFIED. DO NOT WASH.”

The sulphur-crested cockatoo leaned forward and chirped in a cheerful but poorly disguised voice:

“This is the parrot you’re looking for.”

“That’s a… stuffed toy?” All Might added awkwardly.

“Caw caw. Neko out.”

One bird even wore a name tag: Lieutenant Squawkface.

Tsukauchi turned to Nezu. “Principal, these aren’t street-level criminals. This was a coordinated swap with tactical foresight. We’re dealing with highly skilled infiltrators… possibly a secret military organization.”

“This mustn’t go public,” Nezu said.

Everyone nodded.

“They’re professionals,” Tsukauchi confirmed. “They blend in, leave chaos, and vanish. This was a cleanup operation. Wasn’t that bird—Peaches, I think—set to give a motivational speech? One incident involved Inu and Neko stealing tranquilizers from that same vet. Likely, classified info leaked, parrots picked up the phrases, and now they retrieved the bird before it could broadcast anything sensitive.”

“And now it’s gone,” Nezu mused.

Tsukauchi confirmed. “Along with every bird from the vet. Replaced overnight with decoys.”

Midnight leaned back. “Why infiltrate a U.A. orientation? Why risk exposure for a bird?”

“Because whatever it was repeating,” Tsukauchi said, “was worth more than their cover. And they still got away clean.”

.

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.

.

Tsukauchi's Office - Late Evening

The dim desk lamp cast long shadows over piles of case files and grainy surveillance photos. Detective Tsukauchi sat hunched, fingers tapping nervously on the worn wood. His eyes, bloodshot and tired, were fixed on a single image pinned to the corkboard — the flamboyant, feathered figure of Kakariko Tsubasa, caught mid-performance at the U.A. orientation.

Tsukauchi’s voice was low, tight with frustration. "They’re mocking us.”

He flipped through the sketch of two elusive suspects: Inu and Neko. Figures that vanished as quickly as they appeared. Yet somehow, they had brazenly stepped into the spotlight at one of the most secure hero academies in the country.

“They don’t care about staying hidden,” he muttered. “If anything, they want us to see them. To know they’re here.”

He pushed the photo of the masked performer under the lamp’s glow, eyes narrowing. “Why infiltrate U.A.? After all the thefts — welding equipment, flour, hypnotized clerks — why risk it all by showing up in front of dozens of heroes and students? They must be desperate… or confident. More likely both.”

Tsukauchi reached for the small voice recorder and played the chilling clip again: “SUBJECT NEKO! FLANK LEFT! HENSHIN CIRCLE! SUBJECT INU! STEAL THE FLOUR!”

The cold, coded phrases echoed in the silent room.

“And why risk it all for a bird? A parrot that just repeats phrases?”

Tsukauchi stood and paced, the weight of the case pressing down. He glanced out the window where the city lights twinkled like distant stars—indifferent to the chaos below.

“They walked into U.A. like they owned the place. No masks pulled off, no fights, no alarms. Just a show. A message. ‘We’re inside your strongest fortress. We control the game.’”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “And if they’re this bold now, what’s next? How long before someone else steps forward? Someone with more firepower, more at stake?”

He returned to the corkboard, eyes locked on the photos.

“We’re running out of time. These aren’t random criminals—they’re professionals, maybe even a secret organization. And I have a feeling they’re not done with us yet.”

The room fell silent except for the faint hum of the city outside, as Tsukauchi sat back down, grim determination hardening his gaze.

[Meanwhile Kakashi having the time of his life and Yugao imagining killing Kakashi for his stupidity every time she sharpens her blade. All while the heroes are taking the case seriously.]

.

.

.

.

Hideout — Night

Yugao’s eyes were glued to the flickering monitors, her breath shallow and rapid. The grainy security footage displayed the full extent of the disaster at the veterinary clinic before the bird switch: one parrot screeching coded ANBU phrases like a broken radio, four others flapping wildly in near-military formation, the fat pigeon waddling clumsily through a hallway like it owned the place, and the cockatoo perched on a light fixture, shrieking what sounded suspiciously like a fire alarm.

Her fingers danced frantically across the console keyboard. Fast-forward, rewind, isolate audio — she cycled through tools like a seasoned intel operative. Mastery of U.A.’s surveillance systems hadn’t been easy, but she'd reverse-engineered enough of their tech to splice, loop, and corrupt security footage without leaving a trace. At least, not one most heroes could catch.

Her fingers tapped nervously against the console as she muttered, “How did it get this out of control?"

Her gaze flicked to another monitor.

There, in full dramatic display, was Kakariko Tsubasa — Kakashi’s newest public menace of a persona — bowing with flamboyant flair amidst a cyclone of glitter, feathers, and stunned applause.

“Why were you bowing? Why were you bowing to the bird?” Yugao hissed, clutching the sides of her head as she fast-forwarded to another angle. “Is that a cartwheel? That’s a triple cartwheel. With smoke bombs. At U.A.”

On another screen, Peaches bobbed its head, repeating, “SUBJECT NEKO! FLANK LEFT! HENSHIN CIRCLE!” over and over.

Yugao squeezed her temples. “If Kitsune sees this footage, we’re dead. Not in trouble. Not mildly reprimanded. Buried. This is a tactical implosion.”

From the back of the room, Kakashi sat upside down on the couch, legs draped over the backrest, lazily tossing popcorn at a curious sparrow perched on the window ledge.

“You know,” he mused aloud, “if we had a proper rookery, I bet I could train them like my Ninken. They’ve got the mimicking ability. Good memory. We’d just need little vests. Maybe goggles. Imagine having a squad of feathered shinobi's at our command. The fat pigeon there? He’s got potential. Slow, sure, but surprisingly stubborn. Good for distractions.”

Yugao shot him a frantic glance. “Kakashi, focus! This is a disaster, not a training camp!”

“Yugao,” he said calmly, “you’re forgetting the bigger picture here.” He gestured toward the riotous birds on screen. “We’ve got five parrots, a fat pigeon with zero shame, and there's Peaches that’s basically screaming ‘I’m here, catch me!’ This is a rare opportunity.”

He then pointed toward the corner of the surveillance room where Peaches, now inexplicably wearing a tiny feather boa (possibly Kakashi’s doing), was whistling a suspiciously accurate rendition of ANBU’s emergency response tone.

Yugao gawked. “How… how is it doing the tone? That’s a level three alert code!”

Kakashi chuckled, stepping closer to the monitors. “Relax, Yugao. Even in chaos, there’s opportunity. These birds could be our eyes and ears. No hero suspects a parrot.”

Yugao whipped around, panic in her eyes. “Opportunity? Kakashi, they almost exposing everything! We’ve already drawn too much attention. You’re joking, right?”

"Keyword: almost." He dodged a projectile kunai thrown at his way.

Kakashi smirked, stepping closer. “And, I'm not joking. I've already thought about it — Pakkun taught us the value of loyal, stealthy animal partners. These birds? They can be trained. Imagine using Peaches, Lieutenant Squawkface, Captain Waddle and the others as covert operatives, a flock of feathered ninken. They could scout, deliver messages, even disrupt enemy comms.”

Yugao stared at him, disbelief mixing with exhaustion. “You want to train these? After they’ve almost blown our cover?”

He shrugged, amusement twinkling in his eye. "Okay, I feel like you're not listening—

"You're the one who's not fucking listening!"

"—to me, so I'll say this as simply as I could. This could be our secret advantage.”

Yugao exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “We have bigger problems. We need to fix this disaster before it spirals any further. I'll have to replace the footage, edit it out further."

Kakashi chuckled softly. “Fine, fine. But after that? Operation Feather Squad kicks off. You’ll see — these birds will be the best assets that no one ever suspects, even Banri.”

Yugao let out a resignated sigh. “I swear, only you could find humor in this madness.”

Kakashi winked. “Someone’s got to keep it interesting.”

.

.

.

.

The shenanigans had quieted. The flour, vending machines, bathrones disguises, the glitter-covered vans, everything — all of it settled like dust after a storm. In its place came silence, the kind that only seasoned operatives could appreciate. For the first time in weeks, the mission returned to what it was always meant to be.

Surveillance. Mapping. Intelligence gathering.

Four months passed in disciplined quiet. Musutafu stretched out before them, a labyrinth of metal and concrete, teeming with quirks and secrets. Yugao and Kakashi embedded themselves deep into its rhythm. They moved like ghosts — promptly deciding to rent a sparse room above a convenience store out of convenient, slipping out before dawn, returning long after curfew. Their faces changed as needed. 

By the end of the first week, they had hand-sketched most of East Musutafu. By the end of the second month, they had charted every patrol route, identified nearly every registered pro-hero’s agency, and created overlapping maps detailing blind alleys, roof access points, and bottleneck zones.

They wrote it all down by hand.

Stacks of weatherproof notebooks, smuggled ledger paper, and tight-ink scrolls were secured beneath a fake floor panel, all encrypted in a cypher only they could read. To anyone else, it was gibberish. But to them, it was clarity.

Yugao knew full well how to use the tech here — better than Kakashi, if she were being honest. Touchscreens didn’t scare her. She’d picked up civilian network structures fast, learned data extraction through public kiosks, even cracked an agency terminal once when Kakashi wasn’t looking.

But still, when he suggested they avoid digital documentation, she hadn’t argued.

“Files can be copied. Data can be scraped. Scrolls can be burned.” That was what he’d said. And he wasn’t wrong.

Even as her fingers itched to collate everything onto an encrypted hard drive, she agreed. There was something grounding about the ink, the paper, the scrape of her pen at 2 a.m. with only a desk lamp and the rustle of the birds to fill the air.

Ah yes, the birds.

If anyone had told her years ago that a retired ANBU captain would insist on using a flock of parrots and one obese pigeon as part of an S-rank intelligence sweep, she’d have recommended a chakra seal to the head. But here they were — Peaches, Lieutenant Squawkface, Captain Waddle, Agent Scarface, Cadet Sharpy, Captain Crankyface and Fatty-Grumble — each trained to mimic trigger phrases and respond to subtle hand gestures. The pigeon mostly waddled around and ate scraps, but it served as a passive courier between stakeouts. Kakashi insisted it was “strategic.”

Yugao privately suspected he was just fond of the bird.

To her mild horror, it worked.

Agent Scarface and Captain Crankyface became regular lookouts, perched innocuously above hero agency windows, reciting casual phrases that blended with the city noise while picking up conversations through glass. Peaches mimicked agency security tones. Cadet Sharpy could whistle the exact pattern of a certain U.A. security door alarm. The information, once filtered and verified, was handwritten and filed away.

Their final and most complex objective came as autumn drifted into winter — the infiltration of U.A. High School.

The school was a fortress. Its security was discreet but layered, from biometric gate locks to motion-sensitive corridors and rotating patrols of both staff and support tech. But the moment Kakashi and Yugao stepped inside — unnoticed, as they had trained to be — it was only a matter of time.

They mapped blind spots in the surveillance system, found access hatches in lesser-used maintenance routes, and identified which teachers stayed late and which ones left their offices unlocked. They never encountered a student — they timed everything too precisely for that.

But there was one moment, brief and quiet, when Kakashi watched a group of students training in the courtyard below from a shadowed corridor near the third floor.

He leaned on the railing, half-hidden by a pillar, and studied them through his uncovered eye.

No one noticed him.

They were focused, loud, throwing punches charged with unnatural force and shouting about justice and teamwork. Bright-eyed. Naive, maybe. Driven, definitely. But not one of them even twitched in awareness of his presence. Not a single glance in his direction. No sense of being watched.

He could’ve been anyone. Anything. A threat, a ghost.

And none of them would’ve seen it coming.

He didn’t move for several minutes. Not out of concern — just thought. Long, quiet thought.

You’re training to be heroes, he thought. But you still haven’t learned how to sense danger.

Not judgment.

Not disdain.

Just… observation.

He didn’t envy them either.

By the time their mission neared its fourth month, the city no longer felt foreign. They had memorized its breathing, understood the beats of its heart. But there was no illusion of comfort. They were strangers in a strange land — observers, not participants.

And in the growing dark of their hidden room, surrounded by birds softly muttering coded fragments and a desk scattered with notebooks, Yugao looked at Kakashi and knew what he was thinking before he said it:

“We're almost done."

Kakashi’s words hung in the dim apartment like incense smoke — heavy, curling into the corners of the room, lingering even as the silence resumed. Yugao didn’t respond right away. She was still redrawing a floor plan of U.A.’s second south building, correcting linework under the glow of a desk lamp. The parrot on the windowsill — Snowball, probably — let out a sleepy warble and shuffled in his feathers.

“Two more districts to verify,” Yugao finally said, dipping her pen. “One last security loop near that underground agency bunker. And then…”

“And then we stop watching,” Kakashi finished, eyes on the blacked-out window.

Neither of them said what came after.

For four months, the work had been surgical. Cold. Detached. The kind of detached they both knew how to do — the kind of discipline honed when your breath had to match the sway of a patrol’s footfall, when even a heartbeat too loud meant the difference between success and exposure. And the birds, odd as they were, had become part of the rhythm. Even now, Peaches was perched in the next room repeating lines of hero agency radio chatter like a broken opera singer.

Yugao closed the notebook and leaned back, rolling out her shoulders.

“Have you informed him yet?” she asked after a moment.

Kakashi turned.

“Tenzo?” he asked, though he already knew who she was pertaining to.

“He’ll want to know once we're done.” she says, "Kitsune-senpai did say to inform him... there's a scheduled talk between him and that Orochimaru 2.0."

Kakashi nodded slightly, but his answer was quiet. “I’ll send the signal once the tunnels are verified.”

That meant they were serious.

The tunnels — the stretch of subterranean paths running beneath Musutafu’s central wards — were the one piece of terrain that connected multiple hero agencies, U.A., and even a government logistics archive. If their goal had shifted from observation to control — even quietly, even temporarily — then those access points mattered.

They would only go underground once.

Once.

“Do you think they’ll backstab us?” Yugao asked, not out of fear, but logistics.

“They’ll try.” Kakashi’s voice was unreadable. “But not yet. They still think we’re just a bunch of desperate fogeys.”

He didn’t smirk, but the idea seemed to amuse him. The thought that Orochimaru 2.0 and his goons would have the chance to touch even a single strand of their hair.

Well, they thought wrong.

All those weeks of flashy misdirection, eccentric behavior, and ridiculous disguises — apparently, it had paid off. Their real work had gone unnoticed. No one had linked the parrot chaos to the precise sweep of pro-hero intel now sitting in ciphered notebooks under their bed.

Let them look at the bird show. Let them laugh.

In the meantime, Team Rō had been carving through the city with silent precision.

Yugao stood, stretching. “Banri’s going to hate this.”

“Banri always hates everything.”

She smiled faintly. “He hates the black and white of this world. He hates the so-called heroes and the whiney villains. He especially hates buildings with curved windows.”

Kakashi blinked. “Why curved windows?”

“No idea. He gave a twenty-minute rant on optical distortions.”

A pause. Kakashi looked mildly impressed. “We should let him inspect the U.A. science wing then.”

Another pause.

Yugao’s expression flattened. “Don’t.”

The pigeon waddled by at that exact moment, dragging a small flash drive wrapped in a sock.

Kakashi picked it up.

“Anything important?” Yugao asked.

“Nope.” He looked at it. “Fatty-Grumble tried to steal a hero's lunch from a vending machine and accidentally copied part of their agency's training footage.”

Yugao stared.

“Unusable?” she guessed.

“Absolutely.” He tossed the drive onto the table. “But hilarious.”

In the midst of that strange, small domestic quiet, Yugao felt the shift begin. Not in the air, not in the birds, not even in the city. But in them. A stillness that preceded a storm. The long breath before the final operation began.

There would be no more second chances after this.

The information was complete. The security tested. The entrances, exits, and fallback positions marked. Musutafu — and more importantly, U.A. — had been unraveled before them.

She leaned against the window, looking out across rooftops and blinking signage and drifting clouds.

“We have everything,” she said softly.

Kakashi stepped up beside her.

“No,” he corrected. “We have everything we need.”

They didn’t speak again that night. But later, when the birds quieted, and the city fell into its habitual late-night rhythm, their two teammates had finally come back from their own mission... with.... a

With a child.

Who somehow...

... looks a lot like Kakashi.

"Did you fuck with anyone in this world, Kakashi?" 

Chapter Text

Omake:

Elsewhere in Musutafu — Unknown Time.

"Yugao," Kakashi whispered from beneath the rhinestone-studded fedora that was definitely not standard ANBU uniform, "I think the bird just implicated me in war crimes."

Yugao didn’t look at him. She was too busy crouched behind a vending machine, trying to disable the nearby security camera with a pin and a minor genjutsu chant. Her voice was calm, detached, and vaguely threatening. “That’s because you taught it to say 'Operation Birchfire was a success' in three languages.”

“Technically it learned the phrase on its own,” Kakashi whispered, cradling the cockatoo in question like a wounded comrade. “Very impressionable. Excellent memory. Terrible discretion.”

The bird screeched, “Your intel network is compromised!” in a perfect imitation of Yugao’s voice.

Yugao blinked. “Did it just—?”

“Yes.”

“Why is it doing impressions of me?”

Kakashi tilted his head thoughtfully. “I think it imprinted on you.”

The cockatoo let out another shriek. “Target acquired. Engage in subdual protocol—” and then immediately followed it with a cheerful "Kyaa~ Peaches wants a fruit knife!"

Yugao lunged for the bird.

Peaches dodged and took off—flying low through the alley like a tiny, traitorous missile.

Yugao snarled and leapt after it.

Kakashi followed behind at a casual jog. “So,” he called, as Yugao scaled a fire escape with murder in her eyes, “do we agree this is slightly your fault?”

“Slightly?”

“Well, you were the one who hypnotized the pet store clerk and taught the bird to respond to ANBU codewords—”

"Don't you even dare to gaslight me Inu, or I swear to every being there is that you will. Never. Ever. See. your precious books ever. Again."

A pause. Then:

“... It was worth a try."

[Author's note: 

Thanks so much for reading! If you’re enjoying this wild espionage ride through Musutafu, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Drop a comment below!

What did you think of FUBAR?

Do you have a favorite moment or character so far?

Drop every question you have!

Your feedback keeps me motivated and helps shape future chapters—plus, I just really enjoy chatting with you all about this chaotic ANBU-meets-quirks universe.

See you in the next chapter!

P S. I wanted to post this in celebration of 50k words, but I got too excited and really, really wanna hear all of my readers thoughts.

— [Zanim - Write_Your_Own] 

Chapter Text

Tenzo has nothing against his senpai, Kitsune.

Nothing, really.

In fact, among all the people he's acquainted with, trained someone, trained under, teamed up with, and served beside—past and present—Kitsune holds a place of singular reverence. Tenzo respects him. Deeply. In a way he doesn’t extend easily to others, perhaps not even consciously at first. But even before he was Tenzo, back when he was still him, a mere thing, drifting in the shadow of Root, that respect had already begun to crystallize.

Even when he was himself—or rather, that version of himself, the blank slate fashioned to kill without hesitation—he remembers it: the way Kitsune moved, precise and silent; the way his words cut cleaner than any kunai. There was admiration there. He doesn’t know if Kitsune ever knew.

(Though Tenzo has a hunch that Kitsune knew. He doesn’t know why he thinks that—just that he does. Because Kitsune has this unnerving, quiet way of knowing things. Of knowing without asking.)

No, Tenzo has nothing against Kitsune. If anything, he might be one of the only reasons he didn’t completely shatter.

He pauses there.

That thought tastes bitter, and he swallows it like poison.

Because the truth is... back then, he didn’t respect anyone. Not really. Not the men who trained him. Not the faceless shadows he called teammates. Certainly not him. The man everyone else called Dan—the Warhawk.

(Tenzo flinches at the name in his thoughts. Warhawk. Not Danzo. He still can't say the name. Still can't think the name without bile catching in his throat. Old habits, he tells himself. Old conditioning. The kind of rot that clings even after the limb has been severed.)

The man he had only ever refered to as His Handler (Back when he was personally trained by him), Our Superior or The Man Who Ordered (When he's been launched as a Root Operative), The Foundation's Commander (When Kitsune had personally got him out), That Man (When he'd been named Captain to Team 7), and finally as the Warhawk (When the curse seal had finally been removed yet he still cannot utter the Warhawk's name).

He was a tool.

A weapon.

A finely honed, emotionally sterilized thing with no will of its own.

And the Warhawk—damn him—had carved that into his bones personally. Had peeled away the child and replaced it with a function.

There were no feelings in Root. Not loyalty. Not hatred. Not fear. There was only the mission. There was only silence. Obedience. Purpose.

Even now, so far removed from that life, Tenzo sometimes forgets he’s allowed to have thoughts that contradict orders. That he's allowed to disagree. That he's allowed to feel.

And yet… Kitsune. Even when they were standing face to face with the Warhawk. Even when emotion was said fo be a crime.

He's stood out.

Unshakable.

Sharp.

Alive in ways he hadn’t understood.

He'd never coddled him (in words). Never even really spoken to him as an equal back then.

But still,  Kitsune saw him.

And maybe, in the vast darkness of Root’s graves, that was enough to keep some splinter of his humanity from dying.

Tenzo doesn’t talk about it.

He doesn’t talk about the drills. The conditioning. The punishment rooms. The silence. The days spent kneeling for hours under surveillance, thinking only of how to be less of a disappointment.

But in the quiet of the night, when the mission’s noise fades and the present world isn’t loud enough to drown out the ghosts, it slips through. He remembers how easy it was to kill. How natural it became. How he used to sleep without dreams because dreaming was a defect.

Tenzo doesn’t speak of it, but there’s something else—something quieter—that he guards even more fiercely than his past.

It’s the reason he still trains alone before sunrise, even when there’s no mission pressing. Why he meditates by streams and forests, seeking the stillness he used to fear.

It’s not out of habit.

It’s not out of fear.

It’s preservation.

Not of himself—but of something far more fragile.

The power he holds.

The mokuton.

It’s the last thing he owns that wasn’t given to him by Root. Not forged in punishment or stolen through obedience. It came from somewhere else—Hashirama’s bloodline (And the pedophile's experimentation), sure, but that’s not what matters. What matters is what it means now.

This gift—the ability to shape and grow, to build instead of destroy—it became his choice. A quiet rebellion.

Root taught him to break bodies.

The wood taught him to protect them.

Even in the field, even surrounded by danger, Tenzo fights with the aim to subdue. To contain. To preserve life. Because destruction is easy. It was wired into him. But creation? Mercy? That takes strength.

And Tenzo wants that kind of strength. He wants to deserve the mokuton. Not as a tool, but as a protector. As someone who can offer safety where there was once only silence.

He doesn’t say this out loud, of course. There’s no one he could explain it to—not fully.

But in moments of stillness, when he places his hand against bark and feels it pulse with slow, ancient life, he remembers:

He doesn’t just fight because he was trained to.

He fights because he wants to help. Because the power he wields can shield instead of shatter.

And that—that—makes him happy.

Not in the way others might describe happiness. Not loudly. Not with smiles or laughter.

But in the steady kind of way. Like the quiet comfort of standing on solid ground after years adrift.

He still flinches when people say his name with kindness.

Still freezes when someone reaches for him too quickly.

But he’s learning. Step by step.

Yugao never rushes him.

Kakashi understands his choice.

Kitsune never questions him.

And through them—alongside them—he’s discovering what it means to be.

Not a tool. Not a weapon. Not even just a shinobi.

But Tenzo.

Just Tenzo.

And that’s enough. That’s worth preserving. That’s worth protecting.

Because if he can hold onto that—onto himself—then maybe he can be the kind of man who not only survives this world…

…but helps others survive it too.

But in the stillness of night, when the present world isn’t loud enough to drown out the ghosts, it slips through. He remembers. All of it.

And then, invariably, he remembers Kitsune.

His senpai is an anchor to him. A presence of reminder of what he used to be and how he must protect himself from the past to not be dragged down by its burden.

So no, Tenzo has nothing against his senpai.

He's one of the few people he believes in.

Kitsune-senpai is a reminder. Not someone he really talks with.

No.

Kitsune is not the person Tenzo confides in.

That place—that position—belongs to someone else.

To Yugao.

It had always been Yugao who first truly welcomed him. In spite of his history. In spite of the silence he carried like a second skin. She had extended a hand not as a superior or a subordinate, not even as a comrade—but as a person.

Yugao had spoken to him like he mattered.

Had waited through his silences, answered his hesitations with patience, and never demanded he explain his scars.

She hadn’t needed to.

Where Kitsune had been the example, the unwavering constant he could follow in silence, Yugao had been the one who reached for him. The one who met him halfway, and offered warmth, not just discipline. If Kitsune was the compass that pointed toward survival, then Yugao was the fire that reminded him why survival mattered.

She saw not just the tool, but the man it—he was trying to become.

And so—Tenzo believes in Kitsune. With quiet, unshakable respect.

But it is Yugao he trusts. With the fragile, uncertain parts of himself that he still doesn't quite know how to protect.

Kitsune is the reminder: of what he used to be, and what he must never return to.

Yugao is the possibility: of what he is still trying to become.

And that difference?

That difference means everything.

So, once again, Tenzo has nothing against his senpai.

Tenzo has nothing against Banri that makes him want to switch places with the other two.

But Banri?

Banri is a problem.

Not in the way civilians—or even certain shinobi—might define a problem. He isn’t incompetent. He isn’t reckless or undisciplined or disloyal. No—Banri is sharp. Capable. Disarmingly perceptive. He’s survived more than most, and he thrives in places that would make even seasoned operatives hesitate.

But Banri also makes Tenzo uncomfortable.

Because Banri isn’t Root.

And there are moments—more frequent than Tenzo would like to admit—when Banri doesn’t even seem like ANBU.

Banri is something else entirely.

Unpredictable. Emotionally dissonant. Unapologetically human in a way that chips at the edges of Tenzo’s tightly maintained composure.

Where Tenzo walks in silence, Banri whistles off-key.

Where Tenzo crafts contingencies twelve steps in advance, Banri improvises mid-move with alarming confidence.

Where Tenzo has buried his emotions beneath layers of conditioning and command, Banri speaks plainly, even when he shouldn’t. And somehow—somehow—Banri still knows. Where the line is. How to walk it. When to step over it.

And it’s not that Banri is wrong.

Tenzo is trying. He wants to understand Banri-senpai. He wants to learn how to be near someone like him without unraveling.

He just doesn’t know how.

While the others were assigned to gather intelligence in a more conventional sense—mapping hero agencies, patrol routes, institutional structures, and the academy—Banri had suggested a parallel task for the two of them: full immersion into this world’s hidden layers.

In other words—the Underworld.

Tenzo isn’t unfamiliar with underworlds.

He’d spent his entire life in one.

The shinobi world—outside the sanctioned halls of its villages—is an endless web of underground networks. There are always layers beneath the surface. Black markets. Espionage rings. Missing-nin circles. Mercenary clans. The invisible hierarchy of criminals and ghosts.

Every nation has one. Every system depends on it, even as they deny it exists.

This world would be no different.

The principles, Tenzo believed, could be applied here too.

But the air down here was different.

It felt denser. More saturated. Tenzo could feel it cling to his skin like oil—like years of unspoken fear and unshed violence had steeped themselves into the bones of the alleyways, the steel of shuttered shopfronts, the broken neon signs flickering in grime-coated windows.

This world’s underworld didn’t lurk in shadow—it coexisted in broad daylight. Folded into the seams of society. Legal enough to be overlooked, invisible enough to be lawless.

(Unlike in their world, where access to the deepest layers often required a specific referral, a marked coin, or a whispered name passed through blood-stained hands.)

Tenzo hated it.

Not because it was dangerous. Not because it was full of liars, smugglers, and nameless ghosts.

He’d known all those before.

He hated it because Banri felt at ease here.

Tenzo moved in silence behind him, a featureless shadow in civilian clothing—hood up, cap low, his eyes scanning every rooftop, every alley mouth, every shift in air pressure that might signal danger. His hands never strayed far from the sealed scrolls tucked under his sleeves.

He didn’t like this place.

He didn’t like the unpredictability. The absence of structure. The unknowable.

He hadn’t wanted to come.

When Banri first proposed they split off to map the criminal web, Tenzo had said nothing. Silence wasn’t agreement—it was calculation. And the more he calculated, the more he disliked what he saw.

The League of Villains may have extended a temporary courtesy, but trust was not something Tenzo gave easily. Not anymore.

“We need to understand this world,” Banri had said. “Not just what it shows the public. We need to understand what it hides. The laws that govern the invisible.”

Tenzo had responded without looking at him. “You’re assuming those laws are rational.”

Banri had turned and looked at him—his eyes, as droopy as it is, is sharp and amused. “So were you, once.”

He wasn’t wrong.

But that didn’t make Tenzo feel any better about it. In fact, that was exactly what made it worse.

This was why he hadn’t wanted to come.

Because being near Banri forces you to confront yourself.

Tenzo—who had spent his life being molded, shaped, and stripped down into something useful—had carved his identity from silence and survival. From obedience and precision. From knowing what to do and when to do it. He didn’t trust chaos. Didn’t know how to respond to people who wore their hearts on their sleeves and still managed to walk away alive.

And yet, Banri functioned because of that chaos.

He thrived on it.

Tenzo didn’t understand how.

Didn’t understand why.

He only knew that it made something inside him ache—like a misaligned bone grinding against the joint.

He reminds himself that this is the mission. That he has a purpose. That it doesn’t matter if he understands Banri or not, so long as they complete the objective.

And yet—

In the silence of the alley, as they follow yet another lead into the unspoken spine of this foreign city, Tenzo realizes something else.

That no matter how well he preserves his calm, how much control he cultivates, there is a part of him—small, buried, and still healing—that wants to protect that control. Because it’s the one thing he earned for himself. Not through Root. Not through Danzo. Not through any handler or mission or seal.

But through choice.

And it’s that control—his power to help others, his will to act without orders—that keeps him whole.

That power makes him happy, in the quietest, smallest sense of the word.

He’s not ready to give that up. Not even for understanding.

And especially not for someone like Banri.

Who might be right.

But who is still far too dangerous for Tenzo’s peace.

This world would be no different, Banri had said. Where there were rules, there would be people breaking them. Where there was order, there would be profit in chaos.

And Tenzo hadn’t disagreed.

Not out loud.

But inwardly—quietly—he had felt the cold, rising knot of dread settle beneath his ribs.

Because Banri wasn't wrong. But that was exactly the problem.

Because in that moment, when Banri had looked at him—really looked at him—with that tilted-head and a glint in his eyes, like he could see something Tenzo hadn’t meant to reveal...

Tenzo had felt exposed.

Like a classified file laid bare.

Like Banri hadn’t just seen the operative, but the boy beneath it.

The one who had once obeyed atrocities in silence.

The one who had killed too cleanly at his orders.

The one who still knew how to navigate underworlds not because he studied them—but because he was bred in one.

That’s the thing about Banri.

He doesn’t guess who people are.

He dissects them with that same calm he uses to whistle while loading weapons.

There is no pretense of formality with Banri. No barrier of professional distance. He talks to Tenzo like how Banri talks to everyone else. Like he really knows him.

Worse—he listens.

Not to what Tenzo says, but what he doesn't.

The spaces between his silences. The hesitation in his answers. The way his jaw tenses when someone says “handler” too easily or “obedience” like it’s a virtue.

Banri notices.

And Tenzo suspects—fears—that Banri understands more than he should.

He fears the way Banri seems to recognize him, not just as Tenzo the ANBU, but also the boy who used to be a weapon with a number instead of a name, the Jonin who'd been Team Seven's Captain, and Orochimaru's babysitter. And worse, the dark impulses within him.

And that’s terrifying.

Because Tenzo has worked so hard to not be that anymore. To not return.

He’s buried him. Layer by layer. Behind discipline. Behind rules. Behind the quiet rituals of stability—training, structure, silence.

But Banri?

Banri has no respect for walls built out of guilt.

He walks right through them.

Sometimes with a sigh, accompanied by a glance that seems to say everything yet nothing.

Sometimes with a quiet, pointed look that Tenzo is convinced that means, 'I know what you’re doing, and I’m not going to let you lie to yourself about it,'.

It makes Tenzo want to bolt.

Not because he hates Banri.

But because he doesn’t know if he can survive being seen like that again.

So when Banri had handed down the new assignments—and Tenzo realized who he’d be paired with—his first thought wasn’t Why me?

It was: I’m not ready.

(A lie. He was never ready when it comes to Banri.)

Because this wasn’t about infiltration.

It wasn’t about the criminal web they’d be mapping.

It was about Banri—and the way he made Tenzo’s defenses irrelevant.

Tenzo had tried, quietly, to object.

Just a breath. Just a hesitation.

But Banri had looked at him—calm, knowing—and said only, “I trust your judgment. Every part of you.”

And Tenzo couldn’t argue with that.

Not when Banri has this all-knowing aura that he's accompanied with when he said it.

So he nodded.

And now here he is—preparing for deep infiltration alongside the man who doesn’t treat him like a former operative, or a disciplined captain, or even a man recovering from a broken system.

Banri treats him like how he treats any other people.

Which is far, far more dangerous.

Because Tenzo doesn’t know who that person really is.

Not yet.

And he’s terrified Banri might find out before he does.

.

.

.

.

Tokyo, Safe House — 0215

"You're a grown man."

Tenzo blinked. "Senpai?"

He tilted his head—just slightly. A subconscious habit, one he hadn’t realized he still carried until Yugao once quietly pointed it out during a surveillance shift. She'd said it with a faint smile, half amusement, half pity. You still do that thing when you're confused, Tenzo... like a lost kid pretending he's not lost.

It lingered in his thoughts now as he stared at Banri.

"You can’t always be watching over Orochimaru."

The words weren’t an accusation. They weren’t advice, either. They just... existed in the space between them, calm and cold like fog on a winter morning. Banri wasn’t even looking at him when he said it—his eyes were on one of the glowing screens by the wall. A cell phone, Tenzo reminded himself absently. That’s what they were called here.

Yugao’s voice whispered again in his memory. Those things are basically mini TVs. Be careful—Kakashi already tried to hypnotize one.

Banri finally shifted his gaze to Tenzo, slow and deliberate. His eyes, as always, were unreadable.

"You’re no longer a child, Tenzo."

I know that, Tenzo wanted to say. Instead, he just blinked again.

Banri leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "Well—we never really had the time to learn what being a child was, did we?" He paused. "Sometimes we act out. Not because we're childish, but because something inside us wants to fill the space that should’ve been childhood."

Tenzo looked down at the brush in his hands, the wet ink on the open scroll.

"Senpai... we're shinobi," he murmured.

A phrase he’d repeated countless times—like a warding charm, or a confession. He’d say it in silence to keep from screaming. He’d say it when vomiting after harsh missions. He’d say it while training ROOT recruits.

Because it is all nought for nothing. Because only one will come out alive.

Banri didn’t argue. He didn’t correct him. He just let the phrase hang there, ancient and hollow.

"We can act however we want at the appropriate time," Tenzo added. "So long as we complete the mission."

Banri’s tone didn’t change. "Then take advantage of this time you've been given."

His eyes flicked back to the phone. "While we search for a way home, ask yourself—do you want to waste the time here? Or make it worthwhile?"

A mechanical Ring! Ring! Ring! sliced through the moment. Banri’s alarm.

Without looking, he reached over and silenced it. "You know where I’ll be."

He stood up smoothly, fastened his scrolls to his belt, and slid his mask over his face with the kind of practiced ease that made Tenzo’s stomach turn. The motion was too familiar. Too clean. As if nothing had changed.

Banri stepped through the door without hesitation.

The room felt quieter now. Colder.

Tenzo’s hand stilled over the scroll, the brush slipping from his fingers and landing silently on the floor. His chest rose in an uneven breath, then another. Then he stopped breathing altogether for a beat—his lungs locked up like his thoughts.

A dull noise began to ring in his ears.

It was the pressure again. The one that curled up in his throat and made everything feel tight. Like he’d swallowed something too big and it hadn’t gone down right. Like a scream that never made it out.

This—this right here—was why he hadn’t wanted to come with Banri.

Because Banri wasn’t kind.

He wasn’t cruel, either. He simply was.

A presence. A stillness. A scalpel cutting through fog, exposing the rot beneath without judgment.

Banri was dangerous.

Not because he betrayed trust. Not because he failed to understand. But because he made you see things you didn’t want to face.

Because he knew exactly where it hurt, and he would never try to save you from it.

Not because he couldn’t.

But because he didn’t believe in the need to be saved at all.

.

.

.

Tokyo, Industrial Sector – 0349

Tenzo cursed under his breath as he stepped over the edge of a broken loading dock, eyes flicking through the shadows. "Dammit," he muttered. "I'm an idiot."

He shouldn't even be looking for Banri.

He'd told himself this so many times it had practically become a mantra. His senpai was dangerous—for people like him. For people whose minds were fraying at the edges, who carried ghosts on their backs like second skins. Banri was the kind of man who stripped you of your illusions, left you standing in front of the ugliest part of yourself and dared you to blink.

Still, here Tenzo was. Looking for him.

Because Banri had this effect on people. Not with kindness. Not with comfort. But with weight—a pressure in the room that made people question their own reflection. That made them notice how much they were faking it. How much they were pretending to be okay.

He makes you look in the mirror and recognize the monster behind your own eyes, Tenzo thought grimly. And the worst part? He doesn’t even mean to.

"Senpai," Tenzo called, spotting a flicker of movement by the far wall, "what did you find?"

Banri stepped out from the shadows of a rusted service door, the back entrance of what might have once been a kitchen. The moonlight caught the fresh blood on his sword. A red smear trailed down one edge of his mask, vivid against the white.

“Nothing worth one’s ears,” Banri replied flatly.

Tenzo nodded. Banri didn’t talk unless it served a purpose. He wasn’t the kind to fill silence with speculation. If he thought something was relevant, he’d say it. If not, he’d let you sit in the quiet and stew in your own doubt.

"Let me see the seals I had you draw," Banri said, stepping forward and holding out his gloved hand.

Tenzo grumbled as he reached into his pouch, retrieving a folded sheet of reinforced chakra parchment. “My calligraphy is garbage, you should’ve just puffed a clone and had it do it for you.”

Banri’s response was immediate. “Being young (again) yet experienced does not excuse neglecting a skill.”

“I only know the basics—storage scrolls, explosive tags. Fuinjutsu isn’t even my forte.”

Without a word, Banri tossed his bloodied blade toward Tenzo. The younger body of the man had caught it reflexively, nearly stumbling from the weight and suddenness.

“For someone who claims their calligraphy is poor,” Banri said, examining the parchment, “you did a fine job imitating the seal I asked you to replicate.”

Tenzo narrowed his eyes. “You had me create four clones for sixteen hours straight. Again and again until it was perfect.”

Banri hummed in mild acknowledgment. “Four clones? That’s twice the progress you made last month.”

Tenzo blinked, startled. “You’ve been tracking that?”

But Banri had already turned away, crouching beside the broken concrete floor. He bit his thumb and pressed it against the edge of the seal Tenzo had drawn—a highly unstable, experimental replication of the Flying Thunder God technique, one originally scrawled from fragmented notes left behind by Namikaze Minato.

The seal was complex—circular in structure with three intersecting layers, each layer representing a phase of spatial locking. The outer ring held anchor glyphs inscribed with directionality markers—North, East, South, West—in encoded fuinjutsu kanji. The inner ring bore a chakra synchronization formula, meant to match the user's unique signature for instantaneous recall. And at the center, a spiral-based convergence point, barely stabilized by Tenzo’s painstaking brushwork, carried the binding command: Return upon signal.

“What’s even the point,” Tenzo said, wiping his hands on his pants, “of making me draw the damn thing if you’re just going to use your blood as the ink?”

Banri didn’t look up. He began tracing his chakra through the seal, watching the lines flicker with soft, blue light as the ink absorbed the signal.

“The point,” he said calmly, “is that you improve your calligraphy under pressure. And I conserve my time. I don’t need to draw the utilities when you can provide the canvas. All I need is my chakra to make it work.”

Tenzo sighed. He feels that whatever Banri had said were merely bullshit but he doesn't exactly have the concrete proof  that says otherwise.

The seal glowed faintly for a few more seconds before stabilizing. A low hum vibrated under the concrete.

This was the third prototype of Banri’s scrap-version Flying Thunder God seal—a space-bending technique meant for rapid disengagement, not battle teleportation. It lacked the full elegance and efficiency of the original jutsu but worked well enough for short-range hops, less than 200 meters, under specific terrain conditions

“It’ll hold for ten uses before the parchment degrades,” Banri said, before inspecting the parchment again.

Tenzo didn’t respond immediately. He stood there with Banri’s blade still in hand, staring at the blood along the edge. It was drying fast in the night air.

Why do I keep coming back to you, he wanted to ask. Why does it always feel like I’m bleeding inside when I talk to you?

But he didn’t say that. He just looked down and muttered, “Next time, make your own damn clones.”

Banri turned his head slightly, just enough for Tenzo to feel that weight again—that pressure, that mirror.

“I do,” Banri said quietly. “You just never see them.”

"Hey, kids."

Tenzo turned.

A tall, scruffy man loomed at the mouth of the alley, his shadow warped by the flickering streetlight behind him. In his hand, the glint of a rusted knife caught the dull glow.

“What are two brats doin’ out here this late, huh? You lost? This area’s got a body count.”

Tenzo didn’t flinch. He glanced at Banri beside him. The older shinobi didn’t even lift his gaze from the parchment he was checking.

A lazy flick of Banri’s fingers.

Deal with it.

Tenzo sighed, shoulders dropping. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, turning his attention to the thug.

He stepped forward, tiny in comparison.

"Y’know how it is," Tenzo said, voice chipper. "Breaking windows. Setting fire to abandoned laundromats. Maiming people who don’t know how to hold a knife."

The man’s face twisted. “What’d you just say to me?”

Tenzo cocked his head—an eerie echo of innocence. “You’re holding the knife wrong.”

The man lunged.

Tenzo disappeared.

A sharp smack echoed in the alley.

The thug staggered, blinking—his knife gone. It skittered across the ground several meters away. He looked down just in time to see a slender vine of wood burst from the wall beside him. It wrapped around his wrist and yanked.

He barely got a scream out before a second tendril shot up from beneath his feet, tangling around his ankles and flipping him face-first into a pile of garbage bags.

"Tch." Tenzo stepped on the man's back, tiny sandals pinning the thug between plastic and concrete. "You're noisy."

With a blur of motion, Tenzo reached into his sleeve and slipped a senbon against the man's ear, tapping gently. “Now, if I wanted to rupture your eardrum, this would be a good angle. But I’m feeling merciful.”

"G-get off me—!"

Puncture.

Tenzo stabbed the senbon into the cement, right beside the thug's cheek.

"You're harassing strangers. Walking around with a knife you don’t know how to use. And now you’re breathing in my direction." His voice dropped. “That’s three offenses.”

The man whimpered.

Tenzo bent down, eyes hollow.

“Here’s the deal.”

“You get up. You disappear. And if I ever—ever—see you breathing near an alley again, I will bury you inside a vending machine and lock the coin return slot. Nod if you understand.”

The thug nodded frantically.

Tenzo stepped back.

The man tried to scramble up—only to find golden chains slithering around his chest, binding him mid-motion.

He screamed.

Banri hadn’t moved from his spot. He didn’t even look up as his chains yanked the man upright like a puppet.

“You took too long,” he said flatly.

With another movement, the chains flung the thug toward Tenzo’s feet like discarded laundry.

“Deal with it.”

Tenzo sighed.

He walked over, raised a hand, and struck the thug at the base of the neck with precision. The man collapsed like a sack of bricks, finally quiet.

“I said disappear, not collapse and weep.”

Tenzo knelt, checking his pulse—still alive.

He formed a ram seal, and a wood clone split from his body with a ripple of bark.

“Dispose of him. Quietly.”

The clone hoisted the unconscious thug onto its back and disappeared into the alley’s depths.

Tenzo dusted off his hands and turned back to Banri.

“You owe me for that.”

Banri snorted behind his mask. “Heaven forbid a ten-year-old get some practice.”

"I'm thirty!"

"Mentally—"

Distant shuffling and muffled voices echoed through the narrow alleyway.

“—quickly, get the girl.”

Banri didn’t lift his head from the parchment scroll in his hand. Instead, his gaze flicked sideways toward Tenzo with mild interest.

Tenzo exhaled quietly through his nose and closed his eyes for a brief moment, focusing his chakra. His sensory jutsu pulsed out like a subtle ripple through still water, mapping the presence of others nearby. There—three signatures. Two adult, predatory, aggressive. One small, terrified, and trembling.

Without a word, he vanished, body flickering forward with seamless precision.

When he reappeared, the sight before him made his stomach twist in something old and cold.

A young girl—covered in bruises and wrapped in half-unraveled bandages—was curled against the cracked concrete wall. Her clothes were torn and threadbare, clinging to her thin frame like rags. She looked up with wide, fearful eyes at the two men closing in on her with slow, confident steps.

What? Tenzo blinked. A thought intruded on him before he could push it away: Is she…?
No. He cut it off sharply. We’ve only been here a few months. That would be impossible.

"Now, now," one of the men said mockingly, voice sickeningly sweet, "come quietly and the boss won’t be too mad."

The other chuckled darkly. "Yeah, we don’t wanna break you too much. Just enough to remind you what happens when you run."

The girl whimpered, head bowed, and took a trembling step forward.

Tenzo’s hands tightened into fists.

He knew this scene.

Not from this mission—no, this was far older. A memory etched into his bones. Back when he was still a child in the Academy. Before he was taken.

Before the girl could take another step, he moved. In a heartbeat, he was between her and the men, crouched low in a defensive stance, voice calm and cold like steel.

“She’s not going anywhere with you.”

Both men jerked back in surprise. One of them scowled. “Back off, brat. You’ve got no idea who you’re messing with.”

Tenzo didn’t respond.

Instead, from the sleeves of his cloak, wooden tendrils uncoiled with a hiss. They slithered across the ground before rising up—sharp, alive, and dangerous—before slamming into the concrete at their feet with an audible crack. Bark bristled, and the alley filled with the distinct hum of chakra-laced wood ready to strike.

“I don’t care.”

With swift, practiced grace, Tenzo moved. One of the men lunged, drawing a concealed blade—but a branch shot forward, impaling the wall beside his wrist and pinning him in place. The second man rushed in with a growl, only to meet Tenzo’s sweeping kick that sent him stumbling. Before he could recover, a wood-wrapped fist connected with his gut, knocking the breath from his lungs.

The first man struggled to pull free, but another wooden tendril snaked around his legs, lifting and slamming him against the alley wall with a heavy thud.

Tenzo stood still as the dust settled, his breathing even, his expression unreadable. The girl behind him made no sound. She was frozen, not in safety, but in silence—like a ghost unsure whether she had truly survived.

One of the men groaned, barely conscious, and reached for a small radio clipped to his belt.

Before he could touch it, a golden blur tore through the alley.

Chains erupted from the ground, luminous and crackling with power. They lashed out like whips, wrapping around both men and slamming them hard against opposite walls with bone-cracking force.

Banri stepped into view from the shadows of the far end, parchment still glowing faintly in his hand. His expression was calm, impassive.

“Sloppy,” he remarked, his voice devoid of judgment—simply stating fact.

Tenzo gave a brief nod in acknowledgment and turned to check on the girl—only to freeze.

She was staring at Banri. More specifically, at the blood dripping from his chains, thick and dark, splattered across the alley walls and pooling beneath the bound bodies.

Her eyes widened. Her breath hitched sharply.

Then—her body began to glow.

A faint light at first. Then brighter. Unstable. Violent.

Tenzo’s eyes narrowed.

“No—” Banri’s voice cut in, but he staggered as his knees dipped slightly. His chains faltered, trembling in the air before fading away. His eyes flicked downward, mouth tightening.

Ah, shit. The curse was silent but clear. I’ve exhausted myself with those chains.

The girl screamed.

The glow erupted into a burst of power, lashing out in a raw, chaotic wave. The air distorted, pressure warping space like a storm about to rip through the sky. The sheer force of the energy was blinding.

Banri didn’t hesitate.

In one swift motion, he surged forward, reaching Tenzo in two steps. With a hard shove and a burst of chakra, he slammed his palm into Tenzo’s chest and pushed.

Tenzo flew back, propelled by the impact—

—and crashed into the far wall with a sickening crack that split the stone behind him.

He didn’t rise.

Darkness swallowed him before he could register the pain.

.

.

.

.

He awoke to the sound of quiet scribbling.

For a long moment, Tenzo lay still, breath shallow, letting his senses adjust. Pain radiated through his chest and shoulders—dull but deep, like cracked stone slowly mending. The weight of a blanket rested over him, and a faint antiseptic scent hung in the air. Dim sunlight filtered through half-closed blinds, casting pale bars of light across the floor.

There it was again. A soft scratch—scribbling.

Carefully, Tenzo turned his head.

A small table had been dragged beside the bed. At it sat the girl.

She was coloring.

Head bowed, tongue peeking slightly from the corner of her mouth in concentration. A red crayon clutched tightly in her small, bandaged fingers. Her sleeves were too long for her frame, and someone had tucked her into a thick sweatshirt. It swallowed her thin form, but she looked warm. Safe.

Tenzo blinked slowly. When he finally found his voice, it was hoarse.

“Hey?”

The girl startled, jumping a little—but didn’t flee. Instead, she turned and looked at him properly for the first time. Her large red eyes were no longer filled with panic. Just cautious curiosity. She hesitated, then gave a small nod.

“You were sleeping a long time,” she said softly, the crayon still resting in her lap.

He studied her face—still pale, still marked by fading bruises, but calm now. Open.

“You’re… alright?” he asked, his voice rough with exhaustion.

She nodded again. “Kitsune-san said you’d be okay. He fixed everything.”

Tenzo attempted to sit up. Pain flared sharply, and he quickly abandoned the idea.

The girl fidgeted, then sat up straighter. “My name’s Eri.”

Tenzo’s breath caught.

She was safe. Away from those men.

And now here she was, sitting beside his bed, coloring a lopsided tree in red and purple.

Before he could speak again, the door opened.

Footsteps. Unhurried. Sure.

Tenzo turned his head and froze.

Banri stepped into the room, rolling his shoulders as if testing them, absently tightening the sash around his waist. He looked… different. Taller, broader. No longer bearing the faint awkwardness of adolescence in his voice or frame.

The transformation was complete.

The fifteen-year-old body that had traveled across dimensions with them was gone—replaced by the familiar figure Tenzo had known for decades. Kitsune, ANBU Commander, restored.

“You’re awake,” Banri said, voice calm and casual. “Good. You broke two ribs. Idiot.”

Tenzo blinked at him, eyebrows slowly drawing together. “…You’re back.”

Banri tilted his head slightly, raising one brow. “Was I gone?”

“You were—” Tenzo gestured vaguely. “Young.”

“Ah,” Banri exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. With the seal I was holding and the effect of the girl’s quirk… guess it overlapped weirdly.” He gestured vaguely at his adult form. “Worked itself out.”

Eri perked up. “I saw it! You got taller again! It was like—whoosh!” She lifted her hands dramatically, nearly knocking over her crayon box.

Banri smirked. “Exactly like that.”

Tenzo exhaled through his nose. “You could’ve warned me.”

“I didn’t know,” Banri said deadpan. “Besides, I was too busy saving you.”

Tenzo gave him a flat look.

Eri then held up her coloring page. “I drew this. That’s you.” She pointed at a figure in brown and green surrounded by trees. Then, another stick figure with tiny lines around its hands. “That’s Kitsune-san. With the string power.”

“Chains,” Banri corrected gently, walking over. “Not string. Chakra-formed bindings, reinforced through fuinjutsu channels. They restrain energy flow.”

Eri blinked up at him.

“…They’re magic ropes,” Banri simplified.

“Ooh.” Eri nodded solemnly. “Magic ropes.”

Tenzo stared at the picture for a long moment. Then, slowly, his gaze softened.

“…Thank you,” he said, voice quiet, but sincere.

Eri beamed.

Banri set a bottle of water on the bedside table. “You passed out mid-air, by the way. Not very graceful, considering your training.”

“I’ll aim for better unconscious landings next time,” Tenzo muttered.

Banri nodded gravely. “Please do. You cracked a wall.”

Tenzo closed his eyes briefly, letting the warmth of the room settle into his bones.

Eri hummed beside him, lost in her coloring again.

For the first time since they’d arrived in this strange world, the air felt still. Not safe—never truly safe—but steadier. Banri was back. The girl had a name. And the silence, for once, wasn’t heavy with dread.

It simply… was.

Tenzo cracked one eye open again. “You said the effect ‘worked itself out.’”

Banri gave a noncommittal shrug.

“…So,” Tenzo began slowly, “should we be expecting the same for the rest of us? Eventually?”

Banri paused mid-step.

The silence stretched just a little too long before he turned back, expression unreadable, arms loose at his sides but eyes sharp.

“You can’t just assume the effect will react positively to you,” he said.

Tenzo frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“It sounds like one,” Banri replied a little too quickly. He cleared his throat, folding his arms. “Anyway. It’s different.”

“How?”

Tenzo stared.

Banri pressed on. “I tweaked the seal. Minor recalibration. For… stability. Or style. Or both.”

Tenzo narrowed his eyes. “You altered the seal.”

“A minor optimization,” Banri said smoothly.

“And you didn’t write it down?”

“I intended to,” Banri admitted. “But then Eri’s quirk triggered. The combination was… unexpected. Memory integrity might’ve been affected.”

“You don’t remember what you did?”

Banri nodded once. Slowly. Too slowly. “Correct.”

Tenzo exhaled slowly. “You made yourself a personalized seal, and now you can’t reproduce it.”

“Correct again,” Banri said, face unreadable. “Temporary limitation.”

“…So I'll be stuck like this.”

Banri raised a finger. “Temporarily.”

Tenzo stared.

“…Possibly.”

Tenzo closed his eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m a genius,” Banri replied, utterly missing the point. “Besides, you make a convincing ten-year-old.”

“I’m thirty,” Tenzo said flatly.

Banri blinked. “Mentally.”

Eri looked up from her coloring, curious. “Kitsune-san, is thirty old?”

There was a pause.

“Yes,” Banri said immediately, pointing at Tenzo. “That’s the age when people are supposed to figure things out.”

Eri blinked. “Do I have to figure things out?”

Banri crouched beside her, adjusting her sleeve so the bandages didn’t tug. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer—measured for her understanding.

“You don’t have to worry about that yet,” he said. “You’re a child. Right now, your job is to live, grow, and be happy. Figuring things out comes later.”

Eri considered that. “So I can just color?”

Banri nodded. “Yes. And eat properly. And sleep. And color as many purple trees as you want.”

“Even if trees aren’t purple?”

Banri’s mouth quirked. “Especially then.”

Eri beamed and went back to her coloring.

Banri cleared his throat. “Right. Good talk. I’m going to go recheck my notes. Someone didn’t document their chakra frequencies properly.”

“You didn’t document your chakra frequencies,” Tenzo muttered.

“Which is why I said ‘someone,’” Banri replied, already halfway to the door. “Train well, Tenzo.”

The door closed with a quiet click.

Tenzo lay back, staring at the ceiling.

Beside him, Eri resumed coloring, absorbed in her work, her brow furrowed in quiet determination.

“…I want my real height back,” Tenzo muttered.

“You’re already tall,” Eri said helpfully, without looking up.

Tenzo sighed.

Maybe not everything had worked itself out—but for now, this was enough.

Chapter Text

Banri barely managed to react in time.

His muscles screamed in protest, his limbs heavy and uncooperative from the toll of overexerted chakra. He cursed himself—no, degraded himself—for relying too heavily on his chains during his much earlier confrontation. He should have paced himself. He knew better. But there was no time for regrets now.

With what little chakra he could scrape together, Banri hurled himself forward. His arms moved on pure instinct, and he shoved Tenzo aside—just as a burst of volatile energy exploded from the base of the girl's horn.

The blast cracked the air like ruptured lightning.

Banri hit the ground hard, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. His palm flared with pain, the familiar heat of the seal etched into his skin pulsing with erratic chakra—like a dissonant heartbeat struggling to keep rhythm. He didn’t have the time or the clarity to understand what it was reacting to.

Only the pain remained. And the bitter taste of failure clawing at the back of his throat.

He forced himself upright, teeth clenched, a low snarl threatening to slip free—but dying somewhere behind grit and breathlessness.

Wretched body. The thought hissed through his mind like poison—just like the lingering resentment he still nursed for Genma’s idiocy, always lurking in the back of his head like a persistent echo.

This body—it was his, and yet not. Young. Unstable. A poor match for the sheer weight of chakra he had once wielded effortlessly. The compromise between age and power, born from whatever twisted circumstances had landed them here, was proving more fragile by the day.

He had told himself he could adapt. That he would adjust. That skill and discipline could overcome the imbalance.

He had lied.

And now, it showed—in every sluggish movement, every spike of pain where once there had been seamless control, every delay between intent and execution. His instincts were sharp. His technique was flawless. But the vessel betrayed him.

Just as he’d feared it would.

His fingers twitched at his side, automatically forming half-seals from muscle memory before he forced them still. He couldn't waste chakra on reflexes. Not anymore. He had to be precise. Efficient.

He ignored the panicked wails escaping from the girl, tuning them out like static. Instead, he focused—drew in what little chakra he could afford to spare—and with a sharp flick of his wrist, activated a prepared seal he brought out, then slapped it onto her forehead.

The effect was immediate.

A dull shimmer pulsed around the seal’s edges, and the violent energy surging from the girl’s horn sputtered, fractured—and vanished. Her body dropped moments later, unconscious, the Quirk’s influence snuffed out like a flame caught in the rain.

Probably exhausted herself, Banri thought dryly.

He exhaled slowly. The Quirk Suppression Seal had worked—though far slower than he would have liked. But it had done its job. That was what mattered.

Unlike the prototype seal he had first experimented with, this one was far more efficient. The earlier version, while technically successful, had proven problematic: it required direct contact with the subject’s core (which he later discovered, after more research, varied in placement for each individual—called the Quirk Factor, the source of their power), the layering of three independent chakra matrices for stability, and a residue bridge to link the user’s chakra with the seal for activation. In practice, it was powerful—but clumsy. It consumed too much time, too much effort, and left him vulnerable during deployment.

The new design was sleeker. Streamlined. It only required a pre-drawn seal and a small burst of chakra to activate—albeit still needing to locate the core. No excessive layering. No drawn-out engagement. Once charged and applied to the subject, it disrupted the Quirk’s flow directly at the source: the head, where most neurological pathways governing Quirks were concentrated.

Still, Banri’s thoughts lingered uneasily.

There was one possible side effect. A theory he hadn’t had time to test.

The suppressor seal disrupted chakra and quirk resonance alike. In someone like this girl—so young, so saturated in raw, unstable quirk output—there was a chance the backlash could lock her abilities into a dormant state longer than intended. Or worse—cause irregular neural feedback, potentially disrupting the body's natural hormone and energy production.

She might wake up fine, he reasoned. Or she might not activate her quirk for days. Or longer. Hell, it could backfire and amplify it next time.

But now wasn’t the time to theorize. He’d check her vitals later. When he wasn’t half-dead from chakra exhaustion and pissed at himself for slipping.

I'll deal with it when she wakes up, he told himself, shoving the thought aside.

Then, without fully thinking, he bit down on his thumb—a practiced gesture born from years of reflex—and slammed his hand to the ground. Inked seals scrawled out in a circular flash as chakra surged.

A summoning jutsu.

He hadn’t planned it. He hadn’t even decided who to call.

But the jutsu answered anyway.

.

.

.

.

"WAKE UP, YOU DAMN UZUMAKI BRAT!"

Banri flipped in stance, his chains popping out from his back and strangled the owner of the unpleasant voice.

"URGH! SHIT! SHITITTY FUCK OF A FUCKING CHAINS!"

His vision blurred, ears ringing. A dull, unfamiliar ache settled deep in his joints—less like pain, more like something old waking up inside him. His limbs felt heavier, slower. Not injured… just worn.

"Whoever you are, shut your trap before I make the pain you're feeling ten times worse."

"Fuck, fuck." He heard spouts of curses. "It's me you damn brat! I wouldn't be here had you not summoned me. Still, how the fuck did you even summoned me?"

The voice had calmed down from its rage and so is the loud ring on his head.

"Shukaku?" He guessed out, recognizing the unpleasant vulgar sound of the tanuki's voice.

"Yeah, yeah! Glad we're out of the introduction stage." Banri unsummoned his chains.

"How are you here?"

The tanuki, in his human transformation form (Banri noticed) in question, gape as though he'd been personally attacked by his question.

"How? How?! HOW?!" Banri clenched his temple in irritation, "I should be the one to fucking ask you, you shit fuck of an Uzumaki."

He wrapped his chains again on Shukaku, "And this shit fuck of an Uzumaki will not hesitate to demolish you out of existence." He spar out in venom.

"Don't assume that I won't try the same thing to you!" He yelled out, sand on his commmand and threateningly pointed sharp sand on his way.

"How. Are. You. Here."

“You fucking summoned me, you piece of shit!”

Banri’s eye twitched. “What?! I didn’t even—” He froze mid-sentence.

A memory clicked into place. Fuzzy. Irritating. Inconvenient.

How? He asked himself.

“Wait…” he muttered, lowering his hand slightly. “…was this from that experiment?”

Shukaku narrowed his eyes. “What experiment?”

Banri’s lips thinned. “A few years ago. I asked Kushina's brat for some of the tailed beasts’ chakra—purely for a fuinjutsu model test. Just a sliver. A trace.”

“A trace, my ass!” Shukaku barked. “Do you know what you did?! You broke a containment seal! It had my raw chakra—untamed, unfiltered, untouched for good reason! And you just pried it open like a nosy little raccoon!”

“That was an accident,” Banri said, deadpan.

“YOU are an accident!”

Banri scowled, but the echo of the experiment gnawed at him now. He had broken a seal—he remembered a backlash of sand, a pulse of chakra so wild he couldn’t properly record the signature.

He’d brushed it off. Labeled it ‘corrupted sample’ and moved on.

He didn’t realize he had unintentionally imprinted a summoning matrix using the core of that chakra as a beacon.

“So… let me get this straight,” Banri said slowly. “You’ve been sitting in the void, minding your business… and I yanked you here because your residual chakra was still anchored to my seal? And said seal is connected fo my blood, which explains how I manage to summon you."

“YES! Welcome to the nightmare you created, you dumbass scroll-rat!”

Banri didn’t reply immediately. His head tilted in slow realization.

“…I didn’t even finish the seal structure,” he muttered. “It must’ve auto-completed using blood contact and my summoning intent…”

He glanced down at his thumb—now healed, and didn't show any signs from being bitten.

“The fucking irony.”

“The fucking stupidity!” Shukaku roared.

Banri exhaled and ran a hand down his face, trying to suppress the headache forming behind his eyes.

“Whatever. I’ll fix it when I wake up.”

“Fix it?! You think this is something you can ‘fix’? Do you know what it means to summon a bijuu using a half-formed seal and direct chakra contact?! This could leave a permanent link, you moron!”

Banri didn’t answer.

He was already unconscious.

Face-first on the concrete.

"Wake me up in ten, and I promise to face the problem."

“Tch. Damn brat.”

Shukaku grunted, crossing his arms and glaring down at Banri’s unconscious form. The Uzumaki lay there like a broken puppet—bloodied, battered, and still bleeding from his bitten thumb. The idiot had passed out right in the middle of his tantrum. Typical.

“Fucking humans. Can’t even finish an argument properly.”

He glanced around, sand instinctively coiling around him like a shield. This place—wherever the hell it was—reeked of a chakra signature he couldn’t place. Not the Elemental Nations. Not even close.

And of all the things to anchor him into this realm… it had to be that seal. The half-formed abomination Banri probably scribbled between a nap and a self-loathing spiral.

“Tch. He’s lucky I don’t bury him in five meters of sand just for the inconvenience.” He paused. “…Yet.”

A low groan pulled his attention to the side. His golden eyes narrowed.

There, slumped against rubble, was a girl with long dirty silver hair—clutching her ribs and breathing raggedly. If Shukaku didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought—

“Kakashi’s spawn?” he muttered, blinking hard.

No. Not quite.

Still… the resemblance was eerie enough to make his sand twitch with suspicion.

Then his gaze shifted—landed on the other one. The second brat, younger, quieter, bleeding from the arm but still conscious. Wooden splinters jutted from his back like unfinished branches, but the energy around him was unmistakable.

“No way…”

Shukaku’s eyes narrowed.

“The knock-off?”

But the chakra felt younger. Not just in age—less refined. Like a faded echo of the grown shinobi he once knew. Like the Mokuton-user had been reset or regrown, stripped of years of experience.

Something weird was happening. Something very weird.

He looked back at Banri and clicked his tongue.

“You better have answers when you wake up, brat.” He jabbed a thumb at the unconscious Uzumaki’s forehead. “Or I’m making you eat every scroll you’ve ever written.”

With a disgruntled sigh, Shukaku summoned a wave of sand to lift Banri off the ground. He eyed the silver-haired one again—then the Wood-knockoff.

A decision hung in the air.

“Guess I’m babysitting.”

He grumbled something vulgar in a language older than the trees and started moving, carrying Banri on a floating platform of sand, dragging the two suspicious brats along behind him.

“This better not be one of those alternate reality shitstorms. I just got out of seal purgatory.” He utters out. "Fucking Gaara, treating me like a brat."

.

.

.

.

The problem with babysitting was that it always turned into something else.

(You know what they all say? A lot can happen in 5 minutes, but in this case? It's 10-fucking-minutes.)

Shukaku had barely gotten five steps from the clearing when the air shifted—an aggressive ripple of footsteps, ill-intent, and stupid human confidence.

“Fan out! They’re close—whatever hit that girl came from this way!”

The voice was grating. Military-polished, but cocky. Definitely not heroes. Thugs. Well-funded ones, maybe—he could smell the tech. Augmentations, cheap enhancers, maybe stolen support gear from some washed-up R&D team.

Great. The glorified mercenary type.

Shukaku's sand twitched around his ankles like wolves baring teeth.

From behind, Banri groaned faintly in his sleep.

“Tch.” Without an ounce of grace, Shukaku flung the brat backward with sand and slammed him against a tree—firm, but not fatal. Just enough to keep the kid out of the line of fire. He better not die. I'd have to carry his corpse, and that would be annoying.

He heard a groan.

Copy-ninja-looking-brat was stirring. Hashirama Lite twitched on the ground. Useless. Fucking useless, all of them.

Shukaku’s temple throbbed.

“Fucking fantastic.”

The ground rippled. Sand surged outward in waves, forming a spiraling dome around the unconscious trio.

“I swear,” he growled, summoning a jagged pillar of sand beneath his feet, “the next time that brat opens a seal, I’m stuffing myself back inside him just to end this damn farce.”

A squad of four emerged—one with metallic limbs, another with a distortion field fizzing around his hands, and two others wielding heavily modified weapons and reinforced gear.

They paused at the sight of him.

“Who the hell—?”

"What's with the marks on his face?"

“Some kind of a mutate quirk?”

“Where’s the girl?” the distorted-hand guy snapped. “Boss said that the girl with a little horn on her forehead is our target.”

“horn, huh?” Shukaku cracked his neck.

His sand shifted, rolling in lazy spirals under his feet.

“Funny. You’re just dumb enough to talk shit out loud. Makes my job easier.”

They moved—fast, faster than civilians had any right to. But they were no shinobi. One lunged, gauntlet sparking, trying to jam something into his side.

Shukaku didn’t flinch.

He raised one hand.

Whip-CRACK.

A coil of sand erupted and smashed the attacker mid-air, sending them sprawling into a tree with a wet crunch. The rest scattered.

“Okay! That was not a civilian!”

“Engage suppression measures—now!”

Another volley of projectiles came his way. Metal slugs. Miniature electrified nets.

Cute.

A dome of sand surged upward around him, catching the incoming fire like a mother scooping toys away from reckless toddlers.

Then came the retaliation.

A few meters behind him, Banri mumbled something in his sleep.

“If you’re summoning anything else, I will yeet your unconscious body into the fucking sun,” Shukaku snapped without looking.

Shukaku didn’t even stand up. The ground rippled, sand rising like gnarled fingers and grabbing one thug by the ankle, dragging him down screaming.

The distortion user let out a sharp curse and tried to blink away using his warped field—but Shukaku tracked the flow easily, launched a hammer of sand into the exact space he flickered toward.

Impact.

Another tree exploded.

Banri snored audibly behind him.

“That’s right, you little bastard,” Shukaku muttered, barely hiding his irritation. “Sleep while I clean up your mess.”

The last two thugs regrouped and fired off a smokescreen, trying to fall back.

He let them.

For half a second.

Then the earth beneath their feet turned to sludge. Sand hardened into claws and slammed them flat onto the ground, pinning them like bugs on a corkboard.

“Please! We didn’t know—!”

“That you were stupid? Don’t worry. That part was obvious.”

With a flick of his wrist, the sand wrapped them tight, leaving only their heads exposed.

“I was supposed to be napping!” he bellowed. “Not playing goddamn babysitter in a disabled frean circus country!”

A breeze moved through the broken clearing. Silence followed. Somewhere, a bird called nervously and promptly decided to shut up again.

Shukaku exhaled sharply, finally letting his shoulders relax.

He sat down cross-legged next to Banri’s limp form and poked the boy’s forehead with one finger.

“I’m billing you for this. With interest. Cinnamon buns, a barrel of sake, and five hours of uninterrupted naptime.”

Banri snored.

“…Worthless brat.”

But still, Shukaku stayed. Arms crossed. Sand twitching lazily around him in case more idiots decided to try their luck.

"... I'm too ancient for this shit."

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.

.

.

Banri’s eyelids fluttered open to the rough sensation of pine needles poking at his cheek. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and the fading ring in his ears made the world tilt slightly. Around him, the dense forest loomed — towering pines blocked most of the sunlight, their needles whispering above in the cold wind. The air smelled of damp bark and distant rain.

A sharp voice shattered the uneasy quiet.

“Finally. You’re up, you damn Uzumaki brat.”

Banri winced at the noise and turned his head slowly. Standing a few feet away was Shukaku in his human-like form — arms crossed, golden eyes blazing with irritation. Sand coiled restlessly at his feet, as if echoing his mood.

“What took you so long?” Shukaku snapped. “I don’t have time for your beauty sleep.”

Banri groaned as he pushed himself upright, joints protesting the motion. His body felt heavier than before — sluggish and stiff like he’d been asleep for far longer than ten minutes. Glancing around, he spotted Tenzo slumped against a fallen log, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Nearby, the silver-haired girl was curled up beneath a tree, still fast asleep, strands of hair shifting gently in the breeze.

Banri rubbed his temple, the lingering haze in his head starting to lift. “I… I guess I passed out.”

Shukaku scoffed loudly. “Yeah, no shit. You almost got us all killed while you were busy face-planting into the dirt.”

Banri's jaw tightened as he fought the pounding in his head. “So… what now? Where even are we?”

Shukaku’s gaze sharpened. “You tell me. Some shits were after that Hatake-spawn. You better start talking.”

Banri opened his mouth to respond but froze. Something was off.

He blinked and stared down at his hands. They were larger, rougher — the callouses thicker, his forearms broader. His breath caught.

“…What the hell?”

It was his voice. Older. Deeper. His heart skipped. He twisted his wrist, turned his palm over, stared. These weren’t the hands of his fifteen-years-old self.

No.

Shukaku noticed the shift in Banri’s expression and sneered. “What now? Don’t tell me you broke something else.”

Banri didn’t answer. His mind reeled. The time differential, the jutsu backlash, the forest that didn’t match any map he’d memorized…

He glanced toward the unconscious forms of Tenzo and the girl — both of them unnaturally still, untouched by the tension in the air. Whatever had happened, they weren’t waking up any time soon.

He needed space. He needed silence.

But the Tanuki wasn’t going to give it.

“You were supposed to have control over that seal,” Shukaku spat, pacing now. “You said ten minutes. You said it was safe. You lied. You dragged me into—"

Banri’s head snapped up, a strange calm settling over his features.

“I don’t care.”

The words were quiet, firm — cutting through Shukaku’s rant like a blade.

The Biju blinked. “What?”

“I said I don’t care,” Banri repeated, eyes narrowing. “You don’t get to throw a tantrum while I’m trying to fix your prison.”

Shukaku’s temper flared. “My prison?! You think this was my choice?!”

Banri didn’t answer. Instead, he slowly raised one hand and stared at the back of it again — at the seal markings pulsing faintly beneath the skin.

The same seal he’d embedded into his skin at twenty — his own creation. It had started as a tactical adaptation of chakra storage theory, modeled loosely after the Slug Sannin’s Byakugō Seal. But over the years, he’d refined it, restructured its matrices, and modified its functions until it was something else entirely: a practical, combat-optimized reservoir designed to withstand the kinds of disasters he knew would eventually come looking for him.

And when he found himself reverted to his fifteen-year-old body, it was to his deep displeasure that the seal he had spent decades perfecting was simply—gone.

And now, it was here again—etched across the back of his palm.

He inhaled sharply. Now wasn’t the time to argue. The Tanuki wouldn’t listen anyway — not in this state.

He needed him quiet.

A plan clicked into place.

Without a word, Banri raised his other hand and released a flicker of chakra. The faint glow of his chains shimmered into view — their appearance almost gentle at first, like golden strands of thread drifting through the air.

Shukaku, too absorbed in his fit, didn’t notice. Not until it was too late.

“You little—!”

The chains whipped out, wrapping around the Biju in a blur of motion. Before he could react, the sealing script embedded in each link activated, pulsing with a light that crackled against the forest floor.

Shukaku’s limbs locked. His eyes widened in disbelief.

“No—Not this again—!”

The chains cinched tighter, and with a final flash of light, the sleeping seal kicked in. Shukaku’s body slumped as his consciousness was forcefully subdued.

Banri exhaled shakily and allowed the chains to retract back into his skin. He hated doing this — especially after all they’d been through. But right now, there wasn’t time for a tantrum.

He created two shadow clones with a flash of hand signs. Without needing instruction, they moved. One scooped up Tenzo with practiced ease, the other lifted Shukaku’s unconscious form.

Banri stepped toward the girl — her breathing soft and even — and knelt beside her. He hesitated, eyes briefly softening, before carefully picking her up into his arms.

As he stood, the weight of responsibility settled fully across his shoulders.

“Back to the house,” he ordered, voice low but steady.

The clones nodded.

They moved.

The forest blurred past them as the group vanished into the trees — Banri’s mind racing with questions he didn’t yet have answers for. His hands still tingled. His muscles still felt wrong. And the seal he thought he’d mastered… had betrayed him in a way he didn’t yet understand.

But one thing was clear.

Something had changed.

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.

.

.

Banri arrived at the secluded house Tenzo had built using his Mokuton — a structure seamlessly blended into the forest, its walls of living wood pulsing faintly with chakra. His pace had been quick, but not as fast as it could have been. He could’ve used the Hiraishin to jump directly to the marker he’d placed inside the house… but he hadn’t dared.

Not with his body in flux.

Not after what just happened.

He didn’t want to risk teleporting while something as fundamental as his age — his form — was unstable.

A few steps behind him, his two clones arrived, still carrying the unconscious forms of Tenzo and Shukaku. The moment they laid the two down on the house’s central tatami floor, Banri gave a small wave of dismissal.

The clones dispersed in a puff of smoke.

Silence returned.

Banri took a breath and walked deeper into the house, his movements automatic. The girl still slept in the room he’d set up earlier — wrapped in blankets and tucked into the futon with a care that contradicted the storm brewing behind his eyes.

Only once everything was settled did he move toward the back of the house — to a small alcove where a mirror hung on the wooden wall, slightly fogged from the cool forest air.

He stared.

And froze.

The reflection that met him was not the youthful fifteen-year-old he had seen before — but his current self.

Thirty-six years old.

Scarred. Weathered. Familiar.

His gaze sharpened. He leaned closer, scanning the details — the lines on his face, the faint silver at his temples, the chakra pattern just beneath the surface of his skin. It was his original body. Not an illusion. Not a temporary disguise.

Real.

Solid.

Stable.

“How…?” he murmured under his breath, brows furrowing.

His fingers brushed over the edge of the mirror, as if it would give him answers.

How had he returned to his original form?

He hadn’t undone any seal. Hadn’t released any jutsu. He hadn't payed attention when the transition had occurred, but if he had to guess, he thinks that it's around the time he summoned Shukaku. Based on the Tanuki's lack of question regarding his state.

Now that he thought about it, he remembered the shift. The weight. The muscle memory snapping back into place. Like slipping into a skin that had always been his.

No hand signs. No trigger. It had just… happened.

He stared at his reflection a moment longer, jaw tightening.

Something was wrong. Not just with the seal — with him. The stability he’d clung to as a seal master, as a shinobi, was unraveling one thread at a time.

Banri closed his eyes and released a slow breath, grounding himself.

He couldn’t afford to panic.

Not yet.

But the question remained — not as a whisper, but as a drumbeat in the back of his mind:

How did I return to my original state?

Banri tore his gaze away from the mirror, forcing his thoughts to sharpen. He couldn’t let uncertainty paralyze him. Not when the stakes were this high. Not when something unknown had tampered with him — his chakra, his body, his very form.

He moved to the center of the room, brushing aside the tatami mats to expose the hardwood flooring beneath. With a flick of his wrist, he unsealed a compact scroll from the pouch at his waist. The scroll unraveled mid-air, floating and unfurling as a small puff of chakra mist escaped.

He bit his thumb, drawing blood.

He didn’t hesitate.

With practiced precision, Banri slammed his hand onto the center of the scroll, blood splashing into the inked spiral. The kanji began to glow faintly.

“Operation Initiated — Eight-Talisman Sensory: Mirror of Secrets”

The scroll pulsed once — then expanded.

An intricate seal spread out from its center, lines of ink crawling across the floor like veins, forming a wide, circular array around Banri. It was a chakra diagnostic seal he’d designed himself: an introspective feedback loop capable of mapping out both physical and metaphysical alterations, especially anything foreign or anomalous.

He sat cross-legged at the array’s center and exhaled slowly, letting his chakra pulse outward.

The circle responded.

Ink lines lifted slightly off the wood, floating like ribbons of light as they scanned his chakra network. His body began to glow faintly under the diagnostic field, his chakra coils illuminated in shifting hues of blue, violet, and deep crimson. Complex kanji formed and hovered around him — reading and analyzing chakra flow, genetic markers, temporal energy imprints, and seal residues.

Pulse stable… coils aligned… chakra flow normalized…

Banri’s fingers twitched.

“Show me the disruption,” he muttered.

One of the floating kanji flickered — then split.

Another layer of the seal lit up beneath him. A ghostly, translucent image of his current self rose like a mirage, layered over his current body. It rotated slowly, displaying where the shift had occurred — down to the joints, the bones, the chakra threads that had once tightened in youth and now stretched with age.

Banri narrowed his eyes. “It wasn’t a genjutsu,” he murmured. “No illusions. The change was cellular. Chakra-deep.”

A secondary string of kanji appeared beside his shoulder. They pulsed violently for a moment — red and unreadable.

He reached toward them.

The moment his hand touched the floating glyphs, a spark of feedback jolted through his nervous system. He hissed, biting down hard on his lip as a vision seared behind his eyes:

A swirling core of unstable chakra.

Not his own.

Not Shukaku’s.

Something else.

A resonance buried deep within his seal system. Foreign, unfamiliar — yet disturbingly intimate. A signature he couldn’t identify, but one that had reacted to Shukaku’s proximity, to the experiment with the girl’s seal, and perhaps even to his overuse of his own body as a vessel.

Banri’s breath hitched.

“This wasn’t just a rebound,” he muttered.

The diagnostic seal finally stabilized, the floating kanji forming a single, damning conclusion:

“Time-space chakra interference detected.”

He stared at the phrase.

It pulsed once.

And faded.

Banri slowly rose to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. His mind was racing. If his own body had been shifted by a reaction to some unknown source — something strong enough to affect his age and cellular form — then this was bigger than a simple seal backlash.

He turned his gaze toward the other room, where Tenzo and the girl lay unconscious.

And where Shukaku — the one-tails — still slept under the force of Banri’s own suppressive seal.

Banri stood over the remains of the diagnostic seal, its faint shimmer fading beneath his feet. The results told him everything and nothing all at once: his chakra network was stable, his physical form returned to its adult state, and there were no lingering abnormalities—at least none that could be detected by standard fuinjutsu techniques.

Still, the question gnawed at him.

How had he changed?

And more importantly—how had he changed back?

His gaze shifted to the mirror, taking in the hard lines of his thirty-six-year-old face, the familiar weight of old injuries now reasserted in his joints and tendons. A few hours ago, those had been gone. He'd been a teenager again. He felt it. Bones lighter. Reflexes sharper. That specific kind of restlessness only youth brought.

His reflection offered no answers, but it reminded him of what had changed.

He stepped toward his gear laid out on a small wooden bench, unsealing one of his scroll pouches with a brief touch of chakra. Inside, preserved beneath layers of wax paper, was the third prototype — the scrap-version of the Flying Thunder God seal.

It was meant to be disposable. A compromise. The design wasn’t elegant or graceful like the original jutsu, but it worked under specific conditions: short-range disengagement, terrain-dependent, roughly two hundred meters max range. It could be used ten times before the parchment and ink degraded.

He’d used it recently.

To go after Tenzo.

There were six uses left.

Banri knelt down and unfurled the parchment carefully, his eyes tracing over the seal's interlocking rings.

Three concentric layers.

The outer ring bore anchor glyphs — directionality markers drawn in encoded kanji: North, East, South, West. These stabilized re-entry by locking the user’s trajectory to cardinal directions.

The middle ring was a chakra synchronization array, personalized to his own unique chakra signature. It ensured the seal responded only to him and prevented spatial drift.

And then there was the center ring — a spiral convergence drawn in painstaking detail by Tenzo’s hand, holding the binding command: Return upon signal.

But Banri’s attention was drawn not to Tenzo’s work — but to his own additions.

Blood-drawn glyphs, etched between the middle and center rings.

They were the result of weeks of research — theoretical, unfinished, and dangerous.

Banri had been trying to encode temporal anchoring points into spatial seals. Not to travel through time — that was lunacy — but to make each seal remember when it was placed, not just where.

The goal had been tactical: to create escape seals that would only trigger under exact environmental re-creations — like a trapdoor keyed to a moment, not just a location.

He had used blood as the medium because it carried more than chakra.

It carried memory — biological resonance. A person’s living imprint.

He thought the additions were inert.

Unfinished.

Insufficiently powered to do anything meaningful on their own.

Until he activated the seal while holding the girl.

The one with the strange, unstable energy curling off her skin like static before a lightning strike.

Banri exhaled slowly, his mind racing now.

He didn’t know her name.

He didn’t know what she could do.

But something about her was... wrong. Not in an ominous way — not dangerous, not to him — but unsteady. Her presence disrupted things at the edges. Chakra trembled near her. The air hummed. And when the seal had activated…

He paused.

It hadn’t just taken him back to Tenzo.

It had pulled him back into himself.

Banri looked down at the seal again, understanding dawning.

The blood-drawn temporal glyphs had always been sensitive to interference — that’s why he stopped developing them. But when brought into proximity with that girl’s power — whatever strange, reversed energy field she radiated — the seal hadn’t executed a simple return.

It had aged him.

The convergence point, confused by the temporal markers, had sought the most stable point of resonance in his blood: his younger self, at the exact moment the original seal design had been sketched.

It had rewound him back.

Banri closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

“It wasn't the seal alone,” he murmured to himself. “And it wasn’t her alone either.”

It was the combination.

His theoretical glyphs, inert until exposed to the precise kind of temporal-energy distortion she unknowingly emitted, had activated as if they were fully developed.

No, more than that — as if they’d worked exactly as he feared they might someday.

A silent, accidental collaboration between the hiraishin prototype and something alien. Something this world called a quirk.

Banri carefully rewrapped the scroll, his hands steadier than he felt.

He couldn’t afford another mistake like that.

Not with her nearby.

Not when the seal might trigger again under the right conditions.

He didn’t know who the girl was, or what power she carried.

But he did know this:

If his seal had acted like a lock—

Then her presence had been the key.

And now that he understood the door that had opened, Banri wasn’t sure whether to seal it tighter—

Or figure out how far it could go.

.

.

.

.

Banri stood by the wooden doorway, arms crossed loosely, eyes narrowed with a thoughtful stillness.

The girl was asleep.

Curled up on the futon his clones had hastily prepared from scavenged linens, her breathing was quiet now—soft, almost imperceptible. The same could not be said for a few hours ago, when she had thrashed and kicked at shadows with a desperate, barely lucid panic. Her fingers had clawed at the air, reaching for something long gone, and her mouth had formed pleas she couldn’t voice.

Banri didn’t approach just yet. He didn’t want to wake her. Not when sleep seemed like the only thing keeping her settled.

Instead, his gaze drifted to her forehead.

The seal glimmered faintly in the low light. Thin, precise lines inked with a brush of chakra-laced fuuinjutsu, anchored into her skin just above the space between her brows. A suppression formula, modeled after the I&T chakra dampeners—but tailored and experimental.

He had placed it there himself.

Deliberately.

And, to his quiet surprise, it was holding.

The ink hadn’t cracked. The chakra matrix hadn’t degraded. More importantly, there were no immediate side effects—no backlash surges, no spiraling feedback loops, no stress fractures in her network. It was as if the seal had settled into her skin.

But that wasn’t necessarily good news.

Banri’s brow furrowed.

He hadn't tested this seal properly—not in a controlled environment, not on anyone else, and certainly not on someone with a power he didn’t understand. He had drawn it as a measure, based on his first Quirk Suppression seal—unstable, constantly in flux, but it took too much time.

From what he gathered, the power she displayed was powerful.

Too powerful.

And when he thought back to how she’d reacted, he found his jaw tightening slightly.

She was terrified. Scrambling away from her own hands like they’d betrayed her.

Shaking.

Refusing to be touched.

Clutching her arms as if she feared what might pour out of them.

Banri exhaled slowly, voice barely above a whisper as he murmured to himself, "She can’t control it..."

It explained the volatility of her actions. The way something about her didn’t pulse in waves, but in jagged spikes that smoothed only under restraint. She wasn’t just powerful—she was untethered.

The seal he’d placed hadn’t just been to suppress her quirk—it had been to protect her from it.

And now, as he watched her chest rise and fall beneath the blanket, Banri felt a sliver of unease creep in.

Because he didn’t know how long the seal would hold.

Because he didn’t know what would happen when it didn’t.

He stepped into the room fully now, quiet and deliberate, kneeling beside her without a sound. He pressed two fingers gently to the edge of the seal, brushing the ink with a current of chakra.

Still stable.

Still quiet.

But beneath it, he could sense it.

Not sleeping.

Just waiting.

Banri's fingers hovered over the girl's seal for a moment longer before withdrawing.

Still functioning.

But still—unknown.

He rose to his feet in silence, moving to the low table tucked near the wall where his scrolls and tools had been laid out. His movements were clean, economical. Each motion measured and precise. The tatami creaked faintly beneath his steps as he retrieved a sealing brush, his inkstone, and a small chakra-sensitive analysis sheet—a layering of special paper that had helped him diagnose unstable jutsu signatures during his more reckless youth in the ANBU labs.

Back when he’d believed mastering everything about chakra control would be enough to redeem what he'd done with it.

He sat cross-legged and began.

This wasn’t a chakra diagnostic in the traditional shinobi sense. He’d had to refine it since arriving here—reshape the parameters to suit what this world called “quirks.” Unlike chakra, which was spiritual and physical energy molded into techniques, quirks manifested like inborn phenomena—genetic anomalies woven into the nervous system, not the chakra coils.

That’s what made them unstable.

Or worse—incompatible.

Banri tapped his brush twice against the rim of the inkstone, then drew the first containment ring on the diagnostic paper. Then the second—smaller, overlapping, with modified kanji from an old chakra-leakage formula, tuned to pick up residual emission not from tenketsu points, but from electromagnetic anomalies he'd noticed in quirk users.

This would take time.

He worked in silence, only the subtle sound of brush against parchment filling the cabin. The girl shifted in her sleep once, but didn’t wake. He watched her from the corner of his eye with calculation.

A child with power she couldn’t control. A seal he'd placed that could fail. And a chaotic variable that had already interacted once with one of his own prototypes and rewound his once-teenage-state of a body to his original state.

No, Banri didn’t believe in coincidence.

Only patterns.

And consequences.

The diagnostic matrix was almost complete when he paused, as if remembering something.

The seal.

The one on her forehead—it was a stopgap. A patch on a cracking wall. It had to be replaced before it failed catastrophically.

Banri reached to the side of the scroll, unrolling a compartment where he kept a small selection of unused tags and parchment prototypes.

His hand hesitated over one.

Bright pink. With a cartoonish unicorn in the center.

His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his gaze—dry, almost grimly resigned.

He had found it discarded in a stationery shop during one of his first supply runs in this world. One of the shopkeepers—a teen girl—had gone on an elaborate rant about how "stickers made everything better, especially for anxious little kids."

Banri, who at the time had just discovered that half the city ran on genetically modified powers, caffeine, and wannabe-saviors, had bought the entire sticker book and walked out without a word.

Now… it might actually serve a purpose.

And this child—whatever her name, whatever her quirk—was not a soldier. She was not meant to bear something terrifying on her forehead like a cursed mark.

She needed to feel safe. Banri needs her to feel safe.

(For her to be at ease when the time comes for him to question her.)

So Banri took the unicorn sticker. Peeled the back off with care. Laid it on a clean tag of chakra-reactive parchment.

Then, with hands steady as stone, he began the new seal.

He adjusted the suppression lattice, modifying the restraint timing to a slow, recursive buffer—allowing her chakra (Quirk, he correct himself) to exhale safely without building up into destructive bursts. At the center, he nested a failsafe: if the seal began to destabilize, it would self-collapse before causing damage to her chakra network. And crucially, it no longer needed to be placed directly on the subject’s Quirk Factor.

And all of it, he hid behind a sticker that sparkled faintly in the lamp-light, with a ridiculous pink unicorn wearing sunglasses.

Banri finished the seal, then set it aside to dry.

He rose again and returned to the girl, kneeling beside her. He hesitated.

Not out of doubt.

But out of caution.

He had once sworn to stop experimenting on people.

This… wasn’t that.

This was protection.

A safeguard.

And maybe a small debt owed to a child who had nearly unraveled time around him with a scream.

Then he gently lifted the old seal from her brow, applied the new unicorn-sticker seal on her hand, and infused it with the faintest pulse of chakra.

It shimmered once. Settled.

The girl didn’t stir.

Banri sat back, watching her with tired eyes. The ink on his palms had begun to dry and flake. His fingers smelled of old ash and pine needles.

There was still so much he didn’t understand.

.

.

.

.

Inside the Safehouse of Banri and Tenzo — Late Evening

The scent of sandalwood and sterilized ink hung faintly in the room.

Banri sat cross-legged on the tatami mat floor, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Thin lines of sealing ink formed an intricate web across the floorboards around him — precise, symmetrical, humming softly with suppressed power. A warm paper lantern flickered at his side, casting soft shadows on the walls.

Tenzo was still resting in the other room, while the silver-haired girl slept wrapped in a heavy futon beneath a heating seal. The surge within her had stabilized hours ago, but Banri still kept a low-level diagnostic running — a compact fuinjutsu array carved into the back of a sparkly unicorn sticker now stuck to the back of the girl's hand.

The doorframe creaked behind him.

Sand pooled at the threshold before reforming into legs. Arms. A glare.

Shukaku, now fully reconstituted in his human-like form, was awake.

And judging by the murderous glint in his golden eyes, still very, very pissed.

"You gagged me with a sleeping seal," Shukaku growled, voice low and rough.

Banri didn’t look up. He dipped the brush into the ink again, calmly finishing a final stroke. "Correction. I subdued you after your tantrum started destabilizing the outer array. You almost crushed the girl and Tenzo in your sand spike."

"I wasn’t aiming for her! Nor at that Hashirama Lite!"

"You weren't aiming at all."

The brush clinked quietly against the ceramic rim. Banri finally lifted his gaze.

Shukaku’s jaw twitched.

“Talk,” the Biju snapped. “You said you’d explain everything. So do it.”

Banri nodded. His voice was quiet, clinical — like he was delivering a report, not an apology.

"First question: where are we?" Banri’s voice remained level, clipped and precise. “As Biju, I'm sure that you have noticed that we are no longer in our world. Not in any region, pocket realm, or offshoot of the elemental nations. This is a different dimension altogether — functionally separate from the chakra-based cosmology we’re familiar with.”

Shukaku frowned, arms crossing tightly over his chest. He'd noticed it, which was why he'd refered to it as 'disabled' due to the lack of chakra to be fully used, but affirmation is assuring. “Tch. You mean some kind of alternate world?”

Banri gave a short nod. “Correct. The foundational energy that governs this place is not chakra, but a native biological anomaly referred to as ‘quirks.’ Genetically rooted, phenotypically diverse. Everyone here possesses a mutation — most manifesting as powers, deformities, or enhancements.”

He gestured vaguely toward the sleeping girl in the next room. “She has one. Some sort of passive instability — likely emotion-triggered."

Shukaku stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re telling me that you launched me out of my seal by mistakenly summoning me from your shit-ass failed experiment years prior in a discount genjutsu society where humans here looked like an experiment gone wrong?”

Banri tilted his head. “Not an inaccurate summary.”

The tanuki’s eye twitched.

“How the hell did this happen?”

Banri’s brow twitched. “The four of us — me, Kakashi, Yugao, and Tenzo — were supposed to tend to a mission to eliminate the remaining White Zetsu nests. Duration: eight months.”

He paused, the weight of context settling in his voice. “I’d reckon you heard something about it while you were still with Gaara?”

Shukaku grunted, arms crossed. “Yeah. Something about it being a joint mission between the Five Great Nations — alternating deployments of elite units. One village sends a team for eight months, then the next picks up the rotation.”

He snorted, eye narrowing. “A mission heavily backed by all the village commanders. One that you proposed.”

Banri didn’t deny it.

“I designed it to maintain surveillance and perform deep-root purging of the underground Zetsu networks,” he said quietly. “Initial signs suggested they were still replicating — small clusters that adapted and burrowed deeper into the continent’s root systems. I submitted the mission parameters personally to each Kage, under the condition that only retired or covert high-tier ANBU would cycle through. No young shinobi. No noise.”

Shukaku tilted his head. “So let me guess — you were in the middle of a teleportation jump when something went sideways.”

Banri shrugged. “Not really, we haven't even started the mission yet. But because of a colleague of mine shitty mistake, we ended up in here."

His fingers flexed once at his side. “Something on this end pulled us out of the slipstream — like hooking a kunai mid-throw. The dimension snapped around us. We landed here.”

"That still doesn't explain why wood-boy down there looks young," Shukaku added, jerking a thumb toward the other room. "Or is that his kid?"

Banri gave him a flat look. “That is Yamato.”

A beat.

Shukaku blinked. “...You’re serious.”

“As always.”

Shitty human and their shitty ways of making shit things more complicated, he rolled his eyes, he should've simply called him as Yamato and not whatever the fuck his codename was.

Shukaku stared,expression shifting between suspicion and deep existential offense. “You’re telling me the human lumber factory de-aged on impact?”

Banri dipped his brush into the ink again, dragging a smooth arc into a new sealing line. “Something about the jump affected him mid-transition. He arrived younger. Ten years old, biologically. I’ve already run a full diagnostic — his chakra signature, muscle memory, and spiritual integrity are intact. No genjutsu. No clone. It’s him.”

Shukaku folded his arms. “So this world gave him a nostalgia filter. What, does that mean I look younger too?”

Banri didn’t answer. He merely deadpanned him, his expression said everything about the tanuki.

"Right, right... I'm ancient."

"And it's not just him, the other two was also affected." He said. "Including me."

Shukaku muttered something obscene and scratched his temple.

Banri’s voice remained clinical. “The dimensional rift destabilized multiple variables. Chakra behaves differently here. Time, space, even identity markers may have been compressed or distorted. You’re lucky your core stayed anchored.”

Shukaku snorted. “Yeah. Real lucky. Gagged. Stuck with you. Babysitting a walking containment hazard, a moody tree, and a silver-haired drama goblin.”

There was a long silence.

Banri calmly drew another symbol, not bothering to disagree.

"And also, elaborate on the last shit you said. Last I checked, I just got here by your shit-ass summoning jutsu."

"As I said, I was also affected by the phenomenon. It wasn’t until recently—"

"Define ‘recently.’"

“—either just before or just after I summoned you. That part’s still unclear. But what I can conclude is this: it was the combined effect of a prototype Hiraishin seal I was carrying… and her quirk emerging at the same time.”

Shukaku gave him a long, disbelieving look. “You’re telling me a full-grown shinobi operatives were catapult into a experiment gone wrong society, because of a shitty mistake caused by your colleague. Then reversed-aged. And you triggered a spontaneous cross-dimensional summoning and thus dragging me onto all of your mess—all because you were carrying unstable teleportation graffiti next to a kid with a hormonal quirk to which resulted in a punch-in-the-face aging back to your current self?”

Banri blinked slowly. “Approximately.”

There was a pause.

Then Shukaku threw his hands in the air. “What is it with humans and seals!? You people treat time-space barriers like they’re… suggestion-based! 'Ooooh, let’s just SLAP THIS COMPLEX COSMIC ALGEBRA onto a sticker and see what happens!' No wonder the Sage locked you out of half the fun stuff!”

Banri didn’t react.

“You know,” Shukaku continued, pacing now, “in my day—when someone played around with interdimensional seals, they got obliterated. Or banished. Or turned into a melon. I respected that. But noooo, you lot just tinker! You experiment! You slap a glowstick seal on a child and wonder why you’re suddenly in a looney World!”

Banri, still expressionless, tapped the brush lightly. “If you’re done complaining, I still have a containment lattice to recalibrate.”

Shukaku glared. “Fine. But when your containment lattice explodes and we all get turned into ferrets, I’m putting that on your tombstone.”

Banri didn’t even look up. “Fair.”

The air hung thick for a moment, the soft hum of the lantern the only sound between them.

Finally, Shukaku narrowed his eyes. “How do I get back?”

Banri didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced down at the circle of ink at his feet — the glowing array that had taken hours of reworking to even recognize the dimensional physics here. He traced one seal node with his finger.

“I don’t know yet.”

Shukaku’s nostrils flared. “So un-summon me. Reverse it. Cut the damn tether.”

Banri didn’t look up. He just stared at the array inp silence.

“I can’t.”

Shukaku scoffed. “Can’t, or won’t?”

Banri finally looked at him, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t summon you through the normal channel. There’s no return clause.”

Shukaku stilled. “What.”

Banri raised a hand. “The experimental array years ago isn’t a standard summoning matrix. It’s an accidental imprint loop. When I drew chakra from that sealed remnant—your chakra—I unknowingly anchored it to my signature. That’s why you were the one pulled here. The seal didn't reach into the tailed beast plane. It reached for the only thing it recognized.”

“And what it recognized,” Shukaku growled, “was a corrupted leftover of me.”

Banri nodded slowly. “Worse than that... I never included a dismissal clause. It wasn’t a full summoning seal—just a reactive prototype that tried to fill in the blanks with instinctual chakra logic.”

Shukaku’s eye twitched. “You mean instinctual tanuki logic.”

“The seal interpreted your residual chakra as ‘familiar,’ bound it to my blood marker, and auto-completed using the most stable dimensional coordinates available.”

Shukaku stared. “You summoned me with a bootlegged, chakra-scavenged, half-baked bastard of a seal that doesn’t have a return function?!”

“Yes.”

“…And I’m stuck here because your janky spell thinks I belong in your personal chakra collection bin?!”

Banri gave him a tired look. “I said it wasn’t intentional.”

Shukaku made a strangled sound. “So what happens now?”

Banri sighed, rubbing his temple. “Technically, I can start from scratch. But the original matrix wasn’t just a seal — it was layered with decades of subtle calibrations, woven into my own chakra signature and the remnants of the tailed beast’s essence. Rebuilding it without that exact alignment risks permanent fractures in the dimensional barrier.”

He paused, then added quietly, “Until I understand more about how this world’s quirks interact with those seals, rushing a rebuild could make things worse — maybe irreversibly. But for now, the best solution I have is to punch a hole through space-time and hope I don’t accidentally drag in the Nibi’s tail next time.”

Shukaku snarled, storming to the edge of the room. “I swear, if I end up in a coffee shop dimension, I’m turning you into a litter box.”

His eyes hardened as he met Shukaku’s gaze. “I'll figure it out.”

Shukaku’s form shifted subtly — not with anger now, but something closer to tension. A slow-brewing wariness. He took a half step forward, then stopped.

“You better,” he said at last. “Because I’m not staying here. This place stinks of steel and air pollution. No nature. No flow. It’s like living in a dead world.”

Banri inclined his head. “I’m aware. And as you wait patiently you'll have to lay low."

Shukaku scowled. “So that’s it? We sit around babysitting that unstable sparkler while you play mad scribe in a box full of stickers?”

Banri didn’t rise to the bait. “That unstable sparkler nearly leveled a kilometer radius when her quirk flared. If I hadn’t placed the suppression seal—”

“You mean the one that looks like a toy?”

Banri didn’t look up. “Young girls are more likely to accept suppressive fuinjutsu when applied in the shape of popular accessories. It reduces stress, which prevents feedback loops. I observed it during my first week here.”

Shukaku stared. “You seriously disguised a suppression seal as a cartoon.”

“Yes.”

“…You’re insane.”

Banri gave a faint shrug. “It worked.”

Silence settled again. The tension no longer crackled — it simply simmered.

Then, Shukaku let out a long breath, rough and gravelly.

“I hate this place.”

Banri allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward. Just barely.

“I know.”

They stood in quiet, the web of ink glowing gently between them.

Outside, the wind howled faintly through the trees.

Inside, the silence between them grew heavy.

Then Shukaku muttered, “…Damn brat.”

Banri stood and stretched his arms above his head, muscles taut beneath the half-undone shirt he hadn’t bothered to rewrap.

“I’m going to reset the perimeter seals. Try not to throw another tantrum while I’m outside.”

Shukaku grumbled something unrepeatable under his breath.

As Banri stepped toward the door, he paused. “You should go talk to her when she wakes up.”

Shukaku scoffed. “Why? You think a unicorn sticker makes me less scary?”

Banri glanced back with a ghost of a shrug.

“No. But I think you scare her less than her own reflection.”

Then he was gone — sliding the door shut behind him.

The faint scent of pine and rain filtered in again. Shukaku stood in the middle of the room, glaring at the sleeping child and the stupid glittery sticker on her wrist that now pulsed gently with Banri’s chakra.

“…Tch. Idiot brat.”

Still, he sat down anyway — just far enough to pretend it wasn’t on purpose.

"Fucking shit-ass of an Uzumaki, 'thinking he can detain me here," he says before grabbing a piece of parchment and an ink.