[Nagato's POV]
The days at the edge of adolescence settle into memory like the ebb and flow of the sea.
Three years have passed since Midoriya took his first uncertain steps down the path of chakra, and the three of us—Bakugo, Midoriya, and I—are now twelve, firmly in the heart of middle school.
Time flows in steady currents: classes and small-town news, new teachers and old rivalries, the world opening inch by inch, summer by summer.
Those three years wrought change in all of us.
The most striking is Izuku.
Where once a wisp of a boy, all trembling hands and watery eyes, would hunch behind his desk, Midoriya now fills much more space—shoulders broad, posture straight, a quiet confidence rolling from him in every word and movement.
His large, round puppy eyes have sharpened to the vigilant, hunter gaze of a hawk. He ties his hair back now.
Anyone observing him might believe he'd always been this way—a leader, someone built for the front lines rather than the shadows.
Bakugo, as always, remains Bakugo: brash, stubborn, fiercely competitive. His form has grown to match Midoriya's, the result of endless arguments turned training sessions, sprints and weight drills, failure turned into power through refusal to yield.
His shoulders now match Midoriya's, legs coiled and ready like a prize-fighter's, his jaw more defined—though his eyes still spark with mischievous fire.
If anything, his pride is bigger than ever, because, truthfully, he earned every inch the hard way.
And me? Well—three years have taken off some of the itch of alienness, replaced it with routine.
'I still can't use most of my other Rinnegan paths.'
'Deep down, I suspect what's missing is real combat: the unpredictability of life and death, the pressure that forges new channels in old stone. But life here shies away from real danger, at least for now.'
It's midday when the three of us meet at the beach, our old haunt.
The sand is bright and hot, the sky a single, endless blue, and the surf slaps the land with rhythmic certainty.
I'm already set up beneath the shade of an umbrella, feet dug into warm sand, eyes closed, breathing in the salt and sun, letting chakra and quirk energy whirl and spark behind my eyelids.
I open my eyes just as they approach.
Midoriya comes first.
His shirt clings to a body that's spent every day of these last three years getting stronger.
The roundness in his face has given way to sharper lines.
Even Bakugo seems to sense the shift—sometimes barking to remind the world how strong he is, but always glancing at Midoriya when it matters, measuring himself.
Midoriya dumps his bag onto the sand, stretching his arms behind his head, eyes narrowing against the sun's glare.
His hair is caught in a rough tail, but stray curls slip out, sweat collecting at the edges of his brow. He glances at Bakugo, who follows close behind, fists jammed into his pockets, lips twisted into a mock scowl.
"Took you long enough, Kacchan," Izuku intones, a teasing edge to his deeper voice.
Bakugo snorts, shoving him lightly with an elbow.
"I'd have been here sooner if I didn't have to drag Deku out of the gym. Guy's obsessed with counting reps. If his muscles get any bigger, his arms'll pop out of his sleeves."
Midoriya grins wide— "At least my arms have actual muscle, unlike a certain walking firecracker."
I watch as the banter flies, amused. Three years ago, that sharp retort from Midoriya would've been unthinkable; now it's routine. There's respect behind their jabs, even affection.
Bakugo grins, rolling his eyes. "Whatever, nerds. You two can compare muscles, I'll just win the next hundred-meter sprint."
I pull my knees up, nodding for them to join me. "You two ready?"
Bakugo coughs for effect, settling onto the sand.
"Don't hold back this time, Nagato. Last week you let Deku win just to make him feel good."
Midoriya rolls his eyes, but doesn't rise to the bait.
"Last week was endurance, Kacchan. You gave up after five sprints."
Bakugo gives him a look, exaggerated outrage replaced with something brighter—ambition, maybe. "I was strategizing. I'll show you real endurance."
I laugh, shaking my head. "Save it for the next relay. Today, I just want to see something. Izuku—show us."
He nods, face sobering. "Alright."
We all stand. The sand is cool beneath the top layer, and the breeze lifts our hair. I watch as Midoriya closes his eyes, letting his breathing steady—reflex now, not forced. He focuses, and even Bakugo falls quiet.
In the years since our training began, Midoriya's command of chakra has grown rapidly. His once trembling hands curl steady into fists, and a faint shimmer—a heat-haze ripple—forms around them as he channels the flow along his arms. He raises a fist, steps forward, and punches the air.
It sounds like a whipcrack. The force of it kicks up a spray of sand, an arc five meters long, scattering tiny shells for meters. Beside me, Bakugo gives a low whistle, grudging and impressed. "Not bad, Deku. But can maintain this state?"
Midoriya grins, jaw set.
"Try me." He repeats the move, this time leaping high, spinning, and slamming down with both hands. Sand bursts up like fireworks. He lands lightly, not even winded.
I catch Bakugo glancing at me—something close to a request. He wants me to acknowledge what I see.
"Impressive," I say softly.
Then it's Bakugo's turn to show off. He crouches, gathering energy, broad frame tense. His hands explode with light, a rapid-fire pop-pop-pop of sparking kinetic force as he skims down the tideline at impossible speed, sand flying in his wake.
His stamina is monstrous. He circles back and pauses, barely breathing hard, sweat glittering on his brow. "Try catching up with me when you're done flexing, Deku."
Midoriya just laughs.
I watch them, marvelling at how much has changed. Three years ago, there was fear and bitterness in every word; now there's challenge and hope.
They rally around me partly out of habit, but more so because they trust that I can guide them farther.
For my part, there's a growing frustration. The Deva Path, Preta, and Human—all feel more natural now. But none of the other Rinnegan paths stir, no matter how far I push. I know, deep down, that new doors open only under pressure—real danger, real stakes. Mundane life has restrictions I cannot yet break.
But I'm not jealous. Watching Midoriya and Bakugo, I realize just how far we've come, and how far we might still go.
I smile, letting my Rinnegan flicker. I don't have to demonstrate—not yet.
My real power remains hidden, contained in a chamber I built over years of trial.
Chakra locked away, protected, isolated from quirk energy, waiting for the day I'll need it.
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The noonday sun was brilliant as polished steel and the air hummed thick with heat, old ocean salt, and the call of screaming gulls.
At our secluded corner of the coast, only memory marked the dunes—footprints erased by wind, our laughter etched into the ever-moving sea.
This training filed down the edge of childhood, forging something complicated out of friendship and power.
Today was all about fighting—about pushing each other to the ragged edge. Midoriya, Bakugo, and I stood shoulder to shoulder on the hot sand, sweat dripping in crisscrossing trails on our arms and necks as we shook out the last of our stretches.
I could feel the tension swirling among us—friendly, competitive, and burning alive.
I clasped my hands behind my head, surveying them both with an easy, knowing smile. \
"Since you guys are warmed up now, let's start."
Bakugo was practically vibrating, fists clenching as he bit the edge between eagerness and outrage. "Wait! Did you just say you and Deku first? Not fair! It's my turn!"
I shrugged and grinned, the picture of infuriating patience. "You'll get your turn, Bakugo. Patience."
He snorted, "Tch," arms crossed—performance art of a boy who lived for battle but hated to wait.
Midoriya rolled his shoulders once and said- "Nagato, are you ready?"
I bowed slightly. "Always. Let's go."
We moved apart, pacing off a precise six meters and settling into well-worn stances—nostalgia and rivalry folding together with every crunch of sand beneath our feet.
Bakugo drifted back to referee and heckler, barely concealing his excitement—his eyes darting between us, caught between rooting for Midoriya to impress him and wanting to see me take a hit.
I gave the signal. "Midoriya—whenever you're ready."
His reply was simple, sharp, and loud: "HAI!"
With the focus of a veteran, Izuku inhaled, chakra blooming through his frame in ribbons of deep green. It started at his core—a sensation visible only to me—and spread along every limb: a humming, radiant armor.
His eyes sharpened. Fingers curled, knuckles whitening, his arms drew up and glowed with power.
The world seemed to hush. "Here I come!"
There was a sonic crack as he kicked off, sand erupting in a plume behind him.
He covered the ground in an instant, bare toes barely touching the tide-smoothed stones. His fist came toward me, wreathed in emerald. I braced my own stance, felt the pulse of chakra streaming from his skin.
His knuckles found my palm with a force that rippled in every direction—a shockwave that punchboweled the sand outward and sent most of it flying in Bakugo's direction. The invisible chakra barrier I maintained shimmered at the edges of perception, disguising our real moves from any oblivious beachgoer.
Bakugo cursed—"I swear, you guys are a hazard!"—half-mocking, half jealous, squinting through the grit.
I slid backward a step, the power of Midoriya's hit stronger than even last week. I could tell he is going all out but still controlling the output in a single space, learning to trust his body's strength as much as his control.
Not bad, I thought, letting the praise flicker across my Rinnegan.
Midoriya reset his guard, bounced back on the balls of his feet, and with a swift string of hand signs, shouted,
"Kage Bunshin no Jutsu!"
Four doubles burst into being—puffs of chakra-smoke taking nearly solid form and spreading out, encircling me as if they'd been choreographed.
I blinked; he'd only ever managed three before. A trick, or a breakthrough?
Bakugo barked in surprise, "Oi! Since when can you do four, Deku? Show-off."
I grinned—tactical, amused. Time to test him.
You could barely see the difference: those clones were identical, each one circling with a slightly different gait; one low, one high, two to the flanks.
They moved together, trying to close all my exits.
I watched with the eyes only the Rinnegan could offer—seeing their chakra signatures, faint though they were, flicker with every step.
I flexed my wrist, drawing in a slow breath. "Shinra Tensei." At only five percent of my real output, the repulsive force snapped out invisibly.
All four clones collapsed, shards of sand and smoke bursting with the crack of a small bomb.
But I felt a flicker in the aftermath—one clone had lasted a second too long. Just as the last tendril faded, a shadow broke from the chaos, airborne, high above me.
I saw Midoriya for the barest instant, arms crossed at his chest, chakra swirling around his hands as he shouted,
"Fūton: Shippū Jinrai!"
(Wind Release: Gale Palm!)
A typhoon howled downward—raw chakra output this time, a massive, howling gust that churned up a cloud of shells and sent a half-buried, rusty oven (some beach-goer's old firepit) spinning through the air.
But at the last possible instant before the blast landed—I smiled.
In one fluid motion, smoke and chakra shrouded my outline as I activated the classic technique: the Substitute Jutsu, Kawarimi no Jutsu.
My old body slipped into a shadow, and in its place—instantly, perfectly—appeared a battered, rust-flecked microwave oven, abandoned by some beachgoer seasons before. Midoriya's wind attack crashed into it with a spectacular thunk, launching the appliance end over end amidst a spray of sand, seaweed, and ozone.
Midoriya landed, panting, eyes wide in confusion. For a moment, he stared at the spinning, battered microwave in disbelief.
Midoriya landed hard, crouching in the grabby sand, panting from the effort. "Nani?! Where—"
He didn't have time to finish the thought. I'd already moved behind him, silent with chakra cushioning every step.
One swift, precise kick—like a jolt of memory from the days I trained under war clouds—caught him right across the lower back.
He let out a cartoonish scream—"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"—as he slid, flailing, leaving a deep furrow in the sand, and collided with a boulder at the far end of the cove.
For a moment he clung there, splayed like a pancake, before tumbling onto his back, red-faced, sand in his hair, eyes spinning.
Bakugo doubled over, clutching his ribs and wracked with laughter. "HAHAHAHA! Deku, that's what you get for showin' off! HAHAHA—man, this is better than a hero movie!"
"Why are you laughing? It's your turn next-"
Bakugo gulped but still grinned- "BRING IT ON!"