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Ichiraku Ramen had never seen such business.
The modest establishment normally hosted a steady trickle of regulars and the occasional newcomer drawn by reputation. Today, however, every seat was filled, with patrons standing three-deep behind the counter, craning their necks for any open space. The line stretched down the street, yet few complained about the wait.
They weren't there for the ramen.
"—can't believe I never saw it myself," said an older jonin with greying temples, leaning over his half-finished bowl. "The resemblance is uncanny."
His companion nodded, the leaf village band on his bandana catching the afternoon light. "Our Fourth Hokage's son was hidden in plain sight all these years. Makes you wonder what else Sarutobi kept from us."
At a nearby table, three merchants had already picked up the thread, their voices pitched low in excited speculation.
"My sister-in-law works in the records office," said one, a balding man with ink-stained fingers. "Claims she suspected for years. The birth dates align perfectly with the Nine-Tails attack."
"Convenient timing, though," replied his companion, a leather merchant who had once refused to sell sandals to a certain blond orphan. "Danzo swoops in, reveals this secret, and suddenly has himself the perfect weapon."
The third merchant, older than the others, set down his chopsticks with deliberate care. "I saw the boy during the invasion. Tore through those Sound ninjas like they were Academy students. If he's half the shinobi his father was—"
"That's assuming this isn't some political fabrication," interrupted the leather merchant.
A retired kunoichi at the adjacent table snorted loudly enough to be heard. Her weathered face spoke of decades in service, and the others quieted instinctively at her derisive sound.
"Politics or not, I was there when Minato and Kushina died," she said without turning to face them. "Anyone who served in the Third War and can't see Namikaze in that boy's face is either blind or stupid. Which are you claiming to be?"
The leather merchant flushed but offered no reply.
Outside, the line stretched well past the neighbouring shops, with dozens of villagers willing to endure the wait. Unlike the shinobi inside who at least maintained pretences of discretion, the civilians in line spoke openly, their voices a cacophony of shock, scepticism, and wonder.
"—heard he can use water ninjutsu like Lord Second—" said a greengrocer to her neighbour.
"Just like his mother," replied an elderly man with a cane.
Halfway down the line, a group of construction workers who had been rebuilding after the invasion debated animatedly.
"I'm telling you," insisted a broad-shouldered carpenter, "those weren't normal clones. My cousin's on perimeter patrol, says the kid sent them out by the dozen. Not just copies, neither—each one thinking independently, fighting differently."
"That's called a shadow clone," said his coworker dryly. "What did you think they were?"
"Normal clones pop if you sneeze at 'em," replied the carpenter. "These things were taking down those Sound ninja solo."
"Still the demon fox's power," muttered a third worker, wiping sweat from his brow despite the mild weather.
A nearby mother with two small children turned sharply. "Watch your mouth. That's the Fourth Hokage's son you're talking about."
The construction worker held up his hands defensively. "Just saying what everyone was saying last week. Now suddenly he's royalty?"
"He always was," interjected a grey-haired woman waiting patiently in line. "We just didn't know it. My husband was an ANBU under the Fourth—before you ask, yes, he's dead now. But he always said Namikaze was the kindest leader we ever had, and we've been spitting on his legacy for fourteen years."
Near the entrance, a group of academy students peered through the noren curtains, trying to catch glimpses of the conversations inside.
"My dad says he's going to be Hokage someday, just like his father," whispered a pig-tailed girl.
"My mom says it's all a big lie," countered a boy with a runny nose.
A third child, older than the others, scoffed. "Your mom also thought the Uchiha clan left on some special mission. Adults believe what they want."
Further back in the line, a textile merchant spoke quietly with her assistant. "I want you to find that jacket pattern we put aside last month. Modify it—make it similar to the Fourth's design."
"But Nanako," protested the young man, "last week you said you'd never stock anything that 'demon child' might want."
The merchant's face tightened. "Times change. Opinions change. If we don't adapt, we go out of business. Now do as I say."
Two middle-aged women standing nearby exchanged knowing glances.
"Suddenly everyone's his best friend," murmured one, adjusting her scarf.
"Just last month, my neighbour was complaining that the 'fox brat' frightened her cat as he ran over her roof," agreed the other. "This morning she was telling everyone how she always thought he had the Fourth's eyes."
"Well, he does," said a third woman, inserting herself into their conversation. "Have you seen the memorial stone portrait? Same blue, same shape. How did none of us notice?"
"Because we weren't looking," said the first woman quietly. "We saw what we expected to see."
Near the back of the line, a street vendor had set up an impromptu stall selling hastily printed photographs of the Fourth Hokage alongside copies of what he claimed were "exclusive images" from the promotion ceremony. A small crowd had gathered around him.
"Get your commemorative pictures!" he called. "The Yellow Flash and his legacy! Special price today only!"
Ino Yamanaka wandered up the street, nearing the crowd. She stopped, craning her neck and then moved closer to see the pictures the man was talking about.
"This isn't even from the ceremony," she said, pointing to the photos of Naruto. "This is right before his match against the Sand girl in the tournament's first round."
The vendor shrugged. "Limited supply, high demand. Market economics, esteemed shinobi."
She shook her head and walked away, but several civilians eagerly handed over coins for the dubious merchandise.
Back inside Ichiraku, near the entrance, two chunin instructors from the Academy huddled over sake cups, their conversation weighted with professional regret.
His younger colleague winced at something the older man said.
At the far end of the counter, three jonin who had served as guards during the promotion ceremony debated in hushed tones.
"Strategically brilliant," commented one, chewing on a senbon needle. "Danzo reveals the heritage, capitalises on the shock value, and aligns himself with the Fourth's memory all at once."
"Did you see Hatake's face when Danzo produced that jacket?" asked the second jonin. "Almost exactly like the White Fang's."
"Hard to see anyone's face when half the room was gasping," replied the third. "Though I noticed the Sannin didn't look surprised. Must have known."
"Everyone who needed to know, knew," interjected an elderly man from two seats over, his headband bearing scratches so old they had almost worn away the Leaf insignia. "The Yellow Flash had enemies in every nation. The Stone alone would have sent assassins before the boy could walk."
A young chunin who had been listening gathered his courage to join the conversation. "Is it true what they're saying? That during the invasion, he created dozens of shadow clones to drive off the enemy?"
"Saw it myself," confirmed the elderly shinobi.
Four civilian women at a nearby table exchanged uncomfortable glances as they overheard.
"My Hiro used to throw rocks at that boy," whispered one, her face pinched with guilt.
"We all have regrets," murmured another, stirring her ramen without eating. "Though some more than others."
A broad-shouldered man in a butcher's apron entered through the blinds. He poked his head outside the establishment and scanned the crowd before finding who he sought inside—a thin man in wire-rimmed glasses.
"You heard the news, Ito?" he called across the busy shop.
"About the demon—" Ito stopped himself, recalibrating mid-sentence. "About Uzumaki? The Hokage's announcement?"
"Just saw him walking with that Akimichi teammate of his," the butcher said, squeezing onto a bench. "Wearing a jacket like the Fourth's. Makes you think, doesn't it?"
A middle-aged woman with her hair in a severe bun interjected from across the table. "Makes me think we've been fools. My husband was saved by the Fourth during the war. And all these years, we've let his son eat garbage and live in that awful apartment building."
"Not all of us," said a silver-haired civilian man quietly. "Teuchi here never turned him away."
The conversations briefly paused as attention turned to the ramen chef, who continued working without acknowledging the comment. His daughter, however, straightened her shoulders slightly as she delivered fresh bowls to waiting customers.
"Heard the Hyuuga are making overtures," resumed one of the jonin after the moment passed. "Apparently, the clan head himself invited him to a clan gathering at Yakiniku Q a few nights back."
"Political manoeuvring," scoffed his companion. "Just like the merchant guilds suddenly finding 'celebratory promotion gifts' for him."
"Can you blame them?" asked the third jonin. "Son of the Fourth, Jinchūriki of the Nine-Tails, and by all accounts, the one who took down a tailed beast during the exams. I'd want him in my corner too."
At a small table near the wall, a group of retired chunin played cards, their conversation less guarded than their active-duty counterparts.
"Never understood why the Third didn't tell us," said one, slapping down a card with too much force. "After all these years..."
"Politics," replied a one-eyed woman across from him. "Always politics. Lord Third made his choices, and now Danzo's using them to his advantage."
"Still doesn't sit right," muttered a third player. "The Fox killed my brother. Spent thirteen years blaming the vessel."
"And now?" prompted the woman.
The man's weathered face showed conflict. "And now I find out he's Namikaze's son. Man who saved my life three times in the war. Don't know what to think anymore."
Two tables over, a man in a merchant's rich robes spoke conspiratorially to his companions. "My sources say the boy doesn't even know about the inheritance."
"Won't stay that way for long," replied his companion, a woman with calculating eyes.
Near the entrance, the line continued to grow as word spread through the village. Those who had already eaten lingered, reluctant to leave the hub of information. New arrivals pushed forward, not for the legendary ramen, but for a taste of the rumours and revelations that had rocked the foundations of the Hidden Leaf.
In the midst of it all, Ayame moved between tables with an exhausted efficiency, her expression revealing nothing as fragments of conversation washed over her:
"—always had the same calm as his father—"
"—and his mother's foul mouth and temper when he was younger—"
"—wonder if he knows the Flying Thunder God Jutsu yet—"
"—still say it's convenient timing for Danzo—"
"—my daughter cried when I told her, said she'd been mean to him at the Academy—"
"—guess we've been protected by the Fourth's legacy all along—"
As the afternoon stretched into evening, the conversations continued to swirl and eddy like leaves caught in a whirlpool. Old prejudices collided with new revelations. Historical grievances met fresh understanding. Political suspicions mingled with genuine remorse.
And throughout it all, the rhythmic sounds of Ichiraku's kitchen continued—the bubbling broth, the slice of knife on cutting board, the sizzle of fresh ingredients hitting hot oil. The mundane backdrop to a village rewriting its understanding of the past fourteen years, one bewildered conversation at a time.