In front of Nagato, a tiny red dot flickered wildly on the map, like it had just chugged five cups of sake. It bounced erratically from one spot to another, making Nagato's heart do the hokey pokey every time it jumped. The battlefield was turning into a grim game of "last dot standing," as more and more shinobi disappeared from the screen, one by one, like bad party guests.
Nagato squinted.
"That's definitely Minato," he muttered, eyes narrowing with a mix of awe and 'I've got to get that move' determination.
"The Yellow Flash himself. If I can learn his Flying Thunder God technique, I might just skip the whole 'puppet getting tossed around' part of my story."
No time for rest or tea breaks. With the grace of a cat on espresso, Nagato kicked open his window (because who needs doors when you're on a mission?) and launched himself into the trees, sprinting faster than a ninja late for ramen night.
Nagato was cautious by nature. Even with his Rinnegan peeking out like a cosmic owl, he knew he wasn't invincible. One wrong move, and it'd be lights out.
Still, the chance to snag some space-time ninja magic? Totally worth risking a bruise or two.
From his lofty perch, he spotted other ninja from Iwagakure and Konoha tangled up in the chaos below. The tension was thicker than a bowl of miso soup.
Nagato stayed high and dry, letting his Rinnegan glow softly as he watched the flash of yellow lightning tear through the battlefield.
Minato moved like he'd broken physics: disappearing here, slashing there, leaving nothing but a streak of yellow light and stunned shinobi in his wake.
One Iwa ninja shouted, "Who the heck is that?!"
While another whimpered, "The new Death God of Konoha... The Yellow Flash... he's like a ninja wizard on steroids!"
Nagato smirked.
"A wizard, huh? I can work with that."
He let his Rinnegan feast on every move, soaking in the genius behind Minato's technique. The way he bent space like a sushi chef folding seaweed—it was poetry in motion.
This wasn't just brute force; it was battlefield choreography on a cosmic scale.
The Iwa forces flailed like they'd been handed chopsticks but no sushi.
Minato's lightning-fast assaults left them scrambling, broken and retreating.
Konoha's forces, bruised but victorious, began to pull back as the carnage settled like dust after a stampede.
Nagato studied the scene.
"Iwa and Konoha, huh? Not the Explosions Corps—that lot only showed up in the Third Ninja War. These guys actually have a bit of sense."
Once the field was clear, Nagato dropped down like a shadow and walked among the fallen. Blood, smoke, and lost dreams scented the air.
"Finally, some quiet. And plenty of intel," he muttered, crouching beside a downed Iwa ninja.
His Rinnegan flared, diving deep into the ninja's memories like a kid stealing cookies from the jar.
Strategies, fears, last-ditch plans—they all poured into Nagato's mind.
Valuable stuff. Like reading the secret menu at your favorite ramen shop.
But then, a light bulb moment.
Could he steal Minato's Flying Thunder God technique?
He'd watched the Yellow Flash dance through the battlefield like a ninja ballerina for hours now.
Thanks to his time travel detour and Naruto binge-watching sessions, maybe—just maybe—he could pull it off.
Nagato chuckled to himself.
"Guess all that Naruto reruns paid off. Who knew watching anime was a training method?"
This wasn't just mimicry.
No, this was destiny with a sprinkle of stubbornness.
The power to twist time and space was more than a flashy move; it was a ticket to rewriting his tragic story.
Surrounded by silent witnesses to war's cruelty, Nagato made his choice:
"Master the Flying Thunder God, bend space to my will, and flip the script on my fate."
Because being the tragic puppet?
Nah.
It was time for Nagato to be the puppet master.
Would you like me to format any other parts similarly?