Silence settled over my apartment.
I sat opposite Lord Third at the kotatsu, a contrite and visibly worried Naruko at my side. The Hokage puffed calmly on his pipe, digesting my recount of the lead up to my blunder—my reckless mind meld with the Kyūbi.
I felt awful. I'd scared Naruko by passing out on her, and worse, I'd made the same dumb mistake again. With hindsight, I could admit it: trying a mind-melding jutsu on a demon container was idiotic. Too bad that brilliant thought didn't occur to me before I tried it. Man… kid-brain was a real pain in the ass.
The silence broke with a weary sigh.
"Are you aware of your mistake, Izuku-kun?" Lord Third asked.
"Yes, Hokage-sama," I replied immediately.
"Then there's no need to belabor it. Try to be more level-headed in the future," he said, in the tired tone of a man who had trained too many students and raised too many children to believe that mistakes could be punished out of existence.
Children would be children. Shinobi children? Worse.
I cringed inwardly. It wasn't just the words—it was how true they felt.
"It's not his fault! I'm the one who asked him to use it!" Naruko blurted, eager to jump to my defense.
"Perhaps there's blame to share," the Hokage allowed, "but I won't be the one to divide it. No great harm was done. The guilt you both carry will be punishment enough."
Naruko and I bowed our heads in deference. A light tension hung in the room, which was promptly shattered by the Hokage's soft chuckle.
"Such irony." he mused aloud.
He caught our confused looks and explained with dry amusement, "Your shinobi guard was absent just long enough for mischief to take root."
"Can't even leave you alone for two minutes? Shame, Gremlin-kun. Shame."
I flinched at the sudden voice from behind me—Kakashi Hatake's signature lazy drawl.
Naruko's reaction was far more explosive.
"You!" she shouted, springing to her feet and pointing an accusing finger at the silver-haired ANBU.
"Me," Kakashi replied with a cheerful eye-smile.
"Where were you?!"
The question dampened his mood instantly.
"Personal matters," he said, voice thick and smile gone. The Third, however, now wore a subtle grin of his own, as if Kakashi's joy had migrated to his face.
Why did I get the feeling Kakashi really didn't enjoy those 'personal matters'?
The silence returned, but this time it felt... comfortable. Despite the presence of two people I barely knew, the atmosphere wasn't awkward. Instead, it was filled with a warmth I couldn't quite define.
A few seconds later, I realized what it was.
Comradery.
Of course, peace never lasts.
"Hokage-sama, forgive me, but… why are you here? Not that I begrudge the honor, but I would think your schedule leaves little time for personal visits."
"You're correct," he said. "But I am not the original—I'm a clone."
My eyes widened.
"You were able to extend the range of my jutsu by that much?"
"No," he corrected gently. "This is a different technique entirely—the Shadow Clone Jutsu. An invention of the Second Hokage. Unlike your mind meld clone, this one is completely autonomous."
I blinked, struggling to wrap my head around how a jutsu like that could even function. I could vaguely speculate on the metaphysics involved, but replicating something so complex using a medium as constrained as hand signs? How would that even work? I couldn't imagine any combination of the twelve basic signs we were taught producing that effect without resorting to literally thousands of sequential seals. I had to admit— the gap between me and the Second Hokage was probably wider than the gap between me and an ant. Still, hand signs had their limits.
Then I paused, struck by a sudden realization.
The hand signs I knew had limits.
I froze.
"There are more hand signs?" I whispered, breathless.
"Correct," the Third confirmed, his gaze locking onto mine. There was something in his eyes—emotions I couldn't name, feelings too old and layered for me to understand.
"Over my long life," he said, voice heavy with memory, "I've formed many bonds—bonds of brotherhood, of love, and fatherhood. But none quite like the bond between teacher and student. Mine were as dear to me as my sons."
He sighed deeply.
"I've lost my sons, save one. And most of my students have followed them. The only one who still serves the village lives trapped in fear of his own potential, seeking refuge in delusions and fantasy."
His shoulders slumped a bit, as if the weight of memory had finally found purchase.
"I've done my best to remain steadfast despite the trials of years past. But it has taken its toll. I no longer seek new bonds. Acceptable for a tired old man… but not for the Hokage."
He looked at me now, something gentle and grave in his expression.
"You are gifted, Izuku-kun—not just with intellect, but with heart. Your soul burns with the Will of Fire."
I blinked in confusion. Me? I wasn't exactly a poster child for patriotism.
He caught the disbelief in my face without me saying a word.
"You think the Will of Fire is patriotism? A blind allegiance to Konoha? No. The Will of Fire predates the village. Remember this: Konoha was created to serve the Will of Fire, not the other way around."
My breath caught as I began piecing it together.
"I haven't taken a student in over three decades," he said quietly. "I didn't think I would ever again."
I swallowed hard.
"But… I'm not a shinobi." I protested.
"You are not a member of the military, no. But that does not mean you are not a shinobi, Izuku-kun."
He gave a patient smile.
"Many clan members live as civilians, yet possess the heart of a shinobi. To be shinobi is not a uniform, nor a rank. It is to endure. Many academy graduates never reach that state. But you already have."
"Won't people talk if the Hokage trains someone outside the corps?" I asked.
"Let them," he said with a chuckle. "I shall take you as a student in my capacity as head of the Sarutobi clan. That makes it officially clan business. Let's see how they like the taste of their own medicine."
"...I don't know what to say." I realized then that I did know—I was just afraid. That familiar fear of a crossroad. A fear I'd carried from another life. A child's fear of the unknown.
But knowing it let me name it. And naming it meant I could face it.
"Yes or no will suffice," said the Hokage—my sensei.
The abyss of possibility yawned before me. And like any proper wizard, I leapt headfirst.
"Yes. Thank you for the honor, Hokage-sama."
I stood, bowing deeply in a dogeza. When I returned to my seat, I shared a smile with my new sensei.
"Congratulations, Izuku," Naruko said. Her joy was real—but her smile… a little brittle.
That's when it hit me: Naruko had known Lord Third far longer than I had. Their bond was deep, intimate. If anyone deserved to be his student, it was her.
I glanced at Hiruzen and saw that sad, knowing smile on his face.
"I would be honored to take you as my student, Naruko," he said gently, "but that privilege has already been reserved by others."
His voice was both sincere and firm.
"But do not worry. Every one of your future teachers is a shinobi of great renown. You will not be disappointed."
Naruko's eyes lit up. Her smile turned genuine.
"Really?! Who?!"
"You'll meet them after you graduate—and not a moment sooner."
"Aww, Jiji, that's forever from now!"
"Now that you can perform the Bunshin, you're guaranteed to graduate in eight months."
"Like I said. Forever." she pouted, before breaking into a grin when the Hokage chuckled.
"Wait… can I still learn Izuku's cool jutsu now that you're teaching him?"
"For now? Yes. Izuku-kun has yet to create any jutsu too dangerous for a loyal shinobi of Konoha. Though when he does," the Hokage added with a teasing smile, "they can only be shared with his spouse and children."
"His what now?" Naruko blinked.
"His wife."
"Oh." Her cheeks went pink.
A flustered Naruko was an adorable Naruko.
I turned to my sensei. Despite being a clone, there was weight to his presence, a realness in his mannerism. I wouldn't have ever guessed he wasn't the original.
I wanted to learn that technique. And I was his student now… so maybe…
"S-Sarutobi-sensei," I said, cursing the crack in my voice. I was never good at asking for things.
"Yes, Izuku-kun?" His smile widened—the happiest I'd seen him. He really liked being called sensei. I'll have to remember that.
"Will you be teaching me the Shadow Clone Jutsu?"
"No. Not for a while at the very least. Your reserves aren't high enough yet to cast it safely."
Well, that was disappointing—until I realized who did have enough chakra.
"What about Naruko?" I asked, gesturing at her.
She blinked, then caught on. "Yeah! What about me? I totally have the chakra!"
The Third took a long puff of his pipe—clone pipe?—and watched us with that thoughtful, calculating glint in his eyes.
Naruko and I gave him our best humble, hopeful expressions.
Finally, he sighed.
"Izuku-kun will no doubt continue experimenting with ninjutsu. And I've no doubt you'll assist him." I winced, but didn't deny it.
"Of course I will! I'm his friend."
"I imagine your tests would be much safer with a disposable guinea pig…Very well, Kakashi shall teach you."
Naruko let out a cheer, and I smiled despite myself.
"But only if you both promise to be more careful in the future."
"I promise, Sarutobi-sensei/Jiji." we said.
And I meant it and by the serious look on Naruko's face so did she.
Naruko leaned into my side, bright and eager.
"This is awesome! I'll help you make so many cool jutsu! I mean, I was worried when you passed out, yeah, but if it helps you figure out more cool stuff, then—"
Her smile faltered for a split second. I caught it—guilt flashing across her face.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't want to put you in danger. I just wanted to help."
I shook my head, placing a reassuring hand over hers. "No, Naruko. It's not your fault. I'm the one who didn't think it through. I was reckless. I used the jutsu."
"But I asked you to—"
"And I used it," I interrupted firmly. "If someone had to stand toe-to-toe with a mountain-sized, talking murder-fox, I'd pick me over you any day."
That drew the Third's attention. His brows rose slightly.
"Talking?" he asked, pipe lowering from his lips.
"Yes," I said without hesitation. "The Nine-Tails can talk. Wait… you didn't know?" I hadn't given an account of my time in Naruko's head. A part of me was trying to avoid it until I could think of a way to help her through all that negativity.
Hiruzen blinked once, slowly. "Oh, I knew it could speak. I'm just surprised… it spoke to you."
I nodded. "It wasn't mindless. It was angry, sure, and cruel—but it was capable of reason. And it was… in pain. A lot of it."
There was silence again, heavier this time. Then I asked the question.
"…Why was it sealed in the first place?"
The Third's expression turned grim, shadows lengthening across his face.
"Lord Hashirama sealed it," he said at last, "with the intention of creating peace."
I frowned. "How does sealing a creature like that bring peace?"
"By itself? Nothing," the Hokage said softly. "But Hashirama didn't just seal the Nine-Tails. He sealed all nine of the Tailed Beasts. Then he distributed them across the five great villages as a gesture of goodwill. A shared burden."
I stared at him, stunned. "There are eight others?"
Naruko's brows knitted together, confusion writ plain on her face.
"Wait," she said, "Old Man First thought he could make peace by handing out giant monsters like party favors?"
I couldn't help but agree with the sentiment.
The Third gave a short chuckle. "I understand your confusion. Even the greatest men make mistakes. And the greater their strength, the more devastating the consequences of those mistakes."
Naruko's next words came in a voice small and tight, vulnerability leaking into every syllable.
"…Are there eight others like me?"
I put my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.
The Third's smile faded.
"Yes," he said. His voice was low, and his face looked carved from sorrow.
"…Are they treated better?"
He hesitated—and that hesitation said more than any words could.
When he finally answered, his tone was final.
"No. No, they are not."
Tears welled in the corners of Naruko's eyes, but she blinked them back, swallowed her grief, and straightened up.
Then, slowly, a fierce glint lit up in her eyes, and she smiled—a sharp, unshakable smile filled with fire.
"Well," she said, "I guess I'll just have to help them out when I take the hat."
Her conviction was so bright it stunned the room. The Hokage laughed—not out of mockery, but joy.
"I'm glad you've taken this as motivation, Naruko," he said warmly.
I didn't laugh.
I watched.
Because I'd seen what she'd just done—stuffing her grief into the dark, toxic mire that lingered at the back of her mind like sewer sludge. Before, I would've chalked it up to resilience. Now? Now I know better. I'd been in that mindscape. I knew exactly where that pain was going.
I would have to do something about that. But not today.
Today wasn't about fixing Naruko. It was about learning the truth.
The Third turned to me, his tone shifting.
"Izuku-kun, this jutsu you used on Naruko—can you explain its nature?"
I nodded. "It's based on a feature I developed while experimenting with the Clone Jutsu—the part that allows real-time communication with the clone. Your notes on clone cognition and separation were a huge inspiration."
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Would you be willing to cast it on me?"
I hesitated. "Is that… safe?"
"I'm a Shadow Clone, remember," he said with a grin.
Right. That made it a bit less terrifying.
I brought my hands together and cast the jutsu. Immediately, my senses slipped from the room and into a new landscape.
The mindscape of the Third Hokage.
It was breathtaking.
A perfect replica of Konoha lay before me, bathed in eternal sunset. In the center, towering above all else, stood a massive tree—ancient and weathered, yet deeply rooted and impossibly tall and vast.
It was beautiful.
And yet… something was off.
A flicker at the edge of my perception. A glitch. Like bad code running through perfect machinery.
I followed the disturbance to the Hokage's office. On the desk, alone under the golden light of the setting sun, was a single sheet of paper.
I stepped closer.
On it, written over and over in perfectly neat script, was a single phrase:
Danzo only acts for the good of the village.
I stared at it, disturbed. I didn't know who this "Danzo" was. But I could feel it—this message, this mantra, was gumming up the works of Hiruzen's mind. A logic knot. A broken circuit in the vast machine that was his memory and will.
I left.
And when I returned to the waking world, I looked at the clone beside me.
"Can I try a Genjutsu on you?"
"You may."
I nodded and gathered my chakra. I only knew one Genjutsu: a simple paralysis technique. But I didn't need much.
I gave it a single new function.
A perception filter of sorts.
Forget one thing for the duration of the technique.
Then I cast it.
And I made the Shadow Clone forget the name Danzo.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
The Hokage blinked once, then again.
His eyes widened.
Then the clone popped, vanishing into smoke with a soft hiss.
I sat back bewildered and worried I had just fucked up again.
-Scene break-
A blanket settled over Konoha—an oppressive haze that only those who had once stood at death's doorstep could truly recognize.
Killing intent.
The purest projection of a will to kill—violent purpose made manifest through chakra, so potent it bent the air and pressed on the soul.
Most who had endured it speak of hallucinations: vivid, horrifying visions of their own demise, imagined in grotesque detail by the mind to match the malice behind the chakra.
But that wasn't what was happening.
The last time killing intent smothered the village like this, the Kyūbi had razed a third of Konoha's shinobi. The survivors described it as staring into hell's open mouth—the promises of fire and blood, of tortures unending, and a slow, unrelenting death.
But even that wasn't this.
There were no illusions this time. No nightmarish visions.
Only certainty.
A bone-deep, marrow-cold certainty of death.
Fighting would not save you.
Pleading would not move him.
Running? That only meant you'd die tired.
There was nowhere to hide. He would find you—in your home, in your dreams, across the ends of the world.
Throwing others in his path wouldn't buy time. It would only raise the death toll.
Almost every civilian in Konoha froze in helpless, primal terror. Many shinobi did too.
Among those that didn't—those who remained still, but not out of fear—were the veterans of wars past. Hardened. Experienced.
They remembered.
They recognized this pressure.
And they didn't fear it.
No…
It comforted them.
The God of Shinobi had returned.