"Yoru , don't give up. With your skills, becoming a Puppet Technique Jōnin won't be hard—you're just missing the S-rank mission record."
Chōji Akimichi clapped Umino Yoru on the shoulder, his expression full of encouragement. "You've already got one S-rank under your belt. When I get the chance, I'll take you on another. Before you know it, you'll be a Konoha Jōnin!"
Chōji burst into laughter. Mentoring a future jōnin—especially a competent, loyal subordinate—was always satisfying. And what leader wouldn't want to promote such a valuable asset?
After all, Konoha jōnin held voting rights for Hokage elections. This would subtly strengthen the Akimichi clan's political influence, wouldn't it?
In peacetime, two S-rank records might not be enough. But now, during war? Talent was scarce, and fast-track promotions were common. Two S-ranks—plus his personal recommendation—would guarantee approval.
Once Yoru made jōnin, hidden benefits would flood in. Nara clan medicines? No longer out of reach.
And with jōnin status came political clout—enough to secure lucrative business ventures in Konoha. Given Yoru 's culinary genius, opening a high-end restaurant would rake in obscene profits.
And as his patron and initial investor?
"Cha-ching."
The thought of endless gourmet feasts made Chōji even more enthusiastic.
"Alright, Yoru ! Pay close attention—I'll teach you the Shadow Clone Jutsu!"
He slowed his hand seals to a crawl—one seal every two seconds—while meticulously explaining chakra flow and key techniques.
Yoru 's eyes locked onto Chōji's movements, his Subsonic Radar dissecting every micro-adjustment in chakra circulation.
The moment Chōji formed the final Tiger Seal—
Yoru 's hands became a blur.
One. Second. Five. Seals.
"Shadow Clone Jutsu!"
"Shadow Clone Jutsu!"
Two voices, one technique—executed simultaneously.
Chōji: "…???"
What the hell?
That speed—five seals per second?!
And he learned a B-rank jutsu after one demonstration?! Even among jōnin, this was insane.
"Yoru … you've practiced this before, right?"
Chōji refused to believe it. Without the Sharingan's copy ability, mastering high-level ninjutsu required years of drilling.
Yet Yoru shrugged.
"It's not that hard. Just burns a lot of chakra."
Chōji's eye twitched.
"Not that hard?! It's a B-rank technique! Most chūnin take months to learn this!"
But seeing Yoru 's flawless execution, he could only sigh.
"With talent like this… it's a damn shame."
If not for his crippling chakra reserves, Yoru wouldn't just make jōnin—he'd be Elite Jōnin material.
"Don't lose heart. Even with low-level jutsu, tactics can compensate."
Chōji gave a final pat before leaving, his mood oddly melancholic—as if he were the one held back by limitations.
Watching Chōji go, Yoru felt zero despair.
Who said only bloodlines grant power?
How many clan-born shinobi could guarantee they'd reach jōnin?
And as for chakra reserves—since when were they unchangeable?
Orochimaru's experiments. Jinchūriki seals. Samehada fusion. Kekkei Genkai integration. Sage Mode. Gelel mines. Bīhōro's Ghoul Possession. The Eight Gates. Seven Breathing Forms.
Even today's Akimichi Digestion Technique—while not as direct—could evolve into something greater.
If those gluttons could store energy as fat, why couldn't he adapt it?
And if all else failed—nutritional therapy alone could replenish his depleted reserves.
Once his body recovered, unlocking a second chakra nature and reaching jōnin-level capacity wouldn't be impossible.
"Huh. Suddenly starving again."
His intestines were working overtime.
Too hungry to cook, Yoru grabbed the 100 pounds of smoked fish he'd prepared earlier.
Perfect timing.
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