Not long after, Brandon White dove into his meal with gusto.
Braised pork bones, chicken drumsticks, beef, seafood, desserts—
He ate plate after plate of ready-to-eat dishes and sweets, and once the hotpot broth started boiling, he tossed in rolls of beef and lamb, fish balls, egg rolls—cooking them quickly before devouring them by the mouthful.
He completely ignored the scalding heat of the food.
Meanwhile, his stomach churned away, rapidly digesting everything he sent down. No matter how much he ate, his belly never seemed to bulge.
"Maybe I should start stocking up on energy bars. If my appetite's like this now, it'll only get crazier."
"Or maybe I can just buy some Sea King meat from Whitebeard?"
He mulled it over as he ate.
Sea King meat was packed with nutrients—far more effective than normal food.
Cooking wasn't a problem; he could just find a restaurant to prep it for him.
As long as nobody tried shipping a whole Sea King to his house, it wouldn't be an issue.
After tallying up how much he'd eaten, Brandon wiped his mouth and left—not because he was full, but to avoid attracting too much attention.
Even though eating-streamers were everywhere these days and "big eaters" weren't that strange, it was just his luck someone would film him and upload it online.
He didn't want that kind of trouble, so it was safer to just find another restaurant.
There were plenty of buffets nearby, anyway.
Patting his stomach, Brandon felt fantastic. He could literally sense warmth spreading from his core to every muscle and bone.
That tangible feeling of getting stronger was addictively satisfying.
He ended up visiting three different buffets before finally feeling truly full and heading home.
After a short rest, he jumped right back into training.
The weekend had finally arrived, and he didn't want to waste a single minute.
Training was addictive—especially when you could feel yourself leveling up with every session.
Sure, effortless gains were nice, but there was something just as satisfying about earning progress through your own hard work.
Brandon wanted both.
As he trained, all the food he'd eaten was broken down and converted into pure energy, fueling his transformation.
All around him, invisible motes of multicolored light drifted through the air and into his body, boosting both his powers and his physique.
—
While Brandon was focused on his workout, something amusing was happening in the chat group.
Golden Flash: "It won't be long now—Naruto's almost here! I can't wait. (excited.jpg)"
Golden Flash: "This time, I swear I'm not letting anything bad happen."
Golden Flash: "(determined.jpg)"
Evilest Spirit: "Oh."
Ordinary Group Leader: "Oh."
Uchiha Dance King: "Oh."
Souping Up Dagu: "Oh."
That's Right, Meow: "Oh."
Minato's declaration barely caused a ripple in the group—if anything, everyone kind of wanted him to stop talking.
Golden Flash: "Why do you all sound so bored? Did I say something wrong?"
Minato couldn't understand their indifference. Wasn't this a big deal? He felt pretty awkward.
Ordinary Group Leader: "You've said this how many times now? Huh? HOW MANY TIMES?"
Ordinary Group Leader: "I get why you're excited, but there's still six months until the Nine-Tails attack."
Ordinary Group Leader: "SIX. MONTHS."
Ordinary Group Leader: "Please, don't mention anything about Naruto again until there's only two weeks left. Thank you."
Souping Up Dagu: "Agreed."
Evilest Spirit: "Seconded."
Come Be My Son: "Not wrong."
Golden Flash: "...Okay."
Maybe he was getting a little carried away.
He couldn't help it, though—every time he saw Kushina's smile and her hope for Naruto, he'd think of everything Naruto would go through.
He honestly couldn't imagine how his son had managed to stay optimistic after so much hardship.
Even he—well, that was just bragging.
There's no way he could've done what Naruto did.
Honestly, it was lucky he was the one who joined the chat group; if Kushina had, she'd probably storm the Hokage's office and strangle Danzo herself.
If he could, Minato would do the same. But he wasn't just Naruto's dad—he was also the Fourth Hokage of the Leaf.
Without real proof, he couldn't touch the village elders.
And gathering that proof would take time.
So, for now, all he could do was work to prevent the Nine-Tails attack.
—
Souping Up Dagu: "By the way, did any of you draw from the lottery lately?"
Ordinary Group Leader: "Wish I could, but I've got no points."
Ordinary Group Leader: "(panda-headache.jpg)"
Ordinary Group Leader: "I only get three or four points each time I check in. I'm up to twenty-three."
Ordinary Group Leader: "Ugh..."
Roxie wiped away nonexistent tears—she'd finally accepted her role as the group's official bad-luck magnet.
Not once had she gotten more than five points from the daily sign-in.
Even Kurumi, Dagu, Madara, and Whitebeard—who were all pretty unlucky—had managed six or seven at least once.
But her? Never!
Come Be My Son: "Kurararara, I actually scored a bunch of points this week—traded Sea King meat, famous swords, Armament Haki, and the Marine Six Styles."
Evilest Spirit: "How many points did you get?"
Suddenly, Kurumi was wide awake. She'd managed a few trades herself, but the points were always pitiful.
Maybe the chat group was biased against tech, or maybe she just kept handing in common items—whatever it was, nothing she found seemed worth much.
Ordinary Group Leader: "Even if you're just trading the methods for Haki and the Six Styles, that's still really valuable."
Ordinary Group Leader: "And the swords—are those top-grade? Supreme Grade? I doubt you could get a Supreme, right?"
Ordinary Group Leader: "Wait, where did you get the Marine Six Styles?"
Armament Haki, she could understand.
Swords, sure—top, great, or even supreme, she'd heard of those.
But the Marine Six Styles…
How the heck did a pirate like Whitebeard have the Navy's signature martial art?!
Come Be My Son: "Kurararara, the Marine Six Styles aren't that complicated—I just had to watch a few times to figure them out."
Souping Up Dagu: "???"
Evilest Spirit: "???"
Ordinary Group Leader: "???"
Golden Flash: "???"
Child of Nature: "Did you even listen to yourself just now?"
The Marine Six Styles were supposed to be the result of brutal training, designed to push the human body to its absolute limits.
Nobody could master them without serious, dedicated effort.
(End of Chapter)