The morning sun cast long shadows across Training Ground Forty-Four as Naruto trained.
Five hundred shadow clones filled the Forest of Death, each one working on a different aspect of his combat repertoire. One group refined his Gate usage, pushing the boundaries of how long he could maintain multiple gates simultaneously. Another practiced elemental combinations, weaving wind and lightning into devastating hybrid attacks. A third worked through the copied Scroll of Seals, extracting every technique that might prove useful against a Gentle Fist specialist.
The original Naruto stood at the center of it all, coordinating the training through the mental link he shared with his clones. His body was still, but his mind was in constant motion—processing feedback, adjusting techniques, optimizing approaches.
The anger from the arena had settled into something colder. More focused. Less a raging fire and more a banked furnace, ready to unleash its heat when the time came.
Twenty-three days until the finals.
Twenty-three days until Neji Hyuuga learned the cost of touching what was his.
By midday, Naruto had dispelled most of his clones and absorbed their memories. The influx of experience was staggering—months of training compressed into hours—but his mind had adapted to the process through repeated exposure.
He left the Forest of Death and walked toward the village proper, his body requiring sustenance despite his disinterest in the act of eating.
The streets of Konoha were busy with afternoon activity. Merchants hawked their wares, civilians hurried about their business, and ninja moved across rooftops on various assignments. Naruto walked among them without drawing particular attention—his reputation had grown since the tournament, but most villagers still preferred to pretend he didn't exist.
That was acceptable.
Their acknowledgment had never been something he desired.
His path took him past the commercial district, toward a small restaurant that served adequate nutrition at reasonable prices. But as he rounded a corner near the village's hot springs, a commotion drew his attention.
An old man was crouched behind a fence, giggling to himself as he peered through gaps in the wooden slats. His white hair was wild and unkempt, pulled back into a ponytail that fell past his shoulders. He wore traditional Japanese clothing in a style that seemed decades out of fashion, and red lines ran down his face from his eyes like stylized tears.
The sounds from beyond the fence made the situation immediately clear.
The women's bath.
The man was peeping.
Naruto's analytical mind cataloged the scene—inappropriate behavior, potential security concern, waste of time to address—and reached a conclusion.
Not his problem.
He continued walking.
"Hey! Wait!"
The old man had noticed him. Abandoning his peeping with surprising speed, he scrambled to his feet and jogged after Naruto.
"You're Uzumaki Naruto, aren't you? The kid everyone's been talking about?"
Naruto didn't slow his pace. "Yes."
"Thought so. The whisker marks are a dead giveaway." The man fell into step beside him, his earlier lecherous demeanor giving way to something more calculating. "I've been wanting to meet you. The name's Jiraiya."
"Your name is irrelevant to me."
"Harsh." Jiraiya didn't seem offended. If anything, his grin widened. "You're exactly like they described. Cold, empty, all business. Must be tough, going through life without feeling anything."
"I don't experience toughness. I simply exist."
"Right, right. The whole 'emotionally destroyed by the village' thing." Jiraiya's voice carried a note of something that might have been guilt, quickly suppressed. "Listen, kid, I've been watching the exams. Saw your matches. You've got talent—real talent, not the watered-down version most genin display."
"Your assessment is noted."
"I'm offering to train you."
Naruto finally stopped walking, turning to face the older man with those empty blue eyes.
"No."
"No?" Jiraiya blinked. "Just like that? You don't even want to hear what I can teach you?"
"Your offer is declined. I have no need for additional instruction."
"Kid, I'm not just any instructor." Jiraiya straightened, his chest puffing with obvious pride. "I'm Jiraiya of the Sannin. One of the three legendary ninja trained by the Third Hokage himself. I've fought in wars, trained Kages, and mastered techniques that most ninja only dream of."
Naruto observed him without any change in expression.
"Your credentials are noted. My answer remains unchanged."
Jiraiya's confident demeanor faltered slightly. This wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go. In his experience, genin—especially talented ones—jumped at the chance to train with a legendary Sannin.
This boy wasn't jumping at anything.
"Look, I understand you've got some trust issues. Given how the village treated you, that's completely reasonable. But I'm not like them. I can teach you things no one else in Konoha can."
"Such as?"
"The Rasengan, for starters. Your father's signature technique. I was the one who helped him develop it."
Something flickered in Naruto's eyes—not interest, exactly, but acknowledgment of relevant information.
"The Fourth Hokage's technique. I'm aware of it."
"Then you know how powerful it is. Pure shape transformation, no hand seals required, A-rank destructive capability. With your chakra reserves, you could do things with it that even Minato couldn't imagine."
"Unlikely."
Jiraiya frowned. "Unlikely? Kid, you haven't even learned it yet. How would you know what's unlikely?"
"Because I've already learned it."
Silence.
Jiraiya stared at the boy before him, his legendary composure cracking. "You've... learned the Rasengan?"
"Yes."
"That's impossible. The technique requires months of dedicated practice. Years, for most people. It took Minato three years to develop it, and he was a once-in-a-generation genius."
"Your timeline is irrelevant to my capabilities." Naruto raised his right hand, and without any visible effort, a sphere of compressed chakra materialized in his palm. The familiar grinding roar of the Rasengan filled the air.
Jiraiya's eyes widened.
It was perfect. Not a training attempt, not a partially formed technique—a complete, fully realized Rasengan that matched or exceeded anything Minato had ever produced.
"How—" he started.
Naruto dispelled the technique and formed a different seal.
A second Rasengan appeared, this one crackling with lightning chakra. The distinctive chirping of the Chidori merged with the Rasengan's grinding to create something entirely new—something that shouldn't have been possible to combine.
"Rasendori," Naruto said flatly. "A hybrid technique combining shape transformation with lightning nature transformation."
Jiraiya's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Naruto dispelled that technique as well and formed a third.
This Rasengan was massive—easily three times the diameter of the standard version, its power output creating visible distortions in the air around it.
"Ōdama Rasengan. Increased size and destructive potential through proportional chakra scaling."
He dispelled it.
A fourth formed—this one surrounded by spinning blades of wind chakra that extended outward like a shuriken, shrieking with barely contained cutting power.
"Rasenshuriken. The Rasengan completed with wind nature transformation. Cellular-level destruction on impact."
Jiraiya had gone pale.
He had spent decades training, fighting, and researching techniques. He had helped Minato develop the Rasengan and had watched the Fourth spend years attempting to add elemental nature to it without success.
And here stood a twelve-year-old boy, casually displaying not one but four variants of the technique—including the elemental completion that Minato had died without achieving.
"That's... that's not possible," he whispered.
"And yet it is." Naruto dispelled the Rasenshuriken. "Your offer to teach me the Rasengan is therefore irrelevant. I have already mastered it beyond the level you could provide."
Jiraiya struggled to regain his composure. "Okay. Okay, the Rasengan is off the table. But there's more I can teach you. The Nine-Tails, for instance—I know about the seal, about what's inside you. I can help you access that power, control it, use it—"
"No."
"No? Kid, do you have any idea how much chakra the Nine-Tails contains? Even a fraction of it would multiply your capabilities exponentially. With my help, you could—"
"I have not used the Nine-Tails' chakra and have no intention of doing so."
Jiraiya blinked. "Why not? It's an incredible resource. With proper training—"
"It would become a crutch."
The statement was delivered without emphasis, but its implications were significant.
"A crutch?" Jiraiya repeated.
"Reliance on external power sources creates dependency. If I train with the Nine-Tails' chakra as a baseline, I will develop techniques and strategies that assume its availability. Should that chakra become inaccessible for any reason—seal interference, extraction, suppression—my combat effectiveness would be severely compromised."
Naruto's empty eyes met Jiraiya's. "I prefer to develop capabilities that are entirely my own. The Nine-Tails is a contingency resource, not a foundation."
It was, Jiraiya realized, entirely logical. Cold and pragmatic, but logical.
"Alright," he said slowly, grasping for anything he could still offer. "What about summoning? I'm the toad sage—I can teach you to summon the toads of Mount Myōboku. They're incredibly powerful allies, and the contract has been in your family for generations."
"How often do you use summoning in combat?"
The question caught Jiraiya off-guard. "What?"
"Summoning techniques. How frequently do you employ them in actual combat situations?"
"Well, I..." Jiraiya hesitated. "Not often, I suppose. They're more situational—useful for specific circumstances, transportation, information gathering—"
"So you're offering to teach me a technique that you, a legendary Sannin with decades of combat experience, rarely find practical application for."
"That's not—I mean, it's still valuable—"
"Your offer is declined."
Naruto turned and began walking away.
"Wait!" Jiraiya's voice carried a desperate edge now. "There's something else. Something you need to know."
Naruto paused but didn't turn around.
"I'm not just some random ninja offering training," Jiraiya continued. "I have a personal connection to you. A responsibility."
"Explain."
Jiraiya took a deep breath. This wasn't how he had wanted to reveal this information, but the boy wasn't giving him any other options.
"Minato Namikaze—the Fourth Hokage, your father—he was my student. I trained him from when he was a genin until he became Hokage. He was like a son to me."
Naruto still didn't turn around.
"Which means you..." Jiraiya's voice softened. "You're like a grandson. Family. The only family I have left."
Silence stretched between them.
When Naruto finally spoke, his voice was flat. Emotionless. But something in its timbre had changed—something cold and hard that hadn't been there before.
"Grandfather."
"Yes."
"You're telling me that you consider yourself my grandfather. My family."
"I do. I know I haven't been around—there were reasons, missions, responsibilities—but I always intended to come back. To be part of your life. To—"
"How old am I?"
The question seemed to confuse Jiraiya. "What?"
"My current age. How old am I?"
"Twelve. You're twelve years old."
"Correct." Naruto finally turned, and Jiraiya felt his breath catch at what he saw in those blue eyes.
Not emptiness. Not the hollow void that everyone described.
Cold fury.
The same anger that had emerged in the arena when Neji threatened Hinata—but deeper now, more controlled, more terrible.
"I am twelve years old," Naruto repeated. "I have existed in this village for twelve years. During that time, I was beaten, starved, isolated, and systematically broken by the people you swore to protect. I spent nights in alleys because mobs had driven me from my home. I went days without food because no merchant would sell to the 'demon brat.' I was denied basic human dignity by adults who should have known better, and I was given no protection by the authorities who should have provided it."
His voice remained level, but each word carried weight that pressed against Jiraiya like a physical force.
"And during those twelve years—during every beating, every starvation, every moment of isolation—where were you?"
Jiraiya opened his mouth. Closed it.
"You were conducting research. Running your spy network. Writing your books. Living your life." Naruto's eyes never wavered. "You knew I existed. You knew what I contained. You knew who my father was. And you chose to stay away."
"I had responsibilities—the village needed—"
"The village had jonin. ANBU. A Hokage. An entire infrastructure of ninja capable of gathering intelligence and maintaining security." Naruto's voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. "I had no one. I needed someone. And the man who calls himself my grandfather was too busy peeping at bathhouses to care."
Jiraiya flinched as if struck.
"You appear now—twelve years too late—and offer to train me. To teach me techniques I've already mastered. To be part of a life you chose to abandon." Naruto shook his head slowly. "Your offer is not just declined. It is rejected. Completely and permanently."
"Naruto, please—"
"You are not my grandfather." The words fell like hammer blows. "You are a stranger who shares blood with someone I never knew. Whatever obligation you feel toward me is your burden to carry, not mine to accommodate. I owe you nothing. I want nothing from you. And I have no interest in whatever relationship you imagine we might develop."
He turned away for the final time.
"Find someone else to ease your guilt. I am not available for that purpose."
Jiraiya reached out a hand. "Wait—"
But Naruto was already gone, vanishing with a burst of speed that left the legendary Sannin grasping at empty air.
Jiraiya stood alone in the street, his hand still extended toward the space where his godson had been.
Twelve years too late.
The words echoed in his mind, each repetition cutting deeper than the last.
He had told himself stories. Justified his absence with important missions, critical intelligence, the good of the village. Had convinced himself that Naruto was being cared for, that Hiruzen was watching over him, that everything would be fine until Jiraiya was ready to return.
But everything hadn't been fine.
And now the boy—the cold, empty, impossibly powerful boy—wanted nothing to do with him.
Jiraiya's legendary composure finally cracked.
He sank onto a nearby bench, his head dropping into his hands.
"Minato," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
But apologies couldn't change the past.
And the boy who should have been his family had made it very clear that apologies weren't enough.
Across the village, hidden in shadows, Anko watched Naruto walk away from the confrontation.
She had followed him as she always did, observing from a distance, ensuring his safety without intruding on his solitude. She had seen the old man approach, had recognized Jiraiya of the Sannin, had watched the entire conversation play out.
And she had seen the anger.
Not the cold fury he had displayed in the arena—this was different. Deeper. More personal. The anger of someone who had been abandoned, recognizing one of the people responsible for that abandonment.
Her maternal instincts screamed at her to go to him. To hold him. To offer comfort for the pain he couldn't feel but clearly still remembered.
But something else held her back.
He needed to process this himself. Needed to work through whatever these emerging emotions meant without interference.
So she followed from the shadows, watching over him, ready to catch him if he fell.
It was all she could do.
For now.
Naruto walked through the village streets without destination, his mind processing the encounter with unusual difficulty.
The anger was still there—burning hotter now than it had since the arena. Jiraiya's casual revelation, his assumption that family connection would matter, his apparent expectation that Naruto would welcome him despite twelve years of absence—
It made him furious.
And fury was still strange. Still uncomfortable. Still a sensation he didn't know how to process.
But it was also... clarifying.
Jiraiya was irrelevant. His guilt, his offers, his belated attempts at connection—none of it mattered. The past could not be changed, and Naruto had no interest in building a future that included people who had chosen to abandon him.
He had his training. His techniques. His growing power.
And he had the devoted women—seven of them now—who had chosen him when no one else would. Who cared for him despite his inability to reciprocate. Who would never abandon him, no matter what.
That was enough.
It would have to be enough.
Because Naruto had learned, through twelve years of painful experience, that counting on anyone else led only to disappointment.
He increased his pace, heading toward his apartment.
The training would continue.
The anger would be channeled.
And in twenty-two days, Neji Hyuuga would learn what happened to people who threatened what was his.