ryusei: I want everything you have on the menu.
The waiter blinked. His pen froze mid-air. His bushy eyebrows shot up as he glanced around the small room, at the walls lined with faded posters of local festivals, at the shelves stacked with mismatched bowls. The other patrons—farmers mostly, from the dirt under their nails and the weary slump in their shoulders—paused their chats to sneak looks my way. Their eyes were curious but not hostile yet. Just that small-town nosiness that made me itch under the collar of Ryusei's vest.
waiter: Are you sure, sir?
He leaned in a bit. His breath carried a whiff of garlic from whatever he'd been chopping in the back. Doubt creased his forehead like he thought I was either drunk or pulling his leg. The notepad crinkled in his grip as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was probably calculating the hassle of firing up the grill for every damn item they had listed on that grease-stained menu tacked to the wall behind the counter.
I reached into my pouch. The one I'd looted off those Suna nins after the dust settled. Their bodies were ash, but their ryo was heavy and real. It clinked satisfyingly as I pulled out a handful. The coins spilled onto the table with a metallic jingle that turned a few more heads. The gold and silver caught the dim lantern light swinging overhead. A small fortune from their mission funds, plus what I'd haggled for those damaged puppets from the special jonin. I'd sold them quick to a shady merchant on the outskirts who didn't ask questions about the scorch marks or the lingering scent of fox fire.
ryusei: Yup.
I pushed the pile toward him. My tone was casual but firm. I watched his eyes widen at the amount. It was more than enough to cover the feast and leave a tip that'd probably make his month. The coins scattered a bit as they hit the worn wood. One rolled to the edge before he snatched it up, his fingers quick and grateful.
He nodded fast. He scooped up the ryo with a mumbled,
waiter: Right away, sir.
He hustled back to the kitchen. He started shouting orders in a local dialect that I pieced together from Ryusei's memories. Bits of shouts for meat, noodles, rice. The clatter of pots and pans kicked up as the cook, probably his wife or brother from the familiar banter echoing out, got to work. The smells intensified almost immediately. That savory waft of barbecue sauce mixing with broth simmering and vegetables frying. My mouth watered despite the knot of thoughts twisting in my gut. Thoughts about what I'd just done. The lives I'd ended not out of heroism but survival. The way their screams in the genjutsu still echoed faintly in my ears like a bad dream I couldn't shake.
I sat there. Fingers drumming on the table. Staring at the empty space in front of me. My mind wandered back to the loot in my scroll. The bloodied headbands, ruffled and stained, tucked away like trophies or evidence. Depending on how I played it when I got back to Konoha. The possibility of cashing them in to the Hokage flickered like a tempting light. Maybe bumping me—Ryusei—up to special jonin with the intel on Suna's resource grabs. The salary boost meaning more ryo for the orphanage. Fulfilling that kid's quiet dream of helping out. But then Danzo's shadow loomed in my thoughts. ROOT still budding but dangerous. His tendrils probably already sniffing for talents like Ryusei's genjutsu knack. The risk of getting pulled into that dark web made my appetite waver for a second.
And then the first plates arrived.
The waiter started bringing out the spread. Tray after tray balanced precarious on his arms. The steam rose hot and inviting. He set down barbecued meats first. Skewers of tender pork glazed in a sweet-savory sauce that dripped onto the plate. Charred edges crispy from the grill. Alongside chicken thighs marinated in herbs I'd never tasted but Ryusei's memories named as local wild garlic and ginger. The aroma punched through my nostrils and pulled me back to the moment.
Then came several bowls of ramen. One with thick pork bone broth swirling with noodles and topped with sliced eggs, green onions, and bamboo shoots that bobbed invitingly. Another miso-based with chunks of tofu and seaweed adding that umami kick. And yet another spicy variant where red chili oil floated on top, promising a burn that'd wake up my senses after the numbness of battle.
Then came the others. Fried rice studded with veggies and bits of egg. Stir-fried greens slick with oyster sauce. Dumplings steamed soft and filled with minced pork and chives, their skins translucent and juicy. A plate of tempura vegetables light and crunchy, dipped in a tentsuyu sauce that balanced salty and sweet. Sushi rolls wrapped tight with fresh fish from the nearby rivers, the rice vinegared just right. And even desserts sneaking in like mochi dusted with kinako powder and red bean paste.
The waiter huffed a bit as he made trip after trip. He finally stepped back with a,
waiter: Enjoy, sir.
His eyes lingered curious on the mountain of food before he retreated. Leaving me alone with the feast. The other diners were whispering now. Their glances more obvious. But I ignored them. My focus narrowed to the plates. The hunger overrode the stares.
I picked up the chopsticks. Fumbling at first. Ryusei's memories helped. The muscle recall of years holding them steady. But my old Derek habits kicked in awkwardly. Pinching too hard at first. The sticks clacking together before I got the grip right. I dove into the barbecue pork skewer. Tearing off a chunk with my teeth when the chopsticks slipped. The meat was hot and juicy. It exploded with flavor on my tongue. That smoky char mixed with the sweet glaze in a way that made me groan low. Forgetting etiquette as I ravaged it.
I moved next to the ramen. Slurping noodles loud and unapologetic. Broth dribbled down my chin. The rich pork taste warmed my insides. Chasing away the chill of the killings. The way Rei's broken arm had cracked under my punch replayed in my mind. But it was pushed aside by the spicy kick from the chili oil in the next bowl. Making my eyes water but in a good way. A distraction from the bloodied headbands in my scroll. The proof of my deeds that could elevate Ryusei's status. Special jonin pay meaning security for Nono and the kids.
But Danzo's face from the anime memories loomed. His schemes already brewing even if ROOT wasn't full-blown yet. The threat of recruitment or worse made me pause mid-bite. Chopsticks hovering over the dumplings. Steam curled up as I pondered the risk. The way he'd twist talents into tools. Nono's fate in canon was a warning bell in my head. Her kindness crushed under his ambitions. And here I was. Wearing Ryusei's skin. Absorbing his dreams of marrying her one day. Protecting the orphanage. The simple life he craved clashed with my yokai instincts that whispered power. Survival at any cost.
The inner conflict churned as I popped a dumpling in my mouth. The wrapper burst with hot filling. Juice ran down my hand. The taste grounded me momentarily.
And then the overheard chatter pulled me out.
At the table next to mine, two farmers leaned in close. Their voices carried over the clink of my bowls.
farmer one: Heard the Third Raikage's ramping up training. Got new forces drilling day and night in Kumo. Pushing 'em hard like war's on the horizon.
His tone was heavy with worry. A chopstick gestured as he spoke.
farmer two: Yeah. And it's not just them. Iwa's doing the same. Onoki barking orders for more earth users. Stockpiling. And even Kiri's misty bastards are sharpening blades. Feels like the whole world's tensing up.
Their words blended with the slurp of my ramen. Making me sigh deep as I kept eating. The flavors now mixed with a bitter edge in my thoughts. This could be, who knows, a year or two before the Third Shinobi War kicks off. The timelines from the anime were fuzzy but the signs matched. Villages arming up. Tensions simmering like the broth in my bowl. And me caught in the middle. A reincarnated fox playing ninja.
The headbands in my scroll were a ticket to promotion but also a spotlight I might not want. Special jonin status was tempting with the ryo flow. Enough to fund the orphanage like Ryusei dreamed. Send back supplies. Maybe court Nono properly as he imagined in those shy memories. Her laugh echoed in my head from his recollections. Warm and genuine.
But Danzo's shadow crept in again. ROOT's early tendrils already snaking through Konoha. Underdeveloped compared to later but still a threat. Agents watching for potentials like Ryusei. Genjutsu talent. No clan ties making him easy pickings. The fear of being drafted into that black ops hell made me chew slower. The barbecue chicken now tasted a bit ashy. Like the remnants of fox fire on those puppets I'd sold for quick cash. The merchant's greedy grin flashed in my mind as he handed over the ryo without questions. The weight of it in my pouch a reminder of the bodies I'd left behind. No freakout like I expected but a cold acceptance that scared me more. Yokai nature seeping in. Demon impulses whispering it's fine, they were threats. But Ryusei's softer side tugged back. His memories of orphanage nights huddled with Nono reading stories. The kids' laughter a balm against the shinobi grind. And now me carrying that torch.
I sighed as I shoveled in fried rice. The grains were sticky and flavorful with egg and veggies.
The overheard talk turned to local worries.
farmer one: If war comes, our fields'll be battlegrounds. Konoha's claim or not.
farmer two: Better stock up while we can.
Their words fueled my inner debate. Promotion meant power to protect but also eyes on me. Danzo's perhaps. The risk of losing Nono like in canon twisted my gut tighter than the spicy ramen's burn.
The spread before me dwindled as I ravaged on. Chopsticks more confident now. Dipping into tempura. The crunch was satisfying but not enough to drown the thoughts. The bloodied headbands were a gamble. Cash in for glory or bury them and stay low. The sigh escaped again as I pondered. The restaurant's hum faded into my swirling mind. The flavors a temporary escape from the looming storm.
Another table caught my ear. A merchant type was chatting with a traveler.
merchant: Suna's quiet but you know they're hurting for resources. Probably why they're poking around borders.
traveler: Heard the same about other villages. Everyone's training like mad. Raikage's got his Black Lightning squad pushing limits.
Their dialogue wove into my monologue. Confirming the pre-war vibes. A year or two at most before it all explodes. And me with Ryusei's face. His dreams. My power. The headbands proof of Suna incursion that could tip scales. Promotion to special jonin flashed visions of better pay. Missions with clout. Protecting Nono from afar. But Danzo's ROOT lurking. His manipulative ass seeing potential in Ryusei. The underdeveloped network still capable of snatching lives. Nono's fate a cautionary tale I could rewrite.
The sushi roll in my mouth was fresh and cool. Contrasting the heat of worry. Chopsticks clicked as I grabbed mochi next. The sweet powder dusted my fingers. The inner tug-of-war raged. Yokai urges to hoard power clashed with Ryusei's simple wants. The ryo from loots a start but promotion a leap. Yet the threat was real.
I sighed as I ate. The food an anchor in the storm of thoughts.
The waiter swung by. Eyeing the empty plates.
waiter: Everything alright, sir?
His question pulled me out. I nodded.
ryusei: Yeah. Perfect.
My voice was Ryusei's. The diners' stares were less now. They were back to their meals. But the overheard snippets lingered. Villages arming. War brewing. My scroll heavy with headbands. The path ahead forked. Cash in for rank or fade into shadows. Danzo's shadow the wildcard.
The last dumpling popped juicy in my mouth as I weighed it all. The sigh was deep and final.
Timeskip
The trip back to the Land of Fire was a slow, punishing grind. Two whole weeks of salt-stiffened clothes, rocking decks, and the constant, low-grade fear of being discovered in my hiding spot among the cargo crates. The kitsune spirit inside me, that restless passenger, didn't mind the confinement. It seemed to relish the stolen nature of it all, the quiet mischief of a free ride. The human part of me, the Derek-remnant, just felt tired. Tired, and stained. My hands—human hands, for now—still felt the phantom slickness of bandit blood. Not that I'd used my hands much. Tails and fox-fire had done the work, efficient and terrifying. Their final, surprised gasps were a new kind of memory, one that didn't haunt so much as it… settled. Like learning a harsh but necessary grammar for this violent world.
Docking was a blur of noise and stink. Fish, sweat, tar. I slipped off the ship not with the other passengers, but as a ripple in the air, a genjutsu so faint it was just a suggestion to look elsewhere. The port swarmed with life, a chaotic ballet of commerce that I navigated like a ghost. My goal was a straight line through the chaos: the road to Konoha.
The journey inland was a decompression. The salty air gave way to the deep, green smell of the forest, a scent so rich it felt like drinking. The towering trees, ancient and watchful, were nothing like the painted backgrounds from the anime. They were living giants, their canopy a world away from the sun-dappled earth. My weariness was a physical weight, but underneath it, a wire was humming with tension. Every rustle in the underbrush, every distant crack of a branch, had my chakra twitching, ready to flare blue. The bandits had taught me that much. The world was full of teeth.
And then, the gates.
They were massive. The anime did not do them justice. They weren't just an entrance; they were a statement. Enormous wooden doors, reinforced with metal and crawling with seals that made the air taste like ozone. Two chunin stood guard, their postures the perfect blend of boredom and razor-sharp awareness. As I approached, the one on the left straightened, his hand coming up in a casual but unmistakable halt.
Chunin Guard: State your business.
I didn't speak. I just reached into my pouch, the one stained with road dust and other, darker things, and pulled out Ryusei Hizukari's ID. The laminate was worn, the photo a younger, more hopeful version of this face I now wore. I handed it over, keeping my expression in that neutral zone Ryusei's memories told me was appropriate: respectful, tired, expecting nothing.
The guard took it, his eyes flicking from the card to my face and back. His partner drifted a step closer, a subtle shift in stance that put his hand nearer his weapon pouch.
Chunin Guard: Ryusei Hizukari. Chunin. Welcome back. Mission go smooth?
I let a fraction of the real exhaustion seep into my voice.
Ryusei: Not really.
It was all I needed to say. They exchanged a glance, a whole silent conversation passing between them in a micro-expression. Rough one. Looks like it. Poor bastard. The first guard handed back the card with a nod that was almost sympathetic.
Chunin Guard: Report in quick, then.
The gates groaned open, not all the way, but just enough. I stepped through.
And the world exploded into scale.
Konoha wasn't a village. It was a city. A thriving, chaotic, enormous city nestled in a forest basin. The streets weren't neat paths; they were winding arteries, climbing hills, diving into shaded alleys, packed with more people than I'd ever seen in one place. Shops with colorful banners, stalls steaming with food, apartments stacked three and four high. The noise was a solid wall—haggling, laughter, the distant clang-clang of metal from what must have been a blacksmith district, the rhythmic shouts from training grounds echoing off the valley walls.
And above it all, the Hokage Monument. The faces were colossal, hewn from the very cliffside, their stone gazes overseeing everything. Seeing them in person, feeling the sheer audacity of carving leaders into a mountain… it stole my breath. This wasn't a cartoon. This was a civilization.
I just stood there for a full minute, a dumbstruck tourist in a stolen life, letting the sensory overload wash over me. The kitsune spirit perked up, intrigued by the sheer density of life, the potential for chaos and connection. The human part was just… humbled.
Shaking my head, I dove into the current. Ryusei's mental map flickered to life, an internal GPS guiding me through the labyrinth. I passed the Academy, the sound of children chanting jutsu theory bringing a pang of foreign nostalgia—his memories, not mine, of being one of those voices, alone in a crowd. The path led upward, toward the administrative heart of the village.
The Hokage's building was another exercise in understated power. Red-tiled roof, clean lines, more of those subtle security seals humming at the edges of perception. I knocked, the sound firm against the thick wood.
A voice, bored and bureaucratic, called from within.
Clerk: Enter.
The office was as expected: scrolls in teetering piles, the smell of ink and dust, a ceiling fan stirring the sluggish air. The clerk behind the desk peered over his glasses, recognition dawning.
Clerk: Ryusei? You're late. Mission report?
I handed over the scroll case with my written account, placing the three Suna headbands on the desk with a soft, final clink. The clerk picked one up, turning it over. His bored expression evaporated, replaced by professional alarm.
Clerk: Suna? And a special jonin's? This is… above my paygrade. The Hokage will want to see this. Personally.
He scurried to an inner door, knocked, spoke in hushed tones, then ushered me in.
The room was exactly as I'd imagined from a thousand fanfics and wiki deep-dives, yet completely different. It felt lived in. Books overflowed from shelves, not as decoration, but as working tools. The air was thick with the sweet, cloying scent of pipe tobacco. And behind the desk, smaller in person yet radiating an authority that filled the space, was Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Third Hokage. The God of Shinobi. The man who let Naruto grow up in a shit apartment eating expired ramen.
Seeing him in the flesh… it was complicated. The animosity from my meta-knowledge was there, a cold kernel of disdain. But so was a flicker of… pity? The weariness in his eyes was profound. This wasn't a caricature of a neglectful grandfather. This was a tired old soldier holding a fracturing nation together by sheer will. It didn't excuse anything. But it made him real.
Hiruzen Sarutobi: Ryusei Hizukari.
He set his pipe down, his voice a warm, gravelly rumble. He gestured to the chair opposite him.
Hiruzen: You took so long on a simple courier mission. And judging from your… state, it wasn't smooth. Report.
I sat, leaning forward slightly, weaving Ryusei's earnest demeanor with the kitsune's natural, persuasive charm. The lie was a story now, and I told it well.
Ryusei: Lord Third, the mission was compromised in the Land of Rice. I was ambushed by a Suna cell. Three chunin, and one special jonin. They weren't just passing through. They were using the farms there, laundering produce, setting up caches to be shipped back to Wind Country. The plan was clever—if caught, they'd claim to be rogues, exploiting the peace to operate in our shadow.
Hiruzen's eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing. He picked his pipe back up but didn't light it.
Hiruzen Sarutobi: A full cell, with a jonin-level leader. And you survived to bring me this report. How?
This was the moment. I let a sliver of genuine, hard-won fatigue show. Not from the fictional fight, but from the weeks of travel, the constant vigilance, the weight of the spirit inside me.
Ryusei: I almost didn't. Their wind jutsu corralled me. The puppets were… relentless. I was cornered, out of options. It was in that moment, when I was certain it was over, that something… awoke.
I paused, letting the suspense hang in the smoky air.
Hiruzen: Awoke?
Ryusei: A kekkei genkai, Lord Third. Dormant, I suppose. From some forgotten branch in my family tree. I never knew.
His eyebrows shot up towards the brim of his hat. He placed the pipe down again, slowly.
Hiruzen: A kekkei genkai. In a common-born orphan. That is… exceptionally rare. Are you certain?
Ryusei: As certain as I am of the flames that saved my life.
Hiruzen Sarutobi: Describe them.
I met his gaze, letting a hint of the fox's otherworldly certainty bleed into my own.
Ryusei: Blue fire, Lord Third. It doesn't burn like normal fire. It… consumes chakra first. It eats through ninjutsu, through genjutsu constructs. If it touches a person, it burns through their chakra network before it ever touches their skin. From what I could tell in the fight… there's very little it doesn't burn through. It's less like fire and more like… annihilation.
The room was utterly silent. The description was a gamble, painting my fox-fire as something uniquely terrifying and valuable. A chakra-melting flame. The ultimate ninja tool.
Hiruzen Sarutobi's face was a mask of intense concentration. The kindly grandfather was gone, replaced by the Professor, the veteran of countless wars assessing a new, unpredictable weapon.
Hiruzen Sarutobi: Demonstrate. Please. A small amount, controlled.
I nodded. Holding up my right hand, I focused. Not on destruction, but on creation. On manifesting the essence of the kitsune's power in a way that fit the narrative. A small, perfect sphere of blue flame coalesced above my palm. It didn't roar or crackle. It hissed softly, a sound like steam on a cold window. The light it cast was eerie, washing the room in cold azure tones. The papers on Hiruzen's desk seemed to bleach under its glow. I saw his hand twitch, ever so slightly, toward a seal engraved on the underside of his desk. A security measure. But he didn't activate it. He just watched, his eyes reflecting the dancing blue light.
After a long ten seconds, I closed my hand, extinguishing the flame. The ordinary afternoon light rushed back in, feeling suddenly warm and yellow.
Hiruzen Sarutobi leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He was quiet for a full minute, the only sound the faint buzz of the village beyond the window.
Hiruzen: Chakra-melting flames… A bloodline limit of that potency appearing now… It is a monumental discovery, Ryusei. And you used it to defend the village's interests, against significant odds. You have embodied the Will of Fire in a most… extraordinary way.
He stood up, walking to the window, looking out over his vast, bustling village.
Hiruzen: Such service, and such a newfound asset to the village, cannot be rewarded with standard pay. Effective immediately, you are promoted to the rank of Special Jonin. All corresponding salary, privileges, and archive access are yours. Furthermore, for your exemplary performance, you may select any jutsu from the archives, C-rank to A-rank. The Forbidden Scroll, of course, remains off-limits.
Jackpot. The word sang in my veins, a thrill that was both human ambition and vulpine glee. Special Jonin. Faster advancement. More autonomy. And A-rank jutsu? The building blocks of real power. The Forbidden Scroll… that was a dream for another, more careful day.
I stood, bowing deeply, pouring on the grateful, loyal rookie act.
Ryusei: Thank you, Lord Third! I… I don't know what to say. I will strive to be worthy of this honor. To protect Konoha with everything I have. You truly are the Professor who guides us all. The best Hokage.
The words felt greasy in my mouth, the sycophancy too thick. But Hiruzen, the tired old man, seemed to appreciate it. He turned from the window, a warm, paternal smile softening the shrewdness in his eyes.
Hiruzen: Go. Rest. Your new rank will be formalized by tomorrow. Report to the mission desk then for your first special jonin assignment. And, Ryusei… we will need to schedule time to properly document and understand your new abilities. For the village's security. And for your own.
It wasn't a request. It was an order, gently wrapped. We'll be watching. We'll be testing. I bowed again.
Ryusei: Of course, Lord Hokage.
I turned and left, the heavy door clicking shut behind me, sealing me out of the smoky office and into the vibrant, noisy, gigantic life of Konoha. The game was on. And I had just been dealt a much better hand.
Ok guys I've decided this is going to be a harem
Members are: nono(obviously),mikoto, tsunade, shizune, pakura.....I think that's it
Harem pics would be released next chapter