Hiruzen Sarutobi sat alone in the quiet of his office, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind Ryusei Hizukari as the young chunin departed, leaving behind a faint trace of that strange blue flame energy that still lingered in the air like an afterthought. He picked up his pipe again, lighting it with a practiced flick of his fingers, the familiar tobacco smoke curling upward as he stared at the newly updated file on his desk. Such ability, he thought, leaning back in his chair with a slow exhale, letting the smoke drift from his lips in a thin stream. The flames that could devour chakra like that—it didn't just seem broken; it was unprecedented, the kind of power that could shift the balance of entire battlefields if wielded right, something that went beyond standard fire release or even the advanced bloodlines he'd studied over decades of war and peace.
He turned the pages slowly, rereading Ryusei's account of the ambush, the way the boy described the flames erupting from his hands in desperation, blue and hungry, consuming the chakra strings of that Suna puppet user like paper thrown into a furnace. What combination of elements could produce such flames, he wondered, tapping his pen against the page as he scribbled notes in the margin, his mind racing through old clan records and forbidden texts he'd memorized long ago during his own youth under the Second Hokage. Yin and fire release, perhaps? A merging of spiritual suppression with raw destructive heat, turning chakra itself into fuel for the blaze, making it almost impossible to counter without exhausting the opponent's reserves first. Or maybe yang release mixed with something else entirely—the boy had mentioned feeling the flames respond to his emotions, growing brighter when he felt threatened, dimming when he focused on healing.
He paused at that part of the report, tapping the paragraph about Ryusei using the flames to close his own wounds after the battle. Healing flames. That was even rarer than destructive ones, the kind of dual-nature ability that appeared once in a generation among the great clans, and here it was manifesting in an orphan from the Hizukari line, a family with no notable bloodline to speak of. Stress-induced awakening, he concluded, making another note. Trauma as a catalyst. The boy nearly died, and something dormant cracked open. It was the sort of thing that could make a shinobi unstoppable in prolonged fights, wearing down even jonin-level opponents through attrition alone, and the boy had manifested it under extreme duress against Suna forces no less, killing multiple chunin and a special jonin before limping home with nothing but grit and that new fire burning in his chest.
Hiruzen allowed himself a small, private smile as he wrote, the ink flowing steady under his hand. Ryusei seemed to be very loyal to the Will of Fire, spouting all that passionate rhetoric about fighting for Konoha and embodying its ideals, about dying before betraying the village that raised him. If I play my cards right, he would be loyal to me. I am the Hokage, after all. I am the embodiment of the Will of Fire.
He set the pen down for a moment, rubbing his temples as the weight of leadership settled heavier on his shoulders, the village's future pulling at him from every angle. The boy needed guidance, someone who could shape that raw potential into something controlled and deadly, but not so controlled that the spark went out entirely. Jiraiya was out of the question for mentorship right now, the man too deep in training young Minato, pouring everything into that prodigy with the golden hair and the flashes of genius that suggested he might become something extraordinary, maybe even Hokage material someday. Jiraiya had his hands full, and asking him to take on another student would be selfish, even for a former teacher pulling rank.
Orochimaru? Hiruzen's smile faded slightly, his fingers drumming on the desk. No, he'd changed lately, that sharp mind of his twisting in ways that made Hiruzen uneasy, experiments and ambitions that didn't align with guiding a fresh talent like this. He'd seen the way Orochimaru looked at interesting subjects, the clinical detachment in those snake-like eyes, and he wouldn't subject a loyal young shinobi to that kind of attention. The boy needed someone steady, someone whose loyalty to the village ran as deep as the roots of the trees outside, not someone whose path was veering into shadows that Hiruzen didn't fully understand yet.
What about Sakumo Hatake, the White Fang? Hiruzen let the name linger in his thoughts, turning it over like a well-worn kunai, remembering the man's unyielding sense of honor, the way he'd led charges that saved entire platoons during border skirmishes, his blade a symbol of Konoha's unbreaking spirit. Sakumo was respected, feared by enemies, admired by allies. He'd lost his wife a few years back, raised that young son Kakashi on his own, and still managed to be one of the most reliable jonin in the village. Sakumo's squad could temper this new power, teach the boy control without smothering that spark of loyalty, instill the kind of discipline that came from real field experience rather than academy theory. Sakumo understood the cost of war, the quiet sacrifices that kept the Will of Fire burning bright.
And with the villages arming up on all sides, whispers of the Third Shinobi War already stirring like distant thunder, placing Ryusei there would strengthen the front lines without drawing too much attention. A special jonin with an unknown bloodline, flying under the radar while Sakumo handled the heavy lifting of command. Yes, the White Fang's team would mold him into something reliable, someone who could stand as a beacon for the next generation, not just another weapon in the arsenal but a symbol of what Konoha could produce when it nurtured talent instead of hoarding it.
Hiruzen made a final note on the file—Assign to Sakumo Hatake's squad, effective immediately—and closed the folder just as the door burst open without a knock, slamming against the wall with a force that rattled the scrolls on the shelves and sent a few loose papers drifting to the floor.
In strode Danzo Shimura, his face still full of youth compared to the weathered version Hiruzen sometimes glimpsed in his darker reflections, no missing arm or eye yet, fewer wrinkles carving deep lines into his skin, his posture straight and commanding as ever. His ROOT hadn't become the sprawling shadow organization it would later grow into, still in its infancy, agents loyal but limited in number, but the hunger in Danzo's eyes was already fully formed, that endless thirst for control and security that would never quite be satisfied. Danzo's gaze swept the room with that calculating sharpness, cataloging everything, filing it away for later use, his hand already reaching for a scroll from his pouch as he approached the desk without waiting for an invitation.
Danzo: Hiruzen. I need your signature on this draft for recruitment drives into the clans. We must bolster ROOT's ranks before the tensions escalate further, and while we're at it, we need to tighten the leash on the Uchiha. In my eyes, a good Uchiha is a leashed Uchiha, such was taught to us by the great Tobirama himself, to always hate and chain down the Uchiggers before their cursed eyes turn on us all.
Hiruzen set his pipe aside slowly, the smoke still curling from the bowl as he watched Danzo's gaze land on the open file, the Suna headbands still resting there like trophies from a battle won by a boy who shouldn't have survived. Danzo's brow furrowed, fingers hovering over the document like a merchant examining a valuable artifact, his eyes scanning the notes Hiruzen had just written, the assessment of the kekkei genkai, the recommendation for promotion.
Danzo: What is this? A new asset? Explain.
Hiruzen leaned forward, keeping his tone even but firm, the smoke from his pipe drifting between them like a subtle barrier, a reminder of who had the right to sit in this chair and make these decisions.
Hiruzen: It's the report from chunin Ryusei Hizukari. He returned from a mission in the Land of Rice, ambushed by Suna forces—multiple chunin and a special jonin attempting to loot resources and blame it on rogues. The boy fought them off single-handedly, survived against overwhelming odds, and manifested a kekkei genkai in the process. Blue flames that devour chakra, unprecedented in our records. He's loyal, Danzo, truly dedicated to the Will of Fire. I plan to promote him to special jonin and assign him accordingly.
Danzo's eyes narrowed, a flicker of hunger crossing his face as he absorbed the details, his hand clenching the edge of the desk hard enough to make the wood creak under his palm. He was already calculating, Hiruzen could see it, already imagining how to weaponize this boy, how to strip away the loyalty to village and replace it with loyalty to Danzo alone.
Danzo: Such talent. Hand him over to me. I'll make him a perfect weapon for ROOT. We'll hone that bloodline into something Konoha can wield without hesitation, without the weakness of emotion clouding its edge. You know as well as I do that the old ways are failing, Hiruzen. The villages are sharpening their knives, and we need shadows to meet them.
Hiruzen held his gaze steady, the air between them thickening with the old familiar tension, years of friendship strained by diverging paths, by two men who wanted the same thing but could never agree on the method. He'd known Danzo since they were children, had fought beside him, bled beside him, watched him grow harder and colder with every loss, every compromise that Hiruzen was willing to make and Danzo was not.
Hiruzen: For Konoha, right?
Danzo straightened, his youthful face hardening into that mask of absolute certainty, the one that brooked no argument, no doubt, no room for the messy morality that Hiruzen clung to like a drowning man to driftwood.
Danzo: Of course. That's what I said. I never said anything else. You know, make Konoha great again.
Hiruzen let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He'd heard that phrase before, in various forms, from various ambitious men who thought they knew better than everyone else, who believed that the ends justified any means, that a village built on fear and control was somehow stronger than one built on loyalty and love. It never worked. It always crumbled, always produced more enemies than it eliminated, but Danzo could never see that, or maybe he saw it and simply didn't care.
Hiruzen: You sound like some lying politician, Danzo. And the decision is no. He would be placed under Sakumo Hatake and his squad.
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the weight of Danzo's rising fury. His jaw tightened, muscles jumping beneath the skin, and for a moment Hiruzen thought he might actually strike the desk again, might actually lose that famous composure entirely.
Danzo: You can't do this to me, Hiruzen.
Hiruzen smiled calmly, folding his hands together on the desk as he met Danzo's glare without flinching, the weight of the Hokage's hat suddenly feeling lighter in moments like this, when he got to remind his old friend exactly where the authority in this village resided.
Hiruzen: What am I, Danzo?
Danzo blinked, confusion cutting through his anger for a split second, his brow furrowing as if he suspected a trap but couldn't quite see its shape.
Danzo: What?
Hiruzen repeated it slower, his voice carrying that quiet authority he'd honed over years in this very seat, through wars and treaties and funerals and celebrations, through every decision that had shaped Konoha into what it was today.
Hiruzen: What am I that you are not, Danzo?
Danzo gritted his teeth, the veins in his neck standing out as he forced the words through clenched jaws, each syllable dragged out of him like pulling teeth without anesthetic.
Danzo: You are the Hokage.
Hiruzen smiled wider, tilting his head slightly, enjoying this more than he probably should, but after decades of Danzo's scheming and second-guessing, he'd earned a little enjoyment.
Hiruzen: I am what?
Danzo's fists tightened further, knuckles whitening as if he might draw blood from his own palms, the frustration boiling over in his eyes like a storm he couldn't contain, a hurricane of ambition and resentment that had no outlet except these petty rebellions, these constant tests of Hiruzen's patience.
Danzo: You are the Hokage.
Hiruzen nodded once, satisfied, the smile never leaving his face as he gestured toward the door with his pipe, the smoke trailing after the motion like a lazy dismissal.
Hiruzen: You can go. Remember, Danzo—I am the Hokage.
If this were one of those Chinese cultivation books the traveling merchants sometimes peddled in the markets, complete with flying swords and immortal sages and young masters who always underestimated the protagonist, Danzo looked like he might spit blood right there on the floor, his face twisting with barely restrained fury, shoulders rigid as he turned on his heel without another word. He walked to the door with the stiff gait of a man holding himself together by sheer force of will, each step a battle against the urge to scream, to argue, to fight for what he believed was rightfully his.
Hiruzen watched him go, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the office, rattling the scrolls on the walls one last time before everything settled back into silence.
Then, almost to himself, Hiruzen added, raising his voice just enough to carry through the wood.
Hiruzen: Drink more tea, Danzo. You look like you'll develop high blood pressure.
There was a pause, a long, stretching silence where Hiruzen imagined Danzo standing frozen on the other side of the door, fists clenched, jaw working, every instinct screaming at him to burst back in and continue the argument. But Danzo was many things—ruthless, ambitious, paranoid—but he was not stupid. He knew when he'd lost, even if he'd never accept it gracefully.
Danzo paused at the threshold, his back still to the room, clenched fist trembling at his side before he forced it open, the words coming out strained but controlled, each one costing him something visible even through the closed door.
Danzo: You're right, Hokage.
The footsteps retreated down the hallway, fading into the general noise of the Hokage Tower, swallowed by the bustle of clerks and messengers and shinobi going about their daily business, unaware of the small war that had just been fought and won in the Hokage's office.
Hiruzen picked up his pipe again, taking a long pull as he muttered under his breath, the smoke curling around his head like a crown.
Hiruzen: I feel at peace letting him know that I am the Hokage. I should be doing that more.
He glanced back down at Ryusei's file, at the face sketched in the corner—an orphan with no notable lineage, no special connections, just raw talent and a burning loyalty that Hiruzen intended to nurture carefully. Sakumo would handle the combat training, the field experience, the hard lessons that came from surviving real missions. Hiruzen would handle the rest—the promotions, the protection, the subtle shaping of a young man who might one day become something truly remarkable.
He made one final note at the bottom of the file, his handwriting careful and deliberate.
Assignment confirmed. Sakumo Hatake, squad leader. Effective immediately. Monitor progress closely. Potential for future advancement to jonin within two years.
Then he closed the folder, set it in the completed tray, and leaned back in his chair to watch the smoke rise toward the ceiling, already thinking about the next problem, the next decision, the next battle in the endless war of running a village that everyone wanted to either protect or control.
But for now, just for this moment, he allowed himself the simple satisfaction of having won.
Ryusei's first person view
I stepped into the archive chamber with my special jonin promotion papers still warm in my pocket, the Hokage's seal stamped bold across them like a ticket to the good stuff, and the librarian—an older woman with glasses perched on her nose and a no-nonsense bun—gave me a quick once-over before waving me toward the shelves. Her eyes lingered on my face for a moment longer than comfortable, probably memorizing features, checking me against some mental list of who belonged here and who was just lucky to have survived a single mission.
Librarian: Any C to A rank outside the Forbidden Scroll. Take your time, but don't dawdle. ANBU's watching.
She jerked her thumb toward the shadowed corner where a masked figure stood statue-still, chakra signature so faint I almost missed it, the kind of presence that screamed "we see everything" without saying a single word. I'd felt that kind of surveillance before—Ryusei's memories had plenty of it, the ever-present watchfulness of Konoha's shadow arm even before Danzo had fully built his machine. The difference was, back then Ryusei had been a loyal little cog who never questioned it. Now? I was counting the exits and cataloging the ANBU's probable skill set while keeping my face perfectly neutral.
I nodded, trying to look grateful instead of scheming, because inside my head it was a full-on whirlwind. The promotion was real, the access was real, but the clock was already ticking in my skull. How long before someone noticed something off? How long before Danzo decided I was too interesting to leave alone? The Hokage's pet project today could be ROOT's recruitment target tomorrow, and I needed every advantage I could stuff into my brain before that happened.
Sealing jutsus were the first thing that popped into my head as I walked deeper into the stacks, my fingers brushing over scroll cases like a gambler sizing up a deck. Man, I wanted those bad—something to counter my own kryptonite if push came to shove, like if someone tried slapping a seal on my youki or trapping the fox side in a jar. The problem was, sealing techniques weren't just something you read once and mastered. They required precision, control, years of study that I didn't have. Still, grabbing the theory now meant I could practice later, maybe modify them to work with my dual system. I pulled a few general primers off the shelf—basic suppression seals, storage scrolls, the kind of thing that wouldn't raise eyebrows but gave me a foundation.
The eight gates? Yeah, that wasn't even in the catalog yet. Might Dai was still out there kicking ass and yelling about youth, the forbidden scroll hadn't gotten its hands on that technique, and no amount of searching would find what didn't exist in the records. I made a mental note to track down the green beast himself later—befriend him before he passed on his legacy to Guy, learn the hard way what couldn't be written down. But for now, I moved on, fingers trailing over scroll cases, pulling out fire release techniques first because they meshed perfect with my fox fire, amplifying that blue blaze into something even nastier.
The funny thing was, I already knew some of these jutsus—not from personal practice, but from Ryusei's memories and the ones from the suna nins The kid had been a genjutsu specialist, sure, but he'd studied the academy curriculum like his life depended on it, memorized hand signs and chakra flows for every basic technique Konoha offered. He'd just never had the reserves to use most of them effectively. A commoner orphan with average chakra, no clan backing, no teacher pushing him to excel—he'd learned the theory and never gotten to apply it. I could feel his ghost in the back of my skull sometimes, the phantom ache of watching other Shinobi launch fireballs while he sat on the sidelines, the quiet resignation of someone who'd accepted his limits.
Well, those limits were gone now. My reserves were functionally infinite, and Ryusei's years of theoretical study meant I didn't have to start from scratch. I already understood the mechanics. What I needed was Konoha's technical documentation—the precise hand sign sequences, the exact chakra ratios, the little optimizations that separated a clan heir's fireball from a commoner's weak sputter. I wanted to see how the village taught its own, how the official scrolls differed from the bastardized versions that leaked out to missing-nin and enemy spies.
I unrolled the first one—Fire Release: Great Fireball Jutsu—and skimmed the hand seals, the chakra flow diagrams making sense in a way that felt like Ryusei's muscle memory kicking in alongside my own. Tiger, Snake, Ram, Boar, Tiger. The sequence was burned into his brain from years of watching Uchiha classmates show off, but seeing it written out, with the exact ratios and the timing notes and the warnings about backfire, that was new. This was the real thing, the version that had been refined over generations, not the half-remembered copy that circulated in the chunin rumor mill.
I muttered under my breath, already calculating how my youki would interact with the formula.
Ryusei: This'll pair nice with the wind stuff.
I tucked the Great Fireball scroll into my growing pile. Next came Fire Release: Phoenix Sage Fire Technique, the one that spit out a flock of flaming birds, each one capable of independent movement or explosive impact. Ryusei had seen an Uchiha use this once during a training exercise, had spent weeks trying to reverse-engineer the chakra control method from memory alone. The scroll laid it all out—the way you had to split your chakra unevenly between the projectiles, the mental trigger that made each bird track a different target, the fine control required to keep them from detonating early. I could already picture layering my kitsune flames on top, turning the standard orange fire into blue soul-burn that would eat through chakra on contact. The homing aspect alone was worth the scroll, but with my youki enhancement? Each bird would be a guided missile that couldn't be blocked by normal defenses.
Then Fire Release: Great Fire Annihilation, the big A-rank monster that turned whole fields to ash. Ryusei had only heard rumors of this one—never seen it, never even met anyone who'd mastered it. The scroll was thick, the diagrams complex, the chakra requirements astronomical. For a normal shinobi, this was a once-per-battle trump card that left them exhausted. For me? Overkill for now, sure, but future me might need to clear a battlefield, and having the technique in my back pocket meant I could practice it in pieces, build up to the full version without burning down a forest by accident. I grabbed it, rolling it carefully so the edges didn't fray.
Fire Release: Flame Bullet came next—simpler, more controlled, good for mid-range harassment when I didn't want to go full inferno. Ryusei had actually managed to produce this one once, a tiny sputter of flame that barely singed a training post, but the scroll showed him what he'd done wrong. The chakra ratio was off, the hand signs sloppy, the timing rushed. I could feel his embarrassment bleeding through the memory, that hot flush of failure that had made him drop the technique entirely instead of practicing until he got it right. Well, I'd practice for both of us now.
Wind release came next because it complemented everything, turning my fire into a raging storm and giving my taijutsu that extra edge. I already had some wind techniques in my arsenal—the ones I'd figured out through trial and error during those long months in the wilderness, barking at Arnold Rocksnigga while I experimented with chakra flows and youki bursts. But those were crude, homemade versions, functional but inefficient. Konoha's official wind release scrolls were engineering diagrams compared to my caveman drawings.
Wind Release: Gale Palm for the close-up bursts—I'd been doing something similar with raw chakra pushes, but the scroll showed me how to shape it, how to add spin for extra cutting power, how to reduce the wind-up time from a full second to a flick of the wrist. Ryusei had seen a jonin use this once on a tracking mission, had filed away the visual memory but never understood the mechanics. Now I had both.
Wind Release: Vacuum Wave for the slicing crescents that could cut through armor. I'd been using my tails for similar effects, but having a human-form option meant I didn't have to risk exposure every time I needed to shred something. The scroll emphasized breath control and precise exhalation timing—different from fire release, which relied more on hand signs and chakra molding. Wind was about the body, about turning your lungs into a weapon. I could modify that, layer my youki into the breath itself, make each crescent carry a trace of that corrosive fox energy that had eaten through Suna puppets like paper.
Wind Release: Pressure Damage for the big area denial that'd knock groups off their feet. Ryusei had never even heard of this one—it wasn't in the standard curriculum, was probably something kept for ANBU or special jonin with wind affinities. The scroll described it as an invisible wave of compressed air that shattered bones and ruptured organs without leaving external marks. Brutal. Perfect for when I needed to disable without revealing my full capabilities. I grabbed it, already thinking about how youki layering might make it even harder to detect, turning an invisible attack into an undetectable one.
I even snagged Wind Release: Great Breakthrough, the one that blasted like a hurricane. I'd seen Naruto use a version of this in the anime, had always thought it looked flashy but impractical. The scroll changed my mind—the real version wasn't just a big gust of wind. It was a tactical tool, capable of dispersing poison gas, extinguishing large fires, deflecting volleys of projectiles, and creating openings in enemy formations. Mixed with my fox fire, it would turn a standard firestorm into a self-sustaining inferno that spread faster than anyone could counter. I imagined the blue flames catching the wind, leaping from target to target, and had to suppress a grin.
I caught myself smiling a little too wide, the ANBU in the corner probably noting that down in his mental report. "Yeah, keep watching," I thought, but kept my face neutral, just another eager special jonin stocking up on the good stuff. Let them think I was excited about power. Let them underestimate the difference between enthusiasm and calculation.
Taijutsu was the real gap I needed to fill. I'd noticed it in every fight so far—my raw power was there, but technique? Sloppy at best. Ryusei had been a genjutsu specialist for a reason; his taijutsu was academy standard, nothing more. He'd avoided close combat whenever possible, relying on illusions to keep enemies at range. That worked fine against chunin, but against someone who could resist genjutsu or close the distance too fast? I'd be exposed.
Dynamic Entry was a must, that flying kick Leaf style that looked ridiculous until it connected like a truck. Ryusei had laughed at this technique when he first saw it—a grown man screaming a dramatic name while launching himself through the air like a missile. But the scroll showed the physics behind it, the way the kick converted forward momentum into impact force, the split-second timing that made it nearly impossible to dodge. I added it to the pile.
Konoha Whirlwind for the spinning leg sweeps that could trip up faster opponents. I'd been using my tails for crowd control, but in human form I needed alternatives. This technique was elegant in its simplicity—a continuous rotation that kept the user's center of gravity low while delivering multiple strikes.
I added Leaf Rising Wind and Leaf Great Flash too, the whole set building on each other like a combo chain in a video game. Rising Wind was an upward kick that launched opponents into the air, leaving them vulnerable. Great Flash was a blinding speed technique that closed distance in an instant. Together, they turned a taijutsu novice into someone who could control the flow of close combat, dictate range, punish mistakes. Something to make my human form punch above its weight without always relying on tails or youki.
Kenjutsu followed because why not round it out. Ryusei had zero sword training—orphans didn't get weapons beyond the basic kunai and shuriken issued at graduation. But I'd seen what a skilled blade user could do, I mean look at Sasuke though he may be an emo edge lord he can be considered the strongest swordman in the Naruto universe... obviously below killer bee
I'm not adding kiri's swordman they're carried mostly by their blades
Konoha Style Sword Technique: Single Slash for the basics—draw, cut, sheathe. Simple, efficient, lethal. The scroll emphasized economy of motion, the idea that a single perfect cut was worth a hundred wild swings. I could layer youki into the blade, make each cut carry that corrosive energy without needing to transform. The Dancing Leaf Shadow variant added movement, turning the single slash into a flowing combo that used the opponent's momentum against them. I grabbed both.
A couple of straight-up blade draws followed—techniques that emphasized speed over power, the kind of iaido-inspired moves that let you kill someone before they realized you'd drawn your sword. I called them practical. In a world where fights were decided in seconds, being faster than your opponent was better than being stronger.
I rolled them up careful, stacking the scrolls like I was building a deck, mentally checking off the list while my brain kept spinning ahead. Fire, wind, taijutsu, kenjutsu a solid foundation. But I wasn't done thinking.
Earth affinity? I made a note to test that later. Defense was key, something solid to tank hits when my speed or genjutsu wasn't enough. Mud walls, rock armor, the kind of techniques that turned a shinobi into a fortress. I didn't have any earth jutsu yet—Ryusei had never shown an affinity for it, and I hadn't experimented—but that didn't mean I couldn't develop it. The scrolls here might have primers, theory that I could adapt to my dual system. I added a few general earth release scrolls to the pile, just in case.
Lightning too, obviously, because Chidori was calling my name. That screeching lightning blade would look sick with my blue flames mixed in for extra soul-burn, a combination that probably didn't exist anywhere in the Elemental Nations. Lightning release was rare in Konoha outside the Hatake and a few other lines, but the basic techniques were available. I grabbed a few—Lightning Flash, Thunderclap, the kind of mid-tier jutsus that would give me a starting point. I'd figure out the rest later, maybe bribe Kakashi with something before he even knew he was Kakashi.
But first things first, I had to mentally checklist this: meet Might Dai soon, befriend the guy, learn the gates the old-fashioned way before he passed them on. Guy was a taijutsu monster in the making, and if I played it right, his youth speeches might actually rub off without me gagging. The gates weren't in any scroll—they were a living tradition, passed from master to student, and Dai was the only one who taught them properly. I'd need to approach carefully, earn his trust, prove I had the right mindset. No shortcuts.
The bijuu-level kitsune power hummed in the background of my thoughts, that massive reservoir of youki waiting like a loaded gun. But as a human, I couldn't tap even a fifth without risking full transformation ears popping out, tails flailing, the whole yokai reveal that'd get me hunted or sealed before breakfast. That was the real limitation, the one I couldn't train away. Every technique I learned had to work within my human disguise, had to be something I could use without leaking fox energy. The youki layering I was planning—that was the compromise. Just enough fox to enhance, not enough to expose.
I kept scanning the shelves as I thought, pulling anything that looked useful. A primer on chakra suppression seals in case I needed to hide my reserves from sensors. A scroll on barrier techniques defensive options that didn't require earth affinity. A theoretical treatise on combining elemental natures, written by some long-dead jonin who'd clearly had too much time on his hands. Most of it was beyond my current skill level, but I'd grow into it.
Derek: Keep it locked down.
I said it to myself like a mantra, the weight of the ANBU's stare pressing on my back like a physical hand. Every scroll I picked, every technique I studied, every moment I spent in this archive was being watched, recorded, filed away in some intelligence report. Hiruzen would get a summary. Danzo would probably get a copy too, through channels the Hokage didn't know about yet. I had to be useful but not threatening, ambitious but not dangerous, exactly what a loyal special jonin should be.
I grabbed one more wind technique—Wind Release: Divine Wind—to top it off, something flashy for crowd control that would look good in demonstrations. The scroll described it as a spiraling vortex that could be sustained for several seconds, sweeping away everything in a wide arc. Ryusei had seen an ANBU captain use this once, had been awed by the controlled destruction. Now I'd have the official version, complete with the little tricks that made it efficient instead of exhausting.
I stepped back from the shelves, arms full of scrolls that felt heavy with potential. The archive's quiet pressed in, the smell of old paper and ink mixing with the faint ozone of sealed chakra wards. I could feel the ANBU's eyes tracking every move, probably reporting my choices straight to Hiruzen or worse, Danzo's early ROOT network. The promotion high was still buzzing, but so was the paranoia, that constant inner monologue whispering about balance—fire and wind for offense, taijutsu for when things got personal, sealing as backup, earth and lightning on the wishlist.
Might Dai first, though. Befriend the bowl-cut legend, train under his crazy regime, unlock gates the hard way so I didn't have to fake it later. The kitsune side of me wanted to push limits, test how much human form could handle before youki leaked, but the Derek part—the old office guy who saved a kid once—knew rushing meant mistakes, and mistakes in this world got you buried.
I straightened the stack of scrolls, double-checking the names one last time in my head, comparing them against Ryusei's memories of what was standard and what was rare. Fire Release: Great Fireball, Phoenix Sage Fire, Great Fire Annihilation, Flame Bullet. Wind Release: Gale Palm, Vacuum Wave, Pressure Damage, Great Breakthrough, Divine Wind. Taijutsu: Dynamic Entry, Konoha Whirlwind, Leaf Rising Wind, Leaf Great Flash. Kenjutsu: Konoha Style Single Slash, Dancing Leaf Shadow, and the blade draw variants. Plus the sealing primers, the barrier techniques, the earth and lightning starters, the chakra suppression notes.
Solid haul. Enough to make Ryusei look like a rising star without screaming "suspicious fox guy." The ANBU hadn't moved, just a silent shadow in the corner, but I could feel the tension in the air, like he was waiting for me to slip up or grab something forbidden. I wondered if he'd noticed how quickly I'd navigated the shelves, how confidently I'd pulled specific scrolls without hesitation. A normal chunin who'd just gotten promoted wouldn't know where anything was. I'd moved like I'd been here before
I turned toward the exit, scrolls tucked under one arm, and gave the masked figure a casual wave, keeping my voice light and Ryusei-casual.
Ryusei: I'm done here. Thanks for the company.
The ANBU didn't reply, just inclined his head once as I headed for the door