Konoha Hospital.
Early-morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, scattering dappled shadows across the ward's floor.
Sasuke slowly opened heavy eyelids; the first thing he saw was a head of brilliant blond hair glowing warmly in the light.
Naruto, sitting in the chair beside the bed, brightened when he noticed: "You're awake? Congratulations—you're now a girl."
Sasuke: "???"
The raven-haired boy tried to bolt upright, only to be slammed by a wave of weakness; he sank slowly back onto the pillow.
A sick flush tinted his pale cheeks after the effort.
"All right, all right."
Naruto waved his hands, tone easy. "You just overused your Chakra in that fight; it's not like you took a critical hit anywhere. Joke, joke."
"Hn, boring."
Sasuke turned his face away, voice still gravelly from illness.
"Boring or not, it's a little prank—same as your Great Fire Annihilation back there."
Seeing Sasuke press his lips tight, Naruto dropped the grin and spoke seriously: "Listen, if you really want to grow stronger, bumbling along by yourself won't cut it. And you're pushing yourself too hard."
His gaze flicked inadvertently to Sasuke's pitch-black eyes.
Sasuke absolutely could not die!
Not because Naruto felt any deep affection—just… before those eyes evolved into Eternal Mangekyo, nothing could happen to him.
They were a vital chip for the battles ahead.
"I'd hate to lose a decent rival."
Naruto added casually, hiding the calculation behind concern.
"Once you're discharged, let's train together."
Sunlight spilled between them, scattering motes of dust.
Sasuke stayed silent, something flickering in the depths of his dark eyes.
"Hn…"
He mused inwardly: Naruto really was stronger; if the guy was willing to teach, learning his methods might not be bad.
But then a dreadful thought struck.
"Hold on."
"No way am I wearing green spandex and yelling about youth or whatever."
Sasuke eyed him warily, unconsciously inching back on the mattress.
He knew all too well that Naruto trained with Might Guy.
Just picturing that thick-browed Ninja's regimen sent a chill down his spine.
Naruto blinked, then burst out laughing: "Where'd you get that idea? I don't do it, so why would I make you?"
He spread his hands helplessly. "I can't stand that style either, but taijutsu can still boost your strength."
Seeing Sasuke's skeptical look, Naruto added, "Relax—absolutely no spandex. But…"
He deliberately dragged out the pause.
"If you really want to try, I could put in a word with Guy-sensei."
"No need!"
Sasuke cut in at once, firm.
After visiting Sasuke, Naruto's Shadow Clone found a quiet corner, formed the seal, and dispelled.
A soft "poof" and a puff of smoke.
Almost simultaneously, the real Naruto—pretending to pay attention in class—jolted slightly.
Countless memory fragments flooded in like a tide.
He quickly brushed the matter aside.
More important things demanded attention right now.
Twirling a pen absently, his thoughts raced.
Which book should he "write"?
He couldn't really publish CEO Falls for Me, could he?
Leaving aside whether it suited the era, just imagining his name on that title was mortifying.
He frowned.
Xuande Wen, then… he mused, but slumped. Problem was—he'd never read it!
The pen tapped a steady rhythm on the textbook.
Suddenly his eyes lit up.
So what if he'd never read it—couldn't he still write it?
A sly grin tugged at his lips.
"It's decided!"
He clenched a fist inwardly.
Poverty could spark genius; already he saw Royalties waving at him.
After classes ended he skipped training, used Transformation Jutsu to buy paper, and hurried home to create.
Say what you would—apparently the original Naruto's make-out tactics outsold even Jiraiya's and once stopped a war.
This body had talent!
He'd just dispatch it under a transformed identity.
——————————
That weekend, in a Bookstore, the editor stared at the manuscript, eyes bulging, pen trembling.
"And at that moment, Shimura was enduring another kind of exhaustion.
He throbbed his sore lower back; the old wooden bed creaked under him.
Life in a Small Country was poor, so Shimura craved fame to end the chaos and let everyone live in peace.
Sitting on the bed, he struck a match and lit a Cigarette with almost ritual solemnity.
As if this weren't rest but the prelude to another mission.
Smoke curled and carried his thoughts away.
He knew some knots can't be untied with Ninjutsu, some roads must be walked alone.
A faint rustle came from the bed.
Chiyo was wrapped in the quilt, skin beaded with fine sweat, like a rose in morning dew.
Her breathing rose and fell in a soft, inviting rhythm.
Any ordinary man would sink again.
But Shimura only watched the Sparks at his fingertip.
As a Ninja he knew lust is a trap more dangerous than any enemy.
He inhaled, feeling the chill of Nicotine spreading through his veins.
Everything returns to dust.
The fairest bloom, the greatest beauty, can't escape time's ruin.
Beauty is a flash in the pan.
How could a moment's pleasure compare to the solid gains of training?
Chiyo's beauty was dizzying, her stretched limbs an unspoken invitation.
Yet to Shimura now, all of it felt less real than the next Cigarette.
He lit another.
Fresh smoke twined with the dying embers, drawing a lucid line through the sultry air.
The tiny Sparks of burning tobacco calmed him more than any sweet word.
In a night full of temptation, only those flickering stars were his true companions."
(End of Volume One)
"Damn, a post-coital Cigarette turns the guy into a philosopher."
The editor cursed under his breath, yet a hint of envy tugged at his lips.
The weariness and coolness of Shimura, laced with strange charm, made the editor—stuck in the tiny Book Bureau amid Ink and numbers—ache with longing.
He shook the fantasy off and mustered professional zeal, bowing to the silent black-haired man opposite: "This piece is top-tier—style, mood, that unique flavor—first-class. Let's sign!"
He stretched both hands emphatically. "Royalties split sixty-forty: Bookstore six, you four. How's that?"
It was a lavish rate, especially for a New Author.
The man in the shadows lifted his gaze slightly, calm, as though the generous terms were no surprise.
He gave a faint nod. "Good."
The editor exhaled and pressed on. "Excellent! Then, sir, your Pen Name…?"
"Comical Author of Lanling."
The unremarkable man supplied a name famous in another life.
"Fine, your book's Serial Number is 399532157."
The editor beamed. "Come back in a few days and we'll show you the Sample Copy."