The walk from the Academy to the central market district of Konoha was a journey between two worlds. Behind him lay the sanitized training grounds where failure meant a bad grade. Ahead lay the real world, where failure meant a name carved into the Memorial Stone.
Shiro adjusted the blue forehead protector. The metal felt heavier than he expected, cool against his skin in the late afternoon heat. It was a target, a badge of office, and a weight all rolled into one.
As he merged into the evening crowd, Shiro allowed his mind to drift. It was a habit born of having two lives worth of memories. In his first life, "work" meant flickering computer screens and the soul-crushing hum of an office. Here, work meant the taste of copper in the mouth and the whistle of air through a sharpened blade. He preferred the latter.
The advantage isn't just knowing the future, Shiro thought, dodging a merchant cart. It's the efficiency. While my classmates were playing ninja, I was treating my body like a weapon system.
Being the son of an ANBU legacy had its perks beyond just the money. His father's journals were a goldmine of practical killing arts. Shiro hadn't wasted time on flashy, high-rank jutsu that drained his reserves. He had focused on the fundamentals that kept a shinobi alive.
He was a master of the Academy basics—his Substitution was so fluid it looked like a flicker of light, and his Transformation could hold up even under the scrutiny of a sensory type. But his real arsenal was far more specialized.
He reached back, his fingers brushing the hilt of the tantō strapped to his lower back. He had spent thousands of hours in the forest, practicing the "Dance of the Silent Leaf"—a short-blade style focused on lightning-fast draws and vital-point strikes.
To complement the steel, he had carved out two Wind-style jutsu from his father's notes:
* Fuuton: Reppushō (Gale Palm): A simple but versatile technique that allowed him to clap his hands and send a concentrated blast of wind to accelerate a kunai or boost his own speed.
* Fuuton: Kazekiri (Wind Cutter): A technique that coated his tantō in a thin, vibrating layer of wind chakra, allowing him to slice through standard kunai or armor like they were made of paper.
And then there's the 'Secret', he thought, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
Being a reincarnated fan meant he knew the mechanics of the Rasengan. He had spent three years in secret, working through the stages—rotation, power, and containment. His exceptional chakra control had made it possible, though it still drained nearly half his reserves to form one. He hadn't told a soul. In a village where the Fourth Hokage's legacy was sacred, showing off the Rasengan was an invitation for an interrogation from the ANBU or, worse, Danzo.
It's a trump card, Shiro decided. One I hope I never have to use.
He stopped in front of a small general store tucked away from the main thoroughfare. The shop smelled of cedar and dried flowers. The elderly shopkeeper looked up, smiling. "Ah, young Utsumi. I see you've earned the headband. Your father would be proud."
"Thank you, Jiro-san," Shiro replied, his tone polite and approachable. "I'm looking for a gift. Something small, for a girl who's probably going to be a bit too hard on herself after tomorrow's exam."
He scanned the display case until his eyes landed on a simple, elegant hair clip—a silver crescent moon with a small, pale lavender stone at its center. It was quiet. It didn't scream for attention. It was exactly like Hinata.
He remembered the day he'd saved her in the snow. He hadn't done it to be a "hero." He had done it because those bullies were annoying and Hinata's quiet nature reminded him of the peace he had lost in his transition to this world. But the way she looked at him now—with a mixture of awe and genuine affection—was one of the few things in this village he actually valued.
"I'll take this one," he said, laying the Ryo on the counter alongside a high-quality whetstone for his blade.
"Good choice. She's a lucky girl," Jiro-san winked, wrapping the clip in a small silk pouch.
Shiro tucked the gift into his hidden pocket and walked back out into the orange glow of the sunset. He passed the playground and saw Naruto sitting alone on the swing, staring at the ground in a crushing silence.
A hero would have stopped. A hero would have offered a speech about "Never giving up."
Shiro didn't even slow his pace. He knew that by tonight, Naruto would have the Multi-Shadow Clone jutsu and a new lease on life. He didn't need a babysitter; he needed the scroll.
Good luck, Naruto, Shiro thought, his expression settling into a calm, indifferent mask. But while you're out playing tag with Mizuki, I've got a blade to sharpen and a leaf to split.
He turned the corner toward his apartment, his mind already calculating his next training session. He wasn't the protagonist of this story, and that was exactly how he liked it. He was a shadow, a blade, and a survivor. And tomorrow, the real game would begin.