Izuna delicately dips his brush once more into the brilliant golden hue, then gently taps it onto the canvas. Tiny dots and faint lines, aglow in gold, soon meld with a rich sea of colors. Deep reds and velvety violets dominate the background, bleeding into a serene sunset. Wispy clouds drift through the dusky sky, barely discernible. Amidst them, a bird soars, its sharp contours and rich feathers aflame in the setting sun.
Beneath, a graceful feline lounges upon a majestic rock extending into a tranquil lake, its surface reflecting the surrounding light like a flawless mirror. The feline radiates contentment, undisturbed by the depths concealed beneath the inviting colors, seemingly oblivious to the notion of drowning. Its keen gaze tracks a dark figure along the distant shoreline. There, before thick woods and lush foliage, a wolf coated in wisps of shadows rests.
Izuna adds another fine stroke to the light particles dancing over the water before he sits back, laying the brush aside. With his eyes, he carefully roams over the painting, scrutinizing every detail in the warm light of the attic, where dust flakes float gingerly through the room, and the air is filled with the scent of fresh oil paint.
"Is that Furuki Lake?"
"It is," Izuna agrees with a wide smile, turning to see Obito standing behind him, his gaze roaming appreciatively over the canvas. "It's one of my favorite spots in northeastern Fire Country, or it used to be. How do you recognize it? Back in my time, it was a deserted area and not well known."
"Hmm. I stumbled upon it on my way to Kumo once. It was purely by coincidence that I spotted it. It was still a desolate place the last time I saw it."
"I'm glad. It was one of the few places untouched by humans and war." Izuna's smile momentarily turns strained, his eyes distant. However, he quickly shoves the rising emotion aside and changes the topic. "So, what do you think? Do you think we can find a buyer for this?"
Obito's eyes flit over Izuna's face briefly, too observant for his own good, but he soon shifts his attention back to the painting, and Izuna is grateful for it. "I think it's too good to be sold. Where did you learn to paint so well?"
A genuine laugh bubbles up in Izuna's chest. "Why, thank you! I started teaching myself recently, mostly through video tutorials and books. The internet these days makes it really easy to learn new skills. This is my first attempt with oil paint."
Obito's eyebrows quirk up. "This is your first attempt?"
"The Sharingan comes in handy for many things," Izuna explains. "Anyway, what are you doing up here?"
Obito's scowl returns with a vengeance. He slumps heavily into an abandoned chair in the corner that is missing half a leg, yet it doesn't topple. "Madara is cursing up a storm doing stretches in our room. Apparently, his physiotherapy is going too slowly, so he decided to take matters into his own hands. It's incredibly annoying."
Izuna snorts knowingly. "I'm surprised he didn't start earlier." He sweeps up his brushes and sets them aside for cleaning. Then he grabs a wet rag and starts to wipe the worst of the paint from his hands.
"Hm, me too… Also," Obito continues more seriously, causing Izuna to halt his motions. "The matron came by to tell Madara that his quirk assessment test will be in two weeks."
Izuna frowns. "In two weeks already? Has he already decided how much he wants to reveal?"
"Only the first stage of the Susanoo, nothing more."
"Well, that alone will be considered damn powerful around here. They will want to reassess us too. How annoying."
"Definitely," Obito sighs. "What are you planning to do?"
Izuna resumes cleaning his fingers, irritation building. It's ridiculous how quirk-centric this society is; they wouldn't have to think so much about it if quirks didn't literally dictate one's life to such an extent.
Now, with Madara becoming a hero, there's no reason for Izuna to remain quirkless either. Their lack of quirks was meant to make them appear unassuming and weak, and it did. no one suspected them for the Kabukicho murder series, despite them being absent every other night from the brothel, or the instigated bar fights, despite Eraserhead having found them loitering on a rooftop in the vicinity. However, that ship has sailed. There have been too many little coincidences stacking up lately, drawing the attention of that detective. And soon, they will have the catch the interest of every hero in Japan when Madara becomes the youngest pro-hero in the country's history. Izuna's quirklessness will no longer serve them.
At this point it's best to firmly align themselves with the heroes' side to counter the distrust they're bound to face. A powerful "heroic" quirk would be more beneficial for that. One should never underestimate the subconscious effect a quirk has on how a person is perceived within their social environment.
Nevertheless, three children suddenly manifesting powerful quirks reeks of external intervention with dubious intentions. The middle path seems the wisest choice.
"Since we're blood-related, it would be more believable if our quirks are similar," Izuna ponders aloud. "Our father had scales, right?"
Obito nods. "As far as I know, he had some kind of reptile quirk."
Izuna tosses the paint-stained rag into a corner, his hands somewhat cleaner. "Perfect. Reptiles often have red irises, night vision, and a wider field of vision. We could claim our quirk to be enhanced eyesight, and it wouldn't even be a lie."
Obito contemplates the idea for a moment. "The idea has merit. Depending on how you use it, it could be a powerful quirk, but not so powerful as to attract undue attention. It's also something that could have been easily overlooked."
"We can think it for a few more days, but I think it's a good idea," Izuna concludes. Then, he suddenly remembers something. "Hey, have you done your homework for tomorrow?" They were supposed to go back to school the next morning after all.
"Hell no," Obito scoffs. "I'm not doing that shit."
"Neither am I; I was just asking." Izuna chuckles. "Wanna spar instead? My back got stiff from all the sitting."
Obito's interest is piqued, evident in the subtle shift of his shoulders. "Sure."
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Madara's annoyance is palpable as he sits in his uncomfortable wheelchair, surrounded by the familiar scent of disinfectant that clings to the air like an ill omen. The hospital, a place he's learned to loathe in this life just as in the last one, is, as always, filled with the perpetual hustle and bustle of doctors and patients.
Though the casts on his leg and arm have finally been removed, his muscles remain weak and useless. Hence, a nurse wheels him to his appointment. It irks Madara, serving as a constant reminder of his tediously slow healing. The only reason he doesn't jump out of that chair and walk on his own is that, in this way, he's faster, and he'll endure any necessary evil to shorten his stay.
Today, he's not here for his nearly daily physiotherapy sessions but for his quirk assessment test, and fortunately, the stinging smell of alcohol lessens as he's wheeled into a more remote wing of the hospital he's never visited before.
He's quickly rolled into a room branching off from a long white hall that seems built sturdier than the rest of the building. The purpose of that architectural decision is soon evident to him, given the high ceilings, sturdy walls, reinforced doors, and still there are numerous signs of damage. Holes and cuts on the walls, scorch marks on the floor, and dented furniture. Children rarely have control over their quirks in the first years, and this room is a testament to that fact.
A doctor and a nurse are already waiting for him inside. They instruct the woman who has brought him to place him in front of their cluttered desk, with curt and no-nonsense words, and quickly dive into the standard questions they are supposed to ask.
Madara answers brusquely and undergoes the following superficial physical examination without protest, having anticipated what to expect before his arrival. He had done this once already after all.
They inquire about his parents' quirks, any changes he noticed in his body, how he activated his quirk for the first time, what it does, and so on and so on. Madara provides them with the essential information: that he can manifest a blue shield around himself, originating from his eyes, which leads to pain and bleeding – Quirk overusage, the doctor informs him.
The next part is new, however, a demonstration. The nurse tells him in a few quick, stern words to stop if he overexerts himself or whenever he feels any discomfort or pain. Madara doesn't bother to tell her that it will feel as if molten iron is coursing through his veins regardless.
The nurse quickly steps back to the doctor at the desk, leaving Madara alone in the center of the room, signaling him to proceed.
Madara takes a deep breath, bracing himself as he opens the gates of agony. In an instant, searing, white-hot pain washes over him, worse than the last time, enveloping him like a mother's protective embrace. His vision sharpens simultaneously, and oxygen rushes from his lungs in a burst, but he refuses to give the pain a voice. Instead, he clenches his jaw and holds the scream behind gritted teeth.
Four rows of ribs manifest around Madara, igniting in a blaze of azure flames that dance erratically around him. The fire licks at his clammy, pale skin with tongues that threaten to grind his fragile bones to dust, his eyes already pulsing with the strain.
Madara quickly pushes the howling monster back beyond the gates and seals the massive doors behind it. Instantly, a numbing exhaustion settles over him, but he forces himself to remain upright. His body proves weaker than he had anticipated, meaning there is much work left until he is back to peak condition.
The doctor's subsequent words register only partially. He knows he is responding, but his mind is occupied with remaining seated.
In a little while, he assures himself, in a bit, he will be done, and then he can return to the orphanage where his bed awaits him.
"Do you have a specific name you wish to give your quirk? If not, we will assign one for you." The question rings sharply in his ears, much clearer than the previous ones.
The Uchiha have always been a proud clan, proud of their abilities, their Dōjutsu, and its gifts, said to be blessings from the very Gods themselves.
"Susanoo," Madara declares unyielding. "It's called Susanoo."
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"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Suzuki," Izuna says with a pleasant smile - not too wide and not too shallow - extending his hand toward the elderly man. Suzuki, dressed impeccably in an elegant pitch-black suit that perfectly matches his finely polished shoes, reciprocates the gesture.
"The pleasure is entirely mine, young Arano. Young talents such as yours must be nurtured," Suzuki responds, his grip firm and his demeanor poised. "Your painting will be a splendid addition to my apartment in Kyoto. If you allow me one last question, how is it that I have not heard of such an outstanding artist like yourself until now, young man?"
Izuna nods humbly, long accustomed to the polite formalities those of status expect to be met with. "I have only recently chosen to share my art. You see, it is my desire to provide financial support to my family."
"A noble and commendable cause," Suzuki acknowledges with a nod. "I enjoy our conversation greatly, Arano. Regrettably, I must take my leave." With an appropriate amount of respect, Suzuki bows. "Will you be able to return to your guardian safely on your own?"
Izuna's smile takes on a cunning edge – too many teeth, too bloody - though it goes unnoticed as he bows deeply at the waist, replying, "Yes, she is waiting for me in the next room over. Thank you for your concern."
"Very well then. Farewell, Arano. May our paths cross again."
"I am sure they will. Farewell, Mr. Suzuki."
As Suzuki makes his way toward the exit of the luxurious establishment, Izuna watches his departure until he can't see the old man anymore. Then he throws one last glance at his painting, hanging behind him on an opulently ornate wall, framed in fine lacquered wood, before he discreetly slips out of the restaurant himself, the mission successfully concluded.
Once he is outside, making his way down the sidewalk, he pulls his phone out, types in a number, and holds it to his ear. It doesn't ring twice before Obito picks up.
"The money has already been transferred to your bank account. This Suzuki's secretary sure is efficient," Obito reports.
"Why, hello to you too, Obito," Izuna grumbles into the device, rolling his eyes. He can hear an exasperated huff on the other end in response. "How are things progressing on your end?"
"I've wrapped everything up at the Muay Thai and Judo clubs in Tokyo. As of today, Junichi was officially a member there for a few years until he moved to Musutafu. People remember him for his hardworking nature and high skill level, but he kept to himself, so no one really knew him. He never participated in competitions due to a lack of interest," Obito says, a smirk evident from his tone of voice.
"Good work, 'Bito. When will you be back?"
"I'm already on the train. It should take me about half an hour," Obito replies.
"Alright, I'll meet you at the orphanage?" Izuna waits for Obito's confirmation before he ends the call.
The plan is progressing smoothly so far. The fabricated background for Madara as a talented young martial artist is taking shape, and Izuna is generating a solid income from his paintings. With one or two more successful sales, they have enough funds for the entrance exam. After all, the patrons of Musutafu's finest sushi restaurant are willing to pay generously for his art. It's fortunate that the restaurant's owner was immediately captivated by his paintings and readily agreed to display them under his roof. It only took some gentle persuasion on Izuna's part. Truly fortunate indeed...
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The dimly lit bedroom exudes a sense of coziness as Madara works a needle through the sturdy fabric in his hands, the steady rhythm of his handiwork a form of meditation in itself. With each stitch along the fabric's length, the long, dark coat takes form. It's monotonous work, but after a day filled with grueling physical activities, it's a welcome change of pace.
Izuna, for once, isn't talking a mile a minute. He merely hums an old tune under his breath while he meticulously sharpens and maintains the few throwing knives they had managed to scavenge from around the city.
Surprisingly, it's Obito who disrupts the comfortable quiet. Without looking up from the pieces of leather he's working on, he asks, "What's going to be your hero name?"
Madara's hands pause mid-stitch. Assigning himself a hero name hadn't even crossed his mind; the entire concept seems rather absurd to him. Hero names had originally started as plain and simple codenames, and he can appreciate that. However, in the modern era, heroes don't maintain secret identities. Their names have evolved into titles over time. Titles should never be self-bestowed, especially not at the start of one's career. Names are earned through countless trials in the face of adversaries and hardships, or sometimes, in the wake of great failures. Names hold meaning and tell tales of loss and triumph. They can be bestowed by allies in reverence or spat out by foes in fear.
In his previous life, Madara had accumulated a plethora of sobriquets: the Legendary Uchiha, the First Traitor of Konohagakure, the Demon of the Sharingan, the Madness Uchiha. None held any sentimental value to him, and in this new world, where he is known simply as Junichi, they carry no meaning either. Here, he is only Junichi.
So, he asks, "Do you have any suggestions?"
"The first time I asked you about your name," Obito retorts with a wry edge to his voice, "you told me you are the Ghost of the Uchiha. I'm sure you can come up with something equally dramatic."
"Hrmpf," Madara grumbles, a sly glint entering his eyes. He ignores Izuna's burst of laughter. "So, something like 'Tobi'? A name that would truly strike fear into people's hearts."
Obito looks up from his leather pieces, only to scowl at Madara.
"In the grand scheme of things," Madara says before Obito can embark on a defense of his naming choices, "it matters little. I have no intention of using a hero name. I only need something for my license. I'll think of something fitting."
With that, they resume their work silently to the soft melody Izuna is humming. They have a deadline to meet, after all.
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Nakamura, a woman who thrives on simplicity, sticks meticulously to the structured patterns of her workday. She arrives punctually at nine in the morning, and at five in the evening, she bids her colleagues goodbye. During those eight hours, she dedicates herself diligently to her responsibilities at the HPSC main office, a position she's held for the past fifteen years.
Her work at the HPSC is unassuming, a task that many would find mundane. However, Nakamura is an exception; she finds contentment in the routine. Each day, she operates like a finely tuned machine, executing her tasks with well-practiced precision. She knows what she's doing; she's been doing it for fifteen years, after all, so she is resourceful in her time management.
The mountain of registration files on her desk quickly shrinks as her eyes skim through only the essential passages. Her deep understanding of the workflow allows her to discern which information requires immediate processing and what can be set aside for the time being. This finely-tuned efficiency benefits not only her but also her colleagues, ensuring the collective cogs of the HPSC machine turn smoothly, without amassing a backlog of work.
Nakamura is only a small gear in the giant machinery that is the HPSC. She inputs names, quirks, and addresses into the system, cross-referencing them with transaction records. When a successful transaction is found, Nakamura meticulously adds the participant's name to the list of participants for the next Hero License Exam; those names will later receive an email of confirmation with details about the exam.
Nakamura doesn't linger on individual cases. A new file lands on her desk, and without hesitation, she scans the name: Arano Junichi. The confirmation of a fee payment catches her eye on one of her computer screens, and with practiced ease, she adds the name to the ever-growing list. Then, it's onto the next piece of paper, the next candidate, and the one after that.
Soon, Junichi is buried under dozens of other files, and in the next few days, thousands of emails are sent out, one to every participant.