Chapter 24
The bar—his bar—was Taro's escape hatch, a world comfortably detached from the orderly madness of the Sarutobi compound. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the warm hum of murmured conversations blending with the faint crackle of the bar's fireplace. The compound, though? That had become something else entirely.
Hiroto, the ever-stoic eldest, had reclaimed the main house, dragging his militant energy back with him and turning the place into a museum of rules and order. Naruto and Konohamaru had taken up the role of chaos generators, their voices shrieking and laughing as they tore through the gardens like wild animals. And Jiraiya? The genius pervert had somehow thought it was a good idea to teach Naruto the Shadow Clone Jutsu. Now, the compound was flooded with orange doppelgängers, clones popping in and out of existence like some bizarre magic trick gone wrong.
Then there was Jiraiya himself, filling the hallways with his booming voice, outrageous stories, and questionable advice. And Hiruzen Sarutobi—Taro's father, the Hokage—who had shifted in a way that unsettled Taro to his core. The once-distant figure of authority now wandered the compound like a man trying to rediscover something he'd lost.
Yeah, stuff had changed.
Taro let out a short laugh, drawing a side-eye from the bartender polishing glasses behind the counter. Who was he kidding? Nothing had really changed. Sure, the compound was noisier, busier, and more alive than it had been in years, but for Taro, it was the same old routine. The same old black sheep.
He raised his glass, letting the whiskey burn a trail down his throat. The only real change was that instead of drinking himself stupid in the compound's back rooms, he did it here.
"Another whiskey," he said, sliding the empty glass across the bar.
"Yes, boss," the bartender replied, pouring another with the kind of efficiency Taro appreciated. The bar wasn't the kind of place where shadows loomed or despair lingered. Taro wouldn't have tolerated that—it was bad for business. The air was alive with whispered conversations, the kind where secrets and confessions hung in the balance. Leather chairs lined the walls, their surfaces creased and softened by years of use. The polished wood of the bar caught the soft lighting just enough to give the place an inviting warmth. A faint trace of tobacco smoke lingered in the air like a distant memory.
Taro picked up his freshly poured glass, his trademark smirk fading as his thoughts circled back to the familiar refrain. No matter how loud, busy, or lively the compound got, he was still just Taro. Chakra-less. The Sarutobi that could not become a ninja. The family's eternal letdown.
"Hey, Taro," a voice cut through his thoughts. "Mind if I sit with you?"
The whiskey nearly slipped from his hand. He knew that voice—steady, warm, and entirely out of place in this bar. Turning on his stool, Taro's eyes locked on the impossible.
Hiruzen Sarutobi. The Hokage. His father. His Dad. The fucking Hokage, casually sliding onto the stool beside him like they were here to chat about the weather.
"What… What?" Taro stammered, blinking as though the man would vanish if he looked too long.
Hiruzen smiled, a calm, infuriatingly casual expression that Taro wasn't sure how to handle. "I'm under a genjutsu," the Hokage explained, waving a hand in a loose circle. "Everyone here sees a nondescript jonin. Quite effective, don't you think?"
Taro's gaze darted around the bar, catching sight of at least eight jonin scattered among the patrons. None of them spared Hiruzen even a glance. Taro frowned. Ninja stuff. He didn't get it, and honestly, he didn't want to.
The bartender approached, professional and pleasant as ever. "What can I get you, sir?"
"The same as Taro," Hiruzen said, his tone light and conversational, as though he were ordering tea at the kitchen table.
Taro stared as the bartender poured his father's drink, the whiskey swirling into the glass like it had no idea the Hokage himself was about to sip it. His mind scrambled for any logical explanation for this surreal moment. Hiruzen Sarutobi, the man who could command entire armies, sitting here in his bar, drinking whiskey of all things?
"What…" Taro began, then faltered. Words failed him, so he settled on the universal remedy. "Well, fuck it." He raised a hand to the bartender. "Just give me the whole damn bottle."
"Sure thing, boss," the bartender said with a grin, reaching under the counter for the good stuff.
"Boss?" Hiruzen repeated, his eyebrow arching slightly, his voice calm but laden with curiosity.
The bartender snorted, as if the question were absurd. "Yeah. New face here? Taro's the owner of the Drunken Kunai. And a damn good boss."
Taro groaned audibly, running a hand over his face. "Shut up, Genzo."
"Oh?" Hiruzen's gaze shifted to Taro, his expression a mix of surprise and intrigue. "You own this bar?"
Taro braced himself. Here it came. The reprimand. Something about how running a bar was a "dirty" trade unworthy of a Sarutobi or some other antiquated nonsense. He could already hear the disappointment dripping from the inevitable lecture.
But Genzo, the well-meaning but utterly incapable of shutting up bartender, had other ideas. "A bar? Boss doesn't just have a bar!" he said with a grin wide enough to blind. "No, the boss here runs seven bars across the village. Plus three restaurants, three hostels, a casino, and—get this—he even owns that only cinema thing place in the village! You know, the one with the tech thingy, the moving pictures?"
Taro's head dropped to the bar with a thud. "Genzo," he muttered, his voice muffled by the polished wood. "You're killing me here."
But Genzo was just getting warmed up. "And yet," he continued, waving the whiskey bottle like it was a baton, "it's this bar he likes best. Right here. Can you believe it? Out of all the places he could go, he picks the one I'm manning! Says a lot about me, doesn't it?"
Hiruzen's eyes flicked back to Taro, then returned to the grinning bartender. "Impressive," he said, his tone thoughtful. "Being a successful businessman at such a young age is truly commendable."
Taro's mouth fell open, and he almost fell off his stool. Did… Did Dad just… compliment me? His brain reeled. The Hokage—the man who hadn't said a good word about him since he was ten—had just praised him for owning bars. Bars.
Fifteen years of nothing but silence or sighs of disapproval, and now this? He glanced at Hiruzen, who was calmly sipping his whiskey like he hadn't just broken the laws of reality.
"Uh, thanks?" Taro said, his voice tinged with suspicion as he glanced warily between the bartender and his father. Was this really happening?
The bartender, thrilled by the apparent interest in Taro's achievements, puffed up like a rooster in front of an audience. "And he did it alone, mind you! No handouts from his old man—oh, didn't you know? Taro's the Hokage's son."
Taro froze mid-sip, his hand tightening around the glass. Oh no.
The bartender leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice just enough to make it dramatic but not enough to actually be subtle. "Though, funny thing—never seen the Lord Hokage here. Not even once! Can you believe it?"
Taro winced, horror dawning as he tried to telepathically tell his friend to shut up. Stop talking. For the love of—just stop.
"Yes," Hiruzen said mildly, his voice calm and measured under the genjutsu's veil. "I can believe it. The man is… rarely present, I imagine."
Taro blinked at his father, struggling to comprehend the even tone. Was that sarcasm? An insult? Just a statement? It was impossible to tell.
Hiruzen turned back to the bartender, though his words were unmistakably aimed at Taro. "It's unfortunate, though. That kind of oversight—to not see one's own son for who he truly is, nor appreciate his accomplishments… That's a failing on the part of the absent man. Truly impressive work—managing so many businesses. A cinema, was it?"
The bartender, delighted to have a captivated audience, nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Taro went all the way to the Capital himself to get the tech. Had to figure out how it worked, negotiate deals, the whole shebang. Learned it all on his own, didn't you, boss?"
Taro forced a crooked grin, his voice cautious. "Yeah, I did."
"Amazing," Hiruzen said, the simplicity of the word striking harder than Taro expected.
Amazing? Taro's mind scrambled to process what he'd just heard. Was… was his father proud of him? He wasn't sure what to do with that thought. It felt strange, unfamiliar. Unsteady.
The bartender, oblivious to the emotional storm brewing next to him, plowed ahead. "And that's not even all of it! The boss is hands-on with everything. Handles deals, plans events, even bounces the occasional rowdy customer out on his own. A real workhorse, Taro is."
Taro opened his mouth to deflect, but Hiruzen beat him to it. "You've built quite a legacy for yourself," the Hokage said, his voice steady, with an undercurrent of genuine admiration.
Taro's heart skipped a beat. His usual snark faltered, leaving him grasping for something to say. Finally, he took a long sip of whiskey, the burn grounding him just enough to speak. "It's not a legacy. It's just… stuff. Work. Keeps me busy."
"Busy doing what?" Hiruzen asked, his tone conversational but laced with curiosity.
Taro blinked. He's… interested? The realization hit harder than he wanted to admit. Before he could think better of it, he found himself answering.
"Well," Taro began, his voice gaining momentum as he spoke. "There's the bars—seven of them now. Each with its own vibe. This one's more laid-back, caters to regulars. There's another in the eastern district that's a bit livelier, does live music. Then there are the restaurants—mostly casual, but one's an upscale place. Good for dates or impressing clients. The hostels—"
Tazuna took a swig from his flask, the burn of cheap liquor barely dulling the tension that had been crawling up his spine since they left the village. He let out a slow exhale, keeping his pace steady, his boots crunching against the dirt road. A breeze stirred the trees lining their path, but it did nothing to cool the anxious heat building in his chest. He glanced ahead at the two shinobi he'd hired, their leisurely stride at odds with the danger he knew was lurking in the shadows.
The woman—Anko, she said her name was—walked with a casual sway, her hands behind her head as if this was just another day in paradise. Her mesh bodysuit hugged her athletic frame, emphasizing toned abs and muscular thighs. The trench coat flared slightly as she walked, barely covering the curve of her hips. Her wild purple hair bounced with her every step, framing a smirk that practically oozed mischief. She threw a teasing jab at her companion, her voice carrying easily back to Tazuna.
The man beside her—Sura—was taller and broader, his movements deliberate but relaxed, like a wolf on a stroll. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his chiseled features gave him the air of someone who had seen—and done—it all. The standard-issue jonin uniform didn't hide the sheer strength in his frame, from his powerful shoulders to the forearms exposed by his rolled-up sleeves. He chuckled at Anko's banter, the sound low and gravelly, but his sharp gaze never strayed far from the road ahead.
Could he trust them? Tazuna frowned, taking another swig from his flask as he mulled over the question. Anko's irreverent attitude and Sura's laid-back demeanor didn't exactly scream "professionalism," but appearances could be deceiving. They were Konoha ninja, and Konoha had a reputation for competence. Still, they'd taken the job, a supposed C-rank mission, without much hesitation. Either they were overconfident, or they hadn't asked too many questions about why he'd been in such a rush to hire them.
The truth gnawed at him. He didn't have enough money for the kind of protection he really needed. The shinobi chasing him weren't small fry, and if the worst came to pass, Anko and Sura might find themselves in over their heads—or worse, abandon him entirely.
Tazuna's grip tightened on his flask. He'd bet his life on these two strangers. And when push came to shove, he wasn't sure if that gamble was going to pay off.
Hiruzen's blood clone rubbed his temples as he paced the lab, his muttering filling the quiet space. "Durkheim… functionalism? Something about societies being like organs in a body? Or was that Parsons? Damn it, I should've paid more attention in high school. What did that teacher say? Weber! Bureaucracy—hierarchy and efficiency, but also… red tape killing progress. Yeah, that sounds about right."
The Academy classroom buzzed with tense energy, a low murmur of paranoia running through the students. Shikamaru slouched in his seat, arms crossed, the picture of indifference—except for the faint twitch in his eyebrow every time someone fiddled with their oversized backpacks.
Three days ago, the lazy-eyed terror had decided to hold his "final lesson", happy he would be, after this day "free from the dunderheads". The memory alone made Shikamaru grimace. They'd been hauled to the cliffs above the Konoha zoo river, where Kakashi, book in hand, had cheerily announced, "Water-walking test. Don't fall."
Then he'd pushed them off. Thirty meters. Into a freezing river swarming with biting fish. Not just any fish, either—freaking piranhas. Shikamaru didn't even know where Kakashi had gotten those things, but he was sure they weren't native to the Land of Fire. "Adapt," Kakashi had said lazily from above, barely glancing up from his novel. "And don't die."
Tree-walking? They'd learned it a week ago. Water-walking? Never tried.. Survive the fish? Sure. Why not throw in a bear or two while they were at it?
Shikamaru sighed, rubbing his temples at the memory. That bastard. By the time they'd flailed, wobbled, and finally hauled themselves back to shore, Kakashi had packed up. "Graduation Exam starts Monday," was all he'd said before poofing out of existence. Starts Monday. Not is or happens Monday. That ominous phrasing had stuck with every single one of them.
Now the entire class sat armed to the teeth, paranoid and overprepared. Backpacks stuffed to bursting with supplies. Provisions, weapons, makeshift armor—you'd think they were heading into a battlefield instead of a classroom. Chōji had packed enough snacks to feed the entire class. Ino, meanwhile, looked like she'd memorized every ninja survival guide ever written. Even Kiba, normally the cockiest one, looked twitchy.
The door creaked open. Iruka stepped in, immediately freezing as he took in the sight of the battle-ready students. His lips twitched into a small, proud smile. "Prepared, are we?"
Prepared? Shikamaru almost laughed. If Kakashi showed up with more piranhas, they'd probably riot.
Iruka's smile grew sharper, and he crossed his arms. "Good. Graduation exams begin now. Follow me."
Without another word, he vaulted out the window.
"What the—?!" Kiba barked, grabbing his gear and sprinting after him.
Shikamaru groaned, dragging himself to his feet. "Great. Another running test. Fantastic."
The chase began. Iruka tore through the village at an infuriating pace—not quite full speed, but fast enough to leave most of them panting. He darted down alleys, leapt over walls, and led them in circles through market streets. By the time they reached the outskirts of Konoha, Shikamaru was drenched in sweat and ready to strangle someone. Preferably Iruka.
Finally, Iruka stopped in front of a massive gate. Shikamaru stared up at the sign above it, blood draining from his face.
Training Ground 44. Big, bold letters. The words alone were enough to make his stomach sink.
"Welcome to the Forest of Death, pups," came a low growl.
Everyone turned. There she was: Inuzuka Tsume, Kiba's mom, grinning at them with far too many teeth. Akamaru barked nervously from Kiba's hood.
"Fuck," Kiba muttered, rubbing his face.
Shikamaru leaned against the nearest tree, catching his breath. "I knew it," he said flatly. "We're all going to die."
"Only if you're slow," Tsume replied with a wicked grin.
Yeah, this is going to suck.
Hey, new chapter !
Thanks for the one worrying about me in the reviews - but it's just that ffnet is not the main site I'm publishing on, so sometimes I just forget about it. You can read Curse These Old Bones up to chapter 28 on Questionable Question, where I always post weekly (the access is totally free, you just have to make an account to be able to see the story, I think).
Cheers !