Hey everyone,
Author notes
I apologize for the long absence. I don't really have an excuse, as I've just been caught up with work and everyday life challenges. I wanted to let you know that I'll be putting the other story on hold for a while. I need to go through my notes and revisit the story to remember my original plan. I'm sorry if this is disappointing, but I promise to do my best to get back into it soon. Thank you for your understanding!
This is a new story I had made a while ago and just wanted to see if anyone was interested in this one.
Okay, I don't own Naruto since its owned by Masashi Kishimoto and the Japanese company Shueisha.
This is just a fanfiction and I ain't making any money from this.
If I owned Naruto I would have made him learned Fuinjutsu like a true Uzumaki.
Chapter 1
Patience.
It was a shinobi's most vital weapon—second only to strategy. At least, that's what Kakashi Hatake had always believed. But after a full month of training Naruto Uzumaki, he was beginning to question the limits of his own endurance.
Kakashi sat slouched in the shadowy corner of the Rusty Kunai, a weathered tavern tucked between training grounds and barracks, popular among chunin and jonin looking to unwind. Lanterns cast a warm, flickering glow across the cracked wooden beams and aged walls. The air was thick with the scent of grilled meat, old smoke, and sake—enough to dull the senses, though not nearly enough to soothe his nerves.
Muted conversations drifted through the room, punctuated by the occasional clink of glass or bark of laughter. Kakashi barely registered any of it. One gloved hand cradled a cup of sake, half-finished and wholly ineffective, while his other rested on the table beside it. His visible eye was narrowed, staring absently at the slow rotation of the ceiling fan overhead.
How could someone be so consistently terrible at the basics?
Throwing kunai wasn't advanced. It wasn't even intermediate. It was the first thing students learned in the academy. And yet Naruto had a way of missing his targets so profoundly, it almost seemed deliberate. As if the boy was aiming for the trees just to make a point.
Even Sakura—who had spent more time pining than practicing—could hit a target with decent consistency.
Kakashi's eye narrowed slightly at the thought. He wasn't annoyed by the mistakes themselves; mistakes were natural, even expected. What grated at him was Naruto's complete disregard for form, for discipline, for the very foundation shinobi training was built upon. The boy fought like a wild animal—spirited, sure, but completely without technique.
He could take a hit. That much was true. But Kakashi had known many shinobi who could take a hit. Most of them were dead.
Pain tolerance wasn't a substitute for skill. It was a crutch. A dangerous one.
And then there was the constant need to show off.
Kakashi let out a quiet breath through his nose, placing the cup down with a soft clink. He could still see the ridiculous stunt Naruto had pulled earlier that day—flipping off a tree branch and nearly landing on his head, all in an attempt to impress Sakura. Sakura, who had rejected him more times than Kakashi cared to count.
"Why bother," he muttered under his breath.
At least Obito had known when to quit… eventually. Rin had never needed to punch him to knock sense into him—though she'd been tempted more than once. But Naruto? Rejection only seemed to make him more determined.
Like a fire that only burned hotter the more you tried to stamp it out.
His thoughts drifted—reluctantly—to the one student who didn't make his head ache.
Sasuke.
Out of the three, Sasuke was the only one who approached training with any real focus. Cold, methodical, determined. There was a darkness to him, yes, but it was a familiar one. It reminded Kakashi of himself—years ago, before the war had worn down the sharp edges of his youth. Training Sasuke was, in a strange way, like slipping into an old rhythm. It was easy. Natural.
Then there was Sakura.
He didn't dislike her, not really. But her attention was often split—too much of it wasted on sighs and sideways glances at Sasuke, not enough on her jutsu. In some ways, she reminded him of Rin. Thoughtful. Soft-spoken. Always watching. But where Rin had learned to balance her heart with her ambition, Sakura hadn't found that line yet. She had potential. She just hadn't figured out what to do with it.
But Naruto…
Kakashi exhaled slowly, running a hand through his silver hair as if he could smooth away the headache brewing beneath his scalp. The weariness weighed heavier now, more bone-deep.
Naruto was nothing like his father.
The thought came unbidden, and it struck harder than he expected. A dull ache settled in his chest, something between regret and reluctant disappointment. He shifted in his seat, the old wooden chair creaking under his weight. The low murmur of the tavern faded to a background hum, swallowed by memory.
The Fourth Hokage had been a natural. Sharp, graceful, commanding. A man who lit up every battlefield he touched, whose presence turned fear into hope. Kakashi had looked up to him—not just as a mentor, but as a hero.
And Naruto…
Naruto couldn't even complete a leaf-balancing exercise without falling on his face.
It was almost funny, if it didn't sting so much.
His thoughts were dragged back to that afternoon—a fresh memory still simmering in his mind. Another D-rank mission. Another test of his patience. The cat again—Tora, that insufferable little beast—and another round of bickering between Naruto and Sasuke that turned a simple retrieval into a full-blown spectacle.
He could still hear Naruto's voice—loud, indignant, utterly convinced of his brilliance—as he argued with Sasuke over the "best" way to catch the animal. As if either of them had any real idea what they were doing.
The worst part?
They were starting to get under each other's skin. And that was dangerous.
Kakashi closed his eye and pinched the bridge of his nose. The sake was no longer helping; it never really did.
I should've just taken Sasuke as my apprentice, he thought bitterly. This whole team is a mess. Naruto's a mess.
"Kakashi, you look like you're about to fall apart."
The voice was soft, tinged with playful concern, but it cut through the haze in his mind like a kunai. He blinked, glancing up just as Kurenai slid into the seat across from him. Her dark hair caught the golden light from the hanging lantern overhead, and her crimson eyes studied him with a quiet, perceptive intensity.
Asuma wasn't far behind. The jōnin pulled up a chair with his usual casual air and set a fresh bottle of sake on the table with a faint clink. A cloud of cigarette smoke lingered around him like a cloak, drifting lazily toward the ceiling.
"Long day?" Asuma asked, though the smirk tugging at his lips and the look in his eyes made it clear he already knew the answer.
Kakashi didn't sit up. He only leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, the weight of exhaustion clear in the slope of his shoulders.
"Long month," he said flatly, the words edged with dry sarcasm.
The dim tavern light cast shadows across his face, but even behind the mask, it was obvious he was unraveling. His usual air of calm detachment was starting to fray at the edges. Beneath the stoic exterior, frustration simmered—quiet, sharp, and constant.
The dull thrum of chatter filled the Rusty Kunai, the voices of other shinobi blurring together in the background. Laughter erupted from a nearby table—young chunin celebrating a completed mission. Somewhere behind the bar, a kettle whistled. The room was alive, warm, and steeped in the familiar smell of roasted meat and burning tobacco. It should've been comforting. Instead, it made Kakashi feel more isolated.
What did I do to deserve this team?
The thought was bitter, surfacing before he could suppress it. He wasn't the type to indulge in self-pity, and he rarely entertained regret—but tonight, it lingered. Persistent. Nagging.
Things would have been simpler if Naruto wasn't his responsibility. If he'd been given a different team… or better yet, if he'd only taken Sasuke as his sole student. No shouting, no stunts, no irrational declarations of becoming Hokage shouted from rooftops.
He looked down at his cup, the amber liquid inside catching the light. With a soft sigh, he reached for it again.
Maybe another drink will help, he thought, though even that idea felt thin.
No amount of sake could dull the kind of exhaustion that came with leading Team 7. Not the physical kind—but the mental toll of herding chaos, ambition, and teenage hormones wrapped in ninja headbands.
And worst of all?
They were just getting started.
The Rusty Kunai pulsed with the easy rhythm of late-night chatter and shared exhaustion. Lanterns swung gently from the beams above, casting warm, flickering light across rough wooden tables and shadowed corners. The scent of grilled pork and sweet dango mingled with the earthy smoke of Asuma's ever-present cigarette. In the far corner, a pair of chunin clumsily played cards, their laughter echoing too loud for the hour.
But Kakashi barely noticed any of it. The din of the tavern dulled to a low hum beneath the pressure building behind his temples. The warm buzz of sake in his system did little to ease the tension coiled tight in his shoulders. He swirled the remaining liquid in his cup, watching the ripples move like thoughts he couldn't smooth out.
Across the table, Kurenai's voice carried lightly over the noise as she brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"My team's fine, really," she said, though her sigh betrayed more weariness than she let on. "But none of them are suited for genjutsu. Not surprising—they're all buried in their clan techniques. It makes sense, but still…"
Kakashi offered a noncommittal nod, eyes still fixed on his drink.
Asuma exhaled a slow stream of smoke, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Could be worse," he said, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he leaned back in his chair. "I've got a Nara who wants to sleep through life, an Akimichi who treats training sessions like snack time, and a Yamanaka who's pretty sure fate's punishing her for not ending up on Sasuke's team."
Kurenai gave a light laugh, the kind shared among friends worn down by the same burden.
Kakashi didn't join in.
Their complaints sounded… manageable. Mild, even. Nothing compared to what he dealt with. He tuned them out, letting their conversation drift into background noise as he leaned further back in his chair. The cup in his hand was cool, comforting in its weight. He stared into it, as if the pale liquid could offer some kind of answer.
If only I could say the same about my team.
Every word, every frustration Kurenai and Asuma voiced sounded like surface-level nuisances compared to the hurricane that was Naruto Uzumaki. Every training session was an uphill battle, every mission a chance for disaster. Kakashi didn't realize the bitterness rising in his throat until the words left his mouth, low and sharp.
"I wish I didn't have Naruto on my team," he muttered, the confession slipping out too easily. It hung in the air between them, heavy and unfiltered.
He tilted his cup and downed the last of the sake in a single swallow. It burned on the way down—but not nearly enough.
Asuma raised a brow at the statement, his smirk returning with a quiet hum of amusement. "Well, that's what you get for taking the dead last," he said casually, as though commenting on the weather. His shrug was loose, indifferent. "All I know about him is what's in the academy records."
Kurenai's expression shifted, her smile fading as the weight of Kakashi's words settled between them. Her crimson eyes narrowed, glinting with something firmer than mere disagreement.
"I don't think Naruto-san is that bad," she said at last, her voice calm but edged with quiet steel. There was no judgment in her tone—only conviction.
The tavern's warmth seemed to dim around her. The noise of the room carried on—muffled laughter, the rattle of dice from a nearby table—but the conversation at their little corner table had taken a heavier turn.
"I was one of his academy instructors once," she continued, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Just for a short time, back when I was still a chunin. He was loud, yes. Craved attention. But… can you really blame him?" Her gaze lingered on the sake bottle, unfocused, as if staring through it. "People either ignored him or treated him like a stain on their lives. Like he didn't belong."
Her words faltered for a moment, and the tension in her shoulders deepened. A memory flickered behind her eyes—one she clearly didn't revisit often.
"There was an incident," she said quietly, barely above the hum of conversation around them. "He placed first in his class that term. The older instructors didn't like it. One of them locked him in a classroom, and…" Her jaw tightened, the words thick with restrained anger. "They let the adults—civilians—come in. Let them beat him. Said it would teach him humility."
Asuma froze mid-drag on his cigarette. Kurenai's voice had grown brittle, like thin glass held together by control alone.
"I stopped it," she said, shaking her head slightly. "But it was enough to make me quit the academy. I couldn't stand by and pretend it was okay. After that… I always suspected something was off. Sabotage, maybe. He shouldn't have been the dead last. Not after that."
A heavy silence followed her words, thick enough to press down on the table itself.
Kakashi stared at his cup, then set it down with a soft thud. The sound was quiet, but final.
"Sabotaged or not," he said, his voice low and clipped, "he's useless now."
His eye didn't waver, and neither did the bitterness in his tone.
"He can't do anything right. He doesn't think before he acts. He doesn't learn. And to be honest…" He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into something colder. "I think the Third passed him out of pity. If he doesn't start improving soon, I'm filing a formal request. Either he gets pulled from the shinobi roster or reassigned to the reserves. He's not cut out for this."
The table went still. Kurenai didn't speak. Asuma's smile had vanished.
But Kakashi didn't notice. He was already reaching for the bottle, pouring himself another drink. The sharp scent of sake filled the space between them, but it did little to mask the tension.
Or the quiet fracture that had opened in the air.
"Well," came a voice from behind, low and deceptively cheerful, "that's quite an assessment, Kakashi."
The words cut through the air like a blade, crisp and deliberate. Kakashi's hand froze mid-pour. A thin stream of sake overflowed the rim of his cup, trailing across the wood like a nervous sweat.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
He didn't need to turn to know who it was. That voice—rich, unbothered on the surface, but sharp underneath—could only belong to one man.
Jiraiya of the Sannin.
Slowly, Kakashi shifted in his seat, lifting his eye to the tall figure now standing in the doorway. The soft glow of the tavern's lanterns caught on the man's mane of wild, white hair, casting shadows that danced across the lines of his face. His usual wide grin was in place, but those who truly knew Jiraiya could see the difference.
The smile didn't reach his eyes.
Not even close.
There was a quiet storm behind that gaze—an undercurrent of restrained fury, simmering beneath a carefully constructed mask of levity. Jiraiya's stance was loose, easy, but Kakashi could feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a fire.
"I was going to wait a little longer before stepping in," Jiraiya said, his tone calm—almost too calm. "But it seems like you've already decided Naruto isn't worth your time."
The room had gone completely still. Even the background noise—the idle chatter, the clinking of glasses—seemed to fade under the weight of the moment.
"So I'll be taking my godson now."
The words struck like a slap.
"Wait—Jiraiya-sama—" Kakashi started, rising halfway out of his seat, the sudden crack in his composure evident in his voice. But the words came out too fast, too unsteady. His thoughts were already scrambling to form some kind of explanation, something to pull back the moment—
But it was too late.
Jiraiya disappeared in an instant. One flicker of movement, and he was gone—like a gust of wind through an open window. Only the soft sway of the tavern door, left ajar in his wake, proved he'd been there at all.
Silence descended again, heavier now.
Kurenai stood slowly, her chair scraping softly against the floor. Her face gave nothing away—calm, unreadable—but her voice carried a chill.
"Well, Kakashi," she said, gathering her things with quiet finality, "looks like you got your wish."
She didn't look back as she walked out, her dark silhouette vanishing into the shadows of the street.
Asuma stayed seated, slowly leaning back in his chair. He let out a low whistle and took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled up toward the rafters.
"Well," he said, turning his head to glance at Kakashi with a crooked smirk, "looks like you're screwed. And I wouldn't want to be you when Jiraiya gives the Hokage a full report."
Kakashi didn't respond.
He stared down at the now-empty cup in his hand, the weight of it unfamiliar, heavy. The sharp scent of sake lingered in the air, but it no longer warmed him.
What have I done?
The Next Day
Morning broke over Konoha with a hush rather than a flourish. Soft light filtered through the clouds, casting the village in a muted gray. The streets were quiet, damp from an early drizzle that still clung to rooftops and leaves in gentle droplets.
Naruto woke earlier than usual.
Something felt… off.
It wasn't the light or the weather—he was used to sleeping through storms and sunlight alike. No, this was something else. A feeling in his gut, uneasy and heavy. He stretched slowly, his limbs still sluggish with sleep, and made his way to the small kitchenette of his apartment, scratching at his unruly hair.
The scent of rice just beginning to cook filled the air when a soft, unexpected knock echoed at the door.
Naruto blinked. He wasn't used to polite knocks. Most people didn't even bother. They banged or shouted or just ignored him entirely. Cautious, he moved to the door and cracked it open.
His eyes widened.
An Anbu.
A tall woman stood before him, long violet hair spilling over her shoulders in sleek waves. Her mask—white with catlike features—obscured her face, but not the aura of calm she carried. Most Anbu, when forced to interact with him, treated him like something unpleasant to step around. This one… didn't.
Her posture was relaxed, her gaze steady.
"Naruto-san," she said softly, her voice level but not cold. "The Hokage is waiting for you at the mansion."
His heart skipped a beat. "The old man?" he asked before he could stop himself. "What does he want this early?" Did I mess something up again?
The thought hit fast and hard. Had he broken a rule? Failed too badly on yesterday's mission? Was this about Kakashi?
He shook the feeling off with a rough exhale, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door.
The Anbu didn't push or prod. She simply turned and began walking, and Naruto followed, glancing around as they made their way through the waking streets of the village.
What surprised him more than her presence was where she led him.
Straight inside the Hokage Mansion.
No waiting outside. No suspicious stares from the guards. No awkward silence while someone "checked if the Hokage was available." Just a smooth, uninterrupted walk through the front doors and down the quiet halls.
It was such a small thing.
But to Naruto, it felt… different.
Like respect. Or at least, like he wasn't being treated like an afterthought.
He smiled up at her, the smallest flicker of warmth rising in his chest. "Thanks, Cat-chan!"
The Anbu tilted her head at the nickname, her mask giving nothing away—but she offered a slight nod in return.
"He's waiting for you inside."
Naruto hesitated for only a second before pushing the door open.
The Hokage's office was as he remembered—bathed in soft morning light spilling through the wide windows, casting long beams across shelves lined with old tomes, scrolls, and relics of past ages. The faint scent of ink and burning tobacco lingered in the air, a quiet constant that came with the presence of the Third.
Hiruzen Sarutobi sat behind his desk, as always, buried in mountains of paperwork. His robes were crisp, his expression measured—but his tired eyes lifted with quiet warmth the moment Naruto entered.
What Naruto wasn't expecting was the man standing beside him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Unmistakable.
The stranger's spiky white hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and his red haori hung open over a mesh shirt and heavy slacks. A massive scroll was strapped to his back, nearly the size of Naruto himself. His whole presence felt larger-than-life, like he'd just walked off the set of some old samurai flick.
Naruto blinked, then squinted suspiciously.
"Sup, old man," he said, crossing his arms and nodding at the Hokage. "Why'd you call me here? And who's the weird guy with the white hair?"
The moment the words left his mouth, the tall man recoiled as if struck.
"Weird? Weird?!" he shouted, stumbling back with the dramatics of a stage actor before collapsing face-first to the floor in exaggerated despair. "This generation has no respect!"
Naruto tilted his head. That was fast, he thought. This guy's a weirdo for sure.
The Hokage chuckled, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly with amusement as he folded his hands over his desk. "Naruto-kun, how did you know Jiraiya is a… how should I say… a 'unique' individual?"
Naruto smirked and tapped a finger against his temple with mock pride. "I saw him years ago!" he announced. "I was sneaking around the hot springs—y'know, trying to get inspiration for a new jutsu—and there he was. Talking to himself about how Konoha has 'the most gifted women.'" He even raised his hands to make air quotes, his unimpressed tone making it clear that whatever admiration Jiraiya might have hoped for, he wasn't getting it here.
Jiraiya lifted his head with an anguished look of betrayal. "Not even the kids respect me anymore!" he wailed, clutching his chest like he'd been mortally wounded.
The Third Hokage sighed, muttering something under his breath about the moral decline of legendary shinobi. His fingers ghosted over one of the nearby scrolls, a weary expression flickering across his face.
I still can't believe this brat invented that absurd Sexy Jutsu… and even worse, he thought grimly, I fell for it once. That's definitely going into the scroll of sealing.
"Wait… Sexy Jutsu?"
Jiraiya's head snapped up like a hound catching the scent of prey. The glint in his eyes sharpened with sudden, unfiltered interest.
"What's this about a Sexy Jutsu?" he asked, voice brimming with anticipation as a single drop of blood trickled from one nostril. His imagination clearly wasted no time painting vivid pictures in his mind—each one more ridiculous than the last.
Naruto blinked, already regretting bringing it up.
The Third Hokage coughed pointedly, his tone laced with warning. "Enough." His steely gaze cut across the room toward Jiraiya, who was still caught somewhere between perversion and fascination.
Even from outside the office, the subtle presence of the Anbu seemed to sharpen—as if they too were glaring through the door.
Hiruzen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jiraiya, didn't you have something important to tell Naruto?" he asked, his voice now heavy with impatience. "Let's stay on topic."
Jiraiya flinched at the reprimand but quickly straightened his posture. He wiped his nose on the back of his wrist and adopted a more composed expression. The shift was subtle but real—playfulness giving way to gravity, though the remnants of his usual grin lingered.
"Right," he said, his voice lower now. "Naruto, there's something you need to know."
His gaze locked with the boy's, unblinking, direct.
"I'm Jiraiya," he began, "one of the Three Legendary Sannin… and I'm also your godfather."
Silence settled over the room like a heavy fog.
Naruto stared at him, blinking slowly, his brow beginning to furrow. "You're my what?"
"I'm your godfather," Jiraiya repeated, firmer this time.
The words hung in the air, heavier than the boy had expected. They didn't settle. They hit.
And then—Naruto moved.
Without warning, he lunged forward, hurling himself across the office with enough force to shake the furniture. His small frame crashed into Jiraiya's chest with a thud, fists clenching tightly in the red fabric of the man's haori.
"Where the hell have you been?!"
His voice cracked—part rage, part grief—but there was no mistaking the ache that bled through the sound.
Jiraiya didn't stumble. Despite the impact, he remained still, arms loose at his sides, letting the boy strike and shout without resistance.
Naruto's voice dropped to a whisper, hoarse and sharp. "Where. Have. You. Been?"
Each word landed with precision, like kunai driven into soft earth.
Jiraiya's expression shifted again. The smile vanished. The mask slipped.
His eyes, once so full of mirth and mischief, now looked older. Tired. Regretful.
"Because I was busy, Naruto," he said softly. "Busy keeping the village safe. After the Nine-Tails attacked, Konoha was exposed. Weak. If I hadn't been out there spreading misinformation, making sure the world didn't know just how vulnerable we were… this village wouldn't have lasted."
He let the silence stretch.
"I did it for everyone's sake."
Naruto's grip loosened, but he didn't move away. He stayed close, his hands still clenched in Jiraiya's robes, as if afraid the man would vanish again if he let go.
His eyes never left Jiraiya's face.
He was still waiting.
Jiraiya hesitated. The words sat heavy on his tongue, reluctant to surface.
"But that's not the only reason…" he murmured, his voice trailing into the stillness of the Hokage's office.
He looked at Naruto—really looked this time. The boy stood there, radiating raw energy and guarded hurt, his fists clenched at his sides, brows drawn low. That spiky blond hair was unmistakable. So were the eyes—sharp, vivid blue, piercing in a way that stole breath.
Minato's eyes.
But the fire behind them? That spark, that barely-contained storm of emotion—that was Kushina. Through and through. Her fire, her tenacity, her unwillingness to back down even when the world seemed stacked against her.
It hurt.
Seeing them both so clearly in Naruto's face, in the way he stood, demanded answers… it made Jiraiya ache in places he'd buried for years.
"What other reason?" Naruto asked, his tone sharper now. He'd stepped back, just slightly, but his gaze didn't waver. There was no fear in it—just expectation. And hurt.
Jiraiya exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.
"Because I'm not the parenting type, Naruto." The words were honest, unvarnished. "If I'd taken you with me after the Nine-Tails… your life would've been even harder. I'm always on the road. In and out of danger. Always one misstep from being hunted. That's not a life for a kid."
His voice dropped slightly, rough at the edges.
"You deserved better than that."
Naruto's expression twisted—disbelief flashing first, then anger, then something far more fragile. His voice cracked when he spoke again, low and bitter.
"So you left me in a village where people hate me instead?"
The question landed like a kunai.
Jiraiya flinched but didn't look away. He met Naruto's gaze head-on, unwilling to dodge the weight of that truth.
"I won't make excuses," he said quietly. "I made the best decision I could at the time… but I know it wasn't enough."
Then, slowly, he crouched—bringing himself to Naruto's level, not as a legendary shinobi, not as a Sannin, but as something simpler. Something real.
"I'm here now, Naruto. I know I can't undo the past. But I want to make things right. I want to train you—not just as a shinobi." His voice softened, sincere. "As your godfather."
Naruto's eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with something harder to name. Conflict churned beneath the surface as he stared at the man in front of him.
For a moment, Jiraiya braced himself—ready for a punch, or a shout, or even for Naruto to turn and walk away.
But instead, the boy muttered under his breath, his jaw set.
"Fine. But if you're training me, you'd better not hold back. I don't want any of that 'soft godfather' stuff."
Jiraiya blinked—then barked out a laugh, loud and unfiltered, echoing through the room like a burst of sunlight through clouds.
"Deal, brat. Deal."
The Third Hokage watched the exchange with a faint, wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The boy's defiant resolve, Jiraiya's softening heart—it stirred something in him that had long been dulled by years of bureaucracy and regret.
For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, Hiruzen Sarutobi felt something rare.
Hope.
Maybe, he thought, Naruto finally has the support he's always needed.
That fragile sense of peace was short-lived.
"Wait," Naruto blurted out, his voice cutting through the quiet that had settled. "What about Team 7? What's gonna happen to them if I leave?"
The question hung in the air like a suspended breath. There was uncertainty in it—hesitation—but also something else. Attachment.
Despite the tension, despite the stinging comments from Kakashi, despite the way Sasuke looked down on him or how Sakura barely acknowledged him outside of eye-rolls… Naruto couldn't imagine not being part of that team. They were his first squad. His first place.
The Third Hokage exhaled slowly, folding his hands atop the polished surface of his desk. His aged face looked even older under the soft morning light, the creases around his mouth and eyes more pronounced than ever.
"Naruto," he began, his voice steady but heavy, "Jiraiya overheard a conversation yesterday—between Kakashi and the other jonin sensei."
Naruto's brows pinched together. "Huh? What do you mean by that?"
The words hit something low in his chest—a tension that had always been there but now pulled tight, like a wire ready to snap.
He wanted to be surprised.
He really did.
But he wasn't.
Not completely.
Kakashi never really looked at him the way he did Sasuke. During training, his sighs came quicker, his patience thinner. And when Naruto failed—missed a throw, botched a technique—he could feel it. That quiet disappointment. That look that said, Why are you even here?
It's not my fault, Naruto thought bitterly, his chest tightening.
How am I supposed to get better when everything's already stacked against me?
The memories rose like a tide, uninvited and unforgiving.
Just getting basic ninja tools had been a nightmare. His kunai and shuriken were junk—dull-edged, off-balance, the cheapest stuff on the market. He remembered standing in the weapons shop, counting out crumpled ryo bills with shaking hands. That one set had cost him nearly five months' worth of rent.
After that, it had been nothing but one cup of instant ramen a day—for an entire month.
His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight.
No one knows what I had to trade just to show up with the same gear as everyone else.
And taijutsu? That was an even crueler joke.
Every time he tried to mirror the standard academy forms, his body refused to cooperate. The stances felt off, forced—like trying to wear armor that didn't belong to him. He remembered the laughter, the taunts from the other students.
"What kind of fighting style is that?"
They said it with smirks, with sneers.
No one ever told him what he was doing wrong.
Eventually, he stopped asking.
So he'd figured it out on his own. He moved the way he had to—rough, improvised, unrefined. A scrappy, brawler's rhythm born from instinct and desperation.
It wasn't graceful. It wasn't pretty.
But it worked.
"Naruto," Jiraiya's voice cut through the storm of thoughts swirling in the boy's head. His tone was firm—blunt, with no room left for sugarcoating. "Kakashi said he doesn't think you're worth being on his team… or even good enough to be a shinobi."
The words landed like a kunai to the chest.
Naruto froze.
His breath caught in his throat as if someone had knocked the air from his lungs. His wide, disbelieving eyes locked onto Jiraiya's, searching for anything—anything—that said it was a mistake. A cruel joke. A lie.
But Jiraiya didn't flinch. Didn't soften. He stood solid, unwavering, because Naruto deserved the truth—even if it hurt.
"W-what…?" Naruto whispered, the sound brittle, stripped of its usual boisterous energy. His voice cracked as it slipped past his lips, barely louder than a breath.
Jiraiya continued, his expression resolute. "He doesn't see your value, Naruto. But that's his mistake. I do. That's why, from this moment forward, you're my student. Team 7 will continue without you. Kakashi can focus on Sasuke and Sakura."
He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle.
"You, on the other hand," he said, his voice quieter now but no less intense, "are coming with me."
Naruto's head dropped.
His shoulders sagged beneath the invisible weight pressing down on them. For a moment, he said nothing. The quiet was thick, filled only with the faint rustle of papers and the distant creak of the office windows shifting with the breeze.
I knew Kakashi-sensei didn't like me… but not worth being a shinobi?
The thought twisted inside him, cold and sharp. All his life, he'd clawed for recognition—pushed himself to the brink just to be seen. To matter. And now, even his own teacher, the one who was supposed to guide him, didn't believe in him.
But then… something in Jiraiya's words broke through the haze.
He sees my value.
He wants to train me.
That single flicker of belief—real belief—sparked something within him.
Naruto slowly lifted his head, and though his throat still burned, there was a fire growing in his eyes. Bright. Defiant.
"Okay," he said, his voice clearer now, more solid. "I'll do it. I'll be your student, Ero-Sennin."
Jiraiya's brows twitched. "Ero-Sennin?!" he repeated, his moment of gravity promptly shattered. "Show some respect, brat! It's Jiraiya-sensei!"
A faint smirk curled at the edge of Naruto's lips. "You're not fooling anyone. You're still a pervert."
Jiraiya sputtered, clearly caught between indignation and exasperated amusement.
From behind his desk, the Third Hokage cleared his throat, his calm voice cutting through the exchange like a bell. "Jiraiya," he said, drawing both their gazes, "if you're taking Naruto out of the village… what's your plan?"
The moment shifted again, sobering.
Jiraiya straightened, the teasing edge vanishing from his face. His tone was all business now. "We'll be gone for a few months, minimum. I need to check in with one of my informants. And…"
He paused, casting a glance toward the Hokage. Their eyes met—something unspoken passed between them.
"…And I need to consult with Tsunade about Naruto's health."
Naruto's brows drew together, confusion etched across his face. "Huh? What does my health have to do with this?"
The room had shifted again—this time into something more serious, something Naruto wasn't sure how to feel about. The pace of the conversation was moving faster than he could keep up with, and it left him feeling like he was two steps behind.
His eyes darted between Jiraiya and the Hokage. "Wait—we're leaving the village? Like, leaving-leaving? For months?"
Jiraiya turned to face him fully, his expression calm but unwavering. "Yes, Naruto," he said. "You've never been beyond the walls of Konoha, have you?"
Naruto shook his head slowly. "No, but—what about Iruka-sensei? And Ayame? And Teuchi?" His voice dipped, unsure. "I don't know if I wanna leave them behind for that long."
Even now, after everything… those were the few people who'd always been kind to him. Who made this place feel like home, even when the rest of the village didn't.
Jiraiya's gaze softened at that, the faintest crease of empathy lining his face. "I get it, kid," he said gently. "It's tough, leaving people who actually care. But this is important. I need to take you to Tsunade."
His tone darkened, serious now. The warmth in his eyes didn't fade, but it took on a weight Naruto hadn't heard before.
"Especially after what I've read in those hospital reports."
A cold, uneasy chill crept into Naruto's stomach.
He knew—of course he knew—the hospital staff didn't like him. Most of them avoided eye contact. Some outright refused to treat him unless Iruka was there to press the issue. But hearing Jiraiya speak about it so plainly made that quiet truth feel bigger. Heavier.
Naruto's voice wavered. "What reports?"
It was the Hokage who answered, his tone composed but grave. "Naruto, there have been… incidents in the past. Times where certain medical staff failed to treat your injuries correctly."
He paused.
"In fact," he continued, voice lowering slightly, "there were occasions where it appears they may have tried to harm you."
Naruto's heart stuttered.
"Tried to what?" he asked sharply, his voice rising with disbelief. The words hit like shrapnel—hot, sharp, unreal.
Jiraiya's jaw tensed, his eyes narrowing. "Exactly," he said flatly. "That's why I'm taking you to Tsunade. I want to make sure there's no permanent damage. And I want to make damn sure no one ever gets the chance to hurt you like that again."
The fire behind his words left no room for argument. It wasn't just concern—it was a promise. A threat to anyone who dared cross that line again.
Naruto swallowed hard, his throat dry. He looked down, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
Anger, confusion, betrayal—all of it swirled inside him, heavy and restless.
All this time… and no one told me?
It was like a curtain being yanked back, revealing just how deep the shadows had gone. The truth had been buried beneath years of silence. Now it stood in the open, raw and ugly.
He didn't like any of this.
But he could see it in their faces—Jiraiya's, the Hokage's. This wasn't a joke. It wasn't pity. It was real.
Naruto looked up again. His voice was quieter now, but steady.
"Alright," he said, nodding. "Let's do it."
Jiraiya's grin returned, wide and proud. He clapped a firm hand on Naruto's shoulder.
"That's the spirit, kid. You and I are gonna show this village what you're really capable of."
The Third Hokage nodded, though the lines etched deep into his face spoke of burdens words couldn't express. His eyes followed Naruto as the boy disappeared down the hallway, the echo of his footsteps fading behind the swinging door.
Danzo and the elders will have my head for this, Hiruzen thought grimly, his fingers curling slightly atop the desk. But this is what's best—for Naruto, for his future… and for Konoha.
"Meet me at the front gate in an hour, kid," Jiraiya said, tossing a small cloth pouch through the air.
Naruto caught it with both hands, surprised by the unexpected weight. He blinked down at it, giving it a quick shake. The sound of coins clinking together immediately lit up his expression.
"What's this?" he asked, curiosity already turning into excitement.
"It's some cash," Jiraiya replied with a wave of his hand. "Enough for food and whatever else you need. Pack your things—enough for a few months. And grab some ramen before we leave. Think of it as a farewell bowl."
A grin broke across Naruto's face, wide and boyish. "Got it, Ero-Sennin!" he said with mock precision, giving a playful salute before dashing out the door in a blur of orange and enthusiasm.
The door creaked back and forth for a moment before settling shut behind him.
The office was quieter now.
Hiruzen leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. His hands came to rest on the armrests, heavy with more than just age. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was loaded with everything that hadn't been said aloud.
He turned to Jiraiya, his voice low. "I'll speak to Kakashi later," he said. "You just make sure Naruto stays safe."
Jiraiya offered a crooked smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't worry," he said. "I plan to stick close to him. I've got some old informants to check in with, and Tsunade's going to need time to look Naruto over properly."
His fingers scratched the back of his head, sheepish. "She's going to kill me for not telling her about Naruto sooner. Honestly, she might beat the crap out of me for it."
Hiruzen gave a soft chuckle, though it was tinged with fatigue. "She won't stop with you. If she sees the hospital records… I wouldn't blame her for snapping my neck first."
Jiraiya's smile faded, his face growing grim. "Yeah… those records," he murmured. His jaw tightened. "I almost lost it reading them. The fact that nurses and doctors could look at a child and treat him like that—like he was disposable…"
His fists clenched at his sides.
"They're lucky I didn't gut them."
Hiruzen nodded slowly, each word heavy with guilt. "I should've stepped in sooner," he said quietly. "I let the council run too much. I let their fear and politics blind me. I won't forgive myself for that."
The words hung in the air like the lingering scent of smoke after a fire.
Jiraiya tried to break the weight with a dry smile. "Well… at least we'll get matching hospital beds when she's done pounding the hell out of us."
That earned a real laugh from the Hokage—tired, weathered, but genuine. The kind that only came from two old friends who had survived too much together.
They sat for a long moment in the stillness, a shared silence that spoke of regret, of understanding… and the faintest hope that maybe, just maybe, they were starting to put things right.
Meanwhile, with Naruto
Naruto sprinted through the village streets, the wind tugging at his jacket and the morning sun casting long shadows behind him. The rooftops of Konoha blurred past, familiar buildings standing like quiet sentinels as he raced toward his apartment.
His door creaked open under the force of his entrance, and Naruto didn't slow down. He moved with practiced speed, pulling an old, faded bookbag from the corner. The zipper stuck for a second, but he yanked it open and began stuffing it with the essentials—two changes of clothes, a patched-up jacket, and a well-worn scarf folded with surprising care.
He tossed in Gama-chan, his trusted frog-shaped coin purse, giving it a brief squeeze before dropping it between the clothes. Then came his weapons pouch. He took a quick inventory: a few kunai, dulled at the edges from repeated sharpening, and several shuriken—some chipped, all old. Not much. But it was what he had.
Naruto paused for a moment, standing in the middle of his room. The place was small, cramped. The wallpaper peeled at the edges, and the ceiling groaned when the wind picked up. But still… it was his.
His stomach growled loudly, snapping him from the quiet.
"Ramen first," he muttered, grabbing the bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "Ero-Sennin's orders."
The streets were beginning to come alive as he made his way toward Ichiraku Ramen—merchants opening shopfronts, mothers calling after their kids, shinobi moving with urgency toward their assignments. But Naruto walked with something different in his step. Not urgency. Not even excitement.
Purpose.
The familiar wooden sign of Ichiraku came into view, and as always, the moment he stepped beneath the awning, he was met with the comforting aroma of broth, spices, and warm noodles. The scent wrapped around him like a welcome-home hug.
His face lit up.
"Hey, Ayame-neechan! Old man Teuchi!" he called, slipping onto his usual stool at the counter.
Ayame glanced up from behind the counter, her smile immediate and bright. "Good to see you, Naruto-kun!"
Her eyes flicked to the bag resting at his side, and a curious expression crossed her face. "Heading somewhere?"
"Yup!" Naruto grinned, leaning forward with pride swelling in his voice. "I'm leaving the village for a few months to train with my new sensei!"
Ayame tilted her head, her brow lifting just slightly. "New sensei? What about Team 7?"
Naruto's grin widened, pride swelling in his chest. The words were already forming on his tongue, ready to spill out in a triumphant announcement—until a voice cut through the air like a blade, cool and familiar, laced with that ever-present condescension.
"What's this nonsense about a new sensei, dobe?"
The air seemed to shift.
Naruto groaned aloud, the warmth in his chest immediately evaporating. Of course he had to show up now.
He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The tone, the timing—it was signature Uchiha.
"What do you want, Sasuke-teme?" he muttered, his back still to the door.
Sasuke strolled into the shop with the same effortless arrogance he always carried, his hands buried in his pockets, shoulders loose, eyes already narrowed with suspicion.
"I came to drag you to the team meeting you forgot about," he said casually, though his smirk hinted he knew Naruto hadn't forgotten anything. "But now you're here, running your mouth with some ridiculous story. Kakashi-sensei didn't say anything about you getting a new sensei. Let alone leaving the village."
Naruto spun on the stool, the legs of his chair scraping the floor. His expression darkened, glare sharp beneath furrowed brows.
"That's because I'm not on Team 7 anymore, idiot!" he snapped. "I have a new sensei. And he's taking me out of the village to train."
Sasuke's easy smirk faltered—not much, but enough. It flickered for the briefest moment before returning, tighter this time. Less amused.
"What?" he said, flatly. "You're lying. No one would waste their time teaching the dead last."
Naruto's fists clenched on his knees, knuckles whitening.
There it is again. That old, familiar sting in Sasuke's voice. The way he always said dead last like it was Naruto's name. Like it defined him.
"Well it just so happens," Naruto growled, rising to his feet now, his voice loud and clear, "that my new sensei isn't just anyone. He's Jiraiya. One of the Legendary Sannin!"
Ayame gasped, her eyes wide with surprise.
From the back, Teuchi glanced over with a knowing smile, saying nothing—but his eyes crinkled in quiet approval.
Meanwhile, Sasuke stood motionless, the name hanging between them like a drawn blade. His smirk shifted—less of a grin now, more of a twitch at the corner of his lips. Something colder. Sharper.
"There's no way," Sasuke snapped, the calm in his voice fracturing as something sharper flared behind his eyes. His smirk had vanished completely now, replaced with a dark scowl and a flash of unmistakable jealousy. "Why would one of the Sannin choose you? What could you possibly offer him?"
His voice dripped with disbelief, but beneath that—just beneath—was a question he couldn't voice. Why not me?
Naruto didn't turn around.
He didn't need to. Instead, he waved a hand over his shoulder with casual defiance and leaned back against the counter, completely at ease.
"Think whatever you want, teme," he said with a grin. "Next time you see me, I'll be stronger than you. Just you wait."
The words weren't loud, but they carried.
Sasuke's fists clenched at his sides, tight enough that his knuckles cracked.
Stronger than me?
The thought struck deep, irritating and impossible to ignore. He'd trained harder than anyone, studied relentlessly, mastered techniques with precision. And yet Naruto—the fool, the dropout, the dead last—was getting personal training from a Sannin?
It made no sense.
Why is this idiot getting the kind of training I need?
Sasuke's glare burned into Naruto's back, his mind already churning with plans—how to confront Kakashi, how to demand an explanation, a fix, anything.
But before he could speak again, the soft thunk of a knife hitting wood snapped through the tension.
Teuchi had stepped out from the kitchen, a large chef's knife in one hand and a half-peeled carrot in the other. His face was calm, but his eyes held a warning.
"No fighting in my shop, boys," he said evenly.
The silence that followed was brief but biting.
Sasuke's jaw tightened. He met the older man's gaze for a moment, then scoffed under his breath. "Whatever," he muttered, turning on his heel. "There's no way you'll ever surpass me, loser."
He stalked out of the shop, the door swinging shut behind him with a sharp clang, already replaying the conversation in his head, already preparing for his next move.
Naruto didn't even look up. He just smiled as Ayame placed a steaming bowl of ramen in front of him.
"Thanks, Ayame-neechan!" he said brightly, the irritation from a moment ago dissolving the instant the scent of miso and noodles hit him.
"You're welcome, Naruto-kun," she replied, though her voice was a touch softer than before.
Her smile lingered, warm but touched with worry as she watched him dive into his food.
I hope this new teacher can help him, she thought. He's already been through so much…
Training Ground 7
The late morning sun filtered through the canopy above, its golden light streaming in broken patterns across the clearing. The air was warm, the soft rustle of leaves carried on a gentle breeze that stirred the grass and fluttered the edges of the red training posts. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance, their melodies faint beneath the mounting tension in the air.
Sakura Haruno stood near the edge of the clearing, arms folded tightly over her chest, one foot tapping out a rhythm of pure frustration against the dusty ground. Her gaze swept over the training field, though it wasn't focused on anything—or anyone. Her glare was simply there, aimed at the world.
"Where the hell is Naruto-baka!?" she snapped, her voice slicing through the stillness like a thrown kunai.
Her shrill complaint echoed for a moment before being swallowed by the forest around them. A few startled birds took flight from the trees. The irritation on her face was palpable, her brows knitted, lips pursed in a tight frown.
She shifted slightly, making sure she remained in the shade of a nearby tree. The sunlight glinted off her pink hair, casting a soft glow around her. But any trace of serenity was undone by the scowl on her face. Sweat clung to the back of her neck, and she brushed at it with a grimace.
I am not going to look like some sweaty pig in front of Sasuke-kun.
Her indignation burned hotter than the sun overhead.
High above, perched like a shadow in the crook of a tall tree, Kakashi Hatake sat with one knee bent, the other leg dangling lazily over the branch. A familiar orange book rested in his gloved hands—Icha Icha Paradise, worn and well-loved—but his eye wasn't scanning the pages. Not really.
He turned another page with robotic ease, though his gaze remained distant, unfocused. Despite knowing the book nearly word for word, he hadn't absorbed a single sentence since he cracked it open.
Sakura's complaining didn't help, but it wasn't what unsettled him.
It was something else.
Something heavier.
The Rusty Kunai…
The thought crept in uninvited, dragging with it the sour taste of regret.
His words from the night before echoed in the back of his mind—sharp, careless things born from irritation and sake. Words he hadn't meant to hit so hard. And yet, they had.
He doesn't belong on my team.
He's not cut out to be a shinobi.
The memory made his stomach twist.
Sure, he'd been frustrated. Exhausted, even. But that didn't excuse how cruel it sounded when said aloud—how final. The bitterness in his voice hadn't just exposed his doubt. It had revealed a fracture in his role as a sensei.
A fracture that, maybe, couldn't be undone.
He exhaled through his nose, the wind stirring the pages in his book.
Regret wasn't something he wore openly. But today… it clung to him like a second shadow.
Kakashi sighed, the breath slipping out slowly as he turned another page of his book. The words blurred together—lines of text melting into shapes he didn't bother to decipher. His mind wasn't on reading.
Still no sign of Naruto.
"Where is that idiot?" Shouted Sakura.
He'd been gone all morning, and Kakashi had long since grown tired of Sakura's whining. Eventually, he'd sent Sasuke to track the boy down, hoping it might diffuse some of the tension in the clearing—or at least distract Sasuke from snapping at his teammate.
Now, he could feel the Uchiha's chakra approaching from beyond the treeline—spiked and restless, laced with anger and something deeper, more volatile. Frustration, maybe. Jealousy.
"Sasuke-kun!" Sakura's voice rang out the moment he came into view, high-pitched and giddy with sudden excitement. Her irritation vanished like mist in the morning sun, replaced with syrupy sweetness as she ran up to him, practically bouncing on her heels.
She clasped her hands in front of her chest, her green eyes wide and shining. As if just seeing him was a blessing from the heavens.
Kakashi landed lightly on the ground before them, dropping from the tree without so much as a stir of dust. His usual calm expression remained intact, though his eye sharpened as he took in Sasuke's posture—the tension coiled in his shoulders, the fire behind his narrowed gaze.
"Where's Naruto?" Kakashi asked, his tone deceptively casual.
Sasuke didn't answer right away. He stopped a few paces from them, his fists clenched at his sides, jaw taut.
Then—his voice, low and laced with fury.
"Why the hell is he apprenticed to Jiraiya of the Sannin?!"
The words exploded from him like a detonated tag, echoing through the quiet forest.
"What?!" Sakura shrieked, her jaw falling open. She turned to Kakashi, eyes wide with disbelief. "You mean that Jiraiya?!"
Kakashi said nothing, but inwardly, the news hit with a weight he hadn't expected. Jiraiya took Naruto? That wasn't part of the plan. The Hokage had mentioned a reassignment—he'd assumed it would be a temporary transfer, maybe another jonin stepping in, nothing more.
But handing Naruto off to one of the most legendary shinobi in Konoha's history?
Hiruzen didn't waste any time, Kakashi thought grimly.
"Kakashi!" Sasuke barked, stepping forward. His voice rose, cracking slightly under the weight of his emotion. "This is wrong! I'm the one who needs to train under Jiraiya! I'm the one who has to get stronger—not that loser!"
His breath came faster now, fists trembling at his sides, knuckles white.
"That's right!" Sakura chimed in quickly, her voice shrill and breathless. She stepped closer to Sasuke, nodding with fervor. "Sasuke-kun deserves to be the student of Jiraiya-sama!"
Her eyes sparkled—not with curiosity, but something far more manic, more hopeful. This is it, she thought, her mind already spiraling. With Naruto gone, Team 7 can finally be what it was meant to be. Just Sasuke-kun and me. I'll be the only one by his side. It's destiny.
Kakashi's visible eye narrowed as it shifted toward Sasuke, studying him with quiet intensity. "Who told you this?"
Sasuke didn't hesitate. "The loser himself," he snapped, his voice clipped and sharp. "He was at that ramen shop he always hangs out in—bragging about it like he's some kind of big shot. Said he's leaving the village to train. Outside the village."
His lip curled slightly, as if the words tasted bitter coming out.
Kakashi didn't miss the edge in his voice—the way it cracked beneath the surface. It wasn't just anger. Not entirely. There was something deeper. A flicker of panic. Jealousy. Fear.
Sasuke, the pride of the Uchiha clan, the boy burdened with impossible expectations, was unraveling at the thought of Naruto—a boy he'd written off as weak—being chosen for something greater.
Someone else might surpass him.
And that terrified him.
"I'll be right back," Kakashi said, his tone low but firm, leaving no room for questions.
He didn't explain further. He didn't need to. Whatever was going on, he needed to hear it from Naruto himself.
"Sasuke, Sakura," he added, glancing between them. "Fifteen laps around the training ground. Then spar until I return."
Before either of them could protest or respond, he vanished with a flicker of movement—silent, fast, and final.
Sasuke stood frozen for a moment, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. His jaw tightened.
Why Naruto?
His mind refused to accept it, cycling through the same thought again and again like a mantra.
Why him?
The idea of Naruto being trained by a Sannin—Jiraiya, no less—felt like an insult. Like a mockery of everything Sasuke had worked for. Everything he had sacrificed.
If anyone deserves that kind of power, it's me.
I'm the one who has to kill my brother. I'm the one who has to be the strongest.
Nearby, Sakura was paying little attention to Sasuke's seething fury. Her mind had already floated somewhere else entirely, swept up in a rose-tinted daydream.
With Naruto gone, she thought, a dreamy smile beginning to tug at her lips, I can finally focus all my energy on Sasuke-kun. Just the two of us…
She imagined them training side by side, locked in some poetic, moonlit sparring match. Their eyes would meet. He would finally see her. Really see her.
He'll realize I've always been there for him. He'll confess his love. He'll propose. And we'll have the most beautiful wedding in all of Konoha.
Her cheeks flushed pink as her fantasies grew more elaborate.
Ten children, she mused with giddy delight. Five boys, five girls. All with perfect Uchiha blood—half pink hair, half black hair. Everyone will say they're the most beautiful children in the village. And Sasuke will call me the best mom ever—
"Sakura," Sasuke's voice cut through her thoughts like a blade.
She blinked rapidly, startled. "Huh? Oh! Yes, Sasuke-kun!" she said, snapping to attention like a soldier awaiting orders. "I'll do whatever you say!"
Sasuke didn't respond. His gaze was locked on the horizon, eyes narrowed, expression stormy.
Kakashi better fix this, he thought, his frustration curdling into something darker.
I don't care what it takes—Jiraiya is mine.
⸻
Naruto slurped down the last of his fifteenth bowl of ramen, the warm broth sliding down his throat like liquid comfort. He leaned back on his stool with a satisfied sigh, patting his full stomach and grinning up at the ceiling like he'd just accomplished a great feat.
"Ahh… that hit the spot," he said cheerfully, though the brightness in his voice dimmed slightly as he reached for his pouch. He slid the coins Jiraiya had given him across the counter, watching them clink together before Ayame scooped them up with a smile.
"Take care of yourself out there, Naruto-kun," she said gently, placing a small, neatly wrapped package in front of him. "And don't forget to eat something besides instant ramen. Real food, okay?"
From behind the counter, Teuchi chuckled as he wiped down a cutting board. "She's right, kid. You're growing. Can't live on cup noodles forever—no matter how good they are. Even the best ramen in the world needs variety."
Naruto scratched the back of his head, his sheepish grin returning in full force. "Yeah, yeah, I got it! Thanks, old man. Thanks, Ayame-neechan!"
He tucked the package carefully into his bag, adjusting the straps with practiced ease. One last wave, and he was off—ducking beneath the red curtain of Ichiraku and stepping into the late morning sunlight.
The streets of Konoha buzzed with activity, but to Naruto, it all felt slightly muted—like he was watching the village through a pane of glass. The warmth from the ramen lingered in his stomach, but the glow of it began to fade as he made his way toward the village gates.
That was when the looks began.
It started subtly—quick glances, furtive whispers.
Then came the not-so-subtle ones.
Civilians turned to stare, their expressions cold and openly hostile. Some whispered behind raised hands; others didn't bother hiding their disgust. A woman clutched her child closer as he passed. A vendor narrowed his eyes and spat on the ground.
Same old, same old, Naruto thought, bitterness coiling in his chest like smoke.
He kept walking, shoulders squared, chin up, but his grip on the strap of his bag tightened until his knuckles whitened. It didn't hurt like it used to. Not the same way. But the sting never really went away—it just buried itself deeper, like an old scar that throbbed in the cold.
Then, one man—a little bolder than the rest—sneered at him from across the path, muttering something under his breath. Naruto didn't hear it, but he didn't have to.
Without stopping, he flicked his forehead protector with a single, casual motion, the metal glinting in the light.
"I'm a shinobi now," he muttered, just loud enough. "Try something. I dare ya."
The man paled, flinching slightly before turning away, his voice a low grumble as he retreated into the crowd.
As the towering gates of Konoha came into view, standing firm and familiar beneath the midmorning sun, Naruto's pace quickened. The path beneath his sandals was dappled with shifting shadows from the tall trees overhead, and the scent of dust and pine filled the air.
Near the entrance, Jiraiya stood casually, leaning against the guard booth as he chatted with the two shinobi posted there. His booming laugh carried on the breeze, easily recognizable even from a distance.
Naruto broke into a light jog, waving as he approached. "Sorry, Ero-Sennin! Old man Teuchi and Ayame-neechan wouldn't let me leave without packing extra food!" He grinned, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish chuckle. "Like I'd only survive on ramen cups…"
Jiraiya turned to meet him, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Good to see you're prepared, brat. Let's—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
In an instant, the amusement vanished from his face. His shoulders squared, eyes sharpening. A faint shift in the air—a familiar chakra—had drawn his focus like a blade at his back.
In a blur of swirling leaves, Kakashi Hatake materialized before them, hands tucked casually into his pockets. His arrival was quiet, controlled, but the tension that followed him said more than words.
His single eye, sharp beneath his forehead protector, settled on Jiraiya.
"Jiraiya-sama," he said evenly, though his voice carried a quiet weight. "Why didn't you speak to me before pulling Naruto from my squad?"
Jiraiya didn't flinch. He regarded Kakashi with calm, but the curve of his jaw had tightened. His gaze narrowed—not with surprise, but with challenge.
"Maybe," he said coolly, "because I heard everything I needed to at the Rusty Kunai."
Kakashi's brow creased.
Jiraiya's tone sharpened like steel drawn across stone. "Or did you forget what you said? 'I wish I never got Naruto on my squad.' Or better yet—'The Hokage only passed him because he felt bad for him. He's not meant to be a shinobi.'"
He paused.
"Ring a bell?"
The words hit the ground like thunder.
Naruto's feet came to a halt behind Jiraiya. The warmth in his chest from earlier—the laughter, the food, the excitement—drained away in an instant.
He stood frozen, lips parted slightly as if the air had thickened. Slowly, his head turned toward Kakashi, blue eyes wide and disbelieving.
The ache in his chest started as a hollow pinch. Then it twisted, sinking deeper.
"…So that's how it is," he muttered, voice low and trembling. "You hated me all along."
Kakashi blinked, visibly taken aback. "Naruto, that's not—"
"No. Don't even try." Naruto's voice cracked, his anger igniting beneath the sorrow. "It makes sense now. No wonder you always made me do the worst parts of the D-rank missions. You didn't care if I was exhausted. You didn't even look at me most of the time."
His fists trembled at his sides.
"All you ever cared about was Sasuke and Sakura."
Kakashi winced.
The venom in Naruto's voice was something he wasn't prepared for—sharp, unfiltered, and drenched in pain. He'd seen the boy angry before, loud, defiant, reckless—but never like this. Never so raw.
"Naruto, I—" he began, but the words fell flat, hollow even to his own ears.
But Naruto wasn't finished.
"And don't think I forgot about our first day as a team!" he shouted, stepping forward. His fists clenched tighter, his voice cracking with every word. "You tied me up with ninja wire—so tight I couldn't move! I couldn't even use the replacement jutsu! And then you just left me there!"
The memory surged up, bitter and vivid, playing out in Naruto's mind like it had happened yesterday.
"If it wasn't for that purple-haired lady—Anko, I think—you would've left me out there all night!" he spat.
Jiraiya's gaze flicked sharply toward Kakashi, his jaw tightening. His expression darkened, eyes narrowing.
Anko, huh? he thought grimly. I'll have to thank her for that.
Without a word, he stepped forward and placed a steady hand on Naruto's shoulder—not to silence him, but to ground him. The boy was shaking now, with fury, with grief, with years of unspoken hurt finally spilling free.
"Kakashi," Jiraiya said, voice low but resolute, "you've made it pretty damn clear that you don't see Naruto's potential. That's fine. You're entitled to your opinion."
His tone shifted, losing all pretense of patience.
"But don't you dare act like you were doing him some kind of favor by keeping him on your team."
Kakashi stood stiffly, his breath caught in his throat. The weight of Jiraiya's words hit harder than he expected, because deep down… some of it was true.
"I didn't—" he tried again, weakly.
"You failed him," Jiraiya cut in, sharper this time, like a blade honed on fury. "You failed Minato."
Kakashi flinched, the name striking deeper than anything else could have.
"He asked you to watch over Naruto. He trusted you. And this is how you honored that?"
There was no room for defense. No excuse that wouldn't sound pitiful in comparison to the truth hanging between them.
Jiraiya's hand tightened briefly on Naruto's shoulder, steady, protective.
"Don't worry," he said coldly. "I'll do what you clearly couldn't. I'll make sure Naruto becomes the shinobi Minato would have been proud of."
His voice lowered, each word heavy with quiet condemnation.
"You focus on Sasuke. That's all you've cared about anyway… right?"
Naruto's brow furrowed, the storm in his eyes dimming with confusion. He looked up at Jiraiya, the name lingering in the air like smoke after a fire.
"Minato?" he asked quietly. "Who's that?"
For a moment, something shifted in Jiraiya's face—his anger giving way to a softness rarely seen, an old sorrow tucked behind the lines of his grin. He placed a gentle hand on Naruto's back and began to guide him toward the gates.
"Not now, kid," he said, voice low and steady. "We'll talk on the road."
He paused once more at the threshold, glancing over his shoulder.
His gaze locked onto Kakashi with a finality that spoke louder than any shouted condemnation. It was not cruel. It was not angry. It was simply done.
"Goodbye, Kakashi."
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
Naruto followed without hesitation. He didn't look back—except for one last glare cast over his shoulder. The kind that wasn't fueled by childish resentment, but by something deeper. Something that said, You don't get to hurt me again.
Then he turned his back on Kakashi… and didn't look again.
Kakashi stood frozen, the dust of their departure swirling around his feet.
The morning sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows behind the trees, but he felt no warmth. Just the echo of Jiraiya's words, ringing louder than any battle cry.
You failed Minato.
The words coiled around his chest, tightening with every breath.
Minato-sensei… I failed you. Again.
He didn't move. Not right away. Not even when the guards glanced his way with uncertainty. He just stood there, caught in the weight of what he hadn't said—what he should have said.
By the time he finally turned away, the dust had long settled. His steps were slow, his frame heavy with silence.
The Third Hokage would be waiting. Likely with questions. Maybe even reprimands.
Kakashi didn't argue with that.
He knew he deserved them all.
Author notes:
I hope you enjoy this, but if not, that's okay too. I just wanted to share something since I have a bit of free time. I have a plan for this story, inspired by my reading of many high school DxD and MHA stories, but that's a long way off—if I ever get that far. I'll do my best to update as often as I can, and I apologize for the delay with my other story. Please let me know what you think of this one. Should I continue it?
Well Good bye and have a wonderful day you sexy people.
