A man with the profoundly average look of a professional sidewalk-gawker shook his head in awe. "Lately," he announced to the world at large, "I have to admit, 'boring' has officially been voted out of the village. The rent's too high for it."
Another man, who had been meticulously counting the number of people ahead of him (he was currently losing a bitter struggle against the concept of double digits), nodded grimly. "Who said not? When you have Uchiha in the village, it's never a dull."
He said this with the wistful sigh of a man remembering a simpler time, a time when the sight of a fan-shaped crest on someone's back meant you should probably check your wallet and then run in the opposite direction.
Now, it just meant you might see a world-class scene of Uchiha arresting criminal or receive a new book they are promoting.
The Uchiha, once a synonym for 'lock your doors and pray' were now a sign of entertainment and economic stimulus. What a difference a few months—and one absurdly talented princess—could make.
"Konoha is really thriving," the first man continued, eager to show off his insider knowledge. "I heard the First Hokage's granddaughter, little Lady Tsunade, just graduated after only a year! A natural, that one. And she wasn't alone. They say a whole pack of little geniuses shot out of the Academy with her. Two civilians from the bunch got snatched up as personal disciples by the Third Hokage himself! Can you imagine?"
It must be said that the collective memory of Konoha's citizens operated on a fascinatingly selective basis. The tragic death of the Second Hokage wasn't even two years past, and the public grief had already been neatly filed away to make room for the next big thing.
But then, that was their way—a unique form of ninja-therapy that involved collectively pretending everything was fantastic until, through sheer force of will and distraction, it actually became so.
And Azula's burgeoning empire of entertainment was the perfect distraction. In a world that had just witnessed the raw, ugly truth of war, what it needed wasn't more solemn reflection; it needed glitter, spectacle, and something to argue about in line.
It was a form of mass self-hypnosis, a communal chant of "Look over here! The future is bright! We have the First's granddaughter! We have civilian prodigies! We have a newborn Senju heir in Nawaki! We have up-and-comers like that Hatake Sakumo and Dan Kato! The sun is shining and my wallet is slightly lighter but my heart is full!"
And the funny thing was, if you stopped to think about it carefully, it wasn't even a lie. The talent was real. The future was, indeed, potentially very bright.
Unbeknownst to the two men, the architect of this distraction was passing by at that very moment. Azula, looking every bit the innocent six-year-old (a masterful disguise she wore like a cloak), allowed a tiny, supremely satisfied smirk to touch her lips.
Their discussion was music to her ears. Basically, even with a few unforeseen hiccups, her grand plan was proceeding… well, swimmingly.
The store was a money-printing machine that also printed fame. The tribunal was a reputation-laundering service for her entire clan, spinning righteous credibility out of thin air. And as for her personal strength? After a frustrating stagnation, she was finally feeling the gears turn again.
Her mind drifted to the anime memory from her past life: a five- or six-year-old Kushina Uzumaki, soundly thrashing a classmate.
Minutes later, the victim's genin brother showed up, his Konoha headband gleaming with a pride that was about to be severely dented. And little Kushina, not yet a Jinchuriki, not yet a trained kunoichi, had proceeded to thrash him, too. That was the raw, unfair power of a potent bloodline.
Now, at six, Azula estimated that using just standard ninjutsu—no instant casting through bending tricks—she could probably take an average chunin. But then again, that wasn't exactly a brag worthy of etching into a Hokage Mountain monument.
In the grand hierarchy of the shinobi world, the ranks of genin and chunin were the participation trophies. Genin just meant you'd managed to not flunk out of basic training.
Chunin meant you'd managed to not die immediately afterward, accumulating just enough field experience to not accidentally set your own squad on fire. (This generalization, of course, did not include Konoha's special breed of 'perpetual genin' who could apparently solo small armies on a lunch break.)
The real hurdle, the great filter of ninja-kind, was becoming a jonin. It was a wall that 90% of shinobi would spend their lives politely head-butting without ever making a dent.
Even the legendary Kakashi Hatake had been a chunin at six but didn't make jonin until twelve. Becoming a jonin required a brutal combination of skill, intellect, leadership, and sheer, unadulterated power. Unless, of course, you possessed a singular, hax technique that allowed you to punt a Kage into next week if the mood struck you.
Her current focus, the perception training that made her feel like she was constantly trying to read the fine print on a dust mote from a mile away, was all laying the groundwork for the legendary Flying Thunder God Technique.
She had time. A luxurious buffer period stretched out before her, all the way until the rumblings of the Second Great War.
That was the potential flashpoint for the real rift between the Uchiha and Hiruzen's inner circle. This suspicion wasn't because some animated show had told her so; it was from lived experience.
She'd met them all—the future elders, the advisors. With the sole, somewhat ambiguous exception of Hiruzen himself, not a single one had ever looked at her with anything resembling goodwill.
Their gazes were like being physically weighed and measured, their eyes constantly scrutinizing, just waiting for her to put a single, perfectly manicured toe out of line. It was a silent, glaring billboard that read: 'WE DO NOT TRUST YOU'.
And as for Hiruzen himself? Azula, with the perspective of two lifetimes, had already understand him. He was, in her professional opinion, the least worthy to sit in the Hokage's chair. He was the ultimate example of the difference between a perfect soldier and a competent commander.
Hiruzen Sarutobi was a phenomenal soldier. The kind who would, without a second thought, throw himself on a kunai for his commander. The commander, touched by this unwavering loyalty and decisiveness, then names the soldier his successor.
But was it truly decisiveness? Or was it just the ingrained mindset of an excellent ninja—a man so at peace with his own imminent mortality that self-sacrifice was his default setting?
Once that soldier became the commander, the problems started. He's desperate to prove he's good, not just loyal. He hesitates to sacrifice the friends who are now his subordinates. He harbors deep, political distrust.
And most critically, he becomes a control enthusiast, a micromanager who insists on holding all the strings himself, often using the excuse that this one can't be Hokage because they're 'not good enough', all while failing to see the village's larger needs. A perfect soldier, trying to do a commander's job, and fumbling the map.
By the time she wrapped up her passionate rant about Hiruzen, she had already reached her destination—her own cinema.
Originally, anime wasn't supposed to hit the shelves this soon. Even the Mugen Train arc, the next big chunk of the story, was something she figured she'd drop maybe two years later.
But that's the tax you pay for getting stronger: everything that once looked like climbing Mount Everest starts feeling more like tripping over a rock.
Take her Demon Slayer project, for instance. Drawing the first part had eaten up an entire month. For the second? She breezed through it in a week, casually juggling projection and recording as if she were deciding what to eat for lunch.
Of course, she wasn't a one-woman factory. She had her team—the ones handling the artwork and dubbing. But even with their help, she refused to rush things out.
This wasn't supposed to be fast food entertainment. No, she wanted manga and anime to be treated like holy relics, the kind you bowed to before daring to turn the page.
So, the plan was strict: only the first season of Demon Slayer this year. Then, while people were still crying over Tanjiro's family tragedy, she'd focus on expanding her empire—new stores, new theaters across the Land of Fire, and in every ally nation of Konoha.
The following year, the manga's second part would arrive, and by the year's end, naturally, so would season two of the anime.
But for now? She was here to bask in her own brilliance. Because no matter how ambitious the plan, even geniuses needed downtime—and her idea of 'relaxing' was admiring others admiring a masterpiece she made herself.
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
I guess by now, this is finally time for the ultimate justu— Timeskip and don't forget to vote please, we aren't even in the top ten.