Konoha hadn't heard the first trumpet of war yet—but it was already bleeding at the edges.
The streets were too quiet. Mission boards too full. The old shinobi had stopped speaking loudly in tea shops. Everyone knew what was coming.
And amidst it all, Sarutobi Daigo moved like the world owed him nothing.
Not anymore.
Gone was the smug grin, the lazy aristocratic swagger. In its place: a stillness. A focus that sat too neatly on a boy his age.
He walked into the mission hall without ceremony, the air bending slightly around him—not from chakra, but from tension. Even the chunin behind the desk shifted uneasily when they saw who stepped in.
At the central table sat Sarutobi Kenzo—seasoned jonin, paper-pusher for now, and a man who loathed being interrupted by the clan's golden child.
His eyes lifted. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
"…Well. If it isn't the prince himself."
Daigo didn't respond.
Kenzo set his ink brush down harder than he meant to. "You need something, or just here to remind everyone you still exist?"
"I'm requesting mentorship reassignment," Daigo said, voice even and cold.
"Reassignment?" Kenzo sneered. "What—your current instructor isn't bowing low enough anymore?"
"I'm done with him," Daigo said flatly. "He's not useful to me now."
There was something about the way he said it—like a knife being wiped clean. Kenzo frowned.
"And who exactly do you think is useful to you?"
Daigo stepped forward. Shadows fell just slightly under his eyes. He leaned down.
"I want to be assigned to Might Duy. Effective immediately."
Kenzo blinked once.
Then twice.
The silence that followed was long and cold.
"…You're joking."
"No."
"Might Duy?" Kenzo repeated, eyes narrowing. "The green idiot? The man who trains in gutters and calls it 'resistance training'? He's not even a proper genin by standards anymore."
"I've seen enough," Daigo said.
His tone was dangerous now—not loud, but precise, like a whisper before a storm.
Kenzo sat back, folding his arms. Irritation bubbling beneath the surface, but underneath that... something else. Something that made the back of his neck itch.
There was a weight in the boy's voice. Not the weight of arrogance.
Something colder.
Kenzo had known Daigo since he was a child. He remembered the early years. The spoiled tantrums. The absurd requests. The incident where Daigo built a private apartment beside the academy just to mock the students he refused to train with. The way he used clan status like a cudgel. Even the Third Hokage had, more than once, been forced to pull him aside.
Daigo had always been unmanageable. But he had also always been predictable in that way spoiled nobility were.
Not now.
Kenzo stared into the boy's eyes and saw no fire. No bratty confidence. No desire to impress.
Just steel. Cold. Clean. Purposeful.
He had seen something, Kenzo realized.
And whatever it was, it had twisted the path Daigo walked.
Kenzo wanted to say no. Recommend a proper jonin—one of the elite, someone polished, someone with rank and sense.
But something in his throat caught.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was fear.
Because this didn't feel like a whim.
It felt like a weapon being forged.
"…Might Duy's never mentored anyone," Kenzo muttered.
"Then he'll start now."
Another silence.
Kenzo pulled a scroll. Stamped it harder than necessary. Slid it forward.
"If you break your legs by week's end, don't expect a medic."
Daigo took the scroll. Bowed slightly—not out of courtesy, but formality.
Then turned.
Kenzo watched him walk away.
His irritation simmered, but it didn't replace the unease pooling in his gut.
He muttered, almost involuntarily:
"…You're not the brat I used to know."
Daigo didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
The door closed behind him, and Kenzo sat in silence for a long time.
In the war to come, many things would be lost.
And something told him that Daigo's humanity might be the first.