Kyojiro gazed at the village he had left a week ago. The air carried nostalgia, the wind bringing with it the scent of homely cooking and warmth.
It took him barely a minute to reveal his identity before heading toward the Hokage Tower.
His skin tingled as the smooth, cool air brushed along his body. His steps felt lighter, his pain reduced to almost nothing.
He clenched the scabbard tighter. His techniques… they made me so strong in such little time. His eyes sharpened as they landed on the colossal faces etched into the mountain.
Grand, towering, they represented the very heads of the Leaf—the strongest.
His lips tugged upwards unconsciously. What I did that day wasn't a fluke… and judging the limits of my body—I can grow so much stronger.
He walked leisurely, eyes wandering over children playing in the parks, the sunlight glowing warmly on their chubby cheeks.
Passing the training grounds, he watched genin practicing—some throwing kunai, others weaving through basic jutsu.
At a familiar clearing, he spotted an old friend. "I see you've been at it, Duy," he called, his eyes softening.
Might Duy—barely in his thirties—looked up from his inverted stance.
He flipped upright in one fluid motion, a huge smile spreading across his face. "My friend! How have you been!" he boomed.
Kyojiro chuckled. "Well, I just went on a mission recently—pretty much wrapped it up in a single day." In truth, the other six had been spent healing.
Still, he made himself a promise. Next time… I will be ready. I will know the limits of my power. Conviction glimmered in his gaze.
Might Duy, father of Might Guy himself, recognized that fire instantly. "You seem to have gotten your old light back, Kyojiro," he said, his voice jolly and reassuring.
Kyojiro only smiled, his hand clenching. You have no idea, Duy… no idea.
Shaking his head, he replied, "Well, I have to submit my report at the office now. You focus back on your training, alright?"
Duy's grin widened. "That's the power of youth, my friend!" His energy seemed endless.
Kyojiro waved goodbye and continued on to the Hokage Tower.
.
.
.
TINGLE.
The soft jingle of bells greeted him as he entered. The office buzzed with life: men rushing about, genin chattering, a few young chunin—himself among them—waiting in line.
He stepped up to the clerk, the same old man who had issued his mission. "Mission completed," Kyojiro said curtly.
The clerk looked up from his magazine, recognition softening his eyes. "Seven days, huh? You're getting slower these days," he teased with a laugh.
If I told you I fought four chunin and a Kiri Jonin, I'd love to see your reaction. Instead, Kyojiro answered evenly, "Well, the distance was quite long, old man."
But his mind was far from casual. The Third Ninja War provided opportunity—and danger. Sending a talented Uchiha away from the group was far too easy.
And Kyojiro had realized one thing too clearly in this world: darkness has quite the hold here. Especially with that man sitting in the advisor's chair.
"Well, here's the scroll. Sign, and the office will take care of the rest," the clerk said with practiced ease. Years of repetition had honed his words into something mechanical.
Kyojiro signed without hesitation, nodded, and left—his mind already swimming with countless thoughts.
Before I show my power… I need to have enough of it. Even a fool knows that much. His gaze shifted to the Uchiha compound at the center of the village.
The plan is simple: grow accustomed to this power within the month… and join the Uchiha in their battle against Kiri.
He knew well from the manga he once read that the higher-ups sent the Uchiha against Kirigakure. At the time, he had thought it clever—fire versus water, fire wins, right?
No.
A fire-type ninja against water-types near the sea? It was near suicide.
And while I can't deduce the exact reason they'd send us Uchiha there… I'm not going to risk it.
Finally reaching his modest house on the outskirts of the compound, Kyojiro sat with a heavy THUD.
Fire Breathing. He inhaled deeply.
His katana rested against the wall nearby, but this time his goal wasn't swordsmanship. The goal isn't to practice forms… but to understand what truly increases my power.
WHOOSH.
Almost instantly, vitality flooded his body. His energy surged—it was impossible not to feel the difference. His eyes widened as he stared at his hands, clenching and unclenching. How?
The whole theory of Breathing Styles works through lung capacity and oxygen intake. Yet ninja are already superior in every physical aspect… so why does it affect me so much?
His gaze sharpened. That also brings the question of my fire jutsu. His mind replayed the massive fireball from that battle.
Standing, he walked to the riverbank, eyes fixed on the flowing stream.
First without Breathing Style.
His hands blurred, weaving familiar signs.
Fire Style: Fireball Jutsu.
His chest swelled, heat gathered in his throat, and he released—a fireball the size of a car.
It's bigger than normal, he thought, watching it smash into the river, steam rising from the impact. But it's nowhere near what I did that day.
For the first time, curiosity sparked in him. His Sharingan spun to life.
Kyojiro Uchiha would uncover the truth of this power—
no matter what.