Kyojiro felt the heat press against his body as his fireball roared forward with a violent SWOOSH, colliding with the river in an impossible clash.
Steam hissed upward, the water sizzling. It was better than his usual attempts… but still nowhere close to what he had achieved that day. His eyes narrowed, his breath quickened.
His lungs expanded as if he had taken this breath a million times before. The scarlet tomoe of his Sharingan spun ominously.
Fire Breathing.
Strength flooded his body like a rushing tide. His once-slackened frame brimmed with vitality, every nerve alive with power.
His fingers blurred through practiced hand signs, heat building in his chest until it crawled up his throat like molten fire desperate to escape.
Fire Style—Fireball Jutsu.
The words tore from him with force, and flames followed. A colossal fireball erupted, its sheer intensity burning his skin as it shot forward.
His eyes widened at its size, at its speed, at the furnace-like heat that radiated from it.
BOOM
The blast collided with the river, an explosion of fire and water that blanketed the area in a dense mist.
Kyojiro coughed, stumbling out of the haze, lips tugging into a smile despite his scorched throat. Almost three times bigger… and it feels stronger, too.
Hurrying back to his training field before anyone noticed, he sat cross-legged, sweat still steaming from his body. So… it increases my strength, my vitality… even my jutsu. His eyes widened as the realization struck. Even without activating it, my jutsu was stronger. That means…
It's enhancing my affinity with fire itself as I master it further.
"Amazing." The word slipped out before he could stop himself.
He stripped off his shinobi vest and shirt, picking up his katana with renewed conviction. Before all this, no matter how hard I worked, I was talentless. I could never compare to Minato… or Madara. But now… now I have it all.
His crimson blade gleamed under the sun. If hard work is what it takes to reach their level, then that's what I'll do.
The next few hours were spent in relentless training.
His body screamed with every swing, his muscles burned, and his sweat drenched the ground beneath him until puddles gathered at his feet.
He ran until his legs ached, swung until his arms trembled, then repeated the cycle again and again. Only when his body finally gave out did he collapse onto the ground.
"Huff… huff…" His chest rose and fell in heavy rhythm, but the smile on his face was wide, almost boyish.
.
.
.
The sun rose high, spilling light through the curtains of Kyojiro's home. But his bed remained untouched, sheets perfectly tucked.
"Two thousand twenty-two," he muttered between breaths, his voice strained as steam poured from his nose. His body moved in rhythm with Rengoku's techniques, each motion fierce, direct, and unyielding.
"Two thousand twenty-three." He crouched low, his sword sweeping like an extension of his very being. Every strike was a declaration—sharp, aggressive, absolute.
That is the meaning of this swordsmanship.
He glanced upward, the sun already peeking through the clouds. So, two hours have passed since I began… In truth, his training had started well before dawn.
There was a reason even Might Duy—the embodiment of effort himself—called him friend.
Minutes later, he sheathed his sword, finally satisfied. No parents, gone in the Second Ninja War. Only a grandfather too extreme to guide me properly. But maybe… that's better.
Pulling on his mesh shirt beneath a simple civilian outfit, he left his home with purpose. I can train my blade in the Uchiha compound. But Rengoku's swordsmanship… I'll perfect it on missions, away from prying eyes.
TINGLE
The familiar bell rang as he stepped into the Hokage's office. The old clerk was still at his counter, hunched over like always. The only constant in my life, Kyojiro thought with faint melancholy.
"Any missions for me, old man?"
The clerk peered up, brow raised. "So quick? You're already back here?" His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Do you have a twin, boy? Why are you taking missions so quickly?"
Back in his own shinobi days, the man had done just enough to scrape by.
He'd avoided danger, married well, and when his son entered the Academy, he'd settled behind a desk for good.
Safety—that was what he had wanted most.
But this boy? A seventeen-year-old Chunin throwing himself into mission after mission? He couldn't understand it.
"Well, I hav—"
Kyojiro stopped mid-sentence as a familiar hand rested on his shoulder. He turned, tension easing when he saw who it was.
"How have you been?" Kyojiro's tone softened.
Blond hair, easy charisma, and that undeniable presence—it was Minato Namikaze. The newly appointed Jonin smiled warmly, his outgoing personality as vibrant as ever.
Back when I was delusional enough to think I had talent… I went to classes three years senior than mine just to find this man in the academy. The memory burned in Kyojiro's chest, equal parts fondness and embarrassment.
But time had passed, and their paths had diverged. Until now.
"Good, good! You know, I've got my own team now. They're troublemakers, but still… there's this ki—" Minato cut himself off, rubbing his head sheepishly. "Anyway! Since you're looking for a mission, why don't you join me and my team on this one?"
What? Kyojiro blinked, raising an eyebrow. "Well… I was actually looking for a bandit mission, so I doubt our objecti—"
"That's even better," Minato interrupted again, grin wide. "We've got a bandit mission too!"