It was true what they said—Minato truly lived up to his nickname, the “Shining Light of Konoha.”
It felt as though he carried the very essence of Yang Release within him; his chakra radiated warmth and vitality, a stark contrast to the cold, oppressive energy of the Uchiha.
With the strength Hikuro possessed now, leaving Konoha would not be difficult.
Yet he could not bring himself to walk away—not when the village provided him with such abundant resources, and certainly not while Tsunade and all the other future beauties of Konoha were still within reach.
Why would he ever leave?
Unlike the conservative Third Hokage, if Minato became the Fourth, he might be far more open to new ideas and reforms.
Young, energetic, and full of ambition, he would surely support progress and innovation.
Even though Hikuro had become one of the privileged few in this world, he still felt deep sympathy for the common people—oppressed and exploited by both feudal lords and powerful shinobi.
Hikuro had arrived in this world at the age of five, after absorbing the memories and identity of his alternate self from this dimension.
Back then, he and his parents had lived simple lives as farmers in the village, with little chance to learn or practice ninjutsu.
But the moment he learned his name was Hikuro, he knew—no matter how limited his natural talent might be—he was destined to become a shinobi.
Then came that night, which shattered his understanding of the world forever.
It revealed the cruel reality of the ninja world—far harsher and darker than the lighthearted stories he remembered from his past life.
He recalled it vividly: fierce winds howled across the land, heavy black clouds hanging low like a massive shroud.
Raindrops, sharp as blades, lashed against his face, stinging with every impact.
He huddled in the mud, trembling uncontrollably, watching in terror as a group of Kumo shinobi surrounded his parents.
His father’s arm had already been severed; blood sprayed like a fountain, staining the earth beneath them.
His mother knelt on the ground, tears streaming down her face, begging in despair: “Stop!
Please, I beg you!”
Together, his parents tried to block the enemy’s path.
“NO!”
But Hikuro’s scream was swallowed whole by a deafening clap of thunder.
A cold smirk curled the lips of the Kumo ninja.
With a flick of his blade, he slit his mother’s throat, and blood poured forth.
Enraged, his father lunged forward—only to be run straight through the chest by a long sword, collapsing heavily into the mud.
“NO!”
Hikuro’s eyes went wide.
It felt as though an invisible hand had clenched around his heart and torn it apart, the pain so intense he could barely breathe.
He tried to rush forward, but his legs felt like lead, rooted to the spot.
To ordinary people, the killing intent of a trained shinobi was overwhelming—an insurmountable gap in power.
The Kumo shinobi turned, his gaze freezing cold as it locked onto Hikuro.
A cruel smile formed.
“Little brat… your turn.”
Just as the gleaming blade was about to strike, several figures descended from above like phantoms!
“Konoha Whirlwind!”
A streak of green shot forward like lightning, a powerful kick sending the Kumo ninja flying backward, crashing hard into the mud.
Immediately after, a storm of shuriken whistled through the air, forcing the rest of the enemy back.
Furious, the Kumo shinobi roared and charged like hungry wolves.
In an instant, the battlefield erupted—clashing blades sent sparks flying, and jutsu roared through the air.
The Konoha shinobi moved with lightning speed, coordinated and precise, attacking and defending in perfect rhythm.
Soon, they pushed their opponents into retreat.
“Fall back!”
Realizing the tide had turned, the Kumo forces did not linger.
They vanished into the rain almost as quickly as they had appeared.
The rain continued to fall, as if the heavens themselves wept for the tragedy that had just unfolded.
Hikuro knelt beside his parents’ lifeless bodies, tears mixing with rainwater as they streamed down his face.
Shivering in the storm, he was consumed by grief and rage.
Most of the Konoha shinobi had pursued the enemy, leaving only one behind.
He stood silently a short distance away, not interrupting, simply offering quiet companionship.
“Why… why…?” Hikuro clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, blood trickling between his fingers.
He felt no pain—only endless sorrow and anger.
I am too weak.
So weak I cannot protect anyone.
“Come with us back to Konoha,” the shinobi said softly.
Hikuro nodded firmly.
He knew he was powerless to change anything now.
Only by becoming strong enough would he ever have the power to alter his fate.
So this is how I first came to Konoha, he thought, staring blankly at the devastation around him.
After burying his parents in a simple grave, he followed the shinobi back to the village.
His ancestors had been native Konoha citizens, though his family had turned to farming generations later after lacking the talent for ninjutsu.
Who would have thought that even so close to the village, enemy forces could still strike?
Yet this very tragedy was what gave him the chance to remain in Konoha.
From that day onward, he began the long, arduous pursuit of power—training relentlessly, day after day, year after year.
It was not until he turned eighteen and fully unlocked his system interface that his strength skyrocketed, growing at an astonishing pace.
Though his natural limitations prevented him from reaching the true level of Kage, he had become so formidable that even a Kage-level shinobi would find it impossible to stop him if he truly wished to leave.
Hikuro shook his head gently, pulling his mind back from the memories of the past.
What was done was done; no amount of dwelling on it could change what had already come to pass.
Though he had only spent a few short years with this set of parents, he remembered every warm detail clearly.
They would always secretly save the best food for him, while he would pretend to accidentally drop a chicken leg onto the ground so they could eat it without feeling guilty.
Back then, living so close to Konoha, he had naively believed that this happy life would go on forever.
But reality had cruelly taught him: without enough strength, everything beautiful is nothing but a reflection in water or a flower in the mirror—here one moment, gone the next.
“Hikuro, what is your view on this?”
Noticing that Hikuro had drifted off in thought, Hiruzen Sarutobi looked seriously at this gifted shinobi of common birth.
Though limited by his natural talent and unable to break through to Kage-level, that very fact made Hiruzen feel more at ease.
By comparison, Orochimaru was becoming harder and harder for his old teacher to read.
He could not help but wonder: would Hikuro be willing to support Minato Namikaze?
During the Third Great Ninja War, countless shinobi owed Hikuro debts of gratitude—an enormous reserve of political influence.
And on top of that, Hikuro had always been very close to Orochimaru.
“Monday to Friday – Update 3 Chapters a Day”
“Saturday and Sunday – Off”