Smoke drifted lazily through the Hokage’s office.
Hiruzen Sarutobi set the crystal ball aside.
On his deeply lined face, no emotion could be read.
“Sarutobi Sanaru,” he said calmly, “what is your assessment of the child called Kazama Ryū?” Kneeling on one knee, Sarutobi Sanaru raised his head.
A trace of reflection passed through his eyes.
“Sandaime-sama, his talent is beyond doubt.
But what is truly frightening is not his Ninjutsu—it’s his composure, far beyond what someone his age should possess, and how he applies his techniques.” “In a situation where he had no chance of victory, he did not choose reckless individual heroics.
Instead, he immediately thought of regrouping his teammates, even risking himself to create openings for them.” “In him, I saw the purest form of the Will of Fire—the resolve to place his comrades above everything else.” Hiruzen Sarutobi nodded slowly, lifted his pipe, and took a deep breath.
“I see… Then he truly is someone worth looking forward to.” — Life as a Genin turned out to be very different from what Ryū had imagined.
There were no intense battles, no glorious missions.
Instead, there was endless monotony—catching cats, pulling weeds, escorting the Daimyō’s wife while she walked her dog.
“Meow—!” A fat, glossy-furred cat shrieked as it leapt from a tree, its sharp claws raking across Uchiha Nain’s delicate face, leaving three clear, bloody scratches.
Nain fell silent.
Veins bulged on her forehead.
“I—Uchiha Nain, a genius of the Uchiha Clan!
The second-ranked graduate of Konoha!” she roared.
“My Fire Release: Great Fireball Technique is meant to kill enemies, not scare a stupid fat cat!” Her hands began forming hand seals almost unconsciously.
“Calm down, Nain!
Calm down!” Hyuga Chihori hurriedly hugged her from behind.
“That’s the Daimyō’s cat!
If you burn it, our team’s mission bonus for the whole year will vanish!” Meanwhile, Ryū squatted off to the side, pretending to look around while calmly sticking a leaf to his fingertip, steadily practicing chakra control.
[Ding!
Chakra Control proficiency +3!] Watching the scene, Ryū felt completely at ease—and almost amused.
The naïve girl still believed being a Genin was some grand, heroic profession.
In reality, it was just being a high-grade errand runner for the village.
These D-rank missions, dull as they were, were perfect for newcomers to familiarize themselves with real work, polish teamwork, and—for someone like him—quietly farm proficiency.
Low pay didn’t matter.
As long as experience increased, it was worth it.
To him, it felt exactly like new-employee training in his previous life: tedious, but packed with free skill points.
Nain, clearly, hadn’t figured that out yet.
After half a month of nonstop D-rank missions, the young Uchiha’s resentment was nearly tangible.
Every day she walked around with lifeless eyes, complaining to anyone who would listen.
“When will this end?
My shuriken are going to rust at this rate!” Finally, the turning point arrived.
Sarutobi Sanaru summoned the three of them to the mission assignment office.
With a serious expression, he pulled a scroll from the rack.
“Near Tanzaku Town, on the border of the Land of Fire, a group of wandering samurai has appeared.
They’ve been harassing villagers and robbing merchants.
Our mission—eliminate them.” “C-C-rank mission?!” Nain’s eyes lit up instantly, like a lamp switched on in the darkness.
A moment ago she had been lifeless; now she was fully revived.
“It’s finally here!
A real mission!” she laughed excitedly.
“Those blind samurai are about to face the wrath of Uchiha Nain!” She began warming up enthusiastically, muttering to herself, “Great Fireball or Phoenix Flower?
No… I should use something cooler…” Chihori, on the other hand, clutched her clothes nervously, her expression tense.
Ryū simply read the mission description in silence.
Eliminate.
Not drive away.
Not capture.
Eliminate.
He understood immediately—this was meant to let these rookies see blood.
Ninja were tools of war.
And the first lesson for a tool was learning how to kill.
On the way to the border, Nain chattered excitedly, vividly imagining herself crushing enemies.
Suddenly, Sarutobi Sanaru stopped.
He turned around.
The gentle smile he usually wore was gone, replaced by a cold hardness like forged steel.
The air itself seemed to drop several degrees.
Nain’s laughter died instantly.
“Listen carefully,” Sanaru said, his voice low and hoarse, heavy with killing intent forged on real battlefields.
“They are not ninja, but their swords can still kill.
From this moment on, forget academy sparring.
Forget holding back.” “There are no rules on the battlefield—only life and death.
Your task is not to fight them, but to kill them.” “Use everything you’ve learned.
Use the fastest, most effective methods to end their lives.” “Do you understand?” Nain stood frozen, mouth open, unable to respond.
Chihori trembled, her face pale.
Only Ryū met Sanaru’s gaze calmly and nodded.
“Understood.” Sanaru studied him deeply, then withdrew his killing intent and turned to lead the way again.
The atmosphere never recovered.
Using Chihori’s Byakugan, they quickly located the samurai’s hideout—an abandoned mountain stronghold.
“Ryū,” Sanaru said quietly, “we need detailed intelligence.
Numbers, defenses, and the leader’s location.” Ryū nodded and moved without hesitation.
In a secluded corner, he formed hand seals.
[Transformation Technique]!
A puff of smoke cleared.
Kazama Ryū vanished, replaced by a ragged wandering merchant carrying a worn bag.
Not just his appearance—his posture, expression, even the weariness in his eyes were perfectly natural.
This was the result of a max-level Transformation Technique: form and spirit perfectly aligned.
He approached the stronghold openly.
After bribing the guards with a few copper coins and claiming he needed shelter for the night, he was let inside.
The stench hit him immediately—sweat, cheap alcohol, rusted metal.
He saw the rough faces of the samurai, heard their filthy jokes and plans for the next robbery.
At the center of the stronghold, a scar-faced, overweight man drank heavily while holding two kidnapped women.
The leader.
Ryū memorized everything—thirty-seven samurai, four open sentries, six hidden ones, and the locations of the leader and key figures.
Night fell.
Moonlight washed coldly over the forest.
Team 8 infiltrated the stronghold like silent shadows.
“Ryū,” Sanaru’s voice came through softly, “the eastern watchtower is yours.
Kill in one strike.
No sound.” Ryū melted into the tower’s shadow.
At the top, a samurai leaned against the railing, yawning.
Ryū’s breathing slowed to almost nothing.
His heartbeat steadied.
Like a hunting beast, he slipped behind the man.
The kunai in his hand gleamed faintly.
Now.
His left hand clamped over the samurai’s mouth.
The kunai in his right hand sliced cleanly across the side of the neck.
Puchi— The sound of steel cutting flesh and windpipe was soft, yet horrifyingly clear.
Warm liquid splashed onto the back of Ryū’s hand.
The samurai stiffened, then collapsed, weak choking sounds escaping his throat.
A surge of nausea rose in Ryū’s stomach.
The metallic scent of blood filled his nose, nearly making him retch.
His hand trembled.
This was killing.
Not numbers in a game.
Not staged violence in a movie.
A living person was dying in his hands.
The discomfort lasted less than two seconds.
The resilience forged in his previous life, and his burning desire to survive and grow stronger in this one, crushed that hesitation completely.
This wasn’t a game.
This was reality.
Mercy would only get him and his teammates killed.
Ryū exhaled slowly and lowered the body without a sound.
He flicked the blood from his kunai.
When he looked up again, the confusion and nausea were gone.
Only cold calm remained.
He gazed deeper into the stronghold, at the samurai still lost in drunken dreams—as if looking at walking proficiency points.
His figure vanished into the shadows once more, silently moving toward the next target.