As the sun dipped below the horizon, Linbei finally reached the Uchiha Clan compound.
Calling it a clan compound was generous; it was really just a collection of aging houses on the westernmost edge of Konoha.
Starting from the Ninja Academy, one had to cross the bustling commercial streets, pass through the lively residential areas, and head beyond the newly built ninja apartments.
The further west one went, the narrower the streets became, the older the houses looked, and the fewer people there were.
Linbei walked down this increasingly secluded road, carrying Tom in his arms while silently comparing his surroundings to the places he had just passed.
In the central district of Konoha, shops lined the streets and crowds surged.
The statues of the Hokage were carved into the mountain face, overlooking the entire village.
That was where the Sarutobi Clan, the Shimura Clan, and the Hyuga Clan lived—the families with close ties to the Hokage.
The Uchiha, meanwhile, had been pushed into the westernmost corner.
The turning point for all of this was the Nine-Tails’ Rebellion.
On the night the Nine-Tails attacked Konoha, the Uchiha Clan had not been mobilized for battle.
Afterward, rumors began to spread through the village that “the Uchiha Clan controlled the Nine-Tails.” To avoid suspicion—and to facilitate surveillance—the Uchiha were collectively relocated to this remote corner.
Linbei stopped in front of a two-story old house.
This was the inheritance left to him by his parents.
It was a typical Uchiha-style building with gray walls and black roof tiles.
Two stone pillars stood at the entrance, carved with the clan crest shaped like a paper fan.
The house wasn’t large, but it was sturdy.
Compared to the dilapidated shacks nearby, it was considered quite decent.
“We’re here.” Linbei pushed open the wooden door and set Tom down inside the threshold.
The interior was simply furnished.
There was a low table and two cushions in the living room, with an old bookshelf tucked into a corner.
The kitchen was on the left, its stove covered in a thin layer of dust.
Stairs led to the second floor, where the bedrooms were.
Linbei tossed his bag onto the low table, sat down cross-legged, and pulled out the bento box Izumi had given him.
The bento box was light pink, wrapped in a piece of blue cloth.
Linbei untied the cloth and opened the lid—three nori onigiri were neatly arranged inside.
The rice balls were firmly pressed, and the seaweed was cut evenly.
Izumi’s skills weren’t exactly masterful, but her effort was evident.
Linbei picked up an onigiri and took a bite.
Salty.
Still salty.
But compared to the last batch, there was a bit less salt this time.
Izumi was likely refining her recipe.
Linbei swallowed the rice ball, his gaze falling on the other side of the low table.
An envelope sat there, containing this month’s subsidy.
When he went to collect it yesterday, the Uchiha Chunin in charge—what was his name?
Linbei couldn’t be bothered to remember—had handed over an envelope that was noticeably thinner than last month’s.
Linbei remembered gathering his courage to ask, “Senior, has the subsidy decreased?”
Then came the slap.
The Chunin hadn’t even stood up.
He had just casually swung his hand, and the palm struck Linbei’s face.
The force wasn’t massive, but it was just enough to knock a six-year-old to the ground.
“You should be grateful you’re getting anything at all.
Stop your whining.”
Linbei had sprawled on the ground, his cheek stinging.
He didn’t cry, nor did he say another word.
He simply climbed back up, took the envelope, and left.
Returning home that night, he had stared into the mirror for a long time.
Five red marks were branded onto his left cheek like five glowing iron bars seared into his skin.
He felt no anger, nor did he feel sadness.
He had simply confirmed one thing—no matter what world it was, no matter the era, vermin like that would always exist.
The Uchiha Clan was being marginalized, monitored, and driven toward a dead end.
And among those so-called “clansmen,” some were busy planning a coup, some were busy skimming off orphans’ subsidies, and some were busy struggling for power in the shadows.
Linbei shook his head, clearing these thoughts from his mind.
He picked up another onigiri and stuffed it into his mouth.
The grains of rice dissolved on his tongue, the saltiness wrapping around the aroma of the rice.
Actually, it wasn’t that bad.
Tom had been crouching across the table, his eyes fixed on the onigiri in Linbei’s hand.
Linbei offered one to him.
“Want some?”
Tom leaned in and took a sniff.
Then his nose wrinkled, and the expression on his face looked as if he had just smelled a moldy rag.
He reached out with a paw, pinched his own nose, and turned to run—his four legs blurred as he zipped out the door in a flash.
“…”
Linbei looked at the empty doorway, his lip twitching.
“That bratty cat actually has the nerve to be picky.”
He finished the remaining onigiri in a few bites and licked the rice grains off his fingers.
Just as he was about to pack away the bento box, a rustling sound came from outside.
“Meow—”
Tom’s voice drifted in from outside, carrying a boastful, rising tone.
Linbei poked his head out the door and froze.
Tom was standing at the entrance, his front paws clutching a fish.
It wasn’t just some small fry.
The fish was nearly half as big as Tom himself.
Its silver-white scales shimmered under the moonlight, and its tail dragged on the ground, longer than Tom’s entire body.
The fish’s mouth was still opening and closing rhythmically; it had clearly just been caught.
Tom held the massive fish, swaying back and forth.
His eyes were bright as he looked at Linbei, his expression practically screaming: *Praise me!
Praise me!
Praise me!*
Linbei’s mouth twitched.
“Where did you catch that?”
Tom freed a paw and pointed outside.
Then he set the fish down and reached behind his back—pulling a fishing rod out of nowhere.
Tom held the rod high, miming a cast and a reel-in, then pointed at the fish on the ground and gave a thumb-up.
The entire sequence was fluid and seamless.
Linbei understood.
Tom was saying: *I used this rod to catch this fish somewhere.*
“Alright, I get it.” Linbei crouched down, staring at the large fish still flapping its tail.
“But here’s the problem—how do we cook this?”
In his past life, he had been a disaster in the kitchen.
In this life, his six-year-old body could barely reach the stove.
Asking him to cook was worse than asking him to chew on tree bark.
Hearing this question, Tom’s eyes grew even brighter.
He patted his chest and made a “leave it to me” gesture with his paw.
Then—the performance began.
First, Tom reached behind his back and pulled out a set of snow-white chef’s whites, slipping into them in an instant and buttoning them up perfectly.
Next, he pulled out a tall chef’s hat and placed it squarely on his head.
Finally, he drew a gleaming kitchen knife from behind him—the blade was so polished it reflected his image.
The entire costume change took no more than three seconds.
Linbei’s jaw dropped as he watched this unfold.
Tom hoisted the large fish, found a flat stone slab in the yard, and slammed the fish down—it went still instantly.
Holding the fish’s head with his left paw and the knife in his right, he struck.
*Swish, swish, swish—*
The blade flashed three times, and scales flew everywhere.
Another three flashes, and the belly was sliced open, the innards removed with surgical precision.
Three more, and the head was severed, the bones removed, and the perfect fillets were divided into eight uniform pieces.
The entire process took less than ten seconds.
Linbei hadn’t even seen exactly how Tom moved the knife before the fish was completely prepped and cleaned.
But that was only the beginning.
Tom carried the prepared fish into the house—somehow, he had conjured a white porcelain plate, and the eight fillets were neatly arranged on it.
He placed the plate on the stove and began the true performance.
With the knife in his right paw, Tom began mincing scallions, ginger, and garlic.
His speed was so great that only an afterimage remained.
Chopped scallions flew through the air, landing precisely on the plate.
Simultaneously, Tom’s left paw held a spatula, stir-frying something on the stove.
Linbei hadn’t even noticed when he’d started the fire or poured the oil.
The most absurd part was that Tom had one foot on the handle of a cast-iron wok.
With a flick of his ankle, the ingredients in the wok flipped over.
His tossing technique was smoother than any professional chef’s; the ingredients traced a perfect parabola in the air before landing steadily back in the wok.
One hand chopping.
One hand stir-frying.
One foot tossing the wok.
Three tasks performed simultaneously, without interference, in perfect order.
Linbei stood at the kitchen door, his mouth hanging open wide enough to fit an egg.
He knew Tom was incredible.
But “knowing” and “seeing it with your own eyes” were two different things.
In the cartoons of his past life, Tom could indeed do anything—play the piano, play tennis, build houses, conduct experiments.
But when these things were displayed by a real—well, a real cat—the sense of shock was something a cartoon could never convey.
Tom’s knife work was comparable to Kage-level Shurikenjutsu.
Tom’s heat control was more precise than any Ninjutsu.
Tom’s wok-tossing skills, if placed in the Ninja World, would be comparable to S-rank Taijutsu.
In a short while, a delicious aroma wafted out of the kitchen.
The fragrance of sautéed aromatics, the savory scent of golden-brown seared fish fillets, and a rich, mellow aroma from some secret sauce Tom had added—the three scents combined like an invisible hand reaching into Linbei’s stomach and giving it a firm squeeze.
Linbei’s stomach let out a loud growl.
He had just eaten two onigiri, but now it felt as if they had never existed.
His stomach was empty, letting out a primal call toward the kitchen.
“Is it ready?” Linbei couldn’t help but ask.
Tom didn’t answer.
He was fully focused on the final touches—plating the seared fish, drizzling them with sauce, and sprinkling a handful of scallions and sesame seeds.
Every piece of fish was cooked to perfection, the skin golden and crispy while the inside remained snow-white and tender.
The sauce was amber, thick and translucent, evenly coating the surface of the fillets.
Tom picked up the plate and turned to face Linbei.
He bowed slightly in a “please enjoy your meal” gesture, then placed the plate on the low table.
Moonlight streamed through the window, hitting the plate and making the fish fillets shimmer.
Linbei sat down, picked up his chopsticks, and put a piece of fish into his mouth.
Crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, and bursting with flavor.
The taste of the sauce had seeped into every fiber of the meat—perfectly balanced between savory and sweet, with a long-lasting aftertaste.
It was delicious.
Better than anything he had ever eaten in his previous life.
Linbei didn’t speak; he just sent one piece of fish after another into his mouth.
Tom crouched opposite him, chin resting on his paws, watching with an “as expected” expression.
Just as Linbei was feasting, a faint sound came from outside the window.
It was very light, like the wind brushing against the eaves.
But Linbei noticed.
Tom noticed too.
His ears perked up, his pupils constricted slightly, and his gaze shifted toward the window.
Linbei set down his chopsticks, wiped his mouth, and asked in a low voice, “Is someone there?”
Tom shook his head, then nodded.
He meant: *There’s movement, but I’m not sure if it’s a person.*
Linbei was silent for a few seconds, then he picked up his chopsticks again and continued eating the fish.
“Forget it,” he said, his voice just loud enough to carry outside.
“Let’s eat first.”
Outside the window, the figure vanished without a sound.