Konoha, Women’s Bathhouse.
A silver-haired youth crouched stealthily by the wall, peeking through a small hole.
He held a bizarre notebook in his hands, a lecherous grin plastered on his face as he frantically scribbled notes.
Fanma appeared silently behind Jiraiya, unleashing the full power of his “Predator’s Malice” without reservation.
Jiraiya, deep in his questionable hobby, felt his heart skip a beat.
Every hair on his body stood on end.
A strange, thick scent of blood crept into his nostrils, his chakra began to churn erratically, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness flooded his mind.
Sigh, Jiraiya thought.
That bastard is back to find me again.
With a sudden pivot and back-kick, Jiraiya threw a string of kunai and vaulted a long distance away.
His left hand blurred through the hand seals for the Great Dragon Fire Technique, while his right hand hovered over a summoning scroll, ready to call upon the toads of Mount Myoboku.
His white hair whipped forward, coiling around his chest—the Needle Jizo, his signature defense.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” Fanma clicked his tongue dismissively.
Several afterimages flickered in the air.
Before Jiraiya could react, all eight kunai were neatly caught in Fanma’s hand.
He didn’t actually need to dodge—but these clothes were new, and they were expensive.
“Is this the standard for the Third Hokage’s disciple now?
Jiraiya, have you been doing all your training in the bathhouse?” Fanma, dressed in loose sportswear, teased with a cheerful grin.
Jiraiya, seeing it was indeed Fanma, threw a punch at the other man’s shoulder in irritation.
“You bastard!
How many times do I have to tell you?
Stop popping up behind people, and quit unleashing that suffocating pressure of yours!” Jiraiya shook his hand, wincing from the impact against Fanma’s rock-hard physique.
“And why are you getting harder?
Damn it, don’t you have any physical limits?” The relationship between Fanma and the Sannin was complicated—neither love nor hate, just deeply intertwined.
Fanma’s father was Kagami Uchiha, a comrade of the Third Hokage.
Kagami had died defending the rear with the Second Hokage during the war in the Land of Lightning, when Fanma was only five.
Because of this, the Third Hokage had always treated Fanma with leniency and support.
Fanma was an Uchiha, yet he carried the label of the “Hokage faction”—a delicate status.
His decision to abandon the Sharingan in favor of pure taijutsu had oddly pleased the Third, who had provided him with unrestricted access to Konoha’s various taijutsu scrolls.
As a transmigrator, Fanma understood the uniqueness of his path.
Upon graduating from the Academy, he bypassed the usual genin teams, becoming the first Uchiha to join the Anbu.
Only in the Anbu, amidst real slaughter, could he acquire the experience points needed to evolve his traits.
Chores like weeding or catching stray cats were entirely beneath him.
This led to Fanma becoming the quintessential “other people’s kid” while the Sannin were still running errands.
The Third Hokage constantly dangled Fanma’s name over their heads, causing Jiraiya to challenge him to numerous spars after being promoted to Chunin—always with miserable results.
As for Tsunade, her bias against the Uchiha couldn’t withstand Fanma’s shameless, persistent presence.
After all, who could refuse a man who was fit, wealthy, humorous, and—most importantly—could catch her legendary super-strength punches barehanded?
(Though they hadn’t officially started dating yet.) Orochimaru was Fanma’s academic rival, the two often debating the origins of life and the fate of ninjas over drinks.
But his best friend was undoubtedly Jiraiya.
After all, they shared the “three great bonds of manhood”—you know the ones.
To keep from becoming a machine obsessed only with training and killing, Fanma needed to blow off steam in the izakayas and bathhouses that were staples of the village.
Fanma rubbed his hands together, slapped Jiraiya on the shoulder, and slung an arm around his neck.
“I don’t have limits, you idiot.
But listen, I promised little Minato I’d beat you up the day after tomorrow.” Jiraiya howled in protest.
“You bastard!
You stole my student, you’re trying to steal my Tsunade, and you keep sneaking up on me!
Uchiha Fanma, you are the worst!” Fanma remained unfazed, his expression as calm as a summer breeze.
“As for Minato, I’ve been buying him lollipops since he was five.
And regarding Tsunade-chan, maybe you should focus on learning how to survive one of her punches before you talk about romance.” Jiraiya’s face flushed red.
“Why are you slandering me like this?
Getting beaten up by Tsunade for a few days to recover counts as…
physical contact, right?
You know, taijutsu isn’t everything.
There are four ways to start a Fire Style jutsu, let me teach you—” The air filled with jovial banter as Fanma dragged Jiraiya toward the local izakaya—one of his few moments of genuine joy.
Several rounds of drinks later, a tipsy Jiraiya draped an arm around a geisha and slurred, “What’s your plan this time?
You intend to act as the supreme commander of a front?” Fanma smiled, gently adjusting the geisha’s collar, earning a giggling protest.
“What?
Do you look down on a freshly promoted Jonin like me?” Jiraiya smacked his lips, picked up a flask, and clinked glasses with Fanma.
His voice dropped.
“Anyone who looks down on you is probably already dead.
You freak, it’s about time you let those old geezers in the Jonin squad see what you’re really capable of.
But your status is sensitive.
After all these years, you don’t associate with the Uchiha clan, and you don’t pledge loyalty to the Hokage faction.
No one knows what you’re actually aiming for.” Fanma narrowed his eyes.
“A command position would be fine.
I need the war merits.
If I don’t get one, I’ll just apply for independent roaming combat.” “Sigh…” Jiraiya let out a long breath.
Over the past two years, as Fanma’s strength grew, so did the rumors.
With his overwhelming power, he followed his own rules.
He wasn’t really Anbu; he was a friction-generator for the village.
Every ninja he killed ended up either sliced in half or with their head shattered like a melon—a gruesome sight.
In a world where most ninjas prioritized efficient, covert assassinations, Fanma’s methods were rare.
The enemy didn’t need to investigate; they knew exactly who had done it.
Yet, why had Fanma remained in the Anbu for fourteen years, outlasting two different Anbu captains?
Because he was simply too useful.
It was the same logic as parking a tank in a melon field—no one would dare steal the melons.
Even Danzo Shimura had once remarked, “Root could use a man like Fanma, but he does well enough in the Anbu.” Getting a compliment from that old man is no easy feat, Jiraiya thought.
“Alright, Jiraiya.
See you the day after tomorrow.
If we end up matched against each other in the draw, try not to lose too ugly in front of Minato.” Fanma picked up the geisha in one arm and headed toward the inn’s rest area.
“Hey!
Hey!
If you do that, I’m telling Tsunade!” Jiraiya bellowed.
Fanma waved a hand carelessly as he walked away.
“We haven’t started yet.” Jiraiya paused, shaking his head with a bitter, wry smile.