Chapter 3: Weights, Wounds, and Wicked Rivals
From Naruto Uzumaki, Victim of Uchiha Gym Culture
You ever wake up thinking, Hey, today might be a chill day—buffet breakfast, maybe a nap, possibly some light interdimensional exploration?
Yeah, no.
That dream lasted approximately three minutes, right until I took a cold bath (which Sasuke insisted "increases discipline" like this was ninja boot camp), and joined him in the hotel gym, thinking we'd maybe jog side by side, lift some dumbbells, bond like bros.
Wrong again.
What I got instead was Sasuke, The Trainer from Hell.
"Your stance is off."
"You're breathing like a drowning walrus."
"Straighten your back. You're not a ramen noodle."
That was just the warm-up.
By the time I hit the second set of squats, I was convinced he'd turned into a Jōnin possessed by the ghost of a drill sergeant. I couldn't even complain because the guy actually knew what he was doing.
Turns out Sasuke didn't just brood in dark corners and sulk about vengeance. Nooo, the guy had been hoarding skills like a squirrel preparing for winter.
He could do minor healing jutsu. HEALING.
I blinked at him like he'd grown a second head. "You could heal people this whole time?"
He shrugged like it was no big deal. "Enough to keep training efficient. Not enough to save someone like you if you break your neck."
Comforting.
Then came the real kicker.
He showed me his custom clothes. Embedded with weight seals.
Weight seals.
As in: "Oh hey, let me casually wear a thousand kilograms on my body while I train because I enjoy turning my limbs into overcooked soba."
He told me he learned it from Kakashi. Kakashi! My beloved sensei who gave me an orange book and vibes. Not once did he say, "Oh, by the way, here's a seal to make you feel like the ground is trying to swallow your soul."
Naturally, Sasuke encouraged me to join in.
"Your body's naturally stronger than mine," he said. "You'll adapt faster."
I beamed. Compliment from Sasuke! Rare as a solar eclipse!
Then he slapped a 1.5-ton seal on me.
One point five tons.
I collapsed like a dying beetle.
"What the hell, bastard? I can't move!" I gasped, my face glued to the mat like it was my long-lost twin.
Sasuke didn't even blink. "Then use chakra."
Oh. Right.
So now I was crawling around the gym, pouring chakra into my limbs like I was doing CPR on myself. Meanwhile, Sasuke was casually doing pushups upside-down on a wall.
But—and this is the weird part—I wasn't mad.
See, Sasuke didn't have to help me. He could've let me flail and fall behind. He could've widened the gap and finally proven, once and for all, that he was the superior ninja.
Instead, he looked me dead in the eye and said:
"I want to beat you at your best. So train like it."
That kinda broke me a little.
In a good way.
Because deep down, even if he'd never admit it, Sasuke wanted me to catch up.
Or maybe he just didn't want to get nuked alone if another dimension opened up and spat out something worse than Kaguya. Who knows?
Anyway, I was starting to get into it when the Kyuubi decided now was the time to start whispering sweet nonsense in my head.
"Open the seal, brat. I'll teach you the secrets of the Sage of Six Paths…"
"Pretty sure that's a trap."
"No, no, totally trustworthy. Pinky promise."
Yeah, hard pass. I might've been dragging myself across the floor like a worm in lead boots, but I wasn't that desperate.
Yet.
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You ever try to spar while carrying the weight of a small elephant on your body?
No? Well, lucky you. Because Sasuke had decided that ten tonnes was the perfect weight for our next training session. Ten. Whole. Tonnes.
Let me repeat that for the ninja in the back: TEN TONNES.
Apparently, chakra enhancement normally boosts your strength and speed by ten times. So this lunatic Uchiha thought it was totally reasonable to just… adjust our seals accordingly. For "balance."
At this point, I didn't know whether he was trying to help me or slowly murder me.
"Quit whining," Sasuke said, adjusting his shirt like it wasn't trying to flatten him into a pancake. "You're physically stronger than me. You'll adapt faster."
Yeah, I was physically stronger when I wasn't crushed under a boulder-sized seal! But did he care? Of course not. The Uchiha definition of encouragement was "I didn't kill you, so that means I care."
Still, he had a point. Chakra enhancement let me move. Kinda. I wasn't exactly dancing around, but I wasn't crawling either. And to be fair, Sasuke was wearing the same weight. The difference? He made it look easy.
The gym was starting to feel like a battlefield. Not because of the decor or the overly dramatic lighting, but because Sasuke decided that today was Taijutsu Day.
"Your biggest weakness is hand-to-hand," he said. "If you fix that, your clones will multiply that progress. You'll dominate the field."
Sound logic.
Didn't make it hurt less when he flipped me like a ragdoll.
Sparring with Sasuke is like playing chess with a sword. You think you have a plan—until it's lodged into your ribs. He didn't use any flashy jutsu, no Sharingan. Just pure technique. Clean footwork. Perfect angles. Every punch he threw felt like it had a thesis behind it.
Me? I was fighting like a brawler in a ramen shop brawl.
But even then, I wasn't totally helpless. I was stronger. A lot stronger. My hits actually pushed him back. My blocks absorbed more than they should've, and I could take a hit and keep moving.
There was this one moment where I landed a clean uppercut. Real solid. Sent him sliding back a few meters.
"Not bad," he said, wiping blood from his lip. "Still sloppy."
Translation: "I felt that. Try again."
And so I did.
Over and over.
Punch. Block. Counter. Fall. Get up.
By the end, I was bruised, sore, drenched in sweat, and wondering if my arms still counted as part of my body.
But—I wasn't broken.
Something weird was happening.
My moves were sharper. My reactions quicker. My body wasn't just adapting to the weight. It was hungry for the challenge. Every drop of chakra I pushed through my limbs was like lightning in my bones.
And Sasuke? He noticed.
"Your body learns fast," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Good. Because we're not stopping here."
I wanted to groan. I really did.
But somewhere in that mess of pain, pride, and panting—I felt something else.
I was growing.
Not because of a Sannin. Not because of a sealed beast. Not even because of fate.
But because I wanted to catch up.
Not just to Sasuke.
To everyone.
To the version of me that people believed in.
Even the annoying fox in my gut went quiet, which was either respect or boredom. Either way, I'd take it.
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You know that feeling when you've just finished three hours of brutal, bone-breaking, chakra-sapping training with a guy who fights like a video game boss on nightmare difficulty—and then your stomach roars louder than the Nine-Tails?
Yeah, that was me.
By the time ten o'clock rolled around, I felt like I could eat an entire mountain boar… or three. My muscles were sore, my joints were crying, and my stomach had declared full-on rebellion. Sasuke, naturally, looked only slightly tired, like he'd just gone on a light jog and solved a math problem. Meanwhile, I was wobbling toward the shower like a man returning from war.
The hot water was a blessing straight from the Sage of Six Paths himself. I just stood there for a while, letting the steam soak into my bones and wash away the sweat, dirt, and general humiliation from sparring. I half-expected the Kyuubi to start ranting about how I should've let him out to flatten Sasuke with a tail swipe, but he stayed quiet. Probably asleep. Lazy furball.
Once we were cleaned up and dressed, we made our way down to the buffet like two starving giants raiding a village pantry.
The moment the scent of grilled meat, miso soup, eggs, and something called "sushi rolls" hit my nose, I nearly passed out from joy. It was like Ichiraku's had been upgraded into a five-star feast that never ran out. I grabbed a plate—okay, three plates—and went to town.
Sasuke? He ate like a noble. All precise, portioned, and dignified. Meanwhile, I was inhaling food like I hadn't eaten in a week.
"You're going to choke," he said without even looking up from his bowl of rice and grilled fish.
I grinned, mouth stuffed. "Mmrphh. Worth it."
But something weird hit me while I was devouring my fifth dumpling.
Sasuke trained like this every day. No teachers. No one pushing him. Just him and that impossible Uchiha drive to be better than yesterday. I always thought I trained hard, but this? This was different. It wasn't just about power. It was about precision. Focus. Discipline.
And yeah, I'd fought wars, beaten enemies, and had the Kyuubi's chakra to fall back on. But for the first time, I realized I'd gotten comfortable with that. Too comfortable.
Sasuke, on the other hand, trained like the world owed him a rematch—and he wasn't going to stop until he won.
As I reached for another stack of pancakes (don't judge me, they had whipped cream and strawberries), I made a decision.
No more slacking.
If Sasuke could grow like this on his own, then so could I. And not because I wanted to beat him—but because I wanted to walk beside him.
"So," I said between bites, "after this… more training?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"
I nodded, mouth full but determined. "Let's go all in. If this world has fighters, ki-users, and that tournament coming up, I wanna go in strong."
Sasuke gave the tiniest hint of a smirk. For him, that was basically a full-blown laugh.
"Good," he said. "Because I already planned a chakra control drill for the afternoon."
I groaned. "Why do I always walk into these traps?"
He just sipped his tea like the smug raven-haired menace he was.
And honestly?
I wouldn't have it any other way.
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After eating like we hadn't seen food in three days (we had, but training like lunatics makes ramen vanish faster than Shadow Clones), I was finally about to melt into my bed and die in peace. But no.
Sasuke just had to ruin it.
"We'll need disguises," he said calmly, as if that wasn't the most suspicious thing someone could say in a public hotel.
I blinked. "Why? You think someone's spying on us?"
"No. But no one's letting a pair of thirteen-year-olds join an international martial arts tournament." He crossed his arms. "Especially not kids with our faces."
Okay, fair. I was sort of famous back home—for reasons I'd rather not talk about—and Sasuke was Sasuke, meaning broody and popular without even trying. Together we stood out like two toads at a snake convention.
"Alright," I muttered. "So… sexy jutsu?"
Sasuke gave me the kind of look you reserve for a cockroach that just insulted your mom. "No. Transform into an adult. Someone strong-looking. Intimidating."
Right. Adult. Got it.
"Who are you gonna be?"
Without a word, Sasuke flared his chakra, and a shimmer of light twisted around him. A second later, standing in his place was a tall man with long wild hair, armor like something out of a museum, and a face that screamed I take over countries before breakfast.
"Who the heck is that?" I asked.
"Madara Uchiha," Sasuke replied, smugly.
"…You transformed into your ancestor? The one with the crazy eyes and world domination issues?"
He shrugged. "Strongest Uchiha in history."
"Also dead. And insane."
"I never said he was a role model."
I rolled my eyes but focused. I needed someone who looked cool. Legendary. Like they could throw a Rasengan just by glaring.
I pictured the man I'd seen on Mount Hokage. The one with the spiky blond hair and calm eyes. The Fourth Hokage. That guy had vibes. You know, the kind of vibes that made you think, yeah, I'd follow this guy into battle, or maybe to a barbeque.
Chakra surged through me, and I felt my body stretch and shift. Taller, broader shoulders, longer hair. When I opened my eyes, Sasuke was staring at me like I'd grown a second head.
"What?" I asked.
"You picked the Fourth."
"Yeah, so? He's cool. I like him." I turned to the mirror and blinked.
Huh.
For some reason, seeing that face on me felt… weird. Not bad weird. Just like, maybe I'd seen it before in a dream. Or maybe in a flash. Like the memory was hiding behind a curtain, waiting to be yanked open.
Sasuke must've noticed me staring. "You alright?"
"Fine," I said quickly. "Just didn't realize the guy looked so much like me."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't push. Thankfully.
"Let's go," he said. "Consider this training. Holding a transformation this complex while fighting will push your chakra control."
"Ugh," I groaned. "Can't we train less while disguised?"
"No," he said flatly. "Now move, 'Hokage-sama.'"
We stepped out onto the Tokyo streets—two "adults" with mysterious auras, walking side-by-side like it was our own anime intro. People gave us space. Whether it was the Madara death-glare or the Minato smirk I kept flashing at street vendors, we definitely stood out.
The tournament registration center wasn't hard to find. Posters were everywhere. Giant muscular dudes doing poses, flyers showing a bald man headbutting a tank (?!), and headlines like:
"World Fighter Tournament!
Sponsored by the Muay Thai King—SAGAT!"
"Prove You're the Strongest on Earth!"
The building itself was like a coliseum mashed with a skyscraper. Flashy banners, long lines, and cameras everywhere. It was clear this was a big deal. Like tuning exams, but if the entire world was watching and betting money.
We made our way to the tournament registration building, looking like two retired legends on vacation.
The room was buzzing. Fighters of all sizes and shapes filled the place—guys with arms like tree trunks, ladies with eyes sharper than kunai, and a guy with a scar shaped like a lightning bolt who looked like he wrestled bears for fun.
The lady at the desk looked us over. "Names?"
"Madara," Sasuke said.
I almost snorted. But I caught it just in time.
"Minato," I said, borrowing the Fourth's name. Why not? It sounded cool.
She didn't even blink. Just wrote them down like it was normal for dead historical figures to sign up for beatdowns.
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Let me just say—this tournament was weird.
Not weird like "giant snakes and evil teachers," or even "accidentally befriending a tailed beast living in your gut" weird. That's just Tuesday in the ninja world.
This was "worldwide martial arts competition where no one checks your age or your identity, but everyone's allowed to bring swords" kind of weird.
Yeah. That weird.
Sasuke and I stood in a room the size of a training field, surrounded by every flavor of fighter you could imagine. Some wore Muay Thai shorts. Others wore robes, headbands, or nothing at all except scars and the confidence of people who've been in more bar fights than I've had ramen.
And the rules?
There were basically no rules.
"No bombs. No guns. Everything else is fair game," the guy in charge had said. He looked like he'd swallowed a cactus and was mad about it.
"But—what about killing?" I asked, half-joking.
He didn't even blink. "Not encouraged. But we've got healers. Try not to die."
Yup. Totally normal.
Apparently, each country was only allowed to send two fighters to the main event in Thailand. This, right here, was just the prelims—one of many qualifiers scattered across the world. If you made it past this, you got an ID, a ticket, and a chance to throw hands on the big stage.
The thing was… you needed to be at least sixteen to officially participate.
Which meant Sasuke and I—being very much not sixteen—had a small problem.
"We'll make IDs later," Sasuke muttered, scanning the crowd like he was calculating everyone's blood type and trauma levels. "Once we're in the finals, we'll need them."
"You already thought about fake IDs?" I whispered.
He gave me a side glance. "You didn't?"
I shrugged. "I just thought we'd punch our way through anything."
He gave me that Sasuke™ deadpan stare that made me feel like I'd said something deeply uncultured.
To be fair, I probably had.
But hey—it's not my fault I'm thirteen and already committing international fraud in the name of punching people.