"Huhhh. Snow, I am in love with this place! Let's come here often."
Meow!
"Don't worry about the money. If I eat every meal with Kakashi, then I'll have enough left to come here ten times a month without a problem…"
Menma smiled mischievously. He knew very well his eating habits had become a burden on Kakashi's wallet—but he didn't want to eat alone. And he suspected that Kakashi, though pretending not to know, had long since realized the truth: Menma didn't want food. He wanted company. He wanted warmth.
And Kakashi… well, he let it happen. That was enough.
One day, Menma thought, I'll repay the debt—as a marriage gift. Not that I need to worry. With how teacher Yoruusagi is moving… Kakashi doesn't stand a chance. He's already on her plate. Not even a burial site will remain when she's done with him.
Chuckling to himself, Menma let himself sink deeper into the warmth of the hot spring. He let the heat slide through the tension in his shoulders, his muscles, his bones… even inside the cells themselves. The warmth softened the residual strain in his body after training.
Snow rested beside the pool, letting the misty steam wash over her elegant fur coat like a true queen on her throne.
Menma nodded slightly and closed his eyes.
He slipped into meditation.
His body, now calm, let chakra flow smoother. The overactivity had faded. He began circulating his chakra through his network, refining it, letting it wash over his exhausted cells. At the same time, he focused inward, trying something new—reforming his own chakra passways, strengthening and thickening them to match his overwhelming power.
He began to experiment. He hardened the chakra inside a pathway, then expanded it outward like a balloon, pushing against the walls. It was tedious and painful, but it worked. Slowly.
One passway at a time, he told himself.
He had to do this every three days, focusing on each branch until the entire system could withstand and conduct his chakra like a true master's. There were no shortcuts.
---
Elsewhere…
In a quieter part of the village, Kakashi was being dragged through store after store by Yoruusagi, who was radiant in the way only someone in love could be. She made him carry things, test snacks, give opinions he didn't understand, and help her pick accessories she didn't need.
And though Kakashi was tired, he couldn't deny the warmth.
She was older than him, but she had the energy of someone half her age. And she was happy.
Happy… with him.
He wanted to hold her hand. Say something real. But each time he raised his arm—he would see Rin's face, soft and broken, as his hand pierced her heart.
And he'd lower it again.
Yoruusagi saw it all. She didn't say anything. Instead, she bought two food boxes and took him somewhere higher, quieter.
The Hokage Rock.
They sat on the edge, feet dangling, gazing at the glowing, peaceful village below.
"Somewhere down there, Menma is lying in a hot bath with Snow, enjoying himself," she said, handing him his box. "Alone."
Kakashi took it with a quiet "Thanks," eyes still fixed below.
"Who would have thought," he muttered, "that a child born barely a year and a half ago would grow so strong so fast? That boy... he makes people worry."
Yoruusagi tilted her head, playful.
"Hm? As if you're any better."
"Me?" Kakashi raised a brow, popping open the box. "I'm the most reliable man in the village. I raise a cat and her owner on a borderline war budget, and I still survive. Do you know that nearly every fish in Konoha has ended up in that kid's belly? The price of tuna has tripled."
Yoruusagi stifled a laugh, then glanced sideways.
"You know… you're very handsome when you're annoyed."
Kakashi stared back suspiciously. "You're comparing me to him again, aren't you?"
She took a bite and nodded.
"Obviously. You're jealous."
Kakashi coughed, nearly choking on his food.
"That was not jealousy," he protested, sipping water.
"Then what was it?"
"…He just… looks a lot like them."
Kakashi's voice dropped as he stared into the village. His next words came softer.
"His eyes and face—that's all Kushina. You could never mistake it. The temper too, if I'm honest. But the rest… the jawline, the movement, that sharpness… Minato, through and through. A perfect blend. I see both of them when I look at him, and it hurts. It's… too perfect."
Yoruusagi exhaled, her voice carrying a subtle sadness.
"I don't think I need to see her to know her," she said. "I can see her in him. A girl who stood in the storm alone and kept rising, smiling. He inherited that heart."
There was silence between them.
Until she set her box aside and looked at him seriously.
"…Kakashi. I spoke with the elders about us."
He froze.
"They agreed."
He turned slowly, listening.
"…But they placed conditions," she added. "I wanted to tell you properly."
He nodded. "…Go on."
"One: if we marry, you'll need to engrave a special seal onto your Sharingan. It'll be connected directly to your chakra and nerves. You won't need to keep it open constantly anymore… but if it's ever taken out, it'll destroy your nerve system. You'll be blind—permanently—in that eye."
Kakashi looked down at his hand.
"…I see."
"Two: any child born between us who awakens the Sharingan will carry the Uchiha name. That means the Hatake name may… vanish. You'd be the last."
He smiled faintly.
"So certain all of them will awaken the Sharingan?"
"I'm a genius," she said with pride. "Of course they will. And besides… who said I'd have multiple children?"
Kakashi chuckled.
"…Anything else?"
"Some smaller things," she shrugged. "Live nearby, visit the clan, show respect to the elders. The usual."
She paused.
"…Kakashi, I'm not asking you to marry me today. I just… I can't wait forever for someone who'll never be mine. If there's no future for us, I need to know."
He didn't answer at first. Just stared at the village again, at the stars starting to shimmer in the early night sky.
"…Yoruusagi," he whispered. "You're not taking anything away. You're giving me more peace than I've had in years. But you'll lose so much time—so much of your life—waiting on a man who still… who still can't hold your hand."
She turned toward him, her voice cracking just slightly.
"Then tell me why. Why can't you let go? Is it Rin? Is it Obito? Is it your teacher… or Menma?"
"Tell me, Kakashi. Let me share that burden. Let me hear your heart. I know it's wounded. But it's strong, just like that boy's. Let someone in…"
He was silent.
Then slowly, Kakashi looked at her.
For the first time, she saw the walls around his heart tremble.
And then—he began to speak.
He began to share the truth. The real story. The story of pain, of blood, of three children who couldn't grow old together. Of ghosts who watched him wake each morning. Of love that died before it had a name.
Yoruusagi sat silently, not interrupting once. And beneath the starlit sky, she took his hand—and this time, he didn't pull away.
---
While Kakashi was sharing his story with Yoruusagi under the fading light, Menma was just opening his eyes, rising from deep meditation like someone surfacing from a still lake.
The reconnection with the outside world came with a deep, long exhale. His muscles loosened. His skin was wrinkled from soaking, but warm and light. Beside him, Snow rested on her side, eyes half-lidded in contentment, quietly watching his face.
Menma smiled and reached to tease her chin gently. She meowed softly in reply.
After stretching and gathering himself, he scanned his body inward, looking for change.
Small... but real.
His chakra had grown ever so slightly more obedient. Its movement—just barely—felt smoother, lighter. His cells were calm, no longer firing wildly. His hard training was working, little by little. He wasn't discouraged; diamonds took years to form, and he had only begun.
Just as he prepared to leave, a few voices from the women's side of the springs caught his attention.
---
Voice A:
"…Did you hear? That old pervert is back in the village!"
Voice B:
"What?! No way! I bet he's already lurking somewhere peeping again. I miss the days Lady Tsunade was here…"
Voice C:
"Now that you mention him, I get this weird feeling like someone is watching us…"
---
Menma blinked and instinctively turned his attention away, realizing the third lady might've been talking about him. He wasn't peeking—he'd been meditating—but now he was caught in a strange position. Perverts? In this world? Wouldn't they use jutsu or advanced ninja skills to spy?
He shook his head, amused.
But then—he turned. And stopped.
Just a few steps away, a man—an uncle, clearly much older—was crouched by a peephole in the fence, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open, drooling and grinning like a cartoon villain.
Seriously? Menma stared, completely speechless. You're alive with that level of skill?
The man had wild white hair, scarred skin, and an aura that radiated unmistakable strength—even while he was being thoroughly disgusting.
Still dripping wet from the springs, Menma walked over and tapped the man's shoulder.
No response.
He cleared his throat. Loudly.
The man turned, clearly irritated, but when he laid eyes on Menma—he froze.
At that moment, something strange passed between them.
---
Inside the seal, Kurama's fur stood on end.
He bared his fangs and stared forward with clear, fiery hatred.
That man.
He remembered him.
---
Jiraiya, for his part, was shocked beyond words.
The boy in front of him had hair pushed back from the water, red skin from the heat, and a striking face that—just for a moment—looked exactly like Kushina. His posture, his glare—it was her. But then... it was a boy. Still, the resemblance shook him to the core.
"Hey—kid. How old are you? You know it's wrong to spy on women, don't you?" Jiraiya scrambled for authority. "Tell me your name. I'll take you back to your parents."
Menma squinted.
"Oh? Should I shout my mother's name over the fence so she knows who you were peeping at?" He took a deep breath as if preparing to shout. "Huh, Mo… Um…"
"WAIT—WAIT!" Jiraiya slapped his hand over the boy's mouth, face turning pale. "Let's not be hasty!"
Menma stared. Jiraiya gave him a pleading look.
"You'll get me killed! Please, hush!"
The boy raised his brows, and finally, after a pause, Jiraiya removed his hand.
"Umm—haha! So your mom is over there? That was just a mistake! Let me make it up to you. How about an ice cream? On me."
Menma eyed him skeptically, then smirked. "Alright, pervert uncle. But you're buying two. I want to enjoy one with you, just to make sure you don't disappear."
---
They bought ice cream and returned to the hot spring pool, leaning against the warm stone edges as the moon rised higher. Snow, intrigued by the sweet smell, padded over and tasted a small bite.
Her eyes widened. Her tiny face twisted.
Brain freeze.
Menma burst into laughter and scooped her into his arms, snuggling the wet, floofy Snow against his chest. She pouted, embarrassed, and refused to take another bite no matter how hard he coaxed her.
Jiraiya watched the interaction with a raised brow.
This boy was something.
"…Hey kid, rub my back, will you? Old man needs a little help."
Menma made a face. "I was planning to leave…"
Then he looked at the scars along Jiraiya's back—real scars. From war. From missions. From life.
"…Fine."
---
Jiraiya pulled his hair forward, exposing his back.
Despite his small hands, Menma had strength. His rubbing was a little rough, but earnest. Jiraiya sighed deeply.
"What's your name, kid? I can't keep calling you 'boy.'"
Menma raised an eyebrow.
"Senior, isn't it rude to ask someone's name without giving your own?"
"Hah! Polite, huh? You're right."
Jiraiya turned, proudly puffing his chest.
"Then prepare yourself. I am the Toad Sage of Mount Myōboku! One of the Legendary Sannin!"
Menma blinked.
"…Mount what now? What's a Sannin?"
Jiraiya coughed.
"…I'm Jiraiya."
Menma's eyes lit up. Click.
"Wait. The Jiraiya? The guy who wrote Make-Out Paradise?"
"YES!" Jiraiya beamed, thrilled. "I didn't think a kid your age would know my work!"
"Then that peeking earlier…?"
"RESEARCH!!" Jiraiya said, totally serious.
Menma just stared.
"…You really should marry someone and use her as inspiration. It might save your life."
"Hey, don't mention that to anyone, okay? Especially not a certain red-eyed girl I may or may not have kissed while drunk twenty years ago…"
"…Noted."
---
Jiraiya softened.
"So. What's your name?"
Menma paused.
"…My guardians say not to talk to strangers. But someone at your level could find out by tomorrow anyway."
"…True."
"My name is Menma. I live with my brother and his girlfriend. She's the one you should be terrified of. If she finds out you were here…"
Jiraiya chuckled nervously.
"…Duly noted."
Menma poured a bucket over his back to finish the scrub.
"Pervert uncle, you're clean now. Thanks for the ice cream."
He scooped Snow back into his arms.
"…And remember. Peeking is bad. You're strong. You're famous. Maybe you should write something that doesn't require hiding in bathhouses."
With that, he left—towels slung over his shoulder, wet hair tied loosely behind him, Snow proud and fluffy in his arms.
---
Jiraiya remained still.
The name rang in his ears: Menma.
That face.
That voice.
Those eyes.
Minato... Kushina… what is this?
---
Menma walked the lamplit streets, stopping to buy a snack for himself and Snow.
His mind wandered—not to Jiraiya, but to something deeper.
If people like that exist in this village and didn't even bother to visit me once… then they're not family.
He had people he loved.
He had warmth.
But he also had questions.
When I'm strong enough… when I can survive on my own… I'll find the answers.
Whatever they are.
---
Uchiha Clan Compound – Clan Leader's Residence
Sunrise
The first pale gold light of dawn had just begun to spill across the stone-paved courtyards of the Uchiha compound. The world was quiet, still wrapped in the soft hush of morning mist. Within the clan leader's household, the shrill chirp of an old-fashioned alarm clock broke the silence.
Itachi opened his eyes instantly, as if he'd already been half awake. His face was calm, unwrinkled by emotion. He sat up without hesitation and moved with quiet precision to the bathroom. After washing his face and brushing his teeth, he dressed in his usual dark attire and checked over his ninja gear, inspecting each item with the sharpness and care of a seasoned warrior.
Downstairs, his mother, Mikoto, had already laid out a simple yet beautifully balanced breakfast of grilled fish, miso soup, pickled vegetables, and steamed rice. She moved with grace around the small kitchen space, placing the last dish on the table just as Itachi sat down. He bowed his head respectfully.
"Thank you, Mother."
She smiled at him gently, her eyes full of warmth, though tinged with that ever-present trace of concern. As he began to eat, savoring each bite with impeccable manners, the heavy footfalls of Fugaku echoed down the hallway. The clan head entered the room, his presence commanding as always, and sat at the head of the table.
Itachi did not raise his eyes.
Fugaku watched his son for a moment. "Are you heading out as ANBU today?"
"Yes, Father."
Fugaku nodded once, taking a sip of his tea. "Then do your duty well. Be mindful of your position. And don't stray from your path."
"I understand," Itachi replied with calm solemnity. "I will keep your words with me."
After finishing, Itachi rose, cleaned his dishes in the sink without being asked, and bowed to both parents before slipping on his sandals by the door.
Outside, the early morning was crisp. Shisui stood a short distance away, arms crossed, his back leaned against a tree by the street corner. The two locked eyes, exchanging no words—none were needed. They moved out together, two silent shadows against the first blush of morning light.
At the ANBU headquarters, they changed into their uniforms, pulled their masks into place, and made their way across the rooftops to one of Konoha's most sacred strongholds of knowledge: the central library.
There, as if waiting for them like the guardian of some sacred gate, Menma stood outside the entrance with Snow nestled in his arms. His face lit up the moment he saw them—a beam of genuine brightness that never failed to surprise Itachi, though he rarely let it show.
"Good morning!" Menma called out with cheerful energy, completely at odds with the somber mood of the ANBU boys beside him.
Shisui grinned and waved casually. Itachi nodded, wordless but watching closely.
Inside, the library was a labyrinth of shelves that seemed to stretch into eternity. Books, scrolls, and ancient tomes were piled high with meticulous organization. The weight of knowledge pressed down on the air—silent, heavy, reverent.
It was overwhelming.
But Menma had his path.
His reading list, carefully selected and approved by Third Hokage himself, included over 500 titles—ranging from chakra theory, shinobi tactics, and sealing arts, to world history, philosophy, and politics. Even for a genius, it was an insurmountable task without discipline. And so, Menma formed a routine—rigid, powerful, and all-consuming.
Menma's path was steep—more than five hundred titles marked for him alone—but he dove in each day without complaint. He read with a hunger only the young can possess, and when the words grew dense or unclear, Itachi and Shisui were there, unraveling the complexities with quiet patience.
When their minds had stretched as far as they could, Menma would close his books and they would talk—discussing the meaning behind each lesson, what truths they had pulled from the pages, and what questions still lingered. These moments, nestled in the hush of the library's ancient heart, sharpened his thoughts like whetstones to a blade.
Then came the field. Training with Guy was a world of its own. There, Menma entered a different battle—one of breath, speed, weight, and momentum. The Turtle Style, as Guy had named it, was a method of refinement, of restraint. At first glance it was slow, even clumsy. But within it was brilliance: a technique that carved discipline into every step and taught him to make decisions faster than thought. The weights on his limbs dragged at him, but he learned to move anyway, to adapt, to endure. With each repetition, his steps grew sharper, and his body stronger.
Afterward, Yoruusagi arrived like a quiet flame, her eyes holding both fondness and fierce expectation. She brought with her a machine unlike anything Menma had seen before—a complex chakra training device that looked like a child of science and art. With her guidance, Menma refined the river within him. His chakra, once wild and overflowing, slowly began to take shape under pressure and precision. He struggled, failed, succeeded, and pushed forward again.
The evenings were no less intense. Shisui taught him the elegance and power of swordplay—stance, swing, rhythm. Menma's hands learned the weight of a blade, his feet the flow of combat.
Itachi, ever silent and watchful, took him through the art of the throw. Shuriken, kunai, timing, spin, form. No wasted motion, no wasted intent. His throws grew faster, more accurate. He hit further targets, smaller targets—targets in the dark.
And when the day gave way to twilight, Menma would walk beside Snow to the warmth of the hot spring. There, steam would rise in silver coils and wrap around his tired frame. He would breathe, rest, meditate, and rebuild. His body softened in the water, his chakra circulating like a tide beneath his skin, healing what was worn, strengthening what had grown.
These were his days—quiet, brutal, beautiful.
Not one moment wasted. Not one motion forgotten.
Day bled into night, night into week, week into month.
Five months passed in a blink.
Five months of discipline, of sweat, of laughter, of pushing past limits.
Menma didn't count the time—he measured progress by the weight he could move, the number of books read, the accuracy of a blade, the speed of a thought. The boy who had once only burned with raw power was now becoming a polished flame—controlled, elegant, and growing brighter.
But amidst all this growth, there was something he remained completely unaware of.
Above him, in the skies of Konoha's political webs and global tensions, a storm was forming—a storm darker than anything he had trained for.
It waited, quiet and patient, ready to fall.
...But so was he.
....